Being in school is keeping me busy. I’m taking a studio class – so there’s my studio practice. I’m taking History of Photography, which is an undergrad course. I’m taking European Art Between WWI and WWII, which is a graduate course. And I’m the studio tech. This keeps me busy from my 6:45 alarm clock until whenever-after-midnight I climb back into bed.

I’m making art, though. My first and ongoing project: every day when I get up, I go outside with my camera and take the same four pictures from the same four spots, one for each cardinal direction. I come back inside, get breakfast, and go upstairs and post the photos to Facebook. Album links: The View From Here and The View From Here II

But my work’s taken a heck of a turn. August and September, included clay piles, clay stabilized with cement, stone arches, clay sediment, and lots of torn and bent clay, and wrestling with making the thing interesting, not just the idea. We’re making progress.

Sometime, probably not soon, and maybe never, I will get a gallery going on this site. Until then, I offer you my annotated Facebook gallery.

Tableau IV. One of the more successful of the series.

My description:

I guess I’d tell you to understand the works in this album as expressions of a process. Partway through making these, I realized I was developing a language. It happened through the work. For about ten days I came in every morning and made a piece. I’ve captioned the photos with thoughts from when I was making these as well as my evaluation now that I’m a little removed from them. I welcome comments: dissenting opinions, suggestions on how to push things farther, accusations that I may have gone too far, things I might have missed or overlooked, anything that you think of that’s only tenuously related (or maybe seemingly unrelated)…

More:

It started with trying to escape the realm of object by way of dialectic conflict (thank you art history) and turned into developing a language and logic of my own. Some of these are more successful than others at even accomplishing those goals, but showing up and trying, regardless of “success” or “failure,” was also something I was trying to allow myself.

I was particularly working with trying to get some variation with scale, the way the spaces flowed-and-didn’t, and trying to get the piece to pull the viewer around it, rather than being satisfying from only one view.

Thoughts, observations, and related occurrences, perhaps later to be supplemented by images.

“What you feel and what things are aren’t the same.” – Donald Judd

I had no idea I’d find a kindred spirit in Judd, but I have. It started innocently enough, in a book recommendation, Spiral Jetta. The author visits Judd’s work in Marfa, and her discussion of one of his installations leads me to think that in Judd I may find some clues and strategies for installing my own work. But there the fatal turn: in an academic moment, I borrow a book of essays (as opposed to pictures) from the library (“Donald Judd,” edited by Nicholas Serota), on the premise that it is important not merely to reappropriate Judd’s installation methods but to understand his reasoning.

In reading, I am finding that, first and foremost, Judd is an advocate of careful and conscious experience. Therein the kindredness.

So here we are. While I remain uncertain of the art/object status of my work (perhaps Fried will shed some light on this in his essay “Art and Objecthood,” which I have also obtained) I am not sure of the importance of the distinction. I want to better understand how to express where I stand, not only for the sake of articulate apologia in critique, but also to elucidate my own awareness.

Also this week: I viewed photos of Marina Abromovic’s work, after a friend’s description of many of the works in her recent retrospective in New York elicited from me a somewhat incredulous response. I regret the response, for experiencing the recount spoke of the strength and impact of the work. But everything was lost in the telling of only the physical description. The description is a handle, a way to refer to the work such that others understand the reference. But the work must be experienced.

This post is my response to Paul’s post at TAE, entitled, On Musical Form: is one way better than another?

In the post, the author contrasts the Tennessee way of music-making (verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-verse-chorus) with an artist named Herva, who works “with my heart and my hands, to paint or write (or whatever) with my insides (intelligence, spirit, guts, soul) guiding my choices.” Given the contrast, the author asks, “Is there a right kind of way to make music? Is there a correct way to paint a painting? Or should the questions be reworded, “Is there a better way to make music, or a painting?”

So here we go with my response. I think it’s the wrong question to ask, and that no way is entirely “better” than another.

In music, the usual format is easier to remember. More obscurely composes music has other qualities that Paul (and I, too) find attractive. My argument is that some methods are better for some ends than others. It depends upon your priorities.

In the 1950s, there were art events that were often called Happenings. The author of my art history book writes,

“Happenings were definitely the “in” thing for a period. Everyone sensed the excitement and vitality of a genuine revolution in the definition of art. Yet because they did not leave museum objects and their lifespan was short, they may seem less important in retrospect than they actually were.” (Fineberg 191)

Claes Oldenburg, Pie a la Mode, 1962. Muslin dipped in plaster over a frame of chickenwire, painted with enamel, 13 x 20 x 19in. Collection, Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles. Photograph by Squidds & Nunns.

What’s important to the maker may or may not resonate with the priorities of others. It’s something I wonder about. Will people like my work? Sure, why not. They do now. Will people want to buy my work? Not always, and not necessarily, the same story. Claes Oldenburg had a storefront full of his own art open for two months, called The Store. Apparently his work was well-loved, but after those two months (in the summer of 1961) “The Store closed with a net loss of $285.” (Fineberg 198) And Yves Klein supported himself by teaching Judo.

And I was once told that the Butthole Surfers play some mean bluegrass (from a guitar-maker that’d sold them some instruments) but played in their genre because people will pay to see it.

This to say: creative people have to make a living, too, and they make decisions on how to do it. There’s a place in the world for the formulaic song just as there are for abstract noise-compositions. One could argue, too, that a narrow format (take the sonnet, for example) spurs creativity within boundaries. This isn’t to excuse bad art or bad music, but to argue that mere format isn’t the determining factor.

Yves Klein, Anthropometrie de l’epoque bleue (ANT 82), 1960. Pigment in pure synthetic resin on paper mounted on canvas, 5ft 1-5/8in x 9ft 3-1/4in. Collection, Musee National d’Art Moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris. Copyright: ARS New York / ADAGP, Paris.

End note: I have forgotten how to do proper MLA punctuation when supplying references, and I don’t have a copy of Harbrace. Immler forgive me!

Moving has given me a chance to reconsider and rebuild my surroundings. While generally a good thing, it also raises questions. Of course there’s some clutter in my room, yet: some favorite pieces sit among other important and less-important objects. The dresser. Two tone drums, a bowl, my sunglasses, a ceramic box I quite like. The floor. Three bowls, a mug, a drawing. My flag, from being in Italy in 2003 or so. (Pace means “peace”.) People had them hung from their windows. A piece of formwork that should go to the studio; my good glasses, in their case. And that galvanized steel construction is from a wall project in fall 2000. Notebook, an art card, mallets, decorative chopsticks.

My Bede bowl is out. I used to keep it empty, but I like how it works with spun wool spaghetti. Linda’s pouring vessel happened to get packed at the same time: though I suppose it belongs downstairs, I’m enjoying having it up here. It’s such an honest piece. And in the middle is a piece of sandstone; was it summer 1998? I went with my best friend and her parents to Cape Hatteras for a week.

But it’s also made me wonder, why am I keeping some of these things? I ended up throwing out the pieces from high school after all, having decided that the photos are enough.

And then here’s a sculpture of a seal on a rock; I made it in sixth grade or so. In the last couple of years it suffered a fall; the seal lost part of its tail and came off the rock. I remember that it was a quick sculpture; my main piece had been a duck, which I labored too hard over. Nope, the seal came out well.

But why am I keeping it? It’s not a great piece of art. The duck was easily discarded, pre-move. But the seal came along. Why? It’s not as though I want to decorate with it. Nonetheless, I’m having problems getting rid of it.

And then, floating around, is a ten-year-old model: my first architecture. I don’t mind having it around, and yet: must we keep it, still? Isn’t it good enough to have the images?

Of course I did title this post, The Questionable Importance of the Artifact, because all this moving stuff has me wondering. Is the object is really the thing that’s important? How long do things need to stick around? What makes one acquire things? And why are they sometimes so hard to part with?

High school ceramics class. Ceramics II. We were asked to make some goals for the class. One of the things I wrote was that I wanted to develop a sense of style. What was I thinking?

At the time, I think that I thought style was something one adopted, like the way one dresses. Some kids dressed preppy, some sporty, some goth, some skater, and it goes on. (Apparently I dress like Colorado, these days.)

I’m not sure I found any style back then, but I did find a surface texture that I enjoyed. At the time, I didn’t realize that working from models or photos wasn’t cheating; I used my memory of the proportions of a face. I don’t remember what the assignment was, but I remember that the teacher asked if it was a self-portrait. I know it wasn’t – but I said that it was because I didn’t know how to explain what I’d made. Looking back, I was making something that described what I wished I was, what I wanted to be. Part of the piece broke on its way to a show of high school work. I was going to break it today; it’s too thick, it’s heavy, and I don’t want to move yet-another-piece-of-fired-clay. Even damaged, I think I’d regret breaking it. One more piece, spared the hammer. Sigh. One more piece to pack.

Another piece spared the hammer. I know I was still obsessed with flight, at the time. Maybe I’d just read Richard Bach’s book “One,” as well. I used to want to be a pilot. My senior year of high school, I did a science fair project in which I investigated how changing the center of gravity affected the flight characteristics of a lightweight aircraft. (I used a wood-and-foam glider, with rubber band propeller).

I made a mountain, too. I don’t remember what the assignment might have been. There were stairs winding up the mountain, but nobody at the top. It was a reference to the guru at the top of the mountain (like in the comic strip B.C.)… and my conclusion that there wasn’t one. No guru, no answers. Pretty heavy for a high school kid. That piece resides on my parents’ mantle. It has a similar surface treatment, with the ridges.

(Not my photo.)

Looking at them, I think of ripples in beach sand. The other day I was at the beach, wading and looking at the waves, sand ridges, the light on and through the water. (Inland Illinois is not a land of lakes, so I’m getting it while I can.) There are a bunch of sorts of sand ripples, different profiles, sizes, patterns. The ripples reminded me of fingerprints, too. There were bits of sandbar; the water was low (it does happen, even on Lake Michigan), with a different pattern. I didn’t have my camera. I thought of bringing back big sheets of paper, maybe 30×40, of pulling prints from the sand, somehow. I haven’t worked with that texture in more than ten years. Funny that it comes to mind now.

(Again, not my photo.)

It seems appropriate to conclude with a few reflections on where I am now. I think style is more a matter of exploration than adoption. I think I still want to be the person in the sculpture; I’m closer now than I was then. I no longer want to be a pilot. I am thankful to be a sailor. I suspect I was right about the guru. And I do love the water.

(A photo at Montrose Beach, Chicago. October, 2009.)