burn it all down
This Week In Reading
On Fire by Jonathan Griffin
Minnar gave me this book for my birthday, a slim volume of interviews with artists who have lost their studios to fire. Coincidentally, many of the studios are close to where I live now (South of Atwater Village? Off of San Fernando? Why, I live off of San Fernando!), a detail I found more charming than I should.
When writing about studio fires it is tempting to lean into the phoenix narrative, to describe these artists rising from the literal flames, stronger, more triumphant. And all of the artists interviewed have soldiered on, have picked up the pieces and moved forward. It is, however, a self-selecting sample. To have pledged an extra thousand-plus dollars a month to rent a warehouse represents a commitment to a professional art practice difficult to walk back on. To be able to afford a studio space implies that these artists are actually supporting themselves with art; the work is not just their creative practice, but also their livelihood. Would they be more likely to throw in the towel if their art career was not also the way they paid their bills every month?
We love stories of rebirth, of triumphing over the odds. Are these stories more prevalent because humans are designed for resilience? Or because simply, that they make for better stories? I try to resist the urge to make fables of my daily life. The universe, I remind myself, does not exist to teach me greater moral lessons. It seems like a cliché to rise, victorious, from destruction. Where are the stories of people caving in the face of trauma? Giving up when faced with the devastation of the world?
But still! Just because something is cliché, does not mean it is not true. Life is tacky! We are all tacky! Our lives fall into the well worn treads of every story that has come before.
So yes, to be a phoenix. I am consistently amazed by the fact that each of us manages to stay alive every day in a world so full of peril. I suppose, we are built to survive.
It should be said, artists are a breed more prone to resilience. There isn’t much structure pushing you forward. Literally no one else cares about what you do, it is up to you to keep chipping away. Things fail, constantly, and it is on you to find a solution.
So much of art is just discipline. To do the work when you don't want to. I’ve always been someone held together through sheer force of will. It is not the most steady foundation, but it does the trick. My brain sometimes weaponizes my discipline against me. But it also makes me more productive, makes me a better artist. I didn't want to write this tinyletter today because I was tired and I still have not packed for New York, but I sat down to do it, and turns out, I had a lot to say.
Most of the artists interviewed in the book were more upset by the loss of in progress work than they were about the decades of old work that was incinerated. I understand that reaction. As artists, we have to say that our finished work is valuable, because that is how the labor market works, and ergo, that is how we can maybe, possibly, make money. All of my finished work is wrapped in brown paper and shoved under my couch right now. These pieces are hundreds and hundreds hours of my life, artifacts of my labor, but they are also just an idea that I am done with.
Winner Winner, oil painting, 2017
Studio-ing
Lately, I feel like I’ve been working without any stakes. I’m not showing, I’m not networking, I’m just making work and sticking it under my couch. I’m not really working towards anything, besides the work itself. In many ways, this is very liberating. After four years of class assignments and deadlines, it is nice to know that I can make things without that structure. That making, without the external validation of showing, is enough.
I have retreated into my practice, in part, because I am endlessly exhausted by the art world. Exhausted by the name dropping and the networking and so so much bad art. Exhausted by the fact that whether or not the work is good is secondary, if not completely arbitrary.
I’ve been craving a more objective metric for judging art. So I made an oil painting of a blue ribbon and submitted it to the LA County Fair. I first fell in love with the county fair when I spent a summer at an art residency in rural Nebraska at age 19. Pies, pigs, pickles, and paintings, all lined up awaiting judgement. The art was bad, but also so earnest, free of the irony that so much of the art world is drenched in. Each submission was graded along a rubric, given numerical scores that were tallied to determine who would win a blue ribbon, and who would get a red.
I entered my painting of a blue ribbon to the Los Angeles County Fair because I just wanted to win. I love the the idea that the fair is a sort of alternative art space orbiting one of the most cutting edge art scenes in America. I wanted a blue ribbon for my blue ribbon. Somehow, I still lost, beaten out by a pencil drawing of Prince. I got third prize, a white ribbon for my blue ribbon. Maybe I’ll submit my blue ribbon to the Orange County Fair next year, keep entering it until I finally win. Maybe I’ll make a painting of the white ribbon I earned this year, and resubmit it, an ongoing chain until I am victorious. Moving forward, always.
Further Reading
Tell Them I Said No by Martin Hebert. Another birthday gift from another friend, a series of essays about artists who have chosen to opt out of the art world.
Another good book of artist essays is Photographs Not Taken, edited by Will Steacy. Each essay is by a photographer describing a moment that they did not capture.