String Too Short To Be Saved—The Great Depression

What's so great about it?

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There was, in the basement of my grandmother's house, gathering dust on a dark shelf with other small receptacles containing collections of bits and bobs, a little box labelled "String Too Short To Be Saved", carefully printed out in the firm and elegant capital letters of my aunt's hand (she was an artist, and the house became hers as she never married and then took care of my grandmother in her old age).

We found the box after my aunt's death whilst emptying the house so that it could be sold. "String Too Short To Be Saved" had been humorously applied to the domestic character of my great aunt, Tante Mox (Marguerite Orban de Xivry). I had always believed the phrase to be private family language, an invention of my grandmother, until I started to run across it in old Depression-era magazines. My family had managed to isolate itself from mainstream America; I grew up on a dirt road far from the reach of whatever was going on in the rest of the world; this had something to do with my parents' lofty principles. We walked half a mile to our mailbox. We did not watch television or read comic books. Once a week, we went to town with my Dad who gave us a dime apiece so we could buy penny candy. Eventually, there were ten children, of whom I was the second. My family professed strenuously to eschew the popular culture. My grandmother was an immigrant who had taken a very large step down the social ladder in moving to this country. I grew up snobbishly deprived and feeling exclusively entitled to my narrow point of view and limited experience. It was a lightbulb moment for me when I realized that we belonged to something larger than our own little institution.

So are we ready to start hoarding useless stuff again? I am not an optimist, never have been. Some of this is hard-wired, the result of genetic and cultural mishap: my father being autistic and my mother bi-polar (this is not hyperbole). They grew up in NYC during the Great Depression and preached the Gospel of Hard Times according to The Catholic Worker. My tendency is to predict the direst consequence for any forward motion in my experience: the world is always on the brink of final catastrophic dissolution. My husband is of an entirely different mind (as he is in all things, sort of a knee-jerk contrarian). For better and for worse, we have stuck it out in this weird unbalance for over 30 years now. His view is: we (personally) have survived (that is, lived through and came out the other end of) two of the Four Bad Bear Markets since 1900. Of course, we weren't around for the "Big One" which is being invoked daily in the newspapers now. No, folks, it's not the "R" word anymore, it's the Big Bad "D" word. And according to the infographics (read: charts) he's looking at, what we're in now is equivalent to, not worse than, these last two in 1973 & 2000, at least for now. Time will tell. He thinks we'll pull out (in our lifetimes, I ask?) But my arrogant isolationism doesn't allow me to accept the mainstream anxiety either. I'm not adopting his point of view because I understand or believe in it. I simply cannot let myself spin out into panic.

I think perhaps the opportunity is presenting itself to shake out old dependencies and reliances. The world order is changing rapidly. The future belongs to the kids, of whom I have none. So my commitment is tenuous. Not sure where all this will lead. Does anyone? Did anyone ever? Here is a quotation from Il Gattopardo, (The Leopard) by Lampedusa:

"We're not blind...we're just human. We live in a changing reality to which we try to adapt ourselves like seaweed bending under the pressure of water.... We may worry about our children and perhaps our grandchilddren; but beyond what we can hope to stroke with these hands of ours we have no obligations."

And then

"As always, the thought of his own death calmed him as much as that of others disturbed him; was it perhaps because, when all was said and done, his own death would in the first place mean that of the whole world?"

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"Jeder mensch steht unter seiner Himmelskugel"—Robert Musil

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What a time we live in! More musings on mid-life crisis. The interview I did recently asked what mid-life meant to me and I had to say that it's the time (whatever your age) when you know you have less time left than you have already lived and you start counting up how much living you have to squeeze into that time. That is, if you have the strength (which you don't—because getting old is about loss). The biggest task is accepting and accommodating. Words, just words, but I have the same gripe with words that I have with my pictures. They are so easy to ignore, to take at face value and treat as a fait accompli when in fact they sometimes represent the most strenuous process. Of course, now I am treading in dangerous territory: the meaning of art.

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"I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art, And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita."—Vladimir Nabokov.

And to think that there are people out there who actually believe this is a book about child pornography.

Philadelphia Flower Show

CLICK TO ENLARGE! These are big images with lots of detail
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Monday March 2, I started my day shoveling the sidewalk at 6AM. The snow was steady and promised to keep up all day to the tune of 12-18". I had made plans to meet with a small cohort of gardening friends at Penn Station to take the train down to Philadelphia for the Flower Show.



Despite delays, we got to the Reading Terminal Market in time for an early lunch (my annual dose of Philly Cheese Steak) before crossing the street to the Convention Center.

As always, we were greeted by the most hardworking clichés



and over-the-top showmanship. Yikes!



It takes a short stroll over to the competition area for the exquisite, but less effusive, individual offerings of devoted perfectionists



to ease my annoyance at the crass bombast playing out in the commercial area.



This year's theme was Italia and as always, displays ranged from the sublime



to the ridiculous



The light level is typically so low (read: "dramatic")



that photography is a challenge and there is a kind of malevolent feel about the place.



It's when struggling with all this drama and the limitations of my camera that I am made aware of the sordid backdrop of the whole enterprise.



The Flower Show is a completely artificial, temporary & ephemeral environment that requires monumental coordination and enormous effort to pull off in a space better suited to showing cars and electronic equipment. Tons of dirt are hauled into the joint only to be hauled out again at the end of the week. Horticulturists like to call it soil—same difference to me—go figure, if it makes them feel good not to call it dirt, you don't see much of it in any of the exhibits anyway.



We saw the plants on Monday, so they were still quite fresh. But it must be a daunting task to keep these displays properly humidified and perfectly un-wilted.




That the show was also relatively uncrowded (most likely due to the inclement weather) was a pleasant bonus. Students from a local vocal academy were there to perform arias from Italian opera on a raised stage set that looked like the balconies of an Italian villa. Never mind that Doretta's aria from La Rondine was sung in medieval dress. Frank Sinatra recordings crooned in the background from another booth.

A somewhat overwrought, but nonetheless inventive display had yellow tulips and daffodils (cut flowers) sitting in clear plastic water bottles (hundreds of them), lit from below with a cool white light and trelllised in some sort of wierd polypropylene tuteur. An industrial designer's dream. Not unpleasant; there was just a bit too much of it.



Fashion was represented in the form of shoes [not shown here, kind of yucky] and hats, which I found sort of charming.



The ikebana were stunning if garish.



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As always, there were many little treats amongst the sheer profusion of botanica on parade. Some of my favorites:

This little Sempervivum. The color was just as you see it. A "must-have" on my new wishlist.



An azalea which name I did not get, but it is a ringer for the one I painted in 1992. This one was growing as a standard, a giant lollipop of pink & white with red freckles.




This variegated begonia in a terrarium looked positively extraterrestrial.



Lilies. The scent was divine.




Lots of Clivia in every shade from pale yellow through deepest orange, some with beautifully variegated foliage. I couldn't get enough of them, and for some reason, they were very easy to photograph.



This Hammamelis caught my eye. I didn't get the variety name.




This bromeliad was part of a psychedelic-looking display featuring colored lights. A bit much, but the forms were beautiful.



And finally, a begonia that looked alarmingly like some wallpaper that was in a house we once moved into, and that we peeled off immediately in favor of a plain white wall. Amazing what context can do.



And then...I moved on to the "marketplace" portion of the show. This is where all my best intentions come to naught. I am, these days, completely unemployed, except for my studio work which hasn't earned me anything since last May. So it goes without saying that I couldn't afford to buy anything. But, when I stumbled into the booth with the little minature pots of exotic tropicals, I knew I was in trouble. Well, the prospect of a long trek back up the (by now) dark North East Corridor by train in a miserable snow storm brought me to my senses before much harm was done. And this sunny (but cold) morning I am delighting in the delicate details of: a variegated baby Jade (Portulacaria), Nemntanthus, variegated Trachelospermum jasminoides, South African squill, Singapore Holly (Malpighia coccigera), Comprosma kirkii, a pink Serissa, and a white rabbit's foot fern (Humata tyermaniii). But all that's for another post

Mid-Life Crisis

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An art therapy graduate student recently roped me into being a guinea pig for her thesis study. The theme had to do with how women can use self-portraits to help navigate mid-life crisis. I agreed, mostly out of curiosity, but also because I've been very isolated of late, and the connection with new people seemed like a good idea. I used staunchly to deny the existence of "mid-life crisis," preferring to stereotype it as something that happens to men when their spouses lose interest in them. But having weathered several years of increasingly scary depression and "loss of compass", I agreed to the interview and to making a self-portrait for the study. I was almost seduced by the Marlene Dumas style of painting until I figured out what was wrong with it—it's so very slick! I worked day jobs in the design industry for 40 years so I know from whence.... There's an awful lot of design and illustration parading as art in the galleries (and, now, in the very bastion of capital "A" Art: MoMA). I would actually rather look at fashion illustration (like Mats Gustafson or something). At least it isn't pretending to a higher station and it is very sensual and pleasant-looking.

Click image to enlarge.

Have I rambled? Back to the self portrait. I scoured old sketchbooks for earlier attempts; I took a series of photoBooth pix with my iMac thinking to do some conceptual diaristic thing (too easy, plus, way too facebook); I sketched with a mirror in the classical (psychotic-stare) tradition: everything came out looking injured as if wounds had been exposed. Perhaps this is the therapeutic function. Anyway, I ended up making a realistic depiction of my face with a giant cancer scar across the cheek, based on a photo from the time when.... It embarrassed me, being so blatant about feeling poorly, but after talking it over in the interview, I came to the conclusion that I was, in fact, in mid-life crisis and that my self-expression was legitimate.

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I am painting in my studio daily this winter, despite having sold nothing since June, and despite the impending crash of the world as we know it. Yes, I am scared, but beauty is what will save us in the end. Put on a recording of Rosenkavelier and bask in the sublime caterwaul of the last act (where women take over the world).

The Baby in the Dumpster

I came across a small framed picture in the cellar of my aunt's house when we cleaned up after her death a few years ago. It had been rather informally framed in a cheap 1950s wooden frame and was mixed in with a whole bunch of miscellaneous old student work (her own and her students') that had been molding away down there for the past 50 or so years.

The picture seemed important enough that I did not pitch it into the dumpster along with the rest. I began to wonder if Alfonso Ossorio might not have left it with her. She got to know him when he was at the Portsmouth Priory School and at RISD, and they collaborated on the decoration of a church in the Philippines. So this was not the most unlikely assumption on my part.

Now, I have removed it from the frame and there appears to be an "AO" signature with an indication that it was done in the Philipine Islands in 1950. The irregular scrap of paper measures 11" in its longest length and 7.5" across its widest width. I've not seen a lot of Ossorios in person, but I know he did work in wax & watercolor about this time and that babies figured in some of this work. There is enough handwriting on the back that someone familiar with his autograph should be able to confirm the signature.


The painting has been returned to its frame, minus the corrosive old cardboard, and hangs on my wall. I am now forced to contemplate the fate of my own work after I leave this planet. T.'s father died the week before Christmas leaving an apartment full of stuff yet to be disposed of. I remember a news item during the bad old '80s about an artist in the West Village who died of AIDS and his entire studio went straight into the dumpster. My own work multiplies every time I get down to business and admit that I am an artist. In my entire career, until 3 years ago (which comprises nearly 40 years of wishing, hoping, dollars-down-the-drain, ass-kissing, licking wounds and hard, hard work), I had sold only 2 pieces. As fortune (nothing, but sheer dumb luck) would have it, I ended up with gallery representation in time to have one blockbuster (for me) year before the market crashed. So now what? To have come so far after nearly chucking the whole enterprise in favor of job security and a small check in my old age (if there's anything left of Social Security): WTF?

Do I start giving it all away? What about the 60" x 90" paintings? Who has room for all this crap? The materialness of it all is suffocating. But painting is material. More later when my thoughts cohere.

Am I a complete luddite?

I was up early this morning to let the cats out. It was warm and wet out on the roof. No sign of ice in any of the birdbaths. It stays so cold inside the house I was startled when I opened the door to the garden. My fingers and right forearm were stiff & tingling after 3 or so hours of image editing in 56°F. I have no heat in my studio; what heat I get trickles in from the rest of the house. I am updating my design portfolio with the idea of going out to look for a job. It's an idea which appalls me.



As much as I love designing things and as much as I miss the camaraderie of an office full of people, I don't think I have the stamina to weather the demands of this type of employment any more. Actually, any type of employment. I'm too old to be whipped around by the senseless & quixotic demands of clients who never seem to know what they want until you've done the whole thing over 5 or 6 times. But, as it becomes daily more apparent that I will not be selling any more paintings any time soon....

All summer long, I painted in a large, raw [dirty, it must be said] space with only the most basic amenities, and came away with more and better work than I've ever been able to do before. I had no internet. When I needed a distraction from painting, I did things like sew dresses on the old treadle machine that's up there, or string beads into necklaces or pull weeds in a soothing rhythm of large & fine motor activity. I am old enough that occupations like these don't seem to me an unusual way to spend time. But now I'm back in the city, and most activities are harnessed to the computer. I volunteer in an after-school gardening group and my kids are addicted to their electronic appliances. It's hard to get anyone to complete a series of manual tasks when they are texting furiously all the time.

I know, I know. Life used to be slower and whatever. Kids nowadays, etc etc. I realize I am on the verge of fogey-ism. And, of course, we could all be blasted back into the stone age if certain world leaders have their way. I am trying to stay calm in the face of unimaginable possiblilites for the near future. Too much Negroponte & Kurzweil is worrisome. Why? Am I a complete luddite? Probably not, but I am a late adopter. I agree that linear growth is not the model for our time. But technology for its own sake? Such as nanobots interacting with our neurons? 3-dimensional self-organizing molecular circuits? reverse-engineering of the human brain? augmented real-reality & artificial intelligence? Hey, this stuff is really cool! Let's give computers to everyone in the world and see what they come up with.

And of course, there are phenomenally complex problems to solve. The slush and mush of world chaos feeds the exponential growth of technology.

I understand the creative urge, but my father was one of the scientists on the Manhattan project and even though it could be argued that "they" would have gotten there first and it was a win for the forces of good, I learned early what a source of great sorrow it was for us all. Has the world even learned to deal with that Pandora's Box yet?

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Yoga is the answer! I do it everyday to keep my brains from travelling too far in any schizoid direction. And don't ever forget: War is the complete failure of civilization.

Older is NOT Better

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Today is my birthday. I have to "do the math" anymore to figure out how old I am. Let's see, 2008 - 1951 = Yikes!

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Because I am completely unemployed, I have sort of lost my compass. I try hard to get enough exercise everyday, but it ain't what it used to be when I was up and out the door every morning walking a mile to the train and back again at night, feeling the pulse of the city, being connected with people, bitching about how little time I had to do my own work. And there are days when I ...

This can be an opportunity, or a disaster.

It's raining now, for which I am grateful; at least it's not snow. The cold gets harder to take with each passing year. The years are more like hours now. Why is that? T. flew out to the Left Coast a couple of days ago at the request of his aging & [f]ailing father, who heretofore had had almost nothing to do with him (as in, never visited, didn't come to our wedding, etc). Certain that the end was near, T. didn't hesitate to catch the first flight out. But, as with my own parents, this seems to have turned into just the first of many dreary emergencies, which will culminate in a transfer to a nursing home and all the attendant messy details about cleaning out the house and getting his bills paid. F. isn't ready to die, even though he signed on for hospice care.

I remember when hospice care was a new concept, supposed to alleviate the depredations of the medical industry and allow people to die with dignity on their own terms. It has become institutionalized such that I fear it is now just another fancy option you can sign up for, not really knowing the implications. But then, who ever knows the implications of dying. Having no children to sit by my bedside and lurch me over to the commode now and then, I would hope for a modicum of comfort (as in pain control and cleanliness) and a few "Aha" moments before the lights go out for the last time.

May I say that I was shocked & exhausted by the amount of physical work, mental torture and personal sacrifice it took to get my mother through the transition from independence to complete nursing care. Thankfully, her health has actually improved (to the point where she is feisty enough to feel imprisoned by the circumstances), but she won't be going home anymore. Besides, where is home for her?

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So I am alone on my birthday and since we had to ditch our Thanksgiving plans, I guess I'll try to use all this time to do "my own" work.

BiCoastal : BiPolar

The other day, I was in Chelsea because of some X-rays connected with getting a physical exam. So I wandered way west over on 23, 24 & 25 Streets in a neat S-shaped pattern with zig-zag crossings, hoping to keep it simple and easy on my aging bones. What I saw, with few exceptions, was disheartening. Aside from the sense of being shouted at from all sides, there was a lot of unattractive bodily function on display, the kind of frenetic, anxious masturbating that you see in frightened toddlers and mental patients.

Knowing that most artists (and there are a lot of them) come from circumstances of comfort & wealth, I wonder what is at the root of this anxiety. Are they afraid their portfolios are now worthless, or, are they afraid their brand has lost market share? Have they figured out which way the wind is blowing? And then I made the mistake of reading ArtForum reviews of the latest (last?) art parties and auctions. And I learned that it was a "bloodbath" and a "freefall", that the bubble had burst and that I am going to have to go out and get a second job again.

The Richard Prince was Oh so bo-o-o-ring. But there were a few things that caught my attention: a young Philadelphia photographer named Zoe Strauss, who shoots the underbelly and does it well and generously, despite a lot of lo-res funk in the image; an assemblage show at Zoubek of some dead guy, Salvatore Meo, whose work reminds me of T's, but the prognosis isn't good. You can't just make a lot of beautiful stuff in your lifetime and expect the world to recognize you after you're gone; and a couple of other surprises that I can't now recall.

So much of the work looks over-planned and eviscerated by technique. The technique of late seems to consist mainly of producing the ugliest possible digital pictures on any surface that will take them and then scratching them up with a few hand gestures.

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So "customer satisfaction" is the new gospel of the marketeers. Analytics tools! Quantitative data! Kick some major butt! They are putting people into this bucket and that bucket. And then...

"Customer-driven, even though it sounds so nice and politically correct, is another totally illogical concept of the past. At our company..., we trust in an insight of Henry Ford, who once said: 'If I had asked customers what they wanted, they would have told me they wanted a faster horse'."

[an unattributed quotation from the vast world wide web. -ed] 

Oy! you read too much of this stuff and you remember why you go under the radar for half the year. Most people don't get it that I'm completely off-line from May until I get back in the fall. A couple of years ago, I came back to the city looking for a freelance gig and when I said I hadn't touched a computer in 6 months, they said "Do you think you'll have the chops for the job?" It's better to lie.

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T. just called from Seal Beach and F. is not dying, not right away, at any rate. So now what?

And the nurse practicioner called to say that my good cholesterol was good enough to offset the bad cholesterol, so nothing is to be done.

This, from Peter Plagens: "...in desperate search of art with feeling rather than strategy at its core". Took the words right out of my mouth.

I am reading the LA Times (online, of course) because I have an unquenchable addiction to palm trees and I fantasize constantly about moving back. Although, I was back recently because of F's 90th, and when we drove down south, not only could we not get into the Getty because of the fires, we had to drive the 91 for hours under a thick blanket of brown sky which mercifully (because it took so friggin' long) turned dark as night fell.