That's the new piece propped on my easel, and it strikes me that sometimes, the work I do- for all its predisposition-eerily resounds the now.
That sucking sound you hear is the canvas so dense with dark matter, it's like a black hole reflected in an ebon mirror.
It's the parable of Dante: a veritable
inferno beyond the soaring temperatures and the demons of my studio, beyond the faux outrage over a Disney Monarch shaking her skinny arse on national
tv, and a fallen crop of bloodless children littering the streets to the strains of a news anchors soundbyte. There's another ensuing war brewing like a witches cauldron in the middle east, a reactor in the orient spewing radiation like acid in a well, hubble-bubble, toil and trouble casting the shadow of an apocalyptic endpoint that both feeds the nihilists black imaginings and dismembers the optimists servant. To be an artist sometimes means being possessed with the rage of the aggrieved and the despondency of the paralyzed.
In other word's it's enough fuel to stoke the fire and extinguish it, if only because as little air that moves through the studio right now, there is no living in a vacuum at such times.
Perhaps it's jumping the gun, but in my haste I wanted to share this remarkable poster design by Kevin Stone, for the forthcoming documentary release of Serial Killer Culture. Chosen following a competition for the best submission that will accompany the cover of the DVD release, It has a gorgeous retro feel which-although incongruous-when one considers the meat of the matter, perfectly encapsulates the tenet of Borowski's purpose.
Having long dabbled in the arena of design for the occasional tossed bone, it's a welcome and refreshingly intelligent, reminiscence of era's past.
"Nothing is true, and everything is permitted"
William Burroughs
I've been thinking about William Utermohlen a lot lately, and contemporary art and my 'place' in it. I do that periodically, and Poor Williams story is none better than a yardstick to beat one's self with. William-for the uninitiated- was an artist who continued to catalog himself throughout his twelve year descent into the hellish grip of Alzheimer's.
All the works above are by William-first to last , a period between 1967 and 2000. Hard to believe isn't it? You can see all the progressions (or regressions) in
between. The last one looks like the scrawls of child, or even Modern
Art. What does that say about Contemporary Art then? That it is a self
conscious affectation at portraying an unraveled mind? That it is the
self imposed attempt at naivety? That it is the deliberate nihilism of
virtuosity? All those questions share something in common. They are all
predisposed intentions-a luxury poor William didn't have. Instead, he
could only watch the years of bravura technique he had developed trickle
away to the abstract resonance of dying brain matter, to formless,
hollow shapes barely comprising substance or meaning.
The
uninitiated for Post Modernist sake, might want to wank on and argue
that the later renderings display more of a kind of tortured tumultuous
vitality than the first portrait. Not poor William though. He would know
such posturing was a lie, Sadly,William can no longer argue at all.
I
ask again then, what does that tell us about Contemporary art? About
the people who paint it? About the people who buy it? About the curators
who peddle it? You see, I believe there's a perpetual lie being told in "Modern
art" and it goes deeper than the con of the contemporary, and the sin of
the cynical dollar value. It is one that forgoes suffusion for suffering.
The telling for technique. What it doesn't do, and what it doesn't want
you to do, is look deeper, to think beyond the designer paint spattered
facade and your home furnishings.It doesn't want you to be propelled by
the rich magic in allegory, to become attuned to the symbolism of rite,
because the historical power encoded in classicism,the veiled
aspiration of heightened reality has been designated to become a relic
collecting dust and trustees in museums and stately mansions. It is the artifact of privilege, the heritage of elite lineage.
Why did this happen? Could it be that there is something else going on beyond the hustle of the Emporer's new clothes?
If
you will indulge me for a moment longer... there's a scene in
Polanski's movie the 9th Gate (based on the novel The Club Dumas) , in which Johnny Depp comes into possession of a grimoire (said to
be written by old Nick himself) which contains illustrations imbued
with powerful totems,capable of manifesting Satan (the light bringer) on
earth.
It's a poor movie, made by a Director in recess, jaded by
his own dark dabbling's no less, but my point is this-there is power in
Ancient symbols. In well constructed, beautifully rendered, analogous
images. One need only seek out the work of Bosch, Raphael, Carravagio,
Goya or Blake to see the alchemy of inherent hermetic symbols expressed.
Where
is any of that in Modern Art? If Modern life is a construct of our
times, then so is the culture that informs it. But who exactly informs
it? Who evaluates its worth? Is it the collectors? The so called 1% with
warehouses of Hirst's and Warhol's? Is it the media, bought and sold by
corporate advertising? Who are the arbiters of taste? You or I? What
cereal do you buy and where did you hear about it?
Do you see where I am going with this? As my old friend John Liddy used to intone through white knuckles;
"Whats the fucking point damn it!?"
You see, I believe the depiction of anything beyond surface has become a problem, or at least diminished to the fuck you moniker of low
brow or a Billy Childish ism. The other side is that the value of Art is now designated by the sterotypical notion that there are idiot savants in the gutter, comprising wizened kids under the delusion that scrawling on a wall is anti-establishment, when the irony of course is that their heroes are as entrenched in establishment as it gets and laughing all the way to the Banksy.
For that matter, isn't it also the case that if graffiti is the provenance of the street, with that democratization comes the terrible equation that skill no longer has any cachet, art no longer any value? Whose laughing then?
Bottom
line, you are being lied to: Duchamp was a chump. Pollock was bollocks.
Rothko was bought by Rothschild. Your pristine hotel boardroom, Ikea
Scandinavian model, with it's matching curtains and "edgy" Rothko
reproduction is a crass lie and you are lying to yourselves and your
notion of high art intelligence if you buy into it, because minimalism
is as minimalism does-an empty shell in a vacant lot, with nothing
beyond the incoherent blurt echoing the self proclaimed white box. It
asks you to be a reflection of the same blank drivel, to look for
relevance in the nothing and be content in its hollow. It has no cachet,
no reference, no aspiration. It is the masturbatory scrawl of
diminished intelligence with grand pretension. It is keeping you 'down' and it is the death and dearth of the magic and alchemical rite of artistry.
An insult in fact to the life's work of artists like William Utermohlen.
In between multiple coatings of prime and sand, I've been designing the font for what is the title of the new series-Purgatorium.
As it falls somewhere between the Gothic flourishes of German hermetic script, and the medieval calligraphy of a hangman's ledger, it possibly gives a small indicator as to the flavor of the series.
I'm still somewhat short on all of the necessary characters, but once I've completed the set, I'll likely make the suitcase file available for general use, in the meantime here it is in advertising another sneak peak.
It's the weekend of Comic Con here in my adopted home town, San Diego's Convention center-no doubt-groaning beneath the collective weight of junkets for what will almost certainly be creatively bankrupt, forthcoming movie releases.
Something you won't see there this weekend is any of my work, but in the spirit of exclusives, I've decided to do a little video release of my own-a trailer if you will for one of the paintings from my upcoming series-"Purgatorium".
Workingly titled-"The Exile of Sisyphus", the video is a little subdued to counter point the weight of visuals, so you may have to crank the volume a little. Enjoy.
I realize its adding little to the burgeoning mire of Instagram style selfies- another not particular flattering shot of the artist in situ (et al)-but it's that time of year again, paint smeared, war torn and in the flesh as it were, a proverbial art warrior, somewhere between battling the heatwave and burning the midnight oil on canvas.
I make it sound more romantic than it is certainly.
Still you can sort of make out what I've been working on in the background-the ongoing Purgatorium duties-a sneak peak whilst you wait.
