10,969. RUDIMENTS, pt. 373

RUDIMENTS, pt. 373

(avenel breaking in to New York)

Once I first got to New York,

I was amazed to realize, right

around the corners from me,

so much going on. First off,

at #1 Washington Square North,

in May, '67, just passed, Edward

Hopper had died of a heart attack

in the apartment and studio he

kept there. In that period (1967)

and those days, he was considered

a fuddy-duddy and passe anyway -

an erroneous reputation long since

corrected. The fact that he had no

'flash' is what had done him in,

reputation-wise I mean. Not the

heart. In addition, in that same

row of park-front brownstones,

until 1966, when he'd moved away

(died in France, 1968), the famed

artist Marcel Duchamp  -  known

then mostly for his silence  -  had

spent his time (supposedly) playing

chess endlessly, and musing. He'd

long before passed on Art, turning

to silence instead, disdaining the

Art World. Posthumously, a few

now also famed and treasured

works were found. He had,

after all, coyly been working

on something. And, the third

instance, right over at St. Marks

Place, with the little concrete

griffins out front, (#77) lived

W. H. Auden  -  writing, working,

and being himself. Just these 3

were enough for me. There were

others, but I stopped here. In a

silence stunned. Where was I,

after all? And how had I done

this to myself? I was almost

baffled to realize that this was

a place where one could run

into almost anyone, and

certainly run into the ghosts

and faded presences of a million

other greats : from Poe on 4th

Street to Whitman at Pfaff's.

Charley Parker, on e6th  -  he'd

died almost a decade plus before,

in the uptown hotel room of the

Baroness Pannonica de Koenigswarter,

at the old Stanhope Hotel, 995 5th

Ave, across from the Met. But he

was as if yet present, and revered.

I didn't really distinguish among

much of this at all, just went with

the flow. I'd no sooner learn

something new of a place or

personage, then go there myself

to investigate right off. It was

all part of my  -  as I'd put it to

myself  -  'edjudification!'

-

That being all fine and good, I

still had to formulate, for myself,

and amidst all the instructional

operations of the Studio School,

its people and other places, what

I was going to be doing and in what

sequence I'd approach the time I

had. I kept thinking of Duchamp,

how he'd figured himself for quitting

the art world  -  BUT of course first

having made legendary status and

self-defining norms. Pretty easy at

that point to say you're done. Like

any of those asshole rock guys, with

all their 'last concert' BS and the

retirements they all return from for

another bout of adulation while

they sucker some crowd of

diligent pussy-faces with a

50-year old version of their

25 year old shithead self. At

least Duchamp hadn't stooped

to that. Of course, once I saw the

work he had done, I wasn't really

sure it was worth it anyway 

('Etant donnes'). And he'd 

worked on it, astoundingly, for 

20 years! ('46-'66). I'm not even 

sure, if it's still in Philadelphia,

that it's worth a look except

as it being the end of Art,

for him. Robert Irwin, the

guy from California, he too 

had moved out of painting

and canvas art  -  into lighting

and landscape and installations; 

saying the canvas and its shape 

was just too restrictive, too 

confining to be any longer

bothered with. I never knew

about any of that stuff; small

had always suited me fine.

-

The place I had come from

had been little, closed, and

small. New York was crazy

wide-open, large, and sprawling.

Everything was different, and

was going to be. The people

were odd though  -  and in

the oddest of ways. They got

all missionary about weird

causes  -  environmental stuff,

and Nature; freaking out over

things that were everyday junk

anywhere else  -  owls, hawks, 

birds, weeds and grasses, etc.

But they little realized, apparently,

that New York City was like

the least environmentally correct

place you could find. It was all

un-natural, its 'Nature' had been

destroyed long ago, there were

disgusting people crammed into

every crevice. Grease, food, garbage,

sewage, human waste, death and 

putrefaction, were everywhere and

in a totally artificial environment,

with rats and cockroaches at the

dinner table. How myopic could

people become? Worrying for

others about things that, for

themselves, they long ago had

lost control over. Every little bit

helps, sure, but in 1970 it was

more like every litter bit helped.

-

So, a lot of these art guys made

a production out of quitting. As

a statement. To me that was akin

to an astronaut, out in space,

pulling off his oxygen plug in

order to make a statement about

no longer favoring the space

program. Ah, dude....a little

late for that shit. And you're

gonna' be needing to breath.

The whole thing was like going

to the Y; except it was re-named

the 'Why Bother.' What I had

chanced upon, boy I'd hit it big.

-

I was interested in getting started,

certainly not in quitting. Sometimes,

when you're on a steady basis with

Art or Writing  -  any of that cultural

and creative stuff  -  you maybe think

of giving it up. A lot of people do

that - stopping. Yeah, because it's

a ton of work, constant and steady.

A lot of times it's easier to just stop.

For me it was all-consuming, and

and damn-still is too. You can read

all about the artists of the past who

quit it, most anywhere. A person

probably ends up dead. Like all that

small-town nowhere, sliced

white-bread stuff in the places I'd

come from. Avenel, and Woodbridge.

Basically just jerky crap run by

school Nazis lording it over you.

Their only real art is the crease

in their pants or their new hairdo

if they're a woman. Dead-End

Amalgamated School District.

Art that quits ain't art at all.

And, anyway, say, in the case

of Duchamp, what's Chess 

anyway and who cares? What

a waste of time. At the least,

I was having a lot more fun

just walking about and absorbing

all the things around me.

-

Morton Feldman used to lecture

us, mostly about 'music'  -  modern

music, in his vein; but he'd also 

touch on a hundred other topics.

He was so New York, the look,

the talk, the manners, the accent.

He'd blurt really cool things out

and then have to be stopped and

asked what he'd meant by that.

A roomful of 30 art students,

rally wanting to know. He couldn't

get away with much. Sometimes

it was very difficult for me to

follow, or even to stay with, parts

of what he was saying  -  he'd use

terms and outlooks I couldn't

quite grasp. The good thing was

how he always managed to bring in

any or all of those New York School

abstract-expressionist painters, his

whole Cedar Tavern crew. All

the references and the names I

got to know, and then, in fact,

any number of them became our

faculty too. As they say in the

party world : 'It was great to

be able to finally put names 

with faces,' Man, you see

enough of that stuff in the

real-world live flesh, and it

becomes rollicking and vivid.

I met them all; and none of these

guys were quitters. They were all

still at it, and going strong.

-

Feldman said 'I don't want to know
how things work.' His point was,
which I caught onto after a while,
that the 'mechanics' of things are
detrimental to the actual 'doing' of
the thing, in this case the composing.
Stravinsky, Boulez, and other names
he'd mention, they were all caught
up in the mechanics and schema
of what they were doing. Even
'revolutionary' music, like 12-tone
and all, was totally working-conscious 
'against' the system they were breaking,
but in process they were making
a new system of their own. The
'saying how' usually just ended
up introducing new standards. His
wasn't like that. His methodology
was always kept hidden. For so
many others it was always out in 
the open, and that became their 
work, the method, not the work 
itself. One time he  added, 'Philip 
Guston said to me, 'I don't want to
know how something was done. 
When I'm in a gallery, in front of a
painting, and someone comes
over and starts telling me how it
was done, I leave.' I think I took
in a lot of that, knowing what they
each meant. Inspiration is fire
that needs to be caught at its
breakout. I don't want to know how
the kindling or the logs were stacked.
-
Artists are telling their stories
continually. Kierkegaard put it
thusly: (In 'Either/Or') - He said
he feels that when he dies, they
are going to ask him only one
question, when he gets there,
wherever. And that question is,
'Did you make things clear? Did
you make things clear?' In other
words, in his own life, did he make
things clear? How he felt, how he
wrote, everything. 
-
This was all some heady stuff
for an 18-year old from Avenel.