Mera Rubell Didn’t Mean To Scare Us

PH2009121704986Sometimes, because of insecurities, we see critique as criticism.

By example: the energy created by the journalism around Mera Rubell’s recent set of studio visits.

As noted by the Washington Project for the Arts, “Coverage of Mera Rubell’s DC studio tour by journalist Jessica Dawson in The Washington Post touched a critical nerve in the DC arts community, and set off impassioned conversations on social networking websites such as Facebook about the quality of life for artists in the area. Artists, writers, and arts professionals weighed in on aesthetics, isolation, ambition and support for the visual arts.”

Dawson’s Washington Post article, titled Collector Mera Rubell makes the rounds of Washington’s isolated artists includes the following quote:

“The pecking order is so vague here, so nebulous,” the collector says. In New York, top artists become untouchable. For them, it’s a badge of achievement to pull up younger ones, to mentor them. Not so in Washington, where no one knows who’s on top and everyone is on the defensive. “It’s like children fighting for their parents’ attention,” Mera say. “It’s basic competitive survival here — you don’t give an inch.”

Journalist/blogger Kriston Capps’ article about the same event for Art in America, includes the quote:

“I think they’re hungry for community. I’m not saying it’s unique to D.C., but it’s the reason so many artists go to New York.” Less prosaically, Rubell offered what she perceives to be the impact of international museums on local artists. “This is a place with some of the greatest museums on earth. But artists aren’t part of that family. They’re more strangers than the tourists. It makes them feel provincial. If you put a kid down enough, he gets discouraged.”

The response to Capps’ and Dawson’s journalism in online media has been somewhat surprising. Capps himself blogged that Dawson’s story was a “cynical exercise”, and that Rubell’s visits were like “an auditor” trying to “suss out a cyst”. In point of fact Rubell was selecting works for a new exhibit. Her assignment was not a comprehensive review of the District art scene’s mental health.

Were she charged with that task, I think she would have seen it possesses a schizophrenic quality. It seems like when we’re not busy crying, we’re busy insisting that we’re doing great. I think the reason we cry and then claim not to be crying is that we don’t want anyone to be responsible. Many artists are also involved in arts organizations, and arts service organizations, and curating, and journalism… many of us wear multiple hats, and have intimates who also wear multiple hats. We don’t want it to be our fault/anyones fault.

In the discussions around Meera’s statements some have suggested that journalism is failing us (ah, an outsider to blame!) It’s solipsistic to blame journalism for calling attention to this, but inside that, there’s your basic chicken/egg kind of an argument. As Lenny Campello wrote in a discussion on facebook, “The question is: if they saw coverage in the media about the art, would that trigger them to visit a gallery?”

The dance community in DC has been through this exact same thing. I transcribed a meeting between the District’s dance critics (wash post, wash times, etc.) and the dance community two years ago, prompted by community outcry about decline in coverage. And just like in the dance community, the visual arts community can complain about wanting more coverage, but newspapers are not a public service. They’re a business. When a business goes bankrupt it’s nice to say that it’s cause the marketing people did a bad job. But maybe the product sucked. Or maybe the service sucked. Or maybe the customer service sucked. Or maybe there wasn’t enough funding. Or maybe… Arts coverage has declined because there isn’t the interest, and the business model no longer exists. New models may emerge that serve the public and the arts community. I believe that with Bourgeon we’ve found one.

I think there’s a culture of inflexibility, fear, protectionism, power, and politicism that contributes to aesthetic blindness. I’m looking forward to attending the WPA’s upcoming panel discussion on the arts criticism in the DC area. I wonder how similar it will be to the one two years ago with the dance community.

Running for cover(age): A panel discussion on arts criticism in the DC area

Moderator: Kriston Capps
Panelists: Jeffry Cudlin, Isabel Manalo, Danielle O’Steen
When: Monday, January 4, 2010 from 6:30-8:00pm
Where: Capitol Skyline Hotel (lounge), 10 I Street SW, Washington, DC, 20024
(Free and open to the public)

The Nicest Show on Earth

[As the loyal reader is aware, I occasionally write short fiction. Here is a piece – still in draft form – started last summer. ]

The Nicest Show on Earth

copyright Robert Bettmann, 2009

Maureen crossed the street in the rain, carrying a small aloe plant. Her shoes cast brilliant little sprays as they lifted off the pavement, but even she did not notice. Finally almost 40, finally almost happy, Maureen crossed P street in the rain. Her mind wandered back to her friend’s apartment as she hit the sidewalk on the far side of 15th street.

The aloe plant’s owner – Leslie – was going to New Mexico for the summer, to participate in a workshop/fellowship/institute/internship/academy/festival for artists. Maureen reminded herself that she was not an artist. Leslie and Maureen were unlikely friends. Leslie was a performance artist whose most recent autobiographical production (“Go Fuck Yourself: the nicest show on earth”) had received positive notices. Maureen noticed that Leslie’s jaw had gotten more angular with the success. When Maureen picked up the plant Leslie had thanked her for helping out at the show, and apologized for ignoring her at the after-party.

000309_3053_1020_oslpAs Maureen passed the Carnegie Center and stopped for the traffic on 16th street, her mind wandered home in front of her. She thought about whether or not there was enough light in her home to keep the plant alive, and about her new manager at the bank. She considered the inconsequential little plant getting heavy in her hand, and thought about what she had eaten that evening.

Maureen thought about Leslie’s right breast – that it was ever so slightly larger than the left. Maureen remembered the feel of her new friend’s thigh, and compared the feel of the small ceramic pot to the feel of thigh. The ceramic pot was moist, and radiated warmth from Maureen’s hand. The pot was two and half inches wide at its base, rising six inches to a lip one and a half inches in diameter. It had been made in factory in Taiwan, and bore a small stamp on the bottom. The man whose job it was to stamp the drying clay was named Monty, after his father’s favorite uncle, who had emigrated to Miami. Of course Maureen was completely unaware of Monty, and his uncle, as she crossed 17th street in the rain, carrying Leslie’s small aloe plant. She was also unaware of the height of the curb, and the tip of her shoe caught on the sidewalk on the far side of 16th street, sending her sprawling to the wet ground.

Back in her apartment, after she had dried off, and her elbow had stopped bleeding, Maureen managed to refocus her eyes on the small potted plant now sitting on her windowsill. Even in the following days, when her body was stiff, Maureen was never conscious of protecting the plant as she fell. But the following September, walking back across 17th street to return the plant to Leslie, she experienced a sense of dread. This she chalked up to simply too much time away from her friend.