CultureCandy - v3

When conversations turn to writers, inspiration is inevitably mentioned. No one knows how it happens but everyone agrees it is what a writer seeks. I think they are dead wrong. I do not need inspiration. Everything my five senses, plus E.S.P., encounter provides inspiration. What I need is protection from the onslaught of my gift. I know that sounds absurd but such is the reality of my life.  I am a writer. Most people choose what they do. I have no choice. I can be a fireman, a nurse, an actress, or an astronaut.  I still have to write.

The mind of a writer is a tyrant and no respecter of time or place. The most innocent of comments churns the creative cauldron. I have written on the backs of envelopes, during the sermon, on my hand. I can talk to you while writing in my head and you will never know it. There are warnings about texting while driving. No one warns about writing while operating a vehicle.

My protector is an elf named P. Q. He stands three and 7/8” tall, wears a black bombazine soutane with crushed agate vertical stripes and a sapphire yarmulke. Quill and parchment in hand, he takes charge of the chaos and stores every thought I have and every word I write. His whispery voice echoes all.

Long storage cabinets made of ebony, three feet tall, six drawers each with ruby knobs, are his charge. He climbs an antique oak library ladder to each drawer and calls on a cousin of Hercules for the heavy work.

 As each one is filled, P. Q. starts another. As long as I live there will be an ebony cabinet waiting. There is no need for an index or table of contents. Memory and imagination along with P.Q.’s echoing voice navigate better than any G.P.S. could.

P.Q. monitors those drawers carefully. The writer’s salvation and damnation are found there. When the drawers are closed, there is no turmoil.  The writer’s mind can be still. There is no need for protective clothing or being sure the word-drowning policy is in force.

Life assumes an orderly pattern; breakfast at seven, a walk in the park, afternoons with aged aunts, dinner at eight. The days flow until a twinge of tomorrow, a case of the utmost absurdity, or the mind numbing certainty of eternity causes the ebony to tingle.

Tingling ebony translates to trembling drawers. The pesky words assail until they find a crack. Then in an unrelenting torrent, they assail the writer.

His life is words. He cannot live with them or without them. Their constant and demanding presence suffocates. The writer, gasping, fights for air among the verbs, nouns, adjectives. Abbreviations pelt him with periods and sling arrows at him.  It is said time and tide wait for no man. The writer learns early the same is true of demanding words.

In self defense the writer grabs pencil and paper, keyboard at the ready. He struggles to give the intruders place.

 “Me first. No! Me first! Take me! Move over, pal, I‘m next.”

Bowing to his fate, the writer surrenders. Once again in thrall of his gift.

“Molly never expected to find herself in such a situation.

 In fact, she had often told Uncle George,

 that it would be a cold day in Hell before he would find her…….”

I have tried not to write. I tried denial. I tried escape. I feigned deafness. I played the idiot, even changed my name. Nothing worked. Blessing or curse, words are my master and whether they bellow or whisper, I must answer their call.

I pay homage to the gods who allow me to write; knuckle-white with terror they might abandon me. All the while knowing sanity and salvation are mine thanks to P.Q., that unlikely protector in black bombazine.

Free us from fetters
of seventeen syllables.
Ganache nous, cherie

Louis Nizer was a British-born American lawyer with “spellbinding oratorical skills”.  His courtroom career lasted more than six decades, and he wrote many books about the tension of his work and the passion that fueled it.  He is said to have spent many long hours in his office meticulously preparing his arguments, and although he didn’t memorize them by rote, he spoke them very eloquently in the courtroom.  He once wrote that his work was ever challenging, ever intense, and surprise was ever present.

My favorite quote from him is, “A man who works with his hands is a laborer; a man who works with his hands and his brain is a craftsman; but a man who works with his hands and his brain and his heart is an artist.”  Within the confines of time and space, our hands, brain, and heart are all we have.  Putting all we have into something is somewhat of a risk.  But, perhaps the greater risk would be holding any part of ourselves back.  Nizer wrote a personal piece which he called “The Lawyer’s Prayer”.  The closing words are, “… I know that when you finally touch us with your fingers to permanent sleep and examine us, you will look not for medals or honorary degrees, but for scars suffered to make the world a little better place to live.”

My own experiences of creative work involve intensity, challenge and surprise.  When I set out, I have a vague idea of where I want to go, but it’s frustration and agitation that set the wheels in motion.  For me, making art is fitful work that ain’t always pretty.  When I’m in the throes of it, I sweat, my hair gets greasy, my back aches, and I pace nervously and wild-eyed.  Then there come the moments when I move beyond all the fervor and I’m lifted.  Somebody or Something else has a foot on the accelerator and I am propelled along by what feels like no effort of my own.  The gears start shifting and the rush of having spoken some sort of truth blows all the tension away.

The Muses of classical Greek mythology were daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (goddess of memory).  Before the introduction of writing, Mnemosyne represented the “memory” required to preserve the stories of history and myth.  The Muses acted as intermediaries for the gods…a source of memory and knowledge for man, who lacked the fullness of these virtues.  And then there is the modern form of a muse…a human who acts as an agent for the creation of art through others.  One example is Lou Andreas-Salomé, a woman who is said to have provoked Nietzsche, Rilke, and Freud to some of their greatest literary works.  She was beautiful, unconventional, intelligent, and had ideals of God, consciousness and love.  Like an addictive drug, she had the power to possess their minds.  But being the agent of her own destiny as a writer, she left them abruptly.  As much as Lou herself, her abrupt departure from them was the muse that inspired them to their best work.  Her absence was as powerful as her presence.  For some of us, our muse is more of an ethereal idea, or a passion, that lives somewhere in our hearts and impels us to speak to it.

Whether mythological, modern, or mystical, one thing is for sure…muses are agitators.  They mysteriously show up and mysteriously slip away.  They Inspire us with a breath of truth and a longing to make it known.  If Inspiration is the breathing in of divine influence, then perhaps Aspiration is the breathing out of its effect on us.  Inspiration and Aspiration.  Where the two meet, Creativity happens.

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” Charles Dickens

When I was a kid, my family moved every three years to a different Marine Corp base: Quantico, Virginia, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, etc. It was exciting. I don’t remember regret at leaving; I remember the enchantment of a new house to discover. What were the windows like, what color the walls? I have lived in Baton Rouge since 1987 – the longest I have ever lived anywhere, yet I have moved constantly into at least 18 different apartments. There have been many adventures in creating each Grotto von Heiterkeit i.e. a poorly translated German-ish term for Den of Serenity. (I don’t know where I got that, just picked it up along the way.) Every new place was an opportunity for a design experiment including the all white room on S. Acadian Thruway, Queen’s Violet walls on Carlotta Street and the perfect Pink Barbie Dream House on Highland Road.

My constant companions through all these moves have been my vinyl records and an ever growing collection of Architectural Digests. I may have worried about making that water bill payment but I managed to scrape up the money to renew my subscription. Tidy white stacks of possibility kept me from feeling broken about being broke. I call my decorating style “Early American Poverty” since I was living on plasma money and minimum wage. My furniture was crates and cardboard but the walls were Avocado semi gloss and those crates were covered in silk scarves or painted flowers. Greeting cards become art when they are framed and mounted on scraps of gorgeous wrapping paper. Garage sale sheets become curtains. On Azalea Street, I built a frame from pvc pipe and spray painted it gold. It hung from the ceiling on chains and was draped in yards of white voile sumptuously spilling to pool on the floor to create a $20.00 canopy bed that felt like a million dollars. I have been living the high life my whole life no matter the budget.

One of the best features about Architectural Digest is the “Extraordinary Homes for Sale Around the World” section. Sweetie, Darling, come sit on the veranda and drink a mint julep with me while we choose our next vacation home:

1. This lovely home in Newport, Rhode Island is a 16 bedroom, 12 bath, 24,340 sq. ft, circa-1875 Tudor Revival design. The ballroom is one of the town’s largest private rooms. The 4.3 acres include greenhouses where the estate’s signature pink geraniums are grown. Only 17.9 million, mere pocket change.

2. Perhaps you would prefer the Chiang Mai, Thailand compound comprised of seven pavilions erected around a courtyard pool. Crowned with steeply pitched roofs, the buildings incorporate local vernacular styles and feature woodwork of reclaimed golden teak. Three gazebos, lush gardens, and a pond bridged by walkways distinguish the four-acre plot, set in the foothills of the Himalayas. $15 million.

3. Hmm, I am not sure, maybe we should settle for the budget friendly manor house in Castletown Geoghegan, Ireland. The 62-acre parcel includes woodlands, formal gardens, and a masonry cottage. Adding to the estate’s historic charm are the ruins of a medieval church. 8 bedrooms, 7 baths, only $3.9 million – a bargain! Let’s buy that one!

18 moves later the Early American Poverty style has been informed by a Harold and Maude Caboose aesthetic with a hint of circa 1940′s Werewolf Movie Gypsy Wagon. Collected art, ceramics, prints, paintings, sculpture and bits and pieces from travels to China, Europe, and/or the countless little antique shops that make driving back roads of Louisiana so much fun, are packed into in the house I bought almost ten years ago. That’s not junk, my dear, that is Junque!

I had hit a rut, I even let my subscription lapse. I was feeling bored, overwhelmed, underwhelmed, uninspired. I was blue – not Azure Skies – more like a blah blah acid washed jean sort of color. I had blank walls! After a time, the best part of me got really irritated with my pit of mediocrity and mailed a check to Architectural Digest.

My inspiration came when I purchased a Christmas tree at Garden District Nursery and I realized the owner, Gordon Mese, created this wonderfully exotic yet down-to-Earth environment. So when I found out that he is running for Mayor, I thought: what if Baton Rouge could attain the atmosphere cultivated at Garden District Nursery?

And his macaw sits there on top of her cage, inspiring my photography.

It all… fell together.

I planned a meeting at the nursery early one morning, of course it rained, but we didn’t let that stop us. When I got there, Gordon was so into creating an “American Gothic” style image. Shovel, tongs, guitar, bike and BBQ pit, he embodied the many-armed Renaissance man. This is not the first time his creations have been written about in this publication. I spied an old “Sweet Tooth” still taped to the glass door. So he knows his audience, referencing a famous painting and his sense of humor for the photo session. Charming, really.

Part of Gordon’s inspiration for a mayoral run is reaffirmed by his proximity to Mid City Bikes. His grand plan contains “Complete Streets” which includes lanes for pedestrians, bikers, skaters, cars and buses. As a born and raised Baton Rouge-an myself, I fully understand Gordon’s idea to create a city that we can be proud to raise our children in.

Some nitty-gritty details about Gordon are: he is an independent and always has been, he is born and raised in Baton Rouge, he is a business owner and landscape architect. His family is also from Baton Rouge, through and through. He knows about planning in a grand sense, in a city wide sense. In his own words:

“I was one of 10 residents asked by the Baton Rouge Area Foundation to answer the question ‘What would you do if you were the benevolent ruler of the parish?’ My answer does not appear in their latest edition of “Currents” , magazine (page 48) because they felt it would be too political to publish since I have announced my candidacy for Mayor. For this reason, I am posting my response here as follows: If I were the Mayor, I would focus on the quality of life issues facing our community and not re-election. We have allowed problems to persist in our community and we deserve better. This begins with great planning and superior execution. I envision our Baton Rouge to be a city that is inclusive, vibrant, and desired. If we are going to achieve this vision, we need to stop wasting time and money on redundant studies and do something. I submitted an idea to three lane Government Street, with bike paths, 12 to 15 years ago. Today the idea still has wings, but nothing has happened. Another idea is to create a linear park system that connects areas of the parish. This could provide for economic development, mass transit and recreational opportunities. Imagine a large green space with bike and jogging paths and a roadway for express buses, running through the parish. This would revitalize impoverished areas, reduce traffic and give new opportunities to entrepreneurs. These entrepreneurs graduate from three colleges in this city, every year, and most leave. We need to stop this exodus and provide opportunities. When government is at it’s best, it provides opportunities, at it’s worst, it paints bicycles on the streets.”

https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=354277054596628&id=296657363691931

Here is my sales pitch: these young artists have faith in the universe enough to make art works. This is not an easy choice or at least not an easy one to stick with. As a buyer of art work, you are influencing them to continue on their artistic journey. I think this is a very gratifying experience and your walls will beam with such beauty. And I want them to grow old making their art!

I feel as though I serve up the art works for the audience to view and hopefully they will be guided by their own inner eye to purchase an original piece of art. Sometimes it takes time for it to sink in but then someone else has bought the piece. Hone the “love at first sight” instinct when looking at art, not the “does it go with the couch” rationale. I promise you will be amazed at what a unique painting, cup and photograph can do for you every morning. Just imagine your cup of tea or coffee in a hand made porcelain mug with beautiful celadon glaze. I believe the molecules of the clay have special frequencies that are good for the body and make you happy. (inspired by Adrienne Lynch)

Steve Martin, the multi-talented philosopher gone comedian gone screenwriter and now touring musician, has written, on the heels of 2007’s Born Standing Up: A Comic’s Life, an autobiography of his stand-up years, another book. An Object of Beauty is a fictionalized but thoughtful and insighful look at the New York City art scene and the art world beyond, a community that the author has been acquainted with, as a serious collector, for some time.

The voice of Steve Martin, the comedian who slayed the world in the seventies, is thankfully missing. In it’s place is thoughtfulness, and an erudite intelligence that is witty on a deeper level. Deeper, I hear you say, than ‘Excuuuuuuse me?!’ Yes, indeed. And it’s not overly lexigraphic, although there was one word I did not know: chuffed. I couldn’t gloss it and no one I know knew chuffed either. So I looked it up. I am now quite chuffed to know that it means well pleased or satisfied.

The narrator of the story is a quiet art critic named Daniel Franks, and the name is significant. Mr. Franks can be very frank, and I appreciated his skepticism concerning, for example, overly-intellectualized artspeak:

‘In dialogue’ was a new phrase that art writers could no longer live without. It meant that hanging two works next to or opposite each other produced a third thing, a dialogue, and that we were now all the better for it. I suppose the old phrase would have been ‘an art show,’ but now we were listening. It also hilariously implied that when the room was empty of viewers, the two works were still chatting. I was tolerant when he said ‘in dialogue’ because I can get it, but when he said ‘line-space matrix’ I wanted to puke.

The main character is Lacey Yeager, a beautiful and possibly narcissistic (suggested perhaps by the name Lacey) explorer (the surname Yeager refers, possibly, to Chuck

Yeager, the famous test pilot who explored the limits of flight) of the art world. She travels from the equivalent of the mail room at a major auction house to the helm of her own Manhattan gallery and then, tragically, back down to earth.

The title of the book is also significant, in many ways. An Object of Beauty, (not to be confused with the 1991 film The Object Of Beauty, with John Malkovich and Andie MacDowell, which, incidentally, I also recommend), could refer to the purpose of art, perhaps the pure aesthetic pleasure derived from art, the viewer or the collector’s pursuit of the aesthetic pleasure of art, or, most coarsely, the pursuit of financial gain, cash money, that is to say mere dollars, through art.

It might also refer to a work of art itself, including any one of the 22 pieces that are beautifully reproduced and placed to complement their mention in the pages of the book. These range from Maxfield Parrish’s Daybreak, to Ed Ruscha’s Los Angeles County Museum on Fire, to Tom Friedman’s Untitled (an exquisite self-portrait carved on an aspirin), to Pablo Picasso’s cubist Woman with Pears, to Andy Warhol’s screenprints (1964’s Marilyn and 1965’s Flowers), capped off with Dorothea Tanning’s brilliant surrealist masterpiece Eine Kleine Nachtmusik as in the text a fictional Dorothea is ecstatically received at a thinly disguised Miami Basel art fair.

An Object of Beauty might refer to Lacey Yeager, the protagonist, who is desired by many men and who clearly enjoys the desire as much as she enjoys the conquest. After the conquest, (one of which is hilariously fulfilled in full view of a favorite painting of hers), her beauty becomes frosty and dark. In one telling moment she glimpses herself in Willem de Dooning’s famously ghastly Woman I.

But in an equally apt, although unintended, reading, An Object of Beauty might also refer to the book itself. In this age of e-books and digital downloads, it’s refreshing to find a solid tome that is deliberately beautiful and rewarding to behold, even if it is, perhaps, over-designed. The cover is textured and colored to resemble white primed canvas, with hand lettering that offers a glimpse of the warmly textured end papers that lead us into the story itself. The paper is bright white, a break from the traditional cream color of fine books, but a choice that matches the cover and gives greater clarity to the illustrations. The text font is Garamond, a classic, and though the point size is slightly larger than necessary, older readers won’t mind a bit. The running titles and chapter numbers are set in Neutraface, a modern take on art deco. Each chapter number is followed by a period. Unnecessary, perhaps, but these remind me of the mole on Andy Warhol’s Marilyn, and are therefore perfect.

Art directed by Anne Twomey, with cover lettering and end paper illustrations by Darren Booth, it is a fitting design for a rewarding book that deftly surveys no less than the broad spectrum of late American twentieth century art. And as Mr. Martin, in the guise of Dan Franks, puts it:

This secular renaissance, this abundant artistic output, made news. It brought people to the arts, engendered though, analysis, swagger, winners, and losers, and created a cache of art, whether on display or in storage, that will probably supply the cultural world with aesthetic grist for the next five hundred years.

There was a knock on the door. I looked out and saw two men in dark suits. Damn, it’s the FBI. One week ago, my friend, Jamie, died. He was a twenty five year old graphic artist. I’m Poodgy. I’m in for an MBA. Jamie and I met in a bar and decided to room together. My family didn’t like him. Jamie didn’t have any family. We did it anyway.

He spent all his time at his desk. Long after I’d quit cramming, I heard him typing, then silence as the computer saved. Some people have an iron deficiency. He must have had a plastic deficiency. He always had the cap of a ball point pen in his mouth. He had mastered the art of talking around it.

We intended to tame that beast named World. Every night we said,” In a year or two we will be eating high on the hog.” Then over cheap food and cheap beer we dreamed ideas of platinum quality. We thought and trashed. Nothing seemed right. Then one night, Jamie, depressed as hell, really hungry, but too broke to go out, blew up and screamed “I’ll make my own money.” Everything shook as he slammed the door.

Shrugging, I went to bed. The door opened about 3:00 a.m. Silence. Next morning Jamie was hunched over his desk. Crumpled paper littered the floor. Grabbing a stale cinnamon roll with a mildewed edge, I said, “See ya later, Jamie.”

“Yeah, just get the hell outta here and let me be”, he mumbled as he wadded another piece of paper.

Thus began months of living alone with a roommate. Being a part of a busted love affair with half a year left on the lease couldn’t have been lonelier. Months passed.

A week ago I’d had it. I started packing.

I heard the door open but kept on throwing things in the suitcase.

“What are you doing?” Jamie said. He grabbed me.

“I’m leaving.”

“You can’t leave, you moron. I’ve done it!”

Pulling free, I looked at him. This was the Jamie I’d agreed to live with. He was still talking around that piece of plastic.

“Look.”

He handed me a stack of money. I threw it on the floor.

“Hey, hold it. That’s our ticket to the future! Hell, man, Superdollars aren’t as good as mine and they’ve been giving the government fits since the 80’s …Poodgy, this is our platinum chance. I know I’ve been an ass but give it…”

Fed up, I brushed past him and headed for the door. Heard a thud and turned around. He lay crumpled on the floor.

“Jamie!” I yelled, then called EMS before I picked up the money.

EMS said Heimlich wouldn’t have helped. Plastic cap lodged in wind pipe, instant suffocation.

The coroner came, signed the death certificate, and asked what funeral home. I gave him a name.

The authorities left. I called my folks. They were sorry. Should they come?

No. Jamie had made a little money. It would cover the cost.

Jamie said the bills were the best. Figured, it was the least I could do to honor his art. I paid cash.

Heard the knock again, and went to the door.

“Paul Allistair McBurney?”

Hell, I’ve been Poodgy so long, I had to regroup.

“Yes.”

They showed their badges. Not the FBI, The National Council for the Arts.

“You are under arrest” the one nearest the door said. Then he began to read;

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say………”

“What the hell is this all about?” I interrupted.

“You are charged with inflicting a gross misrepresentation of United States currency on a commercial establishment.”

“You kidding me?”

“Nope. Worst art work I have ever seen.”

I’m doing three to five thanks to an incompetent graphic artist with an inflated ego.

your input = needed

Do you own a pot made by Mary Louise Carter or Andy Shaw? Did you recently purchase one of their works from Glassell Gallery? If so, you are invited to consider the following questions in regards to your pot, and to share your responses as part of research for an upcoming article (slated for publication Sept. 2012) about the work of these artists. Your participation is voluntary, and will contribute to a richer, more well-informed study of the journey a pot takes from its inception in the potter’s mind and studio, to the gallery, and finally, to a collector’s home and daily life. By sharing your experience, you fill in a crucial piece of this puzzle.

Please e-mail your responses and/or any questions to Adrienne Lynch at alynchyes@gmail.com, or send by snail-mail to Adrienne Lynch c/o Roswell Art Center West, 1355 Woodstock Road, Roswell, GA, 30075. Please note whether you would prefer your name withheld if quoted, and whether you are open to answering follow-up questions. Your generosity will help this research take shape – thank you.

Note: If you own more than one work by either/both artists, please answer each question in regards to one specific pot,& identify the nature of the pot (plate, bowl, teapot…) as well as its maker. Feel free to vary which pot you consider from question to question. Also, feel free to answer as few or as many questions as you’d like.

1. What basic obligations does a ‘functional vessel’ (bowl, cup, plate, mug, vase, etc.) have to its user, regardless of the material from which it is made? What things should a functional vessel do or not do?
2. Thinking back to your first encounter with the Carter or Shaw pot you own, what compelled you to buy it?
3. Do you imagine yourself as the ideal sort of user for whom the artist designed this pot? Why or why not?
4. Describe (in as much detail as possible) one specific experience of using this pot.
5. What, if anything, has surprised you about this pot?
6. How do you characterize the general nature of your interactions with the piece since owning it? (Special use? Daily use? For guests only?…etc.)
7. What does it mean to you to live with a piece of pottery?
8. In thinking about the materials from which this pot is made, why do you think the artist chose those materials?
9. Please give a sort of profile of the “usual suspects” of your dish collection: what dishes do you eat from/with daily? Why these particular pots?
10. When you recall encountering Mary Louise Carter’s and/or Andy Shaw’s work in a gallery, what do you remember about the look and feel of the space itself? Did the gallery effect the impression the pots made on you? If so, please describe.

“This is who I am!” was his mantra as a young artist. He painted what was in his soul. Colors and subjects that spoke to and moved him. Endless canvases of his passion poured out for all to see. But they sucked and he made no cash.

“Fuck ‘em all” was his next stage as an artist. He slapped his rage onto his pallet and his brush strokes were angry. Oranges and reds filled his head. Black was his only background. He was a rebel. He lived on the street. No one felt his rage. No one bought his art.

“Art. Who needs it?” he asked himself while tucking in his pink oxford button down. He stayed out too late, drank too much and was once again late for his 9-5. He tripped on his way out and the spilled coffee stained his stack of unfinished commissions.

“I used to be an artist” he told his young bride. The yearning she heard during their honeymoon years was not for her but for his lost passion. He daydreamed of quitting his cubicle and moving them down south to paint. But a little one was on the way.

“I took art in college” he said to his young instructor. A six week basics class ignited his passion. He swooned among familiar smells, textures and tubes. The soft bristles and hard handles made him giddy. His belly was on fire. The artist was awakened.

“This one is not for sale” he explained. “But it’s so cool” said the young man. The artist smiled as his brush mixed red and blue to make the perfect purple. He gently applied his purple soul to the canvas as the young man looked on.

“This is my father’s studio” she sighs fondly. She explains to visitors, “Though no longer able to paint this is where he is most happy. This is where his art enlivened his soul. His peaceful canvases are now shown in galleries that once denied him. His work is envied and desired but most importantly his work is who he is”. His daughter’s words made him cry.

“I would sooner look for figs on thistles than for the higher attributes of art from one whose ruling motive… is money.” (Asher B. Durand) read his gravestone.