"Epiphany" Oil on Canvas, 36 x 36, 2003

Summertime is when most of us take vacations, go away, go on a diet, visit friends and family, sweat a lot, wear funny hats and slack off. And that includes me. Though, I really never slack off exactly. Anyway, for a variety of reasons, I need to cut back on computer time… embracing what I call Blogging Lite: less blog, more other stuff.  I’ll be around. But away from the keyboard and the big monitor. You can still find me stalking my friends on Facebook and Twitter via the iPhone, though.

The art won’t stop either. Since the end of May, I’ve been spending solid hours and full days in the studio creating a new series of large mixed media paintings, working like a maniac, being happy, focused and tired; which makes it hard to shift gears and crank up the PC at the end of the day. Plus my neck is still healing and my physical therapist won’t let me. But I’m making plans and exciting business changes which I will tell you about in September. It’s all good. I promise.

And to keep you thinking about art and the creative people who make it happen, please enjoy my own private Summer Reading List. These favorite biographies comprise a large portion of my personal collection. My newest read is Dorothea Lange – A Life Beyond Limits by Linda Gordon.
I’ll let you know how it goes.

Enjoy!

Top 40 Favorite Biographies ( In no particular order)

Chuck Close-Life by Christopher Finch
Matisse (both volumes) by Hillary Spurling
Frida- A Biography of Frida Kahlo by Hayden Herrara
Night Studio- A Memoir of Phillip Guston by Musa Meyer
Picasso (all three volumes) by John Richardson
Diane Arbus, A Biography by Patricia Bosworth
Margaret Bourke White- A Biography by Vicki Goldberg
Chagall- A Biography by Jackie Wullshager
Full Bloom – The Art and Life of Georgia O’Keeffe by Hunter Drohojowska-Philp
deKooning –An American Master by Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swan
Art Lover- A Biography of Peggy Guggenheim by Anton Gill
The Girl with the Gallery- Edith Gregor Halpert and the Making of the Modern Art Market by Lindsay Pollack
Leonardo, the Artist and the Man by Serge Bramly
Rembrandt’s Eyes by Simon Schama
Goya by Robert Hughes
Duchamp by Calvin Tompkins
Diego Rivera by Pete Hamill
Steglitz- A Beginning Light by Katherine Hoffman
Basquait- A Quick Killing in Art by Phoebe Hoban
The Art of Maurice Sendak by Selma G. Larus
MC Escher – His Life and Complete Graphic Work by Abradale Press
Arshile Gorky – His Life and Work by Hayden Herrera
Jackson Pollock- An American Saga by Steven Naifeh and Gregory Whitesmith
Modigliani – A Life by Jeffery Meyer
Walker Evans by James R. Mellow
Schultz and Peanuts – A Biography by David Michaelis
Andrew Wyeth- A Secret Life by Richard Meryman
John Jay Audobon- The Making of An American by Richard Rhodes
Mary Cassatt- A Life by Nancy Mowill Mathews
NC Wyeth – A Biography by David Michaelis
Walt Disney- An American Original by Bob Thomas
M- The Man Who Became Caravaggio by Peter Robb
Gaudi- A Biography by Gijs Van Hensbergen
Dr. Seuss and Mr. Geisel by Judith and Neil Morgan
Edward Hopper- An Intimate Biography by Gail Levin
Mark Rothko by James E. B. Bielik
Eakins Revisted – The Secret Life of An American Artist by Henry Adams
Norman Rockwell – A Life by Laura Claridge
Berthe Morisot The First Lady of Impressionism by Margaret Shennan

©Ann Haaland, 2010

When I first heard about the idea for a televised art competition, I thought, you’ve got to be kidding me. Seriously?? I was incredulous, insulted, repulsed, disgusted. The art world would never condone this. No artist in their right mind would saddle up for such a ride, put their reputation in jeopardy by selling out. Who would even watch such crap? Not me! Art making is a higher calling. It’s spiritual. It’s pure. To participate in such shameless entertainment would be tantamount to the College of Cardinals playing round robin soccer to win the Vatican Cup and crown the next Pope. I mean, it just isn’t done. It’s not happening. No way.

But I had to know. I was curious. I watched the show, I did; in a darkened room, shades drawn, secretly subjugating myself to this, this…art porn. I told no one. I’ve watched every episode to date. Not because any real art stars are competing. No, they’re a kind of a generic sampling, almost personality types, quirky enough to sustain drama and anxiety, and open to having cameras follow them around, even into the bathroom. And I guess they were cast for those reasons. I mean, come on. Let’s be honest, Bravo is television. If these wannabe Warhols are lucky, they might become media darlings for a season or two, grab some free PR, put a little saucy on their resumes. Get a hoot from Oprah. Good for them. If I was 23, I might do the same thing.

But I’m not 23. Things have changed so much since I put together my first portfolio. In the last ten years the world has watched to see if America can dance, can sing, and has talent. It watches who becomes idols, iron chefs, survivors and finalists at Fashion Week. Why shouldn’t the world also see what it takes to make it as a professional artist- the process, the pain, the criticism, the rejection, the joy? For better or worse, this tawdry production opens up a much needed discussion. It may be a little fantasy to ask genuine artists to behave like this. Yet there is a real story going on behind this fantasy. And, dare I say this, I’m glad it’s being told.

Over the course of several TV weeks, the artists are asked to produce exceptional work under unheard of deadlines in environments only MFA grad students could appreciate during finals. These individuals will be watched, worn down, forced into a group exhibit and be criticized by a mere four art world “personalities”. (China WHO??) Each week someone wins. And someone is eliminated and goes home. Each week the pool of competitors shrinks til the last Picasso is left standing. He or she will get a nice big check and a solo show at the Brooklyn Museum. That’s major Whoo Hoo! Better odds than any other competition or juried show, I might add. And they get to meet some important people. So they don’t sell their souls for nothing.

As an artist, the thought process and the criticism presented by this show appeals to me. For example, as a traditional painter, it behooves me to grasp why anyone would want to be a performance artist. Yet watching the show helps me understand how these types of creatives think about their work. I like seeing the interplay of disciplines, too…how silkscreen is used in conjunction with sculpture or how the computer fits into the process of portraiture and pattern. I like seeing how displays are constructed for installation pieces and to what length artists will experiment with materials. It’s fascinating. And it’s inspiring. I have to say.

Regarding criticism, even the worst is relevant. I’m interested in hearing what the gallerists are looking for, what makes a piece interesting or not interesting. I want to be that fly on the wall that can take in the crit without having to actually participate in the thrashing. That kind of information just isn’t so easily available to the regular joe painter getting submission packages unceremoniously returned in the mail, often without explanation. The show’s “judges” talk about what intrigues them. And some of their points are surprising valid. Listening to them helps me understand art from a whole other perspective. And, who knows, it may even inform my own work going forward.

Her painting kicked ass and she knew it!

It’s doubtful that Bravo TV’s “Work of Art” will ever find the next ‘great’ artist. If anything, I hope in the future they manage to find some seriously interesting contestants, not just cartoon characters. I’d like to see individuals with more sincerity and experience perhaps. Ideally, the show, if given time might generate a whole new audience of pedestrian art lovers. Which means more people at the museums, and at gallery openings, more buyers, blog followers, Facebook fans and more people letting their own inner artist come out. It would be really cool to share my world with family and non-art friends, too. Then they would all know what the hell I’m whining about when I whine. Or one can hope.

© Ann Haaland, 2010

For more information about Bravo TV’s “Work of Art- The Next Great Artist” follow Jerry Saltzer’s on line column at New York Magazine.

ketchup!

Well, it’s almost July! Almost Independence Day, that US holiday that heralds summer vacations, parades, hot dogs, illegal fireworks and the vigorous display of Old Glory, ie the American Flag. Did you know those stars on our flag represent the fifty states and that the stripes represent the original 13 colonies? Well, you might. Some of us really should. But did you also know that there’s no legal symbolism represented by the color red in those stripes? Nope. None at all. Somewhere along the line a founding father or his mother just thought it was cool to use red. Or that’s what was on sale or what the French were using. Whatever, it gets your attention. Red does that.

Red fascinates me. But it’s a color I’ve used sparingly for the most part. I own one red hoodie. I have a bright red scarf and a pair of gloves. Oh and I have this terribly out of date, queer Christmas sweater with a red background, a cheesy scene of three quaint embroidered fir trees with sewn-in pearls for snow flakes. I mean, it’s just one of those holiday things I feel obligated to wear. Which is so middle-aged and not something you’re about to see in InStyle. But that’s another blog.

Anyway, for me, red is uppity. It’s always loud. And proud. And sexy. And I kinda like that it’s all that. Unlike the passive watery blues and yellows and browns of nature, red is not a color that blends particularly well with others. You notice red, no matter what time of year it is. Think those red berries on the holly bush. Think that red cardinal sitting on the bird feeder. Think fire hydrant. Okay, well that’s not exactly Nature but it might as well be since they’re everywhere. Anyway, red wants and gets center stage. I’ve used it only a few times, and only once as the primary focus of a painting.

Red, One, Oil on Canvas, 2007

I don’t think artists deliver any one particular message when using the color red. It’s either love or it’s the devil. It’s either purity or it’s passion. It’s power and it’s sensual resignation. Red is all contradiction: you’ve got your danger and sin (think the “Scarlet Letter” or the “red light district”); or blood and the body (think the Red Cross). It’s been used to represent anarchy, bravery (“Red Badge of Courage”, Communism) and celebration, (as in the Chinese New Year). It’s the color of Valentine’s Day and Santa Claus and Dorothy’s lucky slippers. Wearing a power tie to a meeting? It’s red. It’s been the go-to color for Cossacks, the Revolutionary British and burlesque costumes as well as the “it” color in fashionable Pope shoes. It’s the color of clown noses. Red is pretty much all over the place when it comes to making a statement.

And it’s this very contradiction, this ambiguity I’m attracted to. It’s what I want in my work right now. Ambiguity is mysterious and it’s a little uncomfortable, even for me- in the process of making art and in the process of seeing art. It’s an interesting activity or at least I’d like it to be. An ambiguous piece keeps us searching, reaching for answers and understanding. I like the idea of creating work that starts a conversation. Anyway, I’ll be posting new work soon, using red. I hope to get your attention. So stay tuned. In the meantime, have a great holiday! And watch the ketchup. Red stains.

© Ann Haaland, 2010

Are you getting what seems like minute-by-minute posts and emails streaming through the wild west of the Internet these days, by experts and non-experts alike, drumming relentlessly into your e-brain all the ways to get more fans, more friends and more traffic to your website? You know, they advise you on what to include, what not to say, how often to broadcast, how to simultaneously use social media and your blog posts to keep your message front and center at all times? Of course. If not, you’d have to be living in a cave. Perhaps you still have dial up, too.

Okay, so listen to this…yesterday, I had an appointment with a new acupuncturist, you know, trying another way to deal with the before mentioned neck pain that continues to plague me. My appointment was for 1:30. My husband made the call for me but I had forgotten to write down the exact time (blame it on the current meds I’m still taking). So we called ahead to confirm that it was 1:30 and not one o’clock. We left a voicemail message at lunchtime but since no one phoned us back, my husband drove me to New Paltz, a half hour early, just in case. My thinking: better to be incredibly punctual than show up late, right?

Stay with me here. So we walk in the door and there are these two men sitting in the small waiting area, bottled beverages in hand. They had been talking and then stopped as we entered. One looks up from his seat, says, “Yes, can I help you?” I smile, introduce myself, say I have an appt, adding that I wasn’t sure if it was one or one thirty. This same man, who doesn’t get up off his chair the whole time, informs me that he is the said professional whom I seek, and that my appointment isn’t until 1:30. “You’re too early”. Said professional doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say anything else and just stares at us. There is this moment of awkward silence, no sense of welcome, no offer to sit and wait. Instead, we get this feeling of having crashed a party we weren’t invited to. My husband and I look at each other. I say “okay, well we can come back in half an hour”. I apologized and we backed our way out, shutting the door behind us.

No sooner had I stepped onto the parking lot I’d decided that this wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to work with. We called the office again, left another voicemail and cancelled the 1:30 all together. And we wouldn’t be rescheduling. Some time later, the doctor himself called us, leaving his message, not apologizing, mind you, but wondering if we had been put off because we couldn’t get in to see him then and there, when he was obviously eating and visiting with a friend. Instead of realizing that his rudeness might have had something to do with losing a client, he rambled on and on about his right to eat lunch when he wanted to. Talk about clueless. I was flabbergasted.

All the tweets and posts and advertising and recommendations in the world will not replace friendliness and courtesy, let alone good customer service. And this is my point- if you want more business, be prepared to address and meet each and every one of your potential and regular customers. Treat us with respect and listen to what it is we’re saying, whether that be a laundry list of ailments or the specific details of a product or service. Make sure you return phone calls and emails in a timely manner. And if you cannot, apologize. We’re all human, we can’t do it all, I get that. Admit it when you’re unable to meet my needs. Offer alternatives. Do what it takes to keep a good thing going.

Most of us will be looking past the bright signs, bold print ads, radio jingles, posts, tweets, peeps, coupons, whatever. As consumers, we’re easily distracted. We tend to be fickle. We’ve got a lot going on! We’ll forget the way you lured us to your site, your store, your office. What we never forget is that all important first impression. That’s forever.
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For a list of vendors, businesses and other professionals I recommend for their friendliness, integrity, service and exceptional products, please follow this link. And support local when you can!

©Ann Haaland, 2010

whoaaa cool!

I’m not lucky to have been born a substance abuser. Had I been, perhaps the art world would know me better. Perhaps I’d be famous. My artist biography would be a great colorful read, full of drunken brawls, ruined yet famous exhibit openings, sloppy downtown dinners, car wrecks….I’d be a paparazzi darling, my inebriation selling gossipy newspapers, my appearance guaranteed to bring in gallery visitors. Twitter would be fail-whaled when I missed a probation hearing. You would already know about my ankle bracelet.

Yet I am working under the influence right now. I just started a round of prescription painkillers/muscle relaxants to cope with chronic neck pain this week. I’ll be taking them while waiting for tests and some form of treatment. In the meantime I hope for any kind of relief. The doctor said I’d be too loopy to drive. I might be dizzy, I might have hallucinations. I think, whoa. Cool. Though I’d be happy just to sleep again.

But what if I can also use this druggy experience to my advantage? Maybe this is all happening for a reason: “Sore Neck Leads To Dependency and Great Psychotic Episodes in Acrylic”. Maybe this will lead to a whole new series! Frida Kahlo made masterpieces out of pain. Why not be high if the opportunity presents itself and I’m hurting and grounded anyway?

So I popped the first pill. And I ran up to the studio, throwing on my apron and getting everything ready for that creative flash narcotics supposedly can give you. I’m psyched. I’m ready to channel Modigliani or Caravaggio. I have my tie dyed t-shirt on. I wait. I put on some Zeppelin. I wait more. I pop a few Hershey Kisses as a chaser. I try some Skiddles. Nothing. Not even a buzz. The paints look the same. The brushes don’t dance. And I still can’t sit comfortably.

Though a child of the sixties and the seventies, I didn’t even smoke pot. Of course, like most college students, I did the bar scene, drank at parties. But my wildness was, and is, timid by today’s standards. I never flashed anybody or lost my clothes. I never dived naked into somebody’s pool. The only shots I have ever downed willingly and then barely so were shots of NyQuil. (Can you imagine? How pathetic is that??) My latent Jackson Pollock, DeKooning, Basquait and dare I say, Lindsay Lohan have all been let down. Nothing happened in the studio that wasn’t supposed to happen anyway.

So I come downstairs, turn on the computer, deciding, hell, I know it hurts to sit down at the keyboard, but maybe I if I push myself I can at least get this week’s blog done. A little medicine might make me wittier, perhaps that great phrase, that quotable quote will bubble up, finally free from my moral common sense. High as a kite I might write that one blog that goes viral. I might be provocative. I might use swear words.

But now it’s eight o’clock and I’m still trying to decide what to blog about. I could say that the color blue is really blue right now and that the cat looks bigger than I remember. Did I feed her? Wait, there atre two cats….or is that the dog. Hey look I have a dog with little short legs. how cute is that? And I hear byrds and this compoter scrhocne is ackg wurd. Is shumthi is the router? And why do they call it a orrout….

©Anh Alland, 2020

Good Habits Equal Good Art

1.Establish Goals. Make a plan. Have at least ONE creative task set for yourself. I make this separate from housekeeping. It can be sketching, writing in the log, painting in the next layer of acrylic glaze. It can be tacking up all the new drawings onto the wall, giving myself a mini critique, evaluating where it is I’m headed, what I might do next. A goal creates accountability…to myself. It’s my grocery list. Ever go to the store without a list? Or worse, without your wallet?? Bad. Frustrating. Blah.

2.Prepare the Work Area. I try to organize the work space around the art goals for the day. For example, if it’s collage, I get out the gallon of gel medium. I make sure I have enough paper, clean water, fresh brushes, paper towels, scissors. I make sure that there are bags in the garbage cans. If painting, the acrylic colors I need are on the rolling cart. I check to see I have enough gloves. I make sure I’m wearing my apron. I feel like the Top Chef, all the ingredients for the souffle at hand. Well, probably not souffle. Maybe an English Muffin. But I’ve got my butter.

3.Be Safe and Organized. Is there proper ventilation? Is there too much? Are wires off the floor? Are materials safely sealed,stored away from any heat source? Are lamps and air conditioners or any other appliances unplugged when not in use? Is there room to move without hitting a hip into the sharp corner of a table? (God, that hurts like a….well, it hurts.) Have a specific place for everything in the studio. Being organized doesn’t just mean efficiency. It means you know what you have, what you might need. It also means you can use less space when you only have less space. A bigger studio might allow for grandiose disorder. Which is fine if you like chaos and  have a slavish assistant who does everything for you. Of course, if you do, you wouldn’t be reading this blog.  So, okay. Never mind.

4.Wear Good Shoes. Now this isn’t so much about being fashion forward as it is about comfort. It’s logical: if you’re comfortable, you keep going, right? Dress for success and for work, which, in this case, means wearing crappy jeans or shorts, a shirt, smock, and maybe an apron. Maybe even a hat and of course gloves if you tend to be sloppy. I stand a lot in front of the canvas or at my work tables and I can remain standing for over an hour or two without realizing it. Sometimes my feet hurt so bad I could cry. So I wear my Nikes. Or are they New Balance? All I know is they have those squishy gel soles and padded arches. Love that.

5.Focus. This means minimizing distractions. It means letting the machine pick up phone calls. It means having something easy to heat up for lunch, not running out to get the mail as soon as it arrives, staying away from the computer. It means not answering the door and not worrying that there is kitty poop to scoop. There will always be other things to do and other things going on. Sometimes I have to pretend I’m in prison and I can’t leave the studio, that the evil prison guard will whip me if I escape. It’s kind of a weird fantasy I suppose. But it works for me.

6.Put Away The Toys. I’m not good at this. I admit it. I get tired after a long day, I’m in a grumpy mood, the dog is barking, I want to see who’s on Facebook, whatever. So instead of taking twenty minutes to clean, I run out, leaving the studio and the mess behind me. Of course, I come back the next morning, see the unwashed crusty brushes that must now be thrown away, the stinky water, the paper and pencils and tubes of paint scattered all over the place. I lose heart. I don’t want to deal with any of it.The effort required in starting off having to wash, sweep, take out the trash….ugh, for me, kills the creative spark. Momentum is much harder to recapture. It’s better to end a studio session by making the space fresh and tidy for the next time you sit down to work. It’s like flossing every night. You just do it.

7.Believe. Every day. Even if the painting sucks right now or the music isn’t right or the clay went bad or you deleted an entire doc file. Even if it’s another rejection in the mail. Believe anyway and all the time because making art is important. It’s important to the artist and to those who receive it. So, get depressed, get angry. Take a break if you have to. And then start again. Keep making your art by working hard and often. Make it a habit you can never break.

©Ann Haaland, 2010

Nothing like a hammock in June!

1. Winter is Done. You can safely put away the snow blower. At this point in the year, at least in the north east, though I’m not 100% sure about Maine or Vermont, but I’m pretty sure about New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire and New Jersey, and probably Rhode Island: Winter has passed. There is no fear of frost. No frozen pipes. No need to warm up the car. You can put away the sweaters, the overcoats, the wooly scarves. You won’t need the ice scraper. You won’t need the rock salt. You’ll still need shovels and gloves, and sometimes a hat- for gardening. And for the most part, often all the way through September, the thermostat is off. Blankets are optional.

2. Open windows. First thing in the morning, as long as it isn’t 95 degrees and thick with humidity, I throw open every window in the house. I happen to have screens, which means few bugs, only glorious freshness. Of course this makes for increased noise from the machines in the orchard, thundering dump trucks and the whistling eighteen wheelers that careen down the street at all hours of the day. But the open window also brings the perfume of the peony and lavender, the chorus of the bazillion birds in our trees, the occasional screech of an owl, the upwind murmur of the sheep or goats from down the hill and the twinkling of the handful of chimes in the yard. Sure the air conditioners are in, ready to go at the first sign of unwelcome perspiration. But fresh air is best.

3. Celebrations. Holidays are at each end, and in the middle of June. You have Memorial Day to kick off the month, Flag Day in the middle and the Fourth of July not far behind at the end. (Okay, it’s in July but just barely.) And depending on how the weeks fall, you could get three long weekends in a short amount of time- which may or may not mean a mini-vacation, a trip to the mountains, a parade or perhaps your annual, overnight guests. And let’s not forget a lot of beer and hamburgers, badminton and volleyball. Yey to all of that, right? Okay, maybe not the overnight guests.

4. School is out. Most colleges have emptied themselves of the undergraduates and graduates by then and most other schools will have dumped their children upon the parents and grandparents struggling to figure out what to do with them. Camps will swell and activities will pop up and many will discover, perhaps for the first time that there are things to do outside, things besides Wii and text messaging. Not that the text messaging will stop. But perhaps instead of comments about who is sitting in the cafeteria next to the cute sophomore everybody has a crush on, the text message might be instead about the hotty camp counselor everybody has a crush on. Basically, the downtowns, the malls, the parks and the sidewalks will contain more youth during the day than we have seen in months. And I welcome that. But not the skateboards. Not crazy about the skateboards.

5. The beaches are open. Providing of course there isn’t a massive oil spill (eh hmm, BP?) or mung, such as the red algae that every so often hugs Cape Cod, or jelly fish such as the Jersey shore tends to attract. Yeah, okay, there are those summers of bacteria and mysterious garbage that appears in the sand on some mornings. But overall, you can find your way to the pristine bay, the refreshing lake, the icy river or the waves of the ocean to cool you off. There will be paddle boats, kayaks, canoes, big old inner tubes, water skis and boogie boards. Bring towels, a good cooler, a cheap novel and sand toys for the kids. Enough said.

6. White is Legal again: we who love light colored clothing can, for the next three months be fashion forward with white sneakers, white sandals and flip-flops, brand new, rubber smelling Keds and dangerously high heels….all in blinding white. And out come the white hats and baseball caps and white rimmed sunglasses and bikinis. And my favorite, the big white bag that accompanies it all. Like the one I got on a sidewalk in Venice from an unseemly street vendor who took off as soon as the carabinieri showed up. I’m sure it’s fake. But that’s another story. And by the way, that After Memorial Day rule about white? It doesn’t apply to those living in Florida and California. Or nurses or gym teachers. Or in Dubai I think. (Check your Cosmo on that one.)

7. Food is everywhere. Farmer’s Markets and barbeques: corn on the cob, watermelon, heirloom tomatoes, peaches and grapes, avocados and beans. Calories are abundant and people are cooking outdoors. There are steaks and ribs and the before-mentioned burgers. I particularly love veggies cooked over hot coals with just a drizzle of olive oil, salt and pepper- portabella mushrooms, sweet bell peppers, baby carrots, asparagus, zucchini…get them just this side of charred and sugary: OMG. You can make sun tea and have salads three times a day if that’s your thing. And if you happen to have a yard or even a south facing porch, there can be enough basil, parsley and oregano to keep you happy through October. Oh, and did I mention that you can get soft serve ice cream as late as 10 o’clock? Seriously!

8.  Suntans. I know, I know. I’m not supposed to say this. But I love the way all skin-tones look kissed by the sun. Faces are flush from running, biking, swimming, hiking or just making their way from car to inside a store. We look healthier, despite the risks. Our clothes are skimpier, showing more flesh than any other time of the year, which means, like it or not, a sprinkling of UVA and UVB will get you. I like freckles and unabashed ruddy wrinkles and that occasional nose hit by too much titanium white. And who isn’t cheered by the appearance of the farmer’s, golfer’s or weekend warrior’s tan? Sure, they could fake bake, but why bother? Tan lines rock.

9.  June is full of color. And for an artist, I’m inspired in every direction. There is the mellow cerulean blue of the cleaned backyard pool. There is the hot red of checkered tablecloths or geraniums, the purple of delphinium, the yellow of new lilies and stray tennis balls. People wash their cars in June so you get to see the shiny rainbow of metallics on the Thruway instead of the grimy gray of mud and crusted road salt. There are the patterns and stripes of patio umbrellas and lawn furniture pulled out of sheds and barns, not to mention the hot orange or neon of yard tractors that can be spotted with increasing frequency, especially on the weekends, happy dad or teenage son on board- and sometimes Mom if she gets tired of waiting for dad or teenage son. Green grass is nice. But always, always- it’s better mowed.

10.  Long Days. At least here, in the Hudson Valley they are longer now. There will evening concerts and a full nine holes after dinner, no problem. Every weekend there is a festival somewhere, a gathering of art shows and late evening gallery openings. There will be a movie in Rosendale or Woodstock, leisurely strolls over the Walkway, meanderings alongside the boats on the Rondout, friends sharing a beer at the Gunk Haus in Clintondale, fireworks up at Mohonk or on the river, late night shopping in Gardener and outside dining in New Paltz. There will be fireflies and bats if you look up. There will be flashlight tag and pup tents behind the house. There will be marshmallows and fire pits glowing long past dusk. And everywhere there will be an amazing sunset or an amazing thunderstorm.

Yeah, June is pretty great.

©Ann Haaland, 2010

This past Wednesday I took the train into Manhattan and joined my friend Riva for our first Whitney Biennial. Neither of us had ever seen this important and highly touted show which is held every two years in New York City. And as artists, we sort of felt, well, ahem, (dare I say?) a little bit ashamed to not have visited before. I don’t know what Riva’s reasons were for never having attended, but I personally just never had any interest. Sorry.

To be honest, I base a lot of what I decide to do about taking in an exhibit on the reviews. I know, I know, shouldn’t let other people tell me what to do. And it’s not that I do. But I expect these paid critics to scout things out. It’s their job to look and to report back. I trust they’re (I hope!) educated arts professionals in some form or the other and that they have a historical reference point for making the statements they put out there. And I trust them to not make me waste a good day trucking the two hours into the city when I have a lot of other things I want and need to do. So most of the time, the review tells me all I have to know. Sometimes I go. Often eh, I don’t. The Good, the Bad, the Ugly, the oh-hum. Yawn. Don’t bother. Stay home. Train fare saved.

In the case of the Biennial, it was Peter Plagens’ caustic review in the May issue of Art in America that piqued my curiosity. And for two reasons: one, that it’s rare to read a genuine opinion about art at all anymore; most reviews instead bore me, or, worse, make me gag on all the gush-gush artspeak, which is so obviuosly the regurgitation of the emailed press release and little else. Second reason I was intrigued was because Mr. Plagens was just so friggin’ unhappy in his review. And MEAN. I’m thinking, what kind of art makes someone this mean and so dismissive? I needed to know. I needed to see this debacle for myself.

So Riva and I met at Grand Central and took the subway to the Whitney. First of all, what I love about the Whitney is that it’s so open…nobody makes you feel like a criminal the minute you arrive. You don’t have to check your bag or your jacket, though it’s easier to navigate the building unencumbered. And they have the nicest café staff downstairs and the friendliest coat check people anywhere. I swear. Really important. Anyway, you can take the stairs or wait for the “forever elevator”- and you can see the exhibit in any order you choose. Riva and I went to the fourth floor and worked our way down. Sans the available headset and device to tell us what we were looking at, we opted to let the art speak for itself.

Overall, I have to say, the Biennial wasn’t, in Mr. Plagens’ words, “dispiriting” at all. But again, I had no expectations. I’m partial to painting and wall art, however and I loved Pae White’s “Smoke Knows”, Scott Short’s and Tauba Auerbach’s pieces, Dawn Clement’s and Aurel Schmidt’s huge works on paper, Curtin Mann’s large panel of bleached and collaged paper printouts, Jim Lutes’ work, Susan Frecon’s and Leslie Vance’s oil paintings. I just liked them! So maybe that isn’t a erudite commentary. And sorry, call me provincial, but I also enjoyed the light heartedness of Charles Ray’s inked flowers.  Yeah, I like flowers. So sue me. Are any of these over-the-top “innovative”? No. But so what? Frankly, if I wanted innovative, I’d go to a science fair or a Google conference. Sorry, Mr. Plagens.

I’m not one for installations and specifically performance art anyway. Just like I’m not a big fan of motorcycles,  I’m unable to say much. I liked some. I didn’t “get” everything. In my best attempt at summary: there was a lot of opinion, noise, nuts, bolts, gypsum board and video to make me think of a Best Buy-Home Depot hybrid on steroids. Maybe it was too much all at once? It was clever, but, eh? And it’s not that I find all installation disappointing. To prove it, after we left the Whitney, my friend and I walked down to the Park Avenue Amory to see Christian Boltanski’s “No Man’s Land” in the Wade Thompson Drill Hall. Now HERE I was moved. To tears. I loved it.

“Orbs” – Riva Weinstein

To me, what makes a work of art powerful is the viewer’s experience. “No Man’s Land” has to be seen, that’s all I can say. In the case of this show, Art in America offers two small pages in this month’s magazine. But it’s all you need: a thoughtful interview with the artist, letting Mr. Boltanski tell us, in his own words, about his process, and why he’s doing what he’s doing. Personally, having recently lost both my parents, my thoughts and feelings still raw, I had a very powerful emotional and spiritual response to this installation. To what amounts to just piles and piles of clothes, yes! Is this idea necessarily innovative? No. High tech? No. But does it have to be?

Maybe the caustic review had everything to do with expectations. Did the museum promise something it didn’t deliver? I dunno. Was it a rave? Not really. But that’s just my opinion. I don’t necessarily like everything that makes its way into a museum or a gallery. But so what? Should that piss me off? I don’t enjoy every meal I’ve eaten or every book I’ve read either. It’s all variety, spice of life. The idea is to just step forward. Be curious anyway. And any time there’s work to challenge or to evoke a response, I’m interested. Doesn’t mean I have to love it. Doesn’t mean I get out to see every exhibit, however lauded they might be by the critics. This time, yes, it was all interesting and I had a great day in the city. I got to hang out, chat and enjoy lunch with another artist friend. The train ride back wasn’t so bad either. In fact it was a pretty sunset all the way up the Hudson River. I came home inspired and eager to return to the studio. Overall: a good review.

©Ann Haaland, 2010

The Whitney Art Museum, 2010 Biennial, thru May 30th, 2010
The Park Avenue Amory, “No Man’s Land” by Christian Boltanski: thru June 13, 2010
Riva Weinstein, Modern Sacred

I could tell you I won the lottery and I got so insane, so busy, trying to decide who to share the winnings with, getting myself all frustrated with family and friends, in that I have no idea who would use a gift of millions wisely, finding it impossible to track down my lawyer and accountant as I scanned the luxury home listings in the Wall Street Journal, and reading the latest reviews in the automobile section of the paper, not being able to make up my mind between buying a Mercedes E 350 convertible or a practical Land Rover LR4. But I’d be lying. That never happened.

I could tell you that I was doing my usual Twitter / Facebook “thing” only to find myself “direct messaged” by Ashton Kutcher himself! (He read the Nikon blog!) Then this mega-rich oligarch from one of those newly minted countries, goes through Sotheby’s to contact me, is interested in collecting MY work, and wants to know how far up the Hudson he would have to sail his yacht to have the work loaded on the river instead of shipped via jet. I could tell you that my phone was ringing off the hook, I couldn’t call anybody back, that I still can’t get through the thousands of email requests for interviews and studio visits. But I’d be lying again. None of this happened either. Though, it would have been really cool if any of this had.

Instead, it rained a bit this week which gave me three full, quiet and completely uninterrupted days in the studio. The new painting I’ve been working on isn’t finished, yet, though I’m close. It needs some tweaking, maybe another layer of gel medium, perhaps more texture. Haven’t decided if I want to incorporate additional collage elements or not. I could tell you that it’s been physically and emotionally draining. And I can tell you it’s also been fun and challenging and wonderful to be painting on an over-sized canvas again. I was just so focused on my studio work that little else got done. The phone hardly rang and I was off the computer more than I was on it. I could tell you I did a bunch of new sketches instead and that I’m eager to paint tomorrow. This, now, would all be true.

I could tell you how the weather got nice by Friday and that I spent a Zen-like Saturday and Sunday in the yard alongside my husband: weeding, filling up the wheelbarrow, planting new bushes, starting seeds and spreading mulch. I took my time to finish my cup of coffee every morning. I read. I organized my closet. I listened to the birds and watched the workers in the orchard across the street. I got to bed early and slept better than I have in weeks. Sometimes it’s the very ordinary stuff that happens. It was an ordinary, blissfully uneventful week. And this, happily, is true.

© Ann Haaland, 2010

Ugly bug photo by Thomas Shahan.

I don’t like bugs. Seriously, none of them. Even the ones that are “good” and contribute to keeping our ecosystem balanced. Now,I don’t go out of my way to kill outside dwellers. (That’s my husband’s job. Just ask him about the black beetles in the pool.) Insects, as far as I’m concerned, can have the flowers and shrubs and whatever trees they fancy. I’ve done the ‘green thing’-sacrificing the lawn to allow dandelions to prosper, just so the honeybees have a fighting chance. But if they come in the house, they die.

I go craziest when something is flying in my studio, especially yellow jackets. OMG, I totally freak out. On my rolling cart sits a can of super industrial-sized bug killer which I grab as soon as I even hear a buzz, throwing down my brushes mid-stroke, and spraying wildly in the direction of the intruder, killing it and messing up the windows, walls and sometimes a sketch or two in the process. I’m a poor shot. The results are often hilariously messy. But the yellow jacket is dead.

Maybe my bug anxiety goes as far back as childhood. There was an oft told tale of the baby-me sitting up on a blanket outside, mouth wide open, perhaps singing, perhaps not, when in flew a giant wooly bumble bee. Baby-me, not knowing any better, shuts down my toothless maw, investigating the funny fluttering inside. One of my parents were quick on the draw and forced open my rose bud lips and got the bee out before any stinging took place. There must have been a flurry of worry, and activity and words of warning. Perhaps screaming and crying. I don’t remember. But the fear was set.

Now, you can say, well, Ann, you’re an adult and you should know better. “If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.” That’s crap. The teenage-me was minding my own business one June afternoon, not outside, but inside, working in the classroom on a high school chemistry assignment when a dead wasp, (yes, dead), on a breeze through the open window landed silently next to my arm. My arm moved into position. I was stung, and, within minutes, my elbow and everything attached to it, was swollen pink and hot. The school nurse concluded I wasn’t allergic. Just unlucky.

Seriously, it’s not like I’m asking for the attention. I don’t wear perfume once the lawn turns green. I slather myself in good old fashioned DDT, wear a hat and stick to colors that don’t match anything in the garden. I do everything but don a beekeepers suit, not that I haven’t considered it. Anybody who has had me over for lunch, dined alfresco on a balmy summer eve, or shared a glass of bubbly with me poolside knows that with the first sighting of a anything flying, that isn’t a bird, I make, ahem, a “bee-line” inside. I just won’t chance it.

It’s not just the yellow jacket I take issue with. There’s the blood thirsty mosquito, the annoying black fly, the no-see-ums and gnats. There’s the spider mites and regular crawlies that seem to find their way into my gardening gloves. Let’s not forget the orchard staple: the hovering, always-getting-into-your-eyes fruit fly. Try feeling all ‘Mother Nature’ when a couple of them are floating in your coffee at 7 am. The thing is, I know I’m going to take on the world of insects when I’m outside. It’s their domain. I didn’t even freak out over gypsy moths. I respect that it’s me who is in their way. What I’m not cool with is, they coming into my domain. I just do not want bugs in the house.

So there you have it. I’m not 100% green. I admit it. I welcome spring and the warm weather, the flowers, the smell of fresh cut grass. I like that I have live herbs and cherry tomatoes growing just outside the kitchen porch. I prefer organic whenever possible. I don’t complain about pollen and hay fever or even leaves in the fall. Nature, you can have your way. Just keep the bees out of my hair, out of my car, away from my potato salad and off my beach towel. And definitely, definitely, out of my studio.

© Ann Haaland, 2010