“[Suzi] Gablik speaks of the previous paradigm of the Enlightenment period and what it has meant to artists: ‘Individualism, freedom and self-expression are the great modernist buzz words.’ The notion that art could serve collective cultural needs rather than a personal quest for self-expression seems almost ‘presumptuous’ in that worldview. Yet this assumption lies at the base of a paradigm shift in art, a shift ‘from objects to relationships.’ Gablik challenges her coworkers not to settle for abstract theorizing in making this paradigm shift. She personalizes and therefore grounds the transformations that must be undergone when she insists that ‘the way to prepare the ground for a new paradigm shift is to make changes in one’s own life.’ Spirituality is about praxis, she is saying, not just theory.” Matthew Fox, The Reinvention of Work
I am not on the preferred patron’s mailing list of any major NY galleries. I am not important to anyone I know of inside the beltway in D.C. I am not your sister’s favorite secret lover. I am not a thirty something millionaire defense contractor careening through jammed traffic in a red Italian sports car in Houston. I am not a power Mensa video gamer in camouflaged shorts with expensive weed in my thigh pocket. I am not one of Kalle Lassen’s lunch buddies. I am not readily confused with Asian Republican golf pros in crisp green Lacoste shirts. I am not the owner of a Bombardier, Gulfstream or Hawker. I am not an MIT custodian skulking around late night lab halls. I am not omniscient or wildly intuitive on most Mondays or Fridays. I am not Laurie Anderson’s current boyfriend. I am not a fan of most daytime TV game show contestant’s snack habits. I am not a licensed massage therapist in fitted pastel spandex. I am not a pet Red Tail hawk raging loose in a rich kid’s tree house. I am not Dick Chaney’s confessor (and God help the woman who is). I am not (nor ever was) an extra for the making of any of the Planet of the Apes films. I am not Peter Bogdonovich’s primary psychoanalyst. I am not Woody Allen’s mother’s scapegoat bridge partner. I am not a first line victim of state sponsored European pharmaceutical industrial espionage. I am not as bold as I was when I had longer and fuller and better hair. I am not a talented speller like my father. I am not a top notch political strategist/ painter/ art star living in the Hamptons with illegal house servants bringing me exotic breakfasts in bed.
pondering
the Choreographer Works Too
1996 Polaroid from the film, "Giovanna d'Arco al Rogo" a.k.a. Joan of Ark (Ingrid Bergman) glue, oils, varnish and latex on found book
(private collection)
She was lighter Polaroid from Firewalk With Me 1992 Dir. David Lynch, glue, oils, varnish and latex on found book (collection the artist)
from The Last Days Michael Pitt, Dir. Gus van Sant
oil on canvas 36 x 48 inches
switch
everytime i think of johnny winters i think of robert rauschenburg then i think of texas
television
another endgame office party candidate
the chosen ones
the last pope
all the things she told me I forgot
strong enough
buck cloud found book page with ink and watercolor approx 5.5" x 9"
the task at hand found book page with ink and watercolor aaprox 5.5"x 9"
if i was richard
travel tips
blue morph jam
VIP Admit 4
polofest 2008
don quixote hovers somewhere over oklahoma in heaven and in my dreams singing old eagles tunes
the big apple gallery billboards and pork and beans
A dream poem for Pace, Castelli, Mary Boone, PPOW, Robert Miller, Marlborough, Lehmann Maupin, I-29, Zwimer and Worth, Baltic, Rose Gallery, Orvi-Mora London, Richard Levy…and loads of others...
julian schnabel had me for lunch
road signs
i dreamed i lived in a community where we all loved one another and i was happy to be alive
(i had to climb up a ladder on ivy to get to street level but it was pretty easy)
a cryptic visual poem for the formidable mary boone
I could have ventured high to paint huge pictures hand ground Dutch oils and rare sables Revealing the world on Belgian Linen I could have been the toast of luminaries Social giants whisked to and fro Under impenetrable black glass and lacquer Bulletproof invisible and always on the move Descending upon parties here and there Celebrating their blue chip acquisitions works I might not remember making But there would be ample medication For those mornings When dark thoughts intruded And I would wear hand cut black French suits and shirts To paint in And drink in A flick of titanium on the lapel Like Basquiat or Baselitz Careening beyond self Catastrophic, Sexy Ambiguous and grave Like priests and assassins
I could have ventured high To make a mark To sound the alarm (the Corporates have stolen the planet) Without trimming habits To scream out from rooftops and garden parties svelte glamored strangers leering and gleaming On the designer plank Of my 5th Avenue coop Perched above Manhattan dark sequined gargoyles only the privileged were guested And I’d drink with Anselm in his palace factory In Southern France rare Absinthe and Thai Smoke And we’d surely slur congratulations And turn celebrities from the gatehouse To hold up together Supreme and isolate
And with eventual contrition I'd telephone Ms. Gablik sobbing begging her prayers and guidance And email Roshi Joan to beg hers too That it might not be too late For me To make art that matters
