The Unseen Installation: "DUMBO's Awesome New Exhile"

In May of 2005, I participated in an experiment of grand proportions. Myself and 5 other artists were given free studio spaces on the 10th floor of an historic building in an area in Brooklyn called DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass). Nestled between the derelict Navy Yard and posh Brooklyn Heights, with some of the toughest public housing projects just blocks away, this area had been an industrial no-man's-land for decades before artists moved in and started setting up studios in the 80's, risking their lives for low rent, and beginning the process of inevitable desirability: gentrification.In exchange for our studio spaces, we all agreed to participate in a collaborative exhibition of our designing which we would present to the public in a multiple day, interactive event. The company that conceived of and hosted the whole thing had long been a theatrical instigator, known for cross-disciplinary performances and over-the-edge experiences. Their most publicized event had been a play called "I'm going to kill the president", the location of which was kept secret until the night of the performance due to a law against saying that sentence. I was thrilled to participate and excited about the event.

Before my installation could begin, I needed to prepare the space. Only recently, it had been a theater with a stage and stadium seating, hosting nightly events on a floor filled with other artists, dancers, and musicians. But then along came development. A new owner meant changes, and this floor was no longer being rented to artists. One by one, all the leases on the 10th floor had expired and all of the spaces had been abandoned to make way for offices instead.

When I came along, this one space was all that remained, the rest of the walls on the floor had been completely demolished and carted away. The final demolition and next phase of construction was waiting on us. We were literally occupying one tiny box inside a gigantic empty warehouse, to the absolute dismay of the management, who were locked in a drawn out legal battle with the director of the theater. It seems an alternative space had been offered in exchange for vacating the lease but then the offer was rescinded without notice or explanation. Baffled and livid, the theater's director vowed to hold out until the very end, taking the last stand against the artist eating monster that was feasting on the neighborhood. Essentially, we were the last bite left.

With these circumstances in mind, I approached the installation rebelliously, as we were the final spark of artistic creativity that would occur here before corporate productivity blossomed instead, fertilized by the carcasses of the fallen artists, yet bearing fruits that would be inaccessible to the artists of the future. I began by hanging a sculpture left over from gradschool, New York State from a giant map I'd almost, but not quite, completed. Finishing New York State in New York City was symbolic satisfaction at its purest, and multiple dimensions collided as I constructed the metropolitan area beneath my feet from 5 lotus flowers made from flattened coins. Finished, I moved on to my next project. A show in which I'd been invited to participate called for new work, and I knew exactly what I wanted to make. It was to be a dinosaur fossil from car parts, quick, simple, and cool.

I enjoy making some sculptures just for fun, and this was definitely one of those.

For a moment I put my concerns about the world aside and just made something neat. The show traveled next to a different city, meaning the piece quickly left my possession.
Thus rendered dinosaurless, I set out to create another.

This would be a triceratops, whereas the first had been a tyranosaur.I quickly laid out the parts.

My studio space was endowed with a terrific view of downtown Brooklyn and the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge overpass. Not a day passed that I didn't feel lucky about my situation. Streams of automobiles flowed endlessly past in a mesmerizing blur, and often, hypnotized, I would stand and stare.

One day I observed a banner going up on the building across the street. The building I occupied was practically identical, yet ours was commercial while theirs' would be residential. New neighbors were coming, rich ones: finally convinced that safety in the area at last outweighed the view.

This was one of many luxury apartment complexes to appear in the neighborhood, the reason that the rents were doubling each year. Only recently the building had also housed artist studios and sweatshops.

The sign proclaimed "DUMBO's Awesome New Arrival", and featured an elephant and her child. Prime advertising geared at commuters driving over the Brooklyn Bridge, the sign was the final declaration of a different era. Keeping this in mind, I pushed forward on my dinosaur. My installation would be a response to this poster that had appeared in my window.

The framework for the head was hoisted high into the air, suspended near the ceiling with cables. I wanted my dinosaur to be as massive as possible.
Eventually the details of the face filled in.

By this time, I had decided I was going to mirror the poster on the building across the street, using dinosaurs instead of elephants. An old sculpture from my past stepped in to fill the role of the baby dinosaur.

His mother, looking back over her shoulder, was advancing away from the window. I built her body entirely from sculptures of my own, symbolically identifying the giant creature as a representative of the artists, literally created from art. Mostly I used states: New York was the foundation, Wisconsin the hindquarter, and Kansas, Arkansas, and Mississippi within.

Her tail ran to an abrupt stop at the window, merging from a certain vantage point to continue onwards as the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge, alluding to the fact that the other half of the dinosaur spanned the entire river. In effect, I was saying that the affluent newcomers might be the largest living creatures in the neighborhood, but that their extinct predecessors, the artists, had been much greater in their day.

To use the Brooklyn Bridge itself as a component of a sculpture a was a unique honor.

Flattened and fastened into chains, I used pennies to continue the cables of the bridge into my studio. This type of repetition is inherent in all my work.

As the deadline for the exhibition drew near, my work became more and more fervent, often working all night and staring early the next morning. Certain elements became very deliberate tongue-in-cheek commentary.

A man I made from dolls holds his nose while pinching the upsweep of the bridge as if it's a soiled diaper, passing judgement on the stinky situation that the new development has created.

The area below, which corresponds to the East River and also is the stomach of the dinosaur, contains piles of coins, the meager scrapings of the artists who first entered this rough area, inadvertantly causing eventual safety and desirability to ensue.
Beneath, oozing to the floor, are dinosaur droppings of paper money, the inadvertent biproduct of the artists' existences, to be scooped up later by real estate moguls. On the night of the exhibition, police barred the door and made everyone except the participants vacate the premises. The landlord had filed an injunction against our event, and there was nothing we could do. Approximately 10 people saw this installation, and for less than 15 minutes. Months of effort fizzled down the toilet, the final sputtering attempt to put art above money stomped and squelched. In one moment, another dream was gone.

DS! (dinoshit)

WWLSD: What Would Luke Skywalker Do?

Raised in the vacuum of the midwest, the son of the children of Catholics on one side and Lutherans on the other, religious affilliation is a difficult thing for me to profess. I have some of the paperwork of a Catholic: I was Baptised and Eucharized, but never Confirmed. Not excommunicated, yet non-practicing, I'm still able to recite the prayers.

my Bible, 1983

Having been in elementary school during the early eighties, my deep psyche was imprinted with two stories simultaneously. Jesus, I learned, was a great man, perfect in action, thought and deed, sinless and forgiving and generous. Luke Skywalker, I witnessed on the screen, was a man of the same caliber, another saviour, strong and magic and righteous. Combining the two heros in my mind, I was able to maintain an ideal, to which I patterned my own life.

The two rolemodels both served me well, their separate endings representing two possible outcomes of being perfect and good. Luke, I assumed, brings the galaxy together forever after in a golden era; we all know what happened to Jesus.As an adult, I still follow these examples, reduced unconsciously to the fabled Golden Rule: "do onto others as you would have them do unto you." It works, believe me, but it's not easy.

One day, a few years ago, I found myself constructing an object.It was a religious object, meant to channel strength into my life as I struggled with being a new resident of NYC.The city is rough, and my outlook had been pummeled by blow after blow. Every time I thought I was going forward, I found myself further and further behind. It was frustrating and daunting, but not insurmountable.

Nailing Luke Skywalker to a cross seemed fitting at the time, symbolically interjecting a dose of reality into the rosy childhood beliefs I'd held that everything works out perfectly in the end for those who are honest and good.

The artworld of today is an empire, akin to what the Romans had built 2000 years ago, but with critiques instead of crucifixions. Artists who move to the city and think they will see the sky open and be drawn into a glowing beam of light from wealthy collectors learn quickly the truth.

Selling art is different from making art, much as being a good person is different from making money. At some point you've got to force the paths to cross if that's what you need. Forcing myself to stay in New York was important, because it's the temple of the artworld, and if I have to keep kneeling with my head bowed for a little longer, I can wait and pray. The pilgrimage has been grueling, but I maintain faith. The time for drinking wine and passing the basket can't be far ahead.

Our Father, who Art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name...

...Darth Vader?!?

the man who talked to sculpture

In the winter of the year 2000, working huddled over a spaceheater in a cramped, closetlike room, I built a sculpture of enormous power.
Inspired in part by images I had seen in art history by 16th century painter Giuseppe Archimbaldo, the idea was to create a human being completely from dolls.
I started with the hands, based on a discovery I'd made that the breasts on Barbie dolls mimic knuckles quite believably.
The figure was basically lifesize, and given the size restrictions in my studio, I decided to make it from the midriff up, like an odd bust. It was my futile attempt to completely exhaust an abundance of dolls that I'd inherited from another artist. The entire structure was dolls, pierced and stitched together with zip ties.
Instantly upon completion, I became aware of the power the dollman possessed. Nobody could look at him without having a strong, intense reaction. Most people were freaked out, but others thought he was cool. My theory was that the reaction was determined mostly by the relationship the viewer had held with dolls in their youth, whether they played with or tortured them. In any event, it made people blurt something out loud whenever it was seen. As an artist, this is a difficult and coveted reaction to induce, a powerful reaction.
Five years later and a thousand miles away, the dollman would find himself behind the bar of a joint in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The place was new, the beers were cheap, and a friend of mine was the manager. Having this sculpture installed there generated great buzz. I used to post photos of him on Craigslist saying "have you seen this guy?" with an ad for the bar. Business boomed because of him, and peoples' jaws would drop when they found out I was the artist responsible.
A local man, Puerto Rican, and probably in his 40's, became close friends with the dollman. They would spend hours, night after night, staring at one another, holding hands, and sharing secrets unspeakable with all others. He had a large scar on one side of his face, caused by an iron his mother had pressed there when he was a child. Everything about him was deeply tragic. The guys he hung out with had known him his whole life, and they'd always treated him like crap. They made him do things for them constantly, and relentlessly abused him verbally, telling him to shut up every time he said something out loud. Apparently he'd been homeless and jobless for decades, and these "friends" kept him fed and let him sleep on the floor in the hallway in return for his dog-like obedience. Once one of them told me that sometimes he had to hit him to make him listen. I felt bad for the guy.

One night, he left his group of "friends" and sat beside me. He knew I was the artist who made the dollman, and he told me it held power. He gripped my hand tight, stared with a penetrating, frightening gaze directly into my eyes, and told me that the dollman was Jesus. His clawlike grip tightened and he thumped his chest with his other closed fist when he said it. Corazon. Tears welled from his eyes, yet his gaze did not falter. I was flattered, but also uncomfortable and frightened. The moment seemed to last forever. One of the others came over and pulled him away, saying to me, "Just tell him to shut up."
About six months later, I needed to take the dollman somewhere else. When I came to pick him up, I noticed many trinkets adorned him, rubberbands and cigarettes, gifts given by his friend as they spent time together in similar silence, sharing dreams of escape from a cruel world and disfigured life. Later that evening, the police had to be called. When the poor guy noticed his friend and confidant had left him, apparently he went berserk, smashing tables, throwing chairs, and screaming. It took several officers to restrain and drag him away. Whatever solace he'd briefly found in the dollman's company was lost. Within months, the bar changed owners and was converted into a restaurant. Amen.

parallel paths crossing/MY HERO?

Sometimes, people ask me what artists I like. Until a certain point in my life, I had to think about it for a long time. I'm a fan of my own work, but few other artists come to mind. When I go to galleries, often I like some things I see, but little stands out in my memory. We have lots of good artists, but far fewer great. Three years ago, that all changed for me when I rode a free bus to the Aldrich Museum in upstate New York. A friend was having a retrospective in the main space, and I went to show support. After hanging out for a time, I began to wander. In a smaller side room, I stumbled upon some of the most remarkable sculptures I've ever seen.

flyer from the exhibition

The first thing I encountered was a large ship made from plumbing, with hundreds or maybe thousands of tiny toilets installed within. It appeared to have been made by a modelmaker, with a meticulous eye for surface and detail. I was impressed.
The next piece I approached was a falling missile, supported by an ungainly undercarriage, which looked sloppy, as if it had been made by a college student. This was far less impressive to me, and I wondered how the same person who transformed plumbing into a tanker vessel could have also created such a crude looking bomb.

However, when I examined it closely, I noticed that the panels each bore the logo of a major corporation, likely from a list of companies that hold defense dept. contracts. This was up my alley. High theme points, low craftsmanship score.The next sculpture was just plain cool. The artist had turned the surface of an aircraft carrier into the iconographic American parking lot. Entitled "USS Mall", this piece combined skill in construction with relevant subject matter. I was tickled. For the first time in all my life, I had a hero who was a visual artist: David Opdyke.

My later work would use similar images, however, our approaches are much different. My work has a freedom to it, a buzz of energy that comes from planned placement and relaxed repetition, whereas his seems clinical and sterile. Both methods hold power: mine look alive, his look real.

Moving on, I came to a piece with which I was familiar. I'd seen it in SCULPTURE Magazine, and thought it was cool. In person it was even better. The work is called Oil Empire, and is the size of a dining room table.

A recent work of my own has similar visual character, yet is only half the size.

The density and treatment are much different, again, his being linear and organized, mine being random and organic. Both are undeniably complex, breathtaking to behold and difficult to fathom, and, most importantly, we both are trying to make a statement.In a world where most gallery pieces are titled "Untitled", I find it difficult to relate to many artists. I have no reason to make art that does not address some sort of issue. "Untitled" is not an option. When I saw his artwork, I felt comaraderie, like we were on the same team.

A close inspection of Opdyke's piece reveals a vast network of pipes, tanks, and pumps, spanning the entire nation.

Zooming into mine yields soldiers and athletes.
Our choices are different, but our concerns the same.

Both of us understand that sculpture is a powerful tool, capable of making people think.

Both of us are frustrated with our country.
Both of us are sick of corporate control.

After the exhibition, I emailed the friend who's show I'd gone to see telling him I was interested in meeting David Opdyke. He forwarded me a copy of an email he sent on my behalf to the director of the Aldrich Museum, asking him to put me in touch. Pretty cool, yet I never heard a response. In time I forgot what I'd seen.

Recently, after receiving a link to his website in a mass email, I realized that in 2005 our paths crossed even more dramatically than I realized.

(his)

As I was walking through his solo exhibition, my mind was occupied with thoughts of the sculpture I was making back home. I had moved to Brooklyn several months earlier, and immediately began searching for army toys.(mine)

I had an overwhelming urge to assemble them into an American one-dollar bill.

It had seemed like an obvious but necessary metaphor, and I worked on it for almost an entire year.Flipping through David Opdyke's images a few months ago, I was startled to realize that he too had been making a US $1 bill also from army toys. He picked one corner, whereas I rendered the whole thing. As usual, our approaches were completely our own, yet our subjects and materials had been identical. This was cool. I became extremely excited.I shot David an email, sending him a link to my version. I thought he'd get a kick out of it. I told him I respected his art and that I was interested in having a dialogue with him. I never heard back. This perplexed me. When I tried to contact him in 2005, I don't know if he actually got it, but this time he definitely had, yet still no response. I wonder if success has distanced him from his fans, or if maybe he's always been reclusive. For me, email conversations with complete strangers are a regular thing. I'm flattered when people dig my stuff, and I like even more discussing it in person. I consider my work to be a reflection of my thoughts, and simply installing the piece does not make those thoughts cease. When people hear me vocalize my intent, they are even more impressed by my art, and I feel the same must hold true for David Opdyke. Soon I will find out.

This Saturday I am planning to attend the opening of his solo show in Soho. I want to see what a gallery artist who addresses politics looks and acts like, as well as what type of gallery shows this kind of art. I will introduce myself to the artist, tell him I'm a fan of the work, and give him my card. I sure hope this time I get a response.

Don't mess with Texas/why I'm not big (yet)

I have been recently surprised with the news that I sold a sculpture. It's a portrait of Texas, and the sale took place in Houston. I didn't get as much for it as I'd originally wanted, but enough to let me coast through the rest of my recovery without having to count nickels and dimes to buy food before my left hand starts working again.

This sale has been long in the making, 4 years to be exact, and its sale represents the lifting a great weight for me. This sculpture is symbolic of a period in my life of great hope and promise. It was the cornerstone of a giant map I made of the USA as my MFA thesis project. At 5 by 5 feet and close to 100 pounds, it set the stage for the greatest challenge of my artistic career: my quest to conquer the nation.

Artwork has always been this for me: a way to gain control over things in life that daunt me, thus symbolically appeasing them on my own terms. In the process of studying a frustrating conundrum, I learn more about the world and myself. I felt that if I captured the spirit America by immortalizing it in junk, I would in turn win its favor, allowing me to pass unhindered through the ranks of the artworld. In the spring of 2004, this theory proved correct, or so it seemed.

I was in my studio, working as usual, when a knock came on the door. An applicant for the sculpture position on campus was being brought around to conduct studio visits, so the existing faculty could observe his interactions with students. I was always happy to discuss my work, which at this point stretched 30 feet across my wall and rose 12 from the ground. He was introduced to me as Michael, and when he realized what I was doing, he was literally blown away. He became giddy at the sheer insanity that accompanied such ambition. The more we talked, the more livid he became. The encounter ended with him asking one of the faculty observers to take his picture with me in front of my artwork, shaking my hand. The last thing he insisted was that I autograph something for him. In a flurry he was gone, and I went back to working on my art.

Later, when I got home and Googled his name, I realized it had not been just any studio visit. He was well connected to deep aspects of the artworld. SCULPTURE magazine would feature his work on its cover in less than a year, but in my mind this was not his most noteworthy accomplishment, even if I had known it was going to happen.

According to the biography, he had earned an MFA in sculpture from Yale in the late 80's. An undergrad student he became friends with, and later roommates, was Matthew Barney, who, I had recently read in ARTFORUM, had originally attended on a football scholarship before being coaxed into pursuing art by some grad students. Suddenly I realized the significance of my encounter. I was in high esteem by the man who'd started the career of the biggest artist of recent history. Matthew Barney sells pencil drawings for more money than I see in a year, plus, he's the father of Bjork's child. His life is a dream. I emailed Michael thanking him for his studio visit. This was not a connection I wanted to lose. A few months later, I received the news of my life. Michael was curating a show of friends in New York City, and wanted me to participate. Later, when he released the list of artists, I was dumbstruck. I was going to be participating in a show with not just Matthew Barney, but also Alex Grey, the visionary artist who created the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors. I'd seen his work once by chance, and been blown away. He paints people as energy, and his work is deeply moving spiritually.
The show was called "Touch and Temperature: Art in the Age of Cybernetic Totalism, and would take place in Chelsea. I delivered the sculpture he requested, and counted the days until the big night. He chose to install my sculpture directly across from the door, as to be the first thing everyone entering would encounter immediately. As the unknown, incredible "find" he was bringing to this arena, he wanted to show me off. A later blurb in the New York Times would mention my work as a highlight of the exhibition.

Coincidence brought my mother into town from Wisconsin, and she was able to breifly attend the opening. She had come to see the city, and to go to a reception that her friend was having in Soho, which had been planned for almost a year. This friend had watched me making my first sculptures in gradeschool, so the entire circumstance seemed incredibly synchronistic. She came early, and had barely left before the gallery filled with hundreds of people and the roar of their voices. I stood in the middle of it all, anonymous and overwhelmed. These were the most beautiful people I had seen, sophisticated and cool, drinking wine and looking at art: my art.

I stayed quiet most of the night, my head swimming as the flow of people went on and on. A few times I was pulled aside and introduced to this person or that. Everybody loved my work and a couple wanted to buy it. This is where I made a mistake of similar proportions to my recent finger mishap: I told them the piece was not for sale. In doing so I would sever the tendons that connected me to the elite. My experience up until this point had led me to believe I was invincible. I thought I'd be able to keep walking into the artworld until I reached the door of a museum, which was where I felt my work truly belonged. The idea of selling it to some private collector where it would never be seen by the public went counter to my ideals. I'd made it this far, and wanted to keep going.

show in Texas

Later, the show would travel to Houston, Texas, to another gallery. Afterwards, the gallerist asked me if she could keep it because she thought she'd be able to make a sale. This time, not wanting to pay hundreds in shipping, as well as liking the symbolic nature of selling Texas in Texas, I agreed. During the last 4 years, it became increasingly more difficult to sell, as my resume has not advanced much beyond group shows at unknown spaces. One interested client, the CEO of a Texas oil company, expressed an interest 2 years ago, but only for a greatly reduced rate. I agreed, broke as I was, but the deal never went through because his insurance agent said it was too heavy to safely hang on the wall where he wanted it.

Back in NY, following the exhibition, I had one more meeting with the gallerist in Chelsea. He looked at my portfolio and said he thought he could sell some of it. He couldn't represent me, because he only shows digital art, but he knew plenty of other galleries that would be interested and he promised to introduce me. At one point I asked how long he'd been in the gallery business, and he said forever. His parents had been NYC gallerists too. A week or so later, showing a giant sculpture at a one night show, I was approached by a man saying he'd come to see my work, and wanted to buy one of my coin sculptures. I had moved to the city a few weeks prior, and told him I wasn't ready to sell the coins yet, because I wanted more people to see them. I gave him my contact info, and told him to check out my website.

A few weeks passed, and I followed up on the promise that the gallerist had made to introduce me to the kinds of galleries that would represent me. Sadly, the only response I recieved was "sorry too busy". Nothing more. My work was out of his gallery and our relationship had ended. A few months later, run ragged by the reality of living broke in NYC, I e-mailed him again asking for the name of the buyer who'd been interested in my work. For an artist to sell directly to a client is the artworld equivalent of stealing, because the galleries don't get a cut. He gave me the name and number, but I could tell he wasn't happy about it. I was breaking a rule. Sensing this, I never followed through. I am used to struggling, so I just continued forward on my own.

A few years later, I went to an opening and ran into both the gallerist and the artist who had curated the show. I went over to them with a big smile and a hello, but their reactions were blank and awkward. I was off the map, out of the club, and cut off from the scene. Had I known then what I know now, I would have sold it all immediately, gotten representation, and began living the dream. I don't regret my struggles, as they have made me stronger and influenced my work, I just feel sad when I look at the archive photos of the exhibition on the gallery's website and see that my sculpture, though prominent in the original exhibition, is omitted from all the images. However, if you look closely at the reflection to the far right of this photo, a tiny hint of my presence remains, hiding and waiting until my next break.

ghost artist