RUDIMENTS, pt. 739
('...I pity the poor variant')
A few more words on that
entire Cornell Box art thing:
I was never really fine with
anything. Getting myself
broken and stuck with all
those whiz-bang art guys
was tough enough. Walking
in there like that took about
all the power I had to be what
I was not. I never outgrew
my need for milk, so to speak,
and these guys were on their
3rd, daily, afternoon, martini.
I remember, having arrived
early, standing out front at
what must have been about
12:30pm. I had the Cornell
piece in a nice, handsome,
handle-bag, and instead of
waiting in one place I just
kept walking around the area
streets. With about an hour
yet to kill. I remember some
fancy private, upper east side
prep school of one sort or
the other, Brearly or one of
those, letting out all its kids.
Lunchbreak, maybe. They
each looked like a million
bucks, all polish and puff,
already at 12 or 13 years.
Boys were like perfect Ralph
Lauren brats, and the young
girls were already all attitude
and awareness. And then there
was me, lurching about with a
purloined piece of art to be
peddled. As if it was lumber,
or ice cream, or a stolen jewel.
Mad Prince Ludwig, indeed.
-
When you go into an art-pro's
space - not an artist, but the
brokers, agents and other creeps
who make the money off of them -
it's a whole other world, out of this
one for sure. Gallery owners only
hire beautiful people. Nose in the
air types, yes, but usually also
quite beautiful; well-appointed,
dressed as 'sex-for-breakfast and
then let's go' types. Even the guys;
gay as all get out, with their
little pattern socks and shiny,
usually odd, footwear. Desks
and pens, books and terminals,
everything is impeccable; nothing
out of order. Xavier Fourcade,
Gagosian, Mary Boone, when
that was around, Pace galleries,
each of them and twenty more,
they were all the same. A lot
of them are relocated now, often
to Chelsea, though that changes
too. But it's all the same, and
often now too they have their
own book lines - selling the
literature and the books which
cover their artists. In high detail
and with the utmost quality and
learned text. and sky high prices
too, for the books. These are
the sorts who spend, never
looking back or worrying over
it. It used to be that galleries had
maybe 3 rooms in some small
elevator gallery building. Now,
they have whole buildings of
their own; fancy, architectural stuff
too. After a while it all becomes
quite self-sustaining, and they
feed off each other, as an elite
of their own. That's the art world
one never breaks into; in my case
anyway, with half-assed, on-the-fly,
little drawings and paintings made
up of junk and colors and lines,
packed with ideas these people
would never think of. It's pretty
sad. For me, anyway. But I
let too much bother me. I'm
told. I'm also old. And, also,
nothing bothers me, because
I no longer really care. They
can all rot.
-
I used to watch Mercedes Matter.
She was the Studio School founder
who took me in, from out of
nowhere, in much the same fashion
as this whole Cornell Box thing;
I just blew in, with my sample
paintings, for her entry review.
She knew nothing really about me,
and I knew nothing really - except
that which I'd library-taught myself,
plus the usual crap-stuff you get
from places like Woodbridge High
School; about as useless as a water
pistol at the Chicago Fire. She
asked a lot of questions; I, in my
turn, fast-fueled a lot of answers,
talked about my ideas of Art, and
tried explaining what I'd done,
what this or that paint meant, here,
this line, this image. I don't know
what she thought of me, but I
thought she was great. On whatever
the promise or basis, she allowed
me in, took me under wing, gave
me a spot, and help. It was
better than anything else that
had ever happened to me -
except maybe waking back up
from that train wreck, but even
at that, I wasn't so sure. Mercedes
somehow 'got' me - and that
was real good. She didn't need
'Art History.' She was art history.
-
I was immediately immersed in
another milieu entirely. Nothing
of the sort that I'd ever seen
before. The NY Art world is a
proud and brash endeavor, like
an out of control cyclotron in
some old movie - self referencing
its own buzzers and lights and
beepers. The whole thing, when
really rolling, shakes and quivers.
There are all sorts of old names
and personalities around and, as
they wither or die off, or, yes, lose
their place of fashion, others come
in. Very often the 'product' gets
diluted, but it goes on. Like now -
one look at today's art world will
tell you lots of things : the old
seriousness is gone; everything
is glitz and irony and wink-wink
ideology, sex, even violence.
If anyone one tried dropping
someone like Mark Rothko into
any of this today, I'm sure he'd
go gun-crazy mad within a week
and begin slaying his opponents
like some Old Testament prophet.
There's nothing of his 'quality'
there today. Partially it's because
most things, have been done. An
artist just can't keep doing things
over. Yet, at the same time, an
artist no longer so much distances
his or her self from the culture
around them. Rather, they become
immersed and begin reflecting
that, in their work, of course, since
now that's what sells and what
is shown. It always reminds
me of some kid, named Jared
that I had working at Barnes &
Noble. He was always listening
to this crap year-2000 era pop
music, and, because it was
played aloud, on the department
sound system, for himself and
others to hear, I had to hear it
too. Really annoying - and one
day I just blurted out, like, 'Why
do you listen to this crap? What
are you thinking? This is real
junk. How do ever like this, and
why?' His answer back was, 'But
Gary, that's all that they play.'
He'd meant, I think, that he felt
he had no choice because the
prevailing social situations gave
him only that - which is completely
wrong, though he couldn't see that.
There are plenty of alternate ways
of going about 'listening' to music;
one, of course, being not to. But,
like one of today's lousy artists, he
simply reflected his prevailing social
modes of being. Poor him. Poor me.
Poor world and poor Society!!
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