Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Phoning it in

I've been busy. Or pre-occupied. Regardless, I aspire.

Mood-dependent, I am either too hard on myself, or not enough. It is not just my pair of opinions, the assessment shared by an assortment of associates in regards to my behavior and how they see it play out, and perhaps most importantly, how the same paradox plays in their mirrors to determine whether or not they cut me slack. But enough about them.

What might pass for a sense of effacing humor in anonymity is not the same as a strategic reliance on ambiguity among friends. And so was born 'the edit'.

I have been involved with the art world long enough to know that August is a barren month (which may be why the French avoid it). For galleries on a whole, it is when the directors play catch-up with group shows: “Sorry I couldn’t fit you in to our September to May rotation. Let me make it up to you by putting you in a group show in (June, July or) August.” Whether part of the gallery’s stable or a newcomer who shows promise, most artists know to what and where they’ve been relegated. Attendance and sales at a minimum, the shotgun approach to an exhibition might be the safest and wisest move in a business sense; however, unless an artist’s work really stands out, it will more than likely get lost in the shuffle. And, of course, if the work really popped, it wouldn’t be in a summer group show.

The above assessment might seem too harsh, too cynical and even ill informed; it may even be the heat, sweat stinging this gallery-hopper’s eyes, the air-conditioned gallery visit all too brief to provide real relief and a more discerning look. Still, these shows, largely lacking continuity or a theme, are more akin to window-shopping, and therefore do little to inspire a mention in the context of a review.

It gets worse. Well, it did. That portion is non extant as it was nothing more than impatience with youth, or rather, the beginnings of a thesis that remains in a metaphorical state of over-indulgent parenting and circle jerks, and therefore inadequate as a critical analysis. Nor a way to make friends, you know: join the love fest. Nevertheless, the above was saved for some reason, even though it has been removed from the next draft.

In other news, I have just finished reading an intriguing little book: The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector. A unique writing style that still manages to capture a mood and allow for compassion.

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