Open States - Earthquake, drawing work in progress from mirena rhee on Vimeo.
Rough cut of the making of my latest painting dealing with the disaster in Japan: Open States – Earthquake, 30 x 40 inches, pen and ink on paper. The painting is the first in a series prompted by my dream about an earthquake, a dream I had about 48 hours before the earthquake in Japan struck.
Unfinished business - a fragment of my latest yet-to-be-finished painting dealing with the disaster in Japan: Open States - Earthquake, 30 x 40 inches, pen and ink on paper. It will be days before the painting is completed, it is still quite raw. And it will change by the time it is finished. But just like its subject matter - I was anxious to preserve this current crumbling state. The painting is the first in a series prompted by my dream about the Japan earthquake, which I had about 48 hours before it struck.
May is a month of growth in the art business and a number of great artists have shows all over Chelsea. Richard Tuttle's vigorous presence at Pace Gallery with pretty large follies that oozed spirit. Jasper Johns who was in attendance of his show opening at Matthew Marks Gallery in Chelsea and seemed to very much enjoy himself amidst his many works and the crowds, who seemed to enjoy it too.
Today also marks my one year anniversary of living and painting in New York. I don't have much to say but have a lot to paint about it.
Rob List posted a few important thoughts to his blog, one is an interview with coppola, yes, the Coppola. And also his own thoughts on art as a practice, a post titled Market worth on his blog. I am almost done with a drawing destined for San Francisco, ( I think ), and discover that I very much dislike hats and love Arvo Part .
Also, to emphasize the mood of the moment - one of the lyrical pieces of Jackson Pollock, where he really is at home and not fighting the black paint, a calligraphy of sorts:
More is less, but less isn't more - more lines on the paper don't a better piece make. I discover this first hand and decide to take comfort in the foreign territory of quantum physics, I often feel good in foreign places. I come back to quantum physics by listening to Leonard Susskind of Stanford after I discovered a random fact about certain "work function" - this explains why you get sunburn, and this is the threshold frequency in order to kick an electron out of an atom. I think it's pretty simple to understand that low frequency light like infrared heats you up but it takes high frequency light like ultraviolet to get you skin burned.
There are a few quantum physics cliches I really liked even before understanding what they mean, like Quantum entanglement, destructive interference and the uncertainty principle. The great thing about the latter is that on the scale of people and cars it still exists, it's just too small to be critical. I take great comfort in the fact that things that we really thought are quite obvious, like your speeding ticket, are just assumptions and approximations of certainty.
The abstract thought in physics and abstract thought in art became simultaneously apparent in the West. The Zen monks who designed these gardens in Kyoto, however, were already abstract 5 centuries before. When I sat on the wooden floors contemplating these gardens I came very close to feeling like an atom, a particle:
Starting a new work is a leap of faith. After the initial decoupling with solid ground, all traditional notions cease to exist. You are in a state somewhere between free fall and zero gravity except the center of the pull is unknown. New work is a trip into the subconscious masquerading as a constructive act. At certain moment you feel like the clock from a Dali painting sliding down a glass surface. Somewhere along the way is a mirror which you eventually smoothly slip through and it marks the boundary of the world of the painting. Until then you travel with an intent to make the painting, beyond the mirror you and the painting travel together. Once through the mirror the old universe no longer exists.
It has been long since I read something that I feel is close to my own practice and how I feel about paper, drawing, my work, the world and my footprint on matter. And here is what Michael says:
"I went to paper after rethinking Thoreau’s Economy and reading about sustainability in From Cradle to Cradle.
I decided to work smaller because we live in an era when dumb things are getting larger (televisions, SUVs, McMansions) and smart things are getting smaller (smart phones, smart cars, smart cards). The generation behind me has been described as “platform agnostic”, meaning they’re willing to watch a cinematic wonder like Lawrence of Arabia on a palm-sized screen. I also prefer the face-to-face engagement that smaller works require—that is the modern interface.
I work exclusively in black and white because I like absolute contrast, and participating in the larger, global tradition of monochromatic painting.
I acknowledge that paper is the perfect surface.
I have come to loathe the wealthy and prefer to make high quality works more cheaply that anyone might afford.
I have become bored with the “grand manner” of painting and its heroic trappings. I felt that my most recent paintings were really drawings masquerading as paintings. Lastly, I’ve always been attracted to simpler, not minimal, more direct means of making art.
I have long maintained that if the artist isn’t surprising himself, he’s most likely not surprising anyone else."
The making of Exquisite Corpse One:
The resulting Exquisite Corpse I work - 4x7 feet, mixed media on paper mounted on board, 2010.
Artists: Anna Efanova, Dilcia Giron, Vera Costa, Mirena Rhee.:
To my patrons and all art lovers visiting Open Studios - Thank you for the inspiration and provocation. The planing of future work will be in part based on feedback I received from you. This is going to be in a way a continuation of our conversation. Thank you for your patronage.
I would like to invite you to Pen and Ink Drawings Open studio as part of High Line Open Studios Chelsea 2010 - Oct 15-17, 526 West 26th street, suite 303, Fri 6-9 pm, Sat and Sun 12-6 pm. I will be participating with new pen and ink drawings.
Link to the online invite is here: http://mirenarhee.com/mirena_rhee_invite.jpg
There is going to be an accompanying Exhibition Opening Party for All High Line artists, which will be held at 508 West 26th street, suite 5G, Thurs, Oct 14, 2010 from 6 to 9 p.m. The exhibit will remain open Oct 15-17, 2010, Fri, Sat and Sun from 12 to 6 p.m.
Facebook page for this event: http://www.facebook.com/#!/event.php?eid=124283857625985
I would be happy to see you if you can make any of the days/events. Please, feel free to forward around. There are many other artists participating in the event, all within a few blocks around West 26th street in Chelsea. If you can't make my studio perhaps you can visit theirs: http://www.highlineopenstudios.org/artists.html
Thank you for your support!
What a stunning exhibit at the MOMA tonight. I am not going to say it was well curated as I am not going to say MOMA is a good museum. It was genius, brilliant, inspiring world class art. I personally rediscovered Pollock and not because I found something new, I found the artist rediscovered himself. That's bravery in art and has very few masters. The paintings loved being together and brought out the best in each other. Just like mass and energy, energy brings more paint and more paint bursts with energy. What an opportunity to be with art, to feel it's power to change.
The Seventh (A hetedik) by Attila József translated by John Bátki
If you set out in this world, better be born seven times. Once, in a house on fire, once, in a freezing flood, once, in a wild madhouse, once, in a field of ripe wheat, once, in an empty cloister, and once among pigs in sty. Six babes crying, not enough: you yourself must be the seventh.
When you must fight to survive, let your enemy see seven. One, away from work on Sunday, one, starting his work on Monday, one, who teaches without payment, one, who learned to swim by drowning, one, who is the seed of a forest, and one, whom wild forefathers protect, but all their tricks are not enough: you yourself must be the seventh.
If you want to find a woman, let seven men go for her. One, who gives heart for words, one, who takes care of himself, one, who claims to be a dreamer, one, who through her skirt can feel her, one, who knows the hooks and snaps, one, who steps upon her scarf: let them buzz like flies around her. You yourself must be the seventh.
If you write and can afford it, let seven men write your poem. One, who builds a marble village, one, who was born in his sleep, one, who charts the sky and knows it, one, whom words call by his name, one, who perfected his soul, one, who dissects living rats. Two are brave and four are wise; You yourself must be the seventh.
And if all went as was written, you will die for seven men. One, who is rocked and suckled, one, who grabs a hard young breast, one, who throws down empty dishes, one, who helps the poor win; one, who worked till he goes to pieces, one, who just stares at the moon. The world will be your tombstone: you yourself must be the seventh.
I love the number seven plus you can find more great poems here: visit http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/590
They say in New York, you learn something new every day.
Recently I had to move some of my things across town. Once The taxi driver saw my luggage he refused to take me. With all my things on the sidewalk I had to beg. And he grumbled. I kept loading my things - and we got going... and once we reached a really bad neighborhood, the car broke and stopped. We were in the midst of a sea of cars swerving left and right around us. There was a moment of silence and something in me told me that the Driver and I were there to learn a lesson.
The taxi driver was in sheer panic. Then, amidst all the traffic, a person from the streets approached us. After a conversation I could not hear The Driver took out some dollar bills, handed them to the stranger and the stranger disappeared from sight. We knew we may never see the bills or the guy again, and waited. In a few tense moments the stranger appeared, crossed the sea of cars towards us holding a tube of car oil. The oil went in the car, the car started, we thanked the stranger and he smiled from ear to ear, his face transformed in a bliss of goodness.
Well, all this is not news in New York. The matter was that after this incident the Driver's attitude turned 180 degrees, he became the nicest person, talked to me about doing good things to others and ultimately helped me with my luggage once we got home, made sure I was ok and safe. And I remember he told me: "In New York, you learn something new every day". I think Driver, Stranger and I all learned a lesson that day.
A hot day in New York and a big holiday in Bulgaria, St Marina's day is my grandfather's and my name day. In the Orthodox Christian tradition and in the old days in Bulgaria, the name day was considered a personal holiday bigger than the actual birthday of the person. Wikipedia says that Name days in Bulgaria are important and widely celebrated. By an ancient Bulgarian tradition, everybody is welcome on name days; there is no need to invite guests.
My grandfather was a successful businessman and a self-taught painter. After 1947 his fortune was nationalized and he was declared an enemy of the state. I always remember him glued to the BBC and Voice of America. I grew up in my grandparents' house and remember that a mustached person from the Party also always lived there. My grandfather drew and painted well into his 80's and had a great sense of humor, sang beautifully and had a very laid back attitude for just about everything. An anecdote says that one of his aunts warned him that his apprentices are stealing... and he said:" There is something for me and something for them."
I spent some time at the Brooklyn museum with Kiki Smith's drawings, ink and glitter on cream colored paper, and with large Egyptian reliefs and works in stone done millennia before the word art was invented. What is it in art that moves so ? What is in a Picasso print, what transpires in a B.C. marble, what is in a Vatican fresco and a Dying Slave? What's the Black in a black Goya painting, what's eating us in a Bosch, where is the De Kooning woman going on her bicycle, which anonymous artist painted the thousand hands of this Shiva? Why does Monet shimmer, why is that man with an apple for a face, how many birds do you see in an Escher, why is the triangle of light in Rembrandt so mysterious? Where is the light in a Vermeer coming from, why are there 500 species of flowers in a Botticelli, why am I going around in circles trying to find out where the wind is coming from that is blowing these cypresses, and why is mouth and flesh in a Bacon so maddeningly beautiful? Why is art so beautiful?
A poem written by Mirena Rhee during the wash cycle at the corner laundromat.
