The Hairy Naked Russian Poets

The breast poetry will always be popular

 

Art & Fear

Get back to work

 

Americain Debacle Du Art

A perennial complication encounters art, academia, and commerce

The Hairy Naked Russian Poets

The Institute of Contemporary Arts in London is holding the First International Festival of Naked Poetry. The event will, however, be staged without the participation of The Poetry Society.

Poetry Society director Chris Meade said he turned down a sponsorship request from "two hairy Russian poets." The Russian poets in question are Vladimir Yaremenko and Tim Gadanski, whose readings were greeted with torrents of tomatoes, abuse and eggs from St. Petersburg audiences before they hit on the strategy of calling themselves The Naked Russian Poets and performing nude. As Gadanski put it, "Clothes, like chains, must be thrown away and poets become free and powerful."

The newspaper article I read did not indicate whether The Naked Russian Poets will be at the First International Festival of Naked Poetry. I think I got the gist of the marketing plan, though, with the photograph accompanying the piece: it was an image of two not unattractive nude young women holding volumes of prose.

Given the state of contemporary marketing, I don't see much of a future for The Naked Russian Poets, at least the hirsute ones.

Art & Fear

From Pablo Picasso's rather innocent remark that "People who try to explain pictures are usually barking up the wrong tree" to Man Ray's somewhat less charitable pronouncement that "All critics should be assassinated," twentieth century Western artists indulge a rich, if somewhat schizophrenic, tradition of dismissing intellectual discussions about art. Seldon Rodman has the best take on this phenomenon: "One thing about artists is that most of them agree in thinking that nothing important can be said about art. Another is that without exception they love to talk about it."

In Art & Fear, Observations On The Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, David Bayles and Ted Orland cleverly avoid the dangers of the talking-about-art trap by talking about artmaking. The distinction is not semantic sophistry; it is the foundation of a compelling and passionate book.

Bayles and Orland begin by succinctly explaining how one becomes a successful artist: "In large measure becoming an artist consists of learning to accept yourself, which makes your work personal, and following your voice, which makes it distinctive." They later use a lovely anecdote from Howard Ikemoto to illustrate that at one time in their lives almost everyone was a successful artist: "When my daughter was about seven years old, she asked me one day what I did at work. I told her I worked at the college--that my job was to teach people how to draw. She stared back at me, incredulous, and said, 'You mean they forget?' "

So, why are so few of us successful artists after we've "matured?" Bayles and Orland have a one-word answer: fear. As two artists who have avoided the traps and pitfalls that have turned so many of their colleagues and students into former artists, the authors know what they're talking about. And more to the point, they talk about it very well.

Bayles and Orland believe that "what we really learn from the artmaking of others is courage-by-association." And that's the charm of reading Art & Fear; the volume has the ambiance of a long conversation with trusted mentors that goes on into the night over a bottle of wine. (Perhaps it's not coincidental that one of the authors says that's how part of the book was written.)

And, how does one defeat what seem to be indefatigable odds and so remain an artist? Art & Fear offers a bonus, an Operation Manual For Not Quitting, reprinted here in its entirety: "A. Make friends with others who make art, and share your in-progress work with each other frequently. B. Learn to think of [A], rather than the Museum of Modern Art, as the destination of your work. (Look at it this way: If all goes well, MOMA will eventually come to you.)"

It's a fine line between speaking simply as opposed to simplistically, and the authors stay on the smart side of this perilous divide. Bayles and Orland employ a light-handed and frequently light-hearted style that never belies the passion of their convictions. By presenting their beliefs so persuasively, readers may easily be left with the impression that most of what they say is a priori knowledge.

The co-authors haven't been as stylistically successful at the difficult art of blending their identities. Various passages in the book are spoken by "the authors," "the author," and "I." It's a minor quibble with an otherwise seamless presentation, an important presentation that these critical comments can only begin to discuss in an unhappily abbreviated detail.

Art & Fear should appeal to anyone with even a peripheral interest in the arts. Successful artists will appreciate just how clever they really are, and everyone else can benefit from the courage-by-association observations from a couple of smart survivors. Get Art & Fear and get back to work.

Art & Fear : Observations on the Perils (And Rewards) of Artmaking
by David Bayles, Ted Orland
Published by Capra Press
ISBN: 0884963799

Americain Debacle Du Art

Because of positive response to previous publication of work by Edward Conrad, Stare's editors, with hope of obtaining additional material from his catalog of unpublished prose, reopened a conversation with Conrad's literary executor. Finally, after many unanswered letters, phone calls, and faxes, the following arrived with a short note stating, as a condition of publication, that the text be offered without alteration or deletion. Bravo. Despite its obvious flaws and shortcomings, the editors of Stare decided to present the text received as received, unchanged and uncensored. Bravo.

"You'll never guess who found me," she said, bubbling over with excitement, chatting with her ex-husband who had somehow ended up working in the same city, at the same university, and somehow connected to the same arts organization. She intended her conversation to be about art because, at this meeting, art commanded attention. Furthermore, because the crowd was dutiful, the woman's conversation was the temporary subject of absolute attention, and she chatted performatively with and for others even as she carefully measured out both her lines and her excitement, perhaps for the sake of aesthetic form.

And she had decided for the crowd to paint a picture about the amazing things that happen when one has a widely distributed e-mail address.

"She found me by thumbing through e-mail addresses--Shari Burns!" she said in a fit of smearing the canvas, and her ex-bed-mate, forking and munching through some party du cocktail food, food paid for by the state with slight additional funding from the federal government, chuckled immediately at the memory.

He laughed, almost on cue, "Not Shari-with-the-leather-and-the-hooks-in-the-ceiling?"

And she said to no one in particular, "We both knew Shari when we first met years ago in California." They glanced at each other knowingly before she continued, with enthusiasm, "Oh, she sure was something, wasn't she? Isn't it WILD that she'd write to me?"

Of course, "no one" was supposed to know that they had been divorced for the last few years, but, if he or she did not know, they would soon be told, and the telling would settle lazily into the hovering, airy fleece of the other chatter du cocktail.

But I suppose I ought to introduce myself. I was one of the "no ones" to whom they were performing, but the scene, and the persons playing it out, were much more important than I could ever be, so I won't waste your time with too much superfluous detail. For the record, at that moment, I was an hungry artist, and I was hoping, at that moment, to somehow ingratiate myself with the "crowd" that controlled the galleries, the associations, AND the monied donors. That's why I was at the gathering, which was actually a reception. I had temporarily, or so I told myself, placed my morals and ethics on hold in the hope of receiving--well, let's just say, "receiving." My temporarily suspended ethics and morals hadn't entirely decided upon exact details.

But we were sipping drinks and observing the persons, conversations, and surroundings, sort of getting the feel of the room.

And there was plenty of room for chatter. It was a big room and an important gathering, called by a man who not only had become a very fancy and well-paid Dean at this rather prestigious American university, but a man who also had maneuvered his way socially into becoming a personne du art. It was an enviable position. For the Dean, the most enviable aspect of the position was that he could collect his one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year salary for job number one and simultaneously make off with a deliberately undisclosed sum for being on the Board of Trustees of the Metropolitan Art Museum. And so, naturally, and with the hope of playing as many of his cards of prestige and power to his advantage, he had assembled this rather "outside" meeting at the best "inside" room that his deanship could obtain on the attractive campus. He could even claim to have had a hand in designing the room, and not one of his underlings would dare contradict him, even if they knew that he knew as little about art as he did about being a Dean.

Still, technically speaking, the metropolitan aspect of the meeting might be summarized by the idea that anyone with enough money could be elevated to the status of creatur du art, and here was the metropolitan man who could supply the fraudulent valuations and vitally important tax-breaks that could raise the most untalented poser to the realm of the aesthetic ethereal, provided the applicant had sufficient funds or something else to trade. So, it was more than enough occasion for the Dean to call such a meeting, spending his own capital of power and prestige with an eye toward increasing the weight in his already overstuffed pockets. It all had the smell of something greedily delicious.

In comparing the academic and metropolitan aspects of the meeting, perhaps I could say that the Dean had more to do with the design of the guest-list than he did with the design of the room, but even that would not stand up as entirely true. He had not invited me, and had nothing to do with my design, or so I thought. I was just another hungry artist attempting to hang on, sprinkled in with the mix of other hangers-on, the almost-well-to-do, and those who were so larded down with cash and ostentatious liquidity that there was barely enough state-sponsored liquor, with additional help from the federal government, to keep us all gabby and awe-inspired.

And someone suddenly raised the volume on that ex-California conversation, not so much for my benefit, but because the vignette was heading toward its inevitable denouement, and no one was supposed to miss what was coming up next.

"...but her dog and the purple pillow were so cute! Her parties were such a scream, although it REALLY got hairy that time she messed herself!"

Despite the teller's offering the climax in the very best shades of puce and magenta, I found it difficult to concentrate on Shari's theatrical exploits. Although I believed my morals and ethics safely compressed beneath dreams of finding a feed at the big trough, unpleasant intimations kept squirting out from under the weight of all that anticipated money.

Perhaps it did not help that the room was supposed to ooze money. The carpet was splattered with many bright colors arranged in as much baroque ornatitude as could be offered up by late-twentieth-century American carpet mills. Naturally, the carpet's primary aesthetic was to appear as administratively expensive as possible, in an academic sort of way. One of the administrative assistants, promoted and promoted again by the Dean, had been a bona fide interior decorator for several years before being called to academia, and his participation in designing the fashionable room surely justified the bona of his fides. He had beamed, and the Dean and his minions had beamed, when a local historical association had been bullied into affirming that the room was very expensive and decorative indeed, and the beaming had increased beyond measure when the association presented a plaque, now displayed in a glass case, thus fixing the fact in amber.

Another conversation bubbled up out of the crowd.

"Frankly, I don't know what's taking so long. The hundred-and-fifty acres on the other side of the Greenbelt should have been acquired well before now. The longer they wait, the harder it will be to keep those tract-developers from moving in and slapping up some of those horrible messes. Have you seen what they did to all that beautiful land north of 106th Street?"

Here was a voice entirely dedicated to "art."

Her aesthetic recital continued, "Last year when I met with Justin, I told him how important it was to the community to keep the Greenbelt land as 'open space.' I told him that a candidate had to earn my contribution and support, and that I would be watching to see the interests of this community protected. I think it's time I phoned to remind him of just what that support might mean."

And one of the immediate group echoed in response to her leader, "Oh yes. It's terrible the way these 'paid officials' forget just who's paying them. A few weeks ago I tried to see Harriet Wartgow down at the Assessor's Office about the valuation of my properties, and I had to call three times before she arranged to see me. Of course, she fixed it after we had our little talk, but it's almost as if those people will try to get away with anything unless you're standing over them every minute."

The original speaker returned, "Well, Justin's not going to keep me waiting, not even for a minute."

I must admit I felt sorry for Justin, in an offhand sort of way, because I recognized the leader of this little salon du art. Some things you don't forget, even if you only encounter them once, in passing.

It had been at least a year before, while researching something in the university's library, something or other about Thomas Eakins, when I originally heard that voice, some aisles away, almost shouting in anger, and I was so surprised that I had to move closer to investigate what could cause such a commotion in a prestigious university library.

"...and I don't see what, if anything, necessitates our considering any kind of raise for that position. Everywhere I look, I find considerable work that hasn't been done. These book stacks need to be dusted, and they could be washed, come to think of it, and the carpets in this building could be cleaned more often than three times a year. Quite frankly, this library is more than generous with that kind, and I don't think it's our responsibility to ask whether or not those people--whose main aspiration, by the way, would seem to be cleaning toilets--, I don't think we have an obligation to solve the problems of their personal lives. When I worked at the Library of Congress, we never had any such difficulty with the custodians. You can inform Manuel, and anyone like him, that I have no intention of listening to any talk about raises until this building is spic and span."

As this thin, grey-haired woman sliced out the aisle and moved toward the nearest exit, I might have observed the way in which she attempted to assert her authority with every stamp of her black, low-heeled shoes, but I suddenly wondered if it might be true that by knowing the work one might know the artist. I was thinking about Manuel. I had seen him many times working in the library--mops, brooms, cloths--and I had even seen him on his knees more than once, scraping this or that off the tile or out of the carpet. I have always found it troubling to see people on their knees, even if they were performing necessary work. But we were talking about Manuel. He was obviously Mexican-American, first generation, and he had without exception been courteous and considerate to me whenever we ended up in the same space. As soon as he would see me, and recognize me for the great scholar that I, no doubt, appeared to be, he would move immediately out of my way, out of the aisle, to let me do whatever wonderful work I had obviously arrived to do. Answering his numerous courtesies, I tried, more than once, to engage him in conversation, particularly to offer him something clever or amusing, with the idea of brightening his day. Anyway, after speaking to Manuel on three or four occasions--early on I asked for his name, one of those hopeless gestures--, I observed that he particularly scanned my tone, more than my words, so he could smile or laugh politely in admiring answer to whenever I thought my remarks brilliant enough to warrant such response.

Perhaps, after all, you couldn't know the artist by the work. I was having a hard time connecting Manuel's generosity with the black-heeled woman who had sliced off with such stamping authority, but I had no difficulty in connecting that woman of the past to that woman of the present. Maybe I had it all wrong and she was art and artist in one, but we were suddenly back in the present, back in that oozing room, and one of her other friends was complimenting her on something I hadn't expected.

"...but why didn't you tell us you were going to retire next year? I was so sad when the Dean told me. Still, it seems only right that they're going to vote you the Distinguished Faculty Award, what with all your work in raising faculty women's salaries."

It might have been all the distractions in the room, but I thought I saw the leader of the salon look quizzically at her congratulatory friend, almost as if she didn't know that she would be retiring, and I would have looked longer, but bodies and conversations throughout the crowd were shifting toward the dais. The announced occasion, whatever it was really supposed to mean, crept up inevitably on the gathering. The Dean had entered the room. Indeed, he now stood at the podium, and beside him was an easel, draped with a thick, but very decorative silk, and beside the easel stood a being, presumably the artist, sporting a pompadour, a restrained but very expensive suit, presumably containing silk, and a considerable number of teeth, all visible.

"Friends, and it's so rewarding to see so many of you, this evening we have created a special occasion to honor a gift so generously given to our prestigious university. Although many of you know how important Jim Hucko has been to our community, some of you may have been unaware of how richly and diligently Jim has managed the vineyards of art, particularly in painting. A few in this gathering have shared the greedy pleasure of savoring Jim's talent through special purchase of his work in private shows and auctions, but, perhaps because of his modesty, most of you will receive the stunning vibrance of this painter's art for the first time, when we remove the drape from this truly marvelous canvas."

I looked over at the pompadour, suit, and teeth. All three were virtually drooling.

"Furthermore, this canvas is only the start of our enjoyment. Although he was reluctant at first, Jim has agreed to donate twelve other selections in addition to the item we are so eager to unveil this evening. Perhaps my negotiations triumphed when I told him that all would find a permanent home at the university library, where they will be open for your appreciation, all in their spaces, the beginning of next week. I know they will be a source of inspiration and profit for us all."

And with the words, "inspiration and profit," an invisible workman turned up the switch on a pair of small spotlights that illumined the decorated easel. I knew it was all heading for a salon du climax.

"The moment is surely upon us," continued the Dean. "Without delay," he said, grabbing the cord, "I present to you, 'Revelation at Pompeii'," and the drape fell to the floor.

I was horrified. The 3' x 5' painting, bordered garishly but inexpensively with a shiny metallic frame, boasted a monochromatic background color of scarlet red, brazen and glossy scarlet red, without variation from any arbitrary point to any other arbitrary point within the field of the work. Progressing from the background to the body, one could conjecture that there was some form to the effort, as manifested by five white figures, perhaps resembling fireworks, each essentially the same as the next, and each with seven veins per figure, and formal, perhaps, in the way that their arrangement aped artistic symmetry. These figures commenced at the bottom left quarter of the canvas, ascended to the top left quarter, and then crossed from left to right--what might be described, decoratively, as an upside-down "L" shape. I could only assume that the five white garlands were experiments in texture--the medium was acrylic--and some of the veins brandished one particular blade stroke as opposed to advertising another, but that all could have been accident rather than deliberation. Still, one could not mistake the intellectual center of the work, greedily occupying a little bit more than the bottom right quarter of the red canvas, a shape more than a form, a phallus, of no particular distinction or detail, limp and hanging, complete with a prodigious scrotum, limp and hanging, if such a thing is remarkable. For the record, the shape of the phallus announced its centrality, regardless of its being placed on the bottom right, because it offered an additionally profound exploration of texture. Specifically, the white of the shape of the phallus was actually, in effect, a thick outline, with the core of the phallus being pink, with the pink interrupted periodically and symmetrically, and this was deliberate, by three horizontal crimson bars, darker than the scarlet of the background. A "Revelation at Pompeii." As I said, I was horrified. I couldn't believe my eyes.

I couldn't believe my ears, either. From the mouths of the crowd, I heard oohs and ahhs, gurgles and coos, sufficient to generate a blush from the most experienced voyeur, but my hectored morals and ethics availed themselves of the embattled occasion to remind me that I was a participant, not an observer, and that I couldn't shed my responsibilities so easily as a lizard sheds its skin, just to grow another, whatever the anticipated gain.

Admittedly, I borrowed additional drinks, both from the state and federal government, before I made my way into the night. If I participated in any of the festivities after the "revelation"--conversations, parlor games, or what have you--, I confess that I do not remember. I was all too lost in the slather of the moment.

Two occurrences on the following day rounded out the episode.

In the morning, when I checked my mail, sort of dragged myself to the mailbox, I received a postcard from Randall Schroth, an artist I knew, who was vacationing in Louisiana. The picture on the front, from New Orleans, offered a view of an above-ground cemetery. It was one of those places where everyone is "buried" in tiny, above-ground crypts because the ground is so low and the water-table so high that it is impossible to keep anyone interred for very long without them inconveniently bubbling up. On the reverse side, instead of telling me that the weather was wonderful, he offered only an odd, little poem:

MY KNIFE

The intricate connection
from myself to enemies,
myself to food:

Basically, it's simple:
dull end toward me,
sharp end toward them.

At first, I thought the poem quite clever, but that was probably due to temporary difficulties with my vision, which resulted in my mistakenly reading, "My Life," as opposed to, "My Knife," for the title of the missive. Still, upon reflection, because I felt as if I had swallowed a knife, the arrival of the card seemed apt, or at least haunting, given my recent experiences.

Even more disturbing, however, later when I went to the Safeway in an effort to assuage the hunger generated by the night before, I confronted an unhappy fact. It all began harmlessly enough. While standing at the meat counter, someone bumped me with a cart from behind. Because it felt more intentional than unintentional, I deliberately assumed a less than smiling expression when I turned to confront my attacker. But one look told me I shouldn't have bothered. As I met the face of the rather innocent woman who happened to have a great deal more in her cart than she could reasonably control, I softened my expression, she awkwardly nodded her embarrassment, and the whole affair seemed to be over. She just had too much in her buggy. It was amazing how much she had, but, as I shifted my gaze to take in all of her accumulation, I noticed the advertisement emblazoned on the very front of her cart. Safeway had cleverly sold this space to an important, franchised real-estate concern complete with a pompadour, suit, and many visible teeth: Jim Hucko. I encountered, again, and even more fully, those intimations gauzily communicating the ways in which art and the market might meet.

Additional Note: Our thanks to Mr. R. Schroth, who graciously granted permission for us to reprint his writing as part of the work above, and who may be reached through schroth@stare.com. Any comment or inquiries regarding the work, in general, may be addressed to Conrad's literary executor at archivcon@stare.com.