To avoid a bidding war, please contact me immediately to expedite this painting to your favorite room’s wall. Shipping and handling domestic (USA) will be about $30. If you’re local, I will drive it to you wrapped in paper blessed by an aristocrat of the spirit.
Take the “million” out of “aire”, and we will all be free again to feel. Paintings by the living are and should be as affordable as aperitif and dinner for two, maybe an Uber and foursome if the painting is larger than a picture window.
We can do this. We can decorate and sip our coffee and look up each morning to the genius on the wall and re-recognize the corporitos as the toilet paper providers they have always been. Dealers on the TP market. They can hide away in private planes until tomorrow’s tomorrow as long as we never run out of toilet paper. But they are forbidden to bid on our humanity and set the thinking price of an artist’s gift of expression. Ignore them and they go away. I’ve seen it happen.
And they leave aisles upon aisles of toilet paper stacked to the ceiling six rows back.
Stick to the ca-ca exchange Christies®, while the enlightened denizens of the new age express their taste with an Ulanova painting. We’ll call you when we need you. “Ah, damn! Honey, bring me a roll of toilet paper please!”
Our suppliers are filthy rich, yes, but necessary for our daily hygiene. Give them their $1.29 for another roll. Let them keep their private planes and stupid trips to an ugly Dubai. But never give up your art. It’s what separates you from the serfs of the supply line.
This painting looks best in a blue room on a cool day, hanging above an out of tune piano. If you see how I see that a painting stays with you until you die, then you would purchase Miles for the musician in your life whom you love enough for him or her to always be reminded of you.
Here is a short video of the gallery minutes before opening finished with some jazz by The Frank Gordon Trio. Find the painting on the wall that you like and contact me your interest to learn more about it and see some stills of detail. Domestic shipping is extra, but not too much. Below the video are the two paintings not caught in movie, their titles, size and price.
Thank you once again to everyone who stepped out to celebrate “Lena Ulanova Entrainment”!
[Once again I think I’ll need to disinvite the powers that became, (for no good reason I can fathom), the national arbiters of painting and the other visual arts. I had to disinvite them last year before opening an international Stuckist invitational exhibition at Watkins Glen, N.Y. I’ll replay it here, to remind all and sundry that the artists make art, and that Artnews does not. So, if the gatekeepers hope to crash this party, then a good disguise is tantamount to sharing the hummus. Come to the door as kind and expressive as Lena Ulanova and receive a cordial welcome. Or, continue rudeness by negation or denial, or outright hostility at our celebration, and a Great Lake waits for us to send you off on a rotten log in full force gale.]
110 Greene Street
New York, N.Y. 10012
A gray, cool autumn morning here in Oswego, N.Y.—my favorite kind of day, which I began in the basement painting and listening to Van Morrison records. I waved my wife off to work and looked to the sky getting grayer, and made the psychological small jump to mow the lawn before the weekend rain comes, and the grass gets wet and clingy. These cool, intellectual days I think about everything, and during mundane moments of mowing the lawn or doing the dishes, I let the muse in to determine which direction the juices shall pour, not flow.
Today, ARTnews and Hyperallergic got in there somehow. Also Galerie St. Etienne, and then I just let the three of them sit down for a smoke and a talk in the situation room that is my brain. The small Internet site called The Painter’s Table stopped in later on, while mowing the backyard, and I vowed to skip the morning painting and let loose this meeting of my very limited access to the art world that comes via the business Internet.
This spring the Galerie St. Etienne returned the self-published books I sent to it six months prior, along with a kind letter expressing regret that it no longer sought outside contemporary artists. I found it strange to send back a gift of kindness, as might a team of lawyers scheme to thwart liability, and not accept it like any curious human being with a heart of gold. My God, I thought it was a gallery, not a law firm!
Anyway, it was kind to send reply—the one in a thousand received over my long painting and writing anti-career. It seems that Galerie St. Etienne respects the unknown building block (the artist) who gives credence to the myriad of buildings hanging pictures on sheetrock for profit. There is no bread and butter without cows and grass. Few galleries seem to get this, and those that do just might be the human ones that organizations like ARTnews don’t need to write about in wonder why they are struggling to make ends meet.
Now I have sent presents of my books to Hyperallergic, ARTnews, and I believe even The Painters’ Table because I am a painter, not a businessman. I send them with hope, never greed, and each facility should know that I have done so for many years to many individuals and institutions because I am an expressive artist, not unlike those who begin in a similar vein but end up working for the business of art. I am expressive, yet also hungry—not starving—just seeking enough financial success to keep from falling back to line cooking in my late middle age. I love to paint. And unlike a choreographed Mick Jagger, Jeff Koons, or ARTnews, I seek just enough dough to continue to do so.
Also, I loathe promotion more than I adore self liberation. So it is no thrill for me to seek approval to those who can help deliver a meager cash flow into my home. But I do it anyway. Because I am human and made of carbon and contradiction.
Now this morning Hrag Vartanian, a self ascribed promoter of art and culture at places like L.A. round table discussions, white-washed Chautauqua Institutions, and that beloved next-gentrification called “Brooklyn”, wrote in a fast tweet, like our dear lonesome president, his frustration at being used as other people’s “PR”—I assume he meant “public relations”.
Who wouldn’t be? All people just want to be loved for the right reasons. Nobody likes the feeling of being used. Like me, Hrag is an expressive individual, and I often even agree with his knee-jerk politics. Again, like me, he is probably also a bit delusional. However, I know this truth: He uses Twitter® more like a gossiping school kid than a person actually interested in painting. Privately I bet he’s a great guy, loved by friends and family, as well he should be. However, publicly I see him as an arrogant vanity that holds power and influence over others, and seems to like it, almost sardonically. To contrast, I will only express my overt arrogance in private, to my wife, children, and maybe a few close friends. To me, as a man and artist, that is my social success. Unlike financial success, I do not need to hope for it. It has already arrived! Likewise, as a painter and a man, I don’t need Hrag through Hyperallergic to promote me as a painter. I expect it.
As previously mentioned, I do seek financial dishwasher status in the art world. It is his job as editor and founder of a popular art blog to review me and many others in a very long list, else apologize readily for the insurmountable backlog. Otherwise, he and other institutional aggrandizing promoters like him (ARTnews and The NY Times) are irrelevant. All profit-driven art propagandists are no more than a bullhorn for established galleries like David Zwirner, and also that lying piece of billionaire tax write-off auction brothel, Christies®.
Here is why. No artist is or can be profit-driven and remain an artist. That should be the #1 precept printed poster-sized across the wall in art editorial rooms. Again, if it’s not what you stand by, then, as art promoter, Hyperallergic and ARTnews are irrelevant, just another businessperson’s scam.
That is my private belief now made public. I feel a strong connection to the art movement Stuckism, which keeps me painting when nobody, especially the bought and paid for editors of popularity, cannot recognize a damned kindness from an artist when they see it (a free book promoting other painters). They do notice his query about advertising, however. Why shouldn’t they? These institutions, like individuals, also seek financial success, and work hard to achieve it. When there’s a potential paycheck in the e-mail, then of course, open it up. I too trash the spam. Nobody likes the beggars, whether dressed up corporate crisp, or down, door-to-door like the ragman. I do not argue Hyperallergic nor ARTnews their desire to stay relevant, and likewise, financially afloat in the media sea of art. Their inevitable defeat into the 21st century is due to reliance on income from established wealth when the new age promoters of art (humanity) seek magnanimity in culture, as well as the pretty pictures. ARTnews cannot survive continuing to cherry pick what their readers need to “see” art to be, while relying on established interests to promote the vicious circle of money = relevance = money. A paradigm which is anti-art in a nutshell, and shouldn’t take a nutter like me to show all and sundry. I think the real world of humanity gets it. The Painters’ Table I forgive because it’s too small yet to hate painting enough to profit enormously by it. I think the editors are sincere—visually anyway. They probably don’t “see” like I do how many of the painters that they highlight love money almost enough to eat it. These editors seek pretty pictures with a twist—rarely human paintings by people who wish to liberate us from what ails us.
By the way, unlike Hrag Vartanian, I also do PR for others, and enjoy it very much. I’m doing it now for an incredible gallery show that Hyperallergic has no interest in (until it is celebrity of course, mainstream, established—like gypsum dust in wallboard). I’ve written to Hyperallergic about it without reply, also ARTnews, NY Times, Central NY newspaper arts editors—Cornell University art professionals (the painting professors!). I send postcards. I send exhibition or creative books to others. I ask that this show of 37 painters living in 9 countries be well-attended—to honor each sending his or her work from far away to a little community in the center of the real art world—which is any place where art for art’s sake thrives, and profit for more profit’s forecast dies.
Quintus is that small “struggling” art gallery that ARTnews and Hyperallergic cry crocodile tears over. Like the artist, it too can be the canary in the coal mine to profit-driven culture fabricators. Quintus Gallery is poised to make history next month which the next generation of art propagandists will glowingly report on because some influential gallery in Singapore needs Christies, Inc. to buy this dead painter so and so’s life to make another billionaire lie work for the billionaire. I say to these future struggling institutions of irrelevance, “Go eat cheese!”
Hear ye, hear ye Hyperallergic, ARTnews, and NY Times! I officially disinvite you to Quintus Gallery (Fuel Gallery) in Watkins Glen (Oswego) for opening night on Friday, October 13 (19), from 6 – 9 (5 – 11:59) p.m. You like money, maybe status too, but not art. The Painters’ Table can still come, if it stops looking do damn depressed. Either way, it would do itself a good turn to invite just a wee bit of Stuckism into its sycophantic soul. Heck, we’re all painters, aren’t we? Wake up!
Just this moment the magazine Juxtapoze popped into the smoking room of my muse. It is even more disinvited than the others. And if I catch any of those phony art and artist killers lurking outside the gallery on Friday night the 13th (19th), then I might actually become bouncer and kick those bony phonies into Seneca (Ontario) Lake!
[I think Saint-Exupéry and fourteen-year-old Ron the curator got on very well with the stars in the night sky. The entire art market today is the Businessman from The Little Prince. Yesterday, a friend tweeted in disgust an article about a $750,000 grant to the Guggenheim to catalog art, to be the very same Businessman unable to see the beauty in the night sky—that everything of value must be still and/or dead, and then counted.
Today’s art market exactly! And exemplified by King Christies®, the white-gloved mushrooms buying influence and then big boats with art. Artnet, Artnews—the Businessman’s little businessmen, on and down the line, ad infinitum.
The Little Prince: “I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never looked at a star. He has never loved anyone. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And all day he says over and over…‘I am busy with matters of consequence!’ And that makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man—he is a mushroom!”
Hey art market, you’re all a bunch of mushrooms, mushrooms, mushrooms! And painters like Lena, the stars!]
Christie’s Fall Auction Meets the Wastelander Gauge™
While driving down the highway yesterday en route to visit family, my wife and I engaged in the usual discussion about the “why” of art. I told her that this week I intend to haul the present contents of Christie’s auction house over to the county dump. I have rented a refuse stall next to recycling so the wet smells will be tolerable for my afternoon of auctioneering. The whole lot is ready for quick sale. A few of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s 16-minute paintings, 2 Cindy Sherman photographs of a stranger, and a de-Kooning charcoal of any B.F.A.’s skill and ability, to name a few. I am excited about my chances here in small town upstate New York. Especially if I make bidding begin on Saturday morning, when the trucks line up a quarter-mile to drop off trash proof of their incredible bad taste.
I will start with Cindy’s photograph of the face of a girl who looks frightened. My beautiful assistant, Rose (who by the way, is also an emerging photographer) will hold the picture up while walking the line of Ford F350’s. “Photo of a young girl who looks scared. Can I get a dollar?”
A low diesel growl up and down the line. Country radio stations playing. Then finally a bearded man in a rusty Toyota calls Rose over to his window.
“I’ll give ya a dollar.”
“All right,” she calls, “I have a dollar. Do I hear a dollar fifty?”
“Going once, twice… Sold to the pervert in the red Toyota.”
The Cindy Sherman envelope gets thirty-three cents dropped in to it. The Throops keep the rest for their business savvy and distribution prowess.
Next on the block is Basquiat’s Blue Heads. This is a big one, and while moving it across the road, the painting gets awkwardly wedged in between two trucks. Traffic gets stopped and the horns sound off. It starts to rain. A couple dudes get out of their cabs to help me out. Pull and push, push and pull. Suddenly, Jean-Michel’s masterpiece breaks in half and falls face down in the muddy slop. Still, we manage to get $25 for the frame from some guy building a sub floor in his laundry room.
$8.33 into Jean-Michel’s estate envelope.
De-Kooning’s charcoal gets no buyers, and unfortunately we forgo Jeff Koons’ pink poodle because the dump officer says we’ll have to pay a fee on the weight, and there’s no way we can front the cost on that kind of establishment crap.
After a full day of selling contemporary art at the dump, the staff of Throop Auction House is able to pay for dinner and tip at the Ritz Diner downtown. I got an omelet. Rose ordered the macaroni and cheese. And the bubble building faux-artists of earth got just what they deserve: a meal to fuel the next inspiration.
So this week I will do my darnedest to burst the bubble of the visual art market and the artists who blow it up with hot, hot air, enabling the radical class, earth’s multi-millionbillionaires, to inflate human creativity like tulip bulbs in Amsterdam. Their art collection is worth a used car, and yet they continue to play the game of sell and resell, because we of the creative class, the village idiots and dreamers, keep hoping that our time will come. It won’t. It won’t ever. We have been relegated to the dung heap by the no-class class of wasters. If you wanted to get into their club, and aren’t by now, then you never ever will be invited.
So join me. What have you got to lose? Your fifty dollar prize at the art association? Your pipe dream of being introduced by the community college president? I want David Geffen to wake up tomorrow and be informed that the Cindy Sherman photo he bought tonight for $989,000.00 has been reappraised for a hundred bucks, but only because of its mahogany frame. That’s all it was ever worth anyway. And that phony cheese Sherman knows it too.
So come back each morning this week to read my reviews of this autumn’s select pieces at Christie’s. I will also provide fresh ideas for a better, more accessible art market of the future. But most importantly by the end of the week, every single moron millionaire will have his or her collection reduced to a rational value. I will use my wastelander gauge™ to appraise works of contemporary art. An unnamed tween subsisting on a daily meal of millet and salt, but who otherwise maintains a gentle disposition and hopeful outlook, will mark each piece at her village’s fair market value. That is, the art is priced at whatever the tribal leader would pay for it. My professional guess is that the Cindy Sherman won’t be worth a stick for the cooking pit. And the charcoal piece by a drunken de Kooning looks to any village elder like the bottom of the cooking pit before the morning fire. Not even the most sophisticated leader would waste a grunt nor head nod to acquire that for his wife’s mud room decor.