Running at the mouth about credibility

Wish that there was a formula to make artwork (paintings, sculptures or whatever) that were more self-satisfying and meaningful.

Would it be too easy then? Would the work seem shallow, despite the content or the hard work (in making the thing) involved?

There is that annoying issue about process and just how important it is. I, in fact, am willing to work hard-real hard, if it comes to that. But where's the guarantee that the end product will amount to more than just another tchatchke needing only to be dusted?

Here's a quote from the Robert Genn collection (http://quote.robertgenn.com/):

Rejection is a speck, like a bit of unwanted debris, imbedded like a pebble in our psyche, and it stays there niggling away and undermining our self-confidence until we feel strong enough to pull it out. (Janet Warrick)

Hah! Now we are on to the real issue-yep, I got passed over for a grant. And, yes, this little bit of rejection bothers me. Somehow, I was basing a lot of hope (counting my chickens before the hatch) on the idea that I'd ace this thing (I did ace it about 5 years ago: my ego made me say that) and have money to spend on art supplies-in fact, the money was already spent-I sure as hell needed more paint for my recently renewed "passion"....and then there's more plywood and hardware and -well, you name it, I needed it.

Since I'm really wandering in this writing, here goes another thought: I know that new supplies don't make the art, that only the artist can. Which leaves me high and dry, without square one, stuck inside of Memphis when it comes to the written word. I seem to be really great at putting down all kinda random thoughts, as long as one breath lasts. But anything longer becomes one tough challenge. The thought of writing a novel is not daunting to me in itself-I can do the work(if my hands could survive my nimble but inaccurate typing), but my brain just does not seem to encompass thoughts that are somewhat contiguous-how the hell could I ever stay on topic?

I'm also feeling that I can't seem to do this in my artwork, either...thankfully, this can be hidden with "style"-in this sense, "style" becomes continuity, which in turn, becomes credibility.

Or is this my problem? Is there quality and credibility to be found only in work that has continuity, in work that moves in a linear fashion (let's stay away from any idea about the stream of consciousness "format" here)? Or can I write in short paragraphs and one-liners only. A book of quotes perhaps? Worlds shortest art-crit essays-three sentences or less?

What is brewing in my mind, dear reader, is a project that William is creating up for Bill. One that will involve writing something lengthy (which, for me, would be more than five pages) and that does not "wander" (well, not TOO much). As for the artwork, I seem to be able to pull off (or at least feel ok about) making works that have recognizable style, but not necessarily conceptual linear continuity. Perhaps the credibility factor that I get from continuity comes about in the fact that I work on so many sculptures and paintings at once. each of these works stays with me physically, mentally and emotionally until its completion. It's interesting to

note that I put finished work in a different place-either on another floor or stacked somewhere so as to be accessible, but not necessarily visible. The official stamp of completion, to be followed eventually by photographic documentation.

This one is called "...And how."

(While we're on the theme) Bitchin', Moanin' and Bitchin' More

"We" didn't start out too well today. Before I had my first sip of coffee (aka universal starting fluid), I had some dog accidents to clean up. Both dogs were running for cover: I just lost it and my temper hit the wall (not the dogs, but I might as well have-they were pretty rattled).

Almost instantly, I mentally plodded through all the reasons that life just ain't so great right now -I'll spare you the details which (for me) read like a long laundry list.

So let's just say I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Given my resolution for the year, I'm trying to paste on a smile, but the results of my efforts are rather anemic.

Today is a snow day: a"wintry mix of precipitation" has been ordered for the entire day and that means I'll probably not take the "shoebox on wheels" nor myself out. I'll be working inside the house, which means making painting for the most part.

Since I started dividing my time between the sculpture studio and painting at the house, my whole schedule has been whacked. This has been an uncomfortable time for me anyway (see above), but this way of working has managed to bring about a serious rupture in my schedule. As a matter of fact, most everything seems upside down as a result. I did choose to do this, however, as I felt myself sinking into a rut.

You might remember how very grateful I was when my Dad came home from the hospital and my parents resumed their "normal" schedule. For some, a schedule like theirs might resemble what Hell would be like. Ironclad. What was done yesterday at a certain time will be done today in the same time and manner. I am the proverbial apple that has fallen not very far from the tree. Attempting to buck the system with its rigid order has been tough-to some degree like quitting smoking or dieting. There has also been a sense of being adrift, accompanied by a great deal of insecurity. This has been coupled with a physical failing on my part (the back issue) as well as a continuing look into my own mortality, brought on not only by my failing dogs, but also by increasingly frail parents. The process of change is never easy, as I've heard droned all of my life.

The artwork that I've been making has had a less welcoming look to it. By this, I mean that it has become more foreign to me (and ain't that the point: not to be making objects or images that bring discomfort or pain necessarily, but work that challenges that which has gone before).

I wish that I could more effectively separate the bad from the good-it seems as though I'm already too busy trying to greet the stranger now at my door. Guess that there has been a lot written or at least quoted on this:

"I always doubt my paintings can hold together. I'm trying to get to the point where they carry the sense of doubt that is one of the most engaging things about painting." (Mark Schlesinger)

"Change occurs in direct proportion to dissatisfaction, but dissatisfaction never changes." (Doug Horton)

"As an artist, it is central to be unsatisfied! This isn't greed, though it might be appetite." (Lawrence Calcagno)

Anyhow, this is all yadda yadda yadda to an audience. Somehow it felt better to commit it to "paper", but I'm just not sure of the benefit of reading it (now he tells us), outside of the fact that it draws my readers closer to me (just what you-all wanted).

Another tin head that sorely tried my hands and their toughness-sharp edges everywhere!

Pinching and Biting

Pardon the assemblage of notes/somewhat scattered thought here, but I seem to be running on and on, with no appreciable continuity in sight.

My work (painting) seems to be solidifying-that is, in terms of looking unified. Spose I come to this conclusion as I'm about to haul a bunch of it off to the photographers' to be shot...am I ready to commit this stuff to "film"? Probably not, but let's bwe bold and brash-there's always plenty of time for regrets later!

What the act of (sucessful) painting can bring about is a vista at once suggestive of reality-the hard and true-and intersperse it with mystery-that that is half-known or veiled. Isn't this what (good) fiction gives us? Mystery: the adventure, the unknown. Maybe when I learn to paint, I will also have a clue as what and how to write. Following a metaphor here, I find that I use erasure in my painting often. Although I don't know how to paint a partial something, it is easy enough to paint (or at least suggest) it completely and then erase it.

I can only define my experience while painting as trancelike-more akin to a semi-conscious state than not. Turning some channels off and pushing others quite hard, my eyes and hands hold a dialogue as I paint. Since I "stumble and fall" frequently when painting (which can be good, which can be bad), maybe I should consider painting with a list or drawing-a map, which could be vague yet informative.

Decided to photograph Rhonda, before too much time passes. I'm not a great fan of snapshots, but since I'd miss not having these shots, I made a few snaps of her, the dog that is velcroed to me.

My Father leaves the hospital in two days - I hope he restores the faith my mother and I so recently feared lost: that we return to the status quo we knew so well, with all its comfort, ease and sleepy boredom. Bring on the old tried and true routine, for the opposite seems a bit too harsh for us chickens: if we have our say, we chose the path where the grass is already trampled, for it is soft and soothing to our feet.

Through Purgatory

My friend Ruth said that I am no longer just my parent's son, but their guide through all the mystery and terror of old age. I'm no Virgil, but the simile is not lost on me. Those in pain, those lost in confusion, those too frail (who face only ghosts of their former self), those crying in witness to the collapse of their bodies and their souls are all here in hospital. The complex equipment here (either comfort-colored or fleshtoned) fool no one and speak to the fact that this land is foreign and dark and strange -there is no hiding their mission here. Indifferently penetrating flesh and organ, they remit cold reports and advance like picadors to the next patient. Headsmen.

Confronting a Gorilla...or two

My 87 year old father was rushed to the hospital last Friday with a choking cough-he simply couldn't breathe and that scared my Mom enough to get him an ambulance and a hospital bed. An extreme case for my parents, self-suffient (almost) to the end.
He's got the usual gear in the hospital, the breathing tube (optional), an IV, and all the bells and whistles that modern science uses to gauge a person's life. He gets the meals, which are just fine (although a little short on the sodium side) for him, his only problem having to get all the disposable lids off the containers. What is lacking is the ordinariness of life-there is no such thing as rthe security of a routine for him, or for my Mom or for myself for that matter. Our tiny family has lost its bearings without the sameness of everyday life. We look for it in the closets. on the television, in the food, but it's gone. It has, for all intents and purposes, flown the coop.
Delilah, that faithless hound of mine, has also lost the routine she had (if you don't have pets, you have no idea how well they keep time and monitor your movements) along with the better part of her breath (she, too, is suffering from a condition where her esophogeal tract is spasmodically constricted: in essence, her airways seem to shut down periodically). Taking her out into the cold air seems to exacerbate this condition, sometimes leaving her gasping and sometimes completely unaffected. She seems to recover and transform back to her normal self, which is a 16 year old well-loved member of the family. I crave these moments, but they are becoming less and less frequent and the gasping episodes more frequent. I have the power to end this animals life-how the hell do I know when this should happen? Of course, I can consult the vet, but it truly is up to me-to work as a monitor and a gauge to "feel" or "intuit" when the bad stuff outweighs the good-or when the pain (which is not so easy to see nor can I petition the patient) seems to be too great...but what about the suffering that is done in silence....or is it really suffering or just silence? How to know, how to know...
I know that there is a little rambling here. Please forgive me this. But searching for some kind of reason and reasoning for both of these beings is difficult. Granted, they are both at the end of their lives. But what to do for each of them. I know my Dad is getting a lot of medical attention, but the constant nag of internal questions as to whether he's getting the right care is twisting me. Delilah, one very tough dog, is a more immediate issue for me, being a cute old beggar one minute and a gasping creature in agony the next-what do I do for her? How do I know when I'm keeping her alive for the wrong reason?