Monday, September 3, 2007


I saw an art instillation in a gallery of a woman dressed in business clothes seated at a typewriter, typing. This was years ago, but I still think about it from time to time. She typed for the length of the gallery opening, maybe even started in the morning for a full eight hours typing a stream of consciousness. Gallery goers could check her work, and they did, even returning to the gallery when the page was done to see if they had been mentioned, and what she had typed (she liked my shoes, this was back when I was wearing Swear shoes). It was a nice way to show how hard being an artist is in office job terms, we make it up, all of it.

When I say we make it up, I mean everything, not just the art itself. Being an artist is often like declaring you have become a freelance whatever, that time before your first client. Sure, there are hierarchies, bench marks, determiners, validating agents, etc: galleries, patrons, awards, critics, curators, buyers, the list goes on. That all disappears (or of course, may pile on and hamper the precess) in search for the next thing. Milton Resnick once said, and I am paraphrasing here, that the artist goes down low in the depths of despair when the next idea does not come. It is a terrible place. The artist can make up little tricks and plans that keep working, to avoid such pitfalls, wanting never to visit such a state again. The minute these avoidance techniques are deployed, all chance of growing as an artist is lost. (he didn't mention how to weather nasty comments about the artist really only knowing about makeup or fashion, but I wing it).

Spaced on the last paragraph...

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