Camping in Bad Weather

Rain on tent tapping
children breathing in and out
primal mother love

Outsider Art

I was first introduced to what is called “Outsider Art” in Chicago, when I was a student at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Some of my friends and teachers were onto this trend very early. It was a loose group that sometimes hung out at Phyllis’ gallery just off of Michigan Blvd. She had the first show of everybody who turned out to be anybody--Tolliver, Finster, Howard, Simon, Yoakum, etc. etc. etc. Ray Yoshida and Roger Brown were crazy-mad for this kind of art and bought a lot. I don’t remember if Wolfli ever was shown at Phyllis' gallery, but I do know that Jim Nutt, one of her main stable members, bought one or two at some point.
I think we were all attracted to this sort of art in part because we also felt a bit like outsiders. New York was king and Chicago was clearly the second city. And this art and the art we made didn’t look anything like the work being made in New York.
Not that every artist or teacher at SAIC was into imagistic art. There were some abstract artists. But the cool people were the Hairy Who’s and all the subsequent groups on that family tree.
We loved crude. We loved rule-breaking such as compositions or proportions that didn’t make any sense. We loved guys who put religious content into their work. We loved Maxwell Street on an early weekend morning where you could find bizarre things. Ray and Roger were competitive and their apartments sang with the love of the unexpected.
I can’t recall who discovered Joseph Yoakum--it might have been Whitney Halstead or Don Baum, but it was well known that he fancied young ladies and chocolate cake. So on my first and only visit to his studio, I baked him a cake. My oven had no thermostat so the cake turned out to be very mushy on the inside, but he liked it anyway and gave me two drawings as a gift.
I wasn’t in any position to be buying art at that point but I did manage to purchase a Pauline Simon “Matisse Odalesque” for fifty dollars before I moved to Africa. I still have all three pictures.
I sometimes like to try to approach my own work the way an outsider artist does--without thought to conventions or logic and not worried about what dealers or customers might think. Outsider Art at its best is pure art. Urgent. Compelling. Strange. Raw. Unimaginable.

The Most Depressing Day

According to some, January 24 is the most depressing day of the year. People are saddled with Christmas bills, it’s dark out, it’s cold, people are sick, there’s very little to look forward to in the next few weeks holiday-wise and generally it’s a good time for feeling crummy.
My experience this time of year is different. We are exactly half-way through the school year, which feels good since I teach. And because the weather’s so bad I’m getting a lot of work done. I’ve managed to get my storage lockers down from two to one and I’m dealing with all--okay some--of the loose ends of my projects. I’m throwing out old files and cancelled checks from years ago. I’m managing to face up to the fact that maintenance is just as important as making piles of new art. What good is a stained, wet pile of art that you didn’t have time to get off of the floor because you were so busy making more art?
So I’m chipping away at taking care of things and dealing with the work I’ve already done. With some exceptions, of course. My daughter showed me a new printmaking technique a few weeks ago that involves polyester plates and direct printing. So tomorrow I’m going to show a couple of my fellow teachers what I’ve learned and we’re going to print up a storm and then go out to dinner.
And the point I am making is..? Balance, everyone. You put in time to maintain your studio and to take care of your art. You attack unpleasant things that you’ve been avoiding like lining up your tax stuff or getting your medical forms sent in. And then something new and wonderful shows up and you play. That’s how to handle January.

The Importance of Things

I have a friend who is 65ish, retired from his day job (which he never loved much) who is interested in all sorts of subjects: science, music, old movies, history, dusty old books and a lot inbetween. He was an only child and spoiled as befits an only child. He loves Christmas, even though he doesn't celebrate it in a religious way, and has composed carols of all varieties that get played at his annual Christmas Eve Party. He might be considered a curmudgeon by some, but I find him honest, delightful and utterly refreshing.
Over the last 10-15 years he has begun an odyssey of sorts into his past. He is trying to acquire the things that he remembers and/or longs for from his past. He has replaced all the pieces of his childhood train set and even bought a few extra items that he never had as a child. He has his original chemistry set that Santa once brought him and has gone about trying to assemble a complete collection of all the games and toys that he once owned.
I write about this because as I look back on my early adulthood things played a huge part in my life--mostly the things I lacked. When I think back on the me that I was I’m embarrassed. The story is so sad.
Here I was, a young married woman living in Canada with my resident-in-Urology husband. We had no money and I was working at whatever art-type jobs I could find to help support us. When it came to getting a present, all I wanted was a Raggedy Ann Doll. I can’t quite explain it , except that I had a fascination about the “I Love You” heart and that I must never have gotten such a doll as a kid. (Stay tuned for the occasional foray into that world.) My new husband, bless his soul, went out and bought me a doll. But he bought me the Andy Doll instead, which just wouldn’t do. Now how pathetic is that? Woman in her 20’s-- a) wanting a doll as a gift and b)disappointed because the wrong doll was purchased. I cringe to think about it. Somehow, I got the Ann doll soon after and had both of them. I guess life was better. I was able to move on, and it was about time.
Having little or nothing, especially compared to other people in your subgroup, can make one feel so empty and worthless. I felt inadequate. I was less than other people somehow. Now I know that that wasn’t true, but I wonder if I could have learned this earlier. To this day I can name things I wanted so badly that never came: A Ponytail diary, scrapbook, wallet or just about anything else. A khaki coat with a raccoon collar. A professional hair cut. A transistor radio that was being given to a lucky winner at Kresge’s. A normal family, Okay, that last thing would have been asking way too much.
Today, I think, things can be burdens. I pay a lot of money for storage. My unsold work needs to be kept somewhere safe and dry. I can’t quite part with memories or objects that have “value.” I’m trying not to give in too to much desire. I’m trying not to start buying all my childhood wants on ebay. But I will admit to the occasional search...

Ratcatcher

My daughter, Katharine (or Kay as she calls herself), told me I had to Netflix the DVD Ratcatcher. She didn't give me any more details and I didn't ask, so it was added to the top of my list. Oh my...a delightful escape into filmland it isn't.
For someone who loves children and animals, this film is painful. Animals were probably harmed in its making. The sets are real places. You have worn furniture, dirt, peeling paint and messy interiors. You can positively smell the garbage, polluted canal and filthy apartments. The acting is great and Ramsay's eye is very very good. She captures the brutality and innocence of children and their struggling parents living in squalor. If parents can't parent because they're too addicted, lazy, angry or whatever reason you want to give, children grow up like weeds. They fend for themselves and it isn't necessarily a pretty sight. This film is no romp into the world of over-the-top Sweet Sixteens, fancy Summer Camps or SAT Prep Classes.
The metaphor of garbage extends to the people in this film. Maybe some of the children will turn out fine. One can find good things in the garbage if you have a good eye.

Taste

Taste in visual art is not quantifiable or easily assessed or agreed upon. The old saw "I don't know anything about art but I know what I like" makes the point well. You don't have to have any knowledge or experience of art in order to have a certain taste in or for art.

When I taught a college course called Visual Literacy, I thought it would be interesting to investigate the idea of good taste and bad taste as a beginning assignment. Students were asked to bring in something that they considered good taste and something they considered bad taste and we were going to discuss their choices. Most students brought in what I expected: well-designed objects for good taste and souvenirs or tacky knick-knacks for bad taste. But one young woman brought in a seashell and a plastic horse and exactly reversed her objects. The seashell, she explained, was just something you can find on the beach--they're common, everyday items. But the plastic horse (which, by the way, was so crudely made that the seams were very obvious) had to be made. Someone sculpted it before it was manufactured, she said. Her take on it was that good taste and hard work were related. She had no background in aesthetics. She truly didn't know that you could find great beauty in a natural object and find a plastic horse ugly and commonplace. It was very instructive to me and I dare say this woman also learned a lot that semester.

So why don't people have better taste? I ask myself this often. I wonder why people buy Thomas Kinkaides. His stuff (I can't bring myself to call it art), is hideous, plain and simple. Another questions: Why do people like huge, flashy, buckled designer handbags? They're super ugly. Is is a lack of art education? A lack of good art education? Could I be wrong about my own taste? I am rarely in a quandary when I look at an artwork, building, outfit, interior, etc. as to what's wrong or what's bad or good. I like to think I can back up my taste with solid arguments about originality, changing my view of the world, making me puzzled, angry, amazed, etc.

My son who is 28 and an educated person thinks it is arrogant of me to think that my taste is in some way superior to that of, say, an uneducated migrant worker who has never gone to school or been to a museum. I justify my position in that I've spent years of my life in galleries and museums and through my background and eye-sweat (now there's a name for a blog or website--don't steal it, it's mine!), I have a right to my feelings of superiority. Do I?

So can we teach taste? Maybe, sort-of, kind of. We know that drawing from observation trains one's eyes to see. Perhaps taste can be developed and refined by art lectures, travel, going to museums and watching educational television. The teacher in me would love to think so.

But to get back to the idea of what's good and what's bad--it's an ongoing debate, most likely never to be solved. It's also what makes the art world so interesting. Don't think for a second that all of today's Van Goghs are the same people whose work you see in all the big museum shows. There are plenty of art geniuses who are obscure or under-appreciated today, just like Van Gogh was. The contemporary art world of has much more to do with commerce than with what's good or bad. Cynical? Of course! It feeds my work.

Humor in Art--Part One

Humor in art can be problematic. Jokes can wear thin and since good art withstands multiple viewings, jokey art doesn't hold up well. People have long parodied art--Dali's Persistence of Memory and Leonardo's Mona Lisa have been played with repeatedly. Duchamp himself had some fun with Mona by putting a mustache on her. At the time is was audacious of him; now it could be a typical New Yorker cover.

When I was in graduate school I made stuffed paintings that were "trapuntoed" (is there such a word?) from the back. I would stuff them with polyester and painted frames around them which were also stuffed.

My interest in body builders led me to making an image of a body builder flexing his bicep. The painting style itself was rather cartoon-y and not realistic. So it was an easy leap to get the idea of adding squeak toys inside the fabric where his muscle was. I titled it Squeeze My Muscle and had a sign next to it which stated it was okay to touch this piece and squeeze the muscle. (It was shown at the august Art Institute of Chicago in their Fellowship Show.) Suffice it to say that there was a certain response to this artwork, to the extent that the museum guards told me one woman laughed so hard that she literally wet her pants. Custodians had to be called in to mop the floor. My piece had done its work. Is it great art? I'm not sure. I still stand by it artistically and intellectually but only time can determine its greatness, near greatness, goodness or so-so-ness. We get ideas. We need to make them. We put them out there and hope for a response.

Can One Be a Good Mom and an Artist Too?

Being an artist involves a big time commitment and a lot of selfishness. Motherhood involves a big time commitment and a lot of selflessness. If you think about famous female artists, many either didn't have children or screwed them up royally. Men seem to be better at going to the studio whether or not their kids have the flu or need a new pair of shoes or help with a project. Given this dilemma, artists like me choose our children over our art. So it's harder to be a success and get on the fast track. Dealers can smell your ambition. They can also smell your "baby love."

I like to imagine Picasso doing many of the things Moms need to do or feel pressured into doing:
•Picasso bakes cupcakes for the school fair
•Picasso drives to Staples at 11 p.m. to get a tri-fold science board
•Picasso gives a Barney Birthday Party for 10 toddlers
•Picasso cleans up vomit
•Picasso changes sheets in the middle of the night, etc.

So we keep our sketchbooks going, we make our work as best we can and hopefully we live long enough to realize ourselves. My mantra is make the work and worry about the career aspects later on, or never.

Is Creativity an Important Part of Most Art Lessons?

The Art Education world prides itself on how it develops creativity in students. My thinking is that what most art educators think of as "creativity" is anything but. Giving someone a paper plate "Mask" and a few markers and then telling them to "be creative" doesn't often produce exciting, original work. Showing a sample project--I hate the "project" word but that's another rant for another time--doesn't result in creative solutions, either. Students have great difficulty in not copying the teacher.

Part of the problem is that in other classrooms there are right and wrong answers and it is hard for students to realize that in an art setting this rule doesn't much apply. It's also true that most art specialists are not artists and therefore not as attuned to the concept of creativity as an important part of an art lesson in the first place.

Creativity comes from being encouraged to take risks and combine dissimilar things or ideas in a new way. With art lessons that embrace experimentation, not product, there is a greater chance for creativity than with recipe-style lessons.

If you are an art teacher, try to make your students comfortable with the idea that you don't have a clue what they are going to produce. A rule of thumb for me is: if you know what your students' work is going to look like, it's probably not an art lesson. It may have value in terms of following steps, working with tools and materials and looking great on a bulletin board, but it's not helping anyone become more creative.

I'm Not There. Dylan Isn't Either.

So we finally saw I'm Not There. Not a five-star in my opinion but very visual. It's the kind of film you'll pause a lot when you netflix it. The story is so twisted and metaphorical, it doesn't add up too well. The music reigns supreme and I loved the touch of putting Antony's singing at the very end. Don't expect to know too much about Mr. Zimmerman after seeing this.