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Tuesday, May 24, 2016

the art of stealing -- making fake

Sixty minutes, mentioned in the previous post, aired a story last night about an art forger who solely supported one of the oldest, most established galleries in NY, the now defunct and discredited Knoedler Gallery. One guy in his garage forged the work just about everybody -- Kline, Pollock, de Kooning, Rothko, Krasner, Motherwell, only the best, and the gallery stayed in business selling ringers. The entire caper raises interesting questions.

Remember once hearing ‘Lightning’ Hopkins in concert. He began by saying softly, ‘ain’t nobody allowed to play the blues like this but me,’ and then he played some. It was his polite challenge to anyone anywhere because no one could like that, but him. So here comes a bum working in a garage replicating all the modern ‘masters,’ and I’m sorry to be disparaging but they said he only made sixty five thousand dollars for producing fakes which sold for eighty million -- field hands get a bigger slice. How hard could it be?

The first question would be is he the only one doing it, and the stakes being high the probabilities are low that he is. It would also prove helpful to note that the financial incentives are all on the side of authenticity -- fat commissions all around if it’s, ah, real, vs nothing. There’s room for larceny here, it’s in the air, and there’s a reason. It’s because none of this is ‘real’ in any real sense. It’s all based on wizard of oz logic.

The way they decide what’s authentic gives off fumes in the first place. Don’t bother with the front, no one looks at the front, the secret, says the man with knowing authority, is to look at the back. See those smears of gesso on the stretcher, the way it’s been tacked. Rothko would never do that, it’s a clue. Then there’s forensics. Spectrographic analysis reveals a certain red dye which wasn’t included in the formulation by the company in question until, stop the presses, ten years after this thing, whatever it is, was supposedly made. Is this the pertinent fact millions of dollars turn on, and why would any serious person have gotten this far you ask, and I’m sure I don’t know. Not worth nothing, all just a kid’s game of artificial preciousness, plastic cups and pretend tea.

What about actual art you might ask, and we can guess it’s out there somewhere. Art supplies have at least a little space in drugstores and hardwares right out to the edge of habitation, and paintings are made by housewives and ex-presidents, so it seems logical that somebody out there might have gotten pretty good, so good the average sign-painter couldn’t keep up. Once the audience turns art around to embrace what’s on the front, much of this bogus fetish worship dies, and if some forger is actually talented enough to paint like Rembrandt, he won’t have to work in a garage or pretend to be somebody else.

also see -- ‘forging greatness -- getting even’ from 3 15 13
http://owningart.blogspot.com/2013/03/forging-greatness-getting-even.html     

Sunday, May 22, 2016

safer is gone -- but is art safer

Morley Safer, the correspondent with a face like a human shar-pei, has died, four days after retiring from ‘sixty minutes’ and two days after watching a special tribute about himself on same. He seemed to like his work was the first and last thing said about him, and he went out well, but along the way he earned a reputation for seeing through common horseshit and saying so. Although all his stories seemed to contain elements of honesty and insight, there were two that seemed pivot points in his career, establishing the ‘attitude’ for which he was famous.

The first was during vietnam when he showed american soldiers setting fire to thatched huts and then the huddled crying women who had lived in them. Such went on constantly, but no one sent back pictures until then. The second was an essay for sixty minutes he did in the early nineties entitled ‘Yes, but is it art?’ In it he questioned the aesthetic value of Koons’s vacuum cleaners in glass box, Twombly’s two million dollar scribbles up for auction, such as that. For exposing what no one wanted to see in 'nam he was considered a hero, but for questioning conceptual art he's called a philistine of the first order, and worse. They say it never went away. One episode was applauded as ultra courageous reportage, while the other was taken personally as rank betrayal by the financial cabal that bares its claws from the top of the art heap, scratches on Morley’s wizened head. 

Doing his day job his secret weapon was self-respect, and he ran it right out to the limit when he confronted power, cold-eyed interviews trading truth for lies. Dictators with dark armies were made to squirm in their own offices, Morley deep in enemy territory with only a camera crew, but he felt the heat back home from the rich guys he rubbed against socially who benefited from the great cultural hijacking of the last century -- tax advantages, social prestige, with burgeoning investment opportunities among the planet's new wealthy. Once again Morley was slightly in front of a great wave of people who just can’t hold their noses any longer. 

Be like him. He didn’t let the million dollar soap bubbles, the haughty exclusion from the sky boxes, keep him away from art, looking at art, even attempting to paint. Articulate and awesomely well-traveled, he simply applied the same principles to viewing art he used when seeking truth in myriad other circumstances, and it wouldn’t hurt anyone else. This self respect thing has to do with trusting one’s own experience, having confidence in personal judgement along with a willingness to commit to the best choice available, and don’t it apply to buying art, living with art, and won’t it show?

Saturday, May 7, 2016

parking lot seminars -- a personal account

One day there’s a call for artwork by a non-profit agency acting as broker for a local transportation enterprise moving to new facilities. I wouldn’t normally respond these days, but a percentage of my work suited their theme, the visual requirements seemed to favor my style, and the money offered was respectable, so I took another chance. Although I’ve slacked off in recent years, it was always my policy to enter all the competitions and apply for all the grants available, even though the system smelled fishy and looked overbearingly ‘rigged.’ I did this because, like many artists of my acquaintance, I found studio life and cold desperation to be frequent dance partners who would sometimes ‘shack-up’ for days, weeks.

If anyone had ever decided I deserved a little grant money, immensely unlikely looking back, I certainly would have taken it, stretched it -- paint and studio time, but money was never the reason for filling out the forms, writing the essays, labeling the slides. Those applications were more like messages stuffed in bottles floating away into the sunset, to be seen, picked up and read by someone, anyone, a visionary dealer, the supportive art-loving industrialist. The lagoon is always full of them. This collective professional desperation for even the chance at an audience is actually the fuel core that powers those vast art-stifling state bureaucracies. It fills their seldom visited galleries for free, and justifies their relentless petitioning for more office space, updated technical and additional staff. On the other hand, a transportation center with lots of foot traffic would be a nice place to have a painting, so I email the images, so much easier these days, and turns out they want to eyeball two of three submitted and I should bring them in. Now I’ll tell my story. 

In the parking lot adjacent to my studio I’m loading the two paintings into the van and the attendant shows an interest, so I show him the first and he wants to see the second when it comes down. I don’t remember word for word but he admired them, and says something about how well I draw, so I say I don’t make the drawings, I project the images, because I say, if Miles Davis plays a piece of music everyone knows already, it’s not the song but the way he plays it that people want to hear. He nods, maybe not a big fan of Miles but he get’s it. So as I’m closing the hatch I overhear him calling his mother telling her about the painter he just met on the lot. That’s cool.

I deliver the artwork to a small office. ‘Gee I love your colors’ was the only remark I heard as I leaned them against the wall, and the same thing again when I picked them up. It’s a lesson learned so many times I guess I must be crazy, but it was almost worth it for the conversation in the parking lot, for the contrast in sensitivity and interest, and for verifying what has been my personal experience almost since the beginning. Through the years I’ve taken turns at industrial occupations, and never felt less than respect whenever it was known I was an artist. I’ve noted as well who actually looks at the artwork when in my studio, maintenance and delivery people included, and can say definitively it’s time for reformation, revolution is in the air. 

Friday, May 6, 2016

studio direct -- inside insight

Regular long-time readers will recall our discussion of the big studio, numberless remote locations all part of one sovereign enterprise transcending both time and national circumstance. Our common notion of the studio probably begins with the renaissance, but artists, as traditional outsiders, have held similar views of society and life since ancient times in diverse cultures. 

The individual studio is intensely biographical since only the walls and floor are furnished. Everything else -- equipment and materials, stuff up on the walls, organized or chaotic, functional or can’t-finish-anything delusional, all reveal the state of mind of the artist in residence. What goes on in there is privileged content since creation can be messy, highs and lows, such as that, but this is where the ore is mined, where the images that embody their singular points of view originate. From the output of individual studios a vast industry is born producing endless commentary and scholarship, galleries and publications, museums and art friendly foundations, all generating regular paychecks for people who don’t themselves make art, the artist notes dryly. 

For the intrepid tourist a trip to this exotic island usually requires only an inquiry, maybe after consulting a local directory of working studios. There is one, right, with examples of each artist’s work, websites and such? It must be remembered that studios are workshops and not retail stores, so they tend toward bare-bones efficiency, but much more can be learned about an artist and their work, and about art generally, from visiting studios than listening to a ton of lectures. Perhaps some outgoing, articulate sort of person will someday decide to lead an afternoon tour of area studios, nominal fee and brochure, so artists could prepare for guests. 

However you find your way to an artist’s studio, alternative venue or co-op gallery, being as close to the source as possible offers interesting advantages. When you buy art directly from an artist, you’re choosing one of two possibilities. Either it’s a bargain that would cost twice as much in a gallery, the standard markup, or if the artist is honoring the ethical convention of charging the gallery’s price, you’ll know that all of it goes to the artist. Practical experience indicates some compromise is possible between those extremes, although it’s frowned upon to dicker in studio land.

When people begin to recognize the art they’ve seen being made in the studio different places during the day, the right kind of chemicals are released in the brain, and they can’t help but smile. If they happen to own a piece there’s an extra jolt. The chances of seeing locally produced art has never been better, in restaurants and salons, bakeries and coffee houses, so becoming familiar with the artists around here, maybe buying a piece or two, increases your chances for those pleasant recognitions -- one of the main reasons some folks like art.

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

the art bridge -- crossing over

The argument here is not about styles of art, it’s about plain ole’ legitimacy, what sort of art represents us, all of us. If ‘contemporary art’ embodied the values and vision of our current generation then maybe we should all pay for it like infrastructure and national defense, but there isn’t a good case for that. I recently attended a public art christening with podium and tv cameras, and the speaker began by thanking the gathered crowd, maybe two hundred and fifty people, for their vision and generosity, since it was ‘you the tax-payer who made this happen.’ A gracious acknowledgement I thought, but so few tax-payers there to hear it, the crowd artfully augmented by parents and their disinterested children waiting to see promised fireworks after the speeches. 

It isn’t the art or the event I’d care to critique, good intentions all around, but tax-payers were obviously not well represented at this event. I understand civic agencies decide where streets go, what gets built, such as that, but those decisions seek solution in a consensus centering on utility and the common good, and decisions about art have less of that. There are flaws built in, no matter who runs the ship. It’s the institution.

It isn’t about the money. Is there a little or is there a lot depends on who’s asking, but the real question should be how much is accomplished, no matter the amount. Rather than assuming public support for the arts, treasury direct or philanthropic deductible, doled out though non-profit agencies is automatically a good thing, maybe it’s time to ask how it affects the lives of artists, and more importantly, how much appreciation for art have they cultivated in the broader community? Look around. They’ve been at it awhile.

Is original art going up on the wall in people’s houses and are artists paying their bills? The style of art which eventually predominates is not on the table. Whatever art people are willing to pay for would be fine with me, and if that threatens anyone’s more progressive sensibilities maybe they should finance the exact kind of art they’d like out of their own pockets. Jurors and curators with academic backgrounds choose their friends from school, it’s the art they like, and as brokers for medical facilities, ‘non-profit’ agencies favor therapeutic themes for modest prices, but either way they’ve established themselves as gatekeepers where none are needed. Who are they, with their hefty administrative overheads, to decide what art is exhibited, which artists receive awards and grants, and, since we’re discussing it, where is all the art they don’t support? 

It’s one percent, less than that, of this community who are vaguely interested in or even aware of most of the art exhibited each month at considerable public expense, and it’s time the other ninety-nine percent woke up is what I’ve been hearing lately. Public funding for art means influence and control, and it’s money better spent on essential services. Art won’t die without their help. Parallel to national movements, in an era of populist revival, art will flourish, and in time will come to represent the array of expression that resides in this community, where every artist with the desire and drive to develop a voice will have an opportunity to find an audience.