Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Framing orders

In addition to photographing and printing pet portraits for clients, I am pleased to offer custom framing of those prints. I have years of experience working for art galleries and museums. The ability to produce custom, archival framing for works on paper is essential in any curator or arts admin gig. I quite like framing the pet portraits too. Even in the framing of the photos, you can be creative. My first client allowed me some time to work with this photograph of his cat Harley. I loved the result: an illustrated floral crown and a floral pattern on a mauve background. For this photo, I increased the saturation of the photograph, which turned Harley's fur magenta and blue. Side note: I love long haired black cats. My first cat, Gypsy, was a long haired black cat. With a cat like this, usually the fur is many shades of brown, reds, and then, when the kitty ages, some white and grey hairs. With the saturation increase, I think of this as a punk photo of Harley. And so the frame needed to be colorful too. I picked a dark blue/purple frame. The client encouraged me to do my 'art' thing, whatever looked good.

Below are photos of the framing process. The mat that came with the frame did not fit the dimensions of the print so I measured the mat board-acid free museum board- and cut a window mat. The mat protects the print from coming into contact the glass. I cleaned the glass and put that on the finished mat with the print sandwiched inside. And then I put everything into my purple frame. Below you see a custom framed, fine art print of the wonderful punk kitty Harley.

Monday, September 4, 2017

Oh Illinois, a good price

Currently, I am preparing for a small installation of my project Snow White Black Sheep at the Clemens Gallery in Paducah Kentucky. I began Snow White Black Sheep during my first residency at the Osage Arts Community about 2 and a half years ago. The Excavations part of the project includes 18 photographs and one video framed in handmade wooden frames (I built my own frames!). The photos are presented in three grids, which look like archaeological dig sites. While the printing and framing is complete, I am eager to finish the field notes for the grids.

After doing a lot of research online, I've found great tools (charts, etc), glossaries, and photographs of archaeological digs. For my project, the field notes act as the labels for the photographs. From my perspective, as an artist, the visual components of field notes resemble a journal, sketchbook, and map (cartesian grid) to reference when analyzing the dig site. Digs are inherently destructive and cannot be replicated. Therefore, digs need to be meticulously documented and field notes, in addition to photographs of the dig and recordings, are essential to capturing the features unearthed square by square in the grid.

My digs did not actually take place, so I am having some fun replicating field notes of an imagined dig and adding stories, maps, legends, and other information that enriches the story of the project overall. Ultimately, I am archiving my family history by eschewing the typical tree charts and using this media instead.

I have to add that my mother did extensive research of our family tree and shared that research with me. Otherwise, I wouldn't know half of the stories about my family. So I have her to thank for the inspiration.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Bookmaking and Handmade Photobooks

The last few weeks I've been working on a client's order. This client also is a good friend and has allowed me to take my time to work with the photos I took of his cherished cat, Harley. Normally I don't plan to mull over an order for too long but I'm just starting out in freelancing.

One of the things the client requested were a number of small prints to put into a photo album. He mentioned purchasing an album at the store and I make the prints. While I admit that I have done the same for my own snapshots, I decided that simply would not do for my clients. One of the things I've wanted to incorporate into my freelance work is a touchstone, a way to show that what I provide for my clients is art. And one of the things I love as an artist and admire in other artists' practices is the handmade book. Beautifully executed handmade books capture my attention and I'm always loving/feeling jealous of what other artists do. Ultimately, adding handmade photo books to the repertoire for my clients gave me another reason to make more books.

For Harley's album, I decided to do 16 prints on matte paper, all archival inks and paper. And for the book construction, I chose to do one of my favorite bindings:  a Japanese stab binding. It is perfect for prints on individual pages that you don't have to fold but can stack together. And, the binding is very visible and very aesthetically pleasing. There are so many ways to approach a stab binding. Check the Internet and you'll see.

I drew where the holes would go.

Then I pre-drilled for easier stitching

Below are some process shots once I got to the actual binding phase. And me flipping through the resulting book. My hope is that the client will keep this out, on the coffee table for instance, to look at when he chooses. It's handmade construction, decorative papers, and original prints inside will make it a cherished keepsake, almost as cherished as the kitty herself.


Getting started on the stitching......


Tying the knots and practically finished.


Thanks for watching!

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Holga Shots and Favorite Things

When I lived in Albuquerque in 2008, I purchased a Holga from a local store. It was the least expensive camera for sale, a plastic "toy" camera that still set me back 50 bucks when I was incredibly poor. I shot one roll of film and was certain I messed up the loading of the film. I was correct. Recently, I had the roll developed. Nothing came out.

My very first photo shoot as the photographer took place after I won a camera in 7th grade (for being a stellar student in my art class). I couldn't wait to use my new camera. For the shoot, I did a whole set up with back drops of sheets, costumes, and got the cats to model on my bed. With it being my first camera, I didn't know how to load the film and after the shoot, I was crushed when my father removed the entire roll, it's shiny insides curling out towards the floor. All the shots of my cats, gone.

My inability to correctly load film into an unfamiliar camera led to nearly 10 years of me not touching the Holga. Until a friend brought over her used Holga to give to me, I remembered I already had one. I purchased 120 film and read the Holga camera instructions. In May, I started shooting with the camera I bought nearly 10 years ago when I hardly had a penny to my name. I wanted to use it as a reminder to make art every day-to photograph every day no matter what.

With film loaded correctly, it was fun. I brought the camera on my trip to France along with my Crown Graphic camera. The film I shot with my Graflex turned out great. The Holga not so much. I overexposed everything, unknowingly leaving it on the bulb setting the entire time. I was pretty crushed. I ordered another box of film to try again.

Normally I take pictures of my parents 4th of July gathering every year. It's my favorite holiday because of its simplicity: it involves sitting around eating, drinking, and talking to family in my parents very nice, very gardened backyard. These Holga shots capture the day and month of July overall. And even if the images aren't anything exceptional, I love them because I love the people in the photographs, the day in general was really nice, and the exposure is finally ok. I also enjoy the characteristic Holga vignette.

The month of July involved me being newly laid off and moving to St. Louis. With all the stress, I relish the familiar during the dog days of summer.

 My stellar Aunt Dina. My Dad wearing his "Ditmars" t-shirt. Chianti.

New light in the new place

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Us Playing in the Ruins

They made a statue of us
Then put it on a mountain top

The tourists come and stare at us
Blow bubbles with their gum
Take photographs of fun, have/of fun

They'll name a city after us
And later say it's all our fault
Then they'll give us a talking to
Then they'll give us a talking to
Cause they've got years of experience

Living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
Living in a den of thieves
And its contagious
And its contagious
And its contagious
And its contagious

Us by Regina Spektor
I call this photograph, “Us, playing in the ruins.” I made this picture while on a trip to Europe last summer. On a bus in the eastern part of France with a group of Andrew Marvell scholars (don’t ask), someone said that if the UK votes to leave the European Union, it’s more likely that the United States will vote to elect Donald Trump as president. I remember thinking, “We won’t let that happen.” My belief in this “we," while technically a majority, was not enough to prevent a Trump presidency. 

Sure many presidents, maybe all, have been sexist, racist, and xenophobic more or less, but we (yes this we) were better than that, better than those who mobilized because of Trump’s racist and misogynistic rhetoric. He bragged about assaulting women. What woman would vote for him? Apparently, the majority of white women who voted. 

I wanted to see the first woman elected president of the United States. The morning of November 9, I cried. Assholes, aka anyone on or watching Fox News, think we were whiny little children for crying. Every brilliant, intelligent, educated, creative woman I know cried that morning. Why? Not because we have emotional problems as one facebook friend claimed (a woman to my chagrin), but because any woman with any ambition knows what it’s like to be passed over. We know what it’s like to work harder and longer, to be tougher and more intelligent than your male opponents and to be told, “No, we don’t want you. Because. There’s something about you.” That something is called “ambition” and it scares the shit out of men. To her credit, Hillary didn't cry. When she could've been devastated, she consoled women and told girls they could do anything. 

We know from this election that misogyny, hatred, and distrust of women permeates American culture. This is definitively bad and heartbreaking. In addition to crapping on women’s rights, we’ve elected climate change deniers. I have very little hope we can stop these guys from deregulating companies that pollute our air, earth, and water. We were making progress there. Even the most cynical about politics can admit that. Now, it looks hopeless.

Back to Brexit.

I remember in Munich we were in a church, one that had been rebuilt because it was bombed out during World War II. In the church I saw flowers with a note, “UK Please don’t leave us.” By the time I read that note, the votes were in and it happened. Folks in the EU were genuinely heartsick over the decision. It seemed with the war in Syria and the refugee crisis, panic over welcoming refugees ignited isolationism throughout the western world. The bigots seized this and ran.

The day I took "Us, playing in the ruins," we were on the grounds of the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna. Rather than pay and wait in line to get into the palace, we took Rick Steve’s recommendation to walk the grounds. We brought champagne, ate sandwiches and I lugged my large format camera with me. I am working on a new project tentatively titled “Dream Homes” so I set out to photograph for that project. But the palace wasn’t that interesting. I didn’t make a good photograph of it anyway. 

What did draw my eye was off to the side of the hill on the grounds, there's an arch. Two figurative sculptures, of a man and woman, seemed to duck away in the tall grass. It was unkept, wild, and the arch was in disrepair. The light was perfect.

When we travel, we visit public places where walking and gawking isn’t frownd upon. Typically there are a number of monuments and statues at these public spaces. And I always think of the Regina Spektor’s song, Us. “They made a statue of us. And put it on a mountain top.” Once you memorialize a thing, it’s pretty much dead, a view of the past. I think that is what Regina means when singing about being made into a statue. She's describing a relationship that no longer exists, that fell apart.

I’ve lost a lot of hope in the “we” I believed in so firmly last summer. “Living in a den of thieves. Rummaging for answers in the pages. Living in a den of thieves. And it's contagious.” Turns out, I am surrounded by this silent majority. 

There’s something about being in the ruins of your perspective and hopes. My friend wrote that her artist friends must continue to make art now more than ever. Making art is a way of playing, of investigating, of researching, of shaping. There's us, playing in the ruins and creating in the ruins. I only hope to continue to play in the ruins, with all my friends smiling and watching around me. And through the destruction and play, we give life to something new.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Once Upon a Time

A while ago, I curated an exhibition called deTerritorialization. It's a show I think about a lot. I think about recreating it again. I am looking to apply to a curatorial fellowship and returned to the idea. The exhibit included work by Kim Beck and Jenny Kendler. Then I found something I wrote about the exhibit and never used it and figured, why not publish it here.

The real curatorial essay for deTerritorialization, the honest one.

While I am no longer a gallery director, I still get to see the last season of exhibitions I curated via photographs on Facebook. When I curated shows for the upcoming season, I wrote a general curatorial statement about the overall theme of the exhibitions, namely that I wanted to talk about the transformative power of objects in a given space. I wanted to investigate how we demarcate and claim spaces through objects and how these choices, objects, and audiences reflect and inform social relations inside and outside the gallery space. But really, I curated this exhibition season because of a very specific moment in my career as a curator.

Last year, I attended a national conference and sat in on all the panels on exhibition development, with their savvy (braggy) presenters. Most of the presenters mentioned site specificity and community engagement when they spoke of creating exhibitions at an academic institution. I admire this approach, but I found it difficult to do in my then current position. One presenter at one panel said an art gallery was taken away on campus, so they “took over” the library and made exhibitions about the building’s mission, the people it served, and thus found a way to continue making art a part of campus life. Great idea. This is innovative, this is genius, I thought and wrote. Shortly thereafter, I also wrote: But I can’t do that where I work now. Why did I think that? What were the constraints and the parameters that made me think this ideal was futile? The last exhibition season I curated was an investigation of these questions.

works by Kim Beck. Her pieces can be seen here

I lived and worked in a very small town in Indiana as a nonprofit art administrator, so I can say with certainty that my feeling of hitting specific walls, curatorially speaking, had little to do with not being in a big city with cosmopolitan ideas. In Indiana, a good amount of the town was a canvas on which to make site-specific works and public art projects. The benefactors and community members welcomed that mentality and ensured that art was a core part of the town’s make up. They didn’t care how or even where (at least that’s how it seemed). Just get the art out there already! Make it happen! That was how a community can shape its arts and culture. The galleries I directed South Dakota came with a much different mindset, especially in the academic community. Most noticeable for me, right away, was that folks in the arts fought over and about the galleries-nearly constantly. Little did I know, I had been dropped into an academic combat zone. Goodie.

Granted, they were petty squabbles but ones that manifested in very real ways, like a completely neglected sculpture garden so pathetic that one conservator advised: “don’t even try to fix this in the next five years. In fact, this is a 10 year project.” There was also a collection of art dispersed across campus, most of which was in some state of disrepair or completely lost. The fighting, the squabbles, and lack of consensus about the appropriate place for the arts on this campus literally manifested in the degraded state of the art objects themselves. This lack of community consensus over the proper space and place for the arts produced an ironic, residual homelessness for most of the art objects entrusted to the people there. There was literally not enough storage space to house everything. Many objects were literally lost “boys” if you will, caste out into the world with no security.

I say ironic because just as the art objects already under the institution’s stewardship fell into disrepair, a sparkly new sculpture walk came to campus. (And no, the neglected sculpture garden was not a part of this sculpture walk. Because that would have been too obvious?) The sculpture walk was a reigning endorsement that the arts were alive and well on a campus. See, look at that nondescript sculpture (aka apolitical abstract bronze monstrosity) that has nothing to do with the community in front of the business school! It says, “We care about the arts.” All while the majority of the institution’s visual art objects lay in shambles, dispersed amongst buildings collecting spider webs and dust, out of the public’s eye, attention, and of little concern. One of my former colleagues, an art professor, called this dispersal of art in the hallways, “the graveyard.”

As a curator, I literally felt like the walls were closing in on me when it came to putting art shows together because I had never heard so much brouhaha about what art should go where and who should be most instrumental in the creation of art exhibitions. Without a clear vision in place before my arrival, it seemed like anything and any idea was up for grabs. I quickly learned that this is VERY common at MOST places and diplomats learn to deal with it. In fact, there are supportive message boards that essentially say, “stay strong” and “you’ll get through this” for university arts administrators saddled with advisory boards comprised of hapless art professors. These professors who very often help hire the curators, like to spend considerable time, without solicitation, telling curators which kinds of exhibitions should take place on campus. Because let me tell you, “If there was one thing I really didn’t know how to do it’s putting art shows together. Forget helping me fundraise, or reaching out to other faculty to build interdisciplinary academic programs around our collection. Forget even bothering to bring your class to the exhibitions. What I really need is for you to tell me what kinds of shows to curate. Uh duh.” She resumes with her finger in her nose.

I was pretty naïve about the politics in academe but I later learned that what I witnessed and experienced was a “theory of the impoverished” where people fight over breadcrumbs instead of demanding a larger slice of bread that would adequately feed everyone.

That the concept of scarcity reigned supreme in a state as big, as spread out, and unpopulated (relatively speaking) in SD, was the most baffling thing for me. To highlight this contradiction, artists from New York and Boston would visit the galleries in astonishment: “It’s a HUGE space,” they said. How could it be that there was not enough space or that the spaces were not good enough in the minds of the people living and working there? Perhaps when people fought over territories for art, they were really talking about resources, such as money, faculty lines, and better opportunities to bring in bigger shows. I completely understood that. Because those of us plugging away to make the arts a thing in that part of the world was a very real challenge. What I did not ever understand was the reasoning in these debates about art galleries as territories.

These images above by Jenny Kendler. Her work can be seen here

On the positive, yet ambivalent, side of the arguments, many wanted to build more areas for displaying art without addressing the ones that already existed (Hello! We already have a shitty sculpture garden!!! Why not work on improving that?). On the other end, a few argued to restrict art to areas specified because of their own misguided, bureaucratic control. It’s difficult enough to encourage people to engage with art, but yes, let’s put more restrictions on where things should and should not go.

In front of an advanced painting class, I asked the budding artists why they were not “arting the rat” so to speak and putting art where the damn well please. We, the professor and I, cited a gallery in a locker, just to give them an example. “Because,” one student responded, “we don’t want to get into trouble.” The myth of the rebel artist had been revealed. We were all really people pleasers in the end. We all wanted to respect people’s sense of privacy and claims over territories after all.

I tried to talk about how the very philosophy surrounding the debates on the “appropriateness” of exhibition spaces and art projects reeked of censorship and truly limited our potential to make the arts a meaningful part of campus life by entering every line of sight, every point of access. People pointed fingers. Everyone had some certainty of how it came to be and who let it get so bad and how to make it better. “That computer lab is useless, let’s make it into a gallery” more than a few art professors suggested. My head would hang and I would simply sigh as I thought of the poor college students who, daily, used the computer lab because they didn’t have internet access at home much less a PC. One time, I sat in on a meeting with a ‘spacial needs assessment’ analyst (yet that’s a job) who asserted that the college of fine arts needed more space. Yes, more space! Growth! Good things! But who will pay for it and who will take care of it once it’s built? Me? Will there be another administrative line added to help out? Of course not.

The worst were the people who didn’t think there was a problem at all. But the simple and honest truth was that the war over the galleries was everyone’s fault. And I mean everyone. But then I was complicit too and I needed to find a way to be honest with myself and to talk about the issue in the only way I knew how: I would curate an exhibition about it. Institutional politics aside, I decided that the only site-specific exhibition at that place would not take place outside, or in a locker. The only site-specific exhibition I could produce needed to reflect and directly address the overall anxiety over territories that I had witnessed when it came to showing art in this very small part of the world. Thus, deTerritorlization. It embodies every argument, every philosophy about territories in the specific ring of the art world in the epitome of the high modernism’s art space: the giant white cube. It’s the cube to which I had been confined, curatorially speaking, for the years I worked there and it is the white cube many others worshipped and wanted to claim even as the cube confined them too. In short, we were all fighting it out in the white cube instead of demanding a greater slice of the pie outside of it.

Sometimes people ask, ‘How do you curate?” For this show, I literally had one thought in mind and it was a plant breaking through the crack of a foundation and growing up into the space where it supposedly did not belong. I wanted artists who could convey that image, that sense of breaking through a threshold we hold as permanent.

Jenny Kendler and Kim Beck’s work shows two ends of a similar philosophy: we claim space. Sometimes our take over is successful but oftentimes and eventually, we lose our claims-for how does one own air and earth, brick and mortar? Sometimes the natural ecology spits human advancement back out and off it. Sometimes our own man made signs, built to last, show they were in fact made to break. In short, our claims over territories are futile, flexible, and as much a social construct as anything else. But still, territory is what war is made of.

There is no such thing as a professional gallery space, much less an unprofessional gallery if we base that assumption on things inherent to the space itself: its lights, its walls, its entrance, its floor. The walls that box in an area do not define the space inside. The objects inside the walls define the spaces. The subject’s movement inside the walls defines the space. I wanted Beck’s fences and Kendler’s birds to call attention to the fact that the white cube had been compromised and that the sacredness of the white cube really doesn’t exist anyway. The white cube, its neutrality, its pristine beauty, is a figment of our art world imagination. Our monuments, our arrogance, will disappear long after we’re gone and other elements in nature will take its rightful place again. I know the artists who agreed to participate in the de Territorializaiton know that truth as well. Their work says so and it defines the space that it is in.

Then again, the bronze metal might be around for quite some time (into geologic time), but I’m hoping the art students will melt down the shitty sculptures in the sculpture walk and from that bronze make something better.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

hello again

I decided that it was time for me to start applying for exhibitions again. I've been making work and even showing work the last few months, but not applying for new exhibitions at all. Today, I looked online, on the usual site where I find postings, and found one exhibition that I will likely apply for.... only one.

For the first time, I am restraining myself from anxiously jotting down deadlines and applying for anything I can find on the listserv that might remotely connect to my work. Why? Because I know what I need: time to produce more work, access to quality facilities, and money wouldn't be bad either. So, I am finding the applying for exhibitions, well, tedious.

It could be that I am enduring a recent bout of jealously of other artists. They (and it really doesn't matter who) won some fancy-fance artist prize. They live in the hipster part of New York so of course they'll get into the residency I applied for.

Ick. I hate jealousy. But I feel it. Especially as a curator, I know them feels.

Time to start looking for a studio space/space to build my own darkroom. I can take care of the 'needing access to quality (or I'll even take crappy) facilities' part. I have been sitting on my butt for too long in getting going. Any recommendations about studio space hunting will be greatly appreciated.


a recent installation