Money for Artists

the ethical quandary of art for art's sake

There is no greeting specific enough for the moth’s antennae to vibrate like a Strad…

(what even is that? is that art? is that nonsense? if an artist put it on a wall is it music? if you read it while you are unhappy and it makes you happy, is it genius?)

Can you see this photo well enough to read it?

If you can’t it’s okay. It’s the score and instructions (!) for how to play/read the score for a composition that is painted on the wall of an art gallery at Mass MoCA, a massive art gallery that was revealed to me in all its amazing glory last weekend.

visions of the gallery spaces at Mass MoCA

Ever since that visit I am plagued by memories of creative feats I accomplished as a younger person: in high school, I wrote a report about Shakespeare in iambic pentameter. In college, I wrote a final paper on John Cage on individual sheets of paper spaced by rolling dice (randomly: one-two-or-three line breaks between lines) designed to be thrown into the air and read in any order. (I got an A, thanks Ernie.) In grad school, I wrote a prize-winning story in which six members of a family are described at various particular memorable points of time in their lives, moments that cement how the rest of the family sees them forever— six time-driven narratives interwoven, placing these variously-aged humans into family context using the birth and death dates inscribed into a family Bible’s flyleaf at the beginning of the story.

(if that was confusing, it’s because it’s always harder to explain a piece of art than to experience it firsthand)

What happened? How did I become a blogger? When did I start wondering how to get people to “notice” my work, how to “build an audience” or “engage with the marketplace” rather than just making things to entertain myself (and sometimes also my friends)?

Why don’t I call myself an artist? (I’m an artist, y’all, I’m an artist. I can’t draw a proper smiley face but I can tell you that if you take a two-hole button and dip it into nail polish it will look like a small person and you can tell that person your secret dreams and that will bring you one step closer to achieving them.)

turns out it’s really hard to find a two-hole button. (who saw the stone creature without being told to look for it? My son found that shell when he was 4.)

Back to marketing - I was appalled to receive (as each of you must also have) the spammy Substack advertising email purporting to be from me that encouraged you to subscribe to this newsletter at a 20% discount. I didn’t send or even get to vet it. Didn’t know it was coming! I hated having this done without my agency —Tuesday afternoon was a time of extreme artistic anxiety because of this. As if marketing spam somehow changed the content of this newsletter. Did you feel the ripples in the creative time-space continuum? Is that a silly way to feel about a blog?

(I am grateful to those of you who pay to support this newsletter but I’m never approving spammy emails with discounts encouraging you to subscribe. If you are a paying subscriber that’s awesome and I’m grateful - “seasonal sales” are not my style. This is the age of blanket consent - by using the site, the platform adds ads—I’m sorry.)

WRITING NEWS:

Speaking about money and being up front about it, I’m going to Croatia, Vienna, Prague and Vilnius next month on an intense solo writing retreat. Need to remember who I am. Or perhaps discover it. Or maybe even create myself as I go. I honestly do not know what a month of relative solitude will do to me. I’m going back and forth between nice hotels and dirt-cheap hostels to be able to afford the trip overall. Should be some great photos.

Here and now? As previously touched upon, I spent last weekend subsumed in Mass MoCA where I communed with artists, living and dead, and art which will live on forever. Among my favorite installations were: the clever and lovely little break for thought of Alison Pebworth’s extremely interactive Cultural Apothecary (which successfully diagnosed and treated my latent Americanitis), Laurie Anderson’s Handphone Table which turns the human skull into a resonant amplifier, Louise Bourgeois’ massive marble and metal sculptures

do these entwined lovers depict longing or entrapment?

(I was thrilled to guess from the museum’s collection that she was also the creator of BPC’s awesome and very familiar to me and all Downtown NYers: “Eyes”)

I also fell in love with an installation by Amy Podmore, an artist I’d never come across. Her Audience of plaster baskets with creepy blinking/clicking eyes and whirring motors was a shuddery-good experience. (click the link for the excellent sounds)

But by far the showstopper was James Turrell, whose rooms of light-play and architectural frames of the sky filled me with joy and awe. His art literally changed the way I was breathing. Also, his artistic journey made me feel better about how long it is taking me to come into my own: Turrell bought a volcano in 1977 to turn into an art installation, and it isn’t finished yet.

That was last weekend.

Since then, there was a birthday party with opera people and orchestra conductors (during which I managed to slip and break my wrist—luckily it was very minor and they say I’ll heal), got myself a ticket to a film (Drop) to be busy on a Tuesday night—but discovered just one scene in that it would be far too gory for me and also themed just exactly wrong for my situation, so I did what I never do and left about ten minutes into the movie, I had a fun game night, attended a photography opening for Dona Ann McAdams (nice to meet you, new people), had some fabulous dinners with friends, and of course did my usual Lithuanian Easter celebrations.

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RANDOM FINAL THOUGHT:

HAPPY EASTER!

I dyed the eggs but @Dawn_K_Chase designed and made the outrageously amazing hat in the background that I’m wearing at today’s Easter Parade - never been before! (there will soon be photos on faceboook.com/mmdevoe)

Enjoy your seasonal holidays of renewal, regrowth and rebirth!!

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