in honor of the perseid meteor showers, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
Saturday, July 13, 2013
the soothsayer
Some thoughts on The Soothsayer, opening at Box 13 tonight in Houston, Texas:
A question that I have mulled over the past two weeks is "Who is The Soothsayer?" I know that it is not me, or at least not me alone. I don't see myself as a Diviner; I think of myself as someone invested in folk traditions and their historical and cultural reasons for existence.
Art, as it has been in the past, is mostly not a folk tradition; it is a tradition of production for a religion or the Wealthy. Folk traditions do make their way into museums and galleries via antiquities, objects, and crafts, but almost everything I see in Museums is aimed at things that will stand the test of time, with some care and conservation. In my own experience this is wholly unrealistic. Permanence is a prideful misconception. Things fall apart. This overlaps with spiritual thinking and teaching of impermanence.
I want the Soothsayer to illicit a nuanced view of divination and how we, as people, access a potential structure of being. I do not believe in the divine as a truth, or a Truth. I do think that the divine has more to do with states of being--from emotions to other things that we don't normally comprehend as "real". This work is not a road map to finding answers about experience but rather some vague hints at clues written on a wet bar napkin, text bleeding and reforming into new words with different meanings. There is no dogma, unless it is the multifaceted nature of most parts of our experience.
I think manipulating a space is new and profound. Before things may have been adornment; now, I feel, I have been given access to a broader approach to perception and how our bodies relate to a perceptual image.
I do not think of anything in the exhibition (or in my studio) as junk or debris. All things are a testament to working and thinking in the studio or on the farm. Part of the arranging is elevating materials to a point where they reflect and represent this process of living.
[I am hoping to put together a small exhibition catalogue for The Soothsayer in the coming weeks; it will be available for free here and on my website. Check back soon for more on this exhibition and the catalogue]
A question that I have mulled over the past two weeks is "Who is The Soothsayer?" I know that it is not me, or at least not me alone. I don't see myself as a Diviner; I think of myself as someone invested in folk traditions and their historical and cultural reasons for existence.
Art, as it has been in the past, is mostly not a folk tradition; it is a tradition of production for a religion or the Wealthy. Folk traditions do make their way into museums and galleries via antiquities, objects, and crafts, but almost everything I see in Museums is aimed at things that will stand the test of time, with some care and conservation. In my own experience this is wholly unrealistic. Permanence is a prideful misconception. Things fall apart. This overlaps with spiritual thinking and teaching of impermanence.
I want the Soothsayer to illicit a nuanced view of divination and how we, as people, access a potential structure of being. I do not believe in the divine as a truth, or a Truth. I do think that the divine has more to do with states of being--from emotions to other things that we don't normally comprehend as "real". This work is not a road map to finding answers about experience but rather some vague hints at clues written on a wet bar napkin, text bleeding and reforming into new words with different meanings. There is no dogma, unless it is the multifaceted nature of most parts of our experience.
I think manipulating a space is new and profound. Before things may have been adornment; now, I feel, I have been given access to a broader approach to perception and how our bodies relate to a perceptual image.
I do not think of anything in the exhibition (or in my studio) as junk or debris. All things are a testament to working and thinking in the studio or on the farm. Part of the arranging is elevating materials to a point where they reflect and represent this process of living.
[I am hoping to put together a small exhibition catalogue for The Soothsayer in the coming weeks; it will be available for free here and on my website. Check back soon for more on this exhibition and the catalogue]
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| installation view | The Soothsayer | Box 13 Art Space | July 13, 2013 |
Friday, June 14, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
More writing soon, but I wanted to share James MacAnally's recent piece in the Temporary Art Review, as I think it is incredibly interesting (with more practical analysis about the station of the artist as a profession; my writings have focused primarily on my own, and in some ways singular, experience). It is really an interesting article, as is everything I've read in the last few weeks from the Temporary Art Review:
Art Plus Time
and a recent studio manifestation, effigy in threes. It has been in the works for some time now:
Art Plus Time
and a recent studio manifestation, effigy in threes. It has been in the works for some time now:
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
palinode and paradox
I think technically a palinode is a retracted sentiment, or sentiment that is retracted by the palinode-- I don't want to portray that I am retracting or apologizing for anything in the last post; but, as always and as true as anything gets in the world of thinking, I have continued working with the ideas of permanence, folk life (thug life reference intended, of course), and how we can exist in a culture that takes creative production and turns it into something that is collected, sold, and has monetary and market-based value. I'm not sure how much I can add to the discussion or how much of this will change what I've already said, but I do think I've come to realize that there is, at one level, a paradox involved in all of this; and on another level, justification for the noncommodification of artwork.
The paradox I discovered is well known, and I think it is extremely obvious; with this idea of folk art I am trying to get to a form of the expression of creativity through making something that is pre-commodification, or at the very least does not rely on commodification for its existence and for the maker to continue making things. I have thought before that this expression is irrevocably linked to the society and culture that the maker works within (in the sense that anyone living is implicated in society and culture, whether we like it or not). The paradox, then, becomes what Andy Warhol and Jeff Koons promote as their sole reason for making; the art world is a reflection of Western society inasmuch that it is only fulfilling the commodification of everything else around us. If folk art is to represent the creative expression and cultural production of an individual irrevocably linked to society, then that individual would live the life of a commodificationist.
Though I do think this paradox exists (and is evident in things like the 80's obsession with graffiti in the gallery, skate board artists, etc) but I think it is too simplistic and assumes that everyone in society believes in commodification. Though it is omnipresent, even the most average people get pissed in Chicago when someone calls the Sears tower (commodification of architecture and urban space) the Willis tower (a different company commodifying the same architecture and space). Century Link Field used to be called Qwest Field(2004-2011) and before that was Seahawks Stadium(2002-2004); people are conscious of the stadium being subsidized by a company though they connect it with the football team that plays there. Wrigley Field, on the other hand, has been named after the chewing gum guru in 1926. I could go on and on--but this is an obvious link and easy to recognize to most everyone as ways that companies are working their ways into our lives through sponsorship, cost, and value.
What I am attempting to illustrate is that though it is the predominant mode of existence in the United States, it is far from the only way of life, and even the most capitalistic of us still have reservations about things being commodified. This changes the paradox into a art historical notation, in my mind. There are artists who work with the idea of commodification as a representation of the whole of society, or at least of the United States. There are also artists, though, that choose not to participate in this as a representation of society.
Perhaps I see it not as a representation of the United States but as a result of the way that society conducts itself. I choose not to conduct myself that way; I choose to be as self-sufficient as possible, choose to rationally decide the difference between a need and a want, and to exist within my community (both geographically and professionally). What, then, becomes the representation of society? This will undoubtedly continue; I think I'm on a thread that is worthwhile and worth continuing in pursuit by thinking (and, of course, working in the studio). Thanks for the positive feedback, too, on this line of thought, it is great to hear that there are people that are interested in these ideas as well.
Addendum: there is a great, relevant article by Evan Kindley in n+1:
Chiquita Banana Jingle
The paradox I discovered is well known, and I think it is extremely obvious; with this idea of folk art I am trying to get to a form of the expression of creativity through making something that is pre-commodification, or at the very least does not rely on commodification for its existence and for the maker to continue making things. I have thought before that this expression is irrevocably linked to the society and culture that the maker works within (in the sense that anyone living is implicated in society and culture, whether we like it or not). The paradox, then, becomes what Andy Warhol and Jeff Koons promote as their sole reason for making; the art world is a reflection of Western society inasmuch that it is only fulfilling the commodification of everything else around us. If folk art is to represent the creative expression and cultural production of an individual irrevocably linked to society, then that individual would live the life of a commodificationist.
Though I do think this paradox exists (and is evident in things like the 80's obsession with graffiti in the gallery, skate board artists, etc) but I think it is too simplistic and assumes that everyone in society believes in commodification. Though it is omnipresent, even the most average people get pissed in Chicago when someone calls the Sears tower (commodification of architecture and urban space) the Willis tower (a different company commodifying the same architecture and space). Century Link Field used to be called Qwest Field(2004-2011) and before that was Seahawks Stadium(2002-2004); people are conscious of the stadium being subsidized by a company though they connect it with the football team that plays there. Wrigley Field, on the other hand, has been named after the chewing gum guru in 1926. I could go on and on--but this is an obvious link and easy to recognize to most everyone as ways that companies are working their ways into our lives through sponsorship, cost, and value.
What I am attempting to illustrate is that though it is the predominant mode of existence in the United States, it is far from the only way of life, and even the most capitalistic of us still have reservations about things being commodified. This changes the paradox into a art historical notation, in my mind. There are artists who work with the idea of commodification as a representation of the whole of society, or at least of the United States. There are also artists, though, that choose not to participate in this as a representation of society.
Another false assumption of this paradox is that Western society is the only society concerned with cultural production, which we all know is false. Western society might be heavily involved in the commodification of art making (reeling in artists from China, the Middle East, and other world regions now) but artwork is produced and is a phenomenon of human existence.
Perhaps I see it not as a representation of the United States but as a result of the way that society conducts itself. I choose not to conduct myself that way; I choose to be as self-sufficient as possible, choose to rationally decide the difference between a need and a want, and to exist within my community (both geographically and professionally). What, then, becomes the representation of society? This will undoubtedly continue; I think I'm on a thread that is worthwhile and worth continuing in pursuit by thinking (and, of course, working in the studio). Thanks for the positive feedback, too, on this line of thought, it is great to hear that there are people that are interested in these ideas as well.
Addendum: there is a great, relevant article by Evan Kindley in n+1:
Chiquita Banana Jingle
Thursday, April 25, 2013
permanence
I was fortunate enough to have two good friends as visiting artists for a few days here in the middle of the great expanse; nights where spent with students in critiques while the day was spent in our own conversation. We talked quite a bit about permanence and art and the practicalities (or lack thereof) of making work that does not last nor stand the test of time. As both Bob and Bill both have experience in making things that are less than permanent (and often times heavily involved with the idea of deterioration and being a part of what I'll call the noncommodificationists) I have not stopped reeling in our conversations. I'd like to try to portray some of my sentiments in this entry, but know that what I am saying is heavily influenced by both Bob and Bill as well as their work and their experiences with art handling and working with and at galleries.
For some time now I've thought about my connection to folk traditions and their antithetical existence to the art market. Why they can never be compatible, in my mind, is due to the commodification of culture and how it changes the purpose and reasons one (or many) would make something. The change comes from a number of avenues; something made for the sake of making is innocent of things like the gallerist that sells it and her or his need to make money to keep a space active, the whims of the art market and its fascinations with certain things at certain moments, the managers of private collections, the curators, etc. All of this, in my mind, influences us in the studio, whether we like to admit it or not. At times it can be an outright rejection of it and we make work stubbornly that does not consider the market or even the history of art, which is equally as bad. Certainly, too, I am being fairly liberal in my transition from folk traditions into talking about art; but I think art is a certain facet of the cultural umbrella of folk traditions. For the sake of this entry, I am going to posit (and revisit later in more detail) that what I am intending to call folk art is an aspect of cultural production that is not sponsored by the state*.
The issue of permanence is incredibly complex and difficult to focus on without bringing up these contextual issues. I'm having a hard time getting to the point here; so I'll attempt to solidify what I'm wanting to say. These ideas started in my studio practice in undergrad because I would use house paint as a cheaper alternative to artist's paints, I used Aquanet that could be purchased for $1.00 at a Walgreens instead of spray fix which could be as much as $10 a can. All of these choices made for the deterioration of the art made at that time. Impermanence to me, now, is integral to my art making and the way that I think about things in the studio: my interest and research into ontology is inextricably linked to time and its passing (along with ideas of the beginning and ending). Ontology's link to folk traditions for me is attempting to capture what is inherently impermenent: a song, a gesture, a creative act like a sign that needed to be made--and the meaning imbedded in the act by its impermanence. I will undoubtedly have to spend more time writing about this as well, because these thoughts are incomplete at best. I also know that I find more meaning in the materials that I use--plants and their ephemeral character are used by their meaning and what ideas they represent; Aquanet was used because it could do the same job of holding charcoal to a piece of paper as its more expensive counterpart (though the long term affects, perhaps, where more costly).
Choosing to make impermanent work, though, is a sort of stance against the art market. Undoubtedly curators and collectors would not purchase something that will need to be repaired within a year (in my case, a lot of the leaves, flowers, and branches are completely unstable and 'shed' automatically). What my conversations with Bob and Bill led me to think about most importantly, though, is that the act of making this work is the act of removing art from the realm of commodity. If I make a work out of simple flour dough, it absolutely will fall apart, even if it is sealed. Works are crumbling in my house as I type this, and that energy of decay is important to my studio practice. Without the commodification of art (or it being difficult to sell some pieces as commodities because of their impermanence, or, in Bill Conger's case, they reject commodification because of their existence as commodity already--torn magazine scraps, towel warmers, etc are all ready commodities) our making becomes closer to this ill-refined concept of a folk tradition or at least a meaningful contribution to a culture that does not participate in its emphasis on consumerism, capitalism, monetary gain, and justifies the worth of everything in terms of money. To be a noncommodificationist, then, is to say that the worth and meaning of art making far exceeds what its commodification can bring, and acknowledges that a work's commodification changes its meaning. It is an open group and anyone is free to join: make work that cannot be a commodity!
I do firmly believe, however, that there is a way for us, the noncommodificationists, to work within the market. I am interested in attempting to work within the system and see how an artist can function within the market while still holding these beliefs, because I do believe it can be done. This is not a stance against galleries, curators, and collectors; it is a stance for a change in the meaning and implications of art making in our society; one that has been embraced before in the history of Arte Povera, Anselm Kiefer, and even in true folk traditions like Tibetan sand mandalas and Navajo medicine wheels. Meaning is in the work made, not in how much it costs or what it can be sold for.
*Here I am referring to a division within culture. If Culture is a division of human existence that tends to encompass the imaginative, semiotic, and creative side of experience within a specific context, I might propose that folk, then, is a subdivision of culture that is inextricably linked to an individual or small group of individuals not acting on behalf of the state or government. Museums, then, are linked to the state in the sense that they are non-profit organizations, which is an affiliation within the state. Galleries, too, are involved with tax and the market in the context of the state. This is extremely problematic, and I will need to revisit this (not to mention finish reading Althusser and other theorists, but I'm going to leave it as an incomplete thought for now. I do realize that I am creating a definition of folk by apophasis which is not productive in the long run. I do, however, feel that the noncommodificationist label above might more closely represent some of the thinking here.
For some time now I've thought about my connection to folk traditions and their antithetical existence to the art market. Why they can never be compatible, in my mind, is due to the commodification of culture and how it changes the purpose and reasons one (or many) would make something. The change comes from a number of avenues; something made for the sake of making is innocent of things like the gallerist that sells it and her or his need to make money to keep a space active, the whims of the art market and its fascinations with certain things at certain moments, the managers of private collections, the curators, etc. All of this, in my mind, influences us in the studio, whether we like to admit it or not. At times it can be an outright rejection of it and we make work stubbornly that does not consider the market or even the history of art, which is equally as bad. Certainly, too, I am being fairly liberal in my transition from folk traditions into talking about art; but I think art is a certain facet of the cultural umbrella of folk traditions. For the sake of this entry, I am going to posit (and revisit later in more detail) that what I am intending to call folk art is an aspect of cultural production that is not sponsored by the state*.
The issue of permanence is incredibly complex and difficult to focus on without bringing up these contextual issues. I'm having a hard time getting to the point here; so I'll attempt to solidify what I'm wanting to say. These ideas started in my studio practice in undergrad because I would use house paint as a cheaper alternative to artist's paints, I used Aquanet that could be purchased for $1.00 at a Walgreens instead of spray fix which could be as much as $10 a can. All of these choices made for the deterioration of the art made at that time. Impermanence to me, now, is integral to my art making and the way that I think about things in the studio: my interest and research into ontology is inextricably linked to time and its passing (along with ideas of the beginning and ending). Ontology's link to folk traditions for me is attempting to capture what is inherently impermenent: a song, a gesture, a creative act like a sign that needed to be made--and the meaning imbedded in the act by its impermanence. I will undoubtedly have to spend more time writing about this as well, because these thoughts are incomplete at best. I also know that I find more meaning in the materials that I use--plants and their ephemeral character are used by their meaning and what ideas they represent; Aquanet was used because it could do the same job of holding charcoal to a piece of paper as its more expensive counterpart (though the long term affects, perhaps, where more costly).
Choosing to make impermanent work, though, is a sort of stance against the art market. Undoubtedly curators and collectors would not purchase something that will need to be repaired within a year (in my case, a lot of the leaves, flowers, and branches are completely unstable and 'shed' automatically). What my conversations with Bob and Bill led me to think about most importantly, though, is that the act of making this work is the act of removing art from the realm of commodity. If I make a work out of simple flour dough, it absolutely will fall apart, even if it is sealed. Works are crumbling in my house as I type this, and that energy of decay is important to my studio practice. Without the commodification of art (or it being difficult to sell some pieces as commodities because of their impermanence, or, in Bill Conger's case, they reject commodification because of their existence as commodity already--torn magazine scraps, towel warmers, etc are all ready commodities) our making becomes closer to this ill-refined concept of a folk tradition or at least a meaningful contribution to a culture that does not participate in its emphasis on consumerism, capitalism, monetary gain, and justifies the worth of everything in terms of money. To be a noncommodificationist, then, is to say that the worth and meaning of art making far exceeds what its commodification can bring, and acknowledges that a work's commodification changes its meaning. It is an open group and anyone is free to join: make work that cannot be a commodity!
I do firmly believe, however, that there is a way for us, the noncommodificationists, to work within the market. I am interested in attempting to work within the system and see how an artist can function within the market while still holding these beliefs, because I do believe it can be done. This is not a stance against galleries, curators, and collectors; it is a stance for a change in the meaning and implications of art making in our society; one that has been embraced before in the history of Arte Povera, Anselm Kiefer, and even in true folk traditions like Tibetan sand mandalas and Navajo medicine wheels. Meaning is in the work made, not in how much it costs or what it can be sold for.
*Here I am referring to a division within culture. If Culture is a division of human existence that tends to encompass the imaginative, semiotic, and creative side of experience within a specific context, I might propose that folk, then, is a subdivision of culture that is inextricably linked to an individual or small group of individuals not acting on behalf of the state or government. Museums, then, are linked to the state in the sense that they are non-profit organizations, which is an affiliation within the state. Galleries, too, are involved with tax and the market in the context of the state. This is extremely problematic, and I will need to revisit this (not to mention finish reading Althusser and other theorists, but I'm going to leave it as an incomplete thought for now. I do realize that I am creating a definition of folk by apophasis which is not productive in the long run. I do, however, feel that the noncommodificationist label above might more closely represent some of the thinking here.
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| eye of mercy, 2012 |
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
the last statement
What may be most important to me as an ideological framework is expressing as many ideas as I can through making something (regardless of who sees it); generating lots of ideas through thinking, deliberation, dialogue, and reading; and continuing to make things regardless of all other circumstances (upon death I will make dirt).
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