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05/11/2005: "Artblogs, so what are they, anyway?" by Andrew Wielawski
Looks like journals from trips to me, one from places around Florida, another from Green Point by a non-New Yorkermy turn now. A trip is a trip from somewhere to somewhere else, so why not start this one off from my house in the foothills of Mont Altissimo? We jump into my orange 1972 VW bus and were off. Its packed full of small marble sculptures, stone saw blades for sculptor friends along the way, and a lot of spare parts. Plus some chisels and saws for me in case I get inspired. The refrigerator is full, the water tank too, we have money, passports and enough baby formula for about three weeks.
We take the Superstrada to Florence, because there are no tolls, and then the Autostrada to Arezzo, where we get off onto local roads to cross the mountains running up and down the center of Italy. The road passes by Assisi, and Citta di Castello, and finally were on the downhill stretch to the port of Ancona. We havent stopped once, and the tank has just fumes in it. I like to arrive empty, because gas is a lot cheaper than five bucks a gallon in Greece. We turn into the port, and theres the big red Superfast boat, with just the tractor trailers lined up to get on. Its off season, and no one else is there. For a hundred thirty bucks, the three of us and the van are on the boat to Greece, so we go inside and get a few beers. At sunset, the ship leaves the port, and turns south as it reaches open sea.
I remember this trip during the war in Yugoslavia. At night, you could actually see the flashes on the eastern horizon, and a couple of times Milosovic even tried to bomb Italy, though the planes never made it across the Adriatic. Most of the people on this boat are Greek, and at that time they were laughing in the ships bars when those three, remember them, got caught. A religious thing, Orthodox Christianity shared with the Serbs, and a hatred of anything Muslim, especially Albanians. The inspiration for a lot of my work comes from modern conflicts, and when the Albanians started to arrive in Italy, I did my Harlequin as a comment on not fitting in even if you get the right clothes. A bit of a self portrait too, as nothing looks as ridiculous in Italy as an American wearing Gucci. Or an Albanian driving an Alfa Romeo.The boat gives you a chance to think, and to draw, and maybe plan out the next day. Well arrive at about 2PM, and race to Pireus to see if we can make the ferry to the islands. While were parked in the boat garage, a microscopic spot sandwiched in between a whole boatload of trucks, a German driver comes over to say hello.
Americans? he asks, seeing the New York license plate.
Im Polish says my wife Irenka. He frowns. American with Polish wife? I say yes, and then I tell him that Leon has an American passport even if hes never been there. The conversation goes on like this until he asks why were touring off season, I show him some sculpture and he asks me to draw his truck. I do a sketch of the front, and he gives me five euros, then says he likes it and gives me another five. The conversation ends there, and he walks back to his truck with the drawing chuckling. An Ouzo from a bottle we buy in the ships store and its bedtime.
At two the next day, we get off in Patras, and I stop at a local mechanic I know, Bobby, to have him look at an oil leak. He tells me we cant make the ferry today, because off season, they only run once a day, in the morning. Since were going to stay in Patras for a while, we decide to go to some galleries. Theres a really nice street through the center of town, but its hard to believe that in a city this large, they only have three galleries. Id like to show here. The gallerists are frosty, like my work, but offer me way too little, and want me to make stuff that looks like bad copies of Greek antiques. The biggest objection is that nothing in the van looks Greek. Back at the mechanics he tells me he changed a valve cover gasket, and it still leaked so he use some glue, With a huge smile, he says, Ten Euro. Love those German truckers.
Later, in a portside restaurant, I notice a few display cases with some artifact looking objects in them, and I think, well, this place certainly gets some traffic, worth a try. I meet the woman in charge, who is get this an American Greek from Boston who loves art. She takes five marble sculptures and two paper bas reliefs; doesnt say a word about the prices I want, and even betterdoesnt want any commission. This makes my restaurant look better, you kidding? And dinners on the house We eat, say thanks to Georgia, and head for the next port, Pireus.
Driving to Athens from this direction is frightening. The landscape changes as we get nearer, and begins to look like a wasteland of junkyards, Old sinks, bathtubs, dilapidated machinery, tin shacks, the works. But as we enter the outskirts, everything changes for the better. There are brightly lit restaurants, neon illuminated shops, and everything is four or five stories max. There seem to be hundreds of souvlaki places, and even at 11.30 PM, there are lots of people out. Then another desolate stretch downhill, and we pull into the port.We see theres no place wed want to park to sleep, and the area near the piers has the gates closed, A block back from the water, we find an abandoned factory and park alongside a pile of twenty or more dogs, all sleeping together. Its quiet, but no getting out to piss, thats for sure. We set the alarm for six, and turn in.
In the morning, we go to the port and find out the boat to Mykonos isnt sailing because of rough seas, but one for Paros is. We get tickets, and park in the line in front of the boats garage doors, again, mostly made up of tractor trailers. It becomes apparent quickly that this boat isnt sure to leave, either, but finally we get the go ahead to drive on. We wait upstairs in the bar lounge areas, where there are a lot of elderly Greek ladies dressed in black giving Leon the eye.
Its rough alright, but neither Leon nor Irenka seem to mind, and we laugh at the difficulties passengers are having with their food sliding around on the lounge tables. You couldnt even think of going outside with the wind and spray and all, and when we arrive, Paros isnt much better. There are places to park all over, and we choose one nearest an entrance to the labyrinth of tiny passageways. Britts around here somewhere, now all we have to do is find her.Shes not in the first gallery we try, but they know who she is, and which bar she frequents. We walk there with the stroller, and see her right away, one of the only three people eating lunch, She busts into a bright smile, and the two other people look us over grimly; families not very welcome here. Britt introduces us, and when she mentions Im a sculptor, one of the other two says, Right. Another one, in a bored British accent. These are people whove become old timers, sometimes in as little as six months. As a newcomer, in all these little cliques of artists everywhere around the Mediterranean, its always the same. You might reach in your pocket and pull out a catalogue, or a ratty little packet of photos, and try to offer them around as evidence of your artistic worth. I dont see much point in that, or running back to the car to get something, so I look over the sandwiches and get one. The girl behind the counter is also English, and gives me the same sort of unwelcoming look. Prove that youre somebody seems to be the unsaid message that everyone except Britt is sending. Britt was my apprentice a few years back before moving here from Italy, and now is pretty firmly entrenched. She shows steadily in one of the better galleries, has private clients on the island, and being charismatic, attractive and blonde, is well liked.
Paros is famous for marble coming from a three thousand year old quarry, from which the faade of the Acropolis was made. It has large crystals, is translucent and stays that way through the millennia, unlike Italian Statuario. If you get caught taking any, you end up in a Greek jail, even if its just a piece as small as your finger, so naturally its very attractive as a sculpting material for these ex-pats and Greek artists alike. I had a piece fedexed to me once, and it was so nice to carve Im still saving golf ball size pieces for little heads. Holds amazing detail.
We go to an opening at the city gallery, of an English artist who used to work in the rock n roll business, and guess whos playing at his opening? Donovan! Hurdy Gurdy Manfrom six feet away! Only time I ever got that close to a rock n roll star was in San Francisco at ArtExpo a few years back, when Marty Balin from the Jefferson Airplane was showing his paintings, and came over to talk to me about the piece I had there, Harlequin Ecce Omo. I wouldve sold it for nothing if I could have gotten an autographed album from him. Lets do some blow, Marty! How bout a little orange sunshine! Didnt look like he was into that stuff any more, and I wimped in the presence of such greatness, and only answered his questions. Donovan was approachable, but you had to wait in line, and my wife is too young to know who he was or care. But the sculptor was very friendly, and we got invited to his place for lunch the next day. High on a hill, overlooking a spectacular panorama of the startlingly blue Aegean sea, looking rustic but with all the modern conveniences, made me see once again how grand life can be if youre an artist who doesnt have to sell work to live well. The work, at the show, and around this house, was what I like to call generic abstract. Highly polished to show off the natural beauty of the stone, with sweeping curved surfaces that couldve been made by anyone. They look good on pedestals.
We caught the boat to Mykonos www.greektravel.com/greekislands/mykonos/paradise/ in the afternoon. I drove off, breezing through this, my most familiar port in Greece, and up the hill away from town to near Paradise Beach, and a taverna called Ithaki. Theres one of about three sculpture studios there, and Christos, probably the most known sculptor on the island has his studio in the back. Hes a character, full of the unclear dreaminess that attracts hangers on, and his ambiguous wisdom seems to provide all the answers anyone could possibly seek, if you look hard enough for the meaning. Hes got a bunch of Albanians making huge plates out of some of the worst stone Ive ever carved, but if you work it right, you can do wonders with it. A very strong grain in one direction makes arms and legs come flying off statues, and they often do here in this studio, making the work ever more attractive. You can do amazing flat work, like Chinese screens with numerous openings in huge sheets, because this is a stone that never breaks across its grain. A bit rose colored, with streaks of gritty grey, and those huge crystals.
Christos says, Ah, Andrewyou back. He offers me a beer, and tells me all the great things hes going to do to the restaurant and studio. Hes going to build cottages for artists, and sell two, three, four week vacations of carving, eating, fishing, and music. To the richest people in the world, because, you know, the richest people always end up in Mykonos. He says this every time I come here.
Then he sees Irenka, and Leon, and says, He looks like you! This isyour wife?
Wow. Things happen. Christos is small, with frizzled white hair thats all but gone on top. No one really knows how old he is, but I say, way over sixty. My wife doesnt eat shellfish, and apart from a few things, thats all this place serves. I realize this, and go tell the cook to make an assortment of whatever hes got that actually swims.
You bring any tools? He asks. I say yes, Those blades?he continues.
Six big ones, and three small ones. Hes apprehensive. I dont want the small ones. But I take all the big ones. How much?
Forty each. He has a bit of trouble with the arithmetic, and then says,
I give you a hundred thirty today, and the rest tomorrow. How long you staying.
I dont know. I look around. The place is a theater, with huge conch shells as lights, and some other kind of giant clam shells as sconces on the walls. The light is varied, and there are streaks of pink and orange everywhere. Hes made everything, the tables, the bar, the walls, and its a trip. There are sculptures everywhere, some enormous, and theres a huge wreck of a boat floating in a swimming pool. There are sculptures at the bottom of the pool. I see a small nude Id carved and left the year before, and someones carved a face on the head Id left only roughed out. In a completely different, primitive style. In this environment, you want to laugh it off, because theres nothing you can do about it anyway. There are a number of Greek sculptors who drop in to work here, and one of them is Mimis. I suspect it was him who carved the face, and our next stop is the other studio, in Agios Anna. We say thanks for dinner, and are off.
The roads are really bad, with a lot of cliffs and sharp turns, stone walls built out into the road to catch your doors if you dont give them plenty of room. A lot of drinking goes on here, and almost none of the locals has a car without a lot of deep scratches up and down the sides. My VWs clean, and I intend to keep it that way, but most of the cars coming the other way dont seem to realize that. Mimis is in another taverna, with the same look, because Christos did this one, too. The sculpture studio he left behind is still there, with nobody but Mimis working in it. A lot of marble is there, too, also brought in by Christos.
Whats with you and Christos, I ask, since these two best friends are not in the same place.
We got a divorce, he tells me. I knew Christos had gotten a divorce from the owner of this place, as he does almost yearly with Greek taverna owners who want to latch on to his artist charisma and the clientele it brings. In the town, at bar Uno, Christos always has a table full of people around him, and its the table everyone wants to be at. He goes after work at Ithaki, and stays til dawn. And hes the first person at work in the morning.
Mimis wants a big blade and a small one, and some chisels, so I let him have his pick.
I havent shown either sculptor any of the work I brought, because I know they dont want to see it anyway.
Cute kid, Mimis says, smiling widely. He look like you. A bear of a man, hes got an affable smile that makes you think hes in the know, but he absolutely isnt. Neither man has said a word to Irenka, and she looks fidgety, so we head to town after a few Ouzos.
There are no summer cops, so we wind through Choras narrow streets until were at the windmills. We park, pull out the stroller, and squeeze through to Minima gallery, where Im bringing new work. Spiros sees me, and with melodramatic shock, says, You a daddy! His nephew Adonis, who works in the gallery, and he, are on the upstairs balcony drinking coffee and watching the crowds walk by. Whenever anyone goes into the downstairs, one of them races down the steep staircase to attend to the customers. Spiros pays more attention to Irenka than he does to me. We talk about the work, and he says hell send a minitruck to pick up the sculptures in the morning. The streets are too narrow for cars, but little golf cart like pick up trucks do the hauling for everybody. We spend an hour or so there, and then were off to Apaloosa for Mexican food. Its surprisingly good, as are the margaritas, and I get a nod from the bartender who says Leon looks like me.
Bar Uno at 11 PM is dead, no other word for it. People dont start rolling in until one or two, and Leons had enough. Hes asleep in the baby carriage, and as this place livens up, I want to be a long way from it. So we stroll back to the van and set up for the night. But somehow after a few hours I cant sleep. I know this place, and theres a magnetism that draws me out to see if I cant run into something that Id miss otherwise. Its different now, being a new parent, but Irenka just wants to sleep, and tells me with a smile to go. I pass a lot of tourists on my way that I dont really want to meet, mostly rich young Athenians here for the weekend, and finally am at bar Uno. Mimis is there, but Christos isnt yet, and Im glad they werent sitting at opposite ends glaring at each other. He buys me a drink, and says theres a beach party tomorrow. Id only heard about these, never been to one, and he says, If you want, you can come. Be at Agios Ioannis pier at noon. We see Ianni, another sculptor, who shared an octopus he shot with me on the beach last summer; he roasted it right on the spear after banging it on the rocks for a half hour. Hes kind of creepy, makes you think hed do anything to get what he wants, whatever that is. Now he wants to buy one of my sculptures cut rate, and stiff Spiros out of his share as well. Ianni really likes my work, always looks over every piece intently. But I kind of get the feeling hed just scrape off my signature and sell it as his. He goes off, and Mimis smiles and shakes his big head. I remember him telling me that Spiros wont let Ianni in the gallery any more, and that now he kind of slides in when Spiros is busy with clients .The next day, at noon, were at this lost little pier in the middle of nowhere, and theres no one in sight. So we go swimming. This time of year, theres just about nowhere youd want to go in the water, except here. Its actually warm, near the surface. After a while, we see a beat up fishing boat coming in, and Mimis waves from the deck, along with another fisherman doing something with ropes. Mimis owns this boat, and fishes for a lot of the restaurants here, including Ithaki. Theres a huge piece of wood split loose from the bow where somebody hit a dock or pier, and there are fish traps and all sorts of stuff all over. Mimis sends the other guy up to a store in a pick up truck, and hes back in no time with what looks like a bathtub full of ice, and beer, ouzo, and retsina, cases of melons and vegetables, pineapples, the works. A Range Rover pulls up, and a middle aged couple with fancy sunglasses gets out. Then a Mehari, a kind of Citroen plastic jeep, with a young couple with hippyish outfits, and a couple of lute cases. A few more cars come in, and we all get on the boat. Out of sight of the shore, Mimis friend at the wheel in the tiny cabin, lights up a joint. Everyones Greek except us, and no ones making any effort to speak English. There are sixteen of us.
We sail to a small island called Little Delos, and rounding a point, into a bay going way in. Theres a dinghy, and some people get ferried in, others dive off the boat and swim to shore. Theres nothing at all on this barren rocky island, except a big grill made from half an oil drum in the middle of the beach. They go right to work starting a charcoal fire, and I think, what for, if were just going to eat melons and drink? A big canopy appears from somewhere in the boat, and goes up on poles. Good thing, too, the suns hot.
They put wetsuits on, and the two fisherman and one musician disappear under the water. Half an hour later, they have eighty pounds of fish, lobsters, urchins, and something which I cant identify but comes in a lobster like shell. Mimis Agamemnon is a great cook, and smothering the fish with olive oil, spices, salt and pepper, the smell in the breeze is like heaven.
Three hours later, were listening to bouzouki music and one of the sweetest female voices Ive ever heard. No covers here. Just stuff from Thesalonika, the singers home town. The musicians speak good English, and as the ouzo oozes into our veins, conversations with everybody start to flow, except with the second fisherman, who doesnt say anything to anyone. This goes on until midnite, and Irenka and I are suspended in a place without time, without any sense of belonging, or not belonging, just of being there in that moment. We pack up to leave, vaguely being aware that only Mimis and the other guy are doing all the work. A strong wind picks up as we exit the bay, and the sea starts to heave. There are hammocks on deck, and were all swinging in them, as occasional onions and potatoes go rolling by. Spray hits, and everyone laughs. Thenoff on our right, we pass the island of Delos, big Delos, where the three thousand year old island city is all lit up against thieves. The rising and falling bow, the rows of giant columns, the people, and the liquor all work together to create an impression Im going to have trouble evoking in any of my work.
We leave the next day, after Christos only comes up with part of the money, and I give him one less blade. Its always like this. We stop at Tinos, where I visit a colony of German sculptors who, for lack of sales, have opened a sort of art therapy center for their wealthier countrymen. We know each other from Italy. Fritz shows me a sculpture hes working on, and tells me how vibrant Greek marble is, and how dead the fine white crystals of Carrara marble make everything you carve out of it. I heard this from Christos, from Britt, from the rock n roll guy, and from everyone else who cant get Carrara where theyre working. I use em both, and theyre both goodfor different things. We spend the night at the studio, and the Germans play guitars and sing around a fire.
I think about the trip a lot when Im back in the piazza of Pietrasanta. as we stroll around to see whats happened since we left. I mull over what Ive seen, and try to think of a way to incorporate something of it into my next piece. There arent really any movements in art to speak of, nothing important, and a lot of artists are making their own rules, and setting off on the lonely path that such a decision leads down. And what of success? Here, there are a lot of successful artists working on sculptures. And Jeff Koons, Fernando Botero, Sandro Chia, all of them, have one thing that unites them, one shared trait that rises above everything else. They farm their work out. Nobody famous in sculpture, can afford the time it takes to create even a single piece, without somebody else doing most of the work for them. This town has a hundred artists of this level, and thousands of Italian artisans taking their work every step of the way from the fax they receive with their instructions to the installation of the finished piece in New York. There are those who quarry specific blocks, those who rough out, those who finish, those who polish, those who pack, and those who ship. Some artists never leave their NY studio, although a plane ride to Italy to check on the progress of a piece is a nice trip if you dont have to do it too often.
And then there are the rich. Not the average, run of the mill millionairesI mean the super rich. I have never seen such a concentration of the worlds wealthiest children anywhere. These are folks who arent capable of answering the phone at Dads company, but calling yourself an artist gives you an excuse for just about any kind of irresponsible behavior. Massive, imposing sculptures are created left and right by these people, never destined to go anywhere without the intervention of the family, or people anxious to hook up with them. In most cases, the catalogues, the bases, and the workmanship on their sculpture are the best that money can buy. Many are under psychiatric care, have attempted suicide, have smashed a year of work with hammers, or have exhibited some other similarity to Van Gogh, and always document these things. When taken in the context of living or working here, that this is all contrived nonsense is apparent but remove Pietrasanta from the equation, when the work is shown elsewhere, it forms a compelling story.
We want to level the playing field. This setting seems like youre playing with a stacked deck, but in fact, if you look close, you can see that it provides greater opportunities for the middle class than for the rich. We have to see what were up against to challenge it. If you buy your work from a limited source, everythings going to look like it was made by the same guys, because it was. They have a very limited repertoire. If you take a close look at Jeff Koons portrait with Cicciolina, youll see that it looks just like every 20th century copy of Renaissance or baroque work youve ever seen because the same guys carved it. Stone work is not limited to polished, bush hammered, pointed, or chiseled finishes. You can invent your own, and your work wont have the same fingerprint on it as the work of all these pay-someone-else-to-do-the-hard-stuff artists. If you look at Van Goghs work, what sets him apart is the way he used his paint, and his brushes. You can spot it in a second. To express the joy of creation, you have to create something all your own, that cant be done by just any good stone carver. You can invent a means of expression that might cost too much to pay someone to do for you, and if you can do that, youve captured your niche. But you dont want to stop there. Do it again. While some would rightly say Botero is a one trick pony, Picasso certainly wasnt. Thats because of the constant inventing of new means of expression, instead of finding one thing that works, and sticking with it. When something works, its time to abandon it, and start searching for something else that works. We have a greater chance of doing this, because since were limited in the possibility of creating the persona of a sick genius, we have to rely on our work and have it scream its message for us.
So I look at the Dunhill smoking heir to the Bayer fortune, dressed in black as always, hair carefully oiled, with a scotch in front of him at ten AM. And I say, I can get people to hear the message Im going to send, but Im certainly not going to be able to do it the same way as he is. We are all animals in the forest, and to survive, youve got to know which one you are, and make the best of your attributes.The trips over. Along the way, I saw the English on Paros, sculpting a fortress for themselves from which to proclaim their work something holy that they alone are privileged to create. I saw the gallerists in Patras, bent on selling mock antiques to tourists. And sweet Georgia, with a port restaurant she thinks enhanced by my work. In Mykonos, I saw Christos, Mimis, and Ianni who consider art on the same level as food, music, fishing, chasing women and drinking. On Tinos, Fritz, who year after tiring year creates an artistic atmosphere among Germans, sitting around a campfire singing Greek songs. And now were back at the starting point, Pietrasanta, a gentrified community of people with a common objective, not of creating art, but of Being Important Artists. Visibilia ex invisibilibus, whether you bring your own niche with you, or not.
