I just began a summer of two intensive language training programs and was feeling rather sorry for myself and the amount of work that I need to produce. The thought occurred to me, however, that hard work is the hallmark of most great art. Picasso may have been able to draw remarkably well from an early age, and kudos to him for it, but he was also obsessed with his own work and production time. His work came before much else in his life and though we may decry his less than stellar relationship history, we must also recognize the quality of the work produced. And this is true for many of the artists that are generally appreciated. We all, in fact, might learn something from this degree of effort.
Ach, it's true. Selfishness is not largely appreciated in our culture and certainly never before someone's work is recognized. We may all be tempted at times to put our work aside in order to make phone calls for the alumni association, or listen to a whining friend on a problem that will never change, or make supper because a good dinner is civilized, but if you care more about your pesto than your paintbrushes don't bother calling yourself a painter. If that television show is enticing you away from the play you started eight months ago then don't call yourself a writer. A friend attended an open studio along with several others in which the "artist" proudly announced that the three drawings on the wall had been produced in fifteen minutes each. I was as appalled hearing the story as he had been insulted. I could hardly imagine how the artists who had put effort into their work and their presentation felt to be associated with such a jester.
Don't waste my time with your second rate efforts. If it was that easy to draw the picture then you owe it to yourself to try something harder. I have many verbs to memorize for a quiz on Friday and the only way to do it well is to sit and repeat the conjugations over and over and over again. Likewise, from what I can tell, the only way to excel at painting is by drawing the figure over and over and over again. We learn through repetition to recognize our flaws, errors that hide subtly under our complicated constructions. That is why artists continue to sit in front of figure models and sketch five, ten and twenty minute poses even after many years of large scale paintings, whether they be portrait or landscape or abstract artists.
Hard work means not seeing friends, missing the opening of a new play, upsetting a lover, eating yogurt because you don't have time to go to the store. Not always, of course, but sometimes. To expect an artist to be sociable is patently absurd. How on earth would they produce such work if not for the fact that their work takes precedence to something else. That is what a work of passion is!
Now I may not claim to be passionate about the first six principle parts of Ancient Greek verb forms, or the forty odd irregular verbs required for my Italian quiz, but I can at least take a deep breath and do it without complaining. This attitude may not always produce art, but it is a basic foundation to the art of living.
Missing Art
Sometimes I find myself in a location where I know there is a great deal of art to be seen and possibly enjoyed, but do not get to see it. This was the case with my recent trip to Washington DC where there are the wonderfully rich Smithsonian Museums, besides the many other galleries. It has happened before, travelling for work in San Francisco, Chicago and yet not attending their famous museums.
There are always excuses. Usually the excuse is time. This time, I was on the road between different family members' homes and on my way to an alumni meeting for my college. The small gallery at my college was closed and I thought to ask the Alumni Relations Director to open it and allow us to see the current exhibit but did not want to be a bother. In the past, I have decided there were too many business meetings and the museum trip was not possible to add. I have argued that the museum was too far away and so would take too much time in to-ing and fro-ing. Sometimes, the excuse is that I am tired. Other times it has been the weather. Excuses are easy to find.
The truth is that I regret these lost opportunities. This time, for example, I wish that I had made time to go to the National Gallery of Art simply because it offers the comfort of the familiar and would have calmed me amidst the family bustle. Seeing the art at the college would have revived me during the dull patter of gossiping divisions after brainstorming sessions and powerpoint presentations. I would have better enjoyed my many travels for work had I taken advantage of the locations to which I was required to fly. The weather would have been irrelevant once inside the cosy sanctuary of a desolate museum on a stormy day.
I live in a city with so many galleries and museums that it is inevitable I would miss some shows. But I miss so many more simply out of laziness. After a long week of work, I do not spend Friday evening at one of the free entries to world class museums. On a frigid or muggy day, I do not wander into the temperate climate of a gallery. If I did, I might find that I was less concerned with a friend's rebuff, with a less than stellar evaluation, with the nonsense agitation of life in the Big City. I convince myself that I am too tired, overwhelmed, distraught to look at another's work of passion when in fact that would relieve the headache far better.
Looking at art fills me with new thoughts. Even if the thoughts reflect my dislike of the art I see, the occasion wipes my mind of the minutiae that confound me, presenting instead alternative neuronal pathways. Or so it seems. Sometimes, I discover that I am filled not with thought but with visions and am grateful that art somehow managed to silence the language of my mind- even if only briefly.
It should be possible to make time for art. It is possible. It is merely a choice. Otherwise I miss it. The less we attend these art events, the fewer of them there will be to enjoy. And that I would really miss.
There are always excuses. Usually the excuse is time. This time, I was on the road between different family members' homes and on my way to an alumni meeting for my college. The small gallery at my college was closed and I thought to ask the Alumni Relations Director to open it and allow us to see the current exhibit but did not want to be a bother. In the past, I have decided there were too many business meetings and the museum trip was not possible to add. I have argued that the museum was too far away and so would take too much time in to-ing and fro-ing. Sometimes, the excuse is that I am tired. Other times it has been the weather. Excuses are easy to find.
The truth is that I regret these lost opportunities. This time, for example, I wish that I had made time to go to the National Gallery of Art simply because it offers the comfort of the familiar and would have calmed me amidst the family bustle. Seeing the art at the college would have revived me during the dull patter of gossiping divisions after brainstorming sessions and powerpoint presentations. I would have better enjoyed my many travels for work had I taken advantage of the locations to which I was required to fly. The weather would have been irrelevant once inside the cosy sanctuary of a desolate museum on a stormy day.
I live in a city with so many galleries and museums that it is inevitable I would miss some shows. But I miss so many more simply out of laziness. After a long week of work, I do not spend Friday evening at one of the free entries to world class museums. On a frigid or muggy day, I do not wander into the temperate climate of a gallery. If I did, I might find that I was less concerned with a friend's rebuff, with a less than stellar evaluation, with the nonsense agitation of life in the Big City. I convince myself that I am too tired, overwhelmed, distraught to look at another's work of passion when in fact that would relieve the headache far better.
Looking at art fills me with new thoughts. Even if the thoughts reflect my dislike of the art I see, the occasion wipes my mind of the minutiae that confound me, presenting instead alternative neuronal pathways. Or so it seems. Sometimes, I discover that I am filled not with thought but with visions and am grateful that art somehow managed to silence the language of my mind- even if only briefly.
It should be possible to make time for art. It is possible. It is merely a choice. Otherwise I miss it. The less we attend these art events, the fewer of them there will be to enjoy. And that I would really miss.
Photo Journalism
Among the topics about which I am still determining what I think is the role of photojournalism as art. I have been thinking about it for a while but the two series of photographs in the Whitney Biennial made it a topic of conversation over the last week. Additionally there are a number of photo shows in NYC galleries that seem to qualify as photojournalism.
Why should a documentation be art?
Or rather, how does documentation become art?
It can't just be the way the photograph is taken. Because there is no particular style that makes it more art-like than another. And when a picture enters the cultural dialogue it is no longer just a photograph, nor a work of art, but according to Barthes, it becomes mythic.
This is beyond my scope to consider. Clearly I will need to come back to this at some much, much later date.
Why should a documentation be art?
Or rather, how does documentation become art?
It can't just be the way the photograph is taken. Because there is no particular style that makes it more art-like than another. And when a picture enters the cultural dialogue it is no longer just a photograph, nor a work of art, but according to Barthes, it becomes mythic.
This is beyond my scope to consider. Clearly I will need to come back to this at some much, much later date.
Too Much of a Whisper
I could hardly believe it when a friend told me about a new reality show in which artists compete to be the Next Great Artist...Work of Art: Next Great Artist. I was even more surprised that I had arrived in her home on the day that the first episode was airing, that is today.
I have not owned a television since 1995. I know there are good shows being produced but they are few and not sufficiently enticing to require my paying for a television, cable. My experiences of reality television have been brief, mostly due to a horror at the requirement to produce such superficial representations of people's passions, the desire for a spouse, perfect soufle or sensible suit.
The first episode of Work of Art introduced the Executive Producer of the show, Sarah Jessica Parker. Her words of encouragement were offered as the Surprise of the episode, "Be brave. Be competitive. Be yourself." Words of wisdom. Truly. The dry summary of one of the judges: "See, she loves art and that is why we are all here." I could describe in detail other Great Moments or the competitors, the judges, but why bother?
Instead I want to express the confusion as to how to respond to art in a reality tv context. Am I glad that art is being offered as a form of entertainment? Shouldn't people become interested in art and if this is the way, then perhaps that is a good thing? But...NOOOOO! This is appalling. Watching the opening made my skin crawl. This has nothing to do with art. This is a bunch of people producing photographs, silkscreens, drawings, oil painting, watercolor painting, and more without ever discussing the mediums. The focus of the show is not art but the competition. The artists competition with each other is the basis for excitement on the show, not the work production. The biggest snafu on this episode was when the silkscreening balloon burst. Artists may be competitive, but the competition is largely internal and lonely in a studio far from other artists. The show is making little effort to introduce art. To be honest, I do not know what the show is attempting.
The judges mostly discussed the concept of the work the artists produced and little of the quality of production. Is that because they had to produce a portrait in thirteen hours so we should not consider the nature of the mediums? Or is it because the pieces reviewed could only be afforded 30 seconds of time? Paintings are "sexy" or "have a historical context" or present "good moves." One judge said that a portrait is a representation of a person, but the editing did not offer whether she elaborated on that remark. As one artist said to a judge in response to a criticism of her abstract painting, "It's too much of a whisper." Unfortunately, this show whispers nothing about art, indeed screams about nothing at all.
I have not owned a television since 1995. I know there are good shows being produced but they are few and not sufficiently enticing to require my paying for a television, cable. My experiences of reality television have been brief, mostly due to a horror at the requirement to produce such superficial representations of people's passions, the desire for a spouse, perfect soufle or sensible suit.
The first episode of Work of Art introduced the Executive Producer of the show, Sarah Jessica Parker. Her words of encouragement were offered as the Surprise of the episode, "Be brave. Be competitive. Be yourself." Words of wisdom. Truly. The dry summary of one of the judges: "See, she loves art and that is why we are all here." I could describe in detail other Great Moments or the competitors, the judges, but why bother?
Instead I want to express the confusion as to how to respond to art in a reality tv context. Am I glad that art is being offered as a form of entertainment? Shouldn't people become interested in art and if this is the way, then perhaps that is a good thing? But...NOOOOO! This is appalling. Watching the opening made my skin crawl. This has nothing to do with art. This is a bunch of people producing photographs, silkscreens, drawings, oil painting, watercolor painting, and more without ever discussing the mediums. The focus of the show is not art but the competition. The artists competition with each other is the basis for excitement on the show, not the work production. The biggest snafu on this episode was when the silkscreening balloon burst. Artists may be competitive, but the competition is largely internal and lonely in a studio far from other artists. The show is making little effort to introduce art. To be honest, I do not know what the show is attempting.
The judges mostly discussed the concept of the work the artists produced and little of the quality of production. Is that because they had to produce a portrait in thirteen hours so we should not consider the nature of the mediums? Or is it because the pieces reviewed could only be afforded 30 seconds of time? Paintings are "sexy" or "have a historical context" or present "good moves." One judge said that a portrait is a representation of a person, but the editing did not offer whether she elaborated on that remark. As one artist said to a judge in response to a criticism of her abstract painting, "It's too much of a whisper." Unfortunately, this show whispers nothing about art, indeed screams about nothing at all.
Friend's Art
Last night over a glass of wine, a friend announced that she was not sure whether she actually knew what friendship was. A philosopher by training, she was inclined to determine what it was that others professed as friendship. A philosopher by inclination, I willingly embarked on my own attempt to describe what I think friendship is and discovered that her Socratic move left me perplexed as well.
One glass of wine became two and I decided that friends for me are people I trust, who challenge me and my views but on whom I can depend in an emergency. This, however, gets tricky when I think of the numerous friends I have had whose creative work I would reluctantly discuss. Virginia Woolf, for example, hesitated to review Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians and was relieved from the obligation by an editor who thought she might be perceived as showing bias. On one hand, bias seems inevitable. But anyone who has creative friends, actors, directors, painters, musicians, writers, composers and so on, also knows that one's feeling of intimacy with them does not necessarily blind you to the faults of their work. It just makes it harder to express them. On the other hand, a relationship with the artist can allow a friend to better understand the impetus and direction of the work. If a review partly exists to explain the effort to a wider audience than perhaps few besides friends could do so well.
Friendships are sometimes used as a trope for an exhibit but it is done successfully in the case of the Calder and Tanguy show I recently saw. Peggy Guggenheim famously wore one earring by Calder and one by Tanguy to show her bi-partisan appreciation of surrealism and abstract art. Tanguy and Calder were friendly, and she was a friendly collector of both. In this instance and perhaps in all instances, there is no Platonic ideal of friendship but truly something that is created between people each and every time, being redefined with the nature of the people involved. The art of some of my friends I have never liked but am thrilled that others do, on their behalf. Other friend's work is truly wonderful but I can never express it or convince them of my sincerity since I am merely a friend.
One glass of wine became two and I decided that friends for me are people I trust, who challenge me and my views but on whom I can depend in an emergency. This, however, gets tricky when I think of the numerous friends I have had whose creative work I would reluctantly discuss. Virginia Woolf, for example, hesitated to review Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians and was relieved from the obligation by an editor who thought she might be perceived as showing bias. On one hand, bias seems inevitable. But anyone who has creative friends, actors, directors, painters, musicians, writers, composers and so on, also knows that one's feeling of intimacy with them does not necessarily blind you to the faults of their work. It just makes it harder to express them. On the other hand, a relationship with the artist can allow a friend to better understand the impetus and direction of the work. If a review partly exists to explain the effort to a wider audience than perhaps few besides friends could do so well.
Friendships are sometimes used as a trope for an exhibit but it is done successfully in the case of the Calder and Tanguy show I recently saw. Peggy Guggenheim famously wore one earring by Calder and one by Tanguy to show her bi-partisan appreciation of surrealism and abstract art. Tanguy and Calder were friendly, and she was a friendly collector of both. In this instance and perhaps in all instances, there is no Platonic ideal of friendship but truly something that is created between people each and every time, being redefined with the nature of the people involved. The art of some of my friends I have never liked but am thrilled that others do, on their behalf. Other friend's work is truly wonderful but I can never express it or convince them of my sincerity since I am merely a friend.
Art and Friends
Looking at art with friends can be a revealing and difficult test of the relationship. Making a museum date with a friend can be a great way to catch up with him/her or see an exhibit, but rarely can you accomplish both. A first visit to a show with a friend can reveal that you have very different taste or worse, that you interact with the art in different rhythms. Meeting at an art gallery opening is a guarantee that you will neither see the art nor each other for the crowds standing in front of you no matter where you stand.
Friends go well for a casual art visit. If I kind of want to see the art, or maybe want to know if I am interested in it, then I have a few friends who are good company for a chatty visit.I can see the art briefly and share various relationship and work failures. Successes are always good news and as such they require celebration, which means toasting with a glass of bubbly and listening to all the details- not walking through a room of pictures that are good or bad and demanding my attention. Friends can be great for simple viewing. I once watched two eight year old boys walking through a room of Renaissance oil painting without ever slowing. They sauntered past a very somber painting by an unknown artist of Christ being taken in the night with the statement, "Whoa, that's deep." Two paintings along, still cruising by, they see the Velazquez Infanta Marie Theresa and the other one says, "Her dress is too poofy."
I find that I need to be alone if I want to look at the art, think about it, create a memory that I can retrieve and discuss. One of the best days I had this Spring was a trip up to Boston where I spent a day at the MFA. I got there in the morning and spent the day looking at whatever I wanted to see for as long as I wanted to see it. Some pictures led me to pull out my notebook. Others I walked past. Some made me go back and look at them again several rooms later. I went in no particular order through the museum, entering new rooms where hallways or interest led. At the end of the day, my head was full of ideas and thoughts and I walked back to the hotel seeing everything in a new light.
A more stressful moment was a recent visit to a museum with my new and wonderful beau. We had many long conversations about art, literature, life, love and all the rest of it in the many months preceding this excursion. But how would we do walking through a museum together? In fact, would we have to walk together the whole time? How pressured! As it turned out, we were both inclined to wander and return to the other one, freeing us to linger over one thing, and skip another. Neither of us really studied the exhibit but then neither of us felt that the exhibit called for it. We liked some of the same pieces and discovered that we both enjoy being cruel and cynical critics in confidence. If I were to say much about the pieces, I would have needed to return but overall I think we both determined that we could attend a show together again. At any rate, neither of us revealed such despicable judgment that we ran screaming from each other.
Art and friends, in my opinion, are a delicate balance. Largely, one loses my attention. That being said, I am off to meet a new friend to see a small gallery show that I want to see. Pity that I don't listen to my own advice.
Friends go well for a casual art visit. If I kind of want to see the art, or maybe want to know if I am interested in it, then I have a few friends who are good company for a chatty visit.I can see the art briefly and share various relationship and work failures. Successes are always good news and as such they require celebration, which means toasting with a glass of bubbly and listening to all the details- not walking through a room of pictures that are good or bad and demanding my attention. Friends can be great for simple viewing. I once watched two eight year old boys walking through a room of Renaissance oil painting without ever slowing. They sauntered past a very somber painting by an unknown artist of Christ being taken in the night with the statement, "Whoa, that's deep." Two paintings along, still cruising by, they see the Velazquez Infanta Marie Theresa and the other one says, "Her dress is too poofy."
I find that I need to be alone if I want to look at the art, think about it, create a memory that I can retrieve and discuss. One of the best days I had this Spring was a trip up to Boston where I spent a day at the MFA. I got there in the morning and spent the day looking at whatever I wanted to see for as long as I wanted to see it. Some pictures led me to pull out my notebook. Others I walked past. Some made me go back and look at them again several rooms later. I went in no particular order through the museum, entering new rooms where hallways or interest led. At the end of the day, my head was full of ideas and thoughts and I walked back to the hotel seeing everything in a new light.
A more stressful moment was a recent visit to a museum with my new and wonderful beau. We had many long conversations about art, literature, life, love and all the rest of it in the many months preceding this excursion. But how would we do walking through a museum together? In fact, would we have to walk together the whole time? How pressured! As it turned out, we were both inclined to wander and return to the other one, freeing us to linger over one thing, and skip another. Neither of us really studied the exhibit but then neither of us felt that the exhibit called for it. We liked some of the same pieces and discovered that we both enjoy being cruel and cynical critics in confidence. If I were to say much about the pieces, I would have needed to return but overall I think we both determined that we could attend a show together again. At any rate, neither of us revealed such despicable judgment that we ran screaming from each other.
Art and friends, in my opinion, are a delicate balance. Largely, one loses my attention. That being said, I am off to meet a new friend to see a small gallery show that I want to see. Pity that I don't listen to my own advice.
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