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!