Working out

Well, the back still hurts. Not so much an obsession with my past glories and disappointments. No, not that back. My lower back, mostly on the right side. Yet, all is getting better, slowly but surely. It may be of some interest that mention of the infirmity on social media has garnered more response than anything I've posted regarding art. My back and my dead brother. Close, anyway.

I am not discouraged.

I mention this because of another comment received about my most recent art review: "A terrific piece of writing that catches the feeling of the paintings themselves. No art jargon, just the guts." This coming from a guy who used to do a similar job as mine some years back and who is quietly smarter than most folks I know, aging gracefully and with wisdom. The kind of guy who you want to hang with in hopes that some of it rubs off.

A big weekend coming up. I believe I've mentioned its eventuality before, some months ago, yet a quick look-see garners no link to relieve a retelling. The problem is relating it in such a fashion that keeps the SEOs at bay. 

Let's just say a friend who carries great influence in the world I play in is coming to town. Not to knight me but to choose among others those to be knighted. I have been asked to select some potential candidates, and again, if not for this appointment then perhaps for other opportunities she is prepared to offer. (This has not stopped me from preparing my own materials, just in case.) 

I have made my choices, and brought joy and anticipation to three of the well-deserved. And here's the thing, the afterglow, if you will: When word gets out, because it will, it's going to piss off some folks, maybe even some friends, for only one of the three can be said to be one. It will also bother at least one other who thinks he is the voice that must be heard above all others when it comes to who is worthy of what. 

Should be fun.

Meanwhile, I have two more reviews in the queue, a road trip to prepare for that will garner another essay and a helluva lot of photos, and some back exercises to do.

Nobody warned me

I've been accused of being unreadable more than once. Usually it is of my own design, not that of a template glitch like I found this morning when I came to this blog: black print on a dark grey background. I'd apologize except I haven't a clue how it happened, plus I am beginning to resist feelings of guilt when others are inconvenienced through no fault of my own. It's another small step toward doing as I damn please here in this space, even if it means an increasing number of click-throughs.

Within moderation, of course.

Of course, one wouldn't think that a little work with a circle hoe in the yard would have brought about the amount of back pain I have, either. Unless it was more the misstep into a hole or some such thing that jarred the muscles, an event that may have happened but forgotten.

The work was Monday. Tuesday morning was the pain. Wednesday afternoon was the chainsaw work for a friend. Thursday was the backpack sprayer in the side yard. Friday was excruciating and Hydrocodone.

Wonderful dreams last night.

But I digress.

No flags.

 

My talk for "Sense of a Sack"

For a Lack of Words  – Text-inspired images in “Sense of a Sack”

I have a very early memory — perhaps I was seven or eight — of me sitting on the kitchen counter while my mother spoke to me. Toward the end of each of her sentences, I would try to guess what she was going to say next in order to say it before she could. While this might seem smart-alecky, my intention was to save her some of her allocated words. You see, I had gotten it into my head that there was a cap on the number of words we get to use in our lifetimes, and since I was much younger than her, I could spare a few of mine.

The idea of a finite and set number of words suggests that words have a concrete quality. One could easily imagine words being dispensed from a jar, and from this see a future for me that would include an interest in two-dimensional and three-dimensional artistic expression. Indeed, I could very well invert the transition and make a similar case for making mudpies as a child, and being disappointed that I was not rhetorically skilled enough to convince anyone to taste them. But the more factual story is that I started writing poetry and stories in high school, a practice that continued through college and beyond. Yet, by the time I was out of college I had moved into performance art as well, and because of the spatial quality of the stage, sculpture and other media were not far behind. And now, words, images and objects are all art forms I use.

Still, there have been plenty of times when one of these art forms, specifically words, has either failed me or been pushed aside at the insistence of, or reliance on, other media. However, over time, and particularly in the last three years, all of the art forms I use have begun to share the same space. In truth, it remains a struggle, not because I have not found ways to incorporate all of them, but the level of self-disclosure and honesty the words seem to insist on leave me with a sense of completion that I find uncomfortable. The apparent success turns into a kind of destructive force that annihilates the mystery and my motivation that would otherwise encourage me to continue along these same lines of inquiry. I don’t fully understand it, yet it seems to be a kind of neurosis for it is such an uncomfortable, dissatisfying state that I have no choice but to distance myself and retreat into the relative safety of nonverbal abstraction. Eventually, however, something begins to suggest something else, a resolve rears its ugly head again and the process of negation begins afresh.  I have given this overall practice, this serially compulsive dialectic, the title, “For a Lack of Words,” and examples are represented here in this exhibit, “The Sense of a Sack.”

At this point in time, “For a Lack of Words” has manifested as three bodies of work. The first is called “Gist” and is primarily text-based. “A Persistent Hum” is the sole example of this work in the installation. The “Gist” series itself arose out of a long-standing observation of the forms words take on a page, either like a poem’s structure (whether as a sonnet or free verse) or, in the case of prose, as a somewhat arbitrary effect of the typesetting. I am keenly aware of and sometimes distracted by the word spacing when I read. When these unintentionally framed blocks of text are isolated from the manuscript — if they make any sense at all —  create a new body of text that sometimes paraphrases the original but more often than not create new, albeit tangential ideas. The words are conditionally liberated. I say “conditionally” because they are already placed in a new jar... or even a sack.

In that most of my reading is art or philosophy-related, the pieces often reference these subjects, which I find appropriately and pleasingly meta. Every “Gist” is then presented as a photograph in order to document the find. I have captured over one hundred of these pieces over the last three years, but as a corollary to the neurosis I described earlier, the success of this work has made me to put them aside until a time comes that I can either literally or figuratively push them outside of their boxes.

Once again, I move away from words, which makes for a transition to the two sculptures, “Love Poem” and “Maquette for the Title of a Poem Intended to Be Read Aloud.” I have taken the idea of words on a page, removed the words and replaced them with shapes that mimic the placement of letters and words. Many of the individual shapes in “Love Poem” are suggestive, not only of letters but also of discrete objects and not-so-discrete activities. “Maquette,” however, is a little more oblique: The notebook is where poems are written, and the gum is chewed, thereby suggesting the mouth, and when arranged like text, becomes a stand-in for the spoken word, hence a poem read aloud.

The hand plays a role in these sculpture as much as it does in drawing or, for the sake of another transition in this talk, penmanship. The third body of work in “For a Lack of Words” echoes calligraphy, but as drawings they are more like cryptograms.Initially inspired by Asian scripts and the artists Robert Motherwell and Cy Twombly, this may be my longest-running series of work, numbering in the hundreds, perhaps thousands, over twenty years or more. I make these drawings as an exercise in formal considerations. The decisions are quickly made, almost reflexive, like speaking in tongues with a pen or brush. The linear aspects balance the expressive and visually lyrical qualities. It is through the repetition and consistency of their structure that the drawings suggest content, whether it be words, or in the case in “Studies I – IV,” a transition from letters and words to landscapes and then back again. And here’s a clue: think of the color aspects as using a HiLiter in your textbooks.

But one might ask what this has to do with a sack, or for that matter, as I have indicated in my press statement, inspiration from Jacques Lacan? I have little desire to speak at length about Lacan and his approach to psychoanalysis, or if you prefer in this case, psycholinguistics, for at this particular moment I favor the primacy of the artist over the necessarily anachronistic methodologies of critical examination. Nor do I think much good comes from cramming the latter into a shape that attempts to fulfill the needs of the former.

I will, however, allow Lacan’s passage from which I derived the title of this exhibit. Early in his 23rd Seminar he writes, (quote) “The astonishing thing is that form gives nothing but the sack, or if you like the bubble. It is something which inflates, and whose effects I have already described in discussing the obsessional, who is more keen on it than most.” (end quote) Never mind that the obsessional has been given personhood in this passage — not so curious a notion once Lacan mentions that the sack is also a skin, nor strange to the self-aware artist, suitably petulant in his or her fascination with both the sack and what should fulfill its purpose. Instead, I keyed on the word “form,” that it “gives nothing but” and how this double negative gives an artist both something to push against and to draw near, to discover anew through serialization and put at risk in favor of an unknown. The sack, thusly passive, still remains that in which things are placed. It has meaning only in regard to a function, and that is to be filled — whether we fill the sack or are the sack that it to be filled. Likewise, as it seems to me in the widest sense possible — and I think  Lacan would agree with me on this point — it is the artist’s mania to both fuck and be fucked.

It is here that we can return to the work presented in the exhibition, for if you have not already gathered, there are formal aspects that connect the individual works, primarily in the choice of marks made or in the case of a couple of the photographs, observed. We may also refer to these marks as content, which is well and good as I had no grand intentions beyond the obvious in this regard. Other connections are more discreet, which I would hope provides some depth to the individual viewing experience. After all, how can the artist be responsible for or anticipate the experiences, knowledge and other realities a viewer brings to the work? Indeed, my own experience of the work has shifted in that one piece, the book that is listed on the price sheet but is missing from the exhibit proper, has taken on an unanticipated meaning for me, it’s creator. It is my understanding that few, if any have asked to see it unless I am here to force it upon them, epitomizing, if you will, a certain sense of loss that persists throughout the exhibit.

That melancholy now extends to the fact that my exhibit is about to be dismantled. I would therefore hope that after my talk this audience becomes viewers one last time around. So, in closing yet in an effort to prolong my experience at Place, while at the same time knowing that I can beg your indulgence within reason, I shall offer some final, hopefully clarifying remarks about how specific pieces are intended to work with others, all to create the theme of this exhibit. And I shall do so recognizing the risk I take of belaboring the obvious.

I will start with the Studies I – IV. To my mind, if we take each of these little paintings on their own terms, they are rather unremarkable.Nothing special at all. I have confessed to those closest to me, and now to you, that I think they are rather ugly little paintings. Yet, overall, I am rather pleased with what they have become. As a group I find them beautiful. They reinforce each other in their framing and from frame to frame, developing a syntax or telling a story, if you will, moving away from abstraction into something we can speak to as an aspect of nature or a landscape. The colors highlight points of particular interest while bringing an additional meaning to the title of the pieces in their arrangements: It is how many of us study, that is searching out and demarcating key passages in texts. Yet, it may matter little to the audience that I prefer to bracket such passages and here have used the colors to mark where I thought each individual piece failed.

The video, “The Written Wood,” continues along the same lines. The video suggests an indeterminate text. Yet, it is not an easy piece to watch, or to listen to. The distress is intentional. Even an elucidation does not come easy; the visceral is not readily salved. This also aligns with an idea I have regarding the practice of asemic writing. (Asemic writing is a type of drawing that is somewhat loosely aligned to visual poetry. It is called “asemic” because it is said to have no specific semantic content. Many of the pieces in this show can be considered Asemic.) Words sometime elude us, not because of a limited vocabulary but more that we are not ready for, or capable of an understanding, whether it be within us or coming from an external source. Instead of a finite number of words at our disposal, there may be none. In such cases, the scribble, is a stand-in for the desire to express regardless.

Jumping over to the photo “I Ching,” I would simply point out that despite a lack of understanding, we nevertheless make some attempt to gain insight through some formal process. With the I Ching, the search for revelation is both internal and external, yet intentionality is still riddled with the arbitrary. If this doesn’t echo intersubjectivity, I don’t know what does.

And then quickly to “Coralish 5,” even when we find an appropriate symbol, its endurance is not guaranteed. What once may have been made in the shape of a turtle has been transformed by either thoughtless vandalism or mindless yet purposeful tectonics. Language is in flux.

Words, after all, are mere stand-ins, and whether they are used to describe or defend, comfort or cajole, elucidate or seduce, they offer a security that is deceptive.Yet, in order not to leave on a sour note, I will amend that last sentiment by adding that this deception is one we necessarily must allow ourselves, like an unconscious sin of omission that is the fragility of communication. There is always something missing, yet this in no way means that these attempts toward meaning are not creative endeavors.

TMI, Part 2

I will admit to recognizing that yesterday's little post about poker was uninspired. It is, perhaps, the natural result of my feelings toward the game these days.

Long time readers will know that there was a time when I wrote more about poker than anything else; and eventually, rarely. My love of the game has followed suit but at a much more slower rate. Until a few months ago I still felt a need to get in 100 hands a day, even if it meant putting up with the nutso, regressive play that passes for a game on free sites. These same readers will also recall that my initial issue with Thumper came after a bad beat during a PLO game. And still I played on through the years. I just upped my meds until surgery finally got that health problem under better control.

But physical well being was short-lived. A mere month later my gut started acting up. More years went by and still I played, even though no sooner had I played a few hands, I would have to sit out a round to visit the loo. I figured it was the "fight or flight" response and things would settle down after I adjusted to the table and settled my nerves.

Still, in the back of my mind persisted a thought: poker is making me sick. I take the game very seriously, perhaps too seriously, and the adrenaline/cortisol cocktail my body is making when I play is slowly eating away at my constitution. And still, I played on... until about three months ago. I wanted to test my hypothesis.

Online play has all but ceased for me, and besides the monthly home game I allow myself, Foxwoods has been it for all of this time. And you know what? My gut is improving.

So yeah, nerves have a lot to do with my gut. And this fact was brought home again after my friend James picked me up from Foxwoods.

I've known James for thirty years. Twenty years ago he asked me to be his best man. So, when he told me that he and his wife split up, I knew I should be there for both of them.

James and his wife have two children. As one might imagine, the break up of the marriage has been tough on the kids as well. And, parents being the loving saps they can be, find themselves doing things for the kids that they would not otherwise do as a parent. Like encouraging one's 16 year old daughter when she decides she wants to take up graffiti.

James calls it "going on an adventure." Others might call it an indulgence. I call it a bit unnerving.

I went on a couple of these adventures. Once was to an train underpass. There was already so many coats of paint on the walls that I saw no harm and actually stood as lookout as James accompanied his daughter into the litter-strewn chasm. I took pictures while keeping an eye peeled for cops. The smell of the enamel paint wafted out as I planted flags. If a cop did show up, we were all toast, but none did and off we went.

The second time out found us at an abandoned farm. But not a remote abandoned farm. There was a long drive up to the place but housing developments had been built up on the surrounding acreage. We stood out like the vandals we were and I didn't want to be there. Yet, as a good guest, I went along and once again did my duty as eyes and ears, even though I grew increasingly nervous.

Gurgle.

Gurgle. Gurgle. Rumble.

It came on sudden. I knew I would have to act fast and informed James of my plight. He had a few tissues in the car but not enough to take care of my needs. Yet, while I had been watching out for the fuzz, James had also been rummaging around in the buildings and had found a pile of Robert D. Parker novels in the attic of one.

"Here, I've read this one."

TMI, Part 1

Thanks for waiting.

Things have settled down here. My exhibit closed Saturday and I took it down Sunday. Some time ago, 36 asked what it would look like if I critiqued my own work. Well, I did the second best thing and gave a talk about the work on Saturday afternoon, and I have a transcript of that talk, along with some installation shots, but you'll have to wait for that post a couple days. Oh, and it's long.

I would like to imagine that one or two of you have been waiting to hear more about my trip east, particularly about the poker I played. I'll tell you what: I'll start out with the poker before moving onto another little story, and I'll do so with the warning that those of delicate sensibilities might want to avoid the second.

My buddy, Mike, drove us down to Foxwoods from Salem. We booked a room for an overnight. Our plan was to play poker for most of the night and use the room to nap.

We didn't get to the casino until 5:00 PM or so, and in that the place is so huge and I may never get back to see the place, we decided to walk around a bit. And as it turned out, Mike seemed to ave other plans, which included finding a bar and drinking for free while we played video poker. Well, OK. Besides, the bartender was easy on the eyes.

But that meant too much booze to play poker and we had yet to eat, so eat we did. And then we napped. Or rather, I napped; Mike collapsed.

I awoke about 11:00, popped a beta blocker, grabbed a cup of coffee and headed to the poker room. We had scoped it out after dinner and it was pretty busy, and now a couple hours later there were still maybe thirty tables going, and this a Wednesday night.

Two 1/2 NLHE tables had seats open and I flipped a coin. It soon became clear I was sitting at a table of regulars. It was a Wednesday night, after all. I'll give you just the highlights:

Some hand I forget in which this older woman called me down and won; Aces cracked by 67 suited that the same woman held after a 5 x BB bet; and, Jacks beat by K3 suited after another 5 X BB bet. And that was all she wrote. I would have reloaded but I had forgotten to bring a roll with me and I didn't want to tap out my ATM limit for the day because I thought I might play the next day. (Thinking about the game later, I believe they correctly read me as a nit and played me accordingly.)

I was wide awake so I wandered around for a while. Just as I was heading to the elevators to try and sleep, Mike walked off of one. He had been up for a while but had been sick, throwing up. Yeah, I could tell, or smell. I gave him a mint and we headed back to the poker room. He wanted to play some Limit and I had enough money for that.

Nothing like spinning one's wheel for three hours. Lost $10 after being up about $50. And by the time I got back up to the room, the beta blocker had worn off, I was exhausted but wired, and Thumper let me know it would be a race to dream world before he kicked into his old behaviors.

No poker the next day. We got up too late and another friend was coming to meet us and pick me up for part two of my adventure.

And now, just writing about the poker has put me in a mood to not write anymore, so forget about what I wrote earlier about the second part of the tale. At least for now. Maybe tomorrow. Just know it gets worse, but I am still laughing.

How about a photo dump?

I do have tales to tell about my recent trip to the east coast, but I have a lecture to finish and a review to start. Plus I have a grant application to get in before its deadline, so the wordiness here will have to wait. But hell, you guys like the photos better anyway, right?

After drinking Absinthe

 My buddies James and Mike. We're sporting shirts I made for the occasion.

 

Kinda a chicken or egg kinda thing.

I will admit to moving the basketball into the frame.

In the basement of an old mill. Only the basement remains.

It was there so I took a picture.

I managed to shoot about 12 "Test" photos. A new geography inspired me.

Been a while

Yes, if one can believe it or not, I've had other things going that have kept me from sitting down to write a post. Of course, I now have fodder. But motivation has been elsewhere. I promise to bring you some bad beat stories, stupid play, funny stories and sad tales, not to mention picture dumps, but it will have to wait a bit.

In the meantime, I want to share a radio interview I had Tuesday, It's about my art, of course, and it happened up north in the big city on the alternative station for the area.  After all, you could spend fifteen minutes reading about my recent antics and frets, or you could click on the podcast and listen with one ear while you do something else, which, no doubt is what about 60K other people did.