[We first published this on June 20, 2003. It still seems so timely, which is why we publish it right after the first First Friday of this glorious new year, an art event which was so underwhelming -- well, what can one say except . . . downtown? By the way and for the record, some commenters seem to be ignorant of the fact that we ran our own gallery, both online and with real walls and doors, for over a year, despite being continually snubbed by Artlink and the two local newspapers.]
Gallerists need artists. But artists don't need gallerists.
by Catherine King
I had already told myself not to expect to find any breakthrough art on Roosevelt Row’s June 6 First Friday. So I wasn’t exactly disappointed after finishing my tour at Holga’s that night.
Walking back to my car, I followed a buckled sidewalk down a dark block of historic Phoenix. The houses had vanished; the people who had lived in them, and the ephemeral culture that had filled them -- all had vacated this neighborhood long ago.
I tracked the First Friday activity from a block away across the razed lots. Through the night I walked parallel, but offset, like the hidden observer. I could see the lights and people from across the ravaged expanse, but they seemed to be of another place and time.
The giddy laughter of the scene makers spilled out of monOrchid. The art on display inside, Popped Art -- by Mark Freedman, for one -- was of the rapidly receding Twentieth Century, I reflected, like this old neighborhood. When it was standing and vital, its residents understood nothing of the concept of retro. It was all about invention.
And now, in 2003, masquerading as cutting-edge, the thoroughly derivative art of the Popped Art Trio. The trendily-designed design center was hung with kitschy clichéd icons of pale tired gods of the last millennium -- Warhol, the Beatles, Jerry Garcia. And yet the industrial strength walls and lofty ceilings of monOrchid could scarcely contain all the excitement that was in the air.
The psychology displayed at the Popped Art show was bizarre, I grumbled to myself as I trudged back to the other side of Roosevelt Street and my car. Why were all the stylish people buzzing over these fake rehashed paintings? because it would be dishonest to assert that there was anything new going on over at monOrchid.
I thought about something I’d read from Chuck Close, who’s been painting since the 60’s: “Chuck answers that art used to belong to the part of the brain that thinks. Now it seems to have shifted over in the public’s mind to that part of the brain that chooses what covering you’ll put on the seat of your car. When did art move over to the world of style?” (in John Guare’s book, 1995)
The world of style. Yes, that was it, I muttered as I glared across the barren lots at the four inflated heads painted on the front of the monOrchid Culture Club Compound. The Phoenix Arts District isn’t about emerging art -- the art is contrived, and the scene is about replicating some preconceived notions of the approved ambience.
The downtown infill “visionaries” are missing so much of the authentic soul that still haunts this fading district, I told myself as I nervously picked up my pace. But then, why would people who are into lifeless, decorative, passé art be sensitive to the passionate expression of real human spirits? Because real human spirits are far too terrifying, I admitted, as I hurried on through the night.
I could feel the rich overlapping layers of life and death still tangible on old Roosevelt Row. The wonder of this phenomenon was lost on the stylized people -- those who are focused to hone in on a certain look -- while completely missing the importance of living in this moment. There could be nothing sadder, I found myself ruminating, than finding oneself out of time, just as one realizes that all those beautiful moments had slipped by unappreciated.
Suddenly, I almost tripped. Over a flashlight. Spotlighted there, in a very small array at my stumbling feet, was the most electrifying display of the night. Batteries included. The Flashlight Gallery!
The presentation was straightforward, yet enigmatic. Maximum drama with zero pretense. A dozen small canvases propped up on the front bumper and tires of the car of the coolest gallerist in town. The flashlight’s wedge of light crossed over the old paved walk to arc triumphantly on the modestly-scaled, unframed but also untamed paintings.
Who was the Flashlight Gallerist? I don’t know. He was talking to somebody in the dark, so I just took a quick look and continued on my way. I’m sure, though, that the gallerist and the artist were one and the same.
It was bewitching to find this most elemental of venues suddenly before me, as if it had materialized out of the haunted old lot. Now there’s a guy with a great idea! I thought after I caught my breath. What a surprise! Who needs a gallery? The farther away I walked from the Flashlight Gallery, the more astonishing it seemed to me.
Something unique is going on back there, I realized as I tried to keep walking and looking over my shoulder at the same time. I glanced back at Holga’s and eye lounge and Modified and monOrchid -- at the diminishing stylish scene just a half a block away now. I wondered if those people knew about The Flashlight Gallery over there, just a stone’s throw away?
I can completely relate, I said to myself as I surveyed the Roosevelt Row Galleries. The right venue is important. It can almost make or break an artist. But so many aspiring artists run into the wall of elitism and exclusivity that has been erected to control access to the rarified world of the Art Gallerist. As if art is about the people who have the mortgage on the building and not about the people who make it. But the people who make the art must go around begging the gallerists to please, please just look at my work for 30 seconds.
I heard a rumor that I hope is false, but I’m afraid it might be true. Are some Valley artists waiting a whole year to get a show hanging in Stinkweeds, a used record store? I hope not -- that would be pathetic. If you are waiting months and months to get your art hung in Stinkweeds, then we need to have a serious talk about your self-esteem.
If you have been lucky enough to be selected to show in the used record store, do you realize that is because your gallerist has determined that your work is not yet ready to hang in Modified Arts, the “real” music club gallery?
And then, when your gallerist finally deems you worthy of your own show, you might be lucky to get one show a year. This restricted access can lead to ass-kissing and patronizing, as we all know. If you, the artist, really believe in the work you are doing, you must also believe that time is very precious, indeed. How could anyone who is creatively driven agree to be shackled by gallerists to a slow track that leads only as far as the Gatekeepers choose?
Overthrow the tyranny of the gallerists!
But you might be willing to wait a year to get a show at Stinkweeds, then move on up to Roosevelt Row, where you might get another show after another year. You might be okay with this if you just want to paint like the other artists at Modified, eye lounge, 515, monOrchid and Holga’s. You would fit right in as you painted to please. You know the look and its characteristic stylizations. This accounts for the boring similarities between the bodies of work we all see at these venues. Your new stable will be a homogeneous place, carefully controlled by your gallerist’s taste.
If you are painting from your heart, some gallerist’s tastes are going to be the last thing on your mind. Consequently, you might find yourself stuck without representation or a venue. Think about the Flashlight Gallery! This is a radical idea, a unique solution to a problem.
If you are driven to create, you’re not going to be thwarted on account of some gallerist rejecting your work or controlling your momentum. You know what your work is worth -- it is not up to any gallerists to confirm it. You realize that your time is precious -- don’t be put on someone else’s schedule. Gallerists need artists. But artists don’t need gallerists. The alternative venue is the way to go today.
The Flashlight Gallery! What a dazzling little gem, and so utterly unexpected -- it almost didn’t seem real. I was about up to Roosevelt Street, but I stopped and turned around for one last look at that tiny shiny venue. It was gone. Or the night was too dark and the little gallery was too far away now. I know he was real.
I know he was really living in the moment, too. And that is the most important thing any of us can do. Do It Yourself! The earthbound ghosts who are all over Roosevelt Row are telling us that. Suddenly I felt a shiver, even in the warm June night. Now I rushed across the street to the parking lot. As I got into my car, I mused, Well what do you know? I did find some kind of breakthrough art tonight -- at the Flashlight Gallery off Roosevelt Row.
Posted by Jerome at January 9, 2005 08:41 AM | TrackBack