Saying Goodbye to Failure/Hello to the next Big Question

By Jess Van Nostrand
Posted on February 27th

“… The split second when I know what is right, but choose not to heed that truth: that is failure. ”
–Barbara Earl Thomas

“Fear is a good thing for me.”
—Carrie Akre

“When important things happened in my life, I was very uncomfortable.”
–Tom Kundig*

I am often asked how I select the Big Questions and the related topics for each TPR programming series. It sounds like I’m joking when I respond, “These are the things that keep me up at night.” Sadly, this is true. Happily, I have a place to work through these things. Using The Project Room as my therapist to identify and address what I can’t understand, I have created topics that stimulate me (in either a positive or negative way), and which I hope carry some meaning for others as well. This should be good news for my husband who does not always want the job of Jess’ therapist, but he is still very much needed- sorry dear! I realize this is a very self-centered way of explaining what drives the organization but, like everything at TPR, it’s a partly intellectual/partly personal endeavor.

In the case of the Failure series, I was thinking through all of the interesting things that were said during the previous Solutions topic. My thinking went something like this: In order to seek a solution, you need a problem. And, in order to tackle an especially complicated problem, you need to take a risk of some kind. “Risk” didn’t get me very excited, probably because I find it a very safe word creatively, one that we can all feel good about making use of regardless of the outcome. It feels good to say to someone else, “Wow, that was really risky” as in “Glad I’m not you!” So, I was not losing sleep over that. But what got my nerves in a jumble was the idea of what lives on the other side of that risk: failure. How close we live to it, how we don’t like talking about it, and maybe- just maybe- how essential it is to making something and to simply being a person.

Bringing it back to ME again, I wonder where the future of TPR lies and how it can sustain itself- what’s my definition of failure for this organization? That cost me at least a few night’s decent sleep right there. So, in keeping with my format, I decided to dedicate some time to Failure and see what others think.

In order to inform the conversations— and bring some inspiration to this potentially dreary topic—I created the series “Successful People Talking About Failure.” I didn’t want to kick anyone who might already be down, so to speak (“Sorry your career tanked and no one knows who you are- would you like to be featured in a series called “failure?”) These lively presentations featured a diverse group of people sharing their different points of view, and ended with many people telling me they wanted it to continue because it was the TPR topic they most connected with personally. The humor in this is not lost on me: the people have requested more failure! I agree- it was great fun and needs to make a comeback, so look for an encore presentation in the future…

You can read more about what occurred in Off Paper Editor Tessa Hulls’ perceptive response, A Failed Essay on Failure.

It has been nearly two years since we began the main theme “Why Do We Make Things?” I had originally created the Big Question structure to allow for a theme to be explored in depth, something I found lacking in my curatorial practice. As I learned, however, “nearly two years” is not long enough for something this interesting. This is why there are scholars who have devoted their careers to the work of one person, or one body of work, for example. Overall, I was surprised by how much substantial programming grew out of this theme and have come to understand that, if you have a good idea, you can make it last a loooong time.

But it is time to get into a new theme, so here we go. For the next eighteen months, The Project Room will ask the question, How Are We Remembered?

In this new theme, you will be invited to participate in conversations and other happenings around the idea of legacy and what it means to leave your mark in this world. There will be some experimentation with new event formats along with lots of roundtable conversations and other happenings online and on-site. I am also proud to announce the forthcoming launch of The TPR Book Circle, which employs an unusual book-club format. Expect lots of special guests and great reads around the current theme! More about that is also coming soon…

Thanks to everyone who joined the conversation during the first Big Question and made it a diverse, informative, and really fun programming experiment!

Xoxoxo

Jess

*These quotes are from three of the presenters from the Successful People Talking About Failure series. To read more about this program, go here.

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Joey Veltkamp?

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Outside of teacher-led projects (God’s Eyes, a rocking chair made out of clothespins, etc.) or childhood stuff (tree forts, lots of tree forts), the first real thing I remember making was a profit/enemy. When I was in fifth grade, the sixth grade class was selling pom-poms made of yarn to raise money. I remember seeing them and thinking, “A pom-pom? Big deal.” So I would buy them for a quarter, take them home, add googly eyes, and then re-sell them at recess for fifty cents.

After a week of this, I remember talking to a friend, when a sixth grader tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Are you selling googly-eye pom-poms?” Thinking he was a new customer, I proudly answered, “YES!”

And then he punched me right in the gut!

Joey Veltkamp is a Seattle-based artist and writer. Recent drawings are on view in “The Blanket Show” at Seattle’s Cupcake Royale through March 31.

 

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Langdon Cook?

I remember my first and only piece of agitprop, which happens to be forever linked with my first feelings of artistic regret. I was in seventh or eighth grade. Reagan was president, the Cold War in its final years of escalation. Mr. Levitt, the school art teacher, ruled over a spacious corner of the second floor littered with easels, tubes of paint, and jars of rubber cement. Unlike any other teacher, he wore jeans and long, frizzy hair, and though he played classical music all day, he often told stories about pop stars like Bob Dylan and Keith Richards as if he knew them personally. Our assignment: to create a poster for Art Class with a message.

I sketched my project in pencil on a large piece of white poster board, then painted it with bright water colors: a red devil complete with goatee, forked tail, and evil grin, holding the Earth, green and blue, like a medicine ball. Right over his crotch. A very phallic nuclear missile, also devil-red and decorated with the stars and stripes and hammer and sickle, burst out from the globe. Subtle it wasn’t. Mr. Levitt asked me if I wanted to enter my “Rape of the Earth” in the school art show, to be judged by the principal. I demurred. He nodded understandingly and left it at that. My chicken-shit response still rankles to this day. The poster resides in my parents’ attic.

-Langdon Cook is a writer, instructor, and lecturer on wild foods and the outdoors. Join him in a discussion with Spilled Milk co-creators Matthew Amster-Burton and Molly Wizenberg on March 22 at 6pm.

Thoughts on New Ideas

By Jess Van Nostrand
Posted on February 8th

Before I explain my interest in the theme of “Beginnings,” I would like to make it known that The Project Room is all about me. It has been created (by me) to respond to my Curiosity About Things* in partnership with what I think are the most exciting creative people in Seattle and beyond. Therefore, everything that takes place in the space and on the website feeds this curiosity and helps move me closer to my goal of becoming a Person of Increased Understanding of the World. Creating research-based programming (or programming my research, if you want to look at it from that direction) shows the inner workings of The Project Room itself. This makes me uncomfortable and gives me the impression that I must be learning something.

Anyway, new ideas are scary and wonderful at the same time, because they don’t yet have support behind them but possess endless possibilities. There have been many times when I have thought of an idea for an exhibition, for example, and gotten sort of tingly imagining how fun it would be to curate it. Sometimes the ideas became something, and other times they remained in notebooks, never to be produced (yet, anyway!). “So,” I thought to myself a few months ago, “what if I devoted some time to reflecting on that tingly feeling? How does that phase of creativity work for different makers of things? Where do the ideas come from? How does one know a good idea from a bad one?” Beginnings came to be the next series in The Project Room, one in which we can share and discuss new ideas while following the progress of specific projects.

It takes a brave and confident maker to present their new ideas in progress—something I have mentioned in previous writings—and it continues to be thrilling when a participating artist uses what occurred in the space or what was said in a public discussion as a way to improve upon an idea. This means I’m not the only one researching and learning things; this means that, perhaps, it isn’t all about me. Hmmmm.

*I have been reading Winnie-the-Pooh to my four year-old daughter, and enjoy borrowing A.A. Milne’s use of capitals as a form of emphasis, as in “Owl hasn’t exactly got a Brain, but he Knows Things.”

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Matthew Amster-Burton?

Before Spilled Milk, I had very limited radio experience. In the mid-90s, I read the morning news with my friend Dave on our college radio station. The program manager warned us that cracking up while reading news was strictly prohibited. Somehow we managed to comply with this edict, even though we gravitated toward the stupidest news-of-the-weird headlines possible. The headlines literally came clattering off a dot-matrix printer, and after we read the news and our microphone was turned off, we collapsed into hysterics.

Long before that, however, when I was seven or eight, I would curl up in my room with a cheap cassette deck and record my own “radio” show. Thankfully, it was broadcast to no one other than my parents. I don’t remember any of the actual content of my show, although I’m sure it was inspired by (that is, lifted wholesale from) Rick Dees’ Weekly Top 40, which debuted around the same time. All I remember is thinking that if I wanted to make a real radio show, it would have to have commercials. So I made a Jell-O commercial. It went like this:

Snookberry Jell-O!
Snookberry Jell-O!
All the world loves snookberry Jell-O!
Snookberry Jell-O is the one to buy
Six cents apiece–that’s why

I really hope those tapes self-destructed, Mission Impossible-style. But I did teach my eight-year-old daughter the Snookberry Jell-O song, because somebody has to keep the old standards alive.

Matthew Amster-Burton is the author of Hungry Monkey: A Food-Loving Father’s Quest to Raise an Adventurous Eater. Join Matthew and Spilled Milk co-host Molly Wizenberg in a discussion with Langdon Cook on March 22 at 6pm.

Janus Goes Off Paper

Like Janus, the god of beginnings and transitions, we look back over the first half-year of Off Paper and look forward to what might come…

Off Paper was conceived to be a literary counterpart to what happens in the physical space of The Project Room—a way to engage The Big Question for people removed from Capitol Hill in Seattle. The first few months have allowed us to refine what that might mean, quite organically, and to think about what we want to accomplish going forward.

My own piece—in which I crosscut between Mandy Greer’s Solstenen project at The Project Room, A.S. Byatt’s story A Stone Woman, reflections on my history as a scholar, adaptation theory, and an interview with Mandy—served as a kind of test run for an approach I hoped we could take in Off Paper:  foster writing that could occupy the space between straight criticism, straight scholarship, straight blog, straight anything. I wanted us to find an interstitial space that would defy conclusion and certitude, thus mirroring the mission of The Project Room. The writing that has followed has been quite diverse: different from mine, different from each other.

What holds across contributions, though, is this: every piece takes up subjective space. It is someone’s personal response to something that has happened in The Project Room or in Seattle, or responds to The Big Question, or ponders the evolution of this experiment unfolding on Pine Street. It is as transparent as possible, opens up rather than resolves questions, and is comfortable with being “always in the process of becoming” (pardon my invoking German Romanticism). From Amanda Manitach’s interpretive response to a group discussion among Seattle artists who interview other artists to Sharon Arnold’s personal tangle with the role of process in artmaking to Dan Webb’s exhortation that The Project Room not become just another art gallery, writers have entered an unfolding conversation.

So what might readers expect going forward, now that we’re ready to take off our training wheels? First, some “staff” changes (I put this in quotes, since we’re all volunteers): Brangien Davis joins us as Editorial Consultant aka Content Scout; Jane Wong joins us as Editorial Assistant aka Content Wrangler. The holidays are over, we have dug out from the snow (I love making us sound like pioneers on the frozen prairie), and we are excited to yoke up next to the newest project in the space, Beginnings.

Emmett V. Smith will follow up on his fall appearance in The Project Room with a reflection on his role as a curator in a maritime museum. Jentery Sayers will tell us about Digital Humanities: a movement firing up academe in which traditional humanities and arts scholarship evolves into “maker” culture.  And that’s just the, well, beginning of Beginnings—more of which will emerge from the events in The Project Room.

Finally, we hope to hear more from YOU: as contributors outright, or as commenters on pieces by others. Have an idea? Do send it to editor@projectroomseattle.org. We’d love to hear from you.

*”Going off paper” is a slang idiom that means to go off probation, off parole.

Hacking the Physical World

The following is a conversation that took place in The Project Room in August, 2011 between Dale Dougherty, Jess Van Nostrand, Sarah Novotny, and Mandy Greer

How Maker Faire is Like The Project Room

Jess: I’m excited to talk with you because I think we have some things in common. To start, I’m guessing that Maker Faire is like The Project Room in the way it supports taking your ideas out of your head and your own little workspace and getting them out there; in fact, I don’t claim to know the answers to The Big Question I’m asking, or even know what’s going to happen here exactly.

Dale: Yes—I think what excites me most about Maker Faire is this kind of fleshing things out into the community that you wouldn’t otherwise know about. And each of those people becomes a resource to other people—not just the attendees but also the artist themselves, the “makers.” Someone may find that someone does something that they’re interested in, and it could be a guy they know who might live nearby who they didn’t even know does something like that. It doesn’t really have a home in the community, it doesn’t really fit into the art world, it doesn’t belong in science centers; it can, but you have to think about it that way.  So [Maker Faire] is a good home for a lot of that. The makers are sort of renegade, on the outer fringe.

Sarah: There’s often a tension between the terms “artist” generically and “fine artist,” and I think that these people bring their own artistry to what they’re doing. There is this co-opting of the word “artist” to mean something else.

Mandy: I think about the difference in making for the pure pleasure of making art, whereas “art” becomes so connected to commerce.

How Dale’s Job is Like and Not Like Jess’ Job, or Is Dale a Curator?

Dale: You [Jess] said you wanted to pose a question and you’re not really sure of the answer. The art world tends to work from having the answers, you know?

Jess: OK, just to play the other side of the curator thing: curators, historically speaking, have an idea that we’re standing up for. Traditionally, that’s the thesis statement, and that’s the “answer.” So, you have something you really want to say, and you’re saying it through art. You’re using art as your evidence to prove your thesis. I really respect that format, so I don’t want to give up on that entirely because I still have something that I’m saying through this. So The Project Room not a complete open/unguided platform.

Dale: Couldn’t you say that the evidence speaks for itself?

Jess: That doesn’t totally work, because—to use art as an example—art can be looked at from so many different ways, so when you present it, you get so many different readings, it would be like having too much different evidence. So you say, “I’m looking at it from this perspective in order to ask you to think about something.”

Dale: But there are those who say you should trust the experience rather than the words around the experience. So, if you go to a Maker Faire, there is a kind of philosophy around making, but you tend not to put it out there. We trust that by making, you being to realize these things, connect with some of these ideas and shared values within a community of people, but not because we’re proselytizing ideas—because we’re encouraging them to participate. And when you go to Maker Faire, by talking and seeing people do lots of stuff, you create that narrative about what’s happening there.

Jess: But it still gets put together [by someone] with an idea.

Dale: It does. I wouldn’t disagree with what you are saying because making is an idea and that sort of draws in certain people, so I think you could put it in your category. I think the difference is that, when I find myself talking to art people, they are much more controlling and hung up on what fits their definition—maybe it’s the execution level. Science museums are a better example. For example, how do they know that freaky thing over in the corner isn’t science?

But I think that one of the things I’m learning is that I’m not there to make people do anything; they’re already doing it. I’m just there to showcase it and provide a venue for it. I certainly have a certain vision to all of this but I try not to box people into it.

Dale:  Sometimes people come to me and say “we’re putting out a challenge to get makers to make X and Y,” and I sort of bristle with that. Or, “we can have a theme of this and get makers to do it.” Some editors give out blue ribbons and I shake my head at it. Some people say “what does it mean that I got a blue ribbon?” and I’ll say, “it means that you got a blue ribbon.”[laughter]

There is a lot of cool stuff going on out there. If you just open the process and to go out and look for it, it becomes not so much about looking for art as it is about being inclusive. It’s just like community development, yet there are many things that are challenge-based. The real beauty we have is in collaboration. We don’t want barriers to collaboration.

Maker Faire: an Updated County Fair With Robots

One group I love is Theatre Bizarre in Detroit. It’s absolutely wonderful. It’s grown up on the edge of Detroit across from the State Fair grounds, which are now closed, and they took over some abandoned homes and began putting on what started as a Halloween theme park. It started involving a lot more people, and its evolved into this fascinating world of performers. It’s in that same spirit, getting a group of people together to start building up this world.

Sarah: It’s about fantasy meeting reality.

Dale: Yeah, exactly. And again, you could just look at it as entertaining, and if you know these people, you would think of what they’re doing as counter cultural, but they are really just good people that are trying to create stuff. And you’re mixing that with tech culture, so people who are sometimes thought of as fringe, personality-wise, are doing something very much mainstream [in their day job] in terms of “hey, we could go to a technical conference and be big celebrities there.” This provides a different kind of community for them. If we made Maker Faire a technical conference, it would look a lot different. I kind of saw an opportunity for something more family oriented, more like a fair. We can do lots with them in that environment.

Jess: Is that sort of thing the seed that started everything?

Dale: Well, the initial seed was that these were interesting people, they enjoy each other, they enjoy talking to each other. And there’s art fairs, county fairs, world’s fair, Renaissance Faires—if you think of the word “fair” you can come up with just about anything. The agriculture/county fair is pretty dead—it’s a formula that’s just been repeated so much without any updates. We were trying to update what the county fair would be to reflect the kinds of things people were actually doing. We are not raising pigs for the most part, we are making toys and robots and things like that.

Mandy: People used to come from their farms to the county fair to see innovation.

Dale: Exactly. Similarly, we were thinking about showing things that don’t get seen very often. The idea with the farm was that it was a chance to bring your product to exhibit. I think it’s about seeing something people haven’t seen before, and the old traditional county fair now is just going through the motions.

On Process

Jess: You mentioned earlier that Maker Faire is more than exhibiting; it’s about improving your ideas because there’s all this interaction with other people. That’s important to what we’re doing here and why we’re operating transparently; there’s this idea that maybe improvement can happen if you open it up. So I feel very exposed as the founder because I’m making my process transparent at the start of a new arts space, and the idea of showing something unfinished is very uncomfortable to a lot of people, including me. As a curator, I’m expected to show a polished exhibition. So I’m curious as to how that plays into what you’re doing.

Dale: One of the things that we are trying to do more on the Make side is to show that process matters. I think even from an education point of view, it’s about teaching the process rather than the end product.

Think about something you make as a kid—or even as an adult—you make something and then get to play with it, and it sets you back to making. That’s a really good balance. So if it’s 90 percent build and 10 percent play that’s not a good thing, but if they are kind of even, or even a little bit more play, that’s a good thing. An example is when we have a group of kids making bristle boxes, which is a toothbrush with a silicone battery vibrator. They make one, they put it in a maze to see how it works, they try the others to see how they work, and then they make some changes…so they are kind of running back and forth. That iteration within an exhibition is fun to see.

Sarah: Because making can be play…

Jess: …And you see the thing better because you know all the parts of it. Sometimes when visiting a museum exhibition with a friend, I find myself reminding them that what they’re seeing was probably Plan B or C, and that you’re rarely seeing the artist’s first version.

Dale: That reminds me that the other thing that’s important to me is that we aren’t just bringing in the object; we are bringing in the people. We share a story about the object, but without formalizing that story too much. The questions to that story are, “how did you get the idea? Where did you get the materials?” Anybody can ask those questions from a non-expert level and engage with that person. Then that person lights up because they know all those answers and they care about them, and as a storytelling exercise, it’s really very effective. And the stories that you tell about what you make become very important.

It’s not [only] about executing something technically, but also being able to talk about it. I think where we struggle as humans is with blank slate ideas. If we ask, “do you know what you want to make?” you probably don’t. But if you walk though Maker Faire, you’re kind of lit up with ideas because you’re standing there looking at something and almost taking it apart in your mind.

I saw this little kid at Maker Faire once, and I went over and asked him what his favorite one was. He was like “the dunk tank thing with a basketball hoop.” He had gone behind it to see how it works, and I like that.

Jess: What is your background and how do you define your role in all this?

Dale: I was an English major. As a kid, I loved to learn but I didn’t really like school. Today we are a standards-based society with standards-based education. It’s so wrong. It’s this awful way of thinking, trying to elevate certain people to elite status and relegating everyone else to mediocrity. Yet, everybody can do stuff. They can all discover and think for themselves and do whatever it is, technology, art, whatever. It’s about being able to feel engaged.

So much of what kids need is connections to real community, real people, to be with stuff. School seems so artificial—it’s like an island you hope to get off of, like “how do I get out of here so I can get back to where everyone else is?”

All of this stuff existed before I started publishing, but I gave it a focus and the word “maker” emerged as something that we wanted to use because it could be a neutral term. You could be a crafter, a welder, but you would also be a maker, and I was really interested in how we could connect people across that.

Sarah: A conversation across disciplines.

Dale: And again that doesn’t happen in school. They force them to be the opposite.

Your Job vs. Your Making

Sarah: There are so many people who do their job and then do the fun stuff separately. And if you can find a way to meld those, then everyone’s happier.

Dale: There are people who purposefully don’t meld them. But many do—they want the thing they love to take over more of their life.

Jess: I’m experiencing that right now. I made the choice to do that, but it’s certainly not for everybody because it doesn’t ever turn off [points to brain] and my kids spend a ton of time here—it’s going to be part of their childhood. So Mike [Jess’ husband] and I had this understanding that we’re about to raise our kids with this thing because it’s so immersive. And we were like, “that’s ok, that’s good.”

Mandy: I think about my parents and how I didn’t know anything, growing up, about what they did.

Jess: Perhaps it’s feminist thing, but I like that my daughter understands how her mom is working and a mom. So rather than me telling her, “you can be anything you want,” she’s actually spending time here seeing that.

Dale: I’m interested in the idea of the journeyman. The apprenticeship was a model about a master dominating you and then exploiting your work. But a journeyman went to a lot of different places and worked with of a lot of different people who had different styles, the idea being that a particular region had its own style of doing things. So being exposed to other things was a way to develop what you prefer.

In the old model of working, you would stay with one company helping with small parts of the larger product, and it might be 20 or 30 years before you felt like you had made a significant contribution to the company. But with Silicon Valley and new companies, there’s the possibility of making a significant contribution right away. It’s almost like it’s the lack of baggage that succeeds there.

On the Unraveling of Institutions and the Building of Communities

Dale: I think we’re in this era of unraveling institutions. I don’t have much patience for them or faith in them.

One of the problems with institutions is that they’re not on the ground. And there are people who are on the ground doing really incredible, interesting things. Take urban agriculture: it was seen as, “well, that doesn’t make sense, they’ll never supply enough food to make an economic impact.” Well, there was this guy in Detroit who said, “I woke up one day—I’d lost my job—and I looked out at this empty lot across from me, and I thought, ‘you know, I’m gonna go clean that up.’ And once I cleaned it up, I realized that if I put a garden there, people wouldn’t throw trash.” And it was the first step towards starting a community garden.

It became a community building exercise, and then they got a community center, a bike shop where kids could get bikes and helmets, and there were no institutions behind it. That’s the kind of stuff you want to see. But if you start with the ideas at the top and then try to make a community happen, it just won’t work. And with the crochet parties here, it’s the same thing, where people come with their own thing to do or make or share.

Jess: And it’s the idea sharing that’s never a bad thing. And that’s what I get excited, about because it allows for people to make their ideas stronger.

Dale: And what happens to that lonely kid in high school who has ideas that no one else is interested in? Well, that kid is not alone, because he’s connected to so many groups beyond his own school now. And, believe it or not, tech people actually like to share tools and ideas.

Mandy: I’ve been doing crochet parties for a while now as part of my installations. It started out of necessity, because I needed help, and then I started doing them in public, where I talked twenty or thirty different times about what I’m doing [as people arrived]. And people always have had strong connections to make each time I would explain it, like “oh! That reminds me of a story, or things I’ve read, etc.”

Dale: Actually it makes me think, when you say that, that we are thinking about ways that more people can participate in the process. I work with a lot of teachers, and I think that basically the best way to teach teachers about making is to just consider them makers. Not using a lot of words about it but just letting them teach. So, we set up a table and have them sit down with everyone and talk to each other, sometimes about the work and sometimes about something else. It’s a very non-threatening conversation that almost anyone can enter. There’s a large project with kids in Berkeley right now where they’re trying to get kids to cook, and it’s the same kind of thing, seeing kids talk while they are baking and cooking. It’s comfortable, and the school context doesn’t provide that.

Mandy: There is something too about making that provides a place for something quiet to happen.

Dale: And I think being able to create that space for yourself is important, whether it’s alone or with a group. Particularly for kids, but even as adults as you get so distracted because there are so many things going on, it’s that feeling that you get when you are really immersed in something in that moment.

Hacking the Physical World

Jess: So, how do these experiences relate to Make Magazine?

Dale: Seeing people do things is like hacking the physical word rather then hacking software. I always wanted to do a magazine, and this is very visually oriented content, rather than something that is just totally text. In terms of a magazine, there are a lot of DIY magazines for cooking, gardening, woodworking. But you read these magazines because you do it, you practice it; you don’t generally buy a food magazine unless you cook. But, I thought: you know, there is a generation of people that are really enthusiasts of technology, but all the content in those publications is about what to buy, not about what to do with it. I wanted to shift it from what to buy to what to do. So a lot of stuff [in the magazine] tends to be project oriented. I looked at the Popular Mechanics magazines of the 40’s and 50’s, and I saw a voice there that was hacker oriented as in, “hey, you don’t think you can build a garage in a weekend? Well, I just went out and did it and here’s how!”

It was an invitation to see stuff. And I wanted to create that invitation and I wanted to create those details. I wanted not just, “look at something cool,” I wanted “here is how you do it.” It’s somewhere that you can share your work and people can follow it. Even just mentally, because when you start to do your own projects—even if it’s not exactly what’s in the magazine—it’s a piece of this, it’s a piece of that, so you learned the technique, you picked up an idea. I think what was kind of missing was the practice of making and how to build that up over time by doing things, failing, and trying it again. What I’d like to see is something a little more educational. This is how we learn, by trying to do things, not by reading out of a book.

Jess: Have you ever done anything with failed attempts?

Dale: We do, it’s always a theme that’s out there. Science often doesn’t talk about the failures, but I think that is an important side of it. You could research something your entire life, but if you don’t participate in it, you’ll never get there. Nothing’s perfect, nothing’s complete, but to engage is important.

 

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Tim O’Reilly?

It’s hard to remember the first thing I ever made, but I do remember a fairly endless succession of sodium bicarbonate and vinegar rockets made out of cigar tubes, trying to duplicate the success of a formed plastic one that my brother had gotten for Christmas. I was probably six or so. We used to launch ants into “space” atop Sean’s rocket (so I guess the mods we made to his store-bought rocket might also count.)

At about the same age, I remember scavenging little electric motors from supermarket advertising displays (you wouldn’t remember those, from pre-digital days) to a large wooden crate, hoping that if we got enough of them spinning propellers, we’d eventually be able to fly back to England to be re-united with our dear friend Shane O’Toole.

-Tim is the founder and CEO of O’Reilly Media, Inc.

 

What I've learned about Authorship (so far)

By Jess Van Nostrand
Posted on December 1st

Authorship was a series of events and written work that was advertised to take place between September 23 and November 1. In fact, the sign in the window still states those dates for those of you who have thought to yourselves, “That’s odd; I’m attending an Authorship event at this moment and it’s November 19!”

What happened?

Many, many things happened, and they were all good, resulting in new ideas for programs and new artists I wanted to feature, so luckily the calendar was flexible and these new ideas for events and things just slipped right on in. That’s when the paralyzing fear associated with not knowing what you’re doing in a month’s time is crushed by the satisfying joy of planning something one week in advance.

Now that Authorship is (really) coming to a close December 10, I feel the urge to look back and reflect on what this program has taught me. This is, after all, a learning experiment for me and I have to do my homework by writing about the results.

As opposed to other artistic experiments I’ve encountered, Authorship has been particularly experimental because I asked groups of artists to work together within a concept—without any other framework—and present the results to an audience. If I were a typical curator, I would have some control over what I ask them to present: a work of art, a lecture, a performance perhaps. However, I am making an effort to go against the norm in many ways at The Project Room, so I asked the artists to do any of the above, or something else entirely.

So, when should you give up control and when should you hold onto it?

My job, especially during authorship, has been to guide the conversation and highlight the most interesting and relevant ideas that it produces. I jokingly called myself the Lab Supervisor because there is controlled freedom that requires a careful balance.

Because of this uncontrolled control, I was able to be surprised repeatedly by what I would learn. For example, I had no idea that the poets collaborating on the Authorship Experiment would choose to make hilarious and smart erasures about virginity stories, but this made me think of making-by-erasing, which came up in a separate conversation with filmmaker Salise Hughes whose films also feature making-by-erasing.

I also learned that improvisation is a thread that connects many musicians, something that cellist Paul Rucker and opera composer Garrett Fisher found in common. I was surprised that the maritime historian Emmett Smith and sculptors John Grade and Leo Berk would all find powerful meaning in water (I programmed them to present their work on the same night, and I still didn’t see it coming!).

I also learned that ownership—another word for authorship—is tense with controversy in the world of dance. This allowed for me to not only feature members of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company in a discussion about it, but it also inspired me to invite choreographer Amy O’Neal to show us how she makes a dance that contains various types of appropriation. It’s been a wonderful surprise to develop authorship around dance, an art form I knew so little about two months ago.

And filmmaker Oliver Laxe showed us his feature film, You All Are Captains (2010), in short clips with behind-the-scenes footage, while artfully teaching me that he makes things because it “shortens distance between the person and the object.”

I have long thought that the ultimate sign of trust in another person’s talent is to give them no limits. How else to explain all the activities I managed during my high school and college years? I owe all those teachers and administrators a lot of gratitude for trusting me with such assignments as “Jess Van (as I was known then), how about you direct your fellow students in a poetry show to be attended by everyone in the high school? You can do whatever you want.” Or, “Jess, you would be a good person to organize (and perform in) all the gigs for our a cappella group,” which sometimes resulted in statements from those giving me no limits such as “Jess, did you hold team practice on the day that I canceled it?”* In other words, how would I have learned anything if the process had been strictly directed?

However, as many who were subjected to my poetry show can attest to, this only succeeds if you have the best possible people involved. With Authorship, I got lucky. In bringing to The Project Room my absolutely favorite creative people and giving them time, space, and trust, I knew that the results would be interesting, productive, and well worth whatever worry it caused me (a good example of this can be read about here in CrossCut.com).

Cheers to everyone who attended an event, wrote an essay, shared their work, or responded to me directly during this series. Now on to more learning!

*This totally did happen. We needed it.

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Bruce Machart?

I can’t draw.  I never could.  Not at all.  Even my stick figures appear to be afflicted by scoliosis.  My earliest memory of a creative endeavor came at my father’s suggestion.  I was three, maybe four, and my older brother could draw, and I was none too generous in the wake of this brotherly one-upsmanship (read: tantrum).  So my dad said, “You know, boys.  We could build a kite.”  If I could translate my four-year-old thoughts into my forty-one-year-old language, I would say that what went through my mind was something to the tune of, “Don’t bullshit me, Pop.”  But he was right, as he so often was.  We collected dowels, newspaper, paper grocery bags, glue, string, ribbon, some Little Debbie treats (mandatory brain food of the 70s), and we went to work.  And we folded, and we glued, and we cut, and we tied, and after several hours, we had an elaborate, fragile, beautiful box kite.  Outside, on the first launch, I held the string taut and my brother flung the thing skyward.  It rose.  God, how it rose.  It flew!  And then, five seconds into the maiden flight, a sudden gust of wind ripped the thing asunder, sending little ticker-tape strips of paper flying around the neighborhood.  But it didn’t matter at that point.  We had made it.  We had made it and it had flown.

-Bruce Machart: Author of The Wake of Forgiveness and a new book of short stories, Men in the Making

This was originally published in July, and is now being republished as a single response.

 

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Laura Gonzalez?

As I am lying on the couch, free associating my earliest memories of creation, two of them compete. I don’t know which came first. They seem like chicken and egg when I think about the impact they have had in my current life. I cannot decide. They have common elements: from childhood, I seem to be quite the conceptual artist, appropriating other practitioners’ scores and making them my own.…

The memories are in full color, brighter than the rest. They are sensorial memories too, with tastes and touch. There is something strange about them. Could it be that they are but a screen memory, things I wanted to do? It is quite fitting that my work has ended up being bound up with elements of these two memories, writing and dancing.

I remember having a small, blue, ring-bound notebook with squared paper in which I wrote an anthology of my favorite words. Sometimes these came from poems, sometimes from songs, the dictionary or some magazine. They were written in my pristine handwriting. I always had very good handwriting, as I was asked to copy books when grounded (I should have had a career in forgery). When working on my blue notebook, I remember tearing the page and starting again if my handwriting was not as good as I thought it ought to be. Now I know that my notebook was a kind of a limited edition artist book.

I remember, also, seeing Dolores Vargas on the TV dancing Achilipú. I was dumbstruck. I learned the song and reconstructed the dance in front of a mirror. Secretly, I still do it. You should, too. It is such a shame I could never write that dance into the blue notebook. That would have made it complete. Perhaps that is the reason why I still dance it. It is a mystery.

-Laura is a Glasgow-based artist and writer who is currently working on an interdisciplinary project exploring knowledge and the body of the hysteric.

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Greg Stonebraker?

The first thing I remember making was an airplane out of Popsicle® sticks. I recall coloring it with a red marker and giving it to my grandfather as a gift. He was a pilot and it was an attempt to make a plane like the one he flew. Many years later I was home visiting from college and he returned it to me, saying he had kept it on his desk for all those years. A few years later he passed away, and I returned it to him by placing it in his casket at the funeral.

-Greg is high school teacher and photographer

The Merce Cunningham Dance Company Legacy Tour: Responses from the Community

The Merce Cunningham Dance Company performed in Seattle for the last time on October 27 and 29. We asked members of the community to share their responses to this major artistic event- here is what you wrote:

I looked at it through the eyes of impermanence. I found myself thinking, “this is the last time I’ll have a chance to see this live.” For me it was like visiting a relative on their deathbed. The one one relative you didn’t get to know when they were well, but you now appreciate their stories. -Paul Rucker, musician and visual artist

After the inspiring and engaging conversation at the Project Room on Friday evening, I was curious to see the Saturday night performance. One of the topics that stuck with me from the evening focused on Authorship came to light touching about archiving. David [Vaughan, MCDC Archivist] mentioned that the only thing that really is not able to be archived is the “essence” of Merce Cunningham, however, David remarked that his essence is within the dancers. One of the things that was revealed to me at the performance was just this. The essence of Merce was alive in the movement and expression of the dancers.

The complexity of this performance was astounding, from the intensity of the choreography to the subtleties of the music, to the timeless costumes, and most of all the physical prowess of the dancers.  I felt as though no detail was left unnoticed and each component of the performance fed the next.  I was especially inspired by how each of the three dances performed fit so well together showing the breath of Merce’s choreography from 1968-2003. – Katie Miller, artist and The Project Room volunteer

I kept thinking as Duets unwound all over the stage: it’s like movement in its adolescence, movement discovering itself for the first time, awkward, guileless, and overwrought, the staccato gestures nearly always incomplete — jerked — truncated — executed with uninhibited childish triumph. Like rough-hewn toys wound and spinning out. These are the machines that god built, automatons executing a mystery.

I watched dervishes perform once, spinning nonstop for hours with one hand upturned, the other palm-down, pointed to earth; during the second part of Split Sides I was sure I saw this gesture iterated repeatedly.

Throughout the performance I’m aware of my attention being directed by illusory exaggeration and discreet, excessive detail in the décor and music (the apparent minimalism is misleading). Duets with its matte, sorbet-colored leotards (jonquil, coral, cobalt) that optically exaggerate, fatten, and accentuate every muscular striation of the torso, every heaving curvature of the rib and pointed nipple, is like watching a troupe of polychrome écorché figurines performing a rustic ritual coupling, while musicians hunched in the orchestra pit squeeze sound from ginger root and electronically vibrate popping metal cylinders and plastic drums and manipulate the percussive silk of horsehair and the leather soles of ballet slippers. Décor, costume, sound, movement informed by a roll of the dice: I am being toyed with. I am trying to connect dots and form meanings but am left just out of air and laughing.

RainForest: I could nearly see my reflection in a silver cloud tipping hesitantly off the stage into the orchestra pit. -Amanda Manitach, artist and writer

Sixteen months ago my life became focused on preparing for the Merce Cunningham Legacy Tour. As Coordinator of Cornish’s Merce Cunningham minEvent Project I spent over a year helping to organize workshops, exhibitions, screenings and giving talks drawing on my fifteen year old memories from studying with Merce. Then boom – the company was here. Then gone. There was the screening of Ocean at NW Film Forum, the packed masterclass at Velocity, the unveiling of a sculpture dedicated to Merce on the Cornish campus. . . and the performances. Watching Biped, I got a sinking feeling. I want future generations to see Biped live and in the flesh. It’s a masterpiece of a particular convergence between Merce’s ideas and the digital possibilities of choreography, lighting design and stage space. Yet, at the same time, I’m deeply relieved it’s going to disappear. Merce’s legacy plan insures his work can’t ossify. The view will change. That sums up so much of what Merce was about. His work survives in what he made possible. Would dance look the way it does without him?  There are so many “new” ideas in Biped it’s mind-boggling.

A favorite memory: Robert Swinston’s evocation of Merce in Quartet. It was eerie and poignant. Robert’s been with the company since 1980. During the Q & A, I asked him to try to put into words what Merce and his work had meant in his life. Robert shared that he experienced Quartet as “a tragedy” and that Merce didn’t experience his own work as abstract. He quoted Merce saying that whenever you have two people dancing together, you have a relationship. I’ve always felt Merce’s performances vibrate with imagination. Robert put it well: “The unspecific specificity that is so unique to dance.”

The biggest surprise: that the performances were not sold-out and some of the local press, like The Stranger, didn’t deem the performances worth mentioning. It gave the week an aura of Merce coming home to say good-bye to his small town. Some of the neighbors will never be onboard, and rather than celebrate his incomparable achievement, they’d rather roll their eyes and wonder what all the fuss is about. -Tonya Lockyer, Executive Director, Velocity Dance Center

It was exactly what I expected and surprising at the same time (if those two things can both be possible.) The most breathtaking moment for me was when Robert Swinston got into position for the opening of Quartet in the part Merce choreographed for himself. He looked exactly like Merce did in all the images and video I had seen. It was like he had become Merce, but in an honest way that allowed for him to dance as himself (Robert) by dancing like Merce. What defines the difference between mimicry and tribute? It made me want to find out. -Jess Van Nostrand, The Project Room Founder

I was mesmerized by several works – especially BIPED. The experience felt whole to me with the integration of the music and visuals, sometimes jarring other times seamless. -Jim McDonald, Senior Program Officer, Paul G. Allen Family Foundation

As usual, Cunningham’s work makes me pay attention, both to what I see in front of me, and what I’m not looking at while I see other things. -Sandi Kurtz, Dance Critic, The Seattle Weekly

I was both transported to a soulful experience world and very much in my head. I kept thinking of Heinrich von Kleist’s 1810 essay about marionettes and the grace that comes from being governed only by one’s center of gravity (literally and figuratively). Kleist suggested that humans were too self-conscious to give themselves over to such grace–we had eaten from the Tree of Knowledge–and that only mechanical marionettes (with no consciousness) or gods (endless consciousness) could achieve it. And yet: here were these dancers (so close I could hear their exertion) making it so, illustrating the laws of movement and describing arcs of motion that Merce had envisioned with their incredible human body instruments, grimacing and smiling at each other, soaring and grounded and fully conscious. Embodiments of marionettes and gods, both, one. Dear Herr von Kleist, I wish you could have seen it. – Jenifer Ward, Associate Provost, Cornish College of the Arts, and Off PaperEditor

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Raleigh Briggs?

Growing up, I spent a lot of time in churches. I’m what they call a PK (Priest’s Kid), but before that, I was a PAK (Parish Administrator’s Kid). My mom folded and stapled service programs and bought bulk coffee and butter cookies at Costco. Among her many thankless tasks was one that absolutely thrilled me. Each week, she stocked the Sunday School rooms with art supplies: big jars of cheap, roughly cut glitter and tempera paint, and bushels of popsicle sticks. Before, during, and after church services, I would sit in a dim meeting room and use these supplies as if they were my own–something my mom probably disapproved of, but never mentioned. My favorite things to create were jewelry boxes. I would arrange popsicle sticks log-cabin style, tack them together with white glue, and douse the whole thing in rubber cement and sequins. Sometimes there would be feathers. If you tried to keep an actual necklace in it, your hand would be spackled with glitter when you retrieved it. Nevertheless, my mom accepted no fewer than 10 of my creations, and never made me give up my habit to actually attend Sunday School. Thanks, Mom!

-Raleigh is the author of Make Your Place: Affordable, Sustainable Nesting Skills and host of DIY sustainability workshops in Seattle and Portland.

 

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Greg Stonebraker?

The first thing I remember making was an airplane out of Popsicle® sticks. I recall coloring it with a red marker and giving it to my grandfather as a gift. He was a pilot and it was an attempt to make a plane like the one he flew. Many years later I was home visiting from college and he returned it to me, saying he had kept it on his desk for all those years. A few years later he passed away, and I returned it to him by placing it in his casket at the funeral.

-Greg is high school teacher and photographer

Thoughts on "Authorship"

Amy O’Neal and I had just met and had barely started discussing our collaboration for the City Arts Festival’s “Genre-Bender” program, when Amy suggested that we participate in The Project Room’sAuthorship Experiment together.  It was a nice coincidence since we had just begun our process, and it heightened our awareness of how it all works. Authorship is a vast concept, and it made me think of several overlapping ideas.

The issue of authorship within collaborative work is not something I’ve given much thought in the past even though it’s been a huge part of what I do as a filmmaker. I remember telling Amy during one of our discussions that to me good collaboration is like great sex  - you lose a sense of where you end and the other person begins. You start finishing each other’s sentences. For several years now I’ve been collaborating with Marc Kenison (Waxie Moon). Together we’ve made several films. We know each other so well that I often catch Marc nodding as I’m about to utter something – he knows what I know, he’s thinking what I’m thinking and vice versa. The idea of working with a new person always brings a sense of excitement, but also a little bit of anxiety. I’m a very non-confrontational person, so what if the other collaborator just doesn’t get me (I have a very particular sense of humor and aesthetic preferences), or won’t come out with any ideas that I find acceptable? I really don’t know what I’d do then: walk away from the project? Try to change their mind in the most passive-aggressive way possible, like a true Seattleite? Just suffer through it and swear to myself that I won’t work with that person again? Fortunately, this time I didn’t have to ponder this for very long.  It quickly became very clear that Amy and I were made to work together.

In artistic collaboration, just like in any relationship, trust is a required condition. Two people can never be the same and agree on every single thing. But for a collaborative artist there is a threshold that you sometimes reach where you trust your partner so much that you’re willing to follow them to places you wouldn’t normally go on your own. This trust cannot be forced or rationalized. And there is always that unspoken moment of recognition – you’re on the same page, the trust is there and it’s mutual.

There are other more subtle forms of collaboration that we don’t normally think about. I personally feel that every artist is collaborating with the world around them, other artists he or she has been exposed to, their teachers, mentors, peers.  This is especially true today when the internet is connecting people around the world into one shared experience.

Although I identify as a filmmaker, my background and education was in drama and fine arts. Once during (band camp) a drawing class I got into an argument with my professor. The assignment he gave us was to create a composition out of simple abstract shapes. He didn’t specify whether the composition itself had to be abstract. When everybody in the class finished their work, the professor took a walk around the room. Most of the pieces were random patterns, complete abstractions. I used circles to create a shape that suggested a human figure trapped in a cage of the rectangular sheet of paper. My professor started to tell us how images that are fully abstract are more pure, distilled and in that way more original, even personal. I disagreed, insisting that in today’s world where every form of visual abstraction has been accepted into common vernacular, where all sorts of abstract art are ubiquitous in bank lobbies, corporate offices, a pretty much all the other public spaces, a shape is no longer just a shape. An abstract shape suggests abstract shapes from artworks we have seen before. Therefore, in my opinion, all visual art today is figurative and representational. My point was not to disparage abstract art, but to point out that authorship today rarely carries the same level of originality and radical innovation as it would have a century ago.

What does that mean to the idea of authorship?  During our work on what ended up being a short art film for Genre-Bender, Amy and I spoke often about the concept of innovation and originality and how, as artists, we are under a lot of pressure to display both. But it’s my belief that to an artist in this post-modern world, innovation is largely an illusion. Most of what we see, even on the very fringes of avante garde, is a hybrid of things already in existence.   This is largely because for over a century now artists in many disciplines, from dance to sculpture to film, have had complete freedom to re-define their forms.  All the rules have been broken, and from the debris that remained infinite number of new combinations of forms and rules were born.  So why do we still create?  I create because I feel inspired to tell stories “my way.” I’m under no illusion that “my way” was invented by me and is “mine” only. “My way” to me means creating work that excites me, creating the kind of work I want to see. As far as “my” style, I realize that, although on the surface it’s different from what’s common in film today, it’s most definitely not unique or groundbreaking. There is simply no more ground to break.  Maybe, it’s time to put to rest the idea that this should even be a goal for artists. Maybe, art is about to come full circle.  It’s worth noting that even modernist art, that prized originality above everything else, wasn’t always honest about its origins. One great example is Picasso, who is best known for being an ultimate innovator, even while his most definitive paintings are largely influenced by African folk art.

This brings me to the question of appropriation. I suppose, like many things in art, appropriation may be subjective. We all appropriate things from artists who came before us.  The editing technique invented by Sergei Eisenstein can be seen in almost every film made today. Every element of technique, every genre, every vocabulary in any art form has been invented by someone decades, centuries or millennia ago. In that way all of us are appropriating. We are appropriating from the girl who first picked up a brush and paints. We are appropriating from the guy who recognized that movement for movement’s sake is a fun way to express oneself.  We are appropriating from the first person who recognized that film can be used to tell a story.  In fact, some of my favorite filmmakers are great “appropriators”.  Fassbinder drew from Douglas Sirk’s melodramas. Tim Burton’s grotesque beauty can be traced to German Expressionism.  Tarantino borrows his aesthetic from 70’s exploitation. Woody Allen is basically American Chekhov. Why do I still love them? Because, whatever they take they make their own.

Wes Hurley is a Seattle-based filmmaker. He and Amy O’Neal presented their work-in-progress in The Project Room on October 13, 2011.

Watch the completed result of their collaboration here:


What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Reeve Van Nostrand?

It might not have been the first thing I ever made, but I do know I was very young.

An old gentleman friend of my parents came to the house one day. I do not think I was the target of the visit, but I guess, in an attempt to engage me, he showed me how to make stuff from rolled-up and folded newspaper.  No glue, no tape, no rubber bands, no paint. The attempt worked.  There was plenty of little boy left within him and I latched onto it. The old folks in the room would have to deal with the weightier matters.

The first item we made was a tri-corner hat. I was indeed amused.  I was downright fascinated.  He joyously demonstrated how it was to be worn and images of George Washington popped into my head.

I doubt that I ever duplicated his skill, but every-so-often afterward I would take the evening newspaper my father had just finished reading, sit down in the middle of the living room floor, and construct a hat, a sword, a boat or something unrecognizable to anyone but me.  A boat can take you to far off places and it never hurts to take a sword along with you. Having the right hat for the endeavor, well, that just makes sense.

I have no idea who this old family friend was. I do not remember anything about him or how he looked.  I can however still recollect his joy in teaching me, a very young boy, how to make something.

Each of my simple creations had a life expectancy of about fifteen minutes. The images and the joy have been everlasting.

-Reeve Monroe Van Nostrand, Jr., Financial Advisor

This was originally published in July, and is being republished as a single response.  

What’s the First Thing You Ever Made, Bruce Machart?

I can’t draw.  I never could.  Not at all.  Even my stick figures appear to be afflicted by scoliosis.  My earliest memory of a creative endeavor came at my father’s suggestion.  I was three, maybe four, and my older brother could draw, and I was none too generous in the wake of this brotherly one-upsmanship (read: tantrum).  So my dad said, “You know, boys.  We could build a kite.”  If I could translate my four-year-old thoughts into my forty-one-year-old language, I would say that what went through my mind was something to the tune of, “Don’t bullshit me, Pop.”  But he was right, as he so often was.  We collected dowels, newspaper, paper grocery bags, glue, string, ribbon, some Little Debbie treats (mandatory brain food of the 70s), and we went to work.  And we folded, and we glued, and we cut, and we tied, and after several hours, we had an elaborate, fragile, beautiful box kite.  Outside, on the first launch, I held the string taut and my brother flung the thing skyward.  It rose.  God, how it rose.  It flew!  And then, five seconds into the maiden flight, a sudden gust of wind ripped the thing asunder, sending little ticker-tape strips of paper flying around the neighborhood.  But it didn’t matter at that point.  We had made it.  We had made it and it had flown.

-Bruce Machart: Author of The Wake of Forgiveness and a new book of short stories, Men in the Making

This was originally published in July, and is now being republished as a single response.

 

Don’t Be An Art Gallery

The Project Room has a simple mission. It explores a Big Question, such as “Why Do We Make Things?” in a multi-faceted way that will hopefully deepen one’s understanding or appreciation of that particular thing. And I say hallelujah to that. As well as good luck. Despite having so streamlined a goal, I worry that pulling off a seemingly simple thing is not always so simple in practice.

But regardless of the challenges The Project Room will face, it seems to me that what it’s up to really couldn’t be more important, or timely. Important because deeply contemplative exploration on a particular subject—any particular subject—is something that few of us do, and timely because we face complex problems of an unprecedented scale at the moment, and knowing a thing or two would seem to set us on a path towards getting out of them.

But the pragmatist in me can’t help but bring up the challenges first before celebrating the goal. And the main one I see is big, and it is this: focusing deeply on a particular subject is not a natural state for most of us, and probably never has been. Much has been said about the erosion of our ability to concentrate in the era of the Internet, and I see The Project Room at the very least as a hopeful retort to that conventional wisdom. Still, it stands to reason that how one goes about setting up a place designed to overcome such a natural aversion, however it has been arrived at, and however worse it might be getting, would need every advantage it could get. Plus, I have some serious questions about the state of the art world, which I’ll get to below.

Luckily, what I have seen so far at The Project Room has fulfilled its mission admirably. It has been interesting art that has linked quite directly with the Big Question, and from what I understand, there is more interesting art to come. But before The Project Room solidifies its identity with a curious public, I offer this simple plea: don’t be an art gallery. Seeing art in a space dedicated to its presentation equals a gallery in my books, and what I have seen so far at The Project Room is what I would consider to be art. Understand: if it walks like a gallery, and quacks like a gallery, then reasonable people might assume that it is, in fact, a gallery.

“But wait,” you say. Isn’t a gallery exactly what The Project Room should be modeling itself on? After all, aren’t galleries and museums designed to be those rare places of contemplation in a world virtually without them? Can’t they pry us free of our inertia, and get us to truly immerse ourselves in new ideas by presenting them in surprising and engaging ways?

Nah.

Exploring the world subject by subject, agnostic about method or messenger, sounds fantastic, but it should be understood that museums and galleries don’t do that. Ironically, what they actually do sort of doubles down on the idea of asking a series of Big Questions by asking only one: how can we create complete autonomy for art and artists? Yeah, there are lots of ideas and issues raised along the way, but it must be understood that art constantly looks for the challenging, the new, the innovative, first and foremost. Try telling the next curator you meet that you are setting out to make non-challenging, non-innovative art that focuses on great ideas that will really involve people, and see how many shows you get. To suggest something like that absolutely goes against the grain of every artist and institution out there. So whether one likes it or not, walking into a gallery or museum involves a participant in a discussion about Art first, and often foremost, which would in my opinion make The Project Room’s Big Question a perpetual second stringer.

But wouldn’t bringing up anything at all skew the conversation? If a furniture maker came in and made a chair for example, or a survivalist showed people how to make a fire with a flint, wouldn’t the subject be the demonstrators themselves, to some extent? Yes. But if The Project Room decided to relocate to a furniture factory, or be permanently located in a yurt in the woods, it would skew its discussions by distorting everything through the lens of that context. Just as it would if people assumed it to be an art gallery. So don’t be an art gallery.

Ironically, what is interesting to me about The Project Room is that it’s doing exactly what museums and galleries should be doing right now, but choose not to. Artists have won their struggle for autonomy, so continuing to wage that battle seems redundant. There is no longer any debate about what constitutes an artwork. It’s anything an artist says it is. There is no longer any debate about who can make an artwork. Everyone can. There is no longer any debate about where an artwork can go. Say it with me: “anyplace.” A more interesting struggle by far would be to figure out what we get to do with all of our freedom. What do we want art to do? With whom do we want it to engage? Make no mistake, I understand why The Big Questions that art and artists have focused on for well over a hundred years have made nothing but sense in the modernist era. Attempting to answer them gave art the right to be critical of its environment by looking at it from a distance. To quote the academic Glenn Adamson, “This separation means that art is in a position to critique other institutions and cultural bases, whether they be commercial, political, social, economic, or religious.”1

So far, so good. But the price for this separation is steep, as well as paradoxical. If artists want to be free of the world they are critiquing, and they actually succeed in doing so, then isn’t their irrelevance towards those they critique the logical outcome? Separation is separation, after all. Ask people at the next party you are at to name five film directors. Then to name five musicians. Then to name five contemporary artists. I find that even asking undergraduate art students this question results in a struggle to complete the last five.

Of course, if artists wanted to be more memorable (I hear my non-artist friends say), wouldn’t a good first step be to make Art that understands that formal issues are moot, as is a historical narrative that only specialists understand? Does it have to be Art about Art?

And the short answer to that is yes. To the first part that is. No to the last. But there is a palpable resistance in doing so despite what seems a clear historical imperative. We have, by and large, participated in the system as it exists, and participated enthusiastically for reasons that are all too clear; inside the academy are the only people that really appreciate what artists actually do. This is because the academy has managed to become so large, and so autonomous, that it’s become its own audience, sometimes its only audience. Separation is separation after all. Mention you are an artist outside of that context, and suddenly it’s like you have the words “I waste my life” written in shit on your forehead. Those pesky questions about why art is so boring or impenetrable or fashion conscious get brushed aside with the serene assurance that a general audience doesn’t understand the art world. Well, exactly. Meanwhile, I wish I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard the phrase “Artists are the philosophers of our time!” uttered within the academy’s confines. No they aren’t. Philosophers are. Yeah, philosophers still exist, and reading them is an absolute joy compared to reading the gobbledygook that comprises most artist statements, or being lulled to sleep by most artist lectures.

The fact is that artists, in reflecting their time (one of their actual jobs), make it clear that we are in a world of hurt in terms of thinking in a disciplined manner. Good for them (us) for making that so clear. But while falling so far short of having something compelling to say could be considered informative in a kind of doublethink way, we need to ask more of art and artists to get a clearer picture of our world and our place in it. Please. Don’t. Be. An. Art. Gallery.

If you’ve read this far, you might have begun to suspect that I’m a little down on the whole gallery thing, and maybe even the whole art thing in general. Which is not exactly true. I’m down on art that isn’t good, and that unfortunately happens to be quite a bit of it. And I passionately want it to be good. But the truth of the matter is that this is an incredibly exciting time to be an artist, because a shift in thinking seems to be happening, and the things I’ve mentioned above have a pretty wide currency right now among a certain kind of artist. That’s good.

But all of this remains a peripheral issue to what The Project Room is doing right now, and I see nothing gained by including the vicissitudes of the art world in its mission, a mission that seems, as I said above, so beguilingly simple and streamlined: to explore a Big Question. In any way that shed lights on a possible answer. If the question was “Why Do We Make Art?” then by all means, go ahead and open a gallery. But it’s not. “Why do we make things?” is a far more open-ended question altogether, one with answers that could certainly intersect with art, but just as easily might not. Understanding the scope of our urge to Make, an urge that defines us in a primary way, seems diminished by only contemplating it through the lens of art. After all, it is a rare event to go into a room where everything calls itself Art. A far more common experience is to walk into a room where things call themselves Chair, or Floor, or Computer. The pivotal roles that chairs and floors and computers play in our lives, and the fact that we know next to nothing about how those things are made, seems every bit as valid a question as why we make art. Why we make art is a fascinating subject as well, and the answers to it form some of the most enduring acts of humankind that I know of. But that is not the question that The Project Room is raising.

Fortunately for all involved, there are lots of makers that can add to this discussion, and those many voices just might turn it into something amazing. If they do, call it art if you want to. Why not? Our era is equal opportunity when it comes to what constitutes an art experience, as well as where that art experience might happen. Linking an audience with something compelling is the only thing required, the need to call such a place a gallery, not so much.

 

1 Glenn Adamson. Thinking Through Craft (London: Berg, published in association with the Victoria and Albert Museum, 2007).

2 Comments | Posted in: Off Topic | Permalink to this post

2 Responses to “Don’t Be An Art Gallery”

  1. Suzanne says:

    October 5, 2011 at 9:24 pm

    Say it with me: Awesome.

    Reply

  2. jvannostrand says:

    October 18, 2011 at 9:08 pm

    Claudia Bach, who’s teaching “Fundamentals of the Non-Profit Arts Sector” at Seattle University, suggested I post this for relevant reading:
    http://www.giarts.org/article/please-dont-start-theater-company

Gross Accumulation, Percussive Maps, and Finding One’s Way

“Products are an archive — the work is done. The process is what keeps me alive.”

In a conversation with Off Paper editor Jenifer Ward, The Project Room’s first resident artist Mandy Greer references the myriad web of events, experiences, and stories that informs her work—elaborately laborious and intricate installations made from miles of crocheted material, often built up to create an environment, envelop and restrain a body in movement; or both. Leading up to Greer’s quoted statement, Ward mentions “We talked about literature and how Mandy’s ‘massive ingestion of books’ as she was becoming a visual artist shaped her, about the fact that the art often resides as much in those moments of making and being stuck in the weeds of influence as it does in any finally freed, finally installed work. ”

This description of process-based work couldn’t be more beautifully stated. Like many artists before me, and alongside me, I view much of my completed work as more of a circumstantial aesthetic result rather than an architectural objective; these things I’ve made are a byproduct of thought, research, and labor. I’m perpetually living in the future until I am finally once again caught up in the making of the work, existing wholly in the present. It isn’t that it’s lifeless by the time I am through—more that it has become an artifact of the past. It is not the most interesting thing to me, the work on the wall. Making it is.

So this kind of work made by methodically obsessive artists is in fact the quintessential product of process: thousands and thousands of hand-made lines across fields of paper (and I regard cutting and sewing a continuation of draughtsmanship, rather than something outside of it). I spend my time drawing the same shape over and over until I feel it’s done, but I have no idea when that will be when I set out. The edge of the paper? After that, how many pieces or layers or lengths?  I’m an obsessively focused minimalist drowning in abundance, blind to the outside world as I become caught up in the way ink sinks and bleeds into velvety paper; the sound of yarn or twine pulling through laboriously punched holes; the way charcoal feels beneath my fingers as I grind it relentlessly into the paper.

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I’m chasing after the moment where I am no longer aware of the outside world; a sort of trance state caught up only in breath and mark-making. I am, in a sense, looking for the moment where I lose time. Drawing each mark is a meditation whereupon I become thoroughly engrossed in the act of making a thing. This is at the heart of every process-based work—the intentional act of hyper-focusing on one object, towards the end of being caught up in the making of that object. The supposed finality of it is simply a space between making that and other objects, a rest between measures. It is a rewarding experience; we fall in love with the growing artifact blooming underneath our feverish hands. We bend and sway under its release, there is pleasure in its unfurling. It is an intensely vain and [self] indulgent act. It is a necessary act.

Each of these objects is a gross accumulation of one simple thing repeated over and over. Together they compile a percussive map of where I have been. Some objects in this map are erratically placed, the lines more shaky, and visible mistakes are evident. This happens because, as fellow Project Room guest Amanda Manitach has pointed out in regard to her own work, this process is a masochistic one, inflicting physical pain over time—cramping fingers, sore wrists, blurry vision, headaches. As the physicality of the work takes its toll, lines waver. Over time, as I regain my ground, the lines become more solid—the struggle subsides as I find my pace, slow down, lose time once again. I am a conduit to white noise, translating some strange language or transmission. This is a reading. I am taking measure of myself and things around me. This is not a unique process to artists—we all walk through the world creating a personal cartographic journal. This is that journal, only meticulously recorded by my hand—here is where I breathe in, breathe out, leave a mark, move forward, repeat.

Always, the work is a product of research and applied philosophy. Even more than making it, I am constantly thinking about it. I’m buried in the pages of ten or twenty different books by old and contemporary French, German, or American theorists and historians; twentieth century astronomers and cosmologistslush Phaidon compendiums on contemporary drawing, sculpture, or installation; or tumbling head first down a Wikipedia hole about linguistics, or some branch of mathematical theory that I barely understand but somehow find myself relating to. I’m thinking of all the things I can carry—emotionally, mentally, physically. It is a metaphor realized through a series of philosophically-shaped objects, descriptors, signifiers and nonsensical language; a lifelong fascination which, for me, has no end.

In an explanation of the process, I once said that I felt form occurred through a self-leveling patterning of many imperfections; that any microscopic view will inevitably reveal scars, flaws, and ruin—yes, things look quite rough under this kind of scrutiny. After so many hours of staring, I often feel the work is ugly, extra-terrestrial, and completely unrecognizable; or at worst, utterly boring. After I have reached that arbitrary point of completion and I’m able to install the work in the intended space, only then am I finally able to broaden my scope of vision, adjust my focus, and see some semblance of beauty, symmetry, and conclusion. This is where process has led me, a place of calm, comfort, and recognition in a field of textures and patterns. Whether it’s purely aesthetic, spiritual, or psychological—or all of it—the grounding sense of tessellated objects is calming. In multitudes, they go on forever without end.

Artists who are buried in process put themselves there compulsively because they must. It is a pathological drive to focus intensely on the act itself. The work is an end to a means—it is its own reward. So in the end, if all I heard from anyone was acknowledgement of the amount of work I had done, I would be pleased. It would be enough.

I would feel that you’ve seen through me, deep into the core of what I am doing; that we are both laboring, waiting, repeating.

I am building a map. I am leaving a trace. You are walking it with me, caught in the process, reliving its making. And if I am successful, you are making your own, and finding your way.

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Images: gut[ted][ing][s], 2011 by Sharon Arnold; arches cover white, strathford drawing roll, glue 26 foot long installation (above).

carry the one, drop the rest No. 1, 2011 by Sharon Arnold; tracing paper, acetate, graphite, sharpie (at left).