I heard it’s considered bad form to write about all the things you’re applying to because then you’re stuck blogging with your tail between your legs when you don’t get accepted; but God-dammit, I spent the last two weeks working on a grant and a show application, and I want to kvetch about how exhausting it was.  And there’s another deadline July 23! Good God. On the plus side, I’ve always been the sort of person who likes carry all of the groceries to the door at once, rather than break it up into shorter, lighter trips. Might as well cram all of the Artist Statements / Proposals / JPEG burning into a reduced timeframe, and then get on with the real art-making.

On the plus side, I found time to start the Conversation Series (pictured), which I’ve been mulling over for awhile. And it looks better than how I imagined it would. I worked on the first batch on a pleasant Sunday afternoon in the Portrait Gallery atrium, listening to Harry Potter and two tourists discussing the atrocious cost of their cafe brownie. I’d say, “good times” but honestly, that doesn’t even begin to describe how glorious an afternoon it was.

Chris Roberts-Antieau New Orleans 6/4/10 12:17 AM

In my head, I’ve always personified major US cities as members of an unruly family. New York and LA are the two hot shot fraternal twins (Sweet Valley-esque, as it were–LA is so Jessica Wakefield to New York’s Elizabeth, no?). DC is the Type A, industrious one, waking up early to hit the gym; Baltimore is its more artistically talented, but somewhat defensive and disorganized younger sibling, who bristles if you draw comparisons (maintaining that a quirky character is far more impressive than showing up to things on time). Chicago is the hilarious uncle who you always want to sit next to at family gatherings, though beware the nasty temper; Portland is the token hippy, no surprises there; Cleveland’s the chain smoker who’s been working on his novel for the last several years and is going to finish it eventually, once the kids find jobs and move out of the basement.

And then there’s New Orleans, which I visited for the first time last week, the lazier, charming, somewhat alcoholic cousin; a lovable ne’er-do-well. But mostly there was a wonderful artistic casualness to the city that I found refreshing.  In a band? Just play on the side of the road and plop down a hat next to your CDs. Draw pictures? Put them in the back of your truck and hawk them on Frenchmen street. You don’t need the organizational skills that are one of DC’s key selling points–no Facebook groups or laborious grant applications, or public art committees–just throw your stuff out into the world, and see what sticks.

It is with regret that I am going to participate in a favorite pastime of DC art bloggers, and take issue with an aspect of Blake Gopnik’s article in the Washington Post today on the Niki de Saint Phalle sculptures on New York Avenue. Gopnik’s denounces these for “not being weighty” and therefore, not art. (Incidentally, I say “regret” because I find the knee jerk reactions to Gopnik’s articles to be almost as annoying as the articles that inspire the criticism themselves, but that’s a separate issue.) I actually mostly agree with him that the works are simplistic, though aesthetically pleasing, so picking out exactly what rubbed me the wrong way was tricky; but I bristled after reading this paragraph:

These works aren’t being billed as sweet decor, as cute pick-me-ups or as crowd-pleasing tchotchkes. The museum is calling them “world-class art.” But if that’s the case, we have to wonder why the art we settle for outside on our streets should be so much less weighty than what we hope to find inside our museums. Titian, Rembrandt, van Gogh, Cassatt, Cézanne, Picasso — they’re hardly purveyors of good clean fun that gets us smiling. Not all the art we’ve valued most has been grim; some has even been cheerful. But one way or another, all of it has been substantial.

I suppose this mindset goes hand in hand with the idea that art needs to have conflict, the same way you need conflict to make an interesting movie, and how we like to imagine our artists as tortured souls; or that any art which is cheerful also has to be ironic in some way à la Andy Warhol, or how we dismiss artists who commit the sin of creating pieces that are “decorative” as though that automatically makes them lesser work. But this is a slippery slope. Art can be light-hearted and substantial at the same time, though not all of it is necessarily, and the idea of denouncing it because it wasn’t as provocative as a giant vagina you could walk through (one of de Saint Phalle’s earlier works he cites) seems unfair. Though I’d be kind of curious to see that on New York avenue.

Okay, here’s a pet peeve. Art writer/critic finds an obscure and/or arbitrary definition for a term that already has a perfectly adequate definition (eg, illustration, photography, absurdism), then goes on to claim that something in particular does not fit into said obscure and/or arbitrary definition. This isn’t criticism so much as a high school English paper assignment, and tells the reader nothing about the work on display, save that the writer finds pleasure in defining terms.

Please note that I don’t think we should shy away from analyzing the hell out of our opinions, and asking ourselves why we think the way they do. Those are fascinating questions, whether they apply to art, or your friends, or Tucker Max. But I cringe every time I see that whole, “That’s not art! It’s illustration!” line thrown around, or a convoluted essay that concludes with, “Ergo, according to this guy, this isn’t that.” Not because the writer is wrong, per se, but because the writer is inventing an argument where there are no rights and wrongs. Rather, he drew lines in the sand, backed it up with a few arbitrary opinions, and gave us a distraction rather than a discussion. And the real message? Because I have concluded that this doesn’t count, I do not have to care about it.

I say, grab a copy of Webster’s and work from there. And that bizarre “illustration is not art” consensus needs to go off into a corner and die already, but that’s a different diatribe.

Tomorrow or the next day I’m finally going to check out the G40 Summit in Crystal City, which I am more excited about now that a) it received both a negative review and a positive review in the Washington Post (both of which made good points, though I think Phillip Kennicott might’ve been a little too gratuitous with his definition of mediocre–how is it “defined in part by its insistence on being heard,” exactly?), and b) I read that a few of the artists took the graffiti concept to its logical conclusion and got arrested for painting on the side of the building.

The reason I never became a huge fan of most graffiti is actually similar to Kennicott’s, in that I find it horribly repetitive–though to be clear, I’m referring to the illegible-tag-with-poofy-letters kind of graffiti, in which the concept doesn’t go deeper than marking territory. But I am looking forward to the show, because it seems to contain lots of excellent draftsmen–including Ben Toleman, whose work I adore–and a fun batch of art that would be difficult to track down in most DC galleries. So, pictures and a proper write-up to follow.

I want credit for my good taste, is the unspoken rule of collecting art (and books, and DVDs, and forming opinions about such objects). And an art collection that’s thoughtful and well chosen, is special not only because it’s aesthetically pleasing, but because it forms a mini autobiography. I adore the print of the Saul Steinberg New Yorker cover I purchased at Eastern Market along with that old 1950s advertisement framed in the bathroom, and the Woodzianski painting I won in a scavenger hunt, and my Andy Moon Wilson business card, and the “Understand Modern Art Breath Spray” I purchased at a gallery in Bethesda whose name I forget but that I first saw the artist in the Palais de Tokyo gift shop in Paris, and the three framed drawings I did awhile ago, the presentation of which my asshole well-meaning friend insulted at a party. I like that there are little bits of information behind these pieces, meaningful to me, but nothing that would be of much interest to anyone else.

And although this is far less flattering to admit, I see these objects as bragging rights of sorts–even though I had no involvement in their creation. I’ve done nothing but acquire this art, yet still think highly of myself for doing so, much in the same way a good book will look great on your shelf (”Look! I am the sort of person who appreciates the nuances of both Harry Potter and Richard Yates!”). Of course it’s unfair to take credit for your opinions, because you just have them, without really trying, but I (and I’m sure others) still cling to the idea that the cultural things we enjoy are positive reflections of our characters.

There is a show at the Smithsonian American Art Museum now called Graphic Masters III, a title which tells you very little–it consists of drawings on paper, some of which were studies for larger works. But it contains some fantastic pieces; a still life of a cat by Saul Steinberg (because it’s Saul Steinberg, this is far more interesting than it sounds) and a drawing of the New York subway by Paul Cadmus wherein he strove to capture ugly people, and an exquisite profile of a nude girl wearing an animal skull of her head by John Wilde. It is a very quiet show, but nonetheless fantastic, and I think everyone should go see it, appreciate the brilliance of the work, consider how good my taste in art is, and reflect upon the knowledge that had it not been for me, you never would’ve found this treasure of an exhibition in our fine city. You’re welcome.

I found this postcard (pictured) in a drawer over the weekend, when I was cleaning my room. I’d purchased it in Prague five years ago (since postcards were about the only souvenirs I could afford at the time). Great find! I’m happy to report I’ve been working on a new drawing stealing the imagery inspired by its imagery.

I also spent about half an hour flipping through the book below, which contains various examples of  illustrators’ sketchbooks, and their accompanying thoughts on why they like to use them (answer–all of the normal reasons). I normally enjoy both sketchbooks and illustrators, but this time…I don’t know, just wasn’t feeling it. Maybe the poor little volume seemed like it was trying too hard:

Exhibit A:  Quote from a statement by an artist who will remain anonymous:

“Many of the patterns seem to reference specific modes of abstraction typically associated with High Modernism…the site of the pattern, is banal and nothing more than ephemera—transitory, mechanical, mass-produced, and not intended to be retained. I am currently interested in the idea that when removed from their common, everyday usage these patterns could be mistaken for serious critical investigations of abstraction.  Through works ranging from traditional drawings and paintings, to meticulous, serial installation, the displacement of the patterns is one of mindful fragmentation, redirecting the attention focused on the pattern away from [its] context of to reposition it in the rubric of abstraction.”

Exhibit B: A well-known Banksy quote:

“The thing I hate the most about advertising is that it attracts all the bright, creative and ambitious young people, leaving us mainly with the slow and self-obsessed to become our artists. Modern art is a disaster area. Never in the field of human history has so much been used by so many to say so little.”

I don’t know about you, but both of these combined make me want to grab a spray can and hit the streets.

I’m going to jump on the bandwagon with the whole non-issue-issue snafu that’s erupting over Mera Rubell’s visit to randomly selected DC artists (my name not selected, sadly, especially since I’d planned to meet her in a bar rather than my teeny living space where she’d probably bump her head). In a nutshell, the renowned collector decided to visit DC to select random studios to visit, talk to artists about their work, and select a few pieces for an upcoming show at the Katzen Art Center. Somehow this experience has opened the floodgates on whether or not DC is taken seriously as an artistic hub, and how tired it is of being compared to its artsier older sibling, New York.

If you’re a local artist, like I am, it’s an interesting mini-drama to watch unfold, although lots of the criticism over DC’s local coverage strikes me as bit misguided. DC is small, and its artist population is smaller, the fact that critics, being critics, are going to have the odd negative comment should be expected. I personally hate the idea of local critics deemed “non-supportive” when they don’t say nice things, and I get the impression that a lot of DC artists constantly have their guards up, ready to cry foul if a writer doesn’t happen to like something. It’s shooting yourself in the foot, really. The best critical writing tends to be the stuff where the critic is very discriminating, and the only way to know if someone honestly respects your work or not is if they are able to point out its successes and failures alike.

From French lessons 11/19/09 4:12 AM

I wonder how ex-pats do it. Real ones, I mean, who can scurry off to glamorous foreign countries and spend days writing or creating art and reading good books. Do they actually exist? Do they all have trust funds? Or cushy jobs with the State department? Either way, the idea is intoxicating.

I’ve been thinking about this of course, because I just came back from France, where I went for a few weeks of language classes and travel. I stayed mostly in the south in Aix en Provence, and don’t think I’ve seen too many places in my life that were more beautiful.

And just as I’d hoped, I learned a bit of French, got lost on many confusing rues, drew in cafes while sipping wee cups of coffee, saw magnificent ancient towns, and had thoughtful conversations over three hour dinners with the clever Anglophones I met in my class. In all, the perfect vacation. And now it’s back to real life, with its morning jogs and long commutes, and all of the day to day annoyances that aren’t nearly as much fun when they’re experienced in your homeland, and not a foreign country.