Anodyne
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
 

"Maybe there should just be...oh, say, thirteen ghosts," suggests an artist whose opinion I can't casually discount. "Maybe you need to think harder about what constitutes a good picture." Turtles all the way down! Operative subtext: Do you really know what you're doing? Fuck no. To paraphrase Jasper Johns, I guess I just decided to quit becoming an artist and just to be one. I try the distinction out on an increasingly skeptical Tolagson over lime margaritas and too much salt at the bistro down the road, but the Hopperesque sunglow on the building across the street distracts me and I find myself trailing off into an increasingly lengthy series of ellipses. The room's too hot and the double shots of tequila don't help. I keep fiddling with the crushed crescent of lime at the bottom of my glass and wiping the sweat from my eyes. The point of the exercise is to externalize something inside your head, to get it out, so you can handle it, scrutinize it, see if it holds up. One's head -- well, my head -- is not a particularly healthy place to be. Should I be writing proposals for art shows and production grants, or making things and inflicting them on the world? You've lost me, says Tolagson, wondering why he ever agreed to a "meal" consisting of 90% alcohol and 10% pasta. Look, I ask, when you ordered that print from Stephen Gill, who wrote back to you? His gallerist? His assistant? No, he did, says T. Had you ever met him before? No. Well, that's a genuinely new "cultural moment," then, as amazing in its own way as Latta's Clouds.
- posted by cjb @ 9:06 AM


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