Quick Reflection

I have an acute allergy to that thing that drives so many people to want to be an artist these days: mainly it seems to boil down to a rather grotesque desire to be famous that far exceeds any willingness to put honest reflection or, God forbid, a generosity of human spirit ahead of itself.

I have a real soft spot for that thing that drives anyone to need to be an artist: a nearly overwhelming sense of being lost if they're not challenging themselves, solving problems, making work.

The later can exist outside of the art market/"art world." The former really cannot.

The irony though is that the later is what the art world is tasked with discovering, nurturing, and ultimately preserving, while the former flock like so many Whacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube People inserting themselves everywhere they can (mind you, even the most desperate of artists who only want to be famous can't hold a candle to most art dealers in this regard, but....).

I saw a man coming out of a restaurant in Chelsea yesterday holding a sketch pad, rubberbanded to a palette and other art supplies. He wasn't an artist I recognized. He looked a bit old to be still hoping for an emerging career, but perhaps not. [UPDATE: As I note in the comments, that last line was an extremely lazy bit of writing. What I meant was he seemed too old to just be out of art school and unaware that bringing your sketchpad into a gallery was not the best way to get a gallery show...suggesting that his having it with him was not part of a "hit the pavement" and get a show campaign.]

He had that thing...that look in his eyes...that disposition that convinced me he was perhaps only accidentally in Chelsea, the commercial center of New York's art world (it was Monday after all...the galleries were closed). What I saw in his face (or thought I saw) was that need to challenge himself...that need to make work (hence, his slogging around with sketchpad in tow). There was no arrogance in his face, no sense of determination to become famous. There was a simple, gorgeous curiosity. And more than that...the rarest of qualities one finds on New York's streets: a vulnerability.

I don't know who he was. Perhaps just a Sunday/Monday painter. But I found the lack of obvious ambition in his body language and facial expression refreshing. Yes, perhaps, I projected a narrative onto him, but it still quickened my step and renewed my determination for what tiny role I'm getting to play in the history of art. Just that look on his face totally made my day.

I've been thinking about this quality in conjunction with the highly anticipated Willem de Kooning retrospective at MoMA. Here was an artist who, by his own words, felt there was no time period in painting's history for him. Yet he kept painting. Over the course of 70 years he challenged himself, he solved problems, he worked (and worked, and worked).

This is the only practical approach to greatness, in my humble opinion. Humankind reserves some of its highest honors (acknowledgement, respect, and preservation of contributions) for its artists. Such honors are not something one deserves for some trendy innovation. They're certainly not something anyone is born entitled to.

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Murat and I will be extremely busy the next few weeks getting ready for the London Moving Image (which, we're delighted to report is coming along brilliantly!). I'll blog as often as I can, but can't promise to get to it each day. If all I can manage is a quick reflection or two, I hope you'll bear with such indulgences while we get this new venture up and running.

e