The week that was

I've been back for a few days now. More than a few, but no matter.

One pays for these trips both coming and going. I knew —and made mention— I was coming home to errands and chores left undone, and I'm happy to say I've secured two cords of wood to be delivered Thursday and at a good price. I have been able to finish spreading the bark mulch I started before I left. (The wife did a good deal of spreading while I was gone.) And yesterday I climbed the ladder up to the very tippy-top of the greenhouse to scrape off the last of the old seam tape. Ah, stretched out over a ladder for several hours... and now my left calf is not cooperating; indeed, it is complaining loudly.

So, it is one of those days, forced into multiples of flexing exercises. And with accounting a symptom of inactivity, I thought it best to deal with some long overdue correspondence.

Yes, the exhibit in Chicago:

Last I wrote we were still waiting to install. All went well and it was joy to work in tandem with my friend and former professor. Once we were in the gallery, we had the show up in about six hours. His part took two; it was mine that required the extra time, partly because of the intricacies of spacing, but mostly because of considering the order of the work so as to make the "read" more available to the viewer.

So, without further ado, here's what it looked like:

The top photo is my part of the room. The second is my friend's work on opposing walls.

I am guessing all of the photos can be enlarged so as to see them/read them better.

In short, the people who own the gallery said it was one of the better shows they've had in some time. They also thought the opening was well-attended. Everyone involved seemed pleased and the response from gallery-goers, old friends and strangers alike, was very complimentary. I have been invited back to do another project at another one of their spaces in two years.

And now to make hay, strike while the iron is hot, etc. But first, this fucking leg...

Time warped

I should be asleep. Or rather, I wouldn't mind if I was asleep right now instead of awake after an hour nap.

I could blame it on the time difference between Chicago and home, for I never go to bed as early as I did tonight, not without similar results. Or, it might be the road noise. There is a major road right outside the window next to my bed and still a fair amount of traffic at the midnight hour.

Still, I must ad to this a certain amount of anticipation that has crept into my mind that takes an extra measure of sedation to allow me distance. Last night was easy. It was my first night in town, and as is the tradition these last few years, my friends made certain I was mighty toasty before I laid my head on a pillow. Tonight, none of us had the wherewithal for a repeat performance, especially on a "school night."

They have been asleep for a couple hours now. And if I sit here for another five hours, I will be able to greet both them and first light.

Oh, and there is a sports bar next door. I just heard two patrons laughing as they got into their vehicle. I suppose there were some big games today...

I am glad to see my friends. The ones I am staying with are very dear friends. I have known the husband for over thirty years, his wife for almost twenty. They put me up every time I come into town. Yet, I also believe in the three-day rule and will move into a small studio apartment nearby tomorrow. It is tucked away on a side street and in the back of a house. It is owned by friends of friends, and so with less at stake, it is there I will stay until I return home next week.

It is a long time to be away from home. And, in truth, had I known when I made my flight reservations I wouldn't be able to install my show until this coming Wednesday evening or Thursday, I would not have come out as early as I did. As busy as I was around the farm before I left, I left chores undone that will be more difficult to finish upon my return, for tonight the wife told me rain is in the extended forecast.

It is sometimes hard to believe that I lived in this city for nearly twenty years. Sure, it has changed quite a bit in the eleven years since we left. I am astonished at the gentrification that has taken hold in some neighborhoods. And frustrated by the lack of parking in what was once my particular hinterland. Wholly aware that back in the day I was very much a part of making it happen now, I still want to stand out on the street and yell at the entitled, self-absorbed hipsters who seem to gloat over living in this 'hood, "I remember when!"

The wife knew this wasn't going to be an easy trip for me, and fittingly bought me a t-shirt to wear for my opening that reads "Village Elder." And believe me, I take some comfort in the light self-mockery wearing it will bring. While I am as comfortable as I can be with the body of work I have brought to exhibit,  and I wouldn't have passed up this opportunity for the world, there is a part of me that would rather be stacking the two cords of firewood I have yet to order at about the same time the first people show up for the opening.

First things first

Here's the press release for my exhibit:

The Suburban will host exhibitions by longtime friends and colleagues Dennis Kowalski and Patrick Collier in September and October. The opening reception is 2-4 pm Sunday, September 21, at The Suburban, 125 N. Harvey Ave. in Oak Park, IL.

Kowalski is a central figure in the history of contemporary art in Chicago. His particular approach to conceptual art in the 1970s set the pace for many younger artists to follow. In recent years his inspiration has come from the impact humans have on their environment, stating, “It is more difficult to maintain a civilization as it is to create one. We appear to lose interest.”

A native Chicagoan, Kowalski grew up across the street from Midway Airport when the area was still very much undeveloped and therefore had a sense of the natural about it. He has watched the city fill in while at the same time disintegrate: “The maintained sections of city come and go, and change location, yet continually deteriorate. For me, there are two symbols that typify this phenomenon: architecture/built structures and nature. Architecture deteriorates as the civilization deteriorates. It is destroyed through war, changing functional ideologies and changing styles.” This ever-changing yet neglected city of Chicago, just like most large cities, does not necessarily allow for a return to nature unaffected by the blight. “Nature has never been abused as it has within the last two hundred years or so. This factor certainly impacts the sustainability of current and future civilizations.” Kowalski’s installation at The Suburban will reflect these ideas.

Collier came to Chicago in 1985 as a writer transitioning into the visual arts. He received his MFA from the University of Illinois at Chicago in 1992. In 1998 he and his wife, Gillian Hearst, opened a gallery, bona fide, on West Chicago Ave. Collier was also a regular contributor to The New Art Examiner. In 2003 the couple moved to a small farm in Oregon and for several years grew organic vegetables for market. Not long after his arrival in Oregon, Collier became involved in the Portland art community and currently writes art criticism for Oregon ArtsWatch. Working in a variety of media, he often incorporates writing and forms suggestive of text into his visual art. Collier states, “A sentence in its expressiveness is not all that much different than a horizon in its expansiveness.” Most recently, he has explored this theme in his photographic work, some of which will be on view at The Suburban.

About The Suburban: The Suburban is an independently run artist exhibition space in Oak Park, IL. We give complete control to the artists in regards to what they choose to produce and exhibit. Thus it's a pro artist and anti curator site. The Suburban is not driven by commercial interests. It is funded within the economy of our household. Its success is not grounded in sales, press or the conventional measures set forth by the international art apparatus, but by the individual criteria set forth by the artists and their exhibitions. In this, The Suburban is more closely aligned with the idea of studio practice than that of the site of distribution.

Something in the water

Yeah, about once every five weeks or so seems about right. It's been that long since I wrote here, and if memory serves me, that's been the pace as of late. I think about shutting this down completely, yet that seems too drastic. It may be nostalgia for the good ol' days of posting every day that keeps me from doing so, those days we all fondly remember because a game was always at-the-ready and there was sure to be a hand to be discussed. We developed a kinship around a flop.

For some, the game maintained a strong grip. For others like myself, Black Friday took the wind out of all my sails save the jib. Health issues didn't help, and may have even been partially exacerbated by all of the adrenaline and cortisol released into my system on a daily basis. Yet the breeze behind that one lone sail I reserve for keeping some small degree of contact with all of you, cheering you on as you succeed at the game, or just to check in from time to time.

I have a 5 hp outboard for my monthly home game and online practice. Big enough to play; too small to make the effort to tell you about it.

I am aware that many of my posts have an air of melancholy about them. This one is no different, except that I'm feeling pretty good, all things considered. I'm taking a lot of photos, both continuing my field burn series and shooting a lot of the offbeat stuff that really floats my boat; I'm painting in preparation for bombing my Saatchi Online page with tons of new work; my show in September is all ready to go except for building the shipping crates (fun!) and sending it off; and, I'm getting a good amount of work done around the farm.

No, the pall today is likely the result of what is going on in the lives of others. I have a friend who is so close to suicide that he has asked to be hospitalized; another friend's husband is back on crack and one of her daughters is stealing from her; another friend's husband is an alcoholic who has her terrified to move; and then add my wife's menagerie of fucked-up friends to the roll. Granted, this shit has been going on for ages. And I could list more. The difference is that I'm not in that same boat anymore. Not so much, anyway.

Now I listen. I try to only offer advice when asked.

To be honest, I've detached a bit, albeit (as they say in Al-Anon) with love.

As I write this (and yes, I've been in Al-Anon for over a year now), I make an association with another part of my life that I quite enjoy, and that is doing studio visits with other artists. (I was invited tonight to do just that with four or five graduate sculpture students at an art school in Chicago when I am there next month. I will be paid for doing it, but truth be known, I would do it for free, and have done so many, many, many, many times both in and out of the academic setting.) Typically, one starts by having a look around at what the artist has prepared for the visit. I may offer a short comment, usually positive, about a piece, if for no other reason than to put the artist at ease. Then I will say something along the lines of "Tell me what you were thinking when..." at which time the artist has the floor to give a rationale (or not) and provide me enough information to ask more pertinent, pointed questions.

I ask these questions not to point them in a direction to align with my point of view or interpretations I may have, but rather to allow them the space to think deeper about what they are doing, to hear themselves say things aloud, perhaps for the first time, and then roll it about on their tongue to see how it tastes as they say it. Yeah, therapy of sorts, no?

Back in the day, a popular theme among poker bloggers was how poker was a metaphor for life. Christ, this used to bother me to no end! While it may have been more a matter of my own issues than what I perceived as an exercise in triteness, the possibility of an element of truth might have been the greater bugaboo. The possibility of truth? How about a hard, cold one?

I have always thought the matter of luck in poker to be over-rated. Skill mattered; luck seemed comparatively irrelevant. I have even gone so far to proclaim I don't believe in luck, even though I surely have forgotten numerous instances in which I have been the recipient. Of course, I remember the bad luck hands more readily. Still, I suppose I'm enough of a sucker to believe that in the long run, skill, like hard work, is what really matters. Nothing wrong with that.

Away from the table the same thing should hold true, no? Hard work, skill, good and bad luck are at play in any given endeavor. For my friends whom I mentioned above, for myself, and for all of us, the mixture varies. And not to contradict myself, but I would say I've been pretty lucky. Not always, and there have been times when I didn't think I was graced in any manner of my liking, but like in poker, the long game is paying off, and as we know, not all of that is luck; nor is it all a matter of our own choosing.

I think this qualifies as a ramble, no? But like I said, it's been five weeks or so.

Rodeo II

I've ordered a battery charger for my Canon Rebel. You'd think they could standardize the chargers and batteries so I could use the one from my other Canon. You'd think.

Anyway, I figured I had about half a charge left on my battery and I'd use the thing until I got the low battery warning, shut it off and save that last little bit of charge for the uploading. The plan worked fine. I now only wish I had a faster lens for my camera. Last time I checked, the one I want is around $1500. Wish in one hand...

Still, I managed a couple decent shots I can share from the second night of the rodeo.

Photo rodeo

The rodeo is in town.

Well, the rodeo is always in town. Some of the cowboys and cowgirls travel a good distance but the organizers live here.

My barber is one of the head honchos and he was kind enough to provide me a wristband that gives me total access to all but the arena itself. Last night I availed myself and will do so again this evening.

If you're expecting a lot of action shots, I am sorry to disappoint. I took my smaller camera with me as my better camera is running low on its battery charge. The low battery wouldn't normally be a problem except it appears in my haste to clear my studio I have given my charger to a charity. I should have been more careful in the boxing of the old electronics. Still, there's some life left in it, so tonight I'll see if I can't get some good shots.

Before the sun went down, I did get this:

Otherwise, anything or anyone who was moving faster than two miles per hour ended up a blur after the sun went down. Hence, the people pics.

The Big Time

Two months from today I will be in Chicago. Seems like a long time if I don't think about how quickly the last two months have gone by. In that time I put together two exhibitions that had potential for my return to the Chicago art scene, both now in boxes destined for storage. I now have a third, and I'm feeling pretty good about it. Even so, who knows what will happen over the course of the upcoming month? And it will only be a month, for after that, I will have to print and frame photos, build shipping crates, and send the stuff off a couple weeks ahead of my arrival, all easy stuff compared to making and editing the art into a respectable show. So yeah, I'm preoccupied, and maybe more than usual.

Speaking of a respectable show, how about that Mojo?  Not bad for a guy who quit his day job. Of course, those of us who have followed him all of these years knew it was coming. I don't know if anyone has floated the idea by him that he is now a pro. Good on ya, Dave.