A Study in Gratitude 2011

So it has become my annual tradition to take a little time before Thanksgiving to reflect on all the great things in my life.  I have noted in previous posts that my life, as do all, has challenges.  The economy, small business, life, all pose issues that are not always easy.  This year in particular was challenging so I will begin with this.

I am grateful to have survived 2011 without a straight jacket.  It was a very busy year for PS:Gallery.  In February we opened with a bang in our new location at 1025 E. Walnut.  With all my attempts at planning a smooth move, it ended up being very chaotic.  However, with the help of many many many friends, we pulled it off.  I am awed and moved by the support of the community.  One cool Sunday in February, over 50 people showed up and helped us move, unpack, clean, set-up.  It was an amazing day I will never forget.  February 22nd kick started a week of opening events that were magical.  You sent flowers, notes and brought wine.  Most of all you were present.  You showed up to tell us the gallery was important to you.  It was a true confirmation that we had made the right move.

I am grateful to be in the North Village Arts District.  Although I loved our old location, I must say I love our new location more.  Let me start with the physical location.  I love my windows.  I love the light that streams in each morning.  I love the beautiful window in my office that makes me feel like I am connected with the outside even if I am stuck at my desk for a better part of the day.  I love the wonky wood floors.  They talk about the history and place that this building has in Columbia.  I love the giant wood beams.  To me they represent what the arts mean to the community.  They look good but really hold the whole thing up.  Without them the whole roof might come down.  I love the “Hallery”.  When the gallery moved it did not have any additional space in which to host our small community based shows such as the Care Gallery or our more thematic shows such as the Mini show.  Mid Summer PS opened the “Hallery”.  The “Hallery” is the lovely central corridor that connects PS to all it’s Berry Building neighbors.  This has become a delightful space that changes every 4-6 weeks.  I am grateful to be able to continue to have a space to do more for our community.

I love my neighbors.  For almost 5 years, PS was an art island.  I had clothing to the right of me and cookies to the left.  Although there is nothing wrong with either one of those things, they really weren’t invested in who I was, what I did, or if I was successful.  I am now surrounded by people who care.  Most who reside or work in the North Village Arts District have a similar goal, to promote the arts in Columbia, and to promote the North Village Arts District as one of the places to see/support the arts in Columbia.  The North Village Arts District began a farmers and artisan market this summer which was amazing and I can’t wait to see what happens with that next summer.  There is an energy and cohesion amongst the businesses that is refreshing.

I love my family.  I am eternally grateful for my husband Chris Stevens.  He keeps me sane (to some extent).  He supports me.  He loves me probably more than anyone else.  I am proud of him for taking a leap in his life and following his passion.  I am grateful to be doing what I love and always hope that more people make that opportunity for themselves.  I am grateful that Charlie has gotten old enough to really enjoy hanging out at the gallery (most of the time).  She accompanied me on a buying trip this summer and made a purchase of her very own.  She bonded with artist Amy Peters who makes very cute charm necklaces.  You can purchase one necklace with one charm for $7.50.  Once she has paid back her initial investment Charlie gets to keep a percentage of the profits.  So for Christmas add an Amy Peters necklace to your stocking stuffer list.

I am grateful for the fabulous artists who have become a part of my life.  My world is rich and colorful because of you.  This year, more than most, I realized how my personal relationships with my artists friends really enhances my life.  I am grateful for the amazing clients that I have been privileged to help.  Your faith in my abilities and trust in my judgement is gratifying.  I love nothing more that helping find the perfect piece for you.  I am grateful for all the purchases, big and small.  I am grateful for all the times you bragged that your fabulous new earrings were from PS:Gallery.  I am grateful for all the times you invited friends over for dinner and made a point of showing them your art.  I am grateful for your continued support.

As we gear up for the holidays, I remind you to keep supporting your local businesses.  Buy gifts/jewelry/food/cards locally.  See if you can finish up all your shopping without going on line.  I personally will gift wrap and ship anything you buy at the gallery.  Hows that for service?

Have a safe and Happy Thanksgiving.

Gratefully,

Jennifer Perlow

Art is Power (to the People)

This is an open letter to the art-loving residents of Columbia, MO. 

Many of you know Kate Gunn, the director of the Artrageous program.  On the program’s blog, she makes a compelling case for the importance of art to a community’s economy.  With formidable citations, she quantifies some of ways in which art spreads prosperity, and why it is therefore a worthy investment even–or especially– in challenging economic times. 

[Check it out here.]

Of course, one would not want to reduce art’s value to its potential to generate money.  Its benefit to the human spirit and the fabric of a culture is ultimately priceless, but this truth sounds like ungrounded idealism during budget talks.  In the context of politics, it is important to note that, contrary to popular perception, art is not a generator of wealth only for an elite group.  A community’s cultural life—its art, music, plays, academic ideas, and the people who make these things—constitutes the community’s voice in wider society.  And this bears directly on the community’s economic strength and autonomy.

To put it on an individual and practical level:  People attending cultural events put money into the local economy, not only by buying tickets and art, but by spending their leisure time and money within the community.  Since Columbia’s locally owned businesses–including art venues, restaurants, and retail stores–are concentrated in the District, this is especially true here.  Visiting a gallery and then going out for dinner is not only a pleasant way to spend the evening, it supports people on all levels of the local economy, from table bussers, to artists, to restaurant and gallery owners.  This creates good jobs, and keeps wealth in the community; it stimulates the economy and helps it rebound in a healthy way.

While it should be apparent that art does not only benefit the set of people who bid on pieces in high-stakes auctions, it remains politically popular to relegate art to status of being a luxury.  True, art cannot be ladled into bowls and fed to hungry people.  But any forward-looking recovery plan must both reduce suffering and bolster the industries that will generate a healthy economy for the future.  Certainly, art is one of those industries. 

Arts advocates had to fight to keep the arts from being excluded from receiving stimulus funding.  In her article, Gunn cites an amendment proposed by Senator Tom Coburn (R-OK), which would have prevented arts groups from receiving economic recovery funds.  The amendment would have blocked stimulus funds from being applied to “any casino or other gambling establishment, aquarium, zoo, golf course, swimming pool, stadium, community park, museum, theatre, art center, and highway beautification project.”   Initially, the proposal passed by a wide margin—76 to 24—but, in the end, the National Endowment for the Arts won modest funding.  This reflects an ongoing battle.

In her conclusion, Gunn states:

The Art Industry comprises not only of museums, galleries and theatres, but also artists, performers, musicians, and dancers.  The Arts Industry is unique in its ability to impact a wide range of industries, entire societies, and also support schools and governments.  By generating billions of dollars in annual revenue, the Arts are able to provide an economic catalyst on the local, state, and national levels.  Additionally, these economic impacts are felt by restaurants, hotels and retailers who benefit from traffic generated by arts programming.  As studies indicate, areas with prospering art institutions aid an area in becoming, or maintain, an appealing place to live, visit, and conduct business.

Recent economic hardships have impaired the arts industry, slashing funding and forcing some institutions and programming to close entirely.  Declining endowments, the banking crisis, cuts in state and federal funding, and a lowered consumer demand have all impacted the arts leaving many institutions unable to pay staff, continue programming or performances, or even keep their doors open.

It is my own conclusion that art can save us, but first we have to save art.  For it to receive the support it needs, we must defend its value—personally, in the art we generate, in the words we use, and in how we spend our time and money, and also politically.  This is not an abstract idea.  At stake is quality of your own community and your own life.

So go make something, and share it.  Or see what others are making–come to the gallery.  The next Artrageous Weekend is October 7th and 8th–coinciding with the opening of the autumn exhibit at PS:, on Saturday the 8th, 6-9 pm. 

As always, thank you for supporting the arts!

-Shea

Radical Monks and Gratitude, a Nomad’s Perspective

William Claassen will read from his book, Alone in Community: Journeys into Monastic Life Around the World, and discuss his associated photography exhibition “Pilgrimage: India, Thailand, and Turkey,” at PS:Gallery this Sunday, September 25, from 2:00-3:30, as a special Feed your Soul Sunday event. 

 

William Claassen’s photos of holy men from around the world have graced the PS: hallery for some weeks now.  I have seen people wander out of the space after a long while, mystified expressions on their faces.  I understand.  The images portray lifestyles that are utterly foreign and yet attractive to even non-religious Americans.

Claassen captured the images while researching Alone in Community, which tells the story of his global pilgrimage to monasteries of varied traditions, from Buddhist to Sufi to Christian.  But I was curious about the story behind his extraordinary experience.  Who does that? I wondered.  Claassen graciously agreed to help me answer that question.  At Uprise Bakery, he filled in some of his backstory for me.

He was a young activist working on civil rights and tenants’ rights issues with a Vista program in Louisville, Kentucky when he first became interested in monastic life.  Louisville is near the Abbey of Gethsamane, the Trappist (Catholic) monastery where the famed theologian Thomas Merton was once abbot.  Claassen was not initially attracted by the spiritual aspect of the place, but by how the brothers survived communally on their cottage industries.  In 1973, he made his first monastic retreat over the winter holidays, in order to learn first-hand about the lifestyle and economics of the monastery.  While he was there, he found himself attracted to the order’s purposeful silence.  This first experience was so meaningful that he made monastic retreats regularly thereafter.

It was the beginning of his complex love affair with monastic silence—the freedom from judgment, and the opportunity to reflect.  However, for a man who loves silence, he had no shortage of profound words when he told his story.  Monastic retreats have served as contemplative punctuation in his life of great activity.  He was candid in relating his varied experiences.

After his years with Vista, he finished his undergraduate degree in political science at Rutgers.  There followed a few ventures into graduate work, interspersed with international adventures.  He worked on a Kibbutz in Israel, near the Lebanese border, and then worked with Amnesty International in New York City, before trying his hand at acting.  After five years of that, he switched gears and moved to Oregon to plant trees.  For a while, he went to Kenya with the Peace Corps, but he returned to Oregon to work for several years at the public defender’s office, as he considered the possibility of law school.  (Though he ultimately decided it was not for him.)  In Oregon, he got involved with solidarity work with Latin America, relating to the underground railroad for political refugees there.  So, after spending a yearlong interlude living in community with Quakers in Pennsylvania, he went to Nicaragua with Witness for Peace.  He followed up his on-location activism in Latin America with activism in Washington DC, focusing on rights for immigrants.  In his early forties, he returned to graduate school for journalism at the University of Missouri, focusing on international news.  It was there that he did his first writing about monastic life, compiling notes about Assumption Abbey in the foothills of Missouri, which would become the basis for,  Another World: A Retreat in the Ozarks, his follow-up to Alone in Community.

It’s okay if you have trouble following all of that.  He said he needs an outline himself sometimes, and that he was still leaving out some important parts of the story.  Unsurprisingly, he felt he had enough fodder to make his third book a memoir.  I will let him tell the story in his own words from here.

Listen in.

 

Claassen: I just finished my third book, called Journeyman: A Worldwide Odyssey.  It’s a memoir and adventure book.  It covers three decades, starting on the Kibbutz in 1974, and it concludes with me participating in an all-night Native American peyote ceremony on a reservation on the West Coast, in 2006.  There are twelve chapters in the book, and twelve locations—journeys of different kinds: my hitch-hiking trek from New York to Alaska, my journey into character as an actor, my journey into revolution in Nicaragua, my experience with the Mayan cosmos in Guatemala…  The first six chapters deal with the plane we live on; the last six chapters really deal with the spiritual plane.  It’s divided in two.  It was a chance for me to tell new stories, and to share the experiences I have had, on a more personal level than in my other books.

Interviewer (that’s me): Your story is one of perpetual reinvention. 

C: Perpetual discovery.  My politics haven’t changed.  In fact, the older I get, the further left my politics go. I feel almost compelled to say that, because I so often hear the other way.

I: People who tell young liberals, “You think that now, but…”

 C: “But just wait till you get older, and know better!”  Ha!  That hasn’t been the case for me.  I have been blessed to do what I have done, and I never became jaded.  I was able to do it because thousands of people have helped me along the way.  The more I see, the broader the picture seems to me.  Things become less and less black and white.

I: What enabled you to navigate all of the change and perpetual transition that your experience required?

C: Probably dropping out of school early on and getting a broader perspective with Vista, and learning to live on a very tight budget, was an advantage to the kind of life I have had.  I learned to live collectively, and I learned about labor politics, and I got to know people who considered themselves revolutionaries, and met people who spent time in prison for it because of the House of Un-American Activities Committee in the McCarthy Era.  It opened my eyes, and made me braver.  I had grown up in a very Republican, conservative family—but they were also very compassionate and open to dialogue.  Then I moved into this Vista situation, where my assumptions were turned upside down.  That was a good experience.  It gave me a support group, and basic income during that awakening.  I had two and a half years to maneuver my way through my changing politics…

Nonetheless there have been difficult periods.  It was very dark for a while.  I wasn’t sure what was next.  I have been good at navigating cultures, and novel situations, and dealing with change—but there have been times that I felt stuck, too.

I: Sometimes the path is clearer retrospectively than it is looking forward?

C: For sure.  When I finished the traveling part of the Alone in Community project, and came back to the US to write, there were six months of darkness.  I was overwhelmed by all this material, and by so many photographs.  How was I going to put this together in a way other people would understand?

I: You hadn’t gotten the book deal before you went, so through this project you were acting on faith.

C: Completely.  And I did that with my second and third books, too.  I still haven’t  found the publisher for the third.

I: So you were probably working other jobs, too, trying to piece all of this together.

C: Sure.  I was on the West Coast before I came back to Missouri, and I was teaching part time and writing.

Also, during that time, I spent a long while trekking around Vietnam and Laos and Cambodia.  This experience speaks to the darkness:  I was in Vietnam, in a small village, Hoi An.  I had a hop-on, hop-off bus ticket heading across the country.  I got to the village late at night, and was able to secure a room in a hostel.  I woke up the next morning, and I was frozen.  For some reason, I don’t know what had happened, but I thought I can’t do this anymore.  I can’t get up and struggle with the language, and go out on the street…  I was just blocked.  And I had never, ever experienced that on the road.  I can’t tell you why it happened when it did.  But I was stuck in my bed.  And I just took a couple of hours, and I talked myself out of it.  The first step was to get out on the street.  The next step was to get a cup of coffee.  By the end of the day, I was fine.

I: It struck me as I was reading Alone in Community that even though you were participating briefly in the same lifestyles as the monks in these places, the fact that you are traveling is giving you the opposite experience from what the monks experience, being bounded to place.

C: That’s right, stability is such an important part of most monastic traditions.  Not true with Hindus, because they are always on pilgrimage.  But it’s true of Buddhists and Christians, Sufis, and Jain monks to an extent.

 I: Did you find as you were traveling that the monastic framework gave you some stability, and enabled you to understand what was important to a culture more clearly? 

C:  Silence was part of life in these places, so they were ideal for sitting and observing, to write, and have intimate conversations—as opposed to some of my other experiences, being in a war situation where everything is chaotic.  These monastic settings were ideal places to collect my thoughts, and to see how the communities interact within their larger communities.

I: From the outside, it is easy to focus on what one gives up to be a monk, and to wonder why someone would do it. I think the answer to that question may be inherently difficult to articulate—writing about it from the outside, or even talking about one’s own experience.  Could that insufficiency of words be a reason for the silence? 

C:  What you say makes me think that I didn’t address the reasons for monastic life in the first book.  I think I did in my second book on this subject.  There are significant advantages to having community, knowing they are going to be there for you.

I:  Do you think it is more stabile than having a family in the conventional sense?

C:  If your order entails stability, you know this place is going to be here, always.  Those basics—a roof, and food, and a daily schedule—are given.  There are other things to deal with on top of that, but you have a foundation.

I:  I think in the US, especially among young people, stability may be a lost value.  It jumped out at me that in several of the orders stability was a vow.  I am thinking that many of my peers’ response to that would be that, if you were really dynamically engaged with your life, you wouldn’t need to be focused on stability.  Even though they would agree that monastic life is incredibly difficult, they would see it also as a cop out. 

C:  In this country, especially, I hear that a lot—that the lifestyle is escaping from the world.  But in fact, all monastic communities relate to surrounding communities to survive.  There is lots of give and take, even more so now that so many communities depend on income from people making retreat—outsiders coming in, and people writing about them, like me…  I have never seen their lives as an escape, just as a choice.

I:  Do you think it takes a special personality to successfully be a monk?

C:  Oh, clearly.  I think there are a lot of reasons for men or women to enter that life.  I think it takes a lot of strength and capacity for self-searching, and a desire to be in community, but also to be able to be able to be alone in community.  And that varies with the order.  There is more balance of communication and silence now among the Trappists, for example, than there used to be.  You know before the late ‘60’s they didn’t speak.  They only used sign language. But regardless of tradition there is a lot of time to deal with self.  And that is really hard.  We see that, as things get noisier, and people are plugged in all of the time.  I see constant attunement to “news” as an escape rather than an attempt to understand.

I:  In the introduction to the book, you said that you briefly flirted with the idea of a monastic life for yourself.  It’s probably a complicated and personal question, but why did you decide against it?

C:   There are so many reasons!  It is complicated and personal.  But I heard somebody say, “As long as I keep moving, I know who I am,” and that has been part of my life.

I:  I wondered about that—if the very thing that compelled you to see all of these monasteries would prevent you from committing to one. 

C:  I am very attracted to community, and I have lived in community before—though not as a monk.  But for various reasons I haven’t been able to stay in that situation for an extended period.  I have a pretty broad spiritual perspective.  So dogmatic theology is a real block for me.  Whether it’s Buddhist, Christian, Hindu…  The more I saw, the broader my perspective became.  That is important to me.  I am most grateful to be able to enter these communities, and to make retreat, and to be silent.

But I like that these communities are radical, in a way.  I see them as democratic, socialist communities–although the abbot has power.  But they challenge the economics of the community around them.  They are actually sharing their goods, and they all receive what they need and give what they can.  So they manage to be radical communities within the umbrella of a dogmatic theology.  It’s an interesting dynamic.

I:  I can’t even think of another community of that type that has been successful in the long term. 

C:  For centuries!  The Catholic Church touts monastic life as a higher calling.  It is interesting that you have a church that is in general so conservative—more so now than ever before, in my opinion—that lives side by side with these communities that indirectly, by their existence, challenge conventional values.  That is true in how they live, day to day, and it’s true in the fact that they usually embrace people of any tradition, or of no tradition, to share their lives for a time.  Hospitality is so important to them.  I am grateful for that.

-Shea

Offending Midwesterners: Contemplating the value of kindness in regional art

My mother’s parents grew up in Anamosa, Iowa, the same small town where Grant Wood was born.  He is the area’s claim to fame.  In my grandmother’s telling, he was considered “too modern” in his hometown during his lifetime—those “cotton ball” trees, and the implicit critique of the stiff couple in “American Gothic.”  But, if you go there now, you’ll see his name on billboards.

In my family, tradition holds that the house in the background of “American Gothic” was a farmhouse belonging to a relative of mine.  It doesn’t really matter if that’s true.   Probably, many of my grandparents’ peers identify with the painting.  There is satire in it, but also something like Norman Rockwell’s nostalgia.  If the piece is a jibe at its subjects, it is an affectionate one.

Wood’s iconic painting has been the first image in my mind associated with Midwestern Regional art.  Suffice it to say that I was unfamiliar with the work of contemporary print-maker Tom Huck.

Yesterday, I stopped in Sedalia, Missouri, at the State Fair Community College campus, where I had been advised there is an excellent museum of contemporary art.  The collection at the Daum Museum is, indeed, worth stopping for; the permanent collection includes striking glasswork by Dale Chihuly, an entrancing silkscreen portrait by Chuck Close, and a wonderfully bizarre ceramic sculpture by Michael Lucero.  The current temporary exhibition is the work of Tom Huck.  A small sign warns that “discretion is advised.”

The black and white woodcuts are of impressive scale and uniformly grotesque subject matter: misshapen characters engaged in complex scenes of violence, gluttony, and orgies.  Inspired by the local lore of his native Potosi, Missouri, his work is a brutal critique of life out of the mainstream and under the skin of rural Missouri.  I suspect the artist would agree that he pushes beyond the boundaries of good taste.  I also suspect he doesn’t care.

This is emphatically not the gentle satire of Grant Wood.  The residents of Potosi will never erect commemorative plaques for Huck.  (He lives and works in the relatively metropolitan haven of St. Louis.)

But his work does command fascination.  The intricacy is boggling, and if one ignores the repellant nature of the subjects, the compositions on whole are beautiful.  In the company of the sanctified likes of Warhol at the Daum, it begs the question: Are offensiveness and greatness in art related?

Is the distance between Wood and Huck an indication that, in the 79 years between “American Gothic” and “The Transformation of Brandy Baghead,” we have fallen from subtlety into uncouthness?    Should art strive for elevation or is there merit in unflinching critique?  Finally, is kindness in art a strength or a weakness?

In my short time at PS:, the only “regional art” we’ve shown has been landscapes: the oil painted streetscapes of Steven Rust, and  Notley Hawkins’ photo scenes of glistening dilapidation.  And perhaps there is a kindred strain between Grant Wood and Joel Sager’s affectionately melancholy domestic subjects.  But imagine seeing Tom Huck’s monstrous masterpieces here.  What would you think?

-Shea

Light at the end of the tunnel

Next week the Summer 2011 exhibit opens at PS:Gallery.  This will be our third exhibit in our great new gallery space.  If you have not been by please make plans to do so soon.  The next reception is July 16th and is not to be missed.

In addition to opening the new gallery space in February, I have also spent the last nine months working with Rene Heider of Deck the Walls as the art consultant for the new Boone Hospital patient tower.  It was an amazing, exhilarating, exhausting, and educational expereience.  Here is an article from Aarik Danielsen from the Tribune that sheds a little more light (and some images) on the project. http://www.columbiatribune.com/news/2011/jun/26/artful-avenues-line-new-boone-hospital-tower/?arts

It has been a busy and very fullfilling year.  I turn 40 next month.  I am going to a beach.  I am going to relax and enjoy some downtime and wonder what the next year holds in store.

Jennifer

n+1: Guidelines for Openings

My friend Elaine tagged me on facebook in the following post.  I love our openings.  I love talking with people.  I enjoy the energy.  I don’t take myself as seriously as this post implies, but it was a really fun read.  Many of the items are spot on.  Our next opening is February 26th.  This will be one of the biggest events in a while as it is our GRAND OPENING of the new PS:Gallery space at 1025 E. Walnut in Columbia Missouri.  Hope to see you there, maybe if I catch your eye I will send you an air kiss.

Jennifer

 

 

n+1: Guidelines for Openings.

 

To celebrate the third printing of I Like Your Work: Art and Etiquette, we’re featuring this excerpt from the book, which previously appeared at Paper Monument.

1. You must attend openings. When you’re Bruce Nauman, you can be a hermit in New Mexico. Until then however, you have to attend openings. Why? If you’re young, it’s important to find out how things work, to meet your colleagues, to find out what’s out there in the world, and ultimately, perhaps, to learn how to behave at openings. If you’re mid-career, you must go out to support the colleagues you met at the earlier stage of your respective careers. If you’re older, it’s important to support colleagues, still, but now also students, and / or other members of the younger generation who will see you as a mentor. Other slightly noble reasons: if you’re obsessed with art and you have to see things as soon as you’re able, and if you really, honestly, love art—talking about it, interacting with it, talking to people responsible for making, distributing, promoting, and critiquing it. If you love it, then it’s not work. Artists, critics, and curators stay vital when they’re interacting with their peers. If you’re young and you hate openings, there’s a noble history of outsider artists living in insane asylums and working as janitors who are discovered long after they’ve died. If you’re old and you hate openings, it’s likely your best years are behind you, and you think all art but the stuff you and your peers made is shit. I hope your few years of past relevance allow you to retire to your television.

2. You must greet and congratulate the dealer and the artist(s) at the opening. All other greetings are situational: a friendly nod if you catch somebody’s eyes is completely acceptable, as are a passing pat, an air kiss, or any preferred method of casual greeting in a crowded opening where you may know half the crowd.

3. The dealer is required to provide alcohol and non-alcohol to all the guests. This can be as simple as a tub of beer and bottled water. It can be fancy wines and freshly squeezed juices, cheese platters, and a bow-tied bartender. There ought to be alcohol for at least the first two hours of a three-hour opening. The last hour is usually best, but not if there’s no alcohol.

4. If the dealer and/or artist(s) ask you how you like the show during the opening, try to find something polite to say. If they insist on a real opinion, they’ve got whatever you have to say coming.

5. Be briefed on at least three recent things that you can be congratulatory about: recent exhibitions seen and enjoyed, exhibitions you would like to see and enjoy but have not been able to make yet for whatever reason, recent successes by colleagues.

6. If you’re an artist, critic, or curator, someone will inevitably ask you what you’re working on. It’s good to have either two projects that can be mentioned briefly, or one project that can be mentioned in more depth—though still kept within the bounds of appropriate party chatter. In different cities, artists, critics, and curators take different tacks on describing their workload. In Los Angeles, artists must always look like they are rested and fresh. In New York, the more haggard and hardworking you look the better. It’s always appropriate to be on your way to or to have just returned from international travel, e.g., “I just got back from being in this biennial in Prague, but I’ve only a couple of weeks to get on my feet before I have to have some meetings in London.”

7. Usually the rapid coming and going of people at an opening allows for quick conversational turnover, but if you get stuck in a bad conversation with someone and you’re outside, say, “I’m just going to pop in and look at the show.” If you’re inside, say, “I’m just going to pop out for some air/a cigarette.” If they’re still following you, go to the bathroom.

8. If you don’t know anyone at an opening, (unlikely after a few years going to openings but nevertheless), then it’s relatively easy to engage with people looking at the work or at the beer bucket. The more people you can attend the opening with, the easier it may be to weave yourself into the social web.

9. Try not to get too drunk on the cheap white wine/cheap beer at the opening: afterwards, at the bar or at dinner, it’s more acceptable. But you still have to be able to walk out of the bar at the end of the evening. Unless, of course, you don’t want to, in which case you can likely get away with being a drunk for many years as long as you don’t punch people too often.

10. The dinner after the opening can only be attended if you’re invited formally, beforehand, or by the dealer or artist during the opening—except if it’s a very wealthy gallery having a very large dinner where no one is sure who’s invited and who isn’t, and you know a few people there. Somebody always doesn’t show, and either way you’re welcome to stay at the bar or smoke outside while things mix up. N.B.: this only works at certain restaurants. In Los Angeles, the best place to crash is Dominic’s.

11. Whoever you sit next to at the dinner determines your rank in the pecking order, according to the gallery. If you sit next to the artist, it’s likely you’re wealthy, the artist’s best friend, or an important curator. If you sit behind the potted plant next to the artist’s third cousin, it’s likely you’re a critic. This can be accepted temporarily—as the dinner breaks up, there is great mobility in seating arrangements. (This is dependent on the size of the dinner and the choreography of the event.)

12. Business can always be discussed at openings and dinners, provided you observe the protocols. Artists can never directly invite dealers to visit their studios, unless a strong rapport has already been established. Artists can, however, talk about what they’re working on, and the excitement that others have for the work, e.g., “I just finished the installation about Hekabe with the really ornate collage. Hans Ulrich stopped by on his way through and said it looked like Vito Acconci on acid.” Curators can corner dealers for specific works. Critics can, and should, get whiskey for free.

The question of the day

Many of you may know, or heard through the grapevine, this week the building in which we lease space, was sold.  The new owners have announced their intentions to open a new business in the space.  This leads to the question of the day: “What are you going to do ?”  The short answer to this question is we don’t know…….yet.

The long answer to this question is we are exploring many options but at this moment have not made a decision regarding the future location of the gallery.  We are gathering information, looking at new spaces and talking to people about the costs that would be involved with moving and relocating.  We are digesting all of this information and will make a decision in the near future.  We do know this for certain.  As of February 28, 2011 PS:Gallery will no longer be at 812 E. Broadway.  We don’t know where we will be, but we do know we won’t be here.  Until then the show must go on.  We hung a new show in the Alcove this week and the work is amazing.  We will be hosting a reception for Nancy Brown on September 9th from 6-8pm.  We are also hosting the 2nd Annual Take a Sip for Second Chance event on September 17th.  This is an incredible event with wine tastings and food from Sycamore.  End of this month the Summer 2010 exhibit will end and the Autumn 2010 exhibit will open on Sept 30th.  The opening reception for the next show is October 2nd from 6-9pm.  The following weekend is the Artrageous Weekend.  Details about all of these events can be found in our latest newsletter.

So despite the uncertainty, there are many good things to look forward to.  We will keep our community informed of our future.  As soon as we know what is going to happen we will let you know. In the mean time, feel free to buy art.

Jennifer Perlow

The Process

Today began the Spring 2010 exhibit at PS:Gallery.  Technically the show was not supposed to start until tomorrow, but we finished much earlier than we thought we would so we opened a day early.  Hanging a new show is a process that is really unlike any other.  I thought it might be interesting to shed a little light on that process.

Each exhibit has 5 to 6 2-d artists and 1-3 3-d artists. The process of selecting artists for the exhibits will often start more than a year before the actual show is hung.  The PS staff choose artists for a variety of reasons.  We always have a representation of local, regional, and national artists and we try to have a variety of styles and medium.  We try to book all of the shows about a year in advance to give myself time to be organized.

The next step in the process happens about three months before the exhibit.  This is a time when press releases are sent out and lists of deadlines and expectations are sent to the artists.  The due dates and expectations list when we want print images, bio’s, web images, and work to be at the gallery.  Print images are needed about six weeks before the exhibit so we can put together a direct mail piece and included teaser images with the last newsletter of the previous exhibit.  Bio’s, artist statements and web images are needed about two weeks prior to the exhibit.  We try very hard to keep our website as up to date as possible.  Each artists, if they have sent me images, gets their own spot in the currently exhibiting page.  We do have clients that live outside of our area that primarily see the gallery through the website.

Postcards are printed about three weeks before the exhibit and mailed about a week before the exhibit opens.  Work is expected at the gallery a few days before we begin hanging the new show.  We usually build a few days into all of the due dates just in case anyone is delinquent in getting us information or work (This is a little bit of a joke, as most people are delinquent and it is more rare to have information and work on time).

One of my favorite times in the gallery is when the new work starts arriving.  It’s like Christmas.  Usually, when we pick artists we choose from images and not from actual artwork.  Even if we do get to visit an artists studio, the work that is delivered is usually different from the work we saw in the studio.  So we have an idea of what the work will look like, but there is no comparison to seeing the real thing.  Over the course of a week, we receive boxes and crates of work and artists arriving with car, truck and vans loaded with their work.  It is fun to start seeing the work in person and formulating a plan for the layout of the next exhibit.

As fun as it is to see all of the new work, hanging the new show is not all fun and games.  The first step in hanging the new show is taking down the previous exhibit.  Sometimes things need to be packed and shipped back.  Sometimes it is matter of helping load an artist’s car.  All of the tags have to be removed.  All of the inventory has to be taken out of the system.  This is generally the time that we would touch up the paint.  Next we get all of the new work unpacked and laid out in the gallery.  By the time we get to this point there has already been much thought about where each artists work will be in the gallery.  We have also usually given some thought as to where our movable walls might go.  We have a map of the gallery that we will sketch ideas on in the month preceding the new exhibit.

This part is like a puzzle.  Sometimes it comes quickly, sometimes it takes a while.  Usually we will figure out where we feel an artists work fits, and then we will arrange all of the pieces where we think they will look best.  We typically have a wide variety of work.  There is a trick to finding work that looks good together but is distinct enough to make sure each artists is clearly represented.  Our goal is always to make the artists feel their work is well represented.  Sometimes, much like an artist working on a new piece, it is not weather it is right, but rather that you know it is wrong.  We have hung entire shows before only to rearrange the next day.  We are very fortunate to have great people who help with each hanging.

After all of the work is hung there are always housekeeping issues.  All of the tags have to be written and hung.   All of the inventory has to be put in the system.  All of the packing materials from the new show have to be put in storage.  Then there is always the clean up to make sure the first day is the best the gallery can look.

The last thing we do is the Walk Through.  We leave the gallery and walk in as if we were seeing everything for the first time.  We talk about the art and the new artists.  One of the things I love about hanging the new shows is the comradarie.  It is not often we are all at the gallery together.  Hanging the new shows gives us an opportunity to reconnect and spend time together.  The walk through gives us a chance to exchange ideas and enjoy the art.  It gives us a moment to be spectators in the gallery.

So there you have it.  A look into my last two days.  Now you can come enjoy the fruits of our labor and maybe have a better understanding of what goes into making each show look great.

Jennifer

A study of gratitude

Above is a picture that my seven year old daughter painted of me.  I keep it at my desk to remind me of the good things in my life.  I work at being a glass half full person.  I am a small business owner.  I do own an art gallery in a challenging market, during a very challenging economy.  I have plenty of opportunities for growth that I could talk about, but not today.  Today is a study in gratitude.  I have a sign in my office that hangs on a wall just beside the door.  It reads “This is the best month ever”.  It has hung there for about two years now.  I have friends who kid me about the sign, but in reality This IS the best month ever.  Let me tell you why.

I am grateful to have a happy, healthy, and beautiful daughter who can come hang out at work with me.  I am grateful (and somewhat amazed) that in second grade she knows who Picasso is, and allows herself to be inspired by his work.  I am grateful to have the opportunity to send her to a public school that celebrates the arts.  I am grateful to go to a school assembly and hear an amazing drumming troupe.  I am grateful to walk through the halls and see rich artwork done by incredible children.

I am grateful to have a step-son in high school who still thinks art is cool.  I am grateful that he brags to his friends that his parents own an art gallery instead of hiding it.  I am grateful that he is handsome, smart, and incredibly sure of himself.  I love watching him talk to people at the openings.  He wears a name tag that says “Clayton Stevens, Owner”.  I am grateful that at 14 he has a sense of ownership in the gallery.

I am grateful to walk in a space every morning that is beautiful and fills my soul.  The gallery resides in the old Hays Hardware building.  It has white washed brick walls, an old elevator shaft, and a beautiful glass transom in the front of the building.  It is warm and inviting.  It provides the perfect backdrop for art.  It is easy, day in and day out, to take your environment for granted.  Sometimes when I am frustrated or discouraged I go sit on a bench in the middle of the gallery and breath in the beauty that surrounds me.

I am grateful to live in a community that values art enough to support it.  I am grateful to live in a city that has a percent for art program.  I am grateful to live in a city that has great public art.  I remember as a child growing up in Columbia, passing the Flying French Fries or “La Colomba” as the sculpture is actually titled.  I am grateful to live in a community that I am proud to tell people about.  In addition to all the visual arts venues, we also have a great live music scene, independent film, and theater.  For a town of this size we are very fortunate to have the arts community that we have.  I, for one, am grateful for that.

I am grateful for the amazing customers that we have.  I am grateful for the support and encouragement that each of them provide.  I am grateful for the people who know when I am hanging a new show and make a point to one of the first to see it.  I am grateful for the people who make art a priority in their lives.  I am grateful for the people who have my postcard hanging on their fridge.  I am honored to be a part of your lives.

I am grateful for the incredible artists who trust me with their work.  I am grateful to be surrounded by creativity.  I am grateful to know many of the galleries artists on a deeply personal level.  I am privileged to be able to experience the creation of art first hand.  I am proud of the part I play in bringing said art to the community.

I am grateful to have two wonderful employees who work for peanuts, because they love PS:Gallery.  Joel whom has been with me from the beginning, is invaluable (read the previous post about Joel if you want to know how much I truly appreciate him).  Sarah, who started as an intern soon after we opened is now my gallery assistant.  I am grateful that they know that in many ways the gallery is as much theirs as it is mine.  I am grateful to have the ability to leave and not worry about what might happen.  I am grateful that often my desk is cleaner after they have worked than after I have worked.

I am grateful to all of the people whom I have worked for and worked with that have helped prepare me for this.  I don’t have a degree in business or in art for that matter.  Somehow along the way, I have obtained the skill sets I needed to run a business.  I have had some pretty incredible mentors.  I will always be grateful for them.

Mostly, I am grateful for my husband.  I am grateful that every day he puts on a suit and tie and goes to work so I am able to run the gallery that he always dreamed of opening.  I am grateful that he has complete faith in my ability to run the gallery that bears our names.   I am grateful that he is as crazy as I am and rarely questions what we are doing.  I am grateful that even though my messy office drives him (and many others) crazy, he doesn’t say anything most of the time.

Thanks to all of you who allow me to do the work I love.  I am grateful.

Painfully Midwestern

Painfully Midwestern is/was the name of a local record label. They produced a couple of Columbia bands that I know of, but their claim to fame is putting out three compilation discs of the best music Columbia has offered over the last 20 years. I am fortunate to own all three. They are all excellent and bring back lots of memories. The three discs comprise some of the best representation of  the “mid-west“ music scene and what separates it from music from other parts of the country. It reminded me a lot of the current exhibit at PS:. All of the artists hale from the mid-west and the art represented is painfully “mid-western”.

Hans Droog has created majestic portraits of farm animals reminiscent of those of royalty of the 18th century. The animals peer out at the viewer with all confidence as if to say, “ I still rule your world.” And in the mid-west, they do. The common farm animal still plays an huge role in what shapes the mid-west economically and culturally. Hans’s creations are not going to let you forget that.

"Hamburger Rooster" Hans Droog

Pull over to the side of the road anywhere 15 to 20 miles outside of the city limits and you’ll find the photographs of Chris Dahlquist. Her indiscernible “mile markers” could exist anywhere in the mid-west. Rolling farm fields, scattered cows, an occasional random hay bail, an abandoned barn, the kind of scene we pass everyday along the highway at 70 miles per hour. To make the even more nostalgic, her process of printing her photos on gold, painted steel reminds you of the old daguerrtype photos.

There has always been a mid-west influence in the works of Joel Sager. He has lived here most of his life and that ”mid-west” influence shows greatly in his latest exhibit. Again, I say nostalgic, like you walked into one of those farm houses on the side of the highway. Wood floors, an antique television sitting on a lace doily, a bare foot girl in her Sunday best with her pet lamb, a dime store piggy, painfully mid-western.

Even the colors of Julie Hansen and Rebecca Crowell reflect the mid-west. Those deep, grey blue skies of a fall rain approaching, the dark oranges and yellow of the leaves just after they have reached their peak, those purples and golds that form in the sky when the falling sun hits the scattered clouds just right, all of these exist exclusively to the mid-west.

Even Katie Barnes has gotten into act. Her photos of rusted tools and trucks, dilapidated farm houses, an occasional farm animal are the kind of scene most people would stereotype seeing in the mid-west. An outsiders “ideal” view of what

goes on in “these parts”.

Lastly the current alcove show too, is a reflection of what is all that is mid-western. Our “Mini” show represents some of our favorite local artists. All come from Columbia and all show the influence their time in the mid-west has had on them and their work.

The current show is up through the end of the year. I encourage you to come by and take a look at what some of the best artists in the mid-west have to offer. Perhaps you will feel nostalgic enough to take a piece home with you.  By the way, if you have any of the compilations put out by Painfully Midwestern, they would make a great soundtrack to the current exhibit.

Chris