Selected Art Writing, Volume 1
Recently, I’ve done a bunch of writing for an art gallery in Stockholm, Loyal Gallery, that I haven’t shared with my followers for literally no reason. I am ending that nonsensical decision today, by sharing some pieces I’m fond of.
The job happened serendipitously. I don’t really know much about visual art, and I never set out to write about it, but a friend of mine, ~8 years ago, asked me to write a weird short story for her show. Then, recently, a painter named Lauren Quin stumbled on that story in a pile of old art catalogues and got me to do some abstract prose poetry for her show. Since then I’ve been the resident abstract prose poetry guy for Loyal, and I hope this job continues indefinitely—it’s been a way to bring that “I took a fancy literature degree and I used to read Gertrude Stein a lot” part of my brain into my adult professional life.
Working on this one was more fun than a writing job should be. I went to Lauren’s studio, and sat on a paint-smeared chair as she bombarded me with her legitimately fascinating mental life for two hours. Then, that night, I tried to write something that summed up everything she’d told me.
Lauren is trying to tell you something. It’s beneath her fingers as she’s scraping through the hot blue and the noisy shimmer, after she’s made them hang together. They are the ladder she’s climbing towards the only thing that really matters. It’s not a phrase you can say precisely. You can only touch it slightly, like a wing raking water.
It’s a message that’s been with her since she was 7, long of limb and shivering in the pool in Georgia, when a bat skimmed the water before her. How did the water taste to that leather creature? That taste is what she’s after, the plushy nausea surrounding awareness, the nightly antechamber before the void clicks on, when you’re so close to sleep that you’re scarcely realer than a dollar or a patch of careworn cellophane.
There is that swelling just beyond comprehension. She would like to bring it to your attention. She paints it every day, having no alternative—it cradles her completely, and it manifests in everything that she calls to mind. Some distant lover’s distant shoulder. The feeling of a blush crossing the cheek. Cool chrome on the palm. Every memory leads to another. Every exit leads to another labyrinth. She traces the simplicity of being and it looks completely insane.
As it comes out of her, it sustains damage, becoming wrinkled color. She sustains damage as well, becoming more Lauren, not any Lauren but this one in particular. The one who wonders about the temperature of the water in the belly of a bat. It was just there a moment ago, briefly swimming through the chlorinated summer. These are some paintings of the moments after.
Eddie Martinez - New Paintings 2
In this one, Loyal wanted me to sort of tell the story of their relationship with Eddie. It’s a cool story; they discovered his work when he was kind of squatting in an abandoned storefront in the East Village, and put on his first show. After that show, he became a bona fide blue-chip artist, whose paintings command respect as well as truly large sums. Many years later, to commemorate Loyal’s role in getting his career started, he put on a fourth solo show there.
The drawings staggered towards the margins. Their jagged insistence corrected the unpleasant regularity of the New York evening. There was an accidental-seeming balance to them, the compositional genius of a shipwreck. A falling together collected.
Either they were remarkable or you were hallucinating. There are so many drawings, probably far too many, and, at times, you feel ill-equipped to evaluate the jots and jabs saturating your consciousness. Good, bad—these are flimsy tools to staple down what’s shambling out towards your eyes. But you bought a few instead of a handbag or a turkey, and beheld their muddy faces. You conversed with the man who made them, who was cheery, quick, charming, insistent, lovely, pragmatic, occasionally rageful, but relatably so.
Your judgements are sometimes correct, and sometimes, they’re incredibly correct. You gave the man a show, thinking it would turn out fairly well. He promptly exploded, saturating his surfaces with all kinds of gregarious violence. Sounds were made by the smartly dressed, who spilled out onto the sidewalk. Sighs and chuckles crossed the room from mouth to mouth.
Anyone could have lit the fuse, but it happened to be you. You predicted at least a small explosion. The ground beneath you shook. The man attacked his studio. The captive world had no choice but to accept his accelerandos, the essence of a fever but with none of its paleness. His touch, savage and gleeful. The churn of consciousness becoming pretty as a teacup upon being puked up. It felt like everyone else was explaining why it was correct to be dull, why the mental finger should linger on one theoretical fork or another. He whistled over the discussion and threw the paint like flames.
You haven’t seen him in a long time. The pirate’s life becomes professional when the channels gleam with trade. You hear reports and smile and toast the health of a friend long away. But you look up to find that some wind has brought him back to this island. He carries an impossibly large crate, and, nonchalantly, sets it down before you. He smiles, says hello, and reaches for the latch.
Alex Gardner - Happy to Be Here
This one was challenging, but, in the end, super rewarding. After interviewing Alex, who is a fascinating guy and an exceptional painter, I didn’t know what the fuck to write, so I just sort of paced around for a week and fretted, before the idea occurred to me of writing a kind of user’s manual for the dark world his characters inhabited. Once I hit upon that it came together in about 20 furious minutes.
Of course, you have choices in life. Even in the midst of coercion, there are selections to be made, however narrow they are. Maybe a hand is around your neck: do you tense your muscles, or relax against the pressure? Both approaches have their benefits. Perhaps you can ask to be strangled by a different hand, if the texture of the current one doesn’t please you. Even though you can’t always speak, perhaps quiet humming can be accomplished.
It’s true that you are forced to luminesce beautifully, as you are crammed into small corners, surveilled by others, not clearly friend or enemy. Usually, you can find a pillar to hide your blank face, which is a reasonable option at times. Logically, if you can’t see the interlopers, they can’t see you, and they give up, eventually, and move on.
But sometimes, when you feel social, you become entangled with these so-called people. Momentary friendships can really light up a dull weekend. Generous acquaintances will allow you to touch them, occasionally. Being a person of few words, you do not utter or weep as you feel another body beside you.
Amidst these small adventures, notions bob to the surface of your mind. You recall being in Long Beach. You remember little bright drinks, polyester shorts, soda water, first- and second-hand smoke. The sky was almost painful. The water was glassy. You had a clear objective. And friends, mostly trustworthy, mostly quite attractive. Some wore little clothing. Helicopters woke you. And now you’re here, in the sunless desert.
Life can play out in all kinds of ways.
There is a certain beauty to it, though: this garden of silences encased in time. One uniform sky, free of unhygienic stardust. Everything is served in harmless plastic and eaten out of sight. Nobody knows your diet, and nothing is distorted. You have entered your adulthood. Children are out of the question. In the half-light, you grope for a platform to climb. Not plunging into oblivion sometimes takes all your strength. But of course, that was always true. You have always been climbing. You could never just take a year off.
This morning, joy appeared, like liver on a neon cobblestone. It was warm, unrequested, and it unquestionably belonged to you alone. You looked at it for a moment, and thought of asking it a question. And then it was gone.
All things considered, you’re cool and collected. But certain things are lost when you’re forced to keep it together. You have to be on your own, discard your identifying marks, become as general as weather. It’s difficult to believe, but trust me when I say that you were, at one time, more specific. Inside you, though it’s muted now, there is a differentiating factor. I know your head is a little foggy. But try now, to remember.