THE ARTPOINT

LISA MCKENDRICK: WHEN THE PAINTING ISN'T LOOKING

2012-01-16T19:21:00.000-08:00

LISA MCKENDRICK's stark, yet convivial canvases inhabit a visual world whose subjects are disarmingly detained in that space between imagination and reality. She draws on a wide range of folk and urban sensibilities to evoke dream as well as a very lucid personal image of real life. Calling on a background of multiple cultures, she aptly creates an iconography that is at once complex in its execution and yet simple in its structural approach. Geometry and architecture are a basic structure for compositions that are filled with innumerable layers of visual meaning. The past is called upon generously to impart a heart of personal history, as well as ironic good humor. This is a universe where an image emanates not only mystery, but obvious attention to the act of some happy chance. Aptly using these gifts, McKendrick understands the wellspring of creative narrative that occurs when an artist is in flow to the provinces of idea and purpose. Elements of control vie for the attention of the subconscious, and it's a perfectly matched, and collegial game of expression. What the viewer enters into in these images is a set of fascinating possibilities, hidden clues, and a chess-like movement of color and line. One can't leave these worlds and personages quickly; the eye is rewarded with close inspection. This is an art that celebrates many layers of soul, and it takes its time in adding more. It's worth every viewing.

You state that you try to master the technique of “catching thepainting while it isn’t looking.” It reminds me of the line that life is whathappens when you are doing something else. This idea seems to be about lettingchance be at play. Can you talk more about this?

It’s about allowing chance to happen, but it is also aboutcontrolling chance in a way that allows the painting to come fourth. Catchingit while it isn’t looking is about catching it while it is off guard and in astate where it reveals something. When you catch someone while they are not looking you would hope thattheir actions happen naturally without an awareness of being watched. I likethe idea that the canvas knows something that I don’t.

Though all your paintings have a remarkable sense of storynarrative to them, you permit the viewer the expanse of their own imaginationsto fill in whatever narratives (if at all) they wish to find in the images.This happens especially in the Mexican series, certainly, however, the single imagefor me that strikes a constant chord of mystery is the painting of the greencar and figure, in the Landscape and Alchemy series. I find myself filling in aplethora of possible narratives to that singular image. It’s riveting to me.

Thank you that is also one of my favorites. Yes I think itrequires a little bit of participation from the viewer to use their imaginationto fill in the gaps or read between the lines. The Car painting was interesting to me when I painted it andI went through a range of emotions. On that level you could say that my work ispersonal, because I make an emotional connection to the painting but at thesame time the image could mean nothing to me or it might be like watching afilm where you relate and become emotionally involved for a time but only forthe duration of the film. Thefigure is ambiguous and obscured; he is definitely a mystery man and isprobably happy to remain unsolvable. It is about a search for the mystery rather than the solving of amystery. This element of themystery is interesting to me and I refer to it a lot in my work.

Your paintings have a quality that is distinctive for theirpentimento: layer over layer of images seem to come to the surface, or fallbelow it in a beautiful flow of energy. The planes and perspectives that youchoose to construct an image provoke essential reconsideration of relationalspace.

I often like to fill a canvas with objects or figures whichmay or may not have a logical relationship to each other and do not necessarilynot follow lines of perspective. The challenge then is to establish therelationship between the objects, figures and landscape. I’ve used a horizon line a lot in theAlchemy and Landscapes paintings and this worked because it automatically gavea sense of distance and space, but then I painted in the objects and figures asthough they were stuck on or painted on the canvas without regard forperspective i.e. sometimes objects seem to fly into or protrude out of thecanvas. I wanted to deny a logical sense of space and leave the canvas as anopen ended puzzle. It means thesepaintings have a sense of absurdity and playfulness about them.

Architecture and geometric structure are very strong presences inyour work. What are the inspirations for this? They impart a wonderful sense ofplay.

Living in a big city like London you notice that the city isalways under construction, it is never finished. The city has layers andbuildings upon buildings and extensions to structures and endless constructionsites or they are always digging up parts of the road and inserting pipingetc. I find all this quiteinteresting to observe and to incorporate into my work. In the paintings I see these geometricstructures as remains of the man-made world.

The “Urban Myths” series is extraordinary to me, for its richpalette of browns and reds, and its surreal iconography of piping andmechanical structures. The objects have that particular “temperature, speed, oremotion of the space” they inhabit. How did these paintings begin?

With that series I wanted to contrast the nothingness or openness,which is often found in landscape with the crudeness of man-made constructions.I started those paintings with a background which was inspired by the cityskyline. It was a combination ofall the hues that you find as the sun is setting over the industrial areaswhere the colors get a bit muddy from the smog or dirtiness of the city. Then I worked from photographs that Ihad taken of machinery and mechanical parts of engines. I painted thosepaintings in a way where the mechanical objects overlap and get mixed up withimages of flesh and it becomes difficult to distinguish which are parts arewhich. These paintings alsosuggest an inner landscape and in many ways it could also be read on thatlevel; that of the psyche.

You have a fascinating mix of cultures in your background: youwere born of Mexican descent, raised in New Zealand, and now reside in London.How have these three distinct ethnic identities informed and developed your various ideas throughoutyour life as an artist?

I think I tried to transcend all those things and I wantedto be from no particular place and to fragment my identity even further bycoming to London. But my nostalgia for the things which are deeply rooted in mypast manifest themselves in the painting causing me to have to think about it differently.For me there is a familiarity in the Mexican things and in the landscape whichreminds me of New Zealand so I think that cultural background really is aboutbeing drawn to things which are familiar and deeply rooted. In many ways thosepaintings are an exploration of this familiarity and in hindsight I wasprobably learning about the value of such things.

How did you first come to art as a creative focus in your life?

I think some people just navigate themselves towards artnaturally and it’s good that I was able to recognize that painting was what Iwanted to do. However I do have to say that I was quite committed to seeing myideas through and it’s about having the drive to be able to focus rather thanrelying on creativity.

Are the drawings preliminary sketches for later paintings, or arethey present as their own? Do you incorporate collage into the paintings atall?

Drawings are the place where ideas really can be realizedquite fast because of the small scale. I don’t usually do an exact copy of a drawing; rather I take elementsout of the drawing and use them in the painting. I do a lot of drawing in-between painting. I have incorporated collage into thepaintings a few times and it’s something I experiment with.

How did your individual series (“Landscape and Alchemy”, “UrbanMyths”, “Mexican Folk/Day of the Dead”) come about?

At the time of Urban Myth series (2004 – 2007) I was lookingat non-fiction books on man and machines and on the post-human. I also lookedat other artists who incorporated technology into the body as part of theirwork. It had a lot to do with myown feelings towards adapting to a new world or to a world dominated bymachines.

With the Mexican Folk series (2008-2010) I was looking atcomic books as well as images from Mexican craft. I liked the way that Mexican folk is intertwined with spiritualand ritualistic beliefs particularly with the masks. I looked at some of the older masks which seemed moregenuine compared to the newer ones that seemed more decorative or massproduced. They were interesting to me because they were quite crude in the waythey were made and each one was slightly different. These masks really do have a magic about them and I startedto think about the belief, energy or spirit that a person puts into somethingwhen they make it. I tried to explore this in the work and as a result thosepaintings have a sense of fantasy.
They also intermingled with some of thegeometric structures from the previous series so in that way I think the seriesusually lead into each other. The Landscapes and Alchemy (2011) paintings are something Idid while reading books on Alchemy, following on from reading books onpsychology and Jung. I wasinterested in the relationship that the alchemists saw between spirit, matterand soul. The Alchemists were interested in the purification of the soul thatis experienced through the many phases and stages of what they callcalcification, putrefaction and purification. I liked the idea of hermetic secrets or a secret knowledgeand used vessels, animals, scrolls, nature, the earth and other symbols ofalchemy to explore this in the paintings. An interesting book on this subject is“What Painting Is” (James Elkins) which talks about the painting process itselfbeing a form of Alchemy.

Your color work in the “Mexican Folk Series” is vibrant andelectric. You have interpreted the actual Day of the Dead symbols with a strongunderstanding of why those figures and masks are so magnetic to anyone viewingthem, even in the face of its subject. You also have captured the true sense ofhumor, the “laughing at death” quality inherent in so much of this imagery. Can you speak moreof your own experiences with these cultural celebrations?

Those paintings to me seem loaded with possibilities, thereis a lot going on and my understanding of those paintings is still developingfurther. I looked at two types ofusage of the skull, one being used in The Day of the Dead figurines/masks,which is a type of decorative craft showing skulls smiling and laughing. Then there is the more political usageof the skull in the illustrations of Jose Guadalupe Posada, his skulls are alsosmiling although they seem more like a grimace as they endure hardship andpoverty. It is this grin that setsthe Day of the Dead skulls apart from other skulls found in popular culture. When researched further you will find that the Day of theDead rituals run deep throughout Mexico and the modern craft versions of thecelebration only hint at it’s original meaning which was closely connected tothe indigenous people of Mexico and is a form of ancestor worship or theworship of an Aztec god. Thereproductions of Day of the Dead imagery and craft are popular not only becauseof what they represent but because they are cute and cheerful. However part ofits potency and magnetism really does lie in the deep rooted meaning but Idoubt that anyone really understands the Day of the Dead to the extent that itwas once understood. I see the Dayof the Dead celebrations not only as a celebration of the life/death cycle butalso a celebration of the rich history that it represents and it is good to seethat it is kept alive through the rituals and traditions practiced in Mexicotoday. You could say that there is a light hearted cynicism that sneaksinto my paintings and it has something to do with sense of sadness as the Dayof the Dead passes over into the realms of popular culture as it becomes moreand more watered down and filtered through to other parts of the world. So in a way the Day of the Dead isfacing its own death.

Two of my favorites from the Mexican series are “The BoxingMatch”, with its main figure philosophically viewing a smaller “painting” oftwo boxers with a full-masted ship behind them; and “Happy Death Mask”, withits flowered mirror and subject. The portrait is a major focus for you in manyof these works. Can you speak more to this?

I think the portrait in these paintings really is about self-reflectionbut not necessarily a reflection only of the artist. The Boxing Match could beseen as a person looking over their life and reflecting. Perhaps it is a way oflooking back at your life in advance to see if you will be happy with it at theend, the ship is a symbol of living your dreams, sailing the world or seeingthe world. There is a boxing match going on in front of the ship, these figurescould be seen as archetypes, the hero will win and get to sail the world. Myinterpretations change often but the Boxing Match is one that I had up on mywall for a while so I looked at it a lot.

How have other native cultures inspired and informed your work?

Recently I’ve been referring to the figures in my work as “exotic”because the one thing that ties these together through the different series isthe sense that they are from another place or another time or that they areforeign in some way or another.

Your paintings involve human, animal, and spiritual connections toinner personal landscapes. You have a contemporary eye for the urban, yet youfully engage the pastoral and magical in your imagery. Why are these objects sopotent for you?

Some of the landscapes are inspired by places I’ve visitedor lived in personally but I am also influenced by Western films or landscapesI see in films that I’ve never visited. I like the idea of man alone with theland, the barrenness, vulnerability and the indifference of nature but also theoverwhelming beauty and power of those types of landscapes. I often reference the paintings ofSidney Nolan but I’ve also been looking at David Harrison recently who alsoengages with the pastoral in his work in a more enchanted way.

It’s essential to me as a human to reconnect with nature ona regular basis and that is where I perceive there to be a spiritualconnection. Magic is somethingthat exists on a certain level if you want to see it and I think it’s good towelcome it into a painting. Thework of the painter Leonora Carrington explores this quite successfully,however, I like to allow it to sneak into my work but I don’t want it to go asfar as becoming solely about the spiritual.

Did you have mentors during your academic study that weresignificant to your development and personal vision?

Yes. I also find that staying informed and having contactwith other artists to be crucial to my development as a painter.

What are some of the challenges you face as you create new work?

Painting is a messy process and you really have to getinvolved and be prepared to get frustrated and annoyed but also surprised andchallenged and I try to incorporate all of this into the work. Whatever I do with painting I like tokeep it moving and stay excited about the work.

What are you currently developing?

I’ll be showing some of my new work in February at an Artistrun gallery in London called Transition. The show is called Needle’s Eye and will show the work of four localartists.

ALL IMAGES COPYRIGHT LISA MCKENDRICK, 2012. Reproduced with the kind permission of the artist. IMAGES, Top to bottom: "Figure and Car"; "Woman In A Landscape"; Urban Myth, Part 7"; "Urban Myth, Part 3"; "Man's Best Friend"; "Drawing, No. 17"; "Happy Death Mask"; "Boxing Match"'; "Mexican Puppets"; "I Used To Be A Landscape".

EMIL ALZAMORA: BODIES OF WISDOM AND MISDEMEANOR

2011-11-29T10:50:00.000-08:00

THE BODY IS A PUZZLE of both physical and mental pleasures, and anatomy is often a vessel for the psychological as well as the sensual keys to its secrets. Our bodies are at once our cages and our arenas -- with them, others perceive us by stance and gesture; they are our armor, and our glass. The human form of each of us is a sum total of experience at any point in our lives, and the indelible imprint of our current state of mind. Constructs of vivid abstractions, lambent genius, and the core of beauty and desire, our bodies are the fulcrum on which we taste, feel, and respond to the world and each other.

EMIL ALZAMORA is a sculptor who utilizes the body's limitless and profound incarnations as inspiration to explore these psychological, emotional, and cultural states of being, expressed in the parameters of anatomy and psychology. For Alzamora, the body is a history, and a map; it is an archeological site of surfaces that can exhume psychic identity as well as cultural meanings. His three-dimensional depictions of emotional states of being are founded on a rich association with the body's inherent beauty. For as complex as these skins we inhabit are, it is how we use them to relate to one another that is Alzamora's focus. He is not only sculpting from life, he is sculpting from mind.

Born in Peru and educated in the U. S., Alzamora is a sculptor of wide-ranging intelligence, as well as disarming collegiality. His stunning interpretations of the human form attest to a life surrounded by art -- his mother is an artist -- and the love of natural sciences, literature, and history. His is not the rote depiction of form, nor even the high-art classicism of the academy. His art is of the eye, mind and hand, working together -- with often febrile energy -- to reconstruct the body from its puzzle of meanings and physical associations into a rich vocabulary of sensate materials and surfaces. Academically trained at Florida State University, his work also has the power and insight of his time spent at The Polich Art Works, the noted foundry in Newburg, New York, where he honed his craft and his vision. With a broad array of materials to work with, he has created a body of work that is extraordinary in its conceptual ideas, and resonant in its beauty.

One looks at these works and wants to touch them; but one looks at these works and wants to also speak with them. Upon seeing one of his sculptures, "Centaur" -- poised armed with gun in hand -- I was immediately reminded of Robert Graves's statement about the contradictory nature of these beings in his great work, The Greek Myths: they inhabit two natures, that of "wisdom and misdemeanor." And it is to such natures that Alzamora knowingly tips his hat. And so in these remarkable evocations of human form do we also connect to the universal puzzle that is flesh, blood, and being, attuned to the contemporary face of our specific cultural context.

Alzamora's creations look back on us with as questioning a glance as we give them; they lie exhausted from battles, or at complete rest, reach across to us deeply, embrace us face to face; they rise in air and surround us with their attention; they compel us to consider the deeper worlds below the flesh and bone, which is yet just so near the surface, and to examine the magic of ideas. Upon seeing his recent exhibition "Random Mutations That Work", shown this past February at The ArtBreak Gallery in Williamsburg, I was completely drawn to Alzamora's innate gifts of perception and creation. These works compel us to reconsider everything we think we know about anatomy and its rules. He upends the body in a joyful play and tangle of limbs, mind, and heart which uncover those emotions and states inside of us that show more than the surface ever could. Marrying the real to the imagined, Alzamora creates sculptures that celebrate figuration. I had the chance to visit with him recently in his home and studio, to discuss his work and the inspirations and ideas which have been his source.

Your mother is an artist, and you were surrounded by art as you were growing up, through her guidance. You mentioned that she showed you Dali's artworks and you were able to see them almost as comic books -- which is a wonderful way of looking at Dali, but it also reinforces the fact that most young people's introduction to art is through some of the most interesting imagery being drawn. Superheroes are almost the first graphic entry point for students to think about the human body in motion. Dali's color and figure work -- often in pen and ink -- would be a perfect connection. Your mother's work was also sculptural and story-filled. Can you speak to these inspirations?

My first memories of any artist as a person, other than my mother, aunt, or grandmother, was Salvador Dali. My mother and aunt appreciated his work and figured it would be a great way to show my brother and I art that was fun and weird (as that seemed to be the most appealing kind of art to a couple of rambunctious boys). I can recall going to both Dali museums in Spain when I was about eight and then later in Florida. That left a strong impression. I loved to draw and did so as often as I could. It was a very easy thing to do with so many people in my family making (and selling) their own artwork. My mother and my aunt's work were filled with stories and metaphors, whether oil paintings or sculpted clay, they always had rich narratives that encouraged consideration. I also loved the drawings and stories in the Tin Tin comics, a very popular series in Spain. That segued into the more contemporary comic books like Spider-man and The Hulk. My mother was less enthusiastic of this art form and would often show me classical references of where many of these heroes originated (greek, roman and renaissance). At about the age of 16, I came around to being more impressed with Michelangelo over Todd MacFarlane.

In your work, anatomy is never about the figure in itself: your work always integrates the body with the mind. Psychological and emotional states -- they are more like expressions -- in your work turn on a single gesture, torsion, or movement in your figures. They are never static, even when they are at rest. Your bodies are truly portraits of the whole being. There is always something humming, some aura cast about them that makes them seem to move -- which is the ultimate thing that sculpture can do. Why is the body such a singular basis for your work?

Thank you for that assessment. It is something I try to imbue in the work. They have to stand on their own and the more life they have in them the more convincing they will be, the more effective. The most interesting aspect of the human form is that we all have one and therefore can relate to it. For years I would try to perfect its nuances and overcome the challenges of badly sculpted anatomy (figurative sculpture can go wrong faster than any other kind). I still love "nailing" something, like a perfect swish in basketball. It is a way of reducing barriers of perception and absorption. If the figure is convincingly alive, people are more likely to forget its artifice. I think ultimately art does serve a function, subtle as it may be. When successful, it can make us see things in a new way, or appreciate life from a different perspective, be it intellectual or emotional. For me, the use of the figure automatically opens the door to interpretation and reflection.

Mythology, literature, history, science and the pulse of popular culture all seem to co-exist in your work, together or separately. They energize the viewer to think deeper about the pieces they are looking at, and permit them wide imagination, whether or not they know the references. Your works are disarmingly welcoming. Their surfaces are as mesmerizing as their meanings, but you never put the viewer off with a sense of academic strictures. Your sculptures seem democratic in the best way. Can you speak to some of your inspirations?

I like "democratic". We all matter, and that seems to be at the core of my work. I love and care for people and the systems of people so much that it is important for me to feel like I have something relevant to contribute. I am full of ideas, from science to sociology to history and politics and psychology etc. etc. I like for my work to express these things in a way that is clear to the human eye, not just the art critic's and art historian's eye. Accessibility has always been a huge consideration within my work. As I said before, the artist performs a service like anyone else. If that service isn't useful to others, it ends up being a somewhat self-indulgent activity, without any greater consideration. To quote a very talented portrait artist and friend: "freakish self-expression".

You were trained and attended art school, but you mentioned that your real school was the foundry you first worked in. Can you describe how that developed you as an artist and sculptor?

University was great in so many ways, mainly for personal growth and learning about the world through science, history and art history. I have to give enormous credit to the academic portion of my education. Florida State University had some great teachers and a fantastic art department with a fully equipped sculpture and metal casting facility. That helped foster the idea of working in an art foundry as both a practical application of learned skills and a place to continue to develop my sculpture. I had no idea at the time, but I would end up working side by side on projects with Frank Stella, Eric Fischl, Magdalena Abakanowicz, Tom Otterness and Jeff Koons among many others. My primary role was to enlarge an artist's maquette and make it as much as 7 times bigger using a century old pantograph machine. I enlarged Eric Fischl's Arthur Ashe memorial, Tom Otterness' 9 foot tall Free Money sculpture and helped to enlarge Louise Bourgois' Pittsburgh Fountain. I worked in the mold making and metal finishing departments as well. The combination of seeing all of these artists execute their ideas along with having to learn the technical skills to help them do so had a monumental impact on my understanding of the art world and being an artist in it. It was somewhat like working behind the wizard's curtain.

Your materials are wide and intriguing, and your choices in using certain materials over others when creating a sculpture directly connects to how you perceive a piece and how the material will interpret the very core of the sculpture. It's as if you find the perfect skin for each piece to reveal its inner heart. How do these choices come to you?

I think every sculptor is in pursuit of the holy grail of mediums. I am always certain that there is a better, more versatile material out there that will reveal an entirely new world of possibilities, both aesthetic and conceptual. One of my favorite things to do is to walk down the hardware store aisles and think about what combination of materials will open a door to another world. I have had a number of these types of discoveries and so I'm hooked on the idea that there are many more out there. Then there are the more basic materials, like ceramic and bronze. These are beautiful and timeless and so can often work with anything I make, though I will approach certain ideas with one or the other in mind. The material is, in the end, an integral part of the sculpture and communicates much about the piece (fragility, strength, obscurity, luminosity). New materials are seriously vetted to see whether or not there is a relationship between the medium and the idea. For example, a sculpture with a contemporary automotive paint finish will have a more specific range of possibilities than would bronze.

You begin with your ideas on paper -- sketches and visual notes -- and yet you've said that often you see the piece in your mind so clearly first, that the sketch is simply a prelude. I'm thinking of "Abyss", which is fairly exactly the piece that is in your working drawing.

Often it will take many drawings to arrive to that specific end. Dozens of them. Then one of them will hit and it feels right. Or I might revisit an idea being tossed around over and over and then it lands in a particular way that feels right. "Abyss" came about in this way. I showed you the drawing that stuck, but in the previous pages there may have been 10 or more that were "tossed out". The sketch book is an easy place to be liquid. The nature of sculpture is such that too much exploration in action can result in huge amounts of wasted time, materials and energy. This is where I am now, I do foresee a time where I explore more while in the process of sculpting, but I haven't graduated to that level of mastery just yet. All in good time. Or not, I don't know. Maybe this is just the way I do it?

Your imagery has a quality that is dark -- or at least has a tension of something deeper below the often delicate and fragile surface. In "Current", there is such a sense of release and complete giving up to the sea's arms -- water as life -- but one can also read something more sardonic in the image: the seduction of an element that can also drown you. It's a kind of Janus-faced coin. Your works convey a sense of duality both of emotions and of meanings.

I love beauty and it is satisfying to make beautiful things, but to focus only on that aspect of life is to miss out on the bigger picture. It's not that I want my work to be "realistic", it has more to do with respecting how complex life really is. I don't think we can have a complete experience without feeling and being aware of the darker side of things. Everything beautiful has a tragic side to it, and if not tragic then uncertain. I think we all have a difficult time with the unknown.

You're very interested in science, and you read in that subject. Your project "Random Mutations That Work" was inspired by ideas involving genetics as the intelligence of chance. It seems that nature simply perseveres -- evolution -- and incorporates the stray gene that may become the one useful component that creates a new being or ability. As applied in your sculpture, we can see that these possibilities are inherent in the idea of creation. Can you discuss some of this?

Years ago I read a book that explored complexity and chaos theory. One of the things highlighted was the auto-catalytic set. This was a group of amino acids or cells or some life-force that would, through its own make-up and nature and inherent tendency to reproduce, increase in complexity. It sparked a question: what is this tendency to grow in the direction of greater complexity and higher order? And years later I asked, could it be truly random as Darwinian theory suggests? I am not a creationist by any stretch whatsoever, quite the opposite. If we have the ability to create God for ourselves, can cells and complex groups of cells have the comparatively simple ability to intentionally construct better mechanisms for themselves? It seems like common sense to me but it may be impossible to prove (like my model of the universe but that is another topic).

Your works are wonderfully named; they both connote and denote a multiplicity of meanings or symbols. Language and words are often what sculpture is not about, yet your works, to me, are garrulous and conversational. How does language play a part in some of your decisions or inspirations for a figure or idea for one?

Titles are fun. It is the closest I get to publishing (really short) poetry. Most pieces scream a title to me as though it came from nowhere. They often times seem to name themselves. In the end, I like for a piece to have enough information in the title to direct a viewer in a certain way but not too much to where it dictates everything. For me, a piece should have a meaningful title that helps people to understand a little bit more about where the artist is coming from. What I don't think art needs is a great descriptive paragraph telling the viewer all there is to know about the work. They should be "mature" enough to need very little hand-holding when they leave the artist's sanctuary.

What is the most difficult aspect of the medium you have chosen to work in? How does its challenges lead you to develop new ideas?

Sculpture is a challenge no matter how you cut it. I have always been one to throw myself into really difficult situations and rather like operating in uncomfortable environments for many hours at a time. I have managed to pick a line of work where I create the problems and solve them too, as difficult or painless as I need them to be. I like to be my own pacesetter (manic). Each medium presents a new set of challenges and each has something new to offer in terms of what its properties are and what you can do to them. I don't like monotony either so I will have multiple sculptures in different materials going on at any given time.

What ideas are developing for you as you go forward? Do you have particular imagery that you wish to expand into new work?

The future is wide open. I just put this show together and I have a few art fairs coming up that I have to make several pieces for, but as for a specific direction I am not sure. I enjoy the ceramics, and I want to explore resins. I will continue with the gypsum as it is unbelievably versatile. I have to spend a few days in my sketchbook to see what comes of it. It is like mining a weird hole. You never know. I have been fascinated with sharks and aquatic life lately. That may be something?

ALL IMAGES COPYRIGHT EMIL ALZAMORA, 2010. Used with kind permission of the artist. Images from top to bottom: "King", Ceramic, 2008; "Ultima Thule", Ceramic, 2007; "Mother and Child I", Ceramic, 2009; "Centaur", Porcelain, 2009; "Minotaur", Gypsum, 2006; "Aegis" (Detail), Bronze, 2009; "Abyss", Gypsum, 2008; "Current", Bonded Iron, 2009; "Abrazo", Bronze, 2004; "Masochist", Gypsum, 2004.

For more information and to see the work of Emil Alzamora, go to his website at: http://www.emilalzamora.com

To read more about his work, see the article by Lyle Rexer in the Brooklyn Rail: http://www.brooklynrail.org/2010/03/artseen/emil-alzamora-random-mutations-that-work

LAURENCE YOUNG: PAINTING PERSONAL

2011-11-29T10:48:00.000-08:00

An artist's visual signature is something that is as indelible as the events, emotions, and ideas which go into its development. Sometimes, this is an immediate process; sometimes not. But it is always a process of the personal: that synaptic culmination of thought, craft, and the gift of one's unique way of looking at the world -- and putting it down to be perused by the viewer.

This personal quality takes on a wide range of subjects in the work of Laurence Young, and his paintings are a sure example of the personal in its progress over time. It also has that "tattoo" of his life and the things he loves and brings into it with his strength of vision, process of interpretation, and ultimately, his great love of what he does. Young understands that art comes from a long giving up, giving in, and ultimately giving out -- paying it forward to the next in line. But these are positive aspects of the creative life: the ability to trust oneself and go into oneself deeply. Nurtured by years of being in the natural landscapes of the northeast, Young's works reflect his natural eye for color and light, and his particular take on describing them in various mediums. Whether figure or ground, his works connote specific emotion, the transitory moment, and the wistful beauty that can be held long after it's gone.

When did art become your creative focus? At what point did you decide to pursue it seriously as your life work?

I know it sounds cliché but I have never wanted to do or be anything other then an artist. I was actually drawing before I could walk. It wasn’t until my first year in a liberal arts college (my father’s decision) that I fully realized how passionate I was about making art. The dilemma of course, was how to make that happen.

You have worked in more than one medium; how does each of them help you express particular visual ideas uniquely?

The mediums I chose to work in served me as to where I was artistically in my life. For instance, printmaking played an important part of my early career. I loved the printmaking process; its technical aspects and the ability to create multiples. Serigraphy had a unique attraction in that it lent itself to simple graphics and flat areas of color; creating optical space through the use of color and color placement. Completely inspired by Joseph Albers, Frank Stella, and Al Held. In my mid 20’s I had moved to Manhattan where things moved and changed constantly.

The process of printmaking seemed to lag behind the immediacy and the quick pace of what was going on around me. Due to finances limiting my living and studio space. I needed a medium to keep pace with my new life, materials that would not require a lot of space or money. I then took to the streets with oil pastels and pads of paper to record the images I saw. What I found most evocative were the street/bag people. Humanity slumped over on park benches or pulling shopping carts filled with lifeless possessions.

My drawings were built up with washes created by breaking down the oil pastels with solvents. The layering of marks and color directly reflected the complicated souls I was trying to record. Oil painting just seemed a natural next step as I became more adept as an artist. Spending many a summer in Provincetown led the way to my painting plein-air. Translating the use of light on an object into color brought me full circle in my career. I have since become more of a studio painter adding a cold wax medium into the oil paint, and then stressing it with heat -- creating rich, complex, colored surfaces, reflective of Provincetown and it’s artistic history.

Plein-air painting is your core. Why and how did you come to this technique? How do you continue your work when you are back in the studio?

My current work embodies what I have learned as a plein-air painter combined with my personal experiences. The two fuse together creating a wavering line between representational and abstract painting.

Who are some of your artist mentors? How did they influence you as you developed your career?

I have mentioned Joseph Albers, Frank Stella and Al Held as early influences when it came to color in the concept of spatial perception. When I became interested in the human figure, I became obsessed with Egon Schiele. His evocative and sometimes grotesque figures were painted with truth and simplicity. Schiele’s work helped me bring that emotional piece to my drawings of New York’s discarded personages. Alex Katz, Milton Avery and Edward Hopper, all hold a quiet angst in their work, which simply resonates with me. My contemporary heroes would be first and foremost, Lois Griffel. A devotee of Henry Henche and the Cape School of Art. Followed by Wolf Kahn for his sumptuous color fields in the landscape. Eric Aho for the way in which he handles paint and paint surfaces. There are many other artists that I have learned and garnered from but if mentioned I’d be here all day.

You attended Rhode Island School of Design (RISD). How did that shape your development? How was it unique from other schools in terms of its focus and philosophy?

Without sounding condescending, Rhode Island School of Design was like a finishing school for me. In the best sense, it helped me hone my skills as a printmaker and artist. Had I attended RISD as an undergraduate, I’m not sure I would have found my way. I credit my prowess to the University of Hartford, Hartford Art School. They taught me that to be an accomplished artist you needed to understand yourself first. That still comes through in my work today.

Your painting process is intriguing. Can you discuss some of your techniques (without giving away any secrets)?

I have a hard time with the word "technique" because I think it has a very different meaning today then it did decades ago. My, technique as it were, is simply an extension of the way I move or apply a paint stroke or any material for that matter. It’s always me creating the same motion in the same way, uniquely mine. The trick is to trust what you do in the way you do it. If you're asking me about the materials I use and their application well that’s easy. I apply an abundance of charcoal line work. Sometimes depicting the object and sometimes the space around it. Oil paint is applied to my palette mixed with Dorland’s Cold Wax Medium. Large throwaway brushes block in large areas of color in quick sweeps working the entire surface.

This is repeated with different applications of color. I then take a blow torch (between colors) to the surface, allowing the paint to bleed and bubble. At which point I can begin to scrape down revealing some of the previous line work and some of the first colored layers. I repeat this process of building and scraping back (using a palette knife s well as smaller brushes) until something takes hold. Its origin of inspiration is usually a photo image reflective of a place and moment or perhaps it’s just something remembered.

You are originally from Massachusetts, lived in New Hampshire and New York for many years, and now live permanently in Provincetown. How have each of the places you’ve lived inspired/changed/invigorated your work.

Where I grew up in Newton, Massachusetts it was more like a rural area then the overbuilt and gentrified town it has become. I think the early exploration of the woods and waterways are the bases for many of my landscapes. This is probably why I have such a strong connection to Provincetown. New York was a rude awakening and yet a myriad of images and experiences that were both exciting and daunting. The edginess and underbelly of life in NYC took hold in the street people I started drawing. Always, always there is a return to nature, my childhood and the feeling of safety. In hindsight I think I found refuge in the quiet and solitude of NH. Barns became my image of choice, as they were everywhere. I related to their image as a landscape icon and their beautiful patina created through years of survival. Provincetown was always my second home. It’s filled with sexually charged memories of dancing the night away on warm sultry nights. Walking the dunes and beaches to the ebb and tide of the ocean. Present day, it’s the gorgeous light and its atmospheric influence that makes Provincetown an obvious place to live. Feeling like I’m a part of a community of artists with a very long history is nothing short of poetry. It would be hard not to be inspired.

Your work encompasses all subjects – nautical, figure, landscapes, still life, portraits (including your wonderful portraits of your dogs). Is there a particular subject that you are drawn to above the others? Why?

If I had to choose one of all the subjects I do, it would have to be the figure. My first serious body of work and solo show was figurative. I am drawn to the figure not just for its form but also for its emotional complexities. In working through any painting, I am always searching for that truth. Painting the human figure seems to evoke that naturally.

Your sense of color is rich and filled with emotional connotations. Especially in the “portraits” of the boats. To me, they become almost figures in a way; each of them connotes something iconic as well as narrative. Such a subject can easily become a cliché – but yours do not. Why are the boats such a favorite to you?

Like the barns of NH it would be difficult to go a day without seeing a boat docked on the beach or lolling at the water's edge. As yet another “iconic image,” as you have referred to, I relate to them as solitary and stoic figures. Forms that have a soul and not just a frame by which to float on. Perhaps I’m painting the essence and never the boat itself. Giving the viewer a portal into my vision or perspective.

Your recent paintings from a trip to New Orleans are wonderful. You’ve captured the immediacy of the music and movement, the energy of the city. Yet, you’ve done this with disarmingly simple compositions. What was the experience like for you?

This was my second time to New Orleans and my wish is to have a winter place there. I find the Marigny, right outside of the Quarter, to have a rich, passionate, cultural life of art and music, A bit on the edge, a bit raw but it’s all about life being real. I mentioned before about finding that truth in a painting. When riveted by a saxophonist on the streets of New Orleans, there is only truth.

You support and contribute work each year to VisualAIDS, which is unique in its collection and archive of art by artists with HIV/AIDS. It’s a remarkable organization and presents an incomparable history of visual ideas. How did you get involved with them?

I got involved with VisualAIDS in the early 90’s. I myself tested positive for the virus in 1990 and life, as I knew it had changed forever. The gift in all of this was that the virus gave my art a real purpose and meaning. My work became a visual journal of what it was like for someone living with AIDS. VisualAIDS is the only contemporary arts organization fully committed to HIV prevention and AIDS awareness through producing and presenting visual art projects, while assisting artists living with HIV/AIDS. They are committed to preserving and honoring the work of artists with HIV/AIDS and the artistic contributions of the AIDS movement. Through this organization I have participated in numerous exhibitions and opportunities I would not otherwise have had. Curators, galleries and corporate sponsors all utilize the archives to promote awareness as well as the art and artist. Most recently, due to the archives, I was contacted by a curator from the Painting Institute in NYC to participate in an upcoming exhibit. The woks chosen from the participating artists will contrast their earlier works in and around the early inception of HIV/AIDS, to their present life’s work.

Why do you think there are so few other organizations, galleries, which address this subject? Why is it important that they continue this work?

There are typically two kinds of galleries. One which carries collectible or more salable work. The other kind of gallery presents cutting edge, political and/or experimental works. AIDS as a subject matter is not a salable commodity. Additionally, AIDS is not being reported on the front pages any longer, reducing its importance for cutting edge galleries. For the most part HIV/AIDS is viewed as a chronic illness that can be managed and no longer a killer. But that is not true and unless it kept at the forefront, the spread of HIV/AIDS will continue.

Provincetown has a rich and long history of art, and a superb collection at PAAM (Provincetown Art Association Museum). Can you discuss some of Provincetown’s art collections and painters? What is the current gallery scene there like today?

Prominent artists Charles Hawthorne, Oscar Gieberich, William Halsall, Gerrit Beneker, and E. Ambrose Webster established PAAM in 1914. Since 1915 PAAM has continued the tradition of collecting and exhibiting works from the art community here in Provincetown. Artists such as Agnes Weinrich and Blanche Lazzell, who created the method of “white line,” block prints. Ross Moffett and Heirnich Pfeiffer, known for their Modernist approach to painting. Henry Hensche, who opened his Cape School of Art who continued the teachings of plein-air painting in the Hawthorne tradition.

In the 30‘s there was Hans Hofmann and his school of Abstract Modernism and the impressive roster of artists that followed him from NYC. Such famed artists as, Max Ernst, Robert Motherwell, and Wolf Kahn. In the 40’s and 50’s Provincetown became the center of Abstract Expressionism represented by such painters as Franz Kline, Jackson Pollock, Lee Krasner, Motherwell, Helen Frankenthaler and Fritz Bultman, in addition to Hofmann. There is more but I will end here as the list goes on. Regarding the collections of this artist’s work, many can be found in private collections all over town. Families with long ties to Provincetown such as the Cabral Family and the Packards, (Ann Packard and her daughters) Grandfather Impressionist, Max Bohm. Unlikely collectors were the boarding houses, liquor establishments and restaurant owners during those periods. They traded with these artists for food and keep. Town Hall, Pilgrim Monument, Julie Heller Gallery and Berta Walker Gallery, carry many of these artists of the past as well as their contemporaries.

Markets define visual economics, but it comes down to mentors and “personal Medici’s” to often keep an artist afloat. You have had excellent success with Alden Gallery. Can you talk about some of the reasons for this?

Alden Gallery owners, Stephen Syta and Howard Karren are astute in the arts as well as in business. The look of the gallery is clean and accessible. They represent a diverse but small stable of artists. Giving each one of us constant exposure and representation through the summer season as well as the off-season.

What is the most important thing to you now, as you continue your work and life, in your “middle years”?

I continue to explore my craft by pushing the boundaries of my painting; balancing representation with abstraction has become the present focus. I want to take my images (many times iconic) beyond the obvious. Abstraction based in nature is a way to embark on that challenge.

You have new exhibitions coming up this year and next. At this mid-point, you have retrospect as well as the surprise of what may lie ahead? What do you think will result from these perspectives?

I hope to be recognized as part of the extended history of this prestigious art colony. That my work in many ways chronicles some of the artists and art movements that have come before me. Most importantly, I want to be able to leave a legacy of work that inspires and teaches generations of artists too come.

To see more images of Laurence Young's work, visit his website.

All images copyright Laurence Young, 2011. Reproduced with kind permission of the artist. Top to bottom: "Rag-Tag Boys", "Cascade", "Sunday at the Shore", "Outer Cape", "Beach Road", "Native Son", "Max", "Jammin'", "Life Line", "Our Wires Crossed", "Sanctuary".

JACK BALAS AND WES HEMPEL: ART, DESIRE, AND A HAIL MARY PASS

2011-11-29T09:50:00.000-08:00

Collaboration is an art in itself. Whether in a relationship, a business, or a creative endeavor, what’s needed are a mutual sense of respect, obvious love, and the inevitable taking of risks. Jack Balas and Wes Hempel personify the best of what collaboration is all about, as long-time partners in life and as visual artists. Though their styles are distinctly their own, each has some part of the other invested in their work – call it mutual admiration, homage, tribute – their success is as much due to their personal kinship as to their unique gifts as artists. They combine craft and technical skill with insight and rich visual ideas to create images that illumine their subjects on every level. And what exactly are their subjects? The territory they have explored for most of their careers has been that of the place of the male in art historical and contemporary visual culture. They depict men in the potent arena of masculinity -- where, male for male, identity is not always congruent, easy, or in pursuit of assimilation. Instead, what their canvases provide is a much more incisive view of what it means to inhabit the male body as well as the male mind. Beauty belies the strength of surface in these portraits and story-narratives. These faces and bodies seduce us, yet ask us too to look well beyond gender -- indeed to look deeply into many things that we question about sex, desire, art history, and the constructs of the masculine. Their men are all having a good time! Or are they? Balas and Hempel bring us close to the vagaries and portents of being a man by bringing us to the edge of what it means to simply be human. Using a wide range of personal, erotic, philosophical, and academic visual idea, each of them seek to explore the rich landscape of men and their desires. Not only particular to gay male experience, but certainly full of its joys, Balas and Hempel seek out the lives lived: openly, precariously, and with complete honesty.

Jaunty, ironic, and often irreverent, Balas’s men comport themselves with abandon and absolute confidence – but are never afraid to feel vulnerable or fragile at times. They are the jocks and the college joes; the construction worker, the surfer, and the ardent academic. In the middle of living life nonstop, they find themselves mid-stride often face-to-face with questions of purpose, desire, survival, and the enigma of masculine identity. Always full to the brim with spirit, they can also quietly stun us with their contemplative insights as well as their drop-dead stares. Balas finds that locus of innate comprehension in his subjects -- "I see you and I know you and I'll show you to yourself." For Balas the shape of a beautiful body can be a map of the mind. Indeed, his men are Stud Dust -- ineffably beautiful, but something transitory. We look upon them as art, and wish upon them our desire; as author Michael Cunningham has written in his novel “By Nightfall”: “This soul sickness; this sense of himself in the presence of something gorgeous and evanescent, something (someone) that shines through the frailty of flesh….a beauty cleansed of sentimentality…..Beauty….is this then: a human bundle of accidental grace and doom and hope.” (1).

Wes Hempel's men are the visual equivalent of a contemporary mirror to the art historical past. But with one essential element restored: This is the male gaze, the gay male experience that was left out of history. These are the images that should have been painted -- indeed were lives that were lived and visually erased -- and he gives us back a history we can't forget. Think of Manet's great "Olympia" -- but with instead a beautiful, erotic young man lying on that recamier, a bouquet of flowers at his crotch. But it is not simply the aura of what was left out that Hempel seeks to restore -- he wishes to acclaim what is available to us now to document our erotic lives in the present. His canvases are an extraordinary study in copying the masters, and in thumbing his nose at what they refused to paint. In the end we find ourselves in the face of not just beauty, but honesty.

Both Balas and Hempel provide us with the evidence for desire's last hope. To prove perhaps, as Hempel reminds us, Vincent van Gogh's insight that "there's nothing more artistic you can do than to love others."

What experiences initiated your first interest in art? What kept it going?

WH: In elementary school (first grade?) we were shown a film on Simon Rodia, the Italian immigrant who built the Watts Towers in Los Angeles. He walked through fields, down alleys and beside railroad tracks, collecting pieces of junk -- broken ceramic, glass and tile -- which he then cemented into the metal framework of his (Gaudi-like) towers. I was mesmerized and even as a young child felt a kinship with this artist on more than one level. He made something beautiful from found objects in a less than beautiful setting (a rundown neighborhood in Watts). Coming from a poor neighborhood in El Monte, a lower-rung suburb of L.A that spoke to me. I find that there’s a spiritual component to art making, and it’s always been a part of my life, even before I found myself painting for a living.

JB: I just last month brought to my studio in Colorado every drawing (and a lot of other things) I ever made as a child that my Mom (and I) had saved in our house in Chicago; I'm surprised at how much there is, things that I have utterly forgotten (and my goal now is to see if I can bring any of it into my current work.) I'd say the interest was there from early on but I don't know where it necessarily came from, as no one in the family had an overt interest in "art" per se. I think what keeps it going, however, is the thing you get to stick up on the wall, the visual pleasure and the sense of accomplishment you get looking at it.

How did any academic training make a difference, or not, in your development as an artist?

WH: I’ve not had formal training. I studied creative writing in school. Jack, early in our relationship, gave me some of his old brushes and paints to experiment with. He was so encouraging with my early attempts that I continued under his tutelage, eventually discovering techniques that have become my own.

JB: I'm pretty much self-taught when it comes to painting; in fact, the one and only painting class I took in college (as a junior) I dropped because of personality conflicts with the instructor. I'd already been painting watercolors throughout high school, and my first two years in college were spent as an architecture and then a design major at IIT in Chicago. When I got to the art department at Northern Illinois, and after this run-in with this one painter there, I became a sculpture major! The sculptor I studied with, Bruce White, is a great guy; I think what I got most from him (and other teachers) over the five years I stayed throughout my BFA and MFA days there, was the sense of eventually becoming a peer, one who shared not only aesthetic concerns but a seriousness in regards to the whole endeavor. The strange thing was that because I'd never given hardly a thought to sculpture before I got to the school, I felt really free to do anything with materials and concept; and so painting to me has always felt, in comparison, like I'm looking over my shoulder, conscious of all of art history (and my own).

Were you both working artists before you met each other? How did your relationship develop as artists together?

JB: I was living in my studio on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena when Wes and I met in 1983; he was studying creative writing at CSUN in Northridge. We got an apartment together in North Hollywood a few months later (my building was sold in Pasadena, part of Old Town's beginning of redevelopment -- it's now an Armani Exchange). He'd already been doing some collage-type drawings while at work in an office job, but after we were living together he began to experiment with some of my art materials, and I remember showing him a very simple watercolor demo one day. We moved to Boulder, Colorado in 1985 for a number of reasons, one being that he could pursue an MA in Creative Writing at CU. But he took a year off from everything before he entered the school so as to establish residency for in-state tuition purposes, and it was during that year that he really began to devote himself to making "art," mostly found-object sculptural pieces. At the same time, while I had long been putting words and phrases into my own artwork, I had been devoting more time to writing itself, mostly descriptions of places I was driving through with my job as a cross-country truck driver for an art-shipping company. Wes helped me learn how to add fiction to these descriptions, to give them a life they had previously not known. Some of these descriptions were first published in 1986 by WhiteWalls in Chicago, parts of a manuscript called "MileMarker." And Wes began to appear in a few group shows in Denver after I began directing people's attention his way, including the owners of Robischon Gallery where, in 1991, we had our first joint solo shows together. After this initial show, Wes began to devote more and more of his time to oil painting, and while I was always available for advice of varying sorts, I think his real education came by looking at the art books in the CU library, where he very systematically took every book off the shelf and looked through it cover-to-cover before putting it back and taking down the next.

How do you each influence/mentor each other?

WH: I’m sure we influence each other in all kinds of ways, though being inside the relationship, I find it hard to take that apart. I’m sure someone looking in could find evidence of influence in our respective works. Jack is more inventive visually than I am and more adventurous. He’s capable of thinking spontaneously in spatial terms and has an array of problem-solving techniques at his fingertips, which means he has a fuller visual vocabulary than I do. I’m more apt to plan things out and rely on traditional pictorial elements or rules I’ve assimilated from endless hours of studying art history.

What are the challenges you both face, and what are the positives – living and working together as artists?

WH: A large question. Each day as it unfolds provides a new answer. I will say this: Occasionally I’ll hit a roadblock while painting, and living with another artist means there’s someone at hand who can give me a fresh take. I’m learning that obstacles in the studio are often blessings in disguise. The same can be true in a relationship, which is a creative work itself, requiring innovation. Challenges remind one to slow down and pay attention, to return to what matters. Vincent Van Gogh said, “There’s nothing more artistic you can do than love others.”

JB: We've long ago run out of room! Needing two studios puts lots of constraints on wherever you live, and we both envy writers who can live and travel anywhere with just a notebook -- one reason why I've found so much enjoyment in drawing out of a suitcase on our recent trips to Honolulu. There's a lot of overlap between our bodies of work, but we realize that we each appeal to different audiences for different reasons -- so one advantage is that we each meet the other's audience eventually, i.e. when someone approaches one of us about our work, they find out about the other's.

Where do you think gay art and expression are right now? Where would you like to see it progress. Why are galleries not showing more openly gay artists? Should this be a concern?

JB: Mixed feelings here -- Lots of "gay art" out there is pretty easy erotica, unadventurous, predictable (as is hetero erotica) -- often amazingly adept when it comes to technique but offering little more than jerk off images or fantasies. But I think it's important for artists to work with the ideas because it IS allowed these days, the work is not burned by families or society (much) anymore, and hopefully artists can start with these repressed images and lead themselves to better work. I tell students these days, whenever I teach, that if they had to choose, they should err on the side of ideas. Great technique doesn't hinder good ideas, but a lack of ideas only gives you boring work no matter how good the technique.

Why should galleries be shy of the "Hard To Figure" series at a time when Jeff Koons creates sculptures of his sexual acts? Is it just a gay/straight question?

JB: I think sex itself, regardless of whether it's homo or hetero, is a challenge (financially) for many galleries in the U.S. Of those that are adventurous enough to cross the line and be willing to show work with sexual content, it then becomes a question of audience proportions -- if the population is 95% hetero, then the work shown is probably going to be hetero 95% of the time (i.e. male/female mixed images). When it comes to single-figure images, however, the picture changes. If and when men still dominate the ranks of artists, images of naked women still dominate the "nude" genre. But if the artist population is 50% men and 50% women, that doesn't mean we're seeing images of naked men (by or for women) half of the time -- far from it. And that's when I think prejudice does come in -- male genitalia is so much more of a taboo than female genitalia, while female genitalia and lesbian sex has a long history of acceptance (from Courbet to John Currin) because it turns on lots of men and plugs into their own orgy fantasies. Who wants to look at men doing it with other men? Probably few women (but I haven't asked) and probably no straight men.

I wrote a letter recently to Artforum [ 2 see below ] about the imbalance of women/ men images in that magazine in particular -- a preponderance of female images with nary an even shirtless dude in sight; I'm calling it the "Boobs and Balls Count." I do think there's a prejudice here, and the first step in addressing it is to make people aware of the imbalance, much like Jerry Saltz has been commenting frequently about the lack of women represented in group shows or solo show tallies at museums when, he says, there are 50% male artists and 50% female. (Are there?)

As for my own "Hard to Figure" series, there are only a very few pieces that show explicit male/male sex acts (and one hetero scene) -- and in those pieces I'm really more interested in how language can deflate the erotic content, i.e. my quotations from artspeak/ magazines/ catalogs really make the viewer wonder (I hope) what's really going on there. As for the guys with simple hard-ons, I feel those apply more to men across the board, straight or gay. Which is how I feel about the great majority of my work in general -- I don't think of my work as "gay art" at all -- it's art about men in general, and it's for men and women to look at equally. I'm compelled to do it because I happen to be gay, but I consider the subject matter to be about men in general and the non-sexual relationships they might have with other men. I want my audience to be quite broad and not pigeonhole or ghettoize my work. And I've seen first-hand how adding a few images of women among my paintings can make the homo/hetero question disappear altogether. I had a small show of paintings in Denver a year ago in which several of the works showed women, and I was very aware when I saw it all up the first time how I didn't even ask myself if is this a "gay" show. Do I want to go that route in the future? I'm fighting the idea, since I think it's more market-share-oriented than anything else. If I want to start painting women regularly, I think I will need more of an emotional reason to do so first. Having said that, I want my current work to be engaging and amazing and beautiful and thought provoking to audiences across the board.

Who are important artists that have influenced you, and which continue to?

WH: Simon Rodia was an early influence, as I’ve mentioned. There are many artists I respond to at different times for varying reasons. Jacob Van Ruisdael, the 17th century Dutch landscape painter, has remained an enduring influence. I love the 19th century painters Frederic Lord Leighton and Adolphe-William Bouguereau. George Caleb Bingham is someone I continue to look at. Two contemporary painters I’m fond of are Graydon Parrish and Chawky Frenn.

JB: There's a long list, but some days I just don't feel like going there. Who do you see in the work?

Where is your work supported the most? What are the elements that enable that to happen?

WH: Robischon Gallery in Denver gave me my first show and they’ve continued to be great supporters, along with my other galleries (Jenkins Johnson in San Francisco and New York, LewAllen in Santa Fe, Lizardi/Harp in L.A.). With the internet now, collectors come from far and wide. It’s interesting to see my work appear on foreign sites. According to the translation (provided by Google) of one Korean site, I’m “the pop vowel which is comfortable.” It can be unnerving, not knowing the context in which my work is being presented. Or worse than unnerving. Evidently you can buy bootlegged versions of my paintings made in China by a fellow named Wang Lu, which he sells on E-bay at dirt-cheap prices.

JB: Philip, my work is for sale!! I take checks and credit cards, installments are fine, and I even give discounts for multiple purchases. Sometimes I'll spring for shipping. Call me, we'll talk.

Who have your important mentors been?

WH: Jack taught me most of what I know about art and continues to provide advice and direction (and pep talks when I’m discouraged). He’s an insightful and generous teacher. Jennifer Doran at Robischon Gallery has also been a constant mentor and friend.

Artists do what they do, no matter the market or attention they get. However, getting attention, sales, and support is part of the process of enabling you to continue working. How do you maintain this balance of working, producing art, and then getting it seen and sold?

WH: I suppose I’ve been lucky in this regard. The type of imagery I’m naturally drawn to and have been compelled to pursue happens to be accessible to a wide range of viewers. My galleries have been successful in placing enough work that I’ve been able to paint full time.

JB: When I lived in LA I was a part-time carpenter, and I gave taxi-driving a try (big mistake). I wound up as an assistant for a few successful artists for a few years, stretching & gessoing canvases (but not painting for them). My truck-driving job was a godsend, in that I loved the driving cross-country and getting out of LA for long periods of time, and best of all it gave me enough money to go home and work in my studio until I had to go back to work (I was on a very erratic schedule: work for a month, have a month off, work for three weeks and get two weeks off, work for 2 weeks and have a month off; and after Wes and I moved to Colorado in 1985 I still kept the job, flying to LA and other places to pick up the truck -- it didn't matter where I was living.) but it was also a constantly art-social event, meeting a stream of artists, gallerists, collectors and curators across the country. Teaching is a poor cousin to this situation by comparison.

You get blocks of time off, but mentally you are constantly engaged with your students. I was never mentally engaged with my truck; I thought about my own work much of the time, and while out on the road took photos and did writing. On the other hand, teaching or truck driving or waiting tables gives you $$ to go into your studio and not worry about $$; whereas being just a studio artist these days I am very often concerned about sales in order to pay the usual litany of bills and have a life too. And even when you show in galleries, some are much more competent than others, but in different ways. One gallery may show your work in interesting places to a broader audience but fuck up your frames or not pay you for ages, while another might be excellent in all the details but concentrate on a smaller, regional market. So you wind up worrying about all this shit too. Having said all this, I would still prefer to be "just" a studio artist; I like working and thinking about my work constantly -- and the $$ angle just comes with the territory unless I win a MacArthur fellowship. (I did win an NEA fellowship in 1995, the last year they gave them to individual artists. 20 grand was wonderful back then; it lasted a couple of years, but it eventually ran out.)

I do think, looking back, that there is some slow osmosis of seriousness that an artist has to learn, somehow. I compare my focus and drive these days to when I was a student, and ask myself how did the transition take place? A lot of friends who I went to art school with are no longer working, and even those who teach find it hard to have adequate time to get anywhere with their work. Different forces going on here for sure, but then larger issues pound on it too, such as a general public that may be indifferent or confused when it comes to contemporary work or who may prefer Thomas Kincaid Painter of Light (so is that an education --or lack thereof -- problem?).

INTERVIEW WITH WES HEMPEL:

Your take on art history is wry and comic; you “thumb your nose” literally at some art subjects, yet you also respect the history as you use it to include the gay experience, as it was never historically seen. In this series you provide acclamation where none was given. Can you speak to these ideas in the work.

WH: I’ve written extensively about this in other contexts, but one of my ongoing interests is a re-visioning of what art history might have looked like had homosexuality not been vilified in the culture. A walk through any major museum will reveal paintings that depict and, therefore, legitimate only certain kinds of experience. While the canon’s merits are rightfully being questioned, the paintings of the old masters on the walls of museums like the Met, the Louvre, and the Rijksmuseum still have an undeniable cache. They're revered not just for their technique but because they enshrine our collective past experience. It's a selected past, of course, that gets validated. Conspicuously absent to me as a gay man is my own story. By presenting contemporary males as objects of desire in borrowed art historical settings, I'm able to imagine (and allow viewers to imagine) a past that includes rather than excludes gay experience--and thereby ride the coattails, as it were, of art history's imprimatur. Many of my paintings work on this level (some rather playfully). For example, the piece titled Auction is an easily recognizable rendition of Jean-Leon Gerome's (1824-1904) painting Slave Auction (c.1884), except I've moved the setting outdoors, and in place of Gerome’s nude female, the auctioneer now offers the crowd of buyers a rope-bound male angel.

The men in your paintings seem to share a romantic quality – they hark back to physical ideals of a former time, yet they are depicted in a very contemporary aspect, and have disarmingly conceptual -- almost surreal -- connotations. You seem the painter equivalent of Edward Albee -- as he makes the audience listen intently to words, you make the viewer watch intently for visual information. Can you discuss the visual worlds that you create?

WH: An Art in America review some years back used the term “Literary Realism” to describe my work, a term I wouldn’t have used but which I like a lot. While traditional elements of painting are important to me (e.g., composition, color, surface quality, etc.), I’m most interested in the possibilities of narrative, the underlying story tied up in the imagery. A painting captures a moment in time, but I’m always curious about the moment before and the moment after, what’s happening offstage, so to speak. I’m hoping viewers are engaged enough on a visual level to ask these more cerebral kinds of questions. For me, the most successful paintings are poetic in the sense that they draw you in on a surface level and then prompt you, secondarily, to question notions of meaning.

The "Farewell Series", and such paintings as "The Memory Bureau", and "Cloud Hospital" are invested with an extraordinary quality of the ephemeral and transitory object. The pairing of words with the images connotes both language as well as its silence. How did this series come about?

WH: The “Farewell” paintings are imaginary nature scenes. I did them in part because I was curious as to what would happen if I went straight to the canvas without looking at source material (e.g., photographs or art historical images, my usual method). I think the absence in the settings of humans or much evidence of humankind contributes to their quietness or ephemeral-ness. For me they have an elegiac quality. I found myself thinking as I was working on them about the relatively short span of a human life and what it feels like, as one ages, to begin saying good-bye to a world one loves.

Words are also an important compliment in the "Works On Paper" series, in which you couple figures with specific texts. These make the viewer "read" in two ways: the verbal as well as the visual. How do you choose the texts for the figures? Or do the texts inspire the figures?

WH: The texts inspire the figures. The idea began with an old book of mine that I bought in an antique shop in Amsterdam. The binding was disintegrating and the pages coming unglued, but the paper was of such extraordinary quality that as I held the loose leafs the idea came to me to paint on them. I’ve since expanded to other books. The series is all done on gessoed book pages. I like how the figures work in tandem, often ambiguously, with the pre-existing texts and imagery.

Your men are beautiful. Every one of them. Fact. Yet they are vessels for emotional and conceptual ideas rather than just contemplation of beauty. Their beauty is almost secondary to the ideas you construct with them. Can you discuss this?

WH: I may’ve already answered this in part, but conception is always of primary importance to me. My goal is to harness a model’s natural attributes in service of a conceptual idea. By idealizing or heroizing male beauty in romantic or art historical settings, I’m championing the kinds of desires that are natural to gay men, but which have been delegitimized in the culture. I like to think of a youth from the future walking through a museum and seeing (either in my own paintings or ones similar) his own story told in paint, enshrined on the museum walls, and feeling affirmed as he stands before them instead of feeling excluded or marginalized.

The "Landscape Fragments" are particularly mesmerizing to me. They have a quality of sadness to them -- their bucolic bounty seems a bit well-worn -- and in such images as in Fragment #16, the presence of the red drapery invests the composition with the surprise of a human presence. Each of the distinct trees, branches, roads -- the whole atmosphere of these paintings take on unique identities. They remind one of so many art historical landscapes such as seen in Constable, or the Hudson River School, and yet they are completely their own world. How did these come to you?

WH: Another exercise I gave myself. Using traditional sources, mostly seventeenth-century Dutch landscapes, I cropped small sections, then fairly attentively replicated the fragment, removing whatever people, animals, or buildings may’ve appeared in the original. Oddly, in many of the fragments there’s the ghost presence of humans, a path, an unmistakable clearing in the woods, tire ruts, the mysterious red drapery in Fragment #16. Yet, rather than extolling the relationship between humans and nature as in the original bucolic paintings, or the tension you would find in the Romantic tradition, the paintings seem to evoke the loss of the bucolic, the memory or fragmentation of Romanticism. Hence, the sadness. Along with the floating building paintings and the “Farewell” series, these also seem like elegies to me.

At this stage of your career, what are the goals or inspirations -- or simple pleasures -- that you want to pursue where your art is concerned? What new visual ideas are you currently working on?

WH: My goal is the same as it has always been (from the time I was ten), that is, to be a writer. I’ve been taking time most mornings to write. My studio continues to beckon, though. I love painting and can’t imagine ever not doing it. I may be moving in a slightly new direction visually, though it isn’t clear to me yet. This year I’ve gone back to very large paintings (in preparation for the show in Santa Fe, spring 2011), monumentalized male figures, some set in contemporary, rather than art historical backgrounds. The narrative continues to propel me.

INTERVIEW WITH JACK BALAS

Your subjects are exuberant, cocky, sporty, and completely beautiful. Who are the sources for your models? Or are your men right out of your imagination sometimes?

JB: My models are right out of university gyms for the most part, though I've also found them on construction sites and once in the next booth at a restaurant. The first one came walking past my house one day with his dog and no shirt, and I thought about it for a few minutes, hopped on my bike and found him a few blocks away and asked him if I could take some photos of him. It was a completely intuitive move on my part.

How did the “Cactus” series come about? I love them. They are as much about survival persona as they are about the unique persona of each of the plants. They are comic, yet also have a satirical bent.

JB: I was teaching painting and drawing for a year in Tucson at the Univ. of Arizona, in 2003-04. After looking at cactus out the living room window for months, I had a real urge to go out in the yard and set up an easel and just paint something from direct observation -- something I'd not done in ages. The heads came a bit later, maybe I was thinking about antlers. But you know at some point you get tired of all this shit guys have to take about having to be tough and strong and resilient your whole life and how insensitive we all are, etc., etc., and it's a bit like saying yeah fuck you to all those stereotypes and the people or society who promulgate them.

In “My Mount Rushmore”, your use of painting text directly onto the walls has a visceral sense – a sort of personal Lascaux if you will – and yet this work engages the viewer not only to read the text, but also to follow the line and design of your brushwork. This does two things: it places voice as well as image to a constructed space, and the viewer is almost “danced” around the calligraphy. It’s a beautiful work.

JB: I love the analogy to Lascaux !!!! And I love it when someone makes a connection in one of my works to something I hadn't thought of before; you're telling me something fresh about it! That, to me, is a sign that the piece is working.

Your works have a three-dimensional quality to them because you often layer and juxtapose image upon image. The plane of the flat surface is broken into and deepens. One is danced around the composition trying to decipher meaning and context. Yet the pleasure of these works for me is that they contain visual and verbal components that may simply always remain a mystery.

JB: I've always been attracted to palimpsest, but I don't intend to be hermetic to the point that people can't find some pleasure or meaning among it all. Admittedly there may be some idiosyncratic materials or references there, but they can be like looking through a stranger's photo album -- you always wind up making stories & meanings yourself, and just accepting that you will probably never know the details. And, sometimes the "truth" can spoil it all. But I am sympathetic to the viewer's gaze -- I want things there to be interesting and hopefully meaningful in more universal ways. Thus, if my work has diaristic elements, I want them to lead to a broader point, not just satisfy an idiosyncratic urge.

In works such as “Climb”, “Sea Change”, and “Maybe It Rained …I am 2000 miles away and a young boy. Maybe it rained the night before…”, the essence of language seems to be truncated, obfuscated, or indeed, blank. This makes for a volatile surface image because one’s energies (as the viewer) are directed at trying to uncover meanings in the images. Why is language such a rich part of your work?

JB: I've always been attracted to words in art -- words that are there that say something, though I am always attracted to graphic design elements as well. I love Persian miniatures and Japanese prints despite the fact that I can read neither language. And I love old shop signs the way people collect them on kitchen walls, etc. And I love good advertising! the situation where the language embellishes the imagery, takes it further in some way, not just illustrates it. You'd asked about influences -- H.C. Westermann since college days, where his language shifts slightly away from the iconography. People assume I love Ed Ruscha, but I would say not very much; I will give him credit for putting words out there in a physical way, objects of contemplation disconnected from imagery. But Vernon Fisher had a big impact -- creating verbal parallels to imagery, the image doing one thing while the story does another, and while you sense an affinity they do not illustrate each other. Illustrating with words, the 100% correspondence, is just too easy to do. I want people to have to make some sort of leap in their minds between the two arenas. To distance myself from Fischer, however, I would say that my stories are completely personal and idiosyncratic to me; I write from a personal and emotional level these days, with very little fiction thrown in. To me, Fischer's early works seem more like exercises in fiction; indeed, he was a creative writing student in college before he took up painting. I would add that when it comes to hunky men, gravitas, memento mori, etc., Duane Michals is a real soul mate. Duane is an acquaintance, and he's repeatedly asked me where I get my models!

For me, “Hail Mary Pass” is one of your most extraordinary combinations of image and haunting, beautiful text. I have to reproduce the text here because I find it so wonderful to read:

The scrum is out there mid-field, but my goal was a Good-Friday painting, this player along the sidelines in some spontaneous crucifixion pose, his buddies maybe noticing him, maybe not. It did not even turn into an ex-voto, the kind where something has happened and the protagonist prays to the Virgin or a saint to help remedy the situation. As it was, the day was too perfect to pray, an 80-degree April Saturday, the afternoon light raking across the spring mesquites and cottonwoods and girlfriends on the bleachers with cell phones and the freight rumbling through behind the chain link fence as these guys in impeccable bravado slap each other playfully even as the score heads south. No one was so inclined because we all sensed that the prayer had already been answered by this day, this incredibly perfect day, in and of itself -- as if we'd turned around and there it was coming at us over our shoulder like a Hail Mary Pass, this gift that drops into our arms and we run with it. Our job is to run with it, the goal not to score but simply to run with it. And we do. Boy, do we run………..Past their targets, to a wry truth.

That last sentence hits my heart every time. The words speak of much more than the “impeccable bravado” of these men at their game, they speak to something learned only from self-knowledge hard won. How did this painting come to you?

JB: I was watching this rugby game in Tucson in 2004, spring, where I had taken a pile of photos of the players, etc., as it was in a park and I was just standing along the sidelines with the players; it wasn't in the stadium the university has since built for soccer and rugby and lacrosse. So over a year later, summer 2005, here is one of my favorite models with his arms outstretched. Looked at it, hmmmm, sort of like a casual crucifixion. What if he were surrounded by rugby players who barely notice him, rather than Roman centurions who consider this the Main Event? The images started going together in that canvas in 2008? (but I had done a watercolor study in 2006), and the text came in last -- I wanted it to have the look of an ex voto (and yet not be); I had to really think how did I feel that day 4 years ago? how could I bring that past forward and throw in my criteria as an artist? The capper was the last line, Past their targets, to a wry truth, which was literally lying on my studio table in the form of a newspaper article about early 1900's snapshots. So my hat is off to whomever writes titles for the NY Times, but that element of appropriate chance happens all the time. When I read some phrase while going through the paper or magazines I will write it down or circle it or flag it -- I literally have a box of index cards on which I have listed words, phrases, etc. as potential titles and text overlay.

Along with language I have thought of myself. I've always got my ear out for titles. (Today it's things with "field" in it, as I am drawing over some old lithographs I brought home from NIU/Chicago days -- so I've got Field Day; Field Guide; Playing the Field, etc.) And so when I've got an image going I will often dig out my box of words (literally a box of words) and shuffle through, looking for something that resonates with the image. Sometimes I've got a clear title ahead of time that will define the painting; but often not. (And often I can start with more illustrative things or puns, and try to get more difficult). I do love the idea of chance and the second life some phrases assume when going onto an image. I do not keep track of where most of the words come from unless it's a long quote. But I do remember “…..Past their targets, to a wry truth”, because I've still got the newspaper article somewhere, and I even put it on an opaque projector to capture the actual typeface. So while one may consider this or other quote inclusions a bit of fiction, sometimes these fictions are truer than truth. Oh I love that...

Your “Tattoo Detours” have a great sense of immediacy and vibrant life. Do you work these sketches into other paintings or do these books stand on their own as a record of your travels?

JB: Up until this year I have let them just be them, and have been happy to have discovered a wonderful way to be an artist while traveling. But this year I am in fact thinking that it would be nice to do some paintings based on the drawings -- there are a lot of strong ideas there. The other benefit of these drawings from Hawaii has been that I've started to draw at home in the last year, usually while having coffee in the AM or a beer in the evening, instead of my usual engagement with the art magazines.

There is not an image of yours that does not seem luminous with life – they have a joy in the mind and body, in rough beauty as well as tenderness and contemplation. Much of this comes from the very energized way you apply your line and color. It is not so much about, “work on the run” as it is “catch it now, it will be gone in a moment.” A sense of the transient complements what is transfigured. Can you discuss this idea?

JB. I would like to hear you discuss this idea! I'd never really thought about the formal correlations to the Memento Mori idea. But I have long been interested in shifts between formal moves within the same piece, or in artists who do wide-ranging bodies of work. It comes from a longtime interest in collage, but also in the idea that an artwork doesn't need to be "pure," that so little in life is. And recently I've realized part of my aesthetic comes from flipping through magazines -- you turn the page and here is the next completely different image/idea/medium, all overlaid with texts and jazzy or boring graphic design. And that kind of flipping or sampling is only an approximation of walking down the street surrounded by life itself.

As an artist, what is your main goal for the future?

JB: Many of the usual things-- better exposure, better sales, more collections, pristine museum shows and edgy installations in younger-than-Jesus precincts. The Luc Tuymans show at the Wexner in Columbus, which I saw a year ago, was not the first show I looked at thinking this work is so boring and yet the space so compelling; now when I have MY show here…

The "We'll Be Seeing You" Installation is a remarkable part of your work. This was a work of obvious love. It brings together portraiture, texts, and objects and spans a community in Denver. It is part documentation and part museum piece. It is also an archive of ideas about what it means to look at art, and who the people are that are doing the looking. Can you discuss this work and it's place in your development?

JB: I absolutely loved doing that show! Talk about a beautiful, compelling and pristine space where you are told "We want you to turn this into your studio." It was my favorite number-one show ever -- in no small part because I got to "work" on it every day, whenever I wanted, a real work in progress. Unlike the "usual" show you install and then not touch for the duration of the run. The docents told me they loved coming in every day looking for what had changed (I had a six-week residency; the show was up for 3 months).

And it was really nice (and a challenge) to work with people who wandered in or signed up for the portraits. But I'd never had the chance before to exhibit the complex interrelationships of all (or many) of the various things I do as an artist. To see it all come together on the wall was exciting, and I've never had the chance to paint words directly on the wall. I think the museum thought they were taking a real chance giving me the show, seeing that I'm really known in Denver just as a studio painter/ photographer. But I'd written a proposal (they had solicited one) that addressed their goal of substantial engagement with the museum audience and their satellite school sponsors, and with my sculpture background too I'd felt I could really address the space itself on a visual level that would be compelling as well. The museum was really pleased with the result. My only regret was that they did not do a catalog, but now with my Blurb series I plan to do one myself (and put it in their bookstore along with STUD DUST -- they've got the best bookstore for contemporary art titles in Denver.)

IMAGES, TOP TO BOTTOM:"Vicarious", Jack Balas; "Rescue From the Sublime", Wes Hempel; "Judgment of Paris":, Jack Balas; "Art History Major: A Study", Wes Hempel; "I Used To Write...", Jack Balas; "Auction", Wes Hempel; "How About Now?:, Wes Hempel; "Mischief:, Wes Hempel; "A New Beginning:, Wes Hempel; "Fingers Crossed", Jack Balas; "First"Stud Dust series, Jack Balas; "Climb", Jack Balas; "Salvage Run", Wes Hempel, "Song of Birds 5: Wes Hempel and Jack Balas (collaboration); "Contents" Wes Hempel; "The Birthday", Jack Balas and Wes Hempel (collaboration); "The Memory Bureau", Wes Hempel"; "Farewell", Wes Hempel; "Song of Birds: Van Dyke", Wes Hempel; "Landscape Fragment", Wes Hempel; "Cactus Head 69", Jack Balas; "My Mount Rushmore", Jack Balas (photograph); "Hail Mary Pass:, Jack Balas; "Chalk", Jack Balas; Installation view of "We'll Be Seeing You", Jack Balas.

All artwork copyright Jack Balas and Wes Hemplel, 2010. Artwork reproduced with the kind permission of the artists. For more information and artwork, visit the artists’ websites at: http://www.jackbalas.com/ and http://www.weshempel.com/

Jack Balas has a current exhibition at L2Kontemporary Gallery in Los Angeles. You can see it online at: http://www.l2kontemporary.com/

Also visit LewAllen Contemporary Gallery, and Robischon Gallery for additional images and exhibition information.
(1) Michael Cunningham. "By Nightfall". 2010. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York.

(2)
Dear Editors,

I realize ArtForum attempts to be ever-hip and relevant and on top of it, etc. etc. month after month, examining all viewpoints and perspectives and self-actualizations, but do you guys (including women guys) ever realize what a true drag it is for your readers to constantly be subjected to sooooooo many images, in advertising or articles, of naked or near-naked women/babes/vixens with nary a bare dude ever to be seen, to the point where men (and not just gay men) feel images of guys are suspect? Jerry Saltz was on to something when he continually mentioned (so as to make people at least aware of the situation) that museum group shows (or other slices of the art pie) were heavily stacked with men (pun intended). I myself am advocating you do a Boobs-and-Balls count every month as part of consciousness-raising vis-a-vis the problem. Here's what your current October issue weighs in at:

BOOBS:

Ad, Acquavella: Picasso female nude

Ad, Edwynn Houk; Bettina Rheims female nude

Ad, 1stDibs.com; more Picasso, and bare breast study (Stieglitz?)

Ad, PPOW; Bo Barlett clothed woman with big knockers

Ad, Heritage Auction; Herb Ritts female nudes (2)

Ad, Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza; Mario Testino female nude (tastefully cropped)

Ad, Palais de Tokyo; Adam McEwen hot babes in couldn't-be-shorter shorts

Ad, Yves Saint Laurent; 6 pages! of a leggy brunette

Editorial, p. 248; Monte Hellman, woman in lingerie (back view)

Editorial, p. 250; Monte Hellman, bare babe and monster

Editorial, p. 260; Anne Collier, naked chick on zine cover (twice)

Editorial, pp. 270-71; Renoir, 3 paintings with 7 naked women

Editorial, p. 293; Adriana Lestido, 2 women in embrace (nude?)

BALLS: (but no balls are to be seen-- alas, the following is the only male flesh we get)

Ad, Urs Fischer: Michelangelo's Pieta (but Christ is draped)

Ad, p. 298, artforum diary ad: Iggy Pop with his shirt off

The imbalance is laughable, and to add insult to injury, in the review on p. 294 of a show explicitly titled "Ars Homo Erotica," in which there was "an omnipresence of (homoerotic) naked bodies," ArtForum has reproduced an extremely chaste image of two fully clothed gay boys holding hands. (!) Granted, given the context of that exhibition, this image by Karolina Bregula is powerful and worthy of reproduction if only to demonstrate how so tame an image could so upset the poles of Poles. But given the context of this letter, I'd say Artforum missed a golden opportunity to offer some balance. Is this not some weird double standard? It seems astounding that in a world of roughly 50% men/ 50% women where roughly 95% are heterosexual, the reader sees image after image of women, as if the only artists out there are heterosexual men who get off putting nekkid babes into their work (as they have gotten away with for a few centuries). But images of men? By women artists? By gay artists? Forgittaboudit. To this day I've yet to discover in any magazine, including ArtForum, if Charles Ray's Boy with Frog at last year's Venice Biennale is anatomically correct -- as if the magazines are reinforcing the idea that men's bodies are taboo, so no pix allowed of Frog Boy below the waist (especially from the front, though I did see one somewhere from behind). This double standard surfaces even in the language used to talk about images. When women are depicted, it goes without saying that such images can have erotic potential, and it seems to be presented as "this is just a part of life; this is normal for artists to do/ think about/ etc., a reflection of society;" while the depiction of men is often clearly labeled, as if it's a warning: "homoerotic." (Have you ever seen, let alone used, the word "heteroerotic"?) A warning as if to say: "Caution, any ingestion/ enjoyment of this image on an erotic level may induce others to think that you, the viewer, are a faggot."

I realize any magazine has to deal with ads presented to it for publication, and so you could say, well, the galleries send us these things and we need to make some money by publishing them. And technically there are, with great infrequency, interesting images of naked men. (It was almost shocking, awhile back, to see Alec Soth's photo of a naked skinhead in a swamp.) And I could spread some blame around and go into the parallel areas of museum culpability at this point, and consider the feminist viewpoint about the objectification of women. But when I consider all of this I would still say there is a long-term deep-down price that all men pay for the current situation -- the notion that our bodies are not worthy of depiction, that ultimately our beings are not worthy of display. And if you are an artist who's gay, such as myself, who wants to depict the male body, such as I do, your work is going to be subject to some kind of holy standard if not dismissed early on as "merely" homoerotic. So yeah, yeah, blah blah when you guys (women included) are laying out the usual tits-and-ass spreads it would be nice to know that you are actually going to work on some real balance.

Jack Balas

PAUL PINKMAN: THE GRACE OF PERCEPTION

2011-11-26T05:07:00.000-08:00

Between illusion and clarity lies perception. How do we separate what we see from what we think we see? These are the realms of visual exploration that Paul Pinkman has continuously explored: he posits questions that seek to understand the complexities of sight as well as those of insight. In his paintings and photographs, the visual plane that Pinkman creates is architectural, geometric, and always in the service of perception. Change is the constant; repeated looking energizes permutations. This involves attention to time and memory -- the two basic constructs of visual perception -- the same objects and subjects seen over a long period of time are mercurial, changed by time and memory's lacings. Pinkman calls attention to the vagaries of perception by calling attention to its precepts of order and sequence. He brings the two-dimensional surface into tension with the three-dimensional eye. In projects such as "Dogwalks" and "Moment by Moment", and "The Persistence of Vision", the viewer is called upon to reinterpret the landscape without the moorings of horizon, space, and depth. Instead, these landscapes become a kind of photographic Rorschach test for how we perceive what is in front of us. These images -- beautiful in their composition and surface -- are disarmingly constructed to make us think twice and we take pleasure in the puzzle of looking. Earlier paintings relate to this work directly: such works as "Lavendar Heart" and "Autumn's Rhythm" are precedents through which the later photographic explorations culminate. His constant interruptions of the compositional surface with seemingly disparate objects are intentional incorporations of visual ideas that energize the viewer’s choices. How deeply do we really see, and what is that process? In his narrative and figurative work, these ideas are also present: we are led to series of images and ideas which each multiply the visual, emotional, and perceptual choices that will enable us to read the paintings’ meanings. Images and colors are layered on top of each other or sequenced into geometric grids. What he pulls up from the past directly connects with the present he is painting. These works provides an almost cinematic experience of looking. Pinkman's color choices only enhance what perception offers: his choices continue to serve the act of looking -- and it is with color that he introduces emotional equivalents. One is mesmerized, taken in, and then happily lost in the simple pleasure of trying to work out the space of composition. The strength of Pinkman's visual ideas is the belief that such physical interactions of perception are an integral part of the process of viewing art. The canvas and the viewer connect completely and interact. What is stimulating to the eye because it is beautiful, is also what keeps the eye questioning across these sumptuous planes of image, color, and composition. This offers every viewer an active and invigorated communication with his art. The human presence is never far away, if not immediately evident. This work is not a substitution for human interaction, but rather the result of its great essences: thought and perception. What good is a world observed and yet never pondered upon? Paul Pinkman instills in us the idea that what we see is the ultimate proof of being here and being present. Vision is an act of grace. Though perception is itinerant, this grace has always found a home in his art.

What was your first interaction with art; were there specific ways that art became important for you? Was your talent inherent – a “gift” seen at a very early age?
I have to say that it's difficult to remember, exactly. My earliest memories of art, per se, were being asked by the nuns in grade school to make some crafty type projects for "show and tell" or something like that. I was, apparently, good at that sort of thing though I didn't work at it. One particular incident when I was in 5th grade - I was asked to create a Christmas tree cut out for the class to copy. I put my all into it and designed something that had its own stand so it didn't need to be taped to a window, which for some reason annoyed me. Well, the nun, Sister Mary Charles (or something like that) was infuriated with my precocious attitude and made me feel like crap for having worked so hard on it. Other than that, honestly I was drawn to music first. I was given a 55 Fender Esquire when I was 11 years old. Around the same time my mother had received a spinet piano. Between the two things I was well on my way to being a musician. I had a couple bands and put together the best one late in high school and college. The visual art thing provided some respite in high school and college from feeling like an outcast but that was it. Ultimately, I ended up abandoning music, the result of too many disappointments with other musicians, their drug use and the fact of having our concerts closed down by the police. I wish I hadn't quit but I did, and it opened the door for a deeper look into the visual field.

Who were your first mentors as you developed; or was your artistic road a solitary one? Why or why not is mentorship important to a beginning artist?
There is always my mother, of course. I say that but I know many people whose parents weren't supportive. My mother was very supportive even as she didn't understand how I would make a living at it. So, too, were my friends who were amazed at what I could do but saw it mostly as an outgrowth of being very creative. By the time I got into college I ended up with two big supporters - my sister, Karen and my first Spanish teacher, Helene. In fact it was Helene who first helped me believe I had something more than middling talent. I was one of those tortured artists who are a combination of complete and utter fear and lack of confidence married to an outward over-confidence that was forever self-sabotaging. Ah, if I knew then... Finally, and not to be forgotten, I had a couple other teachers who really believed in me. In high school, the art teacher, Janise, was constantly giving me opportunities to showcase my work. And in college, my first art teacher, Tony Nicoli, gave me an understanding of what was possible in an art world of which I was completely unaware. In fact, after not having seen him for many years we were recently put together in an exhibition of our works. In that reconnection moment he said to me that without doubt I was the best student he's ever had. Whether he was being nice or honest or both, it was an amazing thing to hear.

As you progressed, what academic choices did you pursue? Were these fruitful for you? At what point did you leave academics behind and “learn from life”?
Early on I was, as are so many students, drawn to realism. My art teacher, Tony, got me to understand what photorealism was and I became enamored of it. I worked in that vein for a while but was never confident enough to believe I could achieve the level of detail required. In fact, as I had been academically, I was arrogant and lazy. I wanted to draw well but didn't want it enough to sacrifice for it in the way I needed to. Art was as much an escape from what I perceived as a threatening world as it was an end in itself. Having been born gay, I was terrified most of the time that I was going to be a target of violence of one kind or another. Being around the arts gave me some sense of security, if for no other reason than that artists are too self-absorbed to think of any one else. So, I went to two colleges - Union College and Seton Hall - where I studied Art Studio and Art History. Subsequently I started work on a Masters in Art History at Rutgers but dropped out before I finished. While in Seton Hall I studied both Studio Art and Art History and really responded well to Art History. I left college and went to work in a factory and soon realized that wasn't going to work. So, I went back to grad school in Art History at Rutgers. I lasted a year. The stress of being there with no money, high academic expectations and a department that believed 'connoisseurship' was the be all and end all of art academia forced me out. At that time, a friend of my sister's worked for an advertising agency in New York City. She encouraged me to take a starting job as an art room assistant. It was a real challenge for very little money, especially learning to deal with the attitudes of designers but it was worth it. I got more out of that than I would have from the cutthroat behavior of academics. Things from there just moved inexorably forward into design of one kind or another and ultimately led to the web.

Your earlier works are realistic and compelling narratives with a great deal of draftsmanship and technique -- such as "Wrestling With God" and "The Big Secret", yet they are also conceptual in the execution of your ideas. Can you speak to these interests and how you came to use them in your work.
Keep in mind that all this is me creating some kind of visual autobiography that was circular - I painted about myself through explorations of technique that influenced me both psychologically and emotionally. The result being that both the work and I evolved. So much of the concept in my work came about somewhat unconsciously. Because I was addressing deeply personal issues - some of which I was aware and some, not - I needed a way to express these things on canvas. I would pour through books on theory of all kinds, literature, art, science, etc. and look for the ways they did or did not come together. I would find themes there that I found had real relevance for me. Over time, I became more and more involved with personal psychology. In fact, my original goal for returning to grad school years before was to delve into the psychology of creativity and how that determined an artist's oeuvre. At the time, this idea was seen as anathema to being an art historian. So I left. But it didn't stop me. I simply became my own subject. There's no doubt that issues of abuse were of importance to me. I could see over and over again how people abuse themselves and one another and how many artists fall deeply into that crevice. Starting in college I was influenced by the concepts of phenomenology via Merleau Ponty and Martin Heidegger. This got me examining, both in my life and in my work, the concepts of being, of 'thingness'. There was a point in time when Jacques Derrida's concepts started having influence, I was already struggling through the works of Susan Sontag, Michel Foucault and Roland Barthes. For some reason Derrida's deconstructionist ideas really got to me. I started parsing words, thoughts and the construction in my art. Pull it apart, see the meaning if there is any, then put it back together. Is there still meaning? Ultimately I rejected most of what I was pushing at around the same time I discovered Buddhism. I started to realize that all human behavior and interaction, all existence, must be based on some 'understoods' even if they're not definable. I know now that our ability to comprehend has much more to do with what we don't 'know' but rather intuit. We understand through a multi-layered process that involves our minds to only a small degree. In so many ways, the 20th century in America and parts of Europe was just humanity coming out of some long somnolence. The educated classes were rediscovering what had been known and either forgotten or rejected.

The use of language and the written word are combined in many of your early works; what significance has your love for reading and literature had on your work? I'm thinking in particular of such images as the Jean Genet monotypes, the "Cantos", and “Portrait of My Mother.”
I can't say specifically when this started. I believe it came as a result of seeing Richard Prince and Robert Rauschenberg in Soho years ago and having been influenced to work with assemblage. The applying of things to the canvas would often end up with the application of words in the form of newsprint, etc. From there I started considering what the sources were of some of my ideas and thoughts. And of course, that would bring me to literature. Originally I started incorporating words from the newspaper. I read the Times every day and was fascinated by what they would come up with. Some of the phrases that journalists would arrive at were brilliant and as full of visual imagery as any painting. By the time I got to the Genet pieces, I was overwhelmed by what he was saying and writing about. In addition, I loved his ideas of all things being turned upside down. Normal for him was abnormal for most others and that gave me an opening into a different way of seeing. When I would start a piece using Genet's words, I would simply grab a phrase without thinking about it, I would write in backwards on the printing plate so it would come out correctly and then I would print a random drawing on top of it. This way the normalcy of the images is implied by the viewer. There was no "intention" on my part to make them one thing or another. I was in essence learning to let go of intention and let the work come through on its own terms. By the time I get to "Portrait of My Mother" and a few others, the last of the prints based on text, I am working with automatic drawing and writing. The text is written during a state of extreme emotion, usually having had too much to drink. I wanted to deny my own ability to 'design' the works so I would get stoned and completely upset, then write automatically whatever was coming to me but with my left hand (I'm right-handed). This forced the text to be genuine and unintentional. Then, once again, I would incorporate objects and drawings that I had at hand. The result was that all the works sold out in the first ever show of them. They were genuine statements of inner emotional states and I think people saw that right away. I wouldn't want to live in that space, though. It's too damaged.

How did your work first come to be recognized and shown: competitions, gallery exposure, etc.? How did you proceed to enter the commercial as well as artistic communities?
My earliest recognition was minimal at best in any commercial sense. I was often recognized by the alternative crowd, getting shows on the lower east side at Torn Awning at the height of that scene. This was when Soho and the major Lower East Side galleries were the place to be but the real scene was happening on Rivington Street. Following this, I was included in a lot of outsider shows such as the Independents Salons, La Mama La Galleria, etc. In the late 90s I was included in the New Jersey Arts Annual at the New Jersey State Museum. Since the mid-90s my work has been seen mostly throughout Central NJ.

You have distinctly personal themes in your works that are often narratives of emotional content : the stories of you life -- you often speak of your friends and family as your "tribe". Sexuality and a sense of place are also themes for you, as well as a spiritual depth. Can you discuss these important themes in your work?
I mentioned earlier here that I realized quite after the fact the my work through much of my life has been an autobiography. As a result the themes, whether emotionally based or otherwise, touch a great deal on issues of identity. Who am I? How do I relate to this world? And what is this world that I live in - both locally and globally? The people in my life, especially certain ones, were so critical to my view of things, both good and bad. Painting them allows me to honor them and at the same time get some sense of space from them. My attachment to people is very deep, too deep at times. The most important personal beliefs that have come into play in my work are around my relatively recent relationship with Buddhism and with a lifelong belief in the basic goodness of human nature. This belief has been tested to its core, especially recently. On an individual basis most people are damaged goods in one way or another. Our emotions and thoughts are byproducts of the human condition and therein lies the problem. In a Cartesian world - I think therefore I am - everyone thinks and thus imagines that their thoughts are 'true' or 'real'. With each step further and deeper into this belief come the problems we deal with today. In a world of 'me' where everyone believes his or her own thoughts have truth and relevance, nothing is meaningful and everything is about ego. What a waste.

You have always explored a wide range of mediums of expression: in your work oil, photography, lithography, monotype, etc. Do you work in all of these mediums simultaneously, or does one or the other lead to the next?
I have never been one to stick with a medium. I definitely started with oils and stuck with it for years, along with charcoal and pencil, but gave it up when I realized that the medium was limiting my expressiveness. In addition, the expectations of the art marketplace are no different than that of the retail world - more, different, new, now. Oil painting was and to a great degree is an anachronism from a period when time was something people had much more of. Because I value the authenticity of original work - work actually created by the artist rather than a studio of workers, the ability to find ways to express ideas more rapidly is essential. Thus I got involved in a variety of printmaking techniques - monotypes, lithographs, etc. and assemblage, collage and photography. In the end the concept was more important than the material. Additionally the materials chosen added their own content to the piece, offering difference and interest.

How did you begin to leave realistic painting and begin to focus on more minimalist, abstract ideation?
Early on, like so many art students, I wanted to learn to paint like the old masters first, then the photorealists, then, because of a show at the Met, like Monet. (In fact he was and to a great extent still is the only Impressionist I admire. His ability to synthesize light on canvas is amazing.) Once I got through Monet, which was in my late 20's, I moved slowly toward abstraction because I had been introduced through the museums to the works of the great abstract expressionists. In part I have grad school to thank for that. They got me to go and really look at those works and I was blown away. The first real abstract work that I got attached to was Vir Heroicus Sublimis by Barnett Newman. This was well after school and so I started my autodidact period. I hadn't absorbed as much technique as I needed in school and so found that over time I was becoming an explorer of techniques and styles. I moved through a great many approaches, examining each one in a series of works, usually roughly three large pieces and a series of drawings. Works such as Lavendar Heart came out of this understanding, though were actually produced later on in time. I was discovering the use of the computer and realized how abstract the space of the computer monitor was. The drawings for these paintings were all computer generated sketches. The paintings were investigations into the difference between computer space and human space. The results showed me how something drawn or painted has its own human characteristics regardless of how much it is trying not to. Because of my earlier beliefs, I couldn't just 'let go' of realism. I had to prove to myself that it was valid. How I did that was through experimentation and slowly releasing myself from those bonds. Even as I really started to understand abstraction, I could see that both inside myself and in the audience that I was showing to, there was a deep suspicion of abstraction. It seems that after the 50s and early 60s, popular culture and the art world turned on itself. The Pop artists and those after them tore into any possibility of believing in what Pollock, Reinhardt, Rothko, were doing. So the public felt duped and pulled back from it, feeling like they were the butt of some terrible in joke. I understood this and so I wanted to process a synthesis of both. I moved forward toward works like Wrestling with God and The Big Secret while examining all the aspects of painting in the previous 30 years - surface, narrative, intent, content, technique. I think to a degree my ideas were bigger than my ability to paint them but I'm very proud of what I did there. Each work brings to place an understanding of both realist and abstract surface and depth and marries it to a narrative that is suggestive of something personal to me but which also resonates for others.

Your portraits make an indelible emotional impression, yet they are almost “sketched” in your works. Is the face a special subject for you?
It's interesting you should say that. In fact I've steered away from portraits or faces for that matter for years because I was never happy with how I portrayed people. My skills fell apart when I tried to draw or paint faces and I was endlessly unhappy with the results. I did manage through using photorealist techniques to get some portraits that I was happy with. Then quite recently I discovered digital photography and found a way to capture people as I see them. All the people I have captured are in some way simply a self-portrait. For all that I believe I know about others, I realize their internal life is not something I can really comprehend. And for years I was terrified by others, another reason why I didn't paint them. I was captivated by bodies, terrified by faces and hands. Now, though, I see my family and friends as extensions of me - they become the many avenues through which I can try and see the world as it is and not as I mold it to be in my mind.

Your photographic project "Sticks and Stones" was not easy for you. It speaks to all the worst aspects of hatred that we as queer men and women have had to evolve away from. In it, you went really deeply into yourself, almost trance-like, letting the camera see what was essentially masks torn away. The resulting portraits are difficult to look at, but at the same time they are hypnotic. Can you discuss this project, and how you involved your subjects -- friends and lovers -- in it?
Throughout this discussion I have mentioned that my work has been a self-portrait. It's a complex autobiography that shows all facets of who I am and have been. Well, this realization is relatively new for me. It was only earlier this year that I came upon that discovery as I was trying to understand better what I was doing with my art. At the same time, I was invited to participate in a show the title of which was "Sticks and Stones". As hard as I tried to do the facile thing - create landscape works with sticks, etc. - I couldn't let go of the thought that this saying, so often spoken to children, isn't true. Some of the worst things that happen to kids happen when people say things to them to belittle or hurt them. I remembered so many things people said to me as a boy growing up that stuck with me for years, turning me against myself. I decided that I needed to exorcise that demon. In the process of shooting myself I realized that there were many others who had lived through similar things. My response was to reach out to all those in my immediate circle and ask them to participate. Most agreed right away. The experience for most of us was that of catharsis. Most of us felt a certain liberation by owning those words, allowing them to be written on our faces and then photographed. Others, however, were either incapable of reliving the pain and preferred not to do it or participated and then didn't want to have anything to do with it afterwards. In any event, each person had a powerful reaction before, during and after the shoot. It was an amazing experience and the evidence of that is in the works.

Your installation piece was a tribute to Manet's great Luncheon On the Grass (Dejeuner Sur L'Herbe), yet it was also a very personal depiction in sculpture of some key ideas that have been important to you. Can you discuss how this came about, and the process of creating it.
I was given the opportunity to do a one-person show in a small gallery. In thinking about what I was going to do, I had been harboring a feeling of unsettledness about typical wall works. It continues to strike me how few people really 'look' at art. They just push past it, say something irrelevant, and then forget it. I determined that I wanted something participatory, something that would force viewers to be a part of the work. This isn't anything new but how was I going to do this in a way that made sense to me. During the process of working on this concept, I started photographing out in the park in the rain. I loved the imagery of ripples of water on a surface, something that I've referred to again an again in older work. It had such deep Jungian resonance that I felt like there was something there for me. Then I remembered the original source of inspiration for me - Impressionism. Immediately I remembered the famous Manet painting. It was so strangely put together and the character in the background in the water is from some other place altogether. For me, she is the individual with the message of the piece. The people in the front are just character actors.

The real beauty of the piece is the sublime woman leaning into the water in an impossibly close location. So, it all came together - bring together my interest in rippling water with Manet's tableau. But in this case, recreate the setting and let the viewers be the actors. In my piece, the wall that stands opposite the woman in the water is a shadow that is me, just as Manet's models stare not at the viewer but rather at Manet himself. The artist as manipulator. It had so much delight in it, bringing in the collective unconscious from Jung and merging it with the meditative qualities of Zen gardens. It is one of my favorite pieces and I hope to have the chance to recreate it.

The most recent work explores perception within time and space continuums. You break down the science of perception into visual statements that evoke other emotional reactions. Also, the medium you are using, photography, complements the earlier painting work, which explored the same ideas of perception. The "Rorschach" landscapes – the Dogwalks -- are especially beautiful – can you speak to these ideas? This, for me, is everything in art and in life. What is the nature of unborn awareness? What does it mean to be alive? To 'see' things? To 'hear' things? Recently I was introduced to the realization that there is a critical difference between the physical act of any sensation - feeling, seeing, etc. - and what is perceived by that act. What you see is NOT what you get; what you see is an interpretation of what you get. The key to all things is to see all things as being one thing, one energy, and one presence. Much as my body is made up of untold millions of cells each of which makes up the person I am, we each make up part of the body of being - each of us being unique and none of us being separate. I realize how challenging this is for anyone, me included, but I can see the truth of it like never before. So, narrative, time, movement, change are as things are. They are not a condition of anything, they are the thing. The conceptual artists had something right on target. The problem was they tried to make it a commodity. That destroyed the truth of the work unless you were able to see past it as an object for sale and into it as an examination of the essence of being. In the end, though, we're people and as such we have a natural inclination toward the making of things, objects and so we need to keep producing art even as the realness of those objects is challenged.

The titles of your works are intriguing. Some are only dates or numbers. How do you come to name your works?
Many of the titles of my work in the past were inspired by news articles or literature. I was always reading art theory searching for the answer. It took me years to see that there are no answers there. All that is just people looking for searching like I was. After that point the titles tend to be mostly personal - time of day, event, something specific to the picture. I wanted to ground the pieces in the experience I was having with making the work and not some intellectual process.

How does a new idea come to you?
Typically in a crisis or crunch. I process things as I see them all the time but rarely put them down on paper until someone says, "you have a show coming up." Then I freak out inside and start scrambling for the hook to hang onto. It's yet another reason why I don't paint in oils, though recently did the most complex oil painting I've ever done in a crisis of time. So, maybe I'm just b.s.'ing myself. And you. Ideas are everywhere all the time. The hardest part is knowing which are just ego jerking and which have real meat to them.

Many of your works are horizontally-composed, or use segmenting on the horizon line. In fact, there is a straight line of progression in your work, involving this geometry. Is this intentional?
I can't really say where that came from. Influenced by someone perhaps? Another artist? It is intentional to a degree. I have always been landscape oriented. My earliest works were still lives and florals, which had the horizon line as a reference point. I think over time I started to feel like this was a way of attaching the work to something 'solid'. It seems to me that water and horizon (land) are so much a part of us as beings that most people get it without knowing why. Like standing on a mountain top looking out at the horizon or on a beach. We know what that means deep down inside. So by incorporating these horizontal elements the work always refers to the land, the earth and what is elemental.

Can you speak to the idea of art as object?
As I develop work I'm examining both the idea of the thing, the perception of the thing and the thing in itself. Art as object is necessary in the same way as person as ego is necessary. The issue is what to do and why. Making for its own sake is unnecessary though does at times provide some interest. Making because there is something there that needs to be expressed has the seeds of truth in it.

What do you think of the commodity that art has become?
Once I thought that idea alone was enough. I loved thinking of myself as an ideationist. I see more clearly than ever how useless that is, how silly. So, if I could get a thousand foot view I would see, perhaps, that making things is a key aspect of being fully human. Art as a thing, whatever that might be, can be wondrous and well worth the doing. The commodification of art is a full Greek tragedy. If you want to see how art has lost its soul, look no further than all the commodity that calls itself art. It is representative of what we have lost in our drive toward a consumer culture.

For you, art is less a career than a calling, yet you invested a lot of time and energy into it. What were your choices?
The choice to become an artist is very challenging today. Growing up in the 60s and 70s and hanging out in NYC, it seemed like the bohemian world of the 30s, 40s and early 50s of the City was still alive. In fact, it had already started its long decline. This was compounded for me by a serious lack of self confidence. Each time I imagined that I would go somewhere based on a show here or there, I would lack the ability to push myself into the art world of galleries, etc. So I worked a job full time, which took up most of the time I needed for art. I kept up working and exhibiting but never worked out the career part. Now for me this is a career of creativity. If someone buys a work, fantastic. However, I see that I gain so much from pushing myself creatively and the audience - primarily a suburban audience - that sees my work and gets to see things differently than they otherwise would have. The money and art school driven world of art today is a nightmare. I thought corporate life was bad. The professional art world is far worse. I would only recommend it for the most brutal and strong willed, ego driven types.

What disturbs you most about the art world?
Simply that it is a reflection and product of the overall state of the world - ego and money driven. Why are so many visual artists so self-absorbed? And now that our entire culture is based on the idea of solidifying 'me-ness', the neurosis of this is out of control. I have a friend who visited Viet Nam and Laos recently. When he returned he said how much he loved it there - especially Laos - because the people were so gentle and kind and relaxed. He thought he would retire there. My first thought was, "OMG, what a disaster!". This is someone who understands little of those elements of being. His presence there will contribute completely to that culture's decay and decline just because of the poison that 'me-ness' brings with it. Visual art has always been about the ego of the artist but for many years that was subsumed under the cultural importance of the world as relevant in some way. Art represented something other than the artist’s own ego, even if that ego was in evidence. Now, there is nothing else. In a culture so temporal and ego-drive, the work is about the ego of the artist and about the ego of the observer. And this is all rolled up into work that represents the shallowness of the overall culture. It's a deafeningly loud one note symphony.

What is most edifying to you about the art world?

What maks it so wonderful is that even with everything I've said previously, there are still many artists who are working on things that are genuine, grounded and reaching for something sublime. There is beautiful, amazing work that is being made every day that does more for humanity than 99% of what's in museums today. Someone once said to me recently, "small is the new big". I can't agree more. The presence of so much histrionic work still can't completely drown out the simple unadulterated work of true art.

Where are you going next?
I wish I knew but at the same time don't want to. I always imagined that I would achieve some kind of financial success in the art world. I realize now that this is not why I'm an artist. It is important for me as a person and as an artist to keep producing this crazy quilt of an autobiography called my 'work' and let others see that and get whatever they want out of it. I'm finally ready to let go of any preconceived notion of what art and artist are and see what comes up then.

IMAGES, top to bottom: [CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE]

Autumn Baroque. Photoprint; 2007; Autumn's Rhythm. Oil on canvas, 1991; Wrestling with God. Oil on canvas, 1996; The Big Secret. Oil on canvas, 1995; Portrait of My Mother. Pencil, collage, charcoal, ink, 2003; Canto I. Oil and pencil on paper, 1996; Rake. Charcoal and pencil, 1997; Lavender Heart. Oil, gesso on canvas, 2000; Desire. Oil on paper, collage with text, 1993; Queer (self-portrait). Digital Image, 2010; Edgardo. Digital Image, 2010; Detail from installation, "A Picnic in the Rain". Fabric, basket, fruit, carpet, digital print, 2009; 1.18.08 5:37 p.m. Photoprint, 2008; 2.8. 08. Photoprint, 2008; Divine Comedy (Inferno). Oil on canvas, 1992; Monday 01.19.09 10:31 a.m. Photoprint, 2009.

To see more of PAUL PINKMAN's work and to contact the artist, visit his website: Pinkmania. All work copyright Paul Pinkman, 2010. Reproduced with the kind courtesy of the artist.

GREG SLICK: THE ART OF SYNTHESIS

2011-09-06T06:34:00.000-07:00

English literature, Chinese painting, fictitious film stars of the 20s, Tlingit iconography, visual data systems, the Tao, and calligraphy as ritualized movement are just a few of the inspirations and energies that inform Greg Slick’s art. And as he explores and navigates these idea-rich subjects, he creates a body of work that is as much about the beauty of synthesis as it is a document of its processes. In drawing, painting, photography, film and videography, Slick manipulates cultural meaning, emotional content and graphic acumen to produce invigorating, perceptive and always compelling visual ideas. Incorporating a long history of these influences, he uses them both as laboratory and coat of arms.

From pristine and exacting minimalist canvases to thought-provoking videos, his work is a full extension of his wide range of knowledge and complete involvement in every project. Attuned to the transitory nature of objects and the innate fragility of what is human, Slick’s artworks are perfect semaphores for a wide range of visual language and its communication.

Quantitative expression becomes pure visual feast. With unerring simplicity, and with conceptual clarity, he is able to show us a multiplicity of choices as we examine each work; not only of the subject itself but of the choice of medium in which it was explored. The found object is always the surprise; the gift for us is how it is transformed for our delectation. The formal and the narrative have complete freedom in this imagery; its lexicon is that of dialogue, and therefore always an on-going conversation with the viewer.

You studied English and Comparative Literature and received your degree in that. How did literature first inform your focus and development as an artist? You also studied calligraphy and Chinese painting. How did these two areas of study come together in the beginning of your work?

GS: English Lit was an area of study so broad and non-specialized that, oddly, it turned out to be a good thing. What it did for me was enhance my intellectual curiosity through books of all kinds. I read a great deal of classic and modern literature and was transformed. I was intrigued by the poet’s view of life. This awareness of books and ideas was a big step towards becoming an artist. Narrative, archetypal characters, myth, metaphor—these were ideas useful to making sense of the world around me. I also looked at lots of art books, studying the reproductions and reading the essays. Every period of art in every culture was interesting to me. The more I looked and read, the more I wanted to create.

When I was nine or ten I became obsessed with Asian art. I suppose it was because Asian art looked so different from any other art I saw around me: there was a graphic vividness to it that pulled no punches and appealed to my young mind. I’d go to my local library and take out books on Chinese, Japanese, and Indian art and study them until my eyes hurt. I began to make watercolor copies of the reproductions in the books. I was hooked. Years later, when I was doing mostly photography, I finally embarked on a formal study of the practice of Chinese painting and calligraphy. Initially, I was interested in learning these things so that I could apply traditional Chinese ideas of composition, light and dark, and empty space to photography. However, I ended up developing such a love of the materials—paper, brushes, ink, and pigment—that I increasingly turned to doing paintings, though not in a strictly Chinese style. The paintings were Western, figurative, on canvas, but with Chinese ideas embedded in the technique and composition.

Your abstract paintings have a very stark essence, and one that evokes Asian visual concepts of simplicity, balance, and focus. Yet, there is a wonderful sense of play to them. They have an almost comic gesture and confidence. The titles are marvelous – how did you arrive at them?

GS: I turned to abstract painting a few years ago, with an idea to reinterpret some aspects of Modernism, particularly Abstract Expressionism. Part of what attracts me to this period of art—no surprise there—is its indebtedness to Chinese and Japanese painting, especially Zen painting. It seemed to me that if I wanted to engage in a discourse with contemporary art that included my obsession with Asian art, I had to find a medium in which such a synthesis was possible, where the composition, color palette, and “flatness” of Chinese and Japanese painting—as well as other influences—could be transformed into a visual language that is not culturally bound, and in which it all could make sense and not seem merely decorative or even kitschy. That was my starting point. Where I’ve ended up is terra incognita. My paintings are, as you say, evocative of Asian visual ideas, but they are also in a realm now where they seem to mirror natural forms, such as stones, branches, and leaves, but in an artless way. Of course, to say they are “artless” is something of a paradox. Perhaps I should say they are “worked.” To me, they feel elemental, perhaps even crude at times. The titles are a good indication of how literature—and music—play a role in my paintings. What I’m reading and listening to at the time tends to inform my paintings in subtle ways. While I’m perfectly happy to label my paintings “Untitled,” I often feel compelled to give them titles that allude in an oblique way to what I happen to be thinking about at the moment.

What periods of Chinese painting are you most interested in? What other Asian cultures inspire your work and ideas?

GS: I’ve always been interested in the Northern and Southern Sung, including the literati and ch’an painters of the latter period. Many important innovations happened during these two dynasties. Some standout painters for me include Kuo Hsi, Ma Yuan and his son Ma Lin, Hsia Kuei, and Mu-ch’i. In addition, Japanese, Indian, and Central Asian art are sources of inspiration.

In paintings such as “Trend”, and “Information”, you have taken the bar chart to significantly more beautiful visual use. I’m thinking of Edward R. Tufte’s “Envisioning Information”, where components of art become elements of quantitative expression. But you also see this as a means in itself: the power of simple design and composition. Can you speak to this?

GS: I was very much thinking of Tufte when I made those paintings. They are an earlier expression of my abstract work and constitute some of my first forays into hard-edge abstraction. These paintings are read as charts but, to me, they also become something conceptual. There are no values represented anywhere, and the idea of information becomes visually interesting beyond any meaning. Aside from that, they are very much about painting and color choices.

You’ve stated that your work is an “…..evolving lexicon of imagery…ranging from crowd dynamics to Chinese calligraphy, from street art to Tlingit iconography.” I can see this in your use of forms interacting with each other, and with your play with stasis and movement. For instance, in the paintings, “Looking The Other Way”, or “May All Your Tomorrows Be Forgotten.” They have a presence – perhaps what you term “Transhumance”?

My current work draws from a big pool of influences, and that pool is getting bigger. Movement is important to me because of its implications in nature: the idea of flow as described in Taoism. Achieving a sense of movement is something that’s hard for me to do in abstract painting. Looking at things like street art and schematics used by people who study crowd dynamics give me clues as to how to make these strange, elemental forms I paint appear to move against and away from each other. It’s tempting to add perspective and many layers to my compositions; however, I think these choices are already very well explored in contemporary abstract painting. Keeping my forms flat and close to the picture plane feels like a more radical approach to abstract painting.

How did you first begin work in photography?

GS: I walked around Hoboken, Jersey City, and some of the boroughs of New York City and took pictures of what looked like abstractions. This was 20 years ago. I’d find things like boarded-up windows and doors and put a very tight frame on them. I started to decontextualize what I saw and hoped that the viewer would see some other meaning in them. They were very formal works that explored light and texture. Eventually, I introduced narrative into my photography.

Your photographic images continue your investigations of the formal and narrative; yet you capture moments that are also transitory – certain light will be gone in a moment; certain shadows will change; nothing is permanent and yet you capture that temporal instant that the eye finds. I’m thinking of the very fragile, yet luminous image of the plant in snow, with tracks of some being, that is the entry to your website. It is an image close to what you also achieve in the delicacy of your drawings.

GS: I’m taking photographs that share ground with the abstract paintings and drawings, in the sense that they are driven by observations of natural forms. Like the paintings, they are contemplative, but also have much to do with a primal knowledge of where one is physically standing versus a GPS-derived idea of one’s specific location. They are about human awareness in a world where so much of what we feel is mediated. They are not anti-technology, mind you, but simply pose questions about what we increasingly take for granted.

Your drawings are the simplest of your forms. Yet their ethereal quality – the lightness of the charcoal and line; the shapes they inhabit – all seem to focus on specific depiction, rather than abstraction. Is this so?

GS: They are often ideas for elements that may eventually appear in my paintings. When I think about creating an abstract shape, the first step is to take a natural form and push it into uncharted territory. The drawings are that first step. But they also stand on their own as finished works. In terms of technique, they are very experimental and, in the end, they are about mark making.

How did you come to film? What did you first explore in that medium?

GS: The conceptual underpinnings of my photographs that deal with physical location felt as if they could also be expressed in video. I’d wanted to explore video and its narrative possibilities for some time, and this body of work became a perfect fit for the medium. This first video—“On the Taboo Against Knowing Where You Are”—experiments with ritualized movement and a percussive soundtrack. The sole actor portrays a woman who gains sudden knowledge of her dislocation from the earth. She literally does not know where she stands and rages against it.

In “Purification”, the throw of the coins involves both movement and expression – the hands of the woman, and her face as she watches how they will fall. Later, her movements integrate with the movement choices of the camera – fade in/out, multiple exposures – to create a sense of time’s passage. How did the idea for this work come to you?

GS: It’s an idea that had been percolating in the back of my mind for some time, and came from my early exposure to books on Chinese art. Again, here was a project that fit the medium of video. “Purification” is about Wang Xizhi, China’s greatest calligrapher. According to legend, in 353 AD Wang gathered 42 of his literati friends for a poetry contest, which featured a drinking game where cups of wine were floated on lotus leaves down a creek. At the end of it, everyone was drunk and had produced a poem. Wang gathered these into an album and wrote a preface, which comes down to us as a classic of Chinese literature and calligraphy. In my view, Wang was responsible for what may be the first “happening.” The video reinterprets history by using dancers to portray Wang and his friends in the heat of poetic composition, and represents their calligraphy as ritualized movement.
What other ideas are you exploring in your film work?

GS: Since last year I’ve been working on a trilogy of silent “films”—actually video, which feature the saga of a fictitious film star from the 1920s. The main character, Belle Dawson, and her situation were inspired by the fact that D.W. Griffith used Mount Beacon, which is near my studio, as a location for at least three of his early films. The first of the trilogy, “At the Lodge,” introduces Belle and the memory—or ghost—of a man who may be a slain lover. As in “Purification,” the video’s pace and the actors’ motions are a study in ritualized movement. I plan to shoot part two this spring.

Do you work on all three of your mediums at the same time? Or do individual projects suggest a specific medium to work in? Have you painted, drawn, and filmed the same object?

GS: Well, as I mentioned, in the case of my concept on physical location, both still and moving images were the mediums of choice. More often than not, an idea will somehow match itself to one ideal medium, and that’s what I focus on. But that’s not to say that I won’t execute the same idea in different mediums at some point in the future. I could certainly see this happening for the video trilogy I’m working on.

How did “The Illustrious Mr. X: Museum Collection as Character Study come about? How did you and Karlos Carcamo develop the idea?

GS: Karlos Carcamo and I were invited by the Dorsky Museum at SUNY New Paltz to guest-curate a reinterpretation of their permanent collection. The show is presented in two volumes, with the second part now on display until July 17, 2011. It was a big undertaking, because the Dorsky has a large and wildly eclectic collection, and there had to be some kind of overarching theme or narrative that could make sense of it all. The idea of having all the works we selected somehow relate to a central character who would embody the essence of the show made perfect sense to us.

What were your experiences in working on such a curatorial project? You have here combined writing in depth with the conceptual creation of an exhibition that becomes a biography or memoir.

GS: Karlos and I had total freedom in coming up with a concept for the show. The museum was very open to something fresh, not necessarily academic, and even radical. As the idea for a fictitious character evolved, it became apparent that he should remain anonymous. Mr. X’s life would be told through the evidence of objects, and the visitor’s imagination would fill in any gaps. In essence, the exhibition is a tour through each chapter of the autobiography of Mr. X, and explores a rather different idea of narrative in the context of a curated museum show. Working with such a different format for an art exhibition made us look at the work—some of it by well-known artists—in a very different way.

How did you determine choices of art to use in the exhibit? Where are the texts from?

GS: Because the exhibition is about Mr. X, the works in the collection were all placed on equal footing in our minds. No one work was more important than any other; their value was judged on whether they fit in with the themes and design of the show. A radical idea for some people! But we wanted to demolish hierarchies in art and just show the work for what it is without focusing so much on its back story. The main narrative for the show is contained in the text panels, which Karlos and I developed from scratch and wrote as “excerpts” from the autobiography of Mr. X.

How can museums change the perspectives of viewers through more experimental curatorial projects?

GS: All art museums would do well to include experimental shows in their programming. I think very formal academic shows are fine: they’re instructive and have their value as such. But visitors tend to glaze over after about 20 minutes. Why not give visitors something unexpected in the mix? The key, I think, is to avoid placing the visitor in the role of the patient student. The visitor as explorer or voyeur is a much more exciting proposition, one that can truly influence perceptions.

What are your current/future projects?

GS: Last year, I started a curatorial project called The Artist’s Statement Picture Show. It’s a nomadic, one-night-only, art film and video program featuring emerging and established artists. So far, I’ve done one in Beacon, NY, at a small venue called School of Jellyfish. It was very successful, with way more people showing up than we could handle. I’m planning to do one this year with a guest curator, filmmaker Mollie McKinley.

All images copyright Greg Slick, 2011. Used with kind permission of the artist.

Images, top to bottom: "Conjugated Form"; "Looking The Other Way"; "May All Your Tomorrows Be Forgotten"; "Hand" (video still); "Pile 2"; "Rhythmic Sticks"; "Purification" (video still); Gallery installation, co-curated with Karlos Carcamo: "The Illustrious Mr. X: Museum Collection As Character Study", Dorsky Museum at SUNY, New Paltz; "Portrait".