september2005

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TJ, September 30 2005

Here is the piece TJ Norris contributed to Fresh Trouble.

The weekend begins, September 30 2005

Today the Affair begins and then tomorrow, a new museum wing opens.

Last year I took pics of some of the VIPs at the Affair and will do so again tomorrow.

As to the museum, it now has a big bold Brushstrokes by Roy Lichtenstein outside. One of my claims to fame is that I shared an elevator ride with him, sometime in the late 80s. Smiling, even chatty, a total gentleman.

Search and destroy, September 28 2005

Anna L. Conti has a nice post on artists who destroyed their own work. It’s got to be instructive for any creative person.

Destroy – maybe I didn’t have to do that so much. But give away and just get-outta-here is very much my style.

Some of the great artists who have a scant amount of work around (Vermeer comes to mind), surely did not make just that. They had to get rid of a lot of the prelude to end up with such a finite yet monumental achievement.

Richard Baud by Randy Moe

The next show at Chambers, September 28 2005

Slowly I’ve been constructing pages for both Randy Moe and TJ Norris. Neither artist’s work is that easy to get across digitally. Randy’s work has many marks and unless it is scanned, many go missing. In the case of TJ, I know that he is taking over that whole back room and the photography (like above) is just part of an installation that will include sound. He’s got a triple-whammy these days. He is also in Fresh trouble and the new issue of Portland Modern will feature his work. Plus he also began a new art blog.

The fluffer, September 28 2005

At the last opening of Chambers I made a bit of a scene, when a certain person approached the gallery, ready to tell me how fabulous I was, how fabulous the gallery was, and so on. This is not the generous effort you might think. It’s all fabulous with her and that kind of gab alone dilutes down to useless gossip after awhile.

When I first met her, I was still selling shoes at Saks and she just might be the kind I would sell to. As the years went on, she still always treated me a little like she was Coco Chanel and I was the seamstress, a bit unobservant that things had changed.

Always: “I’m going to call you! We’re going to get together!” like my life depended on it. Eight years of this shit. The one time I did call her and she never called me back. Off to NY or Berlin or whatever. Supposedly she was some collector and on this and that board but it never affected my life. After awhile you really don’t care.

One time she did indeed follow me out from an opening when she saw I was to have drink with Henk Pander. Yeah she was on me like a fly on shit then -- and that speaks volumes.

My show at Augen, she missed. I saw her the next month on a First Thursday and she said: “Ah, we’ve got to stop meeting like this, every First Thursday” “No, not last month we didn’t,” I shot back. She had every opportunity to say something to that and did not. I mean, if she can’t fluff, then what could she do?

-- So there she was to be fabulous at the gallery, while I’m really busy. Enough was enough. I challenged her on several fronts but all she could say was that she was out of town -- never any sensitivity or real support. I mean shit, if you’re such a collector and supporter, why can’t you high-tail it down to Augen and see what is still there? I mean, if I am so goddamn fabulous?

This is not just about ‘show me the money’. You can do so much for so many if you want to. I do a lot with no money at all and so do many others. You can write, you can hang shows, you can do so much. Talk is cheap.

I got the word fluffer from the ultimate art world insider, when I told him the story. We all know what the fluffer is in the porn industry… the one who keeps it all up. They suck and they kiss whatever but they are never a part of the real action, the cum shot.

Tomorrow, September 25 2005

Tomorrow I will interview Scott Wayne Indiana at KPSU. I know him more as a writer than an artist, as he emails me from time to time in response to things I’ve written here.

Turns out his basic background is in philosophy and mathematics, so it will be interesting to hear how this all led to the paintings he makes now. I’m sure there’s a connection – there always is – and I’m curious to hear about it.

Last night’s Trouble, September 25 2005

Familiarity helps. What I enjoyed the most about Fresh Trouble was being able to see what artists might do if they did not have their usual space constraints or other gallery restrictions. So I liked the black art on fire of Brendan Clenaghen.

And I also really enjoyed the spread out constellation by Ellen George. She was able to take her forte for the tiny and curious and make more of it than I had seen in the past.

Plus I just like her. She has visited me at Chambers and has been very supportive.

the swifts, September 23 2005

In his interview, Jesse Durost reminded me of the Vaux Swifts who funnel into the chimney at Chapman school every September. The word is that they are more numerous than usual this year, thousands of them.

I’ve been aware of them for awhile, as NW P-Town was my neighborhood. As I have recounted in these pages before, when I would see Callahan many evenings in September before his 2002 show at Lovelake, I walked by the swifts at just the right hour.

Last night I paid a visit. The sky had large darkened masses of the birds which moved from one part of the sky to another as they made their way into the chimney. It is an incredible sight. The Oregonian had an article today in which experts mused on whether the birds file down in any particular order – like a pecking order – who gets what and where to hang once in the chimney on their Velcro-like feet.

In my visual memory they compete with the swifts I met in France last year, the fastest in the world, but they are not so dependant on one place of rest. Those French swifts not only mate in flight, they can sleep in it too.

It truly blew my mind when I heard and then read that PICA had claimed the swifts as part of their TBA festival. PICA is many things and we appreciate their efforts. But these birds are not theirs (or ours) and they are not ‘art’. They are birds, mysterious, never fully knowable or claimed.

the comparison, September 22 2005

My work has been rarely and scantily reviewed, and when it happens, the writer often goes to Bridget Riley. I guess anyone who bends your eyeballs using geometry (irregular as mine is) must end up there.

But I always felt I had not that much common with her (the 1960s aside) and having read her writings (not that I’ve been exposed to scads, but the Portland Library actually has a book by her), felt that even more so.

I don’t mind saying that I come from a spiritual place. I’m looking at endless life and endlessness. I got stacks of books at home about my art heroes, but the fact that I checked out a book on Riley as opposed to acquired one tells you something.

But she kept coming up in comparison. I was well aware of her work in the 60s when I was a child, as my mom was an artist and she showed me her work (via magazines of course). But when I paint, she is not on my mind.

early Bridget Riley

Her original splash, made of large forms in black and white, were what maybe interested me the most. They were terribly foreboding and new to me, a different kind of 60s, and not the twisted, undulating checkerboards we tend to associate with her with now, which of course I also appreciate, but do not worship.

These works she does not paint by hand, not then and not now. But I do paint all in my own hand and while the process is not what I herald, the result most surely is. I search to create art which lives like nature and therefore I take a different road, in search of a different result.

I finally saw how it all could be defended – by accident. One day I printed Before Dark, but forgot to change the printer setting from grayscale to full color. What came out was black and white alright, but no Bridget Riley. The graduations, the tremors and variation that only a hand can produce, the way black and white can become a sort of full-on color in the right hands (my hands) all faced me in a simple print-out. I saw blue into violet, just as an example, in this black and white print-out.

This all came from the hand of the artist. And also from the mind, for when I close my eyes, I never see pure black. The world is made of particles, infinite structures, and the variation is endless. One way I could express this was through my ideas of color in what seems like a formal system.

Someday I will produce my own black and white paintings. But of course, they won’t be that.

Astoria visit, September 21 2005

Yesterday I drove out to Astoria, where so many Portland artists have shown work at Astoria Visual Arts. This is mainly due to the efforts of Agnes Field, an artist Chambers is currently showing.

Agnes is quite the curator and organized shows at other venues, like the Alderbrook Station.

One of the best openings I ever had was at AVA. I didn’t know anyone and it happened to be scheduled on my birthday. Agnes had arranged a small band and the whole shooting match – all these strangers singing me Happy Birthday at my own show, which is not nearly as painful as it is in a café when you know everyone. In fact it was a blast. What's there to be nervous about when you don't know anyone?

This time she took me out to the Alderbrook Station, an old cannery now turned into a large art spot. Such a wonderful building - dark red peeling paint, several stories high, windows to all kinds of worlds, opportunities to walk the plank. In the john is a special square window, a view of the water below.

Sauvie Island, September 19 2005

Every summer and fall we take many trips out to Sauvie Island. Now that I can drive, I often go on my own. In fact it was on this island that I first learned to drive. I would go up and down this one country road until I felt safe enough to take on the rest of the island.

There is no place quite like Sauvie, especially when you consider how close it is to a metropolitan area. NYC would have turned it into something like the Hamptons long ago, but there is not even a gas station on Sauvie Island. No cafes or other kinds of hang-outs. There are farms, corn mazes and places to u-pick strawberries. There are nude beaches, places for long walks and bird watching. In the autumn, it has a special golden light. Stephen Hayes often paints out on Sauvie and I can see why.

The place I always end up at is Kruger’s Farm, and that’s not just for the sunflowers and various produce. It is Mr. Kruger himself. I find him fascinating in his devotion to work. I knew from the first time I ever saw him that he was unique. He had some stuff sorted out in a big way.

When I would come up to him and say: “Hi, how are you,” he would respond: “Oh fantastic; my corn is doing so great, I can’t believe it.” He and his work, they were one in his mind. And there was a smile on his face.

It’s his clear love of his work which draws me, his uncomplicated devotion, no qualms, no delusions, no conflicts that I can see. He told me yesterday that it was all play to him, even the hard stuff, as he sorted out tomatoes, one by one, grabbing those split and oozing from those which were not.

We also talked about more personal things: his relationship with his dad let me talk about my own with my mother. Again, he was crystal clear in what he needed to feel about any of it. “I never feel any guilt and neither should you,” he said.

I found dahlias, dark, dark red ones, to match the alizarin crimson of my most recent painting.

Hoch

Much ado, September 18 2005

This is a town full of art happenings at this very moment. The museum is adding a major addition – no doubt big parties are in the works. People I know are planning their various agendas for the Affair @ the Jupiter Hotel, which opens soon enough. I can’t even remember all the dates; I just know I have to go as I had lots of fun last year. And others wondered why I was not at the Dada Ball last night.

At the gallery, I take in one person at a time there. No one is ignored; I sit behind no computer, typing away as I answer your questions but give you no eye contact. That is not my style. It may change though, I don’t know, but I always hated non-engaging gallerists. I’m beginning to understand why they operate that way though. Cause then they get to leave work and still have the mental equipment to attend these events and keep on schmoozing. By the end of my day, I am done with it. A drink with a friend I need, and that’s about it.

I was however in total agreement with Ultrapdx, who scoffed at the PICA promotion of the Dada Ball as something 'surreal'. Please. The image Ultrapdx presented of Emmy Hemmings is totally the correct response to such blasphemy. Dada, style-wise, is not surreal at all and made up of the likes of Emmy and the greatest of all, Hannah Hoch. Still have to get to some nice writing on her on this site sometime.

The images I recall the most of Surrealism, style-wise, are photographs of the boys like Man Ray and Breton, fully suited of course, sitting down to country luncheons with the girls all having their shirts off. Oh how very Modern.

Semantics, September 17 2005

Recently the New York Times had a piece in the style section on how women are getting more and more hairless. Doctors and waxers are even a bit worried, because hair is like fashion – it comes and goes. In the future women may have hair transplants right back on their private part: ouch. What I found odd is how the Times failed to just get into the why of this style. For all fashion and all style has a root beyond anything 'aesthetic'.

I know a little bit about that as a makeup artist – women spent the 70s annihilating their eyebrows and I spent the 80s painting them back in. There were many regrets, but maybe that was what the 70s were about.

The subject of the pussy shave (or however it is done) has been on my mind for awhile, as swimsuits became smaller but my hair stayed pretty much the same. Luckily the swimsuit was my only concern, as I had never run across a man who wanted me barren. Then again, I’m not of a recent vintage, which is more porn-influenced, stripper-influenced, advertising-driven, where women all seem to have no hair.

And yes, I know Victorians wanted hairless mounds. Like they weren’t pedophiles. And I know centuries of great paintings feature bald mounds. Give me the list of women artists who, throughout the centuries, created those images -- in, I assume, their own likenesses.

And yes, this is all getting to art.

Not long ago a big group photo show happened at a local gallery. Literally there were at least one hundred pics in this show. Several had images of women with the bottom half of a 12 year old. That’s the last time I looked like that. Everything else in the pictures said a woman. Are we infantilizing women? And why?

Maybe that was just me who felt that way and so I decided to ask around – I made up a line-up of men in front of some of the photos and asked them about them.

Did this image have any particular meaning to you? Did it infantilize women? If not, what did it mean to you? What did you see, think, feel about these images?

What was truly mind blowing was how all across the board, all men declared that there was no meaning at all. No, of course no infantilizing. No, of course it was no 12 year old bottom (point of entry) with an adult top. No, no, no meaning at all. No meaning.

Just 'beauty', just nice images to please.

Now think about this, art world. We mix and live in a world where every image is laden with meaning. People proudly get degrees in semantics and go out and make paintings. Art that is merely beauty is still never just that. Artists who tell me that beauty (and Dave Hickey) is their god and their mantra still have plenty of ways to talk about it; conceptual, heavy deep thoughts in fact.

But still there was this incredible, monolithic line-up: “This? No, of course, no meaning.”

The indoctrination was so complete, especially when you consider that if I had placed them in front of just about any other image in that show, they could espouse for hours on meaning in images and would in fact, hate art which did not give them something besides some kind of empty nicety to chew on.

A little later on that night I lined up some women and asked them what they thought of the images. While quite used to the strip-city nature of PDX, they had no problem recognizing that the last time they ever looked like that was when they were a child. And yes, they saw all kinds of implications in adoration of the (often overblown) tits of a grown woman combined with the point of entry of a child.

One woman even told me the tale of dating a guy from Vegas. All went well until they got they naked -- he was absolutely shocked by her natural state of affairs. Then he went into this stupid monologue of “Thank you, thank you!” condescendingly, for reminding him of what a real woman did look like.

Needless to say, their affair was very short lived.

Answers for James W. Bailey, September 15 2005

James W. Bailey will occasionally feature answers provided by artists to questions he poses regarding art on his site Black Cat Bone. I am so honored to be a part of the project.

Coagula, September 15 2005

Chambers now has copies of Coagula. The last time I picked up one of these was when I was in NYC, strolling into Ronald Feldman. Coagula is edited by Mat Gleason, who also has a fun blog. I feel really honored to be carrying it, and think we might be the only ones in Portland.

Seattle, September 15 2005

Every time I have been in Seattle it has been a whirlwind of activity, in and then out, and so it has a bit of glamour to it. I’ve always left wanting more. It’s just so damn gorgeous too. Everything leads down to the water: the hills, the buildings, the traffic, the sun.

I had a mission: to initiate a relationship with a certain curator. Just say hello, that is all, but do it in the right way. It’s difficult. It’s like an audition. I couldn’t even eat until I had that out of the way.

The itsy bitsy thing I had not gone over with him in previous phone calls was that I would show him a piece, as opposed to going over meaningless slides, etc. So my man nursed a cappuccino in the sunshine across the street, guarding one of my paintings, while I made my way. I couldn’t think of another ‘easy’ way to do it.

He spent a long time with both me and my painting. It all turned out well. I may never show with him, who knows, but I think I might, and at least I did it. I couldn't thank my husband enough in helping me with this. I could then enjoy the rest of my visit, like hanging out with Carolyn Zick, Yvette Franz and Steven Vroom.

September 13 2005

Today I turn 49. My handsome husband is taking me to Seattle and letting me decide all agenda… basically art, of course. See some, hawk some, and meet some makers.

Too much to do in one day for sure. I’m especially excited to hook up with Carolyn Zick who has a show up right now at Shift, and to meet Steven Michael Vroom, who has a radio show called Art Radio Seattle. Whoa! I think we all have things in common.

Napalm Elegy 2

Rudolf Baranik, September 11 2005

The Times yesterday had a wonderful piece on the Art Students League and while I’ve written before about the only real art school I ever attended, I guess I’m not done with it yet.

Holland Cotter opens with a line coming from an artist not exactly known for changing art history: “I’m going to be a great painter some day and you will probably end up teaching painting at some girl’s school.” This was Eugene Speicher to Georgia O’Keeffe. Guess she showed him a thing or two.

The League reeks of history, something I love. Something Cotter does not mention in his historical notes is that the League was the first art school in the states – maybe anywhere – where women were allowed to draw and paint from nude models. And they had to fight for that.

And their place in history is not as distant as you might imagine – Rauschenberg and even Andy Warhol spent time there. But as Cotter accurately notes, the art world, as a place of commerce, began to dramatically change in the 1960s. Yet the League was still this place where you learned how to compose, to draw and paint, to make grounds and mediums and that was about it. It was here that I truly learned how to paint. Nobody went on to me about how the hell to make all the right calculated moves towards an art career.

I am not saying that those things are not important at all – and I’m still trying to figure out that one! But they were in vast opposition to where art schools were headed. I had one girlfriend who got her masters during the same time I was at the League…. in photography at NYU/ ICP… all big-time with Nan Goldin teaching there. Never a thing about technique, printing, shooting, which I find so odd when you think of what a technical operation the art of the camera can be. No, they wanted to talk her into making art about her mother’s suicide. They couldn’t leave shit like that alone.

Right now New York City is hosting exhibitions of League artists all over town, in honor of its 130^th anniversary. When I saw the list of various shows around town, I then realized that I had something to add to the conversation. For one of the exhibitions is:

MARY RYAN GALLERY, 24 West 57th Street. "Rudolf Baranik and May Stevens." Tuesday through Oct. 15.

I have a story about meeting and then studying with Baranik. As soon as I began at the League, I heard of him. His classes were not easy to get into and you had to approach him, etc. While older, he was still a force in Soho, which was very alive and well at this time. He was one of those original pioneers down there in the 60s, someone who made black paintings. He was written about in Lucy Lippard’s Get the Message? -- and I paid attention to that book because it also mentioned a traveling exhibition called Anti WW3 . I was in that show.

The people who put me in that show – Leon Klayman and Rachel Romero – knew Rudolf and May quite well. My first Thanksgiving in New York was spent at their loft in Soho. I brought them a drawing as a gift, a pastel, a plan for a painting. There sat Mr. Baranik. As my friends unrolled the pastel chalk drawing, he immediately responded. He started talking about Albert Pinkham Ryder.

Moonlight Marine

I just couldn’t believe that anyone could see it. I used no dark colors, I used no ships sailing on the waters, I had no thick, heavy, cracked surfaces. But I had definitely been visiting Ryder at the Met every week for about six months by then. What Ryder is mostly (at least to me) is an elevated individualist message, singular and not mass-driven at all --- uncompromising. Baranik saw it in a flash. I was immediately invited to be his student.

Baranik was rare in the League as he was not a how-to-paint teacher, but a constant critic. You brought in what you were working on and the discussion began. He also harped on us all about seeing exhibitions. You’re not in New York for nothing. He asked us what we had seen and what we thought about it. And then of course we got to hear the maestro’s view, the best part.

I say this because he never expected anyone to paint like him and he did not rave only about art which fell into his groove. This was important to me, as my other teacher was at odds with all who did not paint like him (I never did), though he taught me a lot about the act of painting.

In 1999 I took a trip to NYC. I walked into the League, as I might during any trip, for old time’s sake. On the bulletin board was a notice of Baranik’s death and that the memorial service would be at Exit Art that very next day. I went. Lucy Lippard and Carl Andre were among the many who gave speeches and paid respects. The whole thing was really odd to me. Because I did not come to NYC for such an event, had limited time too and yet there I was. Somehow this event became life and art affirming for me.

Boat ride, September 9 2005

A few years back there was an art event here which carried on all summer called the Modern Zoo. Two young upstarts got ahold of a large, rambling ex-headquarters of a company out in St. Johns. They filled it with art and all kinds of special events. I am sure that for some people, that summer will live in their memories like the summer of love lives for others. It was a special success.

(Those two upstarts tried other ventures together which never panned out like the Modern Zoo. They are individually on to other pastures: Gavin Shettler has the Portland Art Center and Bryan Suereth has Disjecta.)

On one particular night, the organization offered free boat rides up the river to the big show. You see, while the Modern Zoo was the talk of the town, it was not in town and most Portlanders are not all that adventurous. Even later when the famed Haze Gallery set up a more permanent situation in the same building with by far more consistent exhibitions, you would still see the same faces in the crowd.

I was lucky enough to get the boat both ways – up and back – and was able to observe the night sky and night water in so many different variations. For me, the best part of that evening was this ride Modern Zoo gave to us and I think that’s an art in itself, at least it was for me. And such a generous effort.

The reflections of the lights of the moving water were barely perceptible at 7pm and had changed dramatically by the time I left. The colors were initially brighter: a golden yellow and brighter blue, but one is distracted by the fact that you can still see all of Portland as you race by. This is the painting I am working on right now.

But the real duezy was the late night ride. I grabbed the last boat and remember sitting next to Brendan Clenaghen and Natascha Snellman at the front row. We were all silent in our exhilaration, though I was fit to scream with happiness. That ride I will never forget:

The sky and water were nearly black; the lights, angular and horizontal in their jaggedness, were nearly white dipping into vivid golds, and dancing maniacally. It was just the kind of thing that I should paint. It was constant, endless in its only 20 minute experience. And most importantly, it was just that – an experience, not a picture or composition or scene. I couldn’t even call it a landscape.

The yellow and the black is almost like the dance of the bumblebee. When I see them working over all of our flowers, especially the sunflowers, made in the same palette -- I think of the painting to come, and the boat ride.

Our benches, September 8 2005

Modern Art Notes writes that someplace to sit down in a gallery would be a nice gesture. Wid and I thought about it a lot as we created Chambers.

I wondered why there were not more places to sit down at art spots. Museums have them but galleries rarely. Then it dawned on me that of course they really don’t want you to hang out there. If you are on their radar, you get to go to some back room and sit on a le Corbusier or whatever.

Some galleries here in PDX have banquettes at the windows – Augen or the old Elizabeth Leach space comes to mind. And since our gallery is in the latter, we decided to have benches built for the window area: a place for you to sit down.

But also a place to gather all that propaganda that comes our way. You know, the continuous flow of pamphlets, brochures and of course, art postcards.

Of course Walter/ Moe was our first choice in design. They make the best benches in town and custom-designed something just for us. Basically what we have are two of number eight from the display above. They are especially nifty because you can stash things underneath if you need to, all hidden away.

The digital document, September 7 2005

This is just a bit of advice for artists getting reproductions of their work out: please stop complete reliance on the digital camera.

They are fine for your blog, diary or cyber-mag, or as an email to a pal. But they in no way get the details you worked so hard on when it comes to a more serious exposure.

I’ve posted plenty of images here shot by a digital camera – and not only that, but shot by the artists themselves. Come on now! Some of these artists spent years learning to make their art and yet think a simple self-taught common click will capture that.

It doesn’t. Sometimes the best of photogs who do it all the old fashioned way still can’t capture what you may be up to, but they have a much better chance.

More Sid, September 7 2005

In the present exhibition at Chambers is a line-up of all smallish square paintings by Sidney Rowe. I thought I would post a couple here.

Devoted, September 7 2005

Cary in his blog jokes that only fags love Devo. So not true.

I saw them right when they first started recording, 1978, London. They had on their weird overalls suits. For some reason I recall that it was an outdoor gig and the price was 50 pence. My gang was crazy about them. We called ourselves devo-ted.

The initial reason I paid attention was because Brian Eno produced their album and I was (still am) a big Eno fan. Even made a collage especially for him and delivered it to Polydor on King’s Road. I have no idea if it ever got to him.

Anything Eno laid his hands to meant something to me and I suppose the band that meant the most was the original Ultravox! Not the Midge Ure version, but the one with John Foxx, who was hotter than hot. I saw them as often as I could and that man was such a star. When he entered the room, the world stood still. Funny, that is the name of an Ultravox song from the Midge Ure era, but it was John Foxx who could really make that happen.

Early in this diary I recounted that I had a fling with someone in this group. It could never last, as I was felt unaccomplished next to his brilliance --- that whole set-up made me uncomfortable. If you know your Ultravox, and you hear the word brilliant, you know just which one I’m talking about.

Prolific, September 6 2005

Caryn at art blogging la wrote a bit close to my heart, something I’ve talked about with more than one artist recently: that of the ‘profilic’ artist who makes a big deal about this attribute. Me, I’m not impressed.

You have times when you paint the world. But surely don’t believe for one second that most of it is worth much. Please don’t ask me to show the kitchen sink when you deliver it by the truckload to the gallery!

Somewhere in this diary I mentioned how I’ve had years when I made a photomontage nearly everyday and that’s probably no exaggeration. But check out my photomontage page when you have the time: 99.9% of them aren’t there.

That’s not to say I didn’t learn a lot from the making, but I don’t confuse process with product. One is precious personally but the imagery may not always be universal. In fact it might just be plain bad.

I think the Art Students League has a slogan: A Line a Day. Fair enough. It sure as hell does not say a masterpiece a day.

Not long ago a local paper did a feature on an artist who declared that they made a new painting every single day. This statement, meant to amaze, actually lowered the value of their work in my eyes.

Works of transformation, September 4 2005

The works of Agnes Field in the Chambers exhibition addresses topographies close to her studio. To my mind, they are also very much about transformation. Titles included: Ground becomes trees, Trees become Sky, Charm becomes construction. One of my favorites is above, called Water becomes Ice (or maybe I have switched those words around).

I point out this piece in particular because it most easily demonstrates this interesting approach she has going on in her materials: the works are made out of Styrofoam, then plastered and then painted. The bright colors she chooses do not have to build; they splash and stay with a punch a plaster ground can provide. That is one reason why Trees become Sky and Ground becomes trees have such a punch to them.

Plus what a marvelously easy hang! The lightness you feel in the images tells a story about the actual materiality of the work. It was such a pleasure to install this show, fresh and light and cool. And even though I hung five works of no small size in a tiny room, it did not feel too tight at all in there.

Scene-makers, September 3 2005

Soon I will have a big group of pictures posted from various art parties of the past hectic week. This might be as good a time as any to remind readers of the upcoming Affair @ the Jupiter Hotel. I say this just because the page I created about a year ago of various scene-makers from that event is still one of the most popular.

A silent slice, September 3 2005

Yesterday a paper cutter arrived for me as an early birthday gift from my mate. It is huge, tremendous and slices so silently.

Not long ago I told you how my old one did not cut straight. My mom gave it to me sometime in the 80s and after the move to NYC, it never was quite the same. But it was a gorgeous cutter: of good wood and Italian. You don’t really see them around anymore.

Still I continued to use it. I never was a graphic artist, or one to work in advertising. So I sort of railed against an absolute perfection. Maybe there really is a Dadaist in me, who prefers things a bit askew. The same goes for my paintings.

Black Cat Bone, September 2 2005

Today I will just post some images from James W. Bailey. He is the artist in New Orleans who writes Black Cat Bone. His work is beautiful.

The slippery and the facile, September 1 2005

I just wanted to check in briefly and say that the exhibition looks just beautiful. I had been wondering if I could feel as great about Invention as I did Cut and Paste and the answer is yes yes yes.