Yesterday I presented my Disposable TV show to El Prof's class at SFAI. Many times over the years I've presented work in the cool, dark environ of STUDIO 9. Previously I would pack years of pieces into a slide projector and methodically click off the chronology to the projector's comforting mechanics and humming fan. But those were the old days. In a room of glowing Macs I didn't dare pull out the carosel. These days you better get to the point. And anyhow they don't even have a slide projector anymore. So I decided to concentrate on work since '05. And it being a video class, the DTV pieces were made to order.
El Prof has always been my life line to academia. He's tossed me a class or two, taken me to Havana to lecture at ISA and tried to keep me abreast of changes in the lexicon. Otherwise I'd be completely in the dark. Remember "Appropriation"? It's back. "Intervention"? Still viable. My work. That piece. The gaze. Etc. Etc. I can still speak the language. But then, as I was watching another artist present his work in another class i caught something I'd never heard before. This guy was referring to his "Practice". WHATTHEFUCK? Did I hear that correctly? There it was again. He was referencing his activity as an artist like a Doctor or lawyer would. For example "In my practice i go hunting, kill a deer, get it stuffed and hang it in the living room." Or "My practice provides the collector with a choice of tattoos from bloodprints or a sculpture made from turkey beards."
After a few drinks at the end of the day i brought this up with El Prof. He was a bit defensive and pratronizing of my ignorance regarding this shift in language. I'm the first to admit I'm out of it when it comes to any level of the art world these days. In NY it's all about the hype. I remember that much. But in the academic/biennal world it's all about globalization. You "produce" not "make". You have a "practice" not a "career". Call me old fashioned but this sounds forced and prentious to me. Like just wearing a suit and tie makes you a professional. I think, like a Dr. and Lawyer there should be a bar exam or medical board to certify one's art practice. Art students shouldn't be allowed to use that word in reference to their unproven activities. AND if you have a practice can there be malpractice if you do lousy work? It opens up a whole can of worms.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not against this language shift. But lets see if it sticks. If it does I'll be the first to hang out my shingle. CATSKILL MOUNTAIN ART PRACTICE- satisfaction guarenteed! Board certified since 1977. You've tried the rest. Now buy from the best. Bonded and insured.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
NO GUNS, NO BLOOD
This trip out into the world I've decided to travel light. I left the 9mm. at home and have no plans to get any tattoos. I just want to let the days unfold and see what happens. Yesterday El Prof and I went golfing. Anyone who knows me will tell you a golf course is the last place I want to spend any time. But since my old friend had taken up the sport with quite a bit of zeal, I felt it was impolite not to tag along. He played nine, while I drove the cart.
We "played" Gleneagles in S.F. This is a sweet little course with loads of trees, switch backs, dips, gullys, sand traps and tiny greens. But what the fuck do I know about golf courses? I kept looking for deer. An Anchor Steam in one hand and a joint between my lips I did my best to stay on the cart path without tipping over. El Prof wacked away at the little ball and filled me in on Cuba. As we approached the 5th hole he told me of his last outing on this course. The 5th hole backs right up against the projects. It seems a favorite past time of the homies is to take pot shots at the golfers from an open window. "I was about to address the ball..." El Prof said " when I heard a PFFFFT! like a silencer. I was hit in the pants leg. Then three more shots bounced off the trees. I dove for cover." The guy he was playing with just stood there. "It's just an air rifle." he said, non-plussed and told El Prof that would cost him a stroke. I'm no expert, but I think most rule books will not penalize you under fire. In the end El Prof shot in the high 50's and bought the Bloody Marys back at the clubhouse.
Today I went to the museum (another thing I never do) and stared at the Clifford Stills and Rothkos. For some reason art seems relevent in SF. Unlike Sullivan County. It's bight and sunny, breezy and chilly at the same time. I bought a sweater at Goodwill for $2.40. I have no TV in my room so I'm reading A LITTLE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, that Horst and Marianna Louise gave me last summer. It's a good book. Everyone grows pot here now so there's no problem getting my eye medicine. It's very civilized. On Thurs. I'll show my Disposable TV pieces at The San Francisco Art Institute in El Prof's class and talk about WSSP and the Church, and maybe "golf" again. Maybe I can borrow a piece for self protection on the 5th hole. How much do you tip the caddy if he takes a bullet for you?
We "played" Gleneagles in S.F. This is a sweet little course with loads of trees, switch backs, dips, gullys, sand traps and tiny greens. But what the fuck do I know about golf courses? I kept looking for deer. An Anchor Steam in one hand and a joint between my lips I did my best to stay on the cart path without tipping over. El Prof wacked away at the little ball and filled me in on Cuba. As we approached the 5th hole he told me of his last outing on this course. The 5th hole backs right up against the projects. It seems a favorite past time of the homies is to take pot shots at the golfers from an open window. "I was about to address the ball..." El Prof said " when I heard a PFFFFT! like a silencer. I was hit in the pants leg. Then three more shots bounced off the trees. I dove for cover." The guy he was playing with just stood there. "It's just an air rifle." he said, non-plussed and told El Prof that would cost him a stroke. I'm no expert, but I think most rule books will not penalize you under fire. In the end El Prof shot in the high 50's and bought the Bloody Marys back at the clubhouse.
Today I went to the museum (another thing I never do) and stared at the Clifford Stills and Rothkos. For some reason art seems relevent in SF. Unlike Sullivan County. It's bight and sunny, breezy and chilly at the same time. I bought a sweater at Goodwill for $2.40. I have no TV in my room so I'm reading A LITTLE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, that Horst and Marianna Louise gave me last summer. It's a good book. Everyone grows pot here now so there's no problem getting my eye medicine. It's very civilized. On Thurs. I'll show my Disposable TV pieces at The San Francisco Art Institute in El Prof's class and talk about WSSP and the Church, and maybe "golf" again. Maybe I can borrow a piece for self protection on the 5th hole. How much do you tip the caddy if he takes a bullet for you?
Monday, April 13, 2009
13 GRINGAS
As you can see from the previous picture, and the time it's been up, I needed to get out of town. My yearly junket off the mountain was put off until now. Not a moment too soon. I'm writing this from my hallway PC in a Youth Hostel on Mission St. called The Elements Hotel. After my Goddaughter Monasita blew me off at the airport. (I wasn't specific enough about needing a ride. And then found out she drives a moped.) I grabbed my bag, walked past the bickering day laborers, and a crackhead wishing her mom happy Easter, and ended up with a nice room with a shower and comfortable bed for 60 bucks. Can't beat it.
Mona's father, my old friend El Prof was enroute from The Tijuana Airport. He was on the final leg of a journey that found him chaperoning 13 American female art students, along with a Mexican and Russian dude to Havana for 10 days. Think you can't go to Cuba? Talk to El Prof. I went to Cuba with him twice over the years during Bush. When the entire country is shut out of that island, El Prof will find a way to get home. Showing me the pictures of The Riviera and The Malecon as we smoked prime SF medicinal pot and drank Havana Club and coke, I pined for la habana. There's no place like it. The fact that El Prof shows up periodically with a gaggle of Gringas with legs up to there, makes him a legend down there.
But enough of Cuba. I'm in SF. Today is for catching up, seeing old friends, talking art, eating, drinking, smoking and meeting with art students. The sun is shining, holding the fog at bay and coffee is beckoning. Stay tuned.
Mona's father, my old friend El Prof was enroute from The Tijuana Airport. He was on the final leg of a journey that found him chaperoning 13 American female art students, along with a Mexican and Russian dude to Havana for 10 days. Think you can't go to Cuba? Talk to El Prof. I went to Cuba with him twice over the years during Bush. When the entire country is shut out of that island, El Prof will find a way to get home. Showing me the pictures of The Riviera and The Malecon as we smoked prime SF medicinal pot and drank Havana Club and coke, I pined for la habana. There's no place like it. The fact that El Prof shows up periodically with a gaggle of Gringas with legs up to there, makes him a legend down there.
But enough of Cuba. I'm in SF. Today is for catching up, seeing old friends, talking art, eating, drinking, smoking and meeting with art students. The sun is shining, holding the fog at bay and coffee is beckoning. Stay tuned.
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