“They” and “We”

As you may or may not know, day-after-day I go into a corporate cube with the intention of paying rent, buying food for Ella and myself, and escaping back to art full-time as soon as possible. I am a visitor in a place I do not belong and Monday – Friday, I am surrounded by seemingly unhappy strangers who know nothing about me.  Afraid of poison from their lackadaisical existance; they look at me oddly when I burst into song, yell “Fuck!” as I often do, and the looks I got when I climbed on my desk to close the air vent, you’d think I had done a high-kick in front of them. Oh, wait I guess I did that too.

Needless to say, there is a very different vibe among those who chase the dollar versus those who are lead by inspiration. I am in no way implying that artistic people should not be focused on making money and am not assuming that all financial types lack an artistic soul but in general terms what “they” seem to appreciate and what “we” seem to appreciate appears before me as a mirror without reflection. Truth be told I feel sorry for them. To me, they seem lost, trapped behind a paycheck, an insurance card and lacking in the passion of their pursuits for the most part. My perception is that while “we” live in bold sweeps and circles, “they” live in the safe dotted line that leads them from cradle, to college, to wedding, to mortgage, to baby, to grave.

Now I realize it sounds like I am sitting in judgement and jokingly I am. My point however is not judge but to poke impolite fun and perhaps allow the “theys” of this world to add a bit of color to their light blue shirt and khaki pants infused lives. And while we are at it, let’s talk fashion. If you walk through the Concourse of 30 Rock, you will notice a parade of uniforms of the corporate variety. Why do they think looking like everyone else will help them to stand out? I swear to you, I’ve been at this company for 3 months and still can’t tell most of the men apart. Same short dark hair, no beards, no visible tattoos. What’s the point I tell ya?

Next let’s focus on hygeine and what is appropriate in a public workspace. People, I don’t want to watch you put on your makeup, pluck your eyebrows, or god forbid pick your nose. I get it, you spend your lives invisible an employee ID on a paycheck, a blank ID to validate your entry and you think that people can’t see you but let me assure you that we can. And more to the point we hear you and there is nothing more annoying – in my opinion – than for someone to take this liberty of clipping their nails. Artistically I could perhaps forgive this if your intent is to create a mixed media piece or perhaps a homage ala Kiki Smith but my guess is that you are not.

Day after day, I am annoyed by the “theys” and saddened to think that there is a “we’ lurking somewhere beyond the nail clippers and neckties. At times I want to shake them and yell “COME OUT, COME OUT, wherever you are?!” I want to see the fire, the spirit, the passion but I can not even though I am sure it is there or once was. Perhaps what I really want is some common thread to hold on to then it hits me. Perhaps the thread is the difference. The cold hard truth is that we need each other. “They” need our humor, our spontanaeity, our lust for life; and for me at least — in the early moments of NY — I needed their money, their security. Someday “they” will perhaps work for us as our accountants, bankers, and lawyers. Who knows perhaps while they are crunching numbers they are dreaming of sculpting metal and it is for us to show them that it is okay to live that dream. We are all still professionals afterall whether we define ourselves as corporate or artist. Each an individual human with something beautiful to contribute and perhaps when all is said and done the “they’s” and the “we’s” are truly just one big “us”.

How Sweet it Sounds…

Flashback: Sunday, May 31, 2009, 12pm, Reaves Gallery, San Francisco, CA. The space is bare, art returned to its creators, walls patched and freshly painted, and floors freshly scrubbed. The final inhabitants – Ella, my i-Phone and me – a combination that could lead to no outcome but a final dance. The song of choice “Sister Moon” and — as I often did — I began twisting and turning, legs lifting over a fearless Ella, arms outstretched. Moments after, I took a final glance to pack up all the amazing memories: the conversations, the opening nights, the artists, the clients, the friends, the stolen kisses, and as I locked the door I could swear I heard the sound of a champagne cork popping then fading gently into silence.

Over the months and the miles since, there have been many champagne corks, conversations, and friends but when I locked those gallery doors behind me and moved forward I wasn’t certain what direction this would lead me. I’ve applied to a vast array of art-related jobs ranging from museums, non-profits and galleries. I’ve gotten a few responses but for the most part, it’s just me doing what I know how to do the only way I know how to do it. What this means is that I’ve adopted various non-profits and artists. I’ve given lectures, curated shows, volunteered and along the way have connected to a few mentors who have been helpful and open with suggestions on my future path. A path that on this day has lead me to a neighborhood much like Hayes Valley. A neighborhood filled with fashionistas and families, young people and old, strollers and dogs. I walk down the street as if invisible no one yet knowing that I may be the person who sells them art or inspires them to create or perhaps even become their friend. It’s a nice moment, one that brings a tear to my eye and a smile to my lips.

And in that moment of transparency, I can’t help but relive a few of the twists and turns that brought me here. You see, I am en route to a gallery, a gallery owned by a friend. Someone who was kind enough to fly to San Francisco in 2005. Without first meeting me, he agreed to participate in a show, the second I ever curated. The title was “Re-Discovery” and it was held at the DragonBar in North Beach. Instantly smitten with his larger than life persona and his amazing talent, I bought a painting and we stayed in touch in over the years running into each other year before last on a random street in the East Village. We walked together, excitedly catching up on life, swapping stories on art but other than the occasional “at-a-boy” or “at-a-girl” when one of us achieved an accomplishment that was the extent until 2 short weeks ago when he saw a random posting on Facebook. The posting stated my first goal of 2010 which is to be back in art full-time. He suggested I call him and a few short hours later an agreement was born. It’s not full-time but I will help him curate and manage his gallery. I am needed, I once again have purpose, I am once again at peace. That friend/artist/angel is Michael Mut and it is in his gallery, www.michaelmutgallery.com, a few blocks from that last random meeting on the Lower Eastside, that I dance today. I chose the same song of course but just as sweet, it somehow sounds different, the moves are different but arms are still outstretched, still reaching.

The beautiful truth is that I am not sure where my life is headed and I am okay with this for the most part. This is the only area I feel confident enough not to “completely” choreograph, the one space in my life I allow to remain open. The unknowns expanding into glimmering possibility and it is with perfect certainty that I am confident once again that it will be filled with art. Art is what inspires me. It’s what I look forward to each day, it gives me community, it motivates me, it allows me the freedom to dance with fearless abandon, and in some small way I believe the feelings are mutual.

When You Can’t Look in the Mirror Anymore…

They say everyone in our lives acts as a mirror, at various times reflecting who we were, are, or desire to be. That has been most evident to me as of late. Sometimes I would almost swear the characters of my life are characters in a play, too on-the-mark to be “real” (but that is a tangent for another day).

A great example of this is when I first moved to NY. I have been very blessed to meet friends of friends and through one of these introductions, I met a very lovely man who had also recently re-located to the city. With art as the common denominator, we became fast friends and I started to see my reflection more clearly through his eyes. You see in leaving SF, I also left behind 3 of the 3 factors which I felt defined me: my dog, my gallery and my long hair.

My move was a confident and faith-based maneuver and though I knew from the top of my newly sheared locks to the bottom of my well-grounded soul that this was the right thing for me, I wasn’t sure who “me” would end up being. The beauty of this of course is the opportunity for re-invention but I had finally found the me I liked — dare I say loved — and to come here empty handed I wasn’t certain how I would translate to new people in my life until meeting him.

His reflection was also one of re-invention as his chosen career was currently on hold, his living situation the same as mine (non-existant) and our financial means equaled at zero. Yet what I saw in him that I had been unable to see in myself was the ability to know and trust yourself enough that these things were a part of us not the definition of us. We each knew who we were and would again be, regardless of the standard trappings.

I grew in admiration towards him and unified we each claimed stake to rebuilding our lives. The sadness is that unification was also the shattering point and as we each moved forward on our respective paths realizing the vast difference between mirrors and the static image we were both wise enough to appreciate. He had shown me what he was intended to show. A lesson on looking past the mere glance of what is obvious on the surface to the image beyond, the one that ultimately leaves the lasting impression also known as the true self.

Labels

It is next to impossible to live in NY and not become conscious of labels. Labels denoting brand are everywhere; they parade in front of you in window displays, signage on subways ads and of course all along the Avenue numbered Fifth. Women constantly check out other women to see the bag and the shoes she is wearing and I’ve never had so many (straight) men inquire who made the dress, shoes, etc. “Target” I proudly replied which was the truth but not sure if they were as impressed with my ability to make a bargain look good.

Like it or not, labels can act as a reflection of how you are perceived based on what you have chosen. The same is often true of art and artists and it is important for you to understand how this affects you as artist, dealer and/or collector.

ARTIST/DEALER
Ask yourself what you think of when you hear the word “Gap”, “Gucci” or “Van Gogh”. What each of these have in common is instant brand recognition. As an artist or dealer your goal is to create that same connection between yourself and/or your work and your intended audience.

Intention is key here and I ask you to first consider how you want people to relate to you. Start with a statement of intention or if this seems daunting at first start by writing words or phrases free-flow that is your desired descriptive. Consider not only your aestetic and medium such as “bold”, “encaustic”, “haunting” but also your personal attributes “easy to deal with”, “honest”, “warm”, etc. As these words flow together remind yourself of your target market and how these attributes relate to them. As an example, consider once again The Gap best known for jeans and basics with an expected level of quality and value. Over time their target became so broad other subsets such as Old Navy, Banana Republic, etc. were created in order to best concentrate their audience. The same may be true for you if you are for example working in multiple mediums such as photography, painting and sculpture. If they all relate to one another then great but if each has a varied target then a variance of brand may also be suggested.

I also suggest you consider personal attributes that affect the overall experience of the viewer for example I take great pride in being approachable, goofy and slightly irreverent. It’s who I am and clients who prefer a more formal interaction will probably not choose me any more than I would them. It’s all part of the package and all worthy of your consideration.

COLLECTOR
As a consumer, it is critical you understand the value of what you are getting with your purchase. For names like ”Monet” or “Basquiat” you instantly visualize the story of the artist, the importance of his contribution as well as a visual appeal. If you are buying emerging art however this may not seem as obvious. What I encourage you to do in this scenario is to think about the following:
1) Valuation: Consider the artist’s education, years of experience and types of venues where they have shown.
2) Medium: Painting, photography and printmaking. Is this an original or part of a numbered series?
2) Does their visual and verbal messaging align? Consider recent press, bio, statement and series information. Avoid smoke and mirrors, you want to make sure what they are doing and what they say they are doing adds up.
3) Gallery or dealer reputation. You don’t have to love the gallery or dealer representative but you do have to trust them. A well-respected gallerist or dealer has the ability and dare I say power to make an artist’s reputation. They not only have the depth of knowledge as to overall art-market but much of the time “insider” information as to the direction of the artist’s career, where they may be showing next, who collects the work, auction data, and pending press.

Lastly it is important to note that not all brands are for all people so it is critical to do your homework and make sure how you present yourself aligns with your goals.  Art (and fashion) are very personal decisions and it’s important to trust more than the packaging, trust yourself.

A Loveletter to SF Open Studios

As much as I love my new home (NY) I have to be honest and say the two occassions that have brought me close to defection have been the Art-for-Aids auction and Open Studios. Both of these events have been a constant in my life and Open Studios in particular has been more like a family reunion than spending time with my own. My flesh and blood best exchanged for oil and collage.

It started in 2000 shortly after moving to SF. I was new to the city and one of my first friends in SF, an aspiring artist suggested we go check out some studios. The first was Fort Mason and I remember being overwhelmed by the amount of work and how there could possibly be that many artists in SF. And people were buying, leaving with paintings and prints and photos tucked under their arms. As a new collector, this was amazing to see. I felt like I had found my people and of course time would only draw me deeper into this conclusion.

Two years later — and newly single — my friends encouraged that we all buy  tickets to Private Preview which we did and again I was flooded with overwhelm to see all of the art displayed in tiny grids, hundreds and hundreds of pieces each a whole new world to discover. Year and after year passed, each with Open Studios firmly on the calendar and each year I found ways to be more involved first through volunteering, then consulting, then as committee, gallery sitter, juror, panelist, lecturer and always, always, always collector of art and artists.

Over the years, I would look forward to a journey into the familiar sea of faces, followed by warm hugs and greetings. I would reflect on the guide and guess whose work is whose without looking at the names and enliven the surprised way my heart still races to see the evolution of style and subject matter as artists’ have had a year to mature. Each time new, each time magic. 

So here I am 3,000 miles from the center of what was once my universe, my family, my bliss and it is with joy and sadness that I feel my place taken by someone who will experience that same wonder for the first time. Perhaps they too will move on to a world (and apt.) filled with art. Perhaps they too will sit where I once did as a gallery sitter at SomArts feeling glorious sunlight on my face and thinking how deeply I wanted this to be my life. Perhaps they will love the art and their artists creators and connect in that rare and lovely way that happens when studios and minds are open. Perhaps, oh perhaps they will even know when it is time to make room for the next phase and to begin living a new dream filled with memories, and hope, and possibility and dare I lack for saying it filled with art.

To Run or Not To Run?

Like clockwork about once a year I decide to give running another chance. In theory this should be the perfect sport for me as I love to be outside, can take Ella with me, it’s free, it’s social and it requires that you buy shoes. I endure this commitment typically for about a month which is approximately when I reach the 2 mile mark then an excuse such as climate change, being worried about Ella’s joints or undergarment support always demotivate me and I return happily to the slow lane and the walker that I know I am.

The same is true for me as relates to dating and it seems that about once a year I decide this too could be worthy of another go. I approach this task with the same commitment, open-minded and fueled with possibility. At the starting gate all looks good, dating gear in place complete with witty conversation, cute outfits, my favorite chapstick, and of course new shoes. The training wheels are off and here I go but this time there was a bit of an unexpected hurdle. This time out I didn’t know I was dating. I thought I was making a new friend, so comfortable at my own pace, I rambled on and on telling stories I would only tell a close friend. In a short time this “imposter” got to know me the way no date (well, maybe one) got to know me then BOOM a kiss. I thought it was an error as I’ve accidentally fallen on many a lip so intent on the friendship I kept chatting albeit a bit more nervously this time, next interaction no kiss then BOOM BANG the next friendly outing got a bit more than friendly.

All of sudden I find myself out of my comfort zone, running off trail up hill with no roadmap. How could this have happened but encouraged by friends that this all counts as cardio, I continued on route until I realized it has been over a month. If you recall, this is the point that I typically start walking again but in this scenario walking means walking away. It feels like the right thing to do as everything else creates discomfort in the same way I feel just before breaking a sweat.

Surely there is no way to stretch the heart muscle but breathing exercises have been helpful. The phone rings, it’s him (deep breathes), a text received, it’s him (deep breathes)… all good, no great but I haven’t passed this mile marker in such a very long time. All so easy up until now, I am concerned I may be in marathon mode. I know in that scenario it is more about the finish than the pace but isn’t this when injuries occur after all?!

Not sure what to do, I do what feels comfortable and slow down. It feels great to enjoy the moments without rushing through them, to be myself. To my surprise though he begins walking with me, I guess it wasn’t about the race for him either so now here we are the walkers that we know we are, enjoying the terrain, the catching of the breathe and of course for me yet another reason to buy new shoes.

eleven

It all began in high-school, my obsession with the number eleven that is. The number the first boy I ever kissed proudly sported on his basketball jersey. I forgot about this number for awhile until I began working at UBS and a dear friend/partner in crime (Melissa) would say to me each day “it’s 11:11, make a wish”. Newly single and a bit anxious in my new work environment, make a wish I did. My first wishes a bit immature ranging from George Clooney, to a million dollars, to new shoes. All lovely things of course but as time passed, I got the hang of this wish thing and as she continued to remind me “it’s 11:11…” my wish became more of a mantra or silent prayer if you will wishing for peace within myself and those around me. Peace, my self proclaimed equal to this number which had become so dear. 

As odd as it sounds, it was this proclamation that inspired my first tattoo some time later. Something I had always wanted to do and once I decided the day had come I struggled for a moment with a symbol for “11:11″ and decided instead that this symbol for me was of course peace. I decided on the Japanese character as it looked more artistic and abstract than the hippie version and as soon as the needle touched my skin for the first time, I knew something had shifted. In that moment, my biggest desire and fear resolved, a series of events set in motion which have not stopped to date.

The number eleven tends to follow me. It comes sometimes as an event “Eleven:11″ our last Toys for Tots fundraiser at the SF gallery. I admit I force it sometimes keeping my math skills honed by adding all numbers in a date and dividing it to see if I come up with 11, it of course visits me on the clock twice a day and it came up again on Monday of this week. This week it decided to come with a dollar sign placed in front $11 my total available funds. If you know me well, you know money has never been a priority for me unless of course it related back to making it for you in the case of the artists but I gotta tell ya this eleven did not seem so peaceful. The great thing — or one of the great things — about living in NY however is the fact that you make $11 last a surprising amount of time. Iced coffee for $2, fruit on the street 25-50 cents, the best dirty water dogs and cheese pizza slices for $2 each. With this knowledge, I could live forever on this abundance. The number once again a reminder of my resourcefulness, my determination, my love of junk food.

Peace by definition is freedom of the mind from annoyance, distraction, anxiety, an obsession, etc.; tranquillity; serenity. Peace for me as it turned out was all about being true to myself. Finding the real me in the chaos I had mistaken as my life. Have I found peace you ask? For the most part I answer and I hold true to my mantra and I now know that somewhere in the world at most anytime it is 11:11 and peace is always within my reach and within my self. It’s 11:11, make a wish ya’ll!

The FUNemployed

I’m not sure where I first heard the phrase but it is out there floating in the cosmos..FUNemployed. The definition as I understand a subset of people such as myself who are currently without a steady, defined income but have attained a certain quality of life enabling us to make the most of dwindling resources. We are the people you still see at art gallery openings, well-groomed and well-dressed, talking the talk, blending and of course sipping complimentary wine as wine at home is no longer in the budget.

Speaking of budget, there is not one. We leap from savings to unemployment (if you had the luxury of once being a paid employee), and from the unpredictable stream of income that always seems to find us. We are still invited to dinner parties always bringing a complimentary dish or wine but seeing this as an investment into a larger more gracious offering.  As is the case with many new friends in NY, we probably no longer have our own apartments but we live in great areas safe from the elements our sacrifice limited closet space and a suitcase on the ready should our friends return from summer plans or our sublet need modification. We give up eating out so we can have drinks with friends, we defer shopping trips for the reinvention of style. “No, I swear this dress is back in season” I say wide eyed with the utmost conviction. We walk in lieu of gym memberships and do yoga in the park. We know the schedule for all free cultural events enjoying world-class Opera and Shakespeare in the parks, free concerts, wine tastings, donation only days at Museums, etc. If single, you may be so resourceful to date for food or entertainment — something I have been accused of once (thanks Dave and of course the desire to expand our minds by choosing reading over cable most often part sincerity/part excuse as cable is very pricey these days.

We feast on sunlight and deep thoughts feeling a bit superior to our still wealthy counterparts. Discussions are based on art, music, world events (though not when I am around) and of course the enlightenment that our new lifestyle has clearly attained for us. Who needs security after all or health insurance or dental or… Yes, we have it all. 

The Door (2005)

We rose together that morning, partners in disquiet slumber. The rain an unwelcome reminder of the words that softly, then harshly fell the night before. Words which were washed away forming puddles in which we would later dance.

Our routine began just like any other Saturday. He left for his morning run as Dillon and I set out on our walk. Hours later he would return to find me excitedly preparing to meet my new found friends for lunch. Since moving to the city, this would be my first “girl’s outing” and I fretted over what to wear and how I looked. He stood in silence outside the bathroom door watching me lather, lotion and primp, looking down in search of words like diamonds scattered on the ground but unable to locate them in the worn tan carpeting. Finally a glimmer, finally the words, “I will be gone when you come home today” he said, never looking away from the safety of the floor.

The words hung between us like cartoon bubbles yet I felt their weight heavy as lead, bruising me with their reality, yet filling me with disbelief. His departure purposefully planned while I was in the safety of friends. His new apartment rented, his new life laid out before him, all he needed from me was my absence. My thoughts raced, “Did he really think I would send him off with a kiss and rush off to my lunch? Did he think I would sit idly by and watch our marriage end without protest or question?”

The words fell hard to the ground and his eyes met mine. His void of emotion, as mine filled with tears. The moment melted into hours. Hours filled with conversation and confessions, old wounds re-opened, past sins revealed but not yet the truth that would come later.

In disbelief I watched as he packed. Seemingly insignificant items flooded me with sweet memories, the t-shirt he wore on our honeymoon, the jacket I bought for him last Christmas, our final Christmas. I wanted to hold on to them, to breathe them in, to keep some small part of him with me but he was not so easily dissuaded.

In a final desperate plea, I barricaded myself between him and the door. Dillon, a quiet bystander, remained disinterested and unaffected. I attempted to pry the bags from his fingers “I am doing this for us” he said, gently pushing me to the side. I threw myself in his arms and we kissed goodbye. A kiss which tasted of tears and broken promises, yet somehow sweet and lingering in its finality then he walked out never to look back.

Paralyzed, I watched the door close behind him, I heard the elevator come and go and I knew he was gone. The tears lasted only a moment longer then I took refuge with my one true love. Exhausted I collapsed beside him on the floor, my head resting gently on his heart, feeling his life force and confident tranquility. And there we lay, Dillon and I, listening to the chaotic pattern of the rain, waiting for the sun to peer through and new life to emerge.

Always Faithful?

Today I did something I am both proud and repulsed by, I interviewed for a (gulp) corporate job. I am not sure if I was more afraid they would like me or that they wouldn’t but here I am mere hours later with 2^nd and 3^rd interviews scheduled and I sit bewildered by the destiny I hold so dear.

It seems like only yesterday when I left this world (of corporate) for another. A world best suited for my restlessness with themes and spirits changing and soaring. A world of art and all the love and magic it imbibes. As I heard someone say once, “art is the one lover I could never be unfaithful to”. When art found me, it was love at first sight and my fidelity never a question as I stood committed, heart felt and true. Art has never disappointed, it has always provided me the orgiastic embrace I’ve felt on such rare occasion so why this unforgivable indiscretion you ask? Simple. I faced a cross road where the uncertain is no longer an option. The “eat, kill or die” philosophy I’ve found so enticing the past few years has double-crossed me or rather I have crossed it.

I told myself in advance that I would do anything for NY. My heart full of equal but differentiating love, the way I imagine a mother loving her twins. One for brains, the other for beauty but both equally filling of the heart. But alas my twins are crying out for attention at the same time and the irony I hold so dear which I found upon entry to my interview was the 10-foot tall sculpture “Love” by Robert Indiana. Love? Love! How has loved betrayed me once again and in such a public manner, tourists standing by to mock with pictures soon to lace photo albums and don holiday cards.

Love? Love. Pardon the poor paraphrase, but it was Kierkegaard that said “Love is not the villain, it is our choices in love that betray…” But my choices were for the most part pristine. How could I have afforded not to have the experience of each artist, each show, each venue? This of course is not the question as there are no villains here but alas there are still choices leading to this outcome, this resolution. In the simplest of terms, I am only left to blame the spontaneous calling for which I declare no regret. If I had waited after all for the right moment, the right business plan, the right amount of money, priceless moments would have been lost and perhaps would have past silently leaving regret where surprisingly now there is none.

Yes, LOVE I declare! After all is gone, love remains. A love as pure as the day it was born for both of my twins, my art, my city and perhaps at some point a third, my self.