PORTRAITS; NOW WHAT?

I have people all over my house. Mad Sally hangs above the fireplace and the Fisherman's Wife stands on the floor below. Three odd looking men watch me brush my teeth, a rigidly correct Presbyterian sits in judgment of living room activity and Mario Cuomo in clown face is downstairs along side a native american indian lady swallowing the sun. These are all works by Upstate New York artists and while other paintings have come and gone through our various homes, I still find these pieces interesting, mysterious and funny.

Yesterday the UPS man delivered a big box with a portrait of my sister Gaynell. It is none of those things. Gaynell died when she was thirty three years old. Her husband commissioned this painting and now, after forty years, he's sent it to me.

So I've looked up some information and history of portraiture. I already knew that once, historically, painters were only allowed to paint the likeness of royalty or heavenly beings. In some cultures, self-likenesses are still considered bad luck and even the Bible warns of "graven images." Still, humans attempt to re-create themselves with a visual record of their life, to somehow leave an immortal record behind that reveals the truth about themselves, that says "remember me always."

The portrait of my sister is badly painted. Paint is flaking and it looks nothing like her. It doesn't make me remember her kindly, with love. It only makes me feel sad.

So now what? What do I do with this thing? Why does it always feel wrong to destroy a work of art even if it's bad? I can't begin to tell you how many times people call me with the question: "we're downsizing....moving....my parent died and left me...." with the climax "what do I do with this ....painting/print/sculpture?" Face facts. Most of the art we accumulate has very little value to anybody else. Few of us are lucky enough to have picked up that Picasso for a few dollars in a garage sale that everybody else overlooked.

So I repeat the list of possible solutions that usually start and end with "donation." But the real question is : where is the graveyard for unwanted artwork?

Robert Marx , One season ends, another begins

An unexpected August draught sent my gardens into a strange plant purgatory. Color faded, leaves sagged or browned off and ferns simply turned toes up in early surrender. All I could do was pray "Oh Lord, either send rain, send cold or get me out of here!" Obviously, I could have dragged out watering cans and hoses - a bad political choice what with the environment and all.

These are the same gardens that soaked up so much of our resources over the past five years and after such a robust growing season, we hoped for better - one of those swaggering, black eyed Susan summers that melt into frosty nights and smokey clouds of red and orange maples and sumacs. I feel cheated and wonder "Is this what old age is like?"

I had a conversation with my doctor who asked if something was bothering me and I said "No one thing. I'm cosmically depressed." She said "Here, take these. You need a little teflon." So I did (I have really good health insurance.) Now I can almost endure this chapter but I wonder if a season of swagger will ever return.

There must be a "...but" in this scenario and sure enough! There they are! Ornamental grasses that I planted just a year or two ago and they are magnificent - cocky sure of themselves, not to be ignored and I say "o.k. then! Let's get on with this dance."

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Robert Marx has the enviable ability that convinces you - when you meet him - that you are the very person he's been waiting for days to see and HERE YOU ARE! The man who once was lanky has settled comfortably into his skeleton in old age and appears to observe world events and the silliness of humanity with thoughtful concern tinged with satire.

I bought this Marx etching in 1979 at Gallery 696. I'm trying very hard these to days to rise above and away from ownership of objects but last night, Chip and I committed

all our gift-giving dollars for the next several years toward the purchase of this oil painting. Was that back-sliding or an act of optimism? I need to think about this.

Art Gifts

I'm going to a wedding next week end and I've put together this little collage as a gift for the couple- two professional people bracketing 40 yrs. old. In other words, they really do not need sheets and a toaster.

But now I'm mucking around in the question of "the gift of art" - a subject that has wavered in and off my life screen for years now. Here are random thoughts:

Once, a very dear friend and talented artist offered to give me pieces of her work to pass along to my children who were just setting up households. I said "no thanks" thinking about the uncontrolled dogs, the scant housekeeping skills and general chaos that my daughters lived amongst. Art sculpture didn't stand a chance! But my friend looked like I had punched her in the face and I felt awful - still do! - and wonder how I might have handled that more diplomatically.

I know an artist who continuously complains how everybody takes advantage of her and her "generous nature." "Every time any organization wants to raise money, they hold an auction and want free art to sell. What do I get out of this? This is my life's work. They don't ask doctors for free services, do they?"

Well, yes, in fact they do. Visit the St. Joseph's Neighborhood Clinic entirely staffed by volunteer doctors, nurses and dentists. And not all retired either! Somehow they make time to spend a few hours a week with the poor and uninsured. For years, an accountant in town kept a few artists as clients without ever charging them for his time and a Park Avenue chef fed a local painter for years when he was "between commissions."

For mind-blowing altruism, I know two artists eligible for social security incomes who still do not collect because, they answer, "I don't need the money and if I take it, maybe the government will run out of money faster and people who truly depend on that to live will be forced to do without." They restore my faith with their generous spirit - even if it's misplaced.

So I'm back where I started with the question of the gift of art. I guess I come down to this: why not? who cares? Go wait tables or teach a class if you need to earn a living but spread the art EVERYWHERE BY ANY MEANS POSSIBLE. (And I hope the couple likes my collage but if they don't, I'll get over it.)

Graffiti, Art or Vandalism?

I admit it: I am in a conundrum about graffiti. The show at Rochester Contemporary Art Center includes real-life graffiti painted directly on the walls by one of Rochester's noted tag teams. The art reviewer in City Newspaper writes blisteringly about those who don't understand how inspired this work is (that would be me) and how narrow the perspective of all who don't embrace the legitimacy of this work (me again).

Please don't misunderstand. I've seen some enchanting paintings on the most unlikely surfaces and in fact, I'm fully aware that when some of these pieces are translated onto canvas, their creators have become A-one, big-time, money-making art superstars. And you can ask an obvious question: if the Berlin Wall had NOT been covered by layers of scrawling spray paint - if instead it had remained pristinely clean gray concrete - would chunks now be ensconced in galleries, museums and Bausch & Lombs lobby?

However, I spent years studying urban sociology and repeatedly, scientists found that the harbinger of urban neighborhood decay came with small visual clues - among them, "tags." (I can find sources and quotes upon request.) And caring neighbors were NOT excited to see spray painted art springing up on decaying walls. (You may rightly ask which comes first: decaying or spray painted walls? I would answer they are interlocked - a bit like poverty and poor schools.)

So what separates spray paint art from mere property defacement? Perhaps it's size. Someone said that one pink flamingo on a lawn is tacky but 100 is an art installation. Is it the same with graffiti? If an entire building - or wall - or train - is covered, does that transcend anti-social behavior and become "art"? Or does intent of the creator make the difference? In other words, are you a kid running around spraying "fuck you" on every bridge in town or are you attempting to comment on social class, injustice or the state of contemporary art itself? Is the painter a folk artist or a delinquent?

These are questions that get answered too suavely by art insiders and that may be a big reason why so many "regular people" have no use for us/them.

Outdoor Art Shows

I walked through the outdoor art sale at Sonnenberg Gardens in Canandaiqua this morning. This must be year #5 for that show? It's gotten a little bigger but I'm not so sure the quality has kept up. Several decent crafters were there. About seventy percent of the show was photography (now that everybody has a color computer, images can be made quick, cheap and with as many copies as anybody could want. One result: photographers have become big-time greeting card makers.) But very few painters rose to take the bait. I guess it's hard to compete with the photographer/greeting card czars.

When I first started as a crafter doing outdoor art shows, most of us loaded our wares inside the family station wagon, tied some wonky make-shift shelving on top, pushed the kids into the back seat with lunch and off we went. I didn't see any little kids tied to "Mom, the artist" this morning. Come to think of it, most of the exhibitors were "mature." Nor did I see a single station wagon! The exhibitor's parking spaces were filled with vans or variations and every "set up" seemed ordered from the same catalog - pristine white complete with water proof roofs and roll-down side shields.

It would be easy to romanticize those early days and certainly I met some interesting people - some that remain friends nearly thirty years later. But it was hard work. Never mind making the stuff to show and sell. Packing it up was a nightmare, setting it all up in some farmer's field, nightmare, second act. Then there was weather. Cold or hot could be dealt with but rain and wind was something else again. The sound of crashing glass or pottery sent us all to the church altar: "Please God, don't let that happen to me!"

Then came the hours of sitting (or standing) and meeting the public, smiling, chatting - tap dancing to make the sale. Shoppers seemed to fit in one of three clumps. Members in one club wanted to be your very best friend. They talked about seeing you "when..." , loved, loved, loved all the new work, and needed you the artist to recognize their status in the public forum among all who were around to witness.

Then there always were a parade of people just walking through - rarely looking right or left nor slowing down to actually see any of the art work. Couldn't you and I think of a million other ways to spend Saturday afternoon? Maybe they just liked the smell of the hot dogs.

The group I personally disliked most were those that always knew how to do what you did - only better. And they never missed the opportunity to stop and explain to anybody around them why your work just wasn't any good. You,the artist, might just as well be invisible and you knew these people made every shop keeper crazy. They were the kind that probably bought the shoes, wore them three times and returned them for full refund.

I suspect nothing has changed drastically. Those artists this morning still tried to smile, be cheerful, start small talk even though I barely slowed down to see their artwork. And even with a fancy booth, I suspect they are all home tonight, tired as dirt and talking about the day's shoppers.

Finger Lakes Exhibition, Memorial Art Gallery, 2009

If ever an art show was bone crushingly boring, it is this year's Finger Lakes Exhibition at Memorial Art Gallery in Rochester, NY, my home town, and I fear I am partly to blame. I have nothing whatsoever to do with the current art scene - here, there or anywhere! But I DID and during the 1980s when I ran an art gallery and the 1990s when I wrote art criticism, I fought the battle for ART - capital letters. It looks to me a little like those aesthetes - me among them - won the war but lost the spirit along the way.

I remember one of the first Finger Lakes exhibits I ever saw in the early 1970s. The gallery bulged with the most remarkable collection of - EVERYTHING! Amazingly quilted and hand dyed jackets hung next to water color flowers that nearly knocked you off your feet, so real and detailed that they emitted flower smell. Furniture like I'd never seen before (nor had anybody else! Wendell Castle was still mostly unknown.) elbowed it's way into space between metal sculpture and lord almighty! the ceramics!
About a million prizes were awarded, a special one for ceramics, I think another for wood working, another for photography. Go down the media list then throw in some all-purpose, non-gender awards and you get the idea. It was a visual free-for-all and what fun it was. I was overwhelmed and in love and that experience helped shape how I would spend my adult life.

Then "we" started defining "art vs. craft" and "real art vs. hobbies" and so it went until we honed and polished our way to the level of sophistication I see now, a tiny collection of mediocre stuff that would never inspire anybody to do anything! I've written before that any judged show is merely a mirror of the taste of the judging team, yadda, yadda,yadda. And certainly, it would do none of us any good to see the gallery packed with junk - painted ducks et.al. But really folks, when you have somewhere over 500 artists entering the exhibit and only about 3 dozen accepted, exactly what are we out to prove?

An entire Year (Almost) later

I haven't felt like writing about the Rochester art scene this year. Instead, I've been licking my wounds, feeling old and forgotten and ....all those feelings that get exactly no sympathy and no attention and therefore, I guess it's time to abandon that direction and look for some new strategy to (1) use my brain (2) use my experience and (3) use my time - but leave my $$$ out of it!

First, dear readers, as for one of my last blogs, I was dis-invited to participate at MAG on the Women's Council panel discussing art in the 21st century. Unfortunately, nobody remembered to tell me about the change of plans until the week before when I telephoned the program chairwoman to ask what time to show up and ... well, you can guess the embarrassing conversation from there. The panel, instead, was Ron Netsky (from Nazareth), Rebecca Rafferty (grad. of Nazareth and current art critic for City Newspaper. I wonder how that happened?) and Bleu Cease, director of RoCo. What goes on here? I feel a bit like a leper but I do remember getting Bleu Cease thoroughly angry about a slap-in-the-face review I wrote for City (before I was invited to leave there too!) And I did continue to tweek the nose of MAG (out of love! I keep wanting more, better, the best and keep getting mediocre, convenient, easy listening art.). Perhaps I went about it the wrong way and should not have done my criticism in a public forum. Oh well...water over the bridge (along with my news career!)

So where are we now? It seems to me that RoCo made some good decisions this year (the 6 X 6 show became not only a hugely successful fund raiser but equally good community builder. So why is this - the 2nd year - the last for this event ? Ask Bleu.)

MAG has a glass show up that needs some seriously thoughtful analysis but I'm not doing that now. Time is getting short and I need to take my puppies to puppy school. Instead, I'll send out this question: What's going on with this flap about ArtWalk? I need to be brought up to speed from people who know. Will you help? Can I? Shirley