Summon

"Notes" installation

A light breeze ripples through the leaves on the maple outside my window. The air is unusually cool and mercifully quiet. No lawn service, motorcycles or car stereos. The kids down the street aren’t home from school yet leaving the driveway basketball court silent. A male cardinal affectionately feeds his mate. Fat bumble bees wander from bloom to bloom. A sparrow flies headlong into a picture window, breaks its neck and falls dead to the ground. My father’s decay is connected to me in an awareness it’s time for him to leave and I’m going to continue living without him. Rummaging through my hall closet looking for a jacket, I found the MICHIGAN one I bought specifically to go to the football games. The carefully sewn letters in true maize on navy blue resurrect the sensation of sitting in that stadium with my Gramps. I speak out loud, “it’s about you now too, Dad.”

We all arrive, spend some time here, then make room for the new arrivals. When life is being an asshole, which is frequently, we often engage in vain attempts to stop this cycle, to control the uncontrollable. It’s the sweet spots and the hope to generate more that make our life sentence bearable.

Today, there is a global collective migration toward tolerance, compassion and non-violence. The transformation occurs from the inside out. What does the individual transformation look like? Obviously, it’s much easier to witness the external evidence. It represents the internal but doesn’t tell the whole story. I recently visited Rome and its ruin sites. Grand remnants of ages past stand in testimony to power, wealth and innovation. Marble and painted references to the sublime and the godly. In the Forum, where the Senators met to share events of the day, what did they say to each other? What did they argue about? What deals were made? How did the populous respond to their decisions and actions? Did they agree with their representatives? Were they angry? Were they apathetic? How do you quantify the mind and its memories? Its decisions to aspire to its greater self? Where is the soul?

In the video, each participant was asked to record something he said to a lover to get out of a relationship. Each person registers the excavation of past encounters on their face. The viewer relates to the clips by remembering their own experiences. Summoning the mental recordings of our lives. Clips we cherish, and clips we’d prefer to erase. These memories wash over our face. We recognize others’ expressions in ourselves. Left behind is the external residue in a hand-written note, demonstrating the artifact’s inadequacy at communicating the complexity of that moment. Undocumented is the thought process leading to this juncture and all its emotional attachments.

The paintings are abstractions of my recordings. Visual expressions of thoughts about life, death and what comes after death. “The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns puzzles the will.” -Hamlet. It’s the best I can do to provide an external illustration of what my mind has been through in the past few years. The endless haunting stories that never go away. The quest to come to peace with my inescapable history. I am fully aware these displays are, like all other attempts to answer the unanswerable, minimal and incomplete. They are, however, true. 

Dad

I sat at his library table in the den, palms resting on the smooth wood. The note “Sondheim” is stuck to the edge of one shelf. He is reminding himself to download that music. Above the desk is an installation of small works of art gathered on global adventures seeking the world’s greatest art and architecture. The pieces are carefully framed and hung together like the jigsaw puzzles he and Mom always have going. To the right are the old photos of his father’s Michigan football teams. 60 years of season tickets. To the left is the book shelf, crammed with evidence of his insatiable thirst for knowledge. The Civil War, Buddhism and Caravaggio are punctuated by the metal toy soldiers of Napoleon and his generals. Behind me is one of my favorite series of his own works. It’s hidden behind the door in reluctance to include himself in the great company of makers he surrounded himself with. These pieces are well executed and powerful. They contain his personal mark I’d recognize anywhere. Brilliant and gregarious. Also intensely private. Of all the places he’s visited, his favorite is home. Home is his sacred place of freedom where he can pursue his own quiet thoughts and spend time with his family. Home is where peace and sanctuary always reside. I’m profoundly grateful to have known one of the most dynamic and humble human beings to grace this planet. He has sculpted and crafted me to be more that I perceive myself to be. He lives on in my heart forever.

Morning Fog

It's been a bud for over a year now. I'm not even sure what color it is. Or its fragrance. If any. But it sits there, promising, mocking. Threatening to wither before witness. Forcing me back into the morning fog. A chill I'm used to. So accustomed I never put the blanket away. In case. And it's always the case. Safe and warm but hollow. Again.

my song

Relentless tainted whispers

I heard and absorbed

because you held the authority.

Mishandled with blackened fingertips.

I don't agree. I never did.

Bare skinned and shredded knees

reveal a truth,

but, sadly, only to me.

I rewrite the notes and sing a new song.

My song, carrying full sails,

salt spray in my face and loft in my dreams.

Cow Graveyard

Of Dinesen

Life has made a nasty face at me. The dank atmosphere quietly corrosive. I used to meet boys with all of my soul in my eyes. I used to meet all of it that way. The optimism of a now withered youth. If I had some indication of even a change in direction, I could better endure. I would welcome any diversion from my own thoughts; a reprieve to pour some kind of spirit back into me. The sun has the audacity to pierce the comforting gloom. I want to draw the shades against it. I only feel right in darkness.

His loneliness matches mine. It’s a mournful dance. Both of us are creatures of charm and playfulness as well as dark blue tears. He’s looking for solace from lost success as am I, but I have also lost my trust in the future. There is no shortage of helpful advice on cures. The mortal bacterium is in my blood. Only god can make alterations. I'm waiting. Waiting with him takes the sting out of it.

The black tulip is light in my hand. I hardly notice it. There will be an unremembered moment when I've put it down. But for now, I am enthralled in its beauty, helpless in its unhappiness.

consort

storm brewing

shall I be lawless and rude?

yield to the greedy gnawing

bringing sweet warm wine to lips long parched

orange peels and cinnamon, damp wood and moss

I'm consorting with nature's princes

how long will I be fooled?

 I court deception to please my soul

aware of the loss that hasn't flown yet

coaxing unaccustomed honey out of comfortable bitterness

will the taste linger long enough to justify the forfeit

I hear his pulse inviting me to swim

in the cool green blue

*post script: I bought a new laptop and while moving files over, I found a couple things I'd written for another blog I've since deleted. The intensity of the compositions surprised me. I have three entries. I'll start with this one. It's the lightest of the three.

**photo was taken at the cottage as a storm was building in the northwest. No filter.

Afterlife

Afterlife I and II
20x20 each
mixed on canvas

After the Fall, season and Wall Street, of '08, Hollywood delayed my collapse until 2012. I staged a brief period of success repositioning Reel Art Detroit and enjoyed several large commissions for abstract paintings. That was 2014. And the End. It became clear last Spring I was not going to return to pre-2008 income levels. Saddled with an uncomfortable debt load, partly due to launching RAD only to have the industry removed a mere 8 months later, I decided to stop deluding myself and call it. By early December, it was over. The business was closed and the debt removed.  

The Universe gave me the opportunity to tear the veil off another fantasy. A boy who truly loves me, was once my lover, but never will be again. I'd been hanging on to that one for a while, too. It turns out 2016 was the Great Housecleaning. Reality can be rather harsh. Although everything that was stripped away was negative, it still created a profound sense of loss. I'm leveling off enough now to notice the vacancy. The Universe abhors a vacuum, so I'm waiting to see what fills in.

While I wait, I did some actual housecleaning and stumbled across all the evidence of my "other" career. For a fabulous 17 year run, I worked with Interior Designers. Faux treatments, murals, hand-painted embellishments. Whatever they needed. I made a pile of money. I bought a house, went to Europe a couple times, started an IRA. It's over. Gone. There isn't much call for faux these days and when there is, housepainters learned how to do it and siphoned off my business. I'm teaching, writing, some front end tech work. I've been making and selling a few paintings. These 2 pieces aren't the greatest, but they are cathartic. Using archival materials from jobs long gone, collaged then obliterated, I'm putting the final nail in that coffin.

Feels very strange to experience so much blank space. What to do with it? I'm resisting my compulsion to push myself, mostly motivated by financial fear. The Universe is providing enough. I have the chance to breathe for a moment. February's bizarrely warm weather allowed for a hike in the woods yesterday. Went with some good people. Ate a spectacular meal after. I'm supremely grateful I have the capacity to change and adapt. Can't go back. It's why the windshield is so much bigger than the rear view mirror. It's an open road. Roll down the windows and crank the stereo. It's a gorgeous day.

*both paintings are currently at Galerie Camille. I'm clearing the decks so these are ready to move.

Random Negotiations Toward An Unreasonable Happiness

There's so much going on now I've become very particular about which shows I'm willing to pry myself out of my blankie for. That last two shows at Hatch have been worth the effort. Mike McGillis had a pretty small space to work with for one of his installations. It was brilliant. I don't spend too much time overthinking a show. Even the high-brow ones at museums. I like the simplicity of a visceral experience. Or not, if it doesn't create one. Shape, line, color. That's about it. Then, if interested, I might consider what explanation a maker has provided. Mike said, "I'm interested in what we think we see when the lights are dim, or in that moment we squint at familiar things and they briefly shift to something else". One of art's jobs is to get us to see something we would otherwise dismiss. Stop. Breathe. Look. I definitely notice a change at dusk, or when lights are dim. Familiar objects shape-shift. As a kid, they are monsters under the bed. Am I sure they aren't still there?

Michael McGillis

Ryan Standfest opened this past Saturday. It was seriously frigid that evening. Someone's car needed a jump directly in front of the gallery forcing everyone to distant parking spots. This better be good. So good, my comment to Ryan was it was too creepy and smart for me. My frozen brain didn't have the capacity to decode his cryptography. He assured me it was only frat boy humor anyway. Just enjoy the shapes and colors. I did. 

Ryan Standfest

Truthfully I've seen most of these people's work before. I already know I like it when I go. The best part of an opening is hanging out with other creatives. Making art is mostly a solitary activity until an exhibition. Sitting in my studio alone with my materials, my brain can get the better of me. Mixing it up on a Saturday night with my colleagues validates my weird existence. It is one of my not-so-random negotiations toward unreasonable happiness. Not entirely sure what defines unreasonable happiness. I'm pretty content with regular happiness. Which generally means the bills are paid, the car runs, a couple good friends and some art. 

Check out statements, pics, etc at Hatch Art

Married to Art

Girlfriend's Guide to Divorce S2 Ep8

Girlfriend's Guide to Divorce is a tamer Sex in the City. LA instead of NYC. Bravo instead of HBO. Still painfully skinny, lots of money and great shoes. Not my reality, but in S2 E7 Phoebe meets an artist. Legit, since LA's art scene is vibrant. He takes her to sort of a rave art thing. She's hooked. She's a former fashion model so he gets her to pose for him. Only it's not him who does the drawing. An overworked pathetic looking man with some serious eye baggage draws her image. It's as wonderfully sad as the executioner himself. He explains that he does the drawing, then the artist photoshops it for the end product. Phoebe asks if the entire art world is this terrible? The former brush cleaner, now first assistant says "not at all" commenting his arrangement isn't that unusual. The scene at the preview opening of the work is pretty on point. The bullshit language the artist uses to make the work sound more important than it is. The collector who's looking for something in the 40x60 range for his super snotty walk-in. The artist spots Jeff Koons in the fray and disappears into a schmooze haze.

Art is similar to stock in that it's only worth what someone is willing to pay for it. Art is particularly tricky because very few actually know what's worth all that money. Marketing and perception. Blue chip artists' messages get lost, if not completely obliterated, in the pursuit of recognition. Justin Giarla took advantage of that ambition combined with new money's insatiable appetite for just the right bling to cement their status. His Geary Street scam made him rich and the artists he made promises to broke.

So what's a true art lover to do? I'm happy to report integrity in the arts is alive and well. Painters, sculptors and photographers are genuinely trying to show you a different way to look at our world. Every piece I've been given, made or acquired makes me happy. GG2D S2 E8 "One of our buyers has a Picasso displayed with a black light to bring out the colors. Another one has his Basquiat hung upside down."  For the love of god, black lights went out with the '70's. If you don't know what your looking at, find someone you trust to help you. I only buy work I have a visceral reaction to. I still get that sensation when I look at any one piece. I'm perilously close to running out of wall space. I got 99 problems, but my art collection ain't one. 

EVOLUTION

Drip and Pitch
20x20
acrylic on canvas

This is the image that started it. Just appeared out of seemingly nowhere. Posted it on Facebook unsure of where it was going and sold it. The buyer said it was dope. He bought a second one. Guess it's ok then. Kept painting. New pieces from this series are included in a four person exhibition at Galerie Camille opening October 14. 

I valiantly attempted to reposition Reel Art Detroit after Governor Snyder pulled the film incentives and killed the industry. I was unsuccessful. Time to call it. Time to call it on a bunch of things. Life is forcing a profound evolution. Stripping me down to the bones. So I can build anew. 

I'm continuing to write the art column for DDEAF magazine (cover story this issue!) I have been approached on another writing assignment, but it's not confirmed yet, so hush hush for now. I am enjoying teaching at the Birmingham Bloomfield Art Center going into my fourth year. Working with a new collector and helping to curate an impressive collection of local talent. Pretty stoked about earning my living through so many creative avenues. 

As I begin what appears to be my third career incarnation and because I'm passionately involved in Detroit art via several mediums, I needed a brand that covered more than just painting. Presenting "detroit art junkie". Started with an instagram handle and went from there.  In marketing and branding terms, it's great if everything matches. One thought, one name, one purpose. So new domain for the website, email, cards, the works. Detroit is staging a fantastic comeback and I'm thrilled to be riding that wave right along with her. 

There's some crazy lawn equipment harshing my mellow right now, so I'm out before I can really edit/polish this blurg. Y'all understand. 

Using the Whole Chicken

Rick Vian

The abstract painter is held to the same rules of construction as a representational one but doesn't have the luxury of an obvious subject to lean on to compose and create a space. I'm generally suspicious of an artist who uses loads of paint to persuade the viewer the work has value. Here, Rick Vian uses heavily textured layers to add depth to his magically lit, rollicking descriptions of trees, water, fire. The grids he's introduced in this series seem to hold back the furious brushstrokes from leaping off the canvas. Glimpses of his subjects are expertly revealed in mindful compositions. It's the emotional blast of color that really knocks me out. This is what the Expressionists were aiming for.

I'm more than a little biased on this one. Not only is Rick Vian an abstractionist and one of Detroit's best, he and his brilliant wife Sue Carman are friends. Spoken as objectively as I'm able to, this show is fantastic. On view at the Robert Kidd Gallery in Birmingham through December 19. 

Btw, the second issue of DDEAF comes out next week. I'm thrilled to be asked back as an art contributor. This time it's local sensation Scott Northrup. Hope y'all like it.

*post-script: DDEAF comes out online first week of December. Print January 1. 

Collage Show

Jeanne Bieri

Scott Northrup

I fully understand it's not merely cutting out images and slapping them together. Teresa Peterson is a master. Her compositions are thoughtfully composed and can be downright hilarious. I bought an Alison Wong during a fund raiser to support her gallery Butter Projects. It was $25. (You don't need to be in the top 1% to be a collector. You just gotta know when/where the deals are) Despite my respect for the practice, I'm not wild about collage. Can't give you any sort of well thought out reason why. It just doesn't move me the way other art forms can.

There were too many fantastic artists in this show to ignore it. Curated by Jack Summers at Hatch this past Saturday, was an exhibition of collage and assemblage I actually liked. To clarify, assemblage isn't exactly collage as it's 3D, however, it qualifies to pair with the 2D variety. Regardless of the classification particulars, this show took collage to another level for me. Ok, the pieces I enjoyed the most were 3D, but, I was interested in some of the 2D offerings. I'm impressed with the ability to configure images so they don't look cut and pasted. Their elements blend together seamlessly so you notice the work first, that they're collaged second.

Always loved Jeanne Bieri's tiny paintings arranged inside some kind of repurposed drawer or box or something. She encourages you to handle her work. You kind of have to, they're so small, in order to fully appreciate the intricacies. Scott Northrup's scathing humor makes his contribution to this show a definite fave. Additionally, all these works are at reasonable price points. Several around the $2-300 mark. Crazy affordable for really good work. And Hamtramck is simultaneously staging a Labor Day festival with parades and live music. Good God. Perfect conclusion to the summer. 

Launch

As Detroit stages the greatest comeback of any major city, and I only say that due to its history making bankruptcy, there's plenty to talk about. The artists always show up first. Mostly for the cheap real estate. They come, changing the landscape and setting up the foundation for the rebirth. Then there's those of us who were here the whole time. Weathered those black days after October 2008 and survived. So who are they are what are they up to? Report, but not hard. Keep it light and friendly. Easy to read. Don't take it all so seriously. Discuss cool shit without being uppity or snarky. None of that art speak. I am an artist and don't understand what the hell they're talking about half the time.

To establish my cred to discuss this topic, I'm one of the artists who's been here the whole time. Been a working painter here since 1992. When Wall Street collapsed the economy, we all had to scramble to earn a living. Most of us had paying jobs. I worked with interior designers, some had automotive related work. Gone. Hollywood showed up. I scored a job as a scenic painter on a Brad Anderson film November 2009. I got abnormally good at making things look gross. I mildewed Kumar's bathroom. On the Gerard Butler film, I worked on the biker bar set and faked everything from nicotine stains to rust. I also met some set decorators who needed art for their sets. That resulted in Reel Art Detroit, a company that provided the art they were looking for. It launched right into the big pool. No warm up. No crescendo. First two clients were ABC and Warner Brothers. Holy crap, it worked! Until our state government, in their infinite wisdom, killed the incentives and a much needed second industry that was on the precipice of exploding here. Back to square one.

Which is where I am now. Reinventing myself. Again. Back in the loop with interior designers, I sold a 5x15 foot painting for $11,500 February 2013. First time I'd ever sold a piece for that kind of money. That painting has since been resold and now owned by Roger Penske. Sold several abstracts last year. I've decided to reposition Reel Art Detroit to reach out to local collectors via the interior designers I already have a relationship with. Additionally, I was invited to write an art column for a new magazine, DDEAF, launching tomorrow September 1. This blog is designed to be a companion to my reconfiguration. Report what I see. I'll post more of the visuals on my detroitartjunkie Instagram, if you're interested. I don't hit every opening, there are too many these days, but I'll post what I see and you can follow here or come out and see for yourself.