From Roberto Bolano’s The Savage Detectives:
There are books for when you’re bored. Plenty of them. There are books for when you’re calm. The best kind, in my opinion. There are also books for when you’re sad. And there are books for when you’re happy. There are books for when you’re thirsty for knowledge. And there are books for when you’re desperate. The latter are the kind of books Ulises Lima and Belano wanted to write. A serious mistake, as we’ll soon see. Let’s take, for example, an average reader, a cool-headed, mature, educated man leading a more or less healthy life. A man who buys books and literary magazines. So there you have him. This man can read things that are written for when you’re calm, but he can also read any other kind of book with a critical eye, dispassionately, without absurd or regrettable complicity. That’s how I see it. I hope I’m not offending anyone. Now let’s take the desperate reader, who is presumably the audience for the literature of desperation. What do we see? First: the reader is an adolescent or an immature adult, insecure, all nerves. He’s the kind of fucking idiot (pardon my language) who committed suicide after reading Werther. Second: he’s a limited reader. Why limited? That’s easy: because he can only read the literature of desperation, or books for the desperate, which amounts to the same thing, the kind of person or freak who’s unable to read all the way through In Search of Lost Time, for example, or The Magic Mountain (a paradigm of calm, serene, complete literature, in my humble opinion), or for that matter, Les Miserables or War and Peace. Am I making myself clear? Good. So I talked to them, warned them, alerted them to the dangers they were facing. It was like talking to a wall. Furthermore: desperate readers are like the California gold mines. Sooner or later they’re exhausted! Why? It’s obvious! One can’t live one’s whole life in desperation. In the end the body rebels, the pain becomes unbearable, lucidity gushes out in great cold spurts. The desperate reader (and especially the desperate poetry reader, who is insufferable, believe me) ends up by turning away from books. Inevitably he ends up becoming just plain desperate. Or he’s cured! And then, as part of the regenerative process, he returns slowly - as if wrapped in swaddling cloths, as if under a rain of dissolved sedatives - he returns, as I was saying, to a literature written for cool, serene readers, with their heads set firmly on their shoulders. This is what’s called (by me, if nobody else) the passage from adolescence to adulthood. And by that I don’t mean that once someone has become a cool-headed reader he no longer reads books written for desperate readers. Of course he reads them! Especially if they’re good or decent or recommended by a friend. But ultimately, they bore him! Ultimately, the literature of resentment, full of sharp instruments and lynched messiahs, doesn’t pierce his heart the way a calm page, a carefully thought-out page, a technically perfect page does. I told them so. I warned them. I showed them the technically perfect page. I alerted them to the dangers. Don’t exhaust the vein! Humility! Seek oneself, lose oneself in strange lands! But with a guiding line, with bread crumbs or white pebbles! And yet I was driven mad, driven mad by them, by my daughters, by Laura Damian, and so they didn’t listen.
From Michelle Houellebecq’s The Possibility of an Island
I don’t mean that my sketches were unfunny; they were funny. I was, indeed, a cutting observer of contemporary reality; it was just that everything seemed so elementary to me, it seemed that so few things remained that could be observed in contemporary reality: we had simplified and pruned so much, broken so many barriers, taboos, misplaced hopes, and false aspirations; truly, there was so little left. On the social level, there were the rich and the poor, with a few fragile links between them - the social ladder, a subject on which it was the done thing to joke; and the more serious possibility of being ruined. On the sexual level there were those who aroused desire, and those who did not: a tiny mechanism, with a few complications of modality (homosexuality, etc.) that could nevertheless be easily summarized as vanity and narcissistic competition, which had already been well described by the French moralists three centuries before. There were also, of course, the honest folk, whose who work, who ensure the effective production of wealth, also those who make sacrifices for their children-in a manner that is rather comic or, if you like, pathetic (but I was, above all, a comedian); those who have neither beauty in their youth, nor ambition later, nor riches ever but who hold on wholeheartedly, and more sincerely than anyone, to the values of beauty, youth, wealth, ambition, and sex; those who, in some kind way, make the sauce bind. Those people, I am afraid to say, could not constitute a subject. I did, however, include a few of them in my sketches to give diversity, and the reality effect; but I began all the same to get seriously tired. What’s worse is that I was considered to be a humanist; a pretty abrasive humanist, but a humanist all the same.
Wow, thanks to everyone who made it out last night for the opening of my second solo show with Schroeder Romero. The reception was amazing, and watching people pour over my painting, “Relational Wall” was a blast. I’m humbled by the intense reactions people had with the show, and it was wonderful to hear feedback from real people with names and faces. My anonymous hater really doesn’t have a clue what it’s like to produce this work and the level of identification people have with it. While it’s one thing to toss anonymous stones at me, I prefer to heave cinder blocks into the system with my name scrawled across them. Ed Winkleman and Paige West continue to be huge supporters of my work, and in particular their ability to see it in the broader context of the art world. Ed continues to admire Dana Schutz’s paintings which have never really been part of the critique. I’ve just been fascinated with the way painting continues to re-invent itself as the standard bearer of contemporary art despite the continuous critical and theoretical assault on Modernism and traditional aesthetics. With Schutz it’s also the way her work skyrocketed in value, even as her most recent show looks markedly like someone trying to develop a new language. I don’t envy the pressure to continue to produce half-million dollar paintings and find room to grow. While I continue to deal with similar themes in my new show as the last one two years ago, there are different modes of representation from the “Relational Wall” to my narrative series “Withdrawal” that continue to explore new aspects of narrative in art. Plus, I never expected to have as much success as I’ve had, so I’m always a little surprised to continue to have opportunities to exhibit and explore the ways in which we construct value in the art world. Last night was something of a balm for the self-doubt I always feel about getting specific with my work. Thanks to Thomas, Tom, Josh, Jen, Max, Lisa, Sara Jo, Jade, and Bill for helping me get the show together at various points along the way.
My second solo show with Schroeder Romero opens this Friday from 6 - 8 pm at the gallery located at 637 W 27th Street. Actually it opens April 10th 2010, but art can time travel. SchroRoWinkleFeuerBooneRosenGosian Gallery will also be opening in their new gallery space in the year 2012 offering unlimited non-archival ink jet prints of several of their prominent (surviving) artists for $500,000 ($20 2009) dollars.
Gallery Press Release
WE ARE GOING GREEN!
To receive future exhibition announcements, please email lisa@schroederromero.com and/or sarajo@schroederromero.com
SCHROEDER ROMERO
637 WEST 27TH STREET GROUND FLOOR NEW YORK, NY 10001
(212) 630-0722 www.schroederromero.com
PRESS RELEASE FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
WILLIAM POWHIDA
The Writing is on the Wall
April 10 - May 16, 2009; Opening Reception: Friday, April 10, 6-8pm
Oh, for fuck’s sake, he’s back and up to his crazy shit again. William Powhida has once again put us in a totally awkward position as his dealers. He is asking us to show a body of work that he claims was produced by William Powhida sometime in late 2009. We realize it is only April. What the fuck? Right? We aren’t even really sure we understand him, but William claims to have William’s reflections from his time locked in Thai jail for solicitation and drug charges while abroad on an NEA funded travel grant. Apparently (this is so weird) William underwent a difficult detoxification and documented it on paper. We are not shitting you. William even produced a NY Post cover and article verifying the events that haven’t even happened yet, which is just plainly ridiculous.
William has really gone bat shit crazy, making some sort of paranoid representation of the art world William produced after being freed from jail, and has expanded it into an installation of over 3,000 art world portraits. We tried to explain to him that it’s just not possible to show art from the future, but our special ‘little art star’ just stared at us. Are we missing something??? No, he’s obviously experiencing some kind of meltdown brought on by the economic collapse. We think he’s certain he might have had something to do with it and we tried to explain it wasn’t all his fault. Market Crash was just a drawing.
Unfortunately, we are, um, committed to the show based on what he told us he was going to do. He said something about a memoir and was vague about the details. UH, NO. We promise this is the LAST time we trust him. We are so embarrassed to have to do this, but we have to announce that we are pleased to present ‘The Writing Is on the Wall’ opening April 10, 2010 from 6–8pm opening this April 10, 2009 from 6–8pm. This is just absurd, but that is when he says the opening takes place and you know how ‘geniuses’ operate, totally weird, probably insane.
To make matters worse, William also collaborated on a project with Jennifer Dalton. They swear they received a fax time-stamped April 2012 from SchroRoWinkleFeuerBooneWildenRosenGosian Gallery regarding the opening of the last gallery in New York featuring unlimited editions of their work (and every artist still in New York). It’s really…we are at a loss for words. We are so mad at ourselves and Ed Winkleman for even suggesting they collaborate. The artists have provided us with the SRWFBWRG press release. It is a mortifying vision of our future. Please don’t be mad at us, we will show really serious art again soon. If only all of our artists were as thoughtful as Michael Waugh and Eric Heist we wouldn’t be in this position. So, for our sake, please come out and support us during this difficult time and just entertain Powhida, he is really fragile right now and we are just trying to be good art dealers.
- Lisa Schroeder and Sara Jo Romero
Ug. I was just talking with Michael Waugh, who shares a studio here, and he mentioned an article in the Times that talks about the effects of isolation on primates, babies, prisoners, and apparently in my case, artists. One of the effects being psychosis. If I am experiencing psychosis, it should probably manifest itself in my show opening this coming Friday, The Writing is on the Wall, at Schroeder Romero. It’s probably also evident in my ranting blogging. Anyway, I’ll post more about the show soon and provide some visuals to support my claim that I am indeed having a solo show April 10th. Six days away now? Wow.
If you happen to be in San Francisco please stop by the opening of “I Want You To Want Me” at Marx/Zavattero Gallery Saturday April 4th from 6 - 8pm. The show looks pretty awesome and serves as partial response to Cary. I don’t know who Cary is, be s/he asked the question…Anyway The San Francisco Weekly says some nice things here.
New York Times Blog Post on the Odds drawing. While I appreciate the press and I swore I’d stop whoring that drawing out, someone posted a frequently asked question that I thought I’d take a moment to respond at my leisure on my own blog where I don’t have to respect the moderator’s feelings. “Cary” asks:
Why is William Powhida such a hater? What has he contributed? 200-1 [this doubles my own estimate of 100-1, touche Cary, you should be my assistant]
Well Cary, I am a total hater. In fact, I think I hate you too for asking such a stupid fucking question. I am a hater because I can’t stand most art, it’s repellent, redundant, and cliche-ridden (even mine sometimes), and I think most of the privileged assholes who produce said art are self important douchebags (like me, but with a safety net called money). How’s that? See this gross article in the New York Times about the Havana Biennial and artists like Delia Brown, although it ends on a more positive note talking about the work of Duke Riley, crazy man, who is not a self-important douchebag and lives his art. For real, unlike me who may or may not believe anything I am saying to you, dear Cary.
I love art history, though. It’s a nice story with a limited amount of names to remember, because the rest of the artists, a vast, vast number, have faded into oblivion, lost to us forever. Your 200-1 odds that I will be remembered even in ten years in generous in the face of the real number of artists out there toiling in their studios seeking acknowledgment for their industry and passion.
Also, I have not contributed anything that you would find meaningful and have no plans to do that sort of thing, you know, make art that you will recognize because it is ‘good’ and ‘smart’. Whatever, if you want to know what I’ve contributed, come to my solo show next Friday April 10th at Schroeder Romero from 6 - 8 pm and you can see for yourself what exactly I have contributed and why I have so much hate in my black, black heart. I don’t know if I even have a heart. Something beats inside me…
So, Cary, I hope I have answered your thoughtful question. Now go sit in your corner.
