Labels: pHOTO:r. KERN
I'm old school. Even when I was a young punk I held fast to the romantic version of art and the long suffering artist. It was a relatively solitary pursuit, pursued by putting in time. You didn't have to have a big studio, or even make anything for that matter. But what you did have to do was sit your ass down and think about the next piece. And that piece could take any form: painting, drawing, sculpture, action, video, film, song, or if one was lucky enough, a new approach. Then, through word of mouth, you inform the world that you are an artist. It's a slow process. It can take decades.
Years before I bought a cow, went to seminary and hired prostitutes for performance art projects, I did little pen and ink drawings. I grew up in a world of Christmas cards and Mad magazines. Snowy landscapes and tumble down barns were all around me. In the summer, mechanics still worked on cars under big maple trees, in the backyard and Norman Rockwell hadn't yet been rolled over by 60's cynicism. With my limited draftsmanship and stilted line, I tried my damnedest to copy anything from an old family photo, to an Al Capp cartoon, to a tropical cruise menu- all in india ink. My mom loved them. But as my work matured I left the medium behind, preferring to dive headlong into the abyss, much to mom's dismay. "Why don't you draw in pen and ink anymore?" she would whine. I would just smile. As any artist with a mom knows......moms don't know shit when it comes to art.
I don't kids. I have cats. At least I had cats. By last summer the 3 cats I loved had disappeared without a trace. Ray Gilkey, Nicole Ritchie and Spooky Cat were all gone. I can only assume that the pack of coyotes that run behind my house had finally found a way to get them between their teeth. If I did have kids I'm sure a few of them would've been torn apart by now also. Hell, who can keep their eye on 'em 24/7. It's nature's way.