I Bought a Book

 I bought a book.   Hardly worth mentioning?  Ah, but this is first step to opening up your mind.  What is a book?  The book I bought does not exist yet.  ‘What’ you may ask, an internet scam!  No but I was bamboozled….by an artist!  On a Thursday afternoon and without expectations I and three other artists ventured south to Colorado College in Colorado Springs.  We were going to an exhibition curated by my friend and colleague, Alicia Bailey titled ‘Book as Object’: An International Survey of Sculptural Book Works’.

 

 

 I knew Alicia was excited about hearing the artist Angela Lorenz speak about her work.  I had no idea who she was or the other artists, what kind of reputation they had or what exactly they did; I was along for the ride.

 

 

 The food was gone when we arrived.  I had been looking forward to the elaborate spread.  The students had sniffed out the free high class fare like pigs find truffles! Never mind, I was there to feed my soul and spirit.  Alicia gave her curatorial speech and then introduced Angela Lorenz.  I attentively listened to Angela without knowing what on earth she was going to talk about.  She talked about her work and her approach to her work. Then she specifically talked about two pieces she had brought with her that were part of the exhibition.  One book was a pack of gum, ‘Chewing Tzu’, and another was ‘Soap Story’ comprising of six small cubes of soap and a mini picture album without pictures.  She called for the audience to get up and come to the table beside her that had several bowls of water and the small cubes of soap.  I skipped the communal hand washing – I hate baths, too but that is another story – and when the soap was gone, we were summoned back to hear the results.  Angela then proceeded to read from the damp pieces of what looked like ripped rags made of linen that had emerged from the soap.   Even though she had given us background information on the story and paraphrased the story, I was still mesmerized and thrilled.  I could not explain this feeling.  I sat there on the floor with 20-something students, book art lovers, curators, artists, utterly transfixed and with a stupid grin on my face.    What moved me was how this puzzle came together.  Between Angela telling us about the story, the background that inspired it, the process of ten years she spent trying to figure out how she could communicate this story, the ‘soap stories’ she created in her life and the lives of others after publishing her book, it all seemed impossible yet it was true.  Here we were creating another chapter to be recorded in our memories and our feelings.  I had to have a piece of this.

 

 

 I settled for lingering over the table with items for sale.  Soon the satiated students dissipated and the ‘hardcore’ were left.  Alicia was talking amongst admirers and I eavesdropped at the ‘for sale table’.  Okay, I’ll buy this book, ‘The Theater of Nature or Curiosity Filled the Cabinet’ (trade edition) by Angela Lorenz.  I hung about catching snippets of comments from Angela and her admirers.  It reminded me of my years attending numerous pop concerts; hanging out hoping to talk to or see the band.  Eventually, Angela was surrounded by the curators of the gallery, Alicia and her entourage, which included me.  A discussion was going on about food, restaurants and directions.  While others fetched coats I spoke with the object of my growing admiration, the charming Angela Lorenz. 

 

 

 I was purchasing her book, when she told me I could buy an additional book about her work for half price.  Done.  I made some flattering comments about her presentation, her work, how inspired I was by her as an artist.  I told her how wonderful her soap story was.  She smiled, a sly smile if I recall, and produced the soap story piece she had opened during her talk, soaps intact, and offered it to me at a reduced price.  I tried a lame excuse about not having my business check book with me but I knew I wanted it.  Angela was a true artist and a saleswoman to boot!  She suggested that I send her a check.  I was warmed over with her trust in me and was sold!  Gosh, she’s good.  I felt a kinship with her, I am not a bad saleswoman myself, and quite frankly, wanted to be like her.

 

 

  I had the pleasure of dinning with Angela and company – all women.  Wonderful food and conversation: talk of our families, our history, and our work.  In less then five hours, I had made new friends, had an adventure, fallen in love, re-visited my past and considered my future.  I laughed, almost cried and arrived home to have a cup of tea and snuggle with my husband; a perfect ending to a soap story.

 

Kim Harrell

www.eastendarts.com

This experience took place in 2006.

Dina Bennett on the Mystery of Art

I have no understanding of the creative process that results in fine art.  As someone who, even with a ruler, cannot draw a straight line, I find myself particularly awed by painting and sculpture.  ‘How do you do that?’ I want to ask, every time I look at a finished work.  ‘How did you know that putting a dot of white right there, or carving away a bit of clay in that spot, would yield a sense of light or give a perception of shadow?’  

 We each look at things differently.  Standing at the Metropolitan Museum in front of a painting by Renoir or Manet (yes, I’m a sucker for Impressionists), I don’t know what that gentleman near me in the loose-fitting brown suit with too-long hair is thinking.  You know the one I’m mean...the one slouched into one hip, who was contemplating the painting when I arrived, hand on chin, eyes lost in the distance.  His stillness speaks of being engrossed, his crepe-soled shoes of a man who’s accustomed to contemplating art for hours.  I can create this myth about him from how he looks, but I can’t know what he sees.  We might nod to each other as presumed fellow aficionados, mutter “Beautiful,” or “Charming,” in a hushed tone.  Yet we just take it on faith that our common descriptive language works and that when we each say blue we’re identifying the same thing.  Yet what’s deep blue to me may be green blue to him.   We don’t really KNOW, do we?  And that’s where I lose it.  If I can’t even be sure that you’re seeing what I’m seeing, how can the artist know that what she’s creating will touch people, startle the viewer into thinking, looking, staying at least a minute or two to ponder the image.

That’s bafflement number one.  Bafflement number two stems for this:  Since I have no knowledge of what goes into painting or sculpting it appears to me that what I’m looking at has arrived fully formed.  One minute blank canvas, next minute sunny windowsill with cat dozing beside a pot of geraniums.  One day block of wood, next day woman combing snarls out of hair.  This creative process is such a mystery to me that it sparks a nearly insatiable craving which I keep at bay only because my mother taught me good manners.  What comes over me is an intense physical urge to touch the work, feel the oily sleekness of that wood, the rough surface of clay, the cool hardness of a bronze cast. I want to run my fingers over canvas like I did the cinder block wall of my elementary school corridor, when we marched single file from classroom to lunchroom. If no one’s looking I’d indulge my craving to push in those thick daubs of oil paint, the ones whose tough skin hide an interior as soft as buttercream frosting.  Perhaps by translating texture into words I’ll be able to discern method.

This craving to put words to the visual makes sense for me. I’m a writer, with a book out there on bookstore shelves and on people’s living room tables.  I've been asked the same questions about writing that I now pose about visual media:  “How did you do that?”  And I say “It took me years.  I studied and practiced. I went through lots of drafts.  I threw out thousands and thousands of words.  I got input from my readers and editors.  I read other books and parsed out what I liked about them, what they did well, what I found engaging.  Eventually the book was declared finished, and was printed, bound and sold.  But was it done?   Even now I can read through the manuscript and itch to change a sentence so the meaning is more precise, so the reader will have a clearer view of what I saw, and a finer sense of my emotions. 

When I read books I understand the process of creating them, because I’ve done it myself. Yet I never think about the craft of writing as I read.  I think only about whether the words on the page speak to me.   Ultimately it’s the same with art.  It doesn’t matter that I don’t understand the gift that allows an artist to transfer what they see in their mind to canvas via the medium of brush and paint.  And it doesn’t matter whether I am able to do the same thing.   What matters is if the piece I’m looking at moves me.  And it does.

Dina Bennett's memoir Peking to Paris:  Life and Love on a Short Drive Around Half the World is in bookstores now.

The Art Blog

Okay, I know everyone else has been blogging forever, but this is a new endeavor for me. This blog is about art: what we think about art, how we feel about art, the process of creating, experiencing & viewing art. Basically if it is about art, however remotely, it might be covered in this blog.

To go one step further, I decided that the blog shouldn’t be from one perspective. I will be inviting other visual artists, writers, intellectuals, and interesting people to share their thoughts, or experiences. Serious, funny, I hope they run the gamut. I hope to learn a lot and I hope you do too. Off we go…