10/10/2005: "Jenga"

I’m not sure the life of an artist ever achieves what most people call normal. Although that is the best way to describe my life at this moment. For me normal means I’m back home and overwhelmed by all the things that need doing that I neglected while on my sabbatical and other travels during the last year. I’m always deferring maintenance, stealing time from things I should do so I can have time to paint or prep a show or attend some conference or exhibition. Being an artist is a balancing act whether full-time or part-time. In 2005 I’ve really only slept in my own bed about 75 nights out of a possible 255 at this writing. When I left for NYC in January my studio was a chaotic mess of neglect both upstairs and down. I paint upstairs and keep a woodshop/workshop downstairs where I build frames, prepare board and canvases and do a lot of the maintenance on my house and car. Between my son who also uses my studio and myself nearly 8 years of putting off the big spring cleaning had piled up tools and bits and pieces of project leftovers and potential projects that never went anywhere and spilled over onto every flat surface available.

I have 5 giant painting crates left over from a show in Seattle that I can’t seem to part with hoping to use them again one day for that big show in the sky. There is almost enough plywood in those crates to build a small house. And the outside of the building has a farmers variety of wood and metal, bins full of old pvc pipe, pieces of scrap aluminum, wire mesh from the garden, an old tiller for my sail boat and lighting fixtures torn out and replaced upon failure leaning here and there…thank God I live in an area where there is no homeowners association to tell me to clean up my yard, paint my house and mow the grass. In between trips this summer I have managed to put up rafters for a long awaited studio ceiling, install vents in the attic crawlspace to alleviate moisture and get the ceiling panels up to keep the insulation from falling down around my ears this winter. Soon I can begin again to paint. -Haven’t made art seriously since May.

All I am really trying to do is to clear away a reasonable amount of work so I can paint. Even bought a big 48 x 60 canvas a few days ago. I have a large painting idea based on some sketches that I’d begun while in New York. The idea needed a certain time to gestate and I just ran out of time before I had to come home. I’d like to get started on that so I can show it at the College in November. It is based on a scene that took place at the Mark Bar one night towards closing time.

Several of the late night regulars were killing time playing Jenga. It was interesting how everyone interacted as they pulled and pushed the small pieces of wood from the ever critically balanced tower until it eventually came crashing down on the bar. The game began to suggest all sorts of theatrical and metaphorical relationships about taking risks, survival, economic success and failure, society, politics, friendships and betrayal…

Sitting down at the other end of the bar, watching, sketching and trying to see what I was doing in the low bistro light, I thought of several compositions of people playing table games of various sorts: great paintings by la Tour, Chardin, Cezanne and Balthus . Jenga is a kind of self aggrandizing roll reversal. We all play games (‘the Game’) in one way or another no matter how much we try to avoid it. We do our best to control our positions in life and the things around us when ever we can hoping to better, or at least maintain, our circumstances. Whether we realize it or not, and we usually do it from behind a thin curtain of civility, we are in competition with each other for our little bit of space on this planet. If you don’t know the game, Jenga is played using small bars or blocks of colored wood or plastic (most likely ivory and jade in the beginning--I think Jenga came from China) stacked criss-crossed three at a time in layers creating a kind of tower of loose blocks. As you remove one block you replace it on top of the tower. As the tower grows it also becomes less stable building the inevitable ‘fall’ of the house into the game. If Monopoly is about money then Jenga is about life. It is more abstract and allows larger references. I was fascinated of course by the tower image. The tower, one of my regular icons in the last few years since 9-11, has become kind of an obsession. I’ve done a long running series of towers called the “House Series” begun around the time of the tragedy in 2001 and have page upon page of variations on the theme in several different sketchbooks. I began to think about what those wooden pieces really represented, money? Property. The lives we build, castles in the sky, built part by part, brick by brick often teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, calamity and failure-- sometimes, if rarely, succeeding by taking the greater risk. The idea that life is fragile and what we build can be so easily knocked down by another man’s politics, or natural disasters (my brother in law was, at the moment of this writing, battening down his house in Houston as Rita comes to shore), or disease, or even our own incompetence and stupidity. I did a few detail sketches substituting the small wooden planks with figures.

I thought of what I knew of the people playing the game there in my favorite Brooklyn bar. They were all friendly acquaintances, even sticking up for each other when things at the bar got a little edgy or dodgy especially if the crowd included more strangers than locals.

All but one were certainly from Judeo-Christian beginnings whether, Jewish, Catholic or Protestant active or apostate. Only one seemed to have some Islamist leanings. Two were black, four white. Two were originally from the South, two were New Yorkers from Brooklyn and the Bronx. One was from Connecticut. One was an assistant chef; one a bartender with an art degree ; one was studying to be an engineer while working full-time for the city waterworks, one played guitar in a rock band, one a graphic artist from who knows where. And the last guy, well I didn’t know what he did, he was a kind of fuzzy figure at the bar. I saw him on the street at all times of the day and can’t image what kind of job he has or business he runs. He always seemed the most solvent and I imagined shady deals and guns. Yet he was courteous and kind in all the interactions I had with him. Five were playing the game while one, drunk and tired from a long day, slept half way down the bar between me and the players. They, all but the shady one, were always hurting for money, some worked two jobs or just scraped by on one, often drinking cheep $2 cans of domestic beer instead of the more expensive imports, those who smoked often rolled their own, rode bikes, one rode a skateboard and of course all depended primarily on the subway system to get around instead of driving cars--not one of them had owned a car in years, several had never owned a car and didn‘t even have licenses. These are the basic stuff of a generation just trying to get off the ground, maybe on hold in their late 20’s. The idea that this tower represented people added just the bite I felt while watching my young friends dangerously slipping one block from under half a dozen and finding the right place to balance it on the stack above. In this game they were the movers and shakers rather than the peons that they and most of the rest of us really are in this world.

I paid attention to how the friends formed alliances and reformed those alliances as the game matured, the balance becoming more delicate and critical as the tensions rose and progressed towards that inevitable and unavoidable moment. The fall having been predetermined by the fist block removed at the beginning of the game. I began to wonder how often we really recognize the result of our actions, how well we think through and plan our moves, how the other players and observers will be affected. At that moment the tower came crashing down again and everyone shouted “Jenga!” and counted and argued the score. Both frustration and tense laughter filled the smoky bar. Everyone paid their tab and staggered home. They would be back the next night to play again. Most of what happened that night would be forgotten but later in the week I was still hearing about who had cheated or betrayed the others. Small lingering animosities smoldered until the next time they played and had the chance to get even.

Me? I’m just now counting the real cost of my time in NY. Was it worth it? Of course it was. I got to observe a little bit of history as I always do on my trip. History is simply the life we lead. It is the river we swim in whether upstream or down. There is of course big and small history…those giant defining moments and the general milieu, the common life. It is as important to me to witness the common life as the big momentous. It is the common life that sets the context.

Tomorrow I’ll do a little tuck point on the masonry in a few key places so my bricks don‘t begin to come loose. Eventually, before the cold and wet Ohio fall sets in, I hope to rebuild the brickwork on the wall of my front porch that has been caving in for the last few years. My wife cut back the bushes out front while I was gone and now it is obvious I can’t defer it any longer. The studio is built of wood and bad drainage has rotted the base beams causing the walls to settle making it look like a sway back horse, I’ll have to jack up part of the framework and put in a brick foundation before more wood rots and the whole building comes crashing down. I was planning to get to all that this summer even though I wasn‘t really in the mood. Thankfully, other opportunities interfered. And now it must be done between teaching and painting and other duties. But today I have to crawl up on the roof of my house (I hate heights as I get older and my balance is a bit more, shall we say, compromised) to caulk some flashing around the plumbing vents that have been leaking before I teach this afternoon. And now that I mention it I still have a few bricks to lay in the basement. I like bricks. They remind me of the story of the 3 little pigs who built their houses of straw and wood while the hero built a house of brick…the brickwork will raise the floor level by 3” to keep any little leaks from becoming a smaller version of New Orleans. I’d never realized how I wrap myself in my art and make my art from the detritus of my life brick by brick.

Replies: 20 Comments

on Tuesday, October 25th, alexis Weiss said

i ike this drawing because it has a lot of petincail

on Wednesday, October 12th, walt said

well now that you've reminded me I have to agree it did end on a high note. I'm just getting old and loosing my memory.

Gabriella, are there only two? See how my memory goes? I'm speaking of the one that says with every exchange energy is lost.
Brian, it may be a while before I make it back to EZ. Maybe not until mid November after I've delivered both shows.

on Wednesday, October 12th, T.K. said

E=M
Einstein added the c squared because of it's high marketability. It's a better jingle.

on Wednesday, October 12th, Andrew said

Jose, it's populist theory that trashes everyone until they become the darlings of the masses.

on Wednesday, October 12th, jose said

Samuel, in Gemany they held Einstein to be mediocre. I'm wondering what might have gone wrong there.

on Wednesday, October 12th, jose said

I’ll have to disagree with you there Walt, ‘Wings of Desire’ or ‘Der Himmel über Berlin’ as it was called over here – The sky [the heavens] above Berlin - had that heavy depressing aura about it, dark and grim and truly very German as you point out but I don’t recall it as being a sad film at all. Amidst all that greyness every other moment shone out like sheer magic and Berlin truly has that surreal dimension. Peter Falk is a delight to watch. And then there’s that final scene where the fallen angel and the trapeze artiste meet at long last at a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds concert. It is Art as you say. Haven’t found it on DVD yet, but I was lucky to record it on videotape when I was visiting my in-laws in Germany some years back. The Hollywood version with Nicholas Cage pales in comparison, lacks the Peter Handke touch and has only one redeeming feature, a heart wrenching song by Jane Siberry – Calling all Angels.

on Wednesday, October 12th, gabriella said

Walt;
You have invented the third law? Good on ya!

on Tuesday, October 11th, Samuel said

Mediocrity breeds mediocrity.

Mediocrity breeds mediocrity.

Mediocrity breeds mediocrity.

Mediocrity breeds mediocrity.

Mediocrity breeds mediocrity.

on Tuesday, October 11th, Ryan Orewiler said

We are in the same boat my friend. Sometimes creating is more important than cleaning, although it is difficult to have clear thoughts in a unclear atmosphere. See you at Easy Street, next ones on me.

on Tuesday, October 11th, walt said

gabriella, I really should be out back working at this moment but came down to send a message to a friend and checked the blogs to find your comments. Some time ago a friend told me that to be an artist with no connection to the everyday, common world was to have nothing of any importance to paint about. To be a father, a teacher and have responsibilities in the real world has a tendency to make ones art valuable to those outside the arts community. Those comments were important to me at a time when I was really struggling. While I've never really thought much of running from those responsibilities as Gaugin did, I was at that moment dibilitated by them. All of a sudden my whole world took on new meaning both common and artistic. I really haven't looked back since. Yes, things need fixing. Even BC/GB has to stop working long enough to move his studio from time to time when the money runs out. We are all subject to the 3rd law of thermo dynamics.

on Tuesday, October 11th, gabriella said

Walt;

bc said "normal equals boring" ? Faced with this statement, one becomes aware that any circumstance surrounding a life which is repetitious and quotidian, yes, even the "artist" holed up in a studio for months on end without break, can be considered normal and boring. The internal beast needs a varied diet so to speak, and forays into the chores and responsibilities of a "regular" life provides some of this variation.
It is good that you have a life full of rich opportunity - to work, play , travel, shore up the foundations of your studio, move it to a different locale, to go to a watering hole where the denizens are unknown to you and thus they and their antics are novel.
A five month respite from the energies expended daily in the studio can recharge in other ways.
Without inflow, there cannot be outflow or production of a particularly fruitful kind.
How many of us can say with certainty or honesty that we do not have this ebb and flow of living and producing?

on Tuesday, October 11th, walt said

Paul, I almost got to go to Malaysia for a semester to teach and paint. But it fell through. That's the closest I've come to visiting the east.
BC, yes it's boring but it has to be done. I've got two years to get the house in order so I can sell it or rent it depending on the market which isn't great here in Columbus.
GB, It is the first time in years that I've had to take such a long hiatus from making art. That's how I got into this predicament in the first place. I'll make no apologies. I'll be painting again in a few weeks after I deliver the show in NJ.
Hyacinthe, Yes I know Gross's work. He was one of a number of artists from that time period that I became aware of at an early age. I always enjoy hearing a little hands on history from your remenisences.
Andrew, when I am painting my feet hardly touch the ground.
Jose, the film is "Wings of Desire" set in Berlin before the wall came down...very dark and grim and sad story really. As I recall it began in black and white then turned to color after the angel gave up his imortality and became human. Of course it ended badly...very German. I keep looking for a copy in the cut out bins at the local video stores. Hollywood made a really bad knock off that reminded me about the difference between art that is made out of desire and art that is made out of a greed for money and fame. Can't remember the name of that one at all.

on Tuesday, October 11th, walt said

on Tuesday, October 11th, Hyacinthe Baron said

Time is the factor. How many times I have gone back to a sketch or a painting left unfinished in the studio and begun to work on it again as if I had stopped only moments before.

Time is on a level we can control when making art. It is at our behest and we are the masters of our medium and of time and space.

Clutter to others is not that for the artist. It is a well to draw from in our own time.

Try as society et al might, they cannot impose guilt on one who has made the decision and the commitment to make art.

on Tuesday, October 11th, jose said

There’s a Wim Wenders film I go back to now and again in which one of two angels who are watching God’s creation unfold beneath and around them finally has enough of his ethereal condition and decides he wants to feel the weight of things. Sometimes the studio becomes like that, too far removed from all the important things that had taken me there in the first place with a desire to get something done and send a message through – the deeper I try to go at such stages, the more I fight with myself to stick to the studio, the farther I am taken from what really counted and I end up with work that leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. I too sometimes feel the need [or things come up that force me to] set the painting aside for a few months and I’ve found – as I’m sure you have too – that the work that comes after that [and the ideas that come to mind and are registered in those periods] always rekindle the flame. Walt, enjoy this dip in ‘normality’ while you can, you are lucky to have that dimension available to you, without it’s bricks and mortar no artist can ever come up with anything capable of building the bridge to those loftier places we artists claim to be in touch with.

on Tuesday, October 11th, Andrew said

Walt, they play Jenga in the bar here, too. It's a winter game, when all the artists don't have anyone to hit on for potential sales. The scene you describe is familiar, the relics of past efforts to construct, to repair, and to rebuild. My own studio is like that too.
I'm very surprised to hear Georges Bonadue coming up with all those Hollywood cliches about the rigid naziesque rules an artist must follow to really be one. If you are French, then how come you've got such an American housewife's view of art? One that comes from every movie, and every DC comic that has ever featured an artist? Artists don't eat, they don't go to the toilet, they don't have friends, they don't make money, they don't ever depart from their place in front of the canvass. If they only follow these rules, then what they put on that canvass is not important. They will be gods on a pedestal. They will be real artists.

on Monday, October 10th, Hyacinthe Baron said

Thank you Walt for the detailed detritious descriptions of your life. Yes, hurry because trust me, the older you get the harder it is to get up that ladder...hence the need for loftier ideas later on.

Your description of the bar brought me back to the old days at the Ninth Circle Steak House with peanut shells on the floor and the best steaks ever and the smoke and all the artists. Never experienced such hunger as we did in those late hour bars and restaurants. Are there people hungrier than artists? I don't think so.

I sense such a hunger in you Walt. Actually you don't make any bones about it. Your need to get away and to be there at the same time.

Reminds me of a trip to New York, being in Soho and running into the sculptor Chaim Gross, father in law of Red Grooms and compatriot of Marc Chagall, they walked out of Poland together. Gross famous for his squat female acrobat sculptures.

I did my first sculpture in his class at the New School in NY and he told me to stop everything I was doing and just sculpt. I told him I wanted only to do the Burghers of Calais like Rodin and didn't have room in my studio for such large sculptures.

It had been ten years and he was thrilled to meet me, said he would take me to the Sculpture Society and sign me up, "Where do you live?" he asked. "California." "Forget it," he said, "you can't be a real artist and live in California." He then invited me to the tenement building he owned, keeping his hand on me all the while, I was younger in those days. I walked into a virtual museum of his sculptures and parts and pieces, and marbles and woods stacked everywhere. All the maquettes for a large piece he had just finished for Disneyland.
He showed me a sketchbook of pen and ink drawings he had done in the concentration camp. He lamented that with all his success, no one would give him a show of the only work that really mattered to him.

He inspired me, as did that trip back to New York and that encounter. I began my Mummy series of drawings and paintings(which I will be exhibiting on barongallery.com shortly.)

Chaim Gross gave me the idea to explore that side of artistic expression. It was different than my usual intent, just like Chagall, to express pain and ugliness with charm and beauty.

I look forward to feed back from you guys. This is stuff I have kept hidden, as Chaim Gross did.

Walt I am not sure what about your blog inspired this, but thanks.

This is after all what good blogging is about isn't it.

on Monday, October 10th, Georges Bonadue said

You haven't made art in 5 months?

The true artist makes art because he has to, not because he wants to. The true artist's soul rots away and slowly decomposes every day he/she does not create.

The true artist does not make art to be an artist, to give them identity.

Sales do not make the artist. Professions do not make an artist. Making art makes the artist.

One is only an artist while they are making art.

on Monday, October 10th, bc said

Holy crap! Normal equals boring! Not for me, thank you very much!

on Monday, October 10th, Paul said

Walt,I too like bricks,and in the garden there is a pile,quite good ones from an extension job,actually,this morning I was in the shed blocking up holes wqhere big rats had been getting in,its getting real hot now,so its like a furnace in there.Those bricks,Ive often thought of doing,a la Andre,some kind of sculpture,not just a pile thats been done,of course the art is to either exentuate the brickiness of them or to get away from the brickiness,a bit like that show in the sky you spoke of,I actually have a vast museum devoted entirely to my work,and all the movements,and changes Ive been through,complete biography material,and a well stocked bookshop,just by that cloud up there.It is a balancing act as you say,doing art,and often the word justification comes into it,from others and one self,pressures, something I was talking about to my eight year old daughter recently,we are all in life caught between various pressures,and we wriggle berween them.Something you said Walt recently in another post somewhere that stayed with me, you said,'everywhere I turned I faced responsibilities'refering to your artistic life at one time,and in a similar situation to that time,or the same type,I had no responsibilities, its interesting the ways in which we carry out our various art practice,also the type of people we are in regard to it,Cezanne mentions its a preisthood,and we sure do devote to it big time.Also your question over your time spent in new york,I'd actually like to a similar thing in Singapore,live in a hotel for 3 months doing art,and checking out all the other art scenes,its different the asian way,also asian cities are somewhat different to ours,the atmosphere and aura is worth exploring,doing a lot of walking and talking,although mainly its being there.Your thank god theres no housing coop telling you to clear up your yard,a guy here not too far away had a plane in his garden,that was quite interesting to look at,until the nimbies got to him,the nimby's? not in my back yard.

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10/10/2005: "Jenga"