A Matter of Degrees

It's clear that not all degrees from all colleges and universities are equivalent. We know that a 4 year degree from Niagara County Community College doesn't carry as much weight as a 4 year degree from an ivy league school. There are countless reasons why this dichotomy exists, but the easiest way to sum it up is: inequivalent resources. The schools, the faculty, the regions, and the students themselves all bring to the table different levels of economic, intellectual, and social resources. But what about within the same school?

It's also evident that schools specialize, and that an MFA in creative writing from Brown or the University of Iowa carries more weight than say, a Sociology degree from the same school. Because of faculty, resources, location, or arrangement, those schools have been able to cultivate particularly supportive and innovative communities. But still, these things are obvious. Everyone knows if you want to pull down the heaviest degree in Economics, you will go to the University of Chicago. And that that degree is "worth more" than a degree in Landscape Architecture from the same school. But what about the same degree? What about the same degree at the same school?

I've been thinking about this constantly since I reentered the academic fray, and it's become a difficult thing to overlook: one person's 4 year degree is NOT another person's 4 year degree. Same faculty, same school, same resources, completely different outcome. And to many of you, this too will be obvious. You will say, "Of course, everyone knows that students get more out if they put more in, or benefit more if they make connections with faculty, etc." And I wholeheartedly agree. But I'm thinking less in terms of what students get out of their education, and more in terms of what they actually know how to do. I can say, after witnessing it first hand, that the skill levels of Senior Art History majors vary so widely that it's almost unimaginable that they've gone through the same coursework. They simply do not have the same skills. You can talk to me all you want about individual capability, heterogeneity, the benefits of multiple perspectives, but lately I've come to believe that earning a degree should indicate a certain level of proficiency or skill in a particular area of focus. In other words, no matter what your background or perspective, there are things EVERYONE in a major should know how to do, related to their field.

Think of how important this becomes in majors that more closely resemble vocational training: web design, film editing, graphic design, almost all of the hard and soft sciences - there are simply things that every single one of those students should know how to do. The idea that some graphic design graduates are proficient in Illustrator and Photoshop and others are "okay" at them doesn't sit right with me. A degree, as I've understood it, indicates a level of competency and mastery of a subject, not just a familiarity.

I'm sure many of you are thinking, this doesn't matter in the long run, the wheat will always be separated from the chaff, someone whose skills prove insufficient in the real world will be superseded, but I'm not so sure that's enough for me. The idea that graduates with "equivalent" degrees with ostensibly "equivalent" skill sets are being provided the same opportunities for employment is frustrating. I'm also not sure exactly what I'm suggesting - but it might be some sort of uniform skills proficiency test or guild-type apprenticeship program. I hate standardized testing too, but the idea that two people with the "exact same" degrees from the exact same school could be so divergent in ability is unacceptable to me.

Stretching Light

The light that reaches us from the farthest points in the universe is redshifted by the expansion of the universe, the Doppler effect, or gravitational interference. Redshifting, in the simplest sense, can be thought of as stretching. Light that travels towards us across the universe for billions of years is "stretched" by the expansion of the universe in the opposite direction. This stretching results in an increase in wavelength that corresponds to a drop in frequency - called a red-shift, because in the spectrum of visible light, the shift would be towards the red. However, any increase in wavelength is termed a redshift, whether it's part of the visible spectrum or not.

Correspondingly, the oldest light (light that has traveled the greatest distance) is the most redshifted. Now, if light were a thing, which I'm not sure it is, I would say that the oldest light is most affected by its journey, possibly the most wearied. After moving tirelessly for 13.8 billion years, it must be a blessing to find a spot to rest, to make your way into the sterile glass eye of a space telescope kept at almost absolute zero or into the welcoming arms of a massive curved radio telescope here on earth.

I know that my body emits tiny (almost undetectable) amounts of light. I like to imagine this light traveling towards other people when they sit next to me, finding a place to rest possibly in their eyes, or on the back of their hands. I wonder if this light, traveling this tiny distance, could ever be redshifted, even slightly. What I mean to say is, I wonder if the light that comes out of me gets stretched before reaching you. And if it does, I wonder if it is, technically, the same light. I wonder if light has to travel all the way across the universe before it gets weary and needs a place to rest, or if it can wear itself out in a microsecond moving across the room.

The oldest things in the universe fall into our prosthetic eyes every moment of every day, and we absorb them, however slightly or indirectly, bundle them up, and let them out again in little packages, so dimly shiny but not new. At any moment, I could be giving you a gift 13.8 billion years old.

This has very little to do with learning, less to do with academia, and almost nothing to do with my infinitesimal trajectory, but it does comfort me. When I despair about the direction that trajectory takes me in, or where I've steered, I like to locate myself within the largest, oldest trajectory conceivable, but not locate myself in a way that contextualizes me, rather, decontextualizes. If I implicate myself in something as old as the trajectory of the earliest light, I feel all the sharpness of my failures redshifting away, and know my light may also find a place to rest. Even if it takes 13.8 billion years.

Learning is a Form of Violence

I'm back. Had a little hitch in my giddyup.

I've been learning a lot lately, both inside and outside of school, and both about myself and others. All this learning has given me a fair opportunity to consider precisely what learning is, or may be - what exactly we mean when we say I've learned something.

I don't mean this in a purely conceptual, epistemological sense, in fact, I'm more interested in what may be going on physiologically when we learn something. Cognitive neuroscience has revealed that individual neurons and their correspondent electrochemical impulses contribute to thought and memory, and, a la phrenology, that certain groups of neurons and regions of the brain are more involved in particular mental processes than others. But none of this is news, it simply reiterates what has long been known: in the mind, physical events manifest metaphysical phenomena. Again, the interplay here between the tangible and the intangible is nothing new, but this does set the scene for what I've been thinking about: learning is a very particular form of violence.

I've been reading Douglas Hofstadter's I Am a Strange Loop; in the book he considers the physiological processes involved in sentience and consciousness. Ultimately, it is impossible at this time to assert that a group of neurons is responsible for the establishment, maintenance, and storage of particular ideas, but what can be said is that certain patterns of physiological activity directly facilitate cognition and metacognition. It's these patterns that interest me.

Imagine that a tiny region of your brain is composed of 100 neurons, and it takes 10 of those neurons working together to generate a thought or a memory. That thought or memory isn't reliant on those 10 neurons, but rather the pattern that they exhibit. If those 10 neurons are employed in some other mental function, 10 other neurons of the hundred are capable of establishing the same pattern, and thus, the same thought or memory. The neurons themselves could be considered a stiff architecture, and the patterns themselves a fluid architecture. I hesitate to even draw this analogy because it calls up antiquated notions of hardware/software comparisons, but I hope it serves to elucidate the cellular (no pun intended) and component nature of cognition. The stiff architecture of neurons doesn't mean to imply that they are immovable or unchangeable, only that their functionality is often reliant on their placement or position, whereas the fluid architecture of electrical impulses isn't as reliant on physiognomy; it relies on chronology or synchronization. They are a pattern in time but possibly not a pattern in space; in this way, their ability to manifest themselves is fluid.

If the patterns of our thoughts and memories are to be amended, addended, or erased, then some force must act upon those patterns. Some new pattern must be established, and it is this force, this shift, this change that reveals a subtle violence. Restructuring old patterns and establishing new ones requires an override, a suppression, or a neural syncopation. The greatest difficulty in "learning" arises when certain neural pathways have been strengthened by heavy use or overuse; these "strengthened" pathways are actually neural connections that have become accustomed to running the same patterns again and again. It is, in effect, physically "easier" to think the way you've always thought. Again, we see the potential for violence, or at least, in this case, the establishment of a heavily endothermic system - one that requires more energy to work. A new pattern, a new thought, a new idea, is not only mentally harder to think, it is actually physically harder to make happen.

As I sat through Organic Chemistry this summer, establishing thousands of new neural patterns in the space of a few short weeks, I considered the coarse reality of specialization: my decade of absence from the sciences and saturation in the arts made learning the material very difficult. I considered not only the outside stimuli that helped establish new patterns, but the internal stimuli that resisted them and reluctantly obliged after a little cajoling. The irony here, but the bald truth that we've all experienced is that learning something well often generates resistance to learning anything else.

That being said, it's difficult to determine what to strive for - expertise and a less-viscous fluid architecture, or encyclopedic knowledge and greater viscosity.

Either way, I will continue to consider the forcible evictions, coerced choreographies, and etched avenues active just behind my eyes.

The Prodigal Son

I've had some time to think about my return to academia while meandering across the windswept arctic tundra that is the SUNY at Buffalo campus, and I've come to a few conclusions (cursory, of course):

I am a chronological anthropologist: Much like the narc that returns to high school at 30 years old to root out the juvenile drug ring, I am equipped with the wisdom that a decade or more of insight affords. Not only can I marvel at the awkwardness of the average college student (their inability to comport themselves, speak clearly, dress themselves, etc.), but also I can marvel at the fact that I was once as awkward, unintelligible, and sartorially challenged. My re-situation within the exact same cultural milieu at a later date has provided me with a more objective look at what those years must have been like for me. In my first two days back at my alma mater (or pater, if we're to keep to the parable analogy) I feel as though I've been granted a wish to travel back in time and watch myself (or students like myself) go through the painfully embarrassing post-adolescent shapeshifting. It's fascinating, horrifying, and impossible to stop watching.

Things have changed: You will say, of course they have. Or you will say, no they haven't, you've changed. Well, I'm here to tell you that I may have changed, but some things have actually changed as well. I have the syllabi to prove it. The prerequisite courses for my move ahead into Art Conservation are pretty elementary, so I didn't expect much waxing philosophical, etc. But when I went to AHI 102 on Monday, I was shocked at how facile it was. 3 three page papers. Compare and contrast. The works of art will be discussed in class and compared and contrasted before the papers are due. Vocabulary quizzes will be multiple choice. No cumulative final exam. No dates are required for artwork recognition. The professor literally apologized for the work that was to be done, then to curry favor reminded the students that there would be no research paper. OK. I'll risk sounding like a jaded old man, but I took AHI 101 at UB, and I have the syllabus. Cumulative final, dates for recognition, compare and contrast essay quizzes to be done in class, research paper, full definition of terms on exams. So, ten years later, the second half of basic art history is fundamentally different, and fundamentally easier. Score one for the tyranny of the student majority.

Copresence is ubiquitous: I have no prejudice against technology. I love my phone. I'm on it constantly. I text like a Japanese teenager. But on Monday I couldn't see a single student in the entire 400 person lecture hall who didn't have his phone on the table or in his hand. I have nothing more to say except it must be almost impossible to teach in those fractious circumstances. The situation was better in smaller classes, but not by much.

This may have been my only option: I decided to pursue this course of study in early November. Since then I've continued my job hunt, but the employment and economic situation here (and throughout the US) has just gotten worse. I've been turned down for two jobs I was qualified for, and none of the other positions available even pay a living wage. I may have picked one of the worst times in history to quit my job, and I'm actually happy that my life path led to me to the safe haven, the grand maw that accepts all comers with a check in their hand, the forgiving mother/father, the insitution of the University.

I guess that's where the analogy ends. The prodigal son squandered his inheritance and then returned to the father penniless, only to be forgiven and celebrated. I've squandered nothing, am returning penniless, only to be treated with welcome indifference.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I'm actually thankful for this opportunity and I know not everyone has it.

Transitional Note for a Transitional Time

A few days ago I was lucky enough to stumble upon Adam Gopnik's review in the New Yorker of two new Samuel Johnson biographies. My point here isn't to elaborate on Gopnik's review, nor to relate anything specifically to Samuel Johnson - it's to examine something Gopnik mentions as he briefly recounts Johnson's move to London in 1737:

...Johnson had no luck in his dream, of becoming a London writer and wit, for a very long time. He had the misfortune to have arrived in London at a time not unlike this one, with the old-media dispensation in crisis and the new media barely paying. The practice of aristocratic patronage, in which big shots paid to be flattered by their favorite writers, was ebbing, and the new, middle-class arrangement, where plays and novels could command real money from publishers was not yet in place. The only way to make a living was to publish, for starvation wages, in the few magazines that had come into existence...(The new order had also produced a permanently bitter and underemployed class of writers, who had meant to be Popes but were left to be merely beggars in the square outside, and they made their living working for penny-a-line pamphlets and cheap gossip tabloids, creating a constant mouse scream of malice that runs in counterpoint to Johnson's grave sonorities) (90).

A time not unlike this one. As I've mentioned in the past, the plight of overeducated underpaid liberal arts scholars is neither unique nor new. But, after reading this, it was the first time that I entertained the notion that this might be a particularly difficult moment in history due to media transition. Johnson (along with every writer and artist whose career spanned the 17th and 18th centuries) was facing a time when the infrastructure of patronage was being dismantled (not to mention the infrastructure of "royalty") and the foundation of public, for-profit publishing was just being built. I (along with every writer and artist whose career spans the 20th and 21st centuries) am facing a time when the infrastructure of for-profit publishing is being dismantled and the foundation of internet publication is in its nascent stages.

Publishing houses, like patronage, lasted centuries and they are still alive and well. Patronage didn't die overnight, and it never became completely extinct. Neither will publishing houses. My argument isn't that publishing is dead, books will no longer exist, libraries will evaporate, blah blah blah. My argument is that as the traditional model of writing and disseminating work has changed, so has the mode whereby authors and artists get paid. We've gone from a patron's steady allowance or commission of work to a model where we write/make something, get agent, submit manuscript/work, get published/shown, collect royalties/payment to a model where we write/make something, bypass all middle men, find a computer and blog or post pictures of our work, then try to figure out how the hell to make money. With the new model, there seems (so far) to be very few viable options: place advertisements adjacent to your work and receive tangential revenue, charge for digital manifestations (pdf's, etc) of your work, or ask for donations. Of course there are still writers who get paid in the traditional way for work posted to the internet - there are salaried bloggers, journalists, etc. But that's just a residual financial holdover from the previous cultural production paradigm. When patronage was phased out, an entirely new fiscal model was introduced - one based on the free market, supply and demand, widespread literacy, and cheap production methods. As traditional publishing is phased out, we're scrambling, as they are in the music and film industry, to figure out what the tenets of the new fiscal system for art and literture will be. But none of this is news. I'm merely highlighting that we're still walking onto the apron of a very substantial new system, one which is hardly even framed up yet.

As Johnson discovered when he moved to London, given the tools and opportunity, there is no dearth of creative people willing to distribute their work. The glut of young writers was filtered by the sieve of editors and publishers, and eventually, by the public's demand for certain work. One can only hope that this new glut of artists and writers, fueled by the ease and accessibility of the internet, will find a similar filter and a feasible economic model.

Until then, I'll simply add this to the list of difficulties facing artists and writers in our time. As we piece together the shrapnel of a defunct system, the resulting pastiche can be predicted and advocated, but never truly discovered until it has fallen into place.

Not Much Has Changed

The Well Run Dry

Sooner than I thought, and more difficult than I imagined.

My money is, for all intents and purposes, gone. It's lasted about half the time I approximated, and although I was frugal, I didn't see the income I estimated from artistic endeavors (thanks in part to the economy, I imagine, and also because of my change in plans). This has left me looking for a job as I wait for the spring semester to begin. It's also left me thinking about the various trajectories my life (and this process of catloging it) has taken. Alternately optimistic and pessimistic, idealistic and practical, sane and insane, constantly paradoxical, but always, I hope, honest.

Facet candle holders, 2008. Idea stolen from Kindling Shop, Chicago, IL.

I now feel I have to address the possibility that my attempt to become a professional artist is a failure. Or a much, much longer adventure than I imagined. On the surface, it would be easy to say I failed, or my heart wasn't in it, or I didn't give it the time and effort it deserved, but when you look closer, it's a lot more complicated.

As my focus shifted towards returning to school, it shifted away from commodifying my art to the degree that it might provide a viable income. I don't mean that I stopped making art, I mean that it became difficult to sustain both endeavors simultaneously, and the aspects of becoming an artist that I found distasteful began to look markedly worse (eg: self-promotion, branding, incorporation, marketing, strategic alliances, etc). I know on a certain level the negative aspects of becoming an artist are present in everyday life as well; we all must, on some level, market, brand, and promote ourselves. But for most of us, it isn't our primary concern unless we're walking into a job interview or trying to pick up a new mate. I felt hesitant right from the start about making it my primary concern and having it overshadow the actual production of my artwork. And I know, I remember writing about schmoozing and navigating this side of the art world as a facet of the true meritocracy that exists, but that didn't mean I had reconciled all my misgivings. I was, and am still, highly uncomfortable with being a businessmen-artist hybrid. Part of me isn't so sure that I want to rely on my business savvy, networking skills, and ability to sell myself for health care, food, and shelter. In simpler terms, I might just be, deep inside, a consistent paycheck kinda guy.

And, as I took a long, hard, honest look at myself and my skill set, I began to realize I was capable of most anything, but an expert in very few fields, if any. Sure, I can screenprint, letterpress, woodwork, etch, bookbind, and hundreds of other things. But am I highly skilled at any of those things? Not really, to be honest. I'm just good at them. I am the consummate jack of all trades, master of none. And the people in those fields who are highly skilled, who are experts, still often find it difficult to make ends meet solely by making non-commercial art. The people who succeed that aren't experts usually do so via their business savvy or sheer dumb luck. We've already covered the business savvy part, so I'll just say I've never been a lucky guy, and this is hardly the time to be waiting for the luck wagon to come around the corner. The idea of becoming an expert in a particular field or a master of a certain skill has always appealed to me, but I've always understood that it isn't something you achieve on your own, but under the guidance of others. This might be one of the only real chances I have to make that happen. I also understand that some of you may be thinking 'a person can be an expert in their own artistic process, in the field of themselves, and no one else can teach them that.' Very true. But I must also admit here that one of the things I admire most in art, of any medium, is craft. Handicraft. Technical skill. Even if it isn't immediately recognizable or the artist has exploded the index of his skill and replaced it with something ostensibly random, I still enjoy teasing out the craft and admiring the skill. This is something I strive for in my own work, and this may also be an opportunity to hone my weaker skills.

Am I selling out my dream to become an artist by returning to the safety of the Institution? I don't think so, because I'm trying to think of it as a necessary step I didn't previously envision. It isn't that I had to go back to school, but when I looked closely at what I wanted, school became something I needed. More clearly: I've envisaged my future, the skills I want to have, the life I want to lead, and returning to school fulfilled that vision more clearly than pursuing professional art full time.

It's my hope that the prerequisite classes I must take, as well as the classes to come in the advanced degree program, will provide me with a far more extensive skill set and knowledge of art history and art media that I can enfold into my own work. It may be pure rationalization, but I'm thinking of this as a prerequisite, another step on my journey towards becoming the artist and the person I want to be.

One Long Year

Today is the one year anniversary of my sobriety. I celebrated by digging in my heels and moving forward with my new life plan. As of today, I am a student again. I registered for classes at SUNY at Buffalo that I will need to apply for Art Conservation advanced degree programs. If all goes well, I'll be able to start those applications in spring of 2010 and begin a program in the fall of 2010. Most programs are three years long, so I'll make my exit sometime in 2013. I will be 36 years old. To be honest, I never thought I would make it to 30.

I lived hard when I was young. I spent all day, every day, skating - throwing myself down flights of stairs, onto handrails, off launch ramps. Again and again I slammed my body into the ground, over and over I suffered the crippling effects of serious injury. To date I've broken: all of my fingers, all of my toes, my right tibia and fibula, my right ankle, my right heel bone, my left radius and ulna, my left wrist, 3 ribs, my right front tooth, and my coccyx. I've torn: my left ACL, my right ACL, my left MCL , my right patellar ligament, and a series of soft tissues between my ribs. I've sprained: my left ankle, my left knee, my right ankle, my right knee, both my wrists, all of my fingers, disclocated my left shoulder and hyperextended my left arm at the elbow. My injuries were sometimes spectacular, sometimes subtle, but always a reminder of my fragility and mortality. I wasn't one of the kids that thought he was immortal - far from it - the vulnerability of my body to injury reminded me every day that life was temporary.

When I thought of growing older, I could never imagine myself after 30. Not because it was old, and I was never going to get old (which I think it the common cause of this inconceivability), but because I couldn't figure out what I was going to do after 30. I knew I would be too old to skate. I knew what I was interested in, but even then I had no idea how it would translate into a job, a career, or a lifestyle. I simply thought that meaningful existence (as I understood it) after 30 seemed entirely improbable (for me), and as I maintained that improbability, it began to morph into an impossibility. I began to tell myself that I was never going to make it to 30. The way I lived my life was such that I would meet my end in a fiery car crash or a spectacular fall; I'd become the youthful martyr that all of my friends reminisced about. I didn't have a death wish. I liked living. But I had a feeling, a really strong feeling, I was just never going to make it to 30. Now that I think about it, this feeling may have made a distinct contribution to my inability to pull the disparate parts of my life together into a legitimate whole right around the age of 30. I'd told myself that day was never going to come, and when it came, all I could think was "Where's my spectacular fall?"

Needless to say, the fall never came. Neither did the fiery car crash. No sensational decapitation, nothing. 30 passed with a quiet murmur and left me looking over both my shoulders, thinking destiny was late.

Fueled by the conviction that three decades was all I had, in my 20's I lived a lifestyle full of the conventional excesses of the aimless: drugs, alcohol, sex. It was never glamorous, in fact it was often the opposite, but it was definitely propagated by an absence of consequence, or a perceived absence of consequence. I couldn't be blamed, I needed to fit it all in, I was only going to be here half the time everyone else was - or worse, maybe part of me felt like "it won't matter when I'm gone because people will forgive me, and if they don't, I'll never know." An ill-conceived plan at best, if I conceived it at all.

And, as many of you know, it caught up with me. And it caught up quick.

I feel lucky that my breakdown a little over a year ago became an impetus for change; as brutal as an emotional rock bottom is, I still recognize that it doesn't compare to the vicious character of an addict's rock bottom. I'm glad that I never had to experience that, and glad to have the opportunity to move my life away from the possibility. I've learned to live without drinking and understand clearly now that I'll probably never be able to come back to it in a casual way. It doesn't bother me as much as it did at first, because lately I've been trying to figure out what drinking did for me. What it ever helped me achieve.

Let's see: It got me laid. It helped me relax and avoid the sources of my anxiety. It loosened me up so I could actually have fun with my friends. It helped me sleep. It gave me a social crutch, a commonality to rely on. Other than those things, I was hard pressed to find anything. And when I look at those things, I think to myself: I can do all those things on my own. Getting laid is easy. Relaxing and avoiding anxiety are easy if you work hard to structure your life in a healthy way. I don't need loosening up, if I get get going, I'm just as crazy now as I was when I was drunk. Sleeping is easy if you deal with your anxiety and its sources. And finally, if I need a social crutch, I either need new friends or a social crutch that isn't going to give me a hangover. Like volunteering at the Red Cross. You get the point.

After coming to terms with all of the above, it's difficult not to feel regret. Time wasted, money spent, decisions made, physical damage done. But I know I can't dwell on it. I could've never made this decision earlier. No one could've convinced me at 28 to make the changes I've made. Because I believed I wasn't going to make it to 30. It took undeniable chronological evidence and emotional upheaval. Even then it was hard for me to believe it.

This last year has been the longest and the shortest of my life. I've been absorbed in introspection, analysis, evaluation - the days feel agonizingly long as I plod through the mental muck, but those same days shoot by on the calendar, the sun seems to rise and set in minutes. I've had to admit to myself what I'm good at, what I'm not, who I've hurt, how I've hurt them, what it's possible to do, what it isn't. I've had to say hard things to myself and make harder decisions. But I believe it's been worth it, because now it all seems a little more possible, and I don't feel like a ghost. I don't feel like someone that somehow slid past 30, escaped the eye of the grim reaper, and continues to amble along unsure of how to proceed. I'm convinced I'm actually here, convinced I should make something of it, and convinced that I can.

I want to extend thanks to every single person that has helped me make this transition; I love all of you and value your support.

Coming soon: my thoughts of re-entering academia, the first-hand accounts I'll be able to give of the current situation, and determining whether or not I'm a sell-out.

The Dimensions of Certainty

The past ten days I've been re-reading Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves. For those of you who aren't familiar, the "novel" is a fictional scholarly examination of a fictional documentary of a fictional event, replete with real and imagined footnotes, as well as a subplot/subnarrative focused on the unfortunate chap who first found the treatise. The book is unorthodox in its format, page layout, and chronology, but for all its gimmicky greatness, there's still a story there and that story is about a house that manifests interior spaces larger than the exterior reveals. It begins with a tiny discrepancy and finally grows to massive proportions that demand a team of explorers and documentarians. The point here isn't to retell the story or review the book, it's simply to present the idea of dimensional complicity. Yes, I know what complicity means.


Consider a dimension as a limit. Say a point wants to become a line, but the one dimension it belongs to stifles its expansion. Say a line wants to become a wall, but the two dimensions it belongs to keep it flat. Think of dimensions and the limits they enforce as the only thing that stands between us and absolute dimensional entropy.

Now consider a dimension as an opportunity. A point is free to become a line, but must find a way to unfold into the second dimension. A line wants to become a wall, but must acquire depth. Think of dimensions and the opportunities they offer as the only thing that makes expansion possible.


This is clearly a pessimist/optimist argument, but I've been thinking a lot lately about how to view the dimensions around me. House of Leaves deals primarily with the possibility of structures altered by perception (what you see is what you get, literally - if the stairs seem endless, they become endless). Is there really any reason that we can't think of our 3 dimensional journey, participating as it does, in the 4th dimension as well, as a structure? Is it possible then, that this structure is altered by our perception of it? Heisenberg was really the first to delineate this in a scientific sense (uncertainty principle and observer effect), and his concern was primarily the effect of observation on technical data, but the upshot is the same. Perceiving the course of my life, as I must, necessarily affects its structure (and consequently, the sensory data I receive and assess). My evaluation, then, is as flawed as any scientific evaluation - but is it flawed in a consistent way? Do you ever become so familiar with your own margin of error that it no longer has any effect?

More importantly, can the way I see things actually make them bigger or smaller? This might be an argument for absolute relativity, so Einstein might be on my side, but according to a footnote in House of Leaves, so is Gunter Nitschke. Danielewski recounts his description of "experienced or concrete space":

It has a centre which is a perceiving man, and it therefore has an excellent system of directions which changes with the movements of the human body; it is limited and in no sense neutral, in other words it is finite, heterogeneous, subjectively defined and perceived; distances and directions are fixed relative to man...

That final line should probably read "fixed relative to a man." Because if the early lines are to be believed, every space is going to be different to every man. Some think this goes without saying, that our notions of near and far, large and small, bright and dark, etc are necessarily different. These, however, are qualitative assessments of space (and for that matter, time), not quantitative. Most of these people would concede that objects in space have an objective quantitative set of properties (extension, mass, etc) that are measurable, re-measurable, and verifiable by peer-review. Except of course, David Hume.


I, like Hume, am beginning to wonder. As I consider the possibility of returning to school for Art Conservation, I feel my interior spaces unfolding, opening outward at a pace my exterior can't match. I hear the clatter of floorboards being layed down in a thousand different hallways, I feel the new neural pathways firing that allow me the luxury of daydreaming or worrying, I see the silent elastic fibers of time extending and contracting before me. Going back to school would require an investment of close to five years and over 12,000 dollars for prerequisite classes. Can I shorten this time just by looking at it differently? Literally? Can I make this room bigger by looking at it differently? Can I conjure the space and time I need by force of will? By application of sense? If I could, would I?

Maybe. Maybe I'd make it all look a little shorter and more possible. If only to take that first step.

Vocation vs. Avocation

I've been advised by more than one person to think of a vocation as something that provides fiscal solvency and facilitates an avocation (hobby, pastime, minor occupation). The idea is simple, and it's proven its feasibility for many artists and writers throughout the years: find something to pay the bills and spend the rest of your time doing whatever you'd like. Until now, I've been fervently opposed to this approach, convinced that I'll be able to turn what is an avocation for most (art-making) into a vocation. I haven't, until recently, considered pursuing occupations that combine the two in a way that doesn't discount the value of either. Sound convoluted? It isn't. Imagine a space where you participate in a creative activity all day long, some sort of art-making that is your vocation, but doesn't involve making your own work. I know there are obvious choices here: art teacher, commercial screenprinter, set designer, costume designer, journalist, copy writer, etc. But none of those appeal to me, and I've been put off by the warnings of friends who have those jobs and feel it actually saps their energy and desire to produce their own work.

QEW Toronto, 2008

Lately, however, I've been considering the Art Conservation program at Buffalo State College. It has a reputation for being one of the best in the world, and amazingly, students receive full tuition remission for three years (ie: it's free). Graduating art conservators enjoy an exceedingly high rate of job placement, not to mention compensation commensurate with the hyper-specialized and unusual nature of the work. Art conservators work in many different fields, from sculpture and painting restoration to paper and wood restoration. Part forensic scientist, part detective, part artist - so far it sounds like a dream job where all of my vices (obssessive compulsive tendencies, perfectionism, meticulousness) would become virtues. So what's the down side? There's plenty.

QEW Toronto, 2008

The artcon program has a massive list of prerequisites - one that wouldn't be so daunting to a fine arts major, but to someone coming from a philosophy/english background it's fairly significant. The requirements? 9 hours of studio work, 21 hours of art history, chemistry 101/102, organic chemistry 201/202, and outside employment/internship with a professional conservator. Those alone would require 4 semesters of undergraduate work, 3 if I was really pushing it, and after all that, there'd be no way to guarantee myself a spot in the advanced degree program. That's a huge investment of time and money without the assurance of a payoff.

Nevertheless, I'm not giving up yet. Coincidentally, there's an open house at the artcon department this Friday, so I'm going to go to feel it out and ask questions specific to my unique situation. I love the idea of being able to use my creative skills, critical skills, and fine handiwork in a job that seems useful, multifarious, and interesting to me. And I also love the fact that the work I'd do would probably be so far from my own work that I wouldn't feel tapped out at the end of the day - perhaps I'd even feel like the vocation had primed the pump for my avocation.

QEW Toronto, 2008

This really strikes at the heart of what I discussed during my examination of liberal arts: the difference between general education and vocational training. Art conservation would definitely be vocational training, and maybe that's what I've needed all along (or at least, recently).

Taking Stock

It's my birthday, so I'm currently taking stock. More on the stock I've taken tomorrow. Until then, enjoy these:

The Artist As Consumer

I spent this past weekend in Toronto at the indie art gathering CANZINE, which focuses primarily on zines, small press, comics, and crafty DIY doo-dads. I recently finished a book, and while purveying my new wares, I had the chance to survey the field and conjure up a few generalizations and blanket statements.

Firstly, artists are a poor, unreliable lot of consumers. Maybe it's a cultivated disinclination towards consumption, maybe it's actual financial hardship, or maybe it's a tacit disdain for similar modes of cultural production (as in "I can do that, and I can do that better"). Either way, the result is the same: ambling crowds of artists and writers shuffling by tables simultaneously admiring and loathing (because they actually loathe, or loathing because they actually admire), and visually mining work for usable materials and concepts, but rarely ever buying.

I'm guilty of the same behavior, especially the overly critical eye. I walk by tables thinking "crap; crap; crap; OK but not my bag; crap; hey that's not bad - how did they do that?" Then I sit back down behind my table (having bought nothing) thinking "these sons of bitches better start buying something." And they do. But it's not the artists who buy - it's the non-artists. Old ladies particularly love the look and feel of my work. Flattering, but as an audience demographic I'm not sure it's exactly what I was looking for. This brings up an interesting set of questions that my friend Ben touched on in a comment: who buys art? who do I think should be buying my art? why? can we really control things like that? do we even want to?

If I suddenly became the poet laureate of elderly women, would I complain? Should I? I can't say I would complain, but I can say it would make me reconsider the content of my writing and the overall aesthetic of my books. I'm sorry, but it's true. And if that's true, I must have some blurry idea of what my demographic is - but at the moment it's only negatively defined as (I hope) not solely women over 65.

Secondly, artists are a loyal network of reliable consumers that can help make selling your art an economically viable pursuit. Say what? Isn't that exactly the opposite of the first point? Yes. Take Etsy for example. Tens of thousands of artist-entrepreneurs have descended on the site in the past few years, selling hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of items. The Etsy community is a virtual marketplace that reflects the positive energy and reciprocal support that is the mainstay of the DIY/craft underground. What does that mean? It means the people who make the things provide positive feedback and constructive criticism to each other - but it also means they buy each other's things. So why can a virtual community like Etsy manifest an economical reciprocity while an event like CANZINE has a hard time? Is it sheer volume of artist/consumers (as in there were 2000 people at CANZINE, but there are 100,000 poking around on Etsy)? Is it sheer volume of art objects (as in with that much stuff, everyone can find something they like that they can't make themselves)? Is it because cheap art is an impulse buy, and it's easier to impulse buy online than face-to-face? Who knows, but chances are it's a combination of all those and more.

As for me, I'm considering including a questionaire with all of my books and art so that I can begin to refine and market to my key demographic.

Guts, Gumption, Gold, and Glory

The UGLY WINNERS one night art show in the upstairs apartment came off without a hitch. It was a great success, well-attended, and positively received. There was only one problem: we didn't sell a single thing. That wasn't the sole objective of the show - I was more concerned with giving unrepresented artists a chance to share their work and meet one another - but it still would've been nice. See - art shows, book fairs, and the like act as catalysts for artistic production - or more accurately, they provide the threat of a deadline, which is always a powerful motivator. But what if all that motivation turned action turned product has nowhere to go? A visual artist can only produce so much without having a market for his work (unless he's lucky enough to have a massive studio or a warehouse - or he makes really tiny work). A glut of work also threatens to devalue individual pieces (it's just supply and demand). And not even just the exchange value - I'm thinking more of artists, bands, and writers that have no "filter" and produce album after album, novel after novel, poem after poem, painting after painting, etc. It skews overall value, or what I might term reception value. I don't know about you, but this wide-net approach to cultural production has always left a bad taste in my mouth. Like if you throw enough at the wall, something's bound to stick, but it doesn't matter what it is. Anyway, the show was a great idea. And I want to have more. But it left me wondering, how many can I have before all the artists' homes are just full of unsold work? How long could we all go on making things, filling our closets, dragging things out and dusting them off, even contemplating throwing them out in order to make room for new things?

Polaroids by Jay Stankiewicz

It also left me wondering about the turbulent economy (which I know has already become a cliche) and the effect it will have on luxury spending, because I do consider the purchase of art a luxury. Or more accurately, I understand that the purchase of art is regarded by a large percentage of the population as superfluous to human needs. People in the Rust Belt/Great Lakes Region have been the victims of a vicious economic vortex for over 5 decades now - so it's not as though there's been a time in recent memory when luxury spending was the norm - but is this recent collapse going to make things even worse? In short, did I pick the worst possible time to try to become a working artist and help promote my friends' work?

The upstairs living room during UGLY WINNERS.

Maybe. But maybe not. I've been buoyed by a recent article that touts Buffalo as one of the top places in the nation to "ride out the recession."

Buffalo's terrible economy shelters it from the benefits of economic booms, but it also makes us almost impervious to the negative effects of economic downturns. Things have always been bad here, we're not really going to notice if things "get worse." In fact, our economic turmoil has cultivated an insularity that's allowing us to move independent of the global crisis. Slowly but surely, even now, our home prices are rising. Employment is on the upswing. Consumer spending is level. Home foreclosures are a fraction of what they are elsewhere. Things out there in the world might be ugly, but here on the economic island that is Buffalo, they're the same, or even improving.

Kit Bowman's "Most Colorful Primate."

Maybe, just maybe, people in Buffalo have already worked luxury spending into their very limited budgets. So I probably have nothing to worry about. At least from a consumer standpoint. From a production perspective, however, things are looking less healthy.

Chris Fritton's "Basic Standing Dive."

Don't get me wrong, I'm not sinking yet. But tightening my purse strings in order to ride out this transition has made progress on the studio space in the garage slow. In fact, it's stopped almost completely because I'm at a point where I need an electrician to come and connect the building to the grid, install a breaker box, and get everything up and running. Luckily the building is wired already, but it's still going to cost a significant amount to get the work done. A significant amount I don't have right now. This was a terrible disappointment (the first major one since I started this project) because I envisioned using the space and time over the winter to produce a number of larger pieces and begin marketing them. Luckily I will have a heated space to work; a close friend is going to Europe from January to April, so I'm going to sublet her huge studio while she's gone.

Untitled painting by BREZO

In the meantime, I'm going to have to focus on writing (I'm putting the finishing touches on a new book entitled "Occupation: Housewife" right now) and teaching (I've landed an intermittent gig with the local non-profit Just Buffalo to teach afterschool and in-school programs in poetry and writing) because I've run out of room for other work.

Astronaut or Astro-not

I've been MIA for the last ten days because I've been reading up and working hard on my NYFA Fellowship Applications. I've discovered a number of resources for emerging artists in the last few months, but NYFA provides the most diverse and substantial help; from fellowships to SOS grants, the money is there - but you have to fight for it. Not only is there competition from other artists, but there's also an aspect of competition with yourself. Maybe competition isn't the right word, but there's definitely a struggle of sorts - a struggle with new forms and formats, with paperwork, with strict guidelines, with articulating your artistic principles (in less than 1000 characters please!), and with designating the self (and products thereof) as your primary economic engine.

The conversion of the self into a brand and the conversion of your art into a series of products/commodities is an emotionally, politically, economically, and ethically tumultuous process, to say the least. I don't think I'm qualified to speak to the issue in the economic terms it deserves (value, use value, exchange value), but I do think I can speak to the emotional labyrinth it calls forth. Unfortunately they're inextricably linked, so forgive me if I cross the line incoherently.

I've been doing all I can to learn about how to create opportunities for myself as an emerging artist, including signing up for NYFA's MARK program , a "new statewide six-month program for visual artists who want a unique opportunity for individualized focus on the professional side of their creative practice." Sadly, so far this has meant nothing but a lot of meetings, seminars, homework, sifting, and filtering. I'm reminded of an old episode of This American Life where they conducted interviews with people who had "dream jobs" that didn't turn out so fantastic. The most memorable? Astronaut. They spoke with a few different astronauts - all of which had dreamed of being astronauts from the time they were very young - and the truth was shocking. It took them years and years to become astronauts. Countless hours in simulators, in flight, in testing and training, undergoing rigorous psychological counseling, etc. But once they achieved the honor of becoming an astronaut, what was their daily routine? Boredom. Paperwork. Meetings. Most of them were never even slated to test experimental aircraft, let alone go into space. The joke was, they were astro-nots, not astronauts. And it wasn't through any fault of their own; they weren't unqualified, they just weren't needed at the time. Sound familiar? Rings of the common line in a rejection letter from a publisher: "We regret to inform you that your submission does not meet our needs at this time." What's the tacit implication? But keep trying. So the astronauts are astronauts in name only, probably won't ever make it into space, but they're supposed to keep hoping and trying. Just like people who are artists and authors in name only (who haven't had the good fortune of being published or sponsored) are supposed to keep hoping and trying. So who's the real astronaut? Who's the real author? The real artist? They both are. One just goes to space, and the other doesn't. The notion here is that being an astronaut involves a lot more than the occasional space mission. It involves a lot of bullshit. But, the astronauts are getting paid, whether they're headed into the final frontier or not. Here's where the analogy ends. Because unpublished authors and underground artists aren't usually getting paid. So when we do bullshit, it's doubly insulting because we usually have to do it for free.

I'm not getting paid to do all this paperwork and go to all these meetings and seminars. I'm not getting paid to spend hours in my basement trying to figure out how to build frames for my etchings. And it's hard. It's hard to look at the clock and think that the time I'm spending isn't generating a little capital that I can exchange for food. And it's really hard to look at pieces that took 20 hours to create, but if/when they sell, they'll only bring the equivalent of 10 dollars an hour. That would be fine if it were constant - but right now, my artistic income is intermittent. I guess that's at the heart of everything I'm doing to learn the business side of art - I just want to see if there's any way I can generate consistent (if modest) income from my labor. I'm not afraid of work. I like it. I don't have pie-in-the-sky dreams of becoming an art superstar, I just want to be a working artist. But not one who's working another job.

First order of business: create a venue where people can see and purchase your work. Check.
Check out the UGLY WINNERS one night art show at my house, 61 Elmwood Ave, Buffalo, October 11, 2008, 8p-11p.

The Guilt of Production, The Production of Guilt

Previously, in conversation with Ric Royer, I touched on the shame associated with cultural production, but recently I've been wrestling with something a little different: the guilt I feel about producing my own work or doing things entirely for myself. The shame Ric and I discussed was a particular sort of discomfort the artist feels when discussing what it is he "does." It's wrapped up in anticipation of any number of complex negative reactions - condescension, befuddlement, bewilderment, feigned interest, etc - but no matter what the response, the result is the same: quiet humiliation. Ric and I never discussed the complex positive reactions someone might have, but no doubt they would lead to quite the opposite reaction, possibly boastful pride. Shame is an externally motivated emotion - people make other people feel ashamed. You split your pants alone, you go home and change your pants. You split your pants in front of a crowd, you feel ashamed, then go home and change your pants. Okay, it's not exactly that simple, shame is a complicated emotion, but you get the point - people are rarely ashamed without some sort of external motivation. Guilt, however, is a little more nuanced.

Guilt is internally motivated - you make yourself feel guilty. It's the result of an internalization of a standard social code of conduct (your "conscience") and the subsequent transgression of that code. If I've internalized the notion that it is wrong to steal, when I steal, I will feel guilty about it. I don't need someone to tell me stealing is wrong to feel guilty, although I might need someone to confront me in order to feel ashamed. The code we've internalized is dynamic; it is always changing, and sometimes aspects of it can even be overridden or rationalized away, but there are often components that remain unchanged (murder is wrong, etc.). I'm currently confronting one of those unchanged components in my code, and having a hard time overcoming it. I think it's wrong to do something for myself, so when I do, I feel guilty about it.

West end of the upstairs office, before.

The origin of this problem is fairly simple - I'm a product of a Western tradition steeped in Judeo-Christian culture that extols altruism and a clinically co-dependent child of divorced alcoholic parents. I was imbued with the idea that doing for others, not the self, is the greatest virtue, and I learned at an early age how to caretake; eventually this developed into the system by which I generated feelings of self-worth. I did for others like I was supposed to, and I was praised; I did for my parents, and I was loved in return. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not knocking philanthropy, generosity, charity, or any of the other countless benefits of altruism. What I'm saying is, as an individual, complete and utter selflessness is a prescription for a barren identity - too much time spent creating other people (in a sense), and not enough time creating the self.

I'm not saying I am or ever have been completely and utterly selfless, that would be a ridiculous lie. I'm saying that I've internalized feelings that equate doing for others as good and doing for myself as bad. In the past, this has caused me intense hardship. In intimate relationships, I tend to overextend myself, I maintain a pattern of giving until it becomes the norm, but it's unsustainable. When I finally do amass the will (or desperation) to do something for myself, others see it as a disintegration of the pattern - in effect, a betrayal. Or the guilt I feel about doing things for myself causes me to hide them instead of addressing them and voicing my intention openly - an actual betrayal. My life, until recently, has been a roller coaster of increasing desire, compulsion, and violation (with periodic catastrophic releases) followed by the abstinence, penance, and atonement of rebuilding the relationships I harmed and self-worth I abandoned. Maybe I should've abandoned it - it wasn't built with the right material anyway.

East end of the upstairs office, before.

The problem isn't that I have no self-control or I'm a bad person - the problem is that I always returned to doing for others as a way to reconstitute my self-worth. If I could've asserted myself and my will forthrightly, secret transgressions and betrayals would've never been required. I could've stated what I wanted, attempted to attain it, dealt with the consequences, and used those experiences to build my self-worth.

I'm sure many people in my life have thought of me as selfish even though I spend most of my time giving to/doing for others. That's because those people focus on the times when my inability to assert my will has caused me to lie or act irrationally: having an affair, picking up and moving with very little warning, etc. But those times comprise a tiny fraction of all my actions - I'm neither selfish nor selfless, I just don't know how to be selfly or self-ful.

This blog is an attempt to do something self-ful (and I'm sure some of you think I'm overachieving), a daily introspective exercise, a research project smattered with some creative philosophical input. But lately, I've found myself turning away from it. Sure it's hard to sustain a full-blown essay every single day - but what really wears me out is when I look at the big picture and see that things haven't changed that much. I've been neglecting the blog to do things for other people. I've been neglecting my art to do things for other people. I've been neglecting the studio project that was supposed to be all for me. The list goes on.

East end of the upstairs office, after.

I've always had quirks about the way I produce art: I produce quickly, efficiently, late at night, normally alone. I always thought that this was the way that I worked best, the way that suited me (I'm impatient). Recently, however, I've realized that during the time I'm producing, I feel an intense amount of guilt. I feel terrible about "wasting my time" on my art when I could be doing something for someone else, or doing something more "constructive." I make things at night when no one is around so I don't have to feel bad about ignoring someone. I make things quickly so that I don't use up precious time that I could spend on/with someone else. As badly as I want to be an artist, making and thinking about art are still things that I "sneak in" between the things I've always done. I still have no concept of how to generate self-worth from the work that I produce (sure, some self-worth walls go up if people see my work and like it, but again, I'm still relying on someone else to provide those bricks).

There's a question about utility here that I'm not fully ready to address - but I'm sure of it because I've had two books in the works for about 6 months now. Instead of getting the books together and putting them out, I've been working on the house. Painting, building, cleaning, caulking, plumbing, whatever I can find. I'm doing those things for myself only insofaras I live here. Really, I'm doing them for the tenant, my partner, the cats, etc. Because I'm fixing the things they use. I'm still not really sure how people use my books or art. I know that they read them. I know that they perceive it. But for some reason I'm really resistant to the idea that they're using them (even though that's clearly what they're doing) - maybe it's because if they were using them, I'd just be making more things for people to use, gaining my self-worth from their response to my work. I told you I wasn't ready to address this. Now the logical conclusion is that I should be making entirely self-serving, totally useless art.

West End of the upstairs office, after.

Either way, what I do know is that I've found no way to garner sustainable self-worth from my artistic output, and I still feel guilty when I produce. I feel guilty because I'm coming a little too close to doing something entirely for myself - so I sneak it in during the wee hours when no one's around. No one makes me feel guilty, no one tells me I can't or shouldn't be making art, no one tells me it's a waste of my time; in fact, everyone close to me is quite supportive. Except for me.

I know this is about utility, I'm going to have to think about it some more. I'm also doing these things around the house because I'm still unemployed and it makes me feel useful, that I can still do things for other people even if I'm not being paid for it. Like pretending I have a job. You see, it's not only about the utility of what I make, but my utility. My usefulness. And sadly, making money fits into that equation somewhere.

The Ethicality of Art

Why instigate the whole cloud of dust (make art)? The whole conversation, in all its myriad and nuanced forms? I said at the end of my last post that I think it's the Right thing to do. But why? Because I'm an advocate of dialogue - but not for the reason you may think. Not because it leads to resolution. I'm not so naive as to think that dialogue is a precursor to resolution, in fact, I advocate dialogue for precisely the opposite reason - because of the inherent conflict involved. Cultural production is a means whereby we propagate an incessant argument, a nebulous linguistic glow, hotter in some spots than others.

Urban highlighting project, 2008. Aquarium gravel.

Cultural production (and cultural criticism, which I generously lump under the heading of cultural production) also serves as a way to push ourselves out into the world. Think of the art you make as a prosthetic limb, one of your own shape and design, manifesting itself in the world. You shape these limbs, these extensions of yourself; you put them out in the world; you increase your size; you're continuously pushing yourself out into the world. Taking up more and more space, enlarging your aesthetic footprint. This isn't as menacing as it all sounds, but there is a particular type of violence in motion, in creation, in the conjuring of ideas, the calling up of that which wasn't before and placing it outside the self. In a crowded space where everyone is pushing themselves out into the world, obstruction, overlap, and obfuscation are bound to occur. These conflicts (and concurrences) are the heart of the conversation - in the end, one must recognize that they aren't conflicts between ideas, or between theories, but between people. The ghost of a hundred thousand dead artists and critics live on through their now disembodied prostheses, reattached to a willing host body. This is the most appropriate metaphor for the arts in academia: academics cutting off their own limbs to wear the flashiest or most powerful prostheses, sacrificing their own hands and feet to continue the conversation, all the while haunted by the tingling in their phantom limbs, all the while thinking about what their own hands and feet would've done, what their own mouth would've said.

Fill the cracks we forget about with something brighter, make them remember they're there.

I'm well aware that this is a vicious criticism of academia that doesn't always hold true, but I feel it clearly illustrates the difficulty discerning the difference between pushing oneself out in the world and continuing to push others out in the world. One can argue that the self, when one looks close enough, is no more than an amalgamation of others in indistinguishable proportion, so we are all merely pushing parts of others out into the world, a bucket brigade carrying the whole history of art/culture forward. To me, this is possibly the most interesting facet of the incessant argument that takes place - the struggle to determine how much of your self is in your prostheses, how much of your self is in your reservations and assertions. Because, as I said before, this isn't a conflict between ideas and theories, but between people, between others and the self, between the self and the self.

Let the wind sweep them away or let people put them in their pockets.

To that end, I think the ethicality in art is integrally tied to questions of identity, to an investigation of the self and others that should be the right of all humans. We should all be allowed to look as deeply as we can into the faces of the past, the eyes of the body that used to own the limbs we're using now. Making art (and everything that goes along with it) is the Right thing to do because it allows us to look closer at ourselves and others, it lets us see the water in the buckets we're carrying, it's let us spit in them or cut our hand off and send it on it's way.

Art and photos, C. Fritton, 2008.

One may think that by advocating the incessant conversation, I am endorsing the academic "house of cards" I've previously vilified, but I'm not. The academic aspect of cultural production is only a small part of the global incessant conversation (luckily for us) - and it's crippled by corruption, misguidance, conservatism, elitism, and capitalism, just like many other aspects of the conversation are: the Art world, museum culture, popular criticism, etc. The conversation is so much bigger and multifaceted than we can imagine; each of those parts are going to have their strengths and weaknesses.

Installation art in Toronto in conversation with mine, taking high-lighting literally.

Soon, I'd like to start turning my attention toward other parts of the conversation, parts that escape some of these handicaps, parts that are setting their own more democratic rules, parts that aren't embroiled in the pandemic problems listed above.

What's My Motivation?

Last night I was typing up pages for a new book, and I started thinking about why I was making it. I mean beyond the reason that I had an idea, and I like making books. I was thinking about why I like making books, why I like making art, and as you can imagine, it led me to think about why I do anything at all. Yeah, I know, how existential. But seriously. Do I make books because it makes me feel good? Because I want people to read them and respond positively, and that makes me feel good? Because I want to change people's minds? Because I want to change the world? Because I think beautiful things improve the world? What exactly is my motivation? Is it purely aesthetic? Is it ethical?

I've read and seen plenty of interviews with artists, and common responses to questions about why they make art are "I can't help it; I'm just compelled to; I have to; I must;" etc, or something similar. They answer the question without answering the question, and rarely follow up with an explanation. Why can't they help it? Why do they feel compelled? Why must they? Just because an artist can't recognize a deeper motivation (or doesn't care to reveal it) doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. I, for one, am not content feeling obliged to do something without understanding why.

Letterpress business card template for my 8 year long project, Ferrum Wheel

I'm a firm believer that all cultural/artistic production involves an expectation of audience even if that audience is the artist himself (see: Henry Darger, even Andy Goldsworthy) or convenes posthumously (see: too many artists/authors to name, but famously, Emily Dickinson). Simply by virtue of being perceiveable/conceivable in the universe, an artistic object/event (or concept thereof) not only expects an audience but requires it. Artist thinks artistic concept: he is necessarily there thinking it, he is his own audience. Artist makes index of concept: again, at least, he is his own audience (now conceptually and perceptually), but more than likely, the audience will extend beyond himself. From this we can assume it is inevitable that conceiving art, creating art, conceiving art that is perceived, perceiving art that is conceived, or perceiving art that is created must make the artist feel a certain way. And if audience is unavoidable, then it must play an integral role in how the artist feels.

Let's take each of those in turn. How does conceiving art make me feel? When I had the idea for this book, I felt excited, challenged, hopeful, nervous, anxious. How many of these feelings are dependent on audience? All of them. I was excited to produce something (an art object) that others (and myself) would see. I felt challenged because the creation of the object always involves some level of compromise between the imagined object and the actual thing, and I try reconcile the two as best I can. I felt hopeful because reconciling the imagined and the actual seemed relatively possible. I also felt hopeful for a positive response (from myself and others). I felt nervous and anxious about an inability to reconcile the imagined and the actual, and a possible negative reaction (from myself and others). All that before I even make a single thing. The only thing clear at this point is that even conceiving art makes me feel a lot of conflicting things. Now since it's impossible for me to conceive of something that I cannot perceive, it's safe to say that I've already perceived the conception of the art object I've conceived. This perception (thinking about my thoughts) doesn't necessarily add much in the way of what I feel, except maybe make me a little more critical of my idea. Creating the art object itself does, however, generate a new batch of feelings, including, but not limited to: frustration, determination, celebration, etc. Many of these feelings are wrapped up in the struggle to apply my physical skills in such a way as to produce precisely the object I envision. When I'm applying my hands and tools in this focused way I feel determined, when it doesn't turn out I feel frustrated, when it does I feel celebratory. Finally, when I perceive art that has been created (by my hand or otherwise), I feel intrigued, contemplative, joyous, disappointed, confused, etc. This, by far, is the most complicated and controversial aspect of artistic production because (unless the artist is the sole audience) it involves any number of people and any number of various reactions. I hardly have time to go into the whole history of aesthetics and criticism, but suffice it to say it's a contentious issue. I'm just trying to figure out why I make art.

I think this cycle of emotions is a key to why I make things. The emotions above are exclusive to me and are by no means representative of how other artists feel when they produce art, but the cycle is not. I think every artist goes through a similar process although the emotions may be different. It's this dynamism, this artificially generated interplay between risk and reward that draws me in - that maybe draws us all in. The velocity (and intensity) with which we experience these emotions is dependent on the length (and intensity) of the project (from a doodle on a notebook to a ten-year outdoor construction piece). It's an autogenous storm, one we stand at the center of, drift in and out of, and sometimes lose our way in.

Maybe if I had to answer the question about why I made art, I would say: Because I'm not just making art, I'm making all the things that go along with it. I'm instigating all those ideas, emotions, and criticisms, in myself and others, the whole cloud of dust.

I know this is a cursory examination, and I'm sure I'll be coming back to it over time. And I know my final statement is just as vulnerable to my earlier criticism of other artist's answers: one could easily ask me why I like instigiating all those ideas, emotions, etc. I think the answer might be a combination of something ethical and aesthetic - like maybe I think it's the Right thing to do...maybe more on that tomorrow.

Check out Ferrum Wheel at www.ferrumwheel.blogspot.com