I am sooooo not into Christmas this year

In fact, every time I hear an x-mas song in a store (and really, can you enter a store without hearing an x-mas song?) I find myself gnashing my teeth. I feel downright resentful this year that I have to pretend I'm interested in a holiday that I've never much cared about, but especially in light of what I've been going through lately. I am just too sad to give a damn about Christmas this year, unfortunately, and I'm not one that's good at going through obligatory motions.

What galls me, though, is this expectation from people that you must get into the "Christmas Spirit". I swear -- if you are the least bit honest about the fact that you're not feeling the cheer, people practically try to badger you into it. I actually screamed at my Mother (a certifiable loon when it comes to all things holiday) that I just don't give a rat's ass! I think the reason suicides go up at this time of year is just the damned pressure to participate in fake cheerfulness.

I'm NOT cheerful right now. If I were, given what I've been going through, I would think there's something wrong with me. Meeting others' cheerfullness demands has not ever been high on my agenda in the first place, but this year in particular it's making me extremely testy. In fact, one particularly pushy and insincere person was going through the whole, "come on, what's wrong with you, everyone loves x-mas" routine with me, and I almost relished the look on his face when I said, "well, actually, one of my best friends just commited suicide". He had no idea what to say, and beat a hasty retreat. I hope it teaches him some compassion, where do people get off trying to tell others how they should feel?

Sorry to be such a grinch. But thank you for allowing me the room to vent.

elegy.

we all just wanna know
why?
how?
when?
so many questions, not a
single
damned
answer.
each new theory a kernel
of hope, but no more
guaranteed
of correctness
than the last
or the first
or the next.

can't you reach out,
somehow
past everything
past the grave
that isn't even there
to visit?

you wouldn't be there, anyway.
you would be
here
are you?

your silence
is
an unavoidable cruelty
althought the one certain
thing
is that you
did not
intend for it to be.

or did you?
unending
questions.

no answers.
ever.
anywhere.

Pills

And here I thought my anger at pharmeceutical companies couldn't get any worse.

I feel incredibly lucky that years ago, when I went through a 2-year bout of severe depression, it wasn't fashionable to dump pills on the problem. My therapist held out pills as the stick, not the carrot -- as in, "if you don't improve, I will put you on anti-depressants". It was a powerful motivator to deal with my problems through talk therapy. I think the current trend towards prescribing medication so easily and quickly means that many people never get to the root cause of their depression and learn to fix with it. Any coping skills I have I learned in that time of my life, would I have tackled the hard issues if I was medicated? I don't think I would.

I know dozens of people on Prozac, literally dozens. It's a shortcut panacea. We have pathologized pain to the point that no one wants to deal with having any, but nothing good in life comes without a little pain. The hardest thing is watching people struggle with these medications instead of the real issues causing their depression. B. wanted off the pills, and struggled with finding a balance between a level of pain he could tolerate and the level of medication he could handle, for as long as I knew him. Would the outcome have been different if he had been encouraged to feel his emotions and struggle through unencumbered by mood-altering substances? I wonder.

Letter to B.

B-

Dammit, I took you for granted, and for that, I'm sorry.

I thought we had plenty of time -- time to collaborate, & trade art, swap tips and tease each other. Time to argue over whose techniques were "right", & commiserate over what slobs we were surrounded by in the shop (oh, no, never us, though!).

I took it for granted that we would be friends forever, because you were one of those people I sure intended to have as a friend forever. I figured we'd argue about the right way to tap ink off of a squeegee until we were feeble and grey, tomato, tomahto.

I can still see you peering over your glasses at me, still hear your laugh, still remember the way you'd cock your head and haltingly say "hmmm..." when you didn't know what else to say.

When I saw your car at the curb I would get excited, like a puppy, couldn't wait to catch up with you and hang out, see what idea you were working on, dream up some Lucy-and-Ethel style cockamamie idea together. We should still be working on those ideas together, it just isn't fair.

You taught me so many lessons, and the last one is this: don't take your friends for granted, because you never know when they'll be gone.

I wish we had made more time to just hang out. We were both always so busy, but for what? Nothing could be more important, and now I miss you so much it hurts like a bee sting, a killer bee.

You were too smart, too talented, and too good a person to have left the world this way. I hope you know how much you are loved, by so many, how many lives you've touched. You were so much more to so many than I think you ever realized.

Love you and miss you, buddy, and always, always will.

L.

devastated.

I don't even know what to say. My dear friend Brandon, who was my rock, just killed himself this week. The week has been a horrific blur of exhaustion, I sit here now all night as one of the dance parties goes on next door, too exhausted to go in, too sad to go into our printshop, Brandon's print shop, his passion.

He got in his car, and he turned it on in the garage, and when his brother found him Tuesday morning both the car battery and Brandon were dead.

Why? Why, why, why?

We saw him Friday night, he seemed a little dejected, and his last words haunt me still. But, I didn't detect anything bad, I've seen him profoundly depressed and suicidal before and it was different. He didn't say goodbye. He left early in one of the greatest openings, Capsule's last, I never even got time to write about it. It was a magical evening, marred a few days later by the discovery that it was the last time Brandon was seen alive. He ordinarily stuck around and drank beer (free beer for life, we used to joke, since he fixed up and donated the kegerator, 'cause that's the kind of guy he was), and since he was "stumbling distance", as he would say, he was usually the last one here.

Such a kind, gentle soul. I loved him like a brother, we got each other. He always opened up to me, we poured out our feelings to each other about life, about relationships, about art. If he was going to tell anybody he was in pain, it would have been me, K., or I.

I'm angry, I'm sad, I'm confused. I can't believe I'll never see him again. I'm lost without him in the screen printing shop, he knew so much more than I did, he taught all the classes. I'll never forget him looking over his glasses at me, one eyebrow cocked, squeegee angled to pull another print but pausing at some outlandish thing I'd said. It was a scene replayed many times. He was the kind of guy that -- as Miss V.R. quipped at the memorial -- "would not only get excited about whatever project you proposed, would have bought all the materials and had everything ready for you by the next time you saw him". He was thoughtful to a fault, constantly burning screens for people, staying late after class, a natural teacher.

Two weeks ago, he left a list of jobs for the shop tech, which was essentially him, although we were getting a new one to assist. He posted new emulsion times. The shop was tidy. His last class was Thursday. Was he planning this? Did he know that I would never see him again on Friday night? If so, I want to kick him in the balls for not saying anything, for not even hinting. Was I too neglectful, too busy, too distracted? Hanging Matthew's fantastic show -- Capsule's last -- was exhausting and time consuming, 804 collages in one room, mailed to me over the course of two years. Was Brandon trying to tell me something? He said he was really tired...come to think of it, he's been saying that a lot lately. But it was his busy season at work, and he was worried about paying the bills, and both of us were working a lot, and still trying to get our work done...of course we were exhausted. Something else we shared -- workaholic insomniacs, with different "cures". His involved Ambien, so the early thoughts were that he had "sleep-driven" the car. But...he left two signed checks for his folks. He locked the house. I keep grasping at every clue, desperately trying to remember every conversation, searching and searching for meaning in the most trivial of things.

M. and I were given his art supplies to divide by his parents. It was hard...we both sorted through, decided what was useful to us...I love the thought of painting with his brushes, and he had some very cool things that will open new artistic directions for both of us, and we were getting excited with possibilities, talking about airbrush techniques (I haven't used one since high school, but suddenly I am in posession of one). But then, we would remember, and feel guilty for any enthusiasm over materials, which is the most natural impulse for any artist, I suppose. Odd, mixed, horrible feelings. His parents gave M. & I one of his unfinished canvases, as well, which we will collaborate on finishing. It is covered with screen printed candy hearts in B's patented "trash-fer" method, but the candy hearts say "Fuck You". I am so grateful to his parents for allowing us that deep honor, and it's daunting. My last good talk with B. was sitting around in the print shop helping him cut out those little hearts, procrastinating on doing my own work. We discussed the future, his work -- he was excited. He had been making tremendous strides, breaking through to new territory.

So, I've been thrust by bad fortune into the role of advisor to the family of my dear friend, who are struggling to decide what to do with his vast body of work.

We hung all of the work we could find and fit on the walls last night, and had a beautiful memorial. The family wanted it to be like an art opening, the community handled everything, worked together to move his work, hang the show, bring food, flowers, make a brochure, etc. I made a powerpoint of all the pictures of him and his work I could gather together, and playlist of his favorite songs. Another friend passed around a book for everyone to write a surrealist poem, it's something this artist did whenever he gave an artist's talk, his tradition. My husband's band played (they were all his friends, too, and he was a fan), by the last song the entire band had tears in their eyes and could barely play, but still played fiercely, it was breathtaking. Beautiful tributes from many friends, one friend stepped up and sang a lovely folk song in a tenor rasp that had everyone sobbing by the second chorus. I managed to hold it together to say a few words. I'm guessing there were about 250 people there -- his students, his friends, family, and admirers.

The hard part was everyone wanting to buy the work (and coming to me about it, since he's shown mostly in my gallery), and me having to gently refuse them, the family has decided to delay any decisions regarding the disemination of his work, which I think is smart. He was an emerging artist on the cusp of a brilliant career, and just coming into his own, so his most recent work is seminal, and incredible as well. He had been building up multiple layers of gel medium and airbrushing, with reflective elements underneath, really cool.

At this point, all of us who loved him want to continue his career for him, in spite of the anger many of us are feeling towards his actions. I feel that the goal is to build value for his work and get him into good collections with what's remaining -- there ain't gonna be any more.

I desperately want one of his paintings -- I have many of his prints, but no paintings. The family allowed me and another friend to take a partially finished work that we will collaborate to finish. But I've decided that, rather than a selfish need to own one, I would rather that it go for a lot of money, and if I can manage to pony up, fine, but I will donate it to a museum where I can visit it, there just isn't enough of his work to hoard. I know which one I want, too -- one of his last paintings, still on the easel, almost finished. A long, horizontal image of a hand firing a gunshot through an egg, shattering it, with a brilliant lime green background. Juicy. We had been in the midst of working out a trade when he died, I thought we had plenty of time. A huge missed opportunity.

It's difficult to turn people away who want a piece. But I think it's wise. And I've been telling people who want a piece that the only way for his legacy to truly live on is if we can manage to build his career the way he could have if he was alive. And unfortunately, that means building value into the work, trying to get into known collections, generating museum interest, getting articles written....it's daunting. But I owe him big, for more things than I can even name. And I believe he's a talent worthy of doing this for, although it veers dangerously close to the "art dealer" status that I'm trying to escape.

Based on the advice I got on Craigslist, I rushed over to his house as quickly as I could and spent nine hours there gathering every scrap of paper, sketch, or piece of writing in his studio. His family, feeling the need to purge, was basically throwing almost everything out. I'm worried that there are things that they wouldn't have known were important, it was as if they just needed to stay as busy as possible, and I can completely relate, I did the same thing this week. (Making phone calls to all of our friends, and the press, however, is the most horrible task I have ever had to perform. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, each call is just heartbreaking. Every time I dialed my heart beat faster and it got harder and harder to get through the whole sentence. I finally resorted to a mass email, it was impossible to do anything else.)

A friend of ours who is not an artist but an ardent supporter and one of his bigger collectors is going to put together a database of all the work. We photographed it all and carefully wrapped it for storage at a family members' house. She built him a website and wants to write an article about him.

I'm working on the exhibition end. I have one small museum interested in a show, but I'm going to check the larger ones first. We're also planning a tribute show, and several of us are going to work on a canvas he had started for inclusion in a Dia de los Muertos altar next year. We're going to catalogue his library with another librarian friend, all of his source material, notes, and sketches. Many of his sketches were digital, so we're working with the family to get those sorted out. (The family, by the way, has been incredibly cooperative, and although they are a little guarded and protective, who wouldn't be. I think they know we all share their goal for his legacy.)

This artist also used a rather unique system for creating paintings based on a list of numbers that corresponded to different things. (example: #11 = Bee, #45 = medication, etc.). When he wanted to create a painting he would buy a quick-pick lottery ticket, and the numbers would determine the imagery in the painting. While I was going through his work and his papers I managed to figure out his list, I'm only missing a few numbers. Prior to his death, he and I had talked numerous times about curating a show where we would give artists his list and a lottery ticket to create a work using his system. We're planning on doing this as a tribute show, and using the funds to generate income for his scholarship fund. (This is something he always talked about doing if he "made it big", those fantasy conversations all us artists seem to love to sit around having.) In the event that his work is someday sold, the sales will go into this fund.

This has all been an enormous learning experience, and I'm still figuring it out. I'm also dealing with an array of emotions from immense sadness to intense anger, coupled with extreme exhaustion from the past two weeks, so excuse me if for rambling, I hope this all makes sense tomorrow. Or hell, I wish any of it made sense, but I think maybe it never will.

All of the cynical motherfuckers of the world can flaunt their detatched hipster irony, but it won't change the fact that this is the one thing guaranteed to happen to any one of us, and if we, as artists, want our work to outlive us at all and not wind up in thrift stores we better start doing some estate planning. There's no guarantee that someone else will have the patience or foresight to know what to do with our work, sorting through our messy records and trying to piece things together. I know I don't want to leave that job to my family, now. My records are a mess, my work is scattered everywhere, not properly wrapped or stored, my slides haven't been organized for years. It's holding me back, and if something were to happen to me, why should someone else have to deal with it?

Bunch of lessons, still sorting through them. It would be the first time Brandon taught me stuff, but sadly, it may be the last. It's time to get my life in order, NOW. No more fucking around. I am more committed to getting things organized than ever.

Phew.

Dammit.

I miss you, B.

VOTING HELL.

It took me three and a half fucking hours to vote today, jammed into a sweaty, stinky gymnasium with around 300 angry and anxious people. And worst of all, we were surrounded by 27 voting machines, but since someone in charge decided they only needed 4 creaky old laptops operated by hunt-n-peckers to check in the people for those machines (a process that, when smooth, seemed to take an average of 5 minutes per person), those machines were empty most of the time. Yes, folks, Colorado was Ohio this year.

I've voted every election here, my whole life. There has never been a single time, not once, that I waited more than 15 minutes in my old precinct, and that's with half-blind old ladies poring over good old paper books. Help America Vote act? Ha -- with help like that, who needs a kick in the teeth? Why did they "fix" something that, at least here, had been working fine?

We started out this morning bright and early to head to a local bookstore, where we had been told for weeks that we would be voting. When we arrived there, a handwritten note on the door informed us that there was a misprint and we weren't able to vote there. We went to the next closest polling place, the Botanic Gardens. After reaching the line and finding that people at the front had been waiting 2 1/2 hours already, we decided we'd better get to work and take a late lunch.

After rushing through a bunch of meetings and running out on my poor visiting artist, I picked up my husband and we tried to vote. Drove by the botanic gardens and found it was just as bad, and decided to head up near our neighborhood, over in the barrio, thinking it would be less crowded. (Remember, one hour for lunch, that's all we technically had.) The first community center had about an hour and a half wait, and we settled in with our lunch and began kvetching with the folks in line. After about 20 minutes, someone came in and said that the community center a few blocks away had no lines.

So, we jumped ship and sped over to the other community center. No lines? Hah. By that point, we figured we'd just stay put, how bad could it be?

Well, apparently we were one of the good ones, at least from the rumors that raged like cranky wildfire throughout the weary lines. We all started out with a sense of humor, joking and playing with sedition by discussing issues in line. No ipods or cell phones allowed, you have to talk to each other, you'll go nuts otherwise, so at least you get to know some neighbors. Of course, after the machines went down, and people started noticing the lines moving at wildly different speeds (so that the person who just came in could easily pass you up), our joking turned to bitter comments and reached full-scale, seething rage by the time we haltingly neared the front of the line.

Voting shouldn't be painful, and it shouldn't be prohibitive. I feel absolutely disenfranchised, and thanks to how hard they made it for us to vote, I'm writing this at 2:30 in the morning, having JUST gotten home because I still had to go back to work and hang the show. Neither one of us could afford to miss work, but voting is THAT IMPORTANT. What's horrible is that I don't even have faith that my vote was counted, and I know that in my Democratic city countless voters had to give up, couldn't wait that long, while voters in the rest of this red state breezed through, and measures that seemed guaranteed to pass failed. (And of course, the Republicans fought a last-minute court case that the Democrats brought to try to extend the polls in Denver for two hours to make up for the machines being down for even longer, altogether.)

BUT STILL, I VOTED, AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY STICKER! (Well....maybe not all I got, but it's hard to feel excited even after such a hideous ordeal.) I'm pissed off, but dammit, I voted, as traumatic as it was.

And yes, I'm cynical enough to think this is all on purpose, this is meant to discourage us from voting, this is ineptitude by design. Because it just isn't possible to believe that computers, which are plentiful, were more difficult to have on hand than voting machines, which are not. Because it isn't possible to believe that anyone could believe that 4 computers to 27 voting machines was a logical or even reasonable ratio. And because, sadly, I am a realist. The people in power have nothing to gain from us voting, they know how we feel about them. Why not make it hard, and the poor people will turn away, and the old people, and the people with kids, and the people with lives. Because you have to be damned committed to democracy to stand for 3 1/2 hours in a gymnasium hot enough to make you want to faint, with no water and with no timetable for your release.

Sign me up for the revolution, too. But I'm still going to vote, just in case.

An Artist Visits

I've been kind of scarce around here, in part because I've been preparing for Capsule's final show, which opens this Friday. I just got back from the airport and picking up a visiting artist from Paris, who, unbelievably, I met through a posting on Craigslist. He had posted his website in the artists community section, and I instantly responded to his work and struck up an email conversation. His work had similarities to mine, so at first we were talking artist to artist, but then I decided to just invite him to show here. (Without for a minute thinking of what that might entail!)

That was two years ago. In the time since then he has sent me over 800 collages that we will be wallpapering the gallery with. He's staying at my friend Kay's house (one of the Boom people who has a studio at Capsule), we just went and dropped him off and had some wine and French chocolates. (Kay and her husband lived in France, too, and her husband just came back from a business trip there with the chocolates.)

Matthew is very interesting. He's an American expat who grew up in Long Island, and practically obsessive compulsive in his art making, which I so admire. I've been talking to him a lot over skype, so I already felt like I knew him, although I was nervous meeting him at the airport. Luckily I recognized him right away, and we easily fell into conversation. He was a friend of Ray Johnson's and very involved in the mail art movement, and he's also a writer who writes for Art & Antiques and The New York Times, among other publications. He's lived in France for 14 years now, and hasn't visited the U.S. in awhile -- he seems to be experiencing a bit of culture shock, almost.

Tomorrow we'll meet down at the gallery and begin laying out the show, which will be floor to ceiling, wall to wall art. I've set up several artist talks at schools, and next Monday we'll say goodbye by screening "How to Draw a Bunny" (about Ray Johnson), and Matthew will talk about him at a fabulous little bar that has a film screening room in the back.

It should be an interesting week. I'll try to post an update!

St. Lucia's eyeballs on a plate freaked me out...

...but what really traumatized and upset me was when I was told my dog wasn't going to heaven. It sent me into a tailspin of existential angst at the ripe old age of 8. After arguing with the Sunday School teacher about it, the next week I told my Mom that I thought church was "over my head" and I just didn't get it. I didn't want to go anymore, so she shrugged and let me stay home.

Long story, but little did I know that she was Jewish and converted to Catholocism for my dad -- she didn't really care one way or the other. I remember working up my nerve to tell her like it would break her heart!

I also freaked out my Sunday school teacher by asking repeatedly about where Cain and Abel's wives came from. I don't think I went far enough to think it through, but I found it profoundly disturbing that it wasn't explained, and any time you asked adults they got uncomfortable.

In fact, I still find that a little disturbing!

Sneak Preview of the New Denver Art Museum!

The new Hamilton wing of the Denver Art Museum, designed by architect Daniel Leibskind, is opening this weekend to the public. I went to a member's preview the other day, and it's a fantastic building. Somewhat problematic for the art in places (the paintings are hung off of slanted walls, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn't), but the staff has found some marvelously creative solutions in the space, such as projected video that fits perfectly into little faceted walls, a Carl Andre that reflects it's pattern high up into one of the points of the building (what we've been calling "the prow"). I look forward to watching them continue to evolve their installations into the space.

Best of all, the new Vicki and Kent Logan collection bequest is stunning. (And makes the rest of the collection look somewhat humble, by comparison.) Several huge Takashi Murakami works, an amazing Matthew Ritchey installation, Katarina Fritsch, Yasumasa Morimura, Nara...just stunning. Unfortunately, my camera died before I got there. But here's a few sneak peak pics before it opens:

The Claes Oldenburg at the entrance, sweeping up:


A Louis Bourgois Spider, a small, but still 9' tall mock-up of a room sized piece to be installed later:


Looking up at the skylights:


Over a balcony:



Part of the Atrium, showing artist Tatasuo Miyajima's "ENGI" installation, in which 80 local residents set the intervals for flashing numbers:

Richard Serra piece, nicknamed "killer" by the staff since according to some apocryphal story it fell on someone when being installed and killed them! (I've never seen this anywhere else, by the way, don't know if it's true.) It's only held in place by gravity.


Over a balcony, Calder and Ruscha on view:


Stairway and Calder, Damien Hirst's controversial ashtray peaking from underneath the stairs (famous for being mocked by Morley Safer!):


Another view, Warhol's portrait of Russell Means in there:


On the roof, Donald Judd in the foreground, which unfortunately resembles a row of rooftop air conditioners in context (would have been better installed somewhere else!):


From the roof, looking towards the original museum (now called the North building) designed by Geo Ponti:


Looking down off the roof towards the library, Red Grooms piece on the roof and Mark DiSuvero's Lao Tsu towards the center:

rave

It's now 5:29 a.m., and I'm at work, waiting for the rave next door to end in 1 minute. Then the guys will tear down and clean up, I'm hoping to go home in an hour.

It's a pretty cool event, unfortunately I got a stomach ache (too much coffee!) and was tired, so I spent most of my time at my desk with Theo putting my wrists to sleep. I intended to do all of these creative things tonight! At the most, unpacking my downstairs studio, working on the upstairs studio, and hopefully screenprinting. At the very least, working on the website or some graphic design! But alas, I didn't do much of anything. Nothing worthwhile, anyway. I've got serious deadlines coming up, so I could have used the time, but I just didn't have the energy and felt a little on edge and nervous.

I'm feeling much better now, if I get no neighbor complaints I think I'm onto a good thing. The guys are thrilled with the venue, and let's face it -- a regular gig every month will do a lot to stabilize the place, even if it means staying here all night.

I had looked forward to an all-nighter all week, truth be told, but I think moving all day and all the expenditure of energy lately, the opening last night and working for Kolacny's, all combined have left me drained.

I need to get creative, though -- I have a whole series of deadlines coming up! And I actually can't wait to unpack my studio, I think it will be fantastic.

The other night I was in there, and it hit me...this is mine! After all the months of hard work, I had almost forgot! But I've got a killer studio, and I can't wait to get to work!

Something else hit me, too -- I really am too old for raves. It was fun, but a little lonely. But I think I'll acclimate -- after all, I've spent half my life staying up all night working. It's good for me.

I miss R, though. Can't wait to go home and curl up in bed with him and a kitty or two.

random advice to a young artist (that I also need to hear myself from time to time)

always strive to do your best work, don't show anything less. Keep regular hours in your studio so that when you go through a slump you have discipline to bolster yourself. Work hard, talent alone is meaningless without a work ethic. Realize quickly that the art world isn't fair and move on. Don't sell yourself short, and don't let anyone else sell you short, either. Be confident, but not arrogant. Never burn a bridge if you can help it. Read everything. Be able to intelligently discuss your work. Don't let rejection get to you, there's another opportunity around the corner -- be ready for it. Don't forget to have fun, if you don't love what you do there are certainly more profitable professions. And speaking of that: don't expect to make money at your work, it will be that much more pleasant of a surprise if you do. Don't forget to grow.

Yup, guess that's about it.

Challenging the Viewer

I believe humans are on the planet to learn and grow and expand their minds. The whole of human existence has been moved forward by artists, writers, scientists and thinkers pushing on the boundaries of what we think we know. Without that pushing, striving, challenging, would we really be human? Would we have ever found fire, even?

Some of my favorite artworks I hated on sight. I'll admit it. It was through being challenged, through having my brain prodded and expanded a little, that I grew to "see" those works and appreciate them.

Frankly, I like to use my brain, but struggling to survive in the world doesn't always afford the opportunities to use it in the ways I'd like. Thank god for artists that shove me in that direction. And pushing my art, the same way, keeps me excited about it, and keeps my brain cells engaged.

That, or I suppose I could just do the New York Times crossword puzzle to stretch my head -- just not as interesting or fun, though.

Artists in America

The history of art is like rungs on a ladder. To understand Conceptual Art, for example, you need to have come up the ladder and worked through understanding Pop, and Assemblage, and Abstract Expressionism, rung by rung. And it would be impossible to understand Post-Modernism without those movements before, too.

The rest of the world, the "civilians", stopped on that ladder at Social Realism, the Ashcan school, right around there. When Pollock and all those crazy Ab Ex painters came along, they made a crucial mistake that has affected the rest of us forever -- they said, "It doesn't matter if it makes sense to anyone else, it makes sense to ME". (Paraphrasing, of course.) In other words, "you can't get it". Of course, it wasn't so much a "mistake", it was speaking to a personal vision and very much a reflection of the times, but it was a mistake in the public's eyes and came off as elitism.

Life Magazine took the picture of the Irascibles in 1950, and art was still important to Americans then, but it was the beginning of a divide. Suddenly, people felt uneducated because they didn't understand what they were looking at, and no one took the publics' hand and helped them to understand. They stopped climbing the ladder. So they didn't understand what came next.

Anyway, that's my extremely half-baked theory, thus far. We live in a time with an extreme number of artists graduating from school, and what's more, an extreme number of people graduating from school. All of a sudden, having a degree doesn't make you special anymore. And there are artists everywhere, although the attrition rate from art school hovers around 97%. Why? Why are so many kids choosing art school? It's fairly easy to see why they drop out -- there aren't a lot of rewards and it's difficult to survive. But why do they choose it in the first place?

My alma mater (Metropolitan State College of Denver) now boasts that the 4th largest department on the campus is the Art Dept. They recently graduated 900 art students, or as I like to call them, the future unemployed. The chair of the department is so proud, and I keep thinking: why? The level of talent doesn't appear to have increased, if anything, the department has been decimated by the clearing out of the tenured profs. (a horrifying trend that appears to be infecting universities everywhere -- the trend towards cheaper part-timers and adjuncts.) There appears to be nothing remarkable about these students coming out. When I was there (let me put on my crotchety old woman hat for a minute) the department was small, but a high number of students graduated were very successful, and very good. Now? I see a couple of shining stars, and a sea of mediocrity. Obviously larger class sizes and disinterested part-timers who are struggling to pay their bills aren't equalling better art students.

And all of these art students are heading into a world where art, although ubiquitous, is misunderstood, almost reviled. Art is thought of as an elitist pursuit, a luxury purchase, and not terribly relevent in people's lives. So where are the art students headed? Madison Avenue, Microsoft, game design, and a fair number of them away from anything even resembling art. And if they're real artists, they'll stick it out, but many face a life of frustration and obscurity.

Wow, that was a little bit of a downer, sorry! But I guess you have to understand the beast to change it, and I'm at the stage of trying to pick it apart and understand. I do think I've been changing things in my little corner of the world, but of course, I've got those damned, grandiose "change the world" scheming thoughts running through my tortured little brain.

It occurs to me: this is what happens when I don't get into my studio enough!

Body Worlds

Went to see Body Worlds last Saturday night at 3 a.m. with R. As usual, we waited until the last possible minute, so that's the only ticket we could get -- but it was really fun, and there was such a novelty in going to the museum at that time of night. And it was still crazy crowded. Long lines, in spite of the timed tickets. But pretty well worth the wait.


It's pretty crazy. It's shocking how quickly seeing people that have essentially been turned into plasticized meat & splayed out becomes normative. It really was pretty cool, and fascinating from both a scientific and aesthetic perspective.

The most interesting thing for me, however, is the controversy surrounding it in Germany, where Dr. Gunther Von Hagens first developed and displayed this technology as artwork. People were outraged, and there were rumors (don't know if they were ever substantiated) that the bodies were bought from the Chinese Gov't., which was killing prisoners. I believe he still isn't able to display them in Germany. But the key thing in the controversy was that they were considered art, and the good Dr. presented himself as both scientist and sculptor.

In the U.S., there has been little controversy, and the show has sold out to blockbuster crowds, and I suspect in large part because it has been marketed purely as science (although in the exhibit they are presented as art, in a sense, because they have nameplates with the year on them just as in an art museum). There were even enormous billboards with the human meat sculptures displayed large on busy streets, and no one freaked or even complained.

If it was presented at the art museum, I believe people would have a difficult time with it -- art is seen as more "frivolous" than science, even though just as much (and often the same things) is learned through it. People forget about the early anitomical studies -- for example, Pietro del Cortona's early renaissance dissection drawings were some of the earliest diagrams of the human body on the inside.

It's interesting, sometimes, how the lack of general knowledge about art history can collide with social taboos.

regarding art snobbery...

Now, I am one to always come down on the side of contemporary art and intellectualism, and I abhor the ongoing attacks from pop culture in the form of mockery, but even so...

Last weekend at the public lecture for the Site Santa Fe Biennial, it's curator, Klaus Ottman, actually uttered these words (emphasis mine, to capture his inflection): "...but the theme is that there is no theme!" (Now, repeat that to yourself in a german accent and excited tone, to get the effect.)

I nearly blew milk out my nose, and I wasn't even drinking any. Could he have said anything more pretentious, more cliched, than that? It was like the Spinal Tap of artspeak, it sounded like it could have been on the Simpson's, or in Daniel Clowes Art School Confidential. It sounded ridiculous.

This is why, I thought to myself, this is why they mock us. We just walk right into it. If I can't take it seriously, who the hell does? It's those times when I almost...just a tiny bit...get Kuspit. But then he hasn't appealed to me since he juried an awful show here. The only one I've consistently agreed with is Dave Hickey, who seems to leave the bullshit & artspeak at the door, very refreshing.

As to the rest of the biennial? A snooze. It left me cold, only Carsten Nicolai's work managed to move me. There are only 13 artists, each of whom has their own room, so in contrast to previous biennials it seemed stingy & sparse, & left one feeling a bit cheated. Considering the lengths to which previous curators have gone -- off-site installations, live performance (that you don't have to pay $20 for), even modifying the outside of the building, Ottman's approach seemed a tad lazy and uninspired -- although others have been kind enough to call it "conservative". No one I spoke to that weekend seemed too impressed. I have been a Catherine Opie fan, but her work relied so heavily on context that it ultimately failed, in my eyes. The painting was awful, and I used to be a huge Jennifer Bartlett fan but felt her new work lacked the same aesthetic pull. And I had looked forward to Wolfgang Laib's work, but it somehow felt just like a minimilist exercise in spatial composition, unlike when he uses natural materials.

Ottman did say one thing that was good, but after everything else he said it seemed disingenuous: "I want this show to be about the artists and not the curator". I believe he tries, and perhaps even means well, but his own pompousness got in the way.

the treadmill

I've got that "be careful what you wish for" feeling.

Just walked up the street to the openings, and looking at art made me depressed. Looking at people's resumes made me more depressed. Talking to the gallery owners made me exhausted and depressed.

I took all this on with excitement, not really thinking about how much work the new space would be, how long it would take to make the transition, and what I would do in the meantime. But it's hard, I'll admit. The work load is crushing me. And I've over-scheduled in order to make it all work out financially, but the burden is going to kill me. I need help, and I need it yesterday. And all the while I'm asking: is this what I really want? Is it?

I think I'm a pretty good artist, but I look at the things happening for everyone else's careers, and I wonder. I don't have the time and energy to put into being an artist that I had when it was my full-time job, and I'm really afraid that I've sealed my fate. When will I get more than an hour in the studio at a time? And when I do set out studio time, how will I keep from being exhausted and drained? How will I have time to manage my career? Do I still have a career, or have I destroyed it with my hubris and overinvolvement in outside things?

R tried to warn me. He did. And I love him for that, above all else. Sometimes I think I should have listened. I do get excited about the community I'm building, and I know that one day it may nourish me, too. When I spend time hanging out with other artists, I feel more at home. Even though I own a gallery, I'm not one of them, they know it, and I know it. And I don't want to polish up and put the energy into being like them, either -- it's a shallow waste of time meant to appease the rich, meant to let them think that they're buying art from one of their own.

I know what did it, now. What got me into this funk. When L, the exhibiting artist, introduced me to his friends as a "gallery owner". And I guess he's right. But the rub is that I'm really an artist, masquerading as a gallery owner, or businessperson, or whatever. And I have a physical pain from the ideas that are straining to reach paper. How did I let this happen to me?

Hubris. I've created a monster with it. In my zeal to create this "perfect world" I've left nothing in it for me. The workload for the things that I am doing, things that I want to happen, is crushing me. I've no time for my real work, no time for my poor, beautiful, patient husband, no time for proper meals, no time for art, no time to go out with friends, no time for housework, no time for nurturing my soul, no time to just be, quietly, and do nothing. I cannot survive this way for much longer, and we're at the beginning. What have I done.

And then there's Denver, too -- do I want to stay here? Am I deluding myself that it's changing? Have I wasted my options, my career, my future -- which is quickly dwindling, I might add? M said the other day that I was "too old to move". But I still feel the pull... this place has never felt quite right, since childhood. But I'm still trying to "make it work". When is the right time to give up?

Is there any way to find some balance?

I miss my old life.

Notes to a Young Artist

Ivan Karp once said at a lecture I heard that, "If you're good looking or rich, you'll be very successful in the art world. If all you've got is your talent, then you have a long, hard road ahead of you".

Depressing? Maybe. But what's more depressing -- toiling under the illusion that the art world is a meritocracy? Living a lie on the faith that you will be discovered?

Knowledge is power. Learn EVERYTHING you can, about art, about history, and even about who's who in your scene and in the art world at large. And work hard -- not because you expect a big pot of success at the end of that rainbow, but for the joy of working hard and honing your craft.

Yes -- the art world is often about who you know. That much is a fact, whether we like to admit it or not. But it is also rooted in practicality -- what is easier than looking in your own back yard for an artist if you are in a position to help artists? Your job is to be in that back yard. No, you don't have to schmooze (or screw) your way to the top, but be involved in your community. Meet other artists, go to lectures, volunteer at the museum -- you would not believe how many opportunities can come your way because you were in the right place at the right time, so why not maximize that possibility?

And be kind to others -- the youngster asking for your advice today could be your best collector or advocate tomorrow. Artists can choose to see things as a competition, or hold open doors for each other -- I think the latter will help you more.

The art world is frustrating, and most definitely not fair. Like most things in life, actually. Acknowledge it, and move on. Don't let it be an excuse for not trying, or worse, a bitter badge you wear on your martyr complex. Define what success is to you, and set about to achieve it. Even if you only get halfway there, you can revel in the knowledge that you got off your ass and did something; that's better than the majority of people, at the very least.

Good luck, and I hope you are able to find success, whatever that means to you. (all that's important.)

Mixed Feelings

I have such a strange mix of feelings right now, it's confusing. On the one hand, I've taken on this new building, which is by alternate turns exhilarating and terrifying. Mostly terrifying. I'm responsible for a huge amount of bills every month, and yet, in spite of how good things looked a few weeks ago, people are canceling, events aren't filling up -- it's incredibly stressful. I know in my heart that I'm making the right move, yet at times I regret ever jumping into this, it feels as if it's taking me so much further from where I want to be, which is making art. I know that I'll have to make sacrifices in the short term to make this happen -- and it will be incredible if it all works -- but in the meantime, it's leaving me very frustrated.

I just came from the studio, and I couldn't be more frustrated there, too. I've been walking this line for awhile with my work, and I feel as if I'm being ripped in two. I want to use my artwork to communicate my feelings about the world, especially about the world as it is now. But my process is so intuitive, so stream-of-consciousness, that I have difficulty injecting content that I want there, it just sort of has to emerge. And at the same time, much of the content that emerges is usually silly, & frivolous, and more about beauty and surface than anything political, which is what I really want to discuss.

Working on this piece for the food show has brought me to such a point of extreme artist's block that I wanted to scream tonight. I agreed to be in the show before I really knew how crazy my life would be at this particular time -- building studios, moving the screen shop, putting together the seminar, moving my office & turning the space back into a gallery -- all while trying to put together Art-O-Mart and freaking out about money...is it any wonder I'm struggling? Of course, I have to finish the piece for the show, but unfortunately, I couldn't be less interested, and the piece shows it. I'm left turning in something that feels like I'm coasting -- it feels empty. I don't want to show it, but I don't feel I have a choice. And there's going to be such strong work in the show -- I hate being in this position. And it's not that I'm just blocked -- I'm incredibly frustrated, I want to work, but I'm not able to work on the pieces I'm inspired to, since I have agreed to this "assignment". (Now several days late, too, which compromises my professionalism.)

This makes me realize a couple of things:
1. I need to say no to all theme shows, unless my work already fits the theme. I'm forcing myself into an illustrator mode by accepting the task, and it feels really uncomfortable right now. I didn't feel like I could say no to this one, since it was a good friend who curated the show, but since I seem to be in this mode where the theme of the work emerges, it doesn't seem right to force it.

2. I feel I've gotten lazy about the fundamentals, and it's time to work on the basics. I need to draw, go to life drawing maybe, start getting some discipline back in the studio, and still focus on the business. I also really need to work on my career stuff as much as the business -- it's so hard to balance it all. I'm overwhelmed right now. I know it won't always be this way, but right now, I'm juggling a hundred knives.

3. I need to get much better about time management. I had time to go to the studio today, and stopped into Capsule to do a few things, and just wound up dealing with phone calls, and emails, and everything else. God, I need an assistant bad. I need to get another intern in there, pronto.

4. Website needs to be top priority, after the move. This goes with time management and answering phone calls.

5. I really, really need to do more reading, and more writing. I need to get to the bottom of some of the conceptual quandaries in my work right now, and there's no way around it but through it. I do NOT want to become one of those artists that phones it in, and that's definitely what I've done with this piece. Yeah, people might sort of like it, I don't think by far it will be the worst thing in the show, but honestly -- it's not my best work. It doesn't hold together, and it doesn't have anything to say. It's not my best effort, and I never want to put myself into a position again where I feel like that about something that I'm putting in the public. Just because I can get away with it, doesn't mean I should.

6. I need to get organized. In my head, in my home, in my office, on the computer desktop even. It's really time -- my messy desk and messy house and messy mind are holding me back.

And finally, I need to be less hard on myself, in spite of everything I said above. Yes, I need to do all of the things I just said, but I'm not a superhuman, and I need to stop scheduling my life as though I am. It's living, not a horse race. The pressure to get things off the ground is high, partly because I want to feel like I have a life again. I need to make time for the things I like to do, not just what I need to do.

Of course, for the time being, I just need to try to get through the next month. It's going to be a very, very bumpy ride.

haven't had time to write

but I'll try to get the blog caught up with my crazy life soon.

In the meantime, enjoy my seven deadly sins quiz.

Greed:	Very Low
Gluttony:	Very Low
Wrath:	Low
Sloth:	Medium
Envy:	Very Low
Lust:	Very Low
Pride:	Very Low

Take the Seven Deadly Sins Quiz

(personally, I think the gluttony & sloth part could even be a little higher, truthfully!)

I've been a bad, bad blogger

I got tagged by squish awhile ago, and never fulfilled my duty. So, here it is: the four things meme.

Four (other) jobs I've had:

* Singing Telegram Performer
* Stall Mucker
* Telemarketer
* House of Toast Manager

Four little-known facts about me:

* I have a tiny hole in the roof of my mouth, and when I take sinus medications I can sometimes suck air through it, making a high-pitched guinea pig sound.
* I barrell raced in minor rodeos & gymkhanas when I was a kid.
* When I was in 6th grade I wanted to be a trucker. This is about the same time that I was put into some torturous classes at school to teach me to be "girlier".
* I had a 12 inch mohawk at one time. Unfortunately, I lost the one picture I had of it. I wish I could find someone who has one.

Four movies I can watch over and over (okay, maybe more than 4 for this one):

* Hedwig & the Angry Inch
* Pulp Fiction
* Happiness
* Breakfast at Tiffanys
* Tod Browning's Freaks
* Santa Sangre
* Blue Velvet
* Basquiat
* Princess Mononoke
* City of Lost Children
* Delicatessan
* Repo Man


Four city airports I have been to:

* La Guardia (NYC)
* Rome
* London Gatwick
* O'Hare (Chicago)

Four favorite male actors:

* Phillip Seymour Hoffman
* Steve Buscemi
* James Gandolfini
* William H. Macy

Four TV shows I like to watch

* The Sopranos
* Project Runway
* Real Time With Bill Maher
* Arrested Development

Four foods that I hate to love:

* Salt & Pepper Potato Chips
* Chocolate & Sweets
* Cheese, cheese, cheese
* butter. on anything.

Four web sites (not blogs) I visit daily:

* craigslist.org
* truthout.org
* ebay.com
* g-g-g-google

Four things I want to do before I die:

* Travel. Everywhere. Anywhere.
* Have a major museum show.
* Make it into an art magazine, or better, a book.
* Change the world.

Four places I would rather be right now

* Paris, eating crepes & picking through the flea market postcards.
* New York, always.
* In my studio, painting.
* Soaking in a hot springs with R.

Four people I'm tagging:

I can't. I just can't. All the people I would tag have already been tagged, so I'll just say, if you're reading this, and feel like doing it, then go for it. Let me know if you do, so I can change this pathetic ending & make it look like I actually have friends that read this drivel!

We are the Champions, my friends...

After a grueling 2 weeks, $100 in adhesive products, and about 27 paper cuts, I am very proud to announce that my team, the Capsule Art Thugs, won the 2006 ADCD Paper Fashion Show! Yay!

The ADCD puts on this paper fashion show every year, and it's a pretty cool event. It's an amazing challenge to try to get paper to move like fabric, and to engineer it in such a way that it fits your model, rather than just being a stiff cylinder.

The last couple of weeks were incredibly frustrating, and there are things the organizers could do better next time, but overall it was worth it. I had a blast working with Dave & Katie & Brandon, Amie was the most fantastic model and muse we could have ever wished for, and the fact that the event was the night after the Project Runway Finale helped us get pumped up. (Santino was robbed! Sorry Chloe, still love you too, but that pink dress!)

Here's some photos, and a link to last year's video. (My dress was the last, sort of NAKED one!)

Happiness is a choice

It's not so much a state of mind as it is a series of decisions.

When you know what makes you happy, you can choose to expose yourself to that which makes you happy. If you reverse it it works the same way. (i.e. -- what makes you unhappy can be avoided.)

Happiness is not something that happens to you, it is something you create within yourself, usually in spite of the world rather than because of it.

It's never easy, but we all have it within ourselves to choose happiness. If you look deep within your soul, you know what you need to be happy. Then it's up to you to strive to create that world.

I'm still striving...but it's in the process of "creating your happiness" that it's found.

Good luck on your journey to happiness. I hope that you are able to find it, or at the very least, peace.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Punk

Both of my parents were artists, who were somewhat frustrated since they had kids so young. My Dad started art school, and wound up in drafting, since he was being pushed to be practical because of the kids. He still makes stuff -- mostly he's a carpenter, he carves the most incredible guns, of all things, carves mantlepieces, but only for hire. Never, it seems, for himself.

My Mom, on the other hand, had incredible promise. I have some of her drawings from the '50's when she was 16, they are remarkably unique, with a strong style of her own. When people look at what she did in the '60's & '70's, they see this very paisley-like, detailed style that became popular during that time, but she was doing it long before it was in the mainstream, just naturally.

When I was a kid, my Mother painted every day at the kitchen table, and packed it up when I came home from school. She had a solo show at a prominent art center when I was about 7, had a good gallery, and was starting to sell. Unfortunately, when my parents divorced, she couldn't handle being a single working Mother and an artist, so she gave it up completely. I've tried to encourage her, but she doesn't want to do anything but what she did before, and her hand shakes too much to do it. Plus she's lost confidence (and in my snotty teenaged years I'm afraid I may have contributed to that, a crime I've tried endlessly to make up for).

I was always an artist. I'm surprised I didn't come out of the womb clutching a pencil. I drew constantly, stole my Mom's paints, made things all the time. My teachers began telling my parents I had talent in pre-school, but they already knew. I got art supplies for every birthday, and was in my first art show with my Mom at 5.

You'd think that's the heavenly upbringing for an artist, that would result in no issues, but not really so. I was as interested in music as art, but since my brothers had both earlier abandoned their expensive instruments, my parents wouldn't let me play anything. So of course, the drive to be a musician overcame the drive to be an artist out of sheer rebellion. I bought my first guitar with my own money in 9th grade, and played in punk rock bands after high school. My parents had pressured me so much to be an artist (to make up for what they had sacrificed, I now realize) that it was the last thing I wanted to do.

But all through those days, I still made art, drew comics, wrote 'zines...I found my outlet mostly in painting t-shirts and friends' leather jackets. I couldn't stop making art if I tried, and eventually it won out, as I practiced less and painted more.

Both of my parents encouraged me to have a practical skill, though, which I wrongly poo-pooed. My Mother constantly told me how hard it was to make a living as an artist, and like most kids, I ignored her.

The funny thing about pressure from parents, whether it's encouraging or discouraging, is that it always seems to backfire, at least for awhile. I think my parents recognized that I was an artist and tried to nurture that, but there was always an awareness for me of what they had given up, which instilled a huge dose of fear about following the same path. I always feel like if I give up, I'll be destroying their legacy, since I haven't ever bothered with the whole having kids thing.

Today my Mom is my biggest fan, and her apartment is full of my artwork. She comes to all my openings, my friends all know her, and she gives a damned fine critique, too. My Dad doesn't really get my stuff and wishes I'd go back to drawing horses, and doesn't go to many of my shows (I think he's afraid to thanks to some of my younger, more radical work), but is always encouraging and willing to help me build things when my carpentry skills aren't up to snuff. I don't think either of them realize what an impact they had on me by giving up what they really wanted to do.

Painting is Dead

Or at least, this is the claim made every few years by art critics and historians who've run out of things to say.

In the "old days", (to use a quaint term), there was generally one accepted style or genre of art being done, which is what we know about today -- we really have no way of knowing what else was done, because history is "written by the winners", as they say. For years, art historians (wrongly) assumed that women were never artists, because they were so rarely given the opportunity and much of their work was attributed to men. It didn't mean women artists didn't exist, it just means they weren't cared about enough to be catalogued & archived.

I was very fortunate to once have the opportunity to visit a small room underneath the Medici Chapel that had only recently been discovered. It was not open to the public, only scholars, but since I was studying in Italy I was allowed to visit with my professor. The theory was that this room was where Michaelangelo hid from the Pope, and the walls were covered with the most magnificent drawings, which definitely looked to be done by Michaelangelo's hand. But there were other drawings on the walls, too, that seemed so modern & wild that they could have been done by Picasso, yet with the same marks, the same weight to the line as the other drawings. Upon testing the pigments, it had been found that they were the same age, and had been put down at around the same time. Art historians are still arguing about whether this work was done by Michaelangelo or some random workman, but there is no argument to the fact that the two styles existed, side-by-side, at the same time.

One of the hallmarks of postmodernism is the acceptance of a plurality of styles, which is what I think makes the times we live in so exciting. That's why I never understand the people who say "xyz is the one true art form" or some such hogwash -- there is no "one true art form" now, and in reality there probably never was.

That's the problem with people making essentialist statements -- it's impossible to declare them true.

Arguing on the Internet...

is like running in the Special Olympics -- isn't that what they say? (Even if you win, you're still retarded, is how the joke goes if you haven't heard it.)

I have wasted the better part of the day arguing on the Craigslist arts forum, with a person of questionable integrity. I don't know if "waste" is the right word, though -- I mean, it was fairly intellectually stimulating and fun, but there are FAR better uses of my time.

I have a tendency, from time to time, to get addicted to these stupid things. I think it's because I crave some sort of intellectual exchange, although that's rarely what's provided. It does provide a certain amount of stimulation, a little bit of adrenaline....but does it have inherent value?

What worries me is that so much verbiage is spilled on the internet, rather than in any sort of quantifiable format. What will future historians look at? Instead of written correspondence, people use email. Instead of physical diaries, people use blogs such as this one. Is there any one entity that is keeping a catalogue, a record, of these times? Will all our degradable, flawed media stand the test of time?

But even more -- the quickly fired-off angry post, the flippant email -- how does it represent us as a people? No longer do you have the valuable moments it takes to address the envelope & hunt down a stamp to let your better judgment come into play. Now, as quickly as you hit send, it's in the world, complete with all of your slips of the tongue and angry moments.

Email is hard to take back. Posting on an internet forum, even more so.

Not that I have any regrets. Well, unless all of my writing is lost one day because it's all on the internet.

The Zen of Telemarketing

Right after I graduated from art school, my goal was to work the least amount of hours I could for the most money so that I could have time in my studio. Which led me to, unbelievably, telemarketing, something I NEVER thought I would do, and which I am still loath to admit.

I would sit in a little carpet covered cubicle with a bunch of down-on-their-luck chainsmokers, and call people and ask them if they wanted to change their interest rate on their mortgage. I did this because in four hours a night I could make what I would make in an 8 hour day at my old job, so the remaining hours of the day could be spent at the studio.

Do you know anyone in the world that is nice to telemarketers? Okay, a few people say yes -- hence the fat funds -- but most people go to the greatest lengths of rudeness that any rejection can have.

It taught me a few things: 1)any verbal onslaught can be survived. 2) people, in general, enjoy being assholes. 3) rejection is meaningless. It's a zero-sum equation -- if you hadn't even tried, you'd be in exactly the same place. 4) Never give up. Someone will eventually say yes.

Better lessons than anything my student loans paid for, to be sure.

Balancing Art, Money, & Life...

(caveat: I actually posted this on the Craigslist Arts Forum, but thought it belonged here, too -- so it probably won't sound exactly the same as the rest of the blog...)

This is the thing artists struggle with more than anything. It also goes far to explain why many of the artists who "make it" seem to have a fair amount of money. Not only does the money give them better promotional materials, better supplies and technology, and bigger studios, it gives them the one, most important thing: TIME.

I am one of the few artists I know who was LUCKY enough to get to spend 3 years in the studio, making art while making a living off of it. (And yes, luck did have a fair amount to do with it -- but more on that in a second.) It ended with 9.11, which, in the grand scheme of things is a pretty minor tragedy, but I'm still a little bitter about it. My career totally changed within months -- I had New York galleries interested in me that just went away, all of my out of town galleries closed, all sales stopped -- luckily, my wonderful husband Rick had a stable job, so we've survived, but I hate being a drain on the family resources. In the midst of major depression and after months of staring at the walls in my studio, I began applying for jobs. However, with no recent experience on my resume I had a tough time. (Oh -- you're an artist? Don't you mean CRACKHEAD, slacker?)

Feeling that I had nothing to say, I wanted to escape being an artist -- and so, I opened a store (Pod) that sold handmade goods, which was meant to become my day job. Except, I never reached the point I could pay myself and made VERY bad decisions regarding who I would allow to be my partner. 2 1/2 years later, I've finally started to figure out how to make it work -- it's evolved from a shop to a gallery (Capsule), with a heavy studio component in the building and a community screen printing shop that offers classes. Does it give me more time to be in the studio, as I had fantasized it would at the beginning? Hah! Much less than when I had a day job -- go figure. And yet, I can see things starting to evolve into a decent balance, and it's given me the chance to actually help others in the community, as well as a higher profile. (Sometimes higher than I am comfortable with, frankly.) A big drawback to the "higher profile" thing is that people now see me as a gallery owner more than an artist -- something I am fighting tooth and nail. (There's nothing more chilling to hear, after 15 years showing in one town with a brief 2 year hiatus, than: "Oh, you're an artist?" Oh, the horror!)

Now the luck part: how did I get to spend 3 years just making art? Through both good luck, and what at the time I thought was bad luck. I had begun selling more work, and had finally gotten a couple of out-of-town galleries, but still had a day job. My co-op gallery (ILK) had arranged for a show in Philadelphia, and my husband's band (PW3) was playing in NYC, so we loaded up my new van (new to me, anyway, and the first "real" car I'd ever had, complete with payments and insurance, thankfully) and drove out east. It was a great trip, in spite of the fact that my van inexplicably caught fire and BURNED, with no one anywhere near it and with my portfolio and all my slides inside (they were damaged, but rescue-able). I was stranded in Brooklyn while I tried to deal with the insurance, heading to Philly to hang the show, and getting what was left of my stuff back to Denver, and in the midst of this extended "vacation", my job -- somewhat understandably -- went away.

This "bad" luck, however, became good. Through some vicious, tooth-and-nail fighting with the insurance company, I was $5000 ahead, thanks to my prudent shopping, since I had paid well under blue book for the van. THAT was the cushion I needed, and also the push. Since I didn't have a job, anyway, I figured I'd just make art until I had to get a job. As long as money was coming in, I would go to the studio every day, just like it was my day job.

That was the most blissful 3 years of my life, but not without it's struggles. We all think we want to go to the studio for 8 hours a day, but when faced with it, you realize how disciplined you have to be. Luckily, I'd spend the past 2 years doing telemarketing (that's right, you heard me -- but I could work 4 hours a day and get paid like it was 8 anywhere else, and definitely learned to handle rejection), so I was used to having most of the day in my studio, anyway. To really make it work, I did a lot of commissions through art consultants and wore a lot of other hats, all art-related -- teaching, illustration work, freelance graphic design, sewing, and so on.

I'm also lucky in that I had a spouse that was willing and able to support me (however frugally), and also supported what I should be doing, in spite of what I had chosen. While he supported me financially while the shop was open, he also constantly told me that the shop was a mistake, that I should be in the studio making art. (How's that for a change-up?)

I didn't mean for this to get so long -- this is practically my life story. But it's such a complex question, and I feel that every choice in my life has revolved around trying to solve this issue of balance. It's been on my mind a LOT lately, and most of my New Year's resolutions have something to do with it. I'm finding that what works is to try to keep to a balanced schedule -- keeping regular, committed studio hours, even if all you manage to do is wash a few brushes and do some grunt work, you're THERE. Trying to balance that with being a small business owner is also a huge struggle, but still better than my experiences when I had a day job, since it gives me flexibility. And I'm getting closer to being able to pay myself, as well as trying to piece my career back together.

Anyway -- that's how I've dealt with it, this far, as well as a frickin' story of my life. If you're still reading this far -- what, don't you have anything better to do? Get to your studio, already!