August 4, 2015 · Print This Article
(Continued from last month)
I’ve attended two residencies, one at Vermont Studio Center in August 2007, and one at LillStreet Art Center in Chicago in spring of 2008. The two programs were as different from each other as they could be, and provide some context for the variety of residencies that exist.
Vermont Studio Center is located in Johnson, Vermont, a small town surrounded by maple forest. The facilty consists of numerous buildings: living quarters, studio buildings, a lecture hall, and a cafeteria. The program is typically one month in duration and residencies take place year round (as opposed to Skowhegan, a summer-only program). Several visiting artists give presentations and studio visits. Interested participants may join the founder for daily yoga sessions. I did not.
Lillstreet Art Center is located in the Ravenswood neighborhood of Chicago, right next to the Brown Line platform. The facility is located inside an old ceramic tile factory, and consists of three floors of classrooms. The ground floor contains a cafe and the ceramics classrooms, which are the bread and butter of Lillstreet’s program. The second floor contains mostly for-rent artist studios, with more classrooms on the third floor for painting and printmaking. The artist in residence, at my time, simply made use of an unoccupied classroom as a studio; now there is a partitioned space in one of the classrooms. There is no cost to be an artist-in-residence at Lillstreet, in fact I was given a materials stipend and also the opportunity to teach classes (for pay). The timeline was not clearly established at the time of my residency; it ended up being close to six months. (The reason some things were poorly defined during my time there was simply because it was a very new program; I think I was only the second painter in residence there.)
The decision to attend any artist residency is dependent on a variety of factors, almost all of which are specific to each program. I would (or, I should say, did) make this decision by asking myself the following questions:
1. How’s my current studio practice going? Am I highly productive? If so, would the networking/community/change of perspective of a residency be an asset, or a distraction? Am I struggling to make work? If so, might a residency give me time and space that I lack at home?
2. Can I be away from home for the duration of the residency? Durations vary from as short as two weeks up to a full year. A long residency provides more time to get work done, while a shorter one is easier to fit between one’s other obligations (family, teaching, etc.). If you can afford the time off, ask yourself: instead of a residency, could I simply tell everyone to piss off and lock myself in my studio for a month? If not, a residency might be a good option.
3. What’s the cost of the program? Residencies range from expensive (several thousand dollars) to free (some offer full fellowships to some residents, others are free to all who attend), and some in fact provide meals, lodging, and/or a stipend to cover expenses while you are there. If there is a cost, can you afford it? Some, including VSC, will allow you to pay off the residency over a few months after attending, making it easier to afford. And, if you can afford it, is it the best use of your money, or would it be better spent elsewhere?
4. Do I need another line on my CV? This is a serious question. For some people, e.g. college professors, a residency can be an important part of a record of professional activity that can be quantified. You can spend a month doing nothing but working in your studio, and your department may not count that towards your research requirement, but spend the same time doing the same work at a residency, and they probably will. It sounds cynical but for someone who is struggling to meet these requirements, this could actually be a very good reason for attending a residency. (It’s a factor in my currently attending VSC, although not the dominant one.) Others, applying for graduate schools or teaching jobs, may feel that their CV is a bit thin and could use another line on it. I’d be cautious about this reasoning; graduate schools tend to mostly care about the work, and employers seem more interested in teaching experience and, if possible, super prestigious exhibitions. Residencies may not count highly in this regard, although some (especially Skowhegan) have a reputation that could work in your favor.
5. Do I need a vacation? A residency can be fun, relaxing, enjoyable, and really just a change of scenery. You can be social, get drunk, try to get laid, check out local sights, pick up some souvenirs, all the usual travel shit. Not every decision has to be cold, analytical reasoning. Sometimes a good time is reason enough to do something.
You will in fact need to weigh each of these factors several times. First, in deciding whether to apply to residencies in the first place, and to which to apply. Some residencies may be too long, too expensive, etc., to even be worth applying. Once accepted, you’ll have more information about the cost, whether any financial aid is available, etc. Your situation may also have changed. Before accepting, you’ll need to re-weigh these same factors again.
I weighed all of these factors in making my own decision to reapply to Vermont Studio Center. This was in 2013, and I was applying to attend in August 2014. I was hoping, of course, for a full fellowship. These are the most desirable way to attend VSC, bringing with them a bit of validation (and another line on the resume) as well as eliminating cost as a factor in attendance. I didn’t get one, but I had the resources to attend anyway. I accepted and put down my deposit. A bit closer to the time, though, and something else had come up for the summer, so I deferred my enrollment. I considered withdrawing from the program, forfeiting the small deposit but saving the remainder of the cost. I weighed the factors.
My studio practice had stagnated significantly since leaving Chicago. I have a decent studio space (a converted garage in my home), and a reasonable amount of free time (having managed to pack my 4/4 teaching load entirely into Mondays and Wednesdays). The problems I think have been a combination of disconnection from the active art scene I had gotten used to, some demoralization over no longer having a gallery with which to work, the relative scarcity of exhibition opportunities in Flagstaff, a lack of weekly gallery openings for inspiration, probably some internal issues in my own mind, and honestly a “too much of a good thing” issue with all the exciting outdoor and recreational activities in the area. I’ve managed to carve out some studio time but nevertheless, a solid month of not having to worry about household maintenance, friends wanting to hang out, etc., was a solid asset in this case.
There was no real reason not to leave home for a month or more. I have a friend to take care of the snake and water the plants. I can pay all my bills online. I wasn’t assigned any summer classes, and many of those who did have them assigned found them cancelled due to low enrollment; our department’s summer semester is over by now anyway. So I was certainly free to attend a residency this summer if I wanted to.
The full cost of a residency at Vermont Studio Center is $3,950; however, most (VSC says 90%) residents qualify for some form of financial aid, up to 50% of this total. My total was something like $2,300 or so, which included $600 in work study (dish washing at $15/hour for 10 hours per week). Some applicants are offered a full fellowship, the money coming from donors (“Artist Angels”, VSC calls them). The fellowships are merit based, unlike the financial aid which is need-based. I wasn’t given a fellowship, and the cost was a serious consideration. I had applied hoping for a fellowship, but not expecting one, and after some hard thinking decided that yes, I could afford it, and yes, it was worth it. VSC allows payment plans to spread the cost out over the next five months or so, making things easier. James got a full fellowship: congrats, buddy!
As a lecturer in Foundations at Northern Arizona University, I am full-time and benefits eligible, but not tenure track or tenure eligible. Nevertheless, my position is fairly secure; it is apparently something of a process to fire one of us. We are subject to an evaluation process that is called P&T (Promotion and Tenure) even for non-tenure track faculty. In this process, our performance is evaluated according to the distribution of our duties: in my case, 80% teaching, 10% service, and 10% research. A residency is generally classified as research, along with exhibitions and publications. So, attending a residency does “count” towards that category of activity. This was a factor, though not the dominant one, in my deciding to attend the residency again.
On my last question, “Do I need a vacation?”, I would say that I did not. I had already done a bit of travel this summer and was kind of fatigued from it. I’d just returned from a road trip in California, and after only two weeks back in Flagstaff, hit the road again. However, driving the rest of the way across the country and back worked pretty well with some other plans I had, to go camping in Missouri just before the residency began, for example, and to see friends along the way and on the way home. And I’ll be stopping in Chicago on the way back to pick up my bicycle and a few other things.
I weighed all of these factors and was still very much on the fence when my good friend James Angello told me that he’d be attending at the same time. I continued deliberating pretty much up to the deadline, but it was ultimately this factor that tipped the scales in favor of my going. Getting to spend some good creative time with my old friend, the possibility of some collaboration, and just the fact that it promised to be a lot of fine, convinced me that it was worth it. If you’re considering applying to a residency, or if you’ve been accepted and are wondering whether to attend, these are the factors you’ll have to consider. As I said, it is ultimately a decision you will have to make for yourself. But I’m having a great time so far, and I highly recommend it.
I’m a little more than halfway through the residency as I write this; I will have just completed it by the time you’re reading this. So far, I’ve attended a few figure drawing sessions, two of which I actually used to do figure painting. Some of the figure work were collaborations with James Angello. We’d each start a piece and then, halfway through the session, trade seats, finishing each other’s work. My style is pretty much academic realism, while his is more modern expressionist, so the contrast is pretty cool. I’ve gone on a couple of hikes, caught a couple of toads (and released them, after moving them safely out of the road). I saw a grouse (a weird, chicken-like wild bird). Met some cool people. But mostly I painted.
I’ve spent at least a few hours in my painting studio every day that I’ve been here. I’ve got a set of 20 small wood panels with paintings in progress on them. I hope to have them all finished by the time I’m done here. If not they’ll at least be pretty close. Then the long drive home. I’ll be stopping through Chicago to pick up my bicycle and see some friends, maybe check out a couple of shows. When I get back to Flagstaff, I’ll unpack, take my truck into the shop to have the power steering fixed, and start getting ready for the fall semester. And, hopefully, return to my studio with a renewed work ethic and sense of direction.
I’m sitting in my studio at the Vermont Studio Center, an artist residency program located in Johnson, Vermont. I’m at a desk strewn with small lengths of hardwood flooring, which I’m using as panels for a series of paintings I’m working on while I’m here (through the end of July). To my right is a window looking out onto a grass lawn and a bed of tiger lilies. The sun is shining but it’s not too hot; fluffy white clouds peek up from behind the forest of maple trees on the hill. A robin occasionally lands on the railing of the balcony outside the window, keeping me company. It is undeniably idyllic.
To get here, I drove pretty much the entire breadth of the country. Starting in Flagstaff, Arizona, I first drove out to California, camping with my family in Yosemite National Park, watching my sister graduate from her graduate program in psychology in San Francisco, visiting old friends in Humboldt County, and finally attending the opening reception of my friend James Angello‘s MFA thesis exhibition at UC Davis. James and I were both scheduled to attend the Vermont Studio Center residency starting July 5th, an unplanned coincidence although it did help me to confirm my decision to attend.
I’ve previously attended VSC, in August of 2007, just after completing my graduate work at MICA. I reapplied two years ago with the intention of attending this time last year, but other opportunities came up and VSC was kind enough to allow me to defer my residency until now. Even so, and even after putting down a deposit, I wasn’t sure I was going to attend again. Unless one gets a full fellowship (I didn’t, James did), it’s not an inexpensive program, upwards of $2,000 for a four-week residency, even with the partial fellowships and work study assistance they award. In 2007, MICA was willing to cover the remaining portion of the cost for their graduating MFAs, so it was free for me then. This year it’s out of pocket, to say nothing of travel expenses.
Those who know me know that I will deliberate to the point of agonizing over even trivial decisions, so for me, the question of whether to spend three grand or more on a cross-country trip to an artist residency was obviously the subject of some rumination. Ultimately, of course, I decided to attend (I am here), but I had some good arguments with myself over the decision. It’s the kind of decision about which you can hardly ask anyone else for advice: their answer will be more a reflection of their own ideals than their perception of your situation, and also, as with any sort of travel, of course your friends will say “You should go!” But they won’t help you pay off your credit card after you get back.
In this two-part article, I’m going to share some observations on artist residencies, to help you decide if the benefits outweigh the costs, for you. Spoiler alert, I’m going to conclude by saying that it’s a personal decision that only you can make for yourself. And of course you already know that I have, three times now, decided that it was right for me, in my circumstance, at that time. But good advice isn’t a matter of telling a person what conclusion to reach; rather it is a matter of sharing information and perspective to allow them to reach their own conclusion. I hope to do just that.
Artist residencies have an odd place in the landscape of contemporary artmaking practices. In some ways they echo, and continue, the strategies and problems of graduate programs. Their selective admission practices make them a coveted piece of resume fodder, while their price tag can make them a luxury of the privileged. Of course, not all residencies are expensive: some (and some of the most desirable) are subsidized, some even including room, board, and a stipend. And not all are competitive, although most at least present the appearance of being so. The same is true, incidentally, of graduate programs: some are fully funded for anyone accepted, and others are fairly easy to get into. Unfortunately for those interested, there isn’t much if any overlap between the easy-to-get-in programs and the fully funded ones. Full funding draws an extensive pool of applicants, which creates competition. Nor is an expensive program a guarantee of easy admission: even costly programs, if prestigious, can be highly competitive.
So what’s the fuss? What is it that these residencies offer that justifies their cost and the trouble of applying? Couldn’t one just take the same amount of time away from one’s other responsibilities, stay home, and make art? In theory, of course, one could. And this is what the most productive artists do, day in and day out. But in practice, it’s hard to say no to obligations, to a spouse, kids, an employer, and to well-meaning friends who want to go to a movie, the beach, to get a drink. One of the advantages of a residency seems to be its very inconvenience: traveling far from home, you’re literally unable to do anything if your son gets sick or an emergency comes up at work. In effect, the principal advantage of an artist residency is that it short-circuits our sense of priority. By deciding in advance to make ourselves unavailable for a length of time, we make an irrevocable decision to prioritize art above all else for a certain length of time.
And there is, of course, the resume padding. It’s all too easy to dismiss this. Ambition has a dirty connotation, although, as Commodus reminded us (in Gladiator), it can be a virtue when it drives us to excel. Even if we’re doing fine in terms of productivity, making work in our studios, there’s a sort of arms race of resume lines. We think that the more we do, professionally, the better we are. This can lead to a peacock’s tail sort of phenomenon, where we’re so busy being busy, filling out that resume, adding lines, and making sure to post all about it on Facebook so everybody knows how successful we are, that we barely have time to make the work. When teaching opportunities, galleries, etc., form an expectation of an impressive resume, the artist who stays in the studio may be passed over in favor of the one who attends the residency. This, at least, is the perception. It’s probably true to some extent with regard to teaching jobs, and certainly is a factor in promotion and tenure once hired. With regard to galleries it’s probably an exaggerated perception, and it’s ultimately the work that counts. But in the mind of a struggling artist, someone who has been productive and believes in his or her work (at least in between the inevitible bouts of crippling doubt), it can become a powerful fear.
And then there’s networking. Who knows when and where you’ll meet the person who introduces you to the curator who gets you the show you’ve been dreaming of? A residency seems the optimal place to make this sort of connection, and in reviewing their advertisements they often push the sense of community and the lasting connections this can create. The reality of this community, and the duration of these connections, probably varies from program to program.
Residencies offer a variety of “added value” amenities as well. Skowhegan, for example, has a fresco painting workshop. Most have some sort of visiting artist program, figure models, and educational or recreational opportunities outside of the studio time which, in theory, forms the bread and butter of the program. Some provide housing and meals, others are a work space only.
Those are some of the reasons to attend. In Part 2, I’ll talk about some questions you should ask yourself before deciding whether a residency is right for you. I’m going to go paint now.
Well, last month’s column was a little dark. What can I say? I was in a bit of a mood. I do stand, mostly, by what I wrote then: I’m pretty sure we’re all fucked. It was pointed out to me, though, that it may only be awareness that is on the increase, not existential threats themselves. After all, things looked pretty apocalyptic when we Europe lost a quarter of its population to the Black Plague, and we made it through that all right.
If we are going to survive the next few decades, the next century, it seems pretty clear that some issues are going to need pretty immediate addressing. The two biggest threats to the survival of civilization as we know it are, I would argue, militant Islam (in the short term) and climate change (in the long term). Artists have addressed both sets of subject matter. The question, however, remains: can artists actually play a role in crafting a solution to the issues, or do artists merely document this moment in civilization’s crisis without meaningfully altering the outcome?
I have written previously about the problems with political art: when too overt, too direct, it fails as art, falling into the role of propaganda, but generally lacking the mass media distribution of actual propaganda, it falls short of the goal of communicating a message clearly to large numbers of people. In some cases, politics may inspire a great work of art (e.g. Guernica), but the artwork doesn’t change the world (the Spanish Civil War still happened). The question is, need this always be the case? Can a work of art actually have the power to alter the course of history, allowing us to avoid these potential threats to the world as we know it?
I have already written about the threat of militant Islam in a previous article, and so I think it fitting to focus here on a few artists who deal directly with environmental themes in their work, and who might stand a chance of making an impact on the world.
Jenny Kendler’s work routinely addresses the idea of engangered species. Very often this subject matter manifests itself as aesthetically beautiful images or objects, quite successful as art objects in and of themselves. The question remains as to whether these images or objects can do anything to save the creatures so endangered. In most cases I am skeptical of their influence, but in at least one case, Jenny found a way to engage viewers/collectors in the actual building of awareness with regard to an endangered species.
In February 2012, I attended the College Art Association conference in Los Angeles, where Kendler told me about an event she was involved with, In A Landscape Where Nothing Officially Exists, at UnSpace Ground. This was situated in the outdoor plaza in front of the Los Angeles Convention Center, where CAA was taking place. For this event, eight artists and one biologist collaborated to create 35 art works representing endangered species living in southern California. In order to spread awareness of the endangered status of these organisms, viewers were invited to sign up to take custody of a work of art, in exchange for a commitment to learn and care about the species represented, and to reproduce or represent the artwork online. I wrote an article as my fulfillment of the pledge that I took on that day (this paragraph is a condensed extract from that article). The format ran something like a silent auction, with viewers selecting the work and species they wanted to care for, and signing up on form. As the event unfolded, Jenny announced each species, artwork, and its new caretaker, auctioneer-style. Both Stephanie Burke and I took custody of pieces by Jenny Kendler, a friend of ours whose work we have admired for a long time. Kendler’s work frequently addresses issues of ecology and conservation, but what I’ve always appreciated about its soft, quiet beauty, which has always reminded me of the animated film The Last Unicorn. This delicate aesthetic carries through her drawings and paintings, her sculptures, and makes an important subject palatable, avoiding any possibility of being called shrill or preachy. It is pretty with a purpose.
Kendler’s contributions to In A Landscape Where Nothing Officially Exists were rendered in graphite and watercolor on little circles of paper, which were then mounted on vintage ribbons, like one might get for Best Pig at the county fair. They are similar to, although I believe separate from, an installation called Selection: 23 Endangered Species, executed in the same medium and also mounted on ribbons. Stephanie took custody of Muntz’s Onion, and I went for the Southern California Steelhead Trout.
This project, unlike most environmental art, required viewers to actively engage in the issue of endangered species, not merely to gain an awareness themselves but to share that awareness with others.
Another friend of mine who makes work addressing environmental themes is Osvaldo Budet. Osvaldo is a Puerto Rican artist who has, in his recent work, been specifically interested in the warming of the Arctic. He discusses this at length in the artist statement on his website:
Beneath the scenic surface of this frozen landscape lies another history rooted in human exploration and exploitation. European explorers, sailers, hunters, fur trappers and whalers used these shores for riches as early as the 17th century. But the Arctic wilderness is also rich in natural resources and has long been dotted and scarred by coal ming communities and structural remains. Through these lands, above and below the surface presents a remarkable story of twentieth century man’s struggle against the elements and our present technocratic society’s challenge to fathom the speed and implications of this changing place. In conjunction with the ‘Alfred-Wegener-Institut für Polar and Meeresforschung’ and the ‘Hanse-Wisseschaftskolleg Institute for Advanced Study’, I embarked on a month long expedition as artists in residence to the ‘AWIPEV-Koldeway Station’ Arctic Research base in Ny- Ålesund, Svalbard. Here I lived and worked with the community and the scientists working there to respond to the physical and political dimensions of the changing polar environments stressed by profligate human activity. Using the mediums of painting, photography and documentary film making I used this white stage of the Arctic to explore the idea that the landscape is a construct or reflection of our culture and interests of the system we inhabit. I photographed the visible scars and human impact of the landscape with the intention to then construct a ‘new reality’ in the studio and artificially ‘clean’ and change the images to create vistas that encompass the beauty of the wilderness we may expect to find in this region. By digitally eliminating any visible human activity in the landscape I aim to question the the social and political implications of our technocratic societies management of our resources and lands in such fragile part of the world. These fictitious places I create in my photos are imaginary vistas of grandeur and serenity; the ideal Arctic which we project in our collective memory and expect to find there in the flesh. In opposition to these romantic looking photos, my simplistic graphite line drawings of out of place and awkward structures and people, dwarfed in white space of the sheet of paper describe exactly that which has been eliminated, void or missing in the photographs. These drawings record the missing human dimensions of the photos and all at once the graphite and ink drawings point to unreal looking situations and an even stranger reality. Playing with reversals of imagination, construction and elimination these photos and drawings invite us to discover contradictions and connections, continuities and breaks which are a contradictory experience to the harsh reality of the places I seek to evoke.
Osvaldo’s partner Shonah Trescott works with similar themes at times, and the two have collaborated on several pieces including the artist residency that involved an expedition to the Arctic. Their work generally fits the traditional gallery model in which artists makes commodities for wealthy collectors to purchase, and therefore while inspired by and based on a vital environmental concern, the works themselves may not reach a wide enough audience to alter the course of climate change. (That being said, Osvaldo is fairly well recognized internationally, and his prominence may bring some additional attention to the issue.)
However, Osvaldo has also worked in documentary film, and he and Shonah were the subjects of a BBC short documentary called “Drawn Into The Light.”
The documentary film ‘Drawn into the Light’ follows the artists Shonah Trescott and myself on expedition to the high Arctic to live and work for a month in the most Northern Settlement of the world. Featuring interviews with the artists, international scientists, policy makers, builders, researchers and ordinary citizens. The film asks, “Who is allowed to shape our landscape, and what are the criteria for these decisions? Questioning the well-documented concerns that we are in the throes of a climate crisis that threatens life on Earth as we know it. I delved into a world of ice and snow, to tells a story woven in ice, revealing the heavy human ties which bind us all with this fragile region of the world.
Documentary film is an excellent medium for activism, and by its wider distribution may reach audiences that the artworks themselves do not.
A final artist I would like to mention in closing is Grant W Ray. I wrote about his 2010 exhibition at Spoke in my former project, the Chicago Gallery Snack Report at Art Talk Chicago. Ray’s piece in which viewers were invited to attempt to clean pieces of coal with a toothbrush and soapy water was hilariously Sisyphean, and made the point (that coal will always be a dirty fuel) in a fun, playful way.
Despite my earlier doomsaying, there are some artists who see the problems facing humanity in our future, and are not dismayed, but rather encouraged, in that they see the situation as being resolvable with sufficient effort. These artists are making work that is not only based on environmental concerns, but represents a real effort at working towards a solution.
Everything is fucked.
We’re all so busy burning the land and boiling the sea that the new Mad Max movie looks less like an escapist fantasy and more like a preview of what the world’s going to look like in a generation or two. The huge populations of the developing world are pushing their way towards a standard of living defined by the industrialized nations of the west, following a path through massive deforestation and consumption of fossil fuels towards a consumer utopia that is absolutely unsustainable, but also irresistible. While the version of Chinese cuisine exported by its emigrants is a global favorite, in China itself gastronomes can’t seem to find satisfaction without boiling dogs alive or cutting the fins off sharks to allow them to slowly bleed to death as they circle like the Bismark, unable to swim, to the bottom of the dying oceans. The oceans, of course, are filled with plastic, swept up by ocean currents into massive constellations of plastic particles that, if this were a Neal Stephenson story, would be aggregated into a massive, floating, plastic city, but in the real world end up breaking down into toxic chemicals that poison the waters and enter the food chain. Tiny pieces are ingested by microorganisms and end up in your sashimi; larger pieces choke the guts of albatrosses, killing for example one-third of the albatross chicks born on Midway Atoll.
Cops keep killing people. Or raping them. Or both. (Courtrooms aren’t safe either.) While there’s some heavily agenda-driven debate on the demographics of the victims of police violence, the basic facts seem to be that while the majority of Americans killed by the police are white, this is because 63% of Americans are non-Latino whites, and for a single individual having an interaction with law enforcement, the odds of being killed by the officers is much greater for a non-white civilian (four times worse, says one study). Racism certainly exists within police forces, but even without it, the combination of a frustrating and dangerous profession, deadly weapons, and a near-impunity created by a culture of corruption, coverups, and silence would be enough to guarantee the regular recurrence of unjustified killings of civilians by law enforcement. Nobody knows how many Americans are killed by the police each year. There are 18,000 or so law enforcement agencies in the US, and they aren’t required to compile their data on officer involved shootings. Of course, they don’t want to do so. They don’t want to be subject to the scrutiny that would challenge the power which they enjoy. And power corrupts. It is known.
Understandably sick of being killed by the police, some people have been taking to the streets in protest, others in riot. The peaceful protests are cheerfully ignored by those in power, while the violent riots are condemned, though the events in Baltimore showed that if you burn the heart of your city to the ground, you can at least provoke the cops into putting on a puppet show of justice, charging the officers responsible for the death of Freddie Gray with murder…and then releasing each of them on bail less than that set for a single rioter. (Although this fact is perhaps less damning than it seems on the face of it; the officers aren’t likely a flight risk, and have much to lose by running rather than fighting the charges in court.) And they even fucked that up. I’m not sure whether to take it as a sign that things are getting slowly better, or that they don’t change at all, when I was reminded that 45 years ago as of yesterday, National Guard troops killed four students at Kent State in Ohio. Two were protesting the Vietnam War, the other two were walking to class when they were killed.
Of course, not all cops are bad cops, and we should be grateful to those who perform this vital service. It was a traffic cop who gunned down a pair of would-be jihadis, attempted mass murderers armed with potentially very lethal rifles. The previously seemingly-paranoid fears that Islamic extremism is coming to the United States have been replaced by a grim realization that it is already here. The Muslim fanatics were attempting to shoot up a convention putting on a “draw Muhammed contest,” which can be interpreted either as a militant defense of freedom of expression, or as an intentional provocation of exactly the kind of violent response that it got. The organization putting on the event is the American Freedom Defense Institute, which sounds like either a fictional group from Team America: World Police, or like a new euphemistic name for the School of the Americas. They have been described as a hate group (by the controversial and extreme Southern Poverty Law Center), and certainly aren’t shy about their criticism of Islam and their defense of Israel. Whether they are in fact anti-Muslim or are instead merely opposed to extremist violence, the group’s views are Constitutionally protected speech. Even if the contest was actually intended to provoke just this kind of attack, it’s perfectly legal to hunt over bait in Texas if you’re hunting feral pigs. Certainly when I was growing up, no matter what my kid brother did to provoke me, if I ever hit him, I was the one to get in trouble, not him. Ironically it’s the same strategy used by Palestinian protestors, getting kids to throw rocks at Israeli soldiers to provoke the soldiers to shoot at them so they can point out to the world how brutal the Israelis are. It’s a dick move, but it works.
Of course, if Islamic extremist terrorists are finally putting the tip into Lady Liberty, the Muslim-majority world has been getting it head, shaft, and balls for a while now. It’s regrettably understandable that some, seeing the horror of the Islamic extremists, come to treat Islam as synonymous with evil, but in fact most of the victims of Islam extremists are their fellow Muslims. Every day it seems, Da’ish comes up with some new horror even more fucked up than the last: throwing homosexuals in Iraq to their deaths from tall buildings, then burning a captured Joradian pilot alive by roasting him in a cage, and decapitating just about anybody they can get their hands on. Also, they fuck goats. And donkeys. But only when they aren’t being provided with enough sex slaves from among the local population.
There’s no happy ending here, no feel-good wrap-up to make the absolute horror of the world a little more tolerable. There’s nothing to do but look for some nepenthe to dull the sensation, to feel it a little less. Maybe you drink, because, as Bukowski put it, “When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.” Or you go to the movies. And then, just trying to hide in the dark and forget it all of a couple of hours, you get all bent out of shape because Iron Man cracks a weirdly anachronistic rape joke. Because it’s impossible to have any sense of perspective in this world of fire and death, impossible to ignore the fact that when you stub your toe on the way to the gas chamber it still hurts.
For the past year and a half, I’ve been teaching Foundations at Northern Arizona University. Recently I was invited to present at a session at the FATE Conference “Tectonic Shifts” in Indianapolis. (The whole #boycottindiana thing didn’t start until our last day there.) It was, among other things, an opportunity to reflect on what, exactly, Foundations is, as a subject, and what it could and should be.
Foundations programs typically include Drawing, 2D Design, and 3D Design. They often also include Color Theory, Figure Drawing, and (very occasionally) an introductory Digital Media class. This presupposes a certain set of priorities that influences students’ perceptions of what art is, and bear in mind that within a college or university setting, most students in a Foundations course will not necessarily be art majors.
The premise seems to be that most of the classes are set up to prepare a student to work in two-dimensional plastic arts, chiefly painting. And indeed, in the popular imagination, painting serves as the holotype for what art is. The combination of Drawing, 2D Design, and Color Theory is perfectly geared towards preparing a student for Painting I, or perhaps Printmaking. In my own studio practice I am a painter, and perhaps I was drawn into this medium by a similar set of assumptions. (What I thought I was attracted to, in my teens and early twenties, as “painting,” was in fact primarily illustration, albeit rendered in paint.) 3D Design is a nod to sculpture, and some departments have begun introducing various courses in Digital Media in an attempt to “contemporize” their departments.
I’m not particularly interested in reinventing Foundations, certainly not in the sense of being on some sort of crusade to throw out the traditional model. But I am interested in how and why we have formed our assumptions about what comprise the fundamental building blocks of an artistic practice. Certainly the type of Foundations that I learned when I was in college, that I used to build the technical skills that form the basis of my practice, and that I now teach to my students, have much more in common with the kind of art we saw before 1965 than since.
I should here also mention that I attended community college and then a four-year public state university, and now teach at a similar university, so my experience was and is very different from what one might have at an art school. The foundations curriculum at MICA, RISD, or SAIC might very well be very different from what I’m used to. If I were to look at a cross-section of contemporary art, and use that as my starting point to reverse engineer what a Foundations program should be, I would imagine that the first semester would consist of Introduction to Art Theory, Art History Since 1965, Digital Photography (probably camera phone based), and Writing For Artists. If there was a first-semester foundations studio course at all, it would probably be Found Object Assemblage.
I should be clear here that this isn’t some Swiftian “Modest Proposal” in which I argue that contemporary artists have no hand skill anymore, and that it’s all showmanship and networking and name dropping. Not that it’s not, just that I recognize that there’s no point in bemoaning the fact. Rather, I am saying that over the past few decades, the new work being produced has often (not always) emphasized concept over technique (I am under no illusions of this being a groundbreaking revalation), and that when contemporary work does require hand skill, that hand skill might have little or nothing to do with traditional plastic art skills of drawing, painting, carving, and casting. Rather we see cabinetmaking and welding, mechanics and electronic engineering, computer programming and choreography, each used as it suits the artist’s needs. Indeed, an art education that geared students to produce for the contemporary market might look something like two years of hardcore art history and theory, culminating in a “sophmore seminar” in which the student produces a written proposal for an ambitious thesis project. The following year is spent on exchange to a vocational trade school where the student learns whatever skills he or she needs to execute the project, whether that be horseback riding or taxidermy, mountaineering or tattooing, explosive demolition or flintknapping. The fourth year consists solely of guided studio time coupled with a class in professional practices. The thesis show is presented at the end of the fourth year, and the fifth year is devoted to developing a new, post-thesis body of work intended for submission to grad schools or galleries.
I don’t know if this would be any better or worse than what we have now. I, for one, would feel the loss of the traditional media in art programs. I’d certainly be out of a job. But if art education exists not as a sort of pyramid scheme in which we enlist the help of the next generation in taking our classes so that we can repay our student loans, in the hope that they will one day pass on this curse to students of their own (like the monstrous antagonist in It Follows), but as an actual service to our students, then it must prepare them for the world that they will actually face.
I’m left with the question of what role my beloved traditional media play in an ever-changing world. There are only so many hours in the day, indeed, only so many hours in a lifetime, and every new skill that is introduced must of necessity displace something else. Introduce Robotics, and a student never takes Lithography. Introduce Relational Aesthetics (which I’m currently teaching), and perhaps it’s Figure Drawing that gets left behind. Earlier today, a student was planning her schedule for the Fall, and had to choose between my Color Theory class and a 3D Printing class being offered at the same time.
In some cases, the progression seems natural: that digital photography has relegated the entire darkroom to the role of alternative process makes sense, for the same reason that wet collodion printing isn’t taught in Beginning Photo. The technology has evolved. (I love oil painting, but for me, Beginning Painting makes more sense in acrylics.) But the kind of theory-driven, technique-thin program I hypothetically described above sacrifices some of the most important elements of artmaking. The “wow, I made that!” satisfaction of a well-executed representational drawing can be what inspires a student to pursue art as a degree, a career, a life. For all the practicality of digital photography, there is an alchemical magic to the darkroom that can never be rendered in pixels. And as any observational painter or drawing teaching will tell you, you’ve never really seen something until you’ve tried to draw it. This is the magic, the power to inspire, that we must preserve at all costs as we chase the spotlight of new technologies and ideas through the prison yard of the art world.