Short Break

Currently in the heartland, celebrating my father's 70th Birthday (Happy 70th, Dad!!!).

Regular blogging to resume next week.

Shameless Self-Promotion

John Haber, who writes one of the web's very best sources for solid art criticism at John Haber's Art Reviews, interviewed me recently about some of the topics in my book (How to Start and Run a Commercial Art Gallery), and it's out now in this month's Artillery magazine. It includes a photo I most definitely need to rethink (or just keep on hand should I ever need a mug shot), but it was a really fun interview, forcing me to dig a bit deeper about a few of my central assertions throughout the book. Here's a snippet:

[JH]: One thing comes up over and over, from the very first chapters through the details of raising money. I mean, the importance of a profile, a statement of what makes this gallery unique. Why is it so important?

[EW]: It's not that important to the casual visitor, I'm sure. It's more important in helping guide a business owner through the tricky decisions that present themselves daily. Should I advertise in a photography magazine or a more general fine art magazine? It depends on the type of photography I'm talking about. If it's highly conceptual, then the photography magazine audience might not be a good investment. Even if it brings in a group to see that one show, unless I have other work that interests them, I'll probably have overspent for that ad. Knowing your program should guide which fairs you apply to, how you design your Web site, et cetera.

John notes that a fuller version of the interview will also post later on his own site, within a post that reviews the book itself. Here's a snippet of John's response to my efforts:

The book makes a practical statement just by its organization. After a brief, lively, and personal history of the profession, it gets very much down to business. Chapters give extensive space to the details of capitalization and cash flow, location and logistics. Aspiring dealers may dream most of discovering the next hot artist. And two late chapters do discuss where to find and keep both artists and collectors. First, however, there is work to do.

The work starts with some things that one might overlook entirely. Early chapters insist on defining your program, your markets, and your business plan. The last of those, laid out with especial care, will run longer than my own best business proposals. (Confession: in my other life, I am a publishing professional.) Who knew that one could plan for so much money going down the toilet? With luck, at least some of it will resume a steadier and more hygienic flow.

One may find the book—and the business of a gallery—daunting in another way as well. Chapters run methodically through the options, including the many different art fairs and publicity channels. They even quote hard numbers, although these, too, may date in no time. Winkleman does not, however, even try to make the tough decisions for others. There are too many galleries. There is also, he implies, no secret to success.

A big blog Thank You to John for both, the review and the interview.

Buying Art in the Information Age : Open Thread

I remember it like it was yesterday. Art market articles across the spectrum of the art press spreading the story in sync of how the new boom of the early 2000's was quite different from the previous booms because the collectors buying then were so much better informed than those who had come before them. In 2003, for example, art market guru Richard Polsky wrote:

In this day and age, with information being so readily available, both collectors and dealers are unusually well-informed about what works of art are worth. The good news is that there are no surprises. The bad news is don't expect to steal a deal.

Uh...er....Surprise!

In yesterday's New York Times, in an article titled "Art Prices (and Mood) Inch Back Up," Carol Vogel provided an update on the what it means to be "unusually well-informed" now:

Last fall there was a sense of panic because nobody knew if prices had hit bottom, not just for art but for any asset, and even the richest collectors froze. This season was all about the estimates. “Ultimately that’s what provided buyers with the confidence to bid,” said Tobias Meyer, worldwide head of Sotheby’s contemporary art department, who added that for some artists, prices have dropped more than 40 percent from their high two years ago.

The deliberately low estimates became catnip for bidders. Or so it seemed when Warhol’s 1962 silkscreen painting “200 One Dollar Bills” incited a bidding war among five collectors and ultimately sold for a staggering $43.7 million (including Sotheby’s fees), more than three times its $12 million high estimate.

Would what proved to be the star of the last two weeks have made more at the peak of the market? No, said both Mr. Meyer and Mr. Porter. Mr. Meyer pointed out that during the boom, big money went for highly colorful images like a 1976 triptych by Francis Bacon ($86.3 million in May 2008) and a Rothko canvas, the 1950 “White Center (Yellow, Pink and Lavender on Rose),” from the collection of the retired banker David Rockefeller ($72.8 million in 2007).

“Because this Warhol is black and white, it could have very well been overlooked at the height of the market,” Mr. Meyer said. “Although it is art-historically important, it takes a little knowledge to appreciate.” [emphasis mine]

Taken together (i.e., the sense that collectors were well informed in 2003 and the sense that they were not so well informed a mere four years later), I think you can interpret Mr. Meyer's statement now one of two ways.

1. Either so many new people entered the art market between 2003 and 2007 that they watered down the overall intelligence of the collector base, or
2. Being "well-informed" in 2003 meant knowing what art was worth in terms of cash, but being "well-informed" in 2009 means knowing what art is worth in terms of its importance in art history.

Standing back and thinking about the 2003 and 2009 senses of worth, for just a little bit, one has to wonder when they'll merge and the conventional wisdom will become that being "well-informed" means both: knowing what art is worth in terms of cash AND what it is worth in terms of its importance in art history. That would, obviously, be ideal.

The problem, of course, is that to some degree both constantly shift, with or without a boom market.

The other problem too is the calculus for sorting out a combined sense of worth. If a work is kind of art historically important and the artist has a waiting list, is it worth more than a work that is very art historically imporant but the artist (or his or her estate) has plenty of inventory?

I know. Maybe we need a computer program, like the ones that helped Wall Street come up with all those credit derivatives and credit default swaps, to tell collectors what a work of art is worth. That should boost confidence in the market again, no?

Consider this an open thread on how all the information so readily available either helps or hinders confidence in buying art.

John J. O'Connor, 1933 - 2009

Having moved to New York from another part of the country, I've always envied the "true New Yorkers" who have lived here all their lives. They tend to have a comfort with Gotham that I doubt I'll ever completely possess, and collectively they can rightfully stake claim to having made this place what it is (and that, in my humble opinion, is the greatest city in the world). They're rarer than one would expect in a metropolis of 8 million, true New Yorkers, and if you meet one, usually just listening to them talk about their hometown is like hearing the best movie script you've ever read.

Moreover, true New Yorkers know this city, intimately, having sowed their wild oats here during adolescence, and as with any lover (ex or current) they share a bond with the city and usually some secrets that they're considerate enough to keep to themselves. To hear two true New Yorkers reminisce about how the city has changed or evolved over the years usually involves catching a series of knowing glances and amused smiles.

Listening to John O'Connor and his partner of 47 years, Seymour Barofsky, talk about New York has been simply one of the most treasured experiences of my life here. Both keen observers of the human condition, both extensively involved in writing and publishing, a trip down memory lane with them is a fantastic adventure of neighborhoods crashing into history populated by outrageous people the likes of which fiction writers would be embarrassed to try to pass off as realistic.

This past Friday, John O'Connor lost his battle with lung cancer. I met John because he and Seymour have been extraordinarily generous to Bambino since his arrival in America; Bambino considers them his "step-fathers." Bambino and I spent the last few evenings with Seymour, talking about John and their life together, a tapestry of exotic international getaways (during one of which they had met Bambino in Instanbul) and a cast of characters so much larger than life, we laughed almost as much as we needed to cry.

John J. O'Connor retired in 1997, but he had spent the previous 25 years as the New York Times television critic. He was quoted in one interview as saying how fortunate he felt for getting paid for what he loved to do. The last time I had visited John in the hospital was a few days after the World Series had ended. Having been born in the Bronx, he was of course very pleased with the outcome. I knew he had been moved around a bit during the Series though and so I asked, "Did you watch much of it?"

"Oh, all of it." he replied, placing such emphasis on the word "Oh" that it conveyed this marvelous combination of wisdom and chivalry and yet was crisply contemporary. Essentially, that was how I always saw John. He never took himself too seriously, but he somehow managed to say so much more in just a few word than anyone else I know.

In Anita Gate's lovely tribute to John in the Times today, she writes:

Mr. O’Connor shared his feelings about his occupation in a 1972 column. “Speaking for myself,” he wrote, “reviewing does not involve ‘going out on a limb,’ ” as someone had suggested. He added: “A program either impresses or it does not impress. And if it impresses me, it doesn’t necessarily have to impress my brother.”

“A reviewer is not, or at least shouldn’t be, in the game of picking hits and flops,” he wrote, adding that reviewers measure quality, not popularity. And between the two, “no correlation has yet been convincingly established.”

John talked like that all the time...concisely and brilliantly poignant. Whether we talked politics (which he knew in-depth domestically and internationally) or art (he just smiled mischievously when I asked him for insights into the workings of the Times culture desk) his charm and compassion always shined through.

I've been scouring John's writings the last couple of days, looking for something appropriate to share...something that illustrated the élan with which he interacted with others. He clearly loved TV, but like a good guardian always encouraged the powers that be in American television to try a bit harder. Here is an excerpt from a piece he wrote in 1996 on the Star Trek franchise:

On a more nuts-and-bolts level, the ''Star Trek'' formulas are showing signs of terminal rust. The manufactured crises, the serious tough talk, the tidy lessons in civic responsibility are all a touch too pat, settling into the undemanding rhythms of a comic strip. Last week, for instance, ''Voyager'' returned to finish last season's cliffhanger as Captain Janeway (Ms. Mulgrew) and her crew found themselves on a strange planet of cave dwellers.

The ''primitives,'' of course, turned out to be masters of folk medicine and managed to save a sick baby. Meanwhile back on the good ship Voyager, the holographic doctor (Robert Picardo), muttering something about Nathan Hale and Che Guevara, was urging a psychopath (Brad Dourif) to resume his killer ways (''sometimes violence is required'') to eliminate assorted villains. Tuvok (Tim Russ) later offered the reluctant hero a Vulcan prayer: ''May your death bring the peace you never found in life.'' I could swear I've heard that same prayer on the Lower East Side.

John lived his life in such a way, so open to new people and new ideas and adventures, that there is no benefit brought to any part of the universe, and certainly not to New York, by his passing. There is only a gap. We miss him fiercely already.

There is a restaurant called Chez Josephine's on West 42nd Street in New York. Inside on the right as you enter is a painting depicting dozens and dozens of fabulous people enjoying the music and food and warmness of the place. In the first row place of honor, on the left side of the painting you will find Seymour (in an orange suit) and John (holding a menu) among the partying patrons. Should you dine there, at some point during your evening, the establishment's exuberantly charming owner, Jean-Claude, is likely to stop by your table and make sure you're having a wonderful time. Ask him to point out John and Seymour in the painting, if you would. It will make Jean-Claude's day and, watching from where he is now, I'm sure John's as well.

UPDATE: And here is a review John wrote of a TV-related art performance at the Kitchen ("New York Times television critic John J. O'Connor discusses the Kitchen's 8-monitor installation of The Continuing Story of Carel and Ferd by San Francisco collective Video Free America.")

Poetry Friday

Back in the days when I blogged on politics, every now and then we'd cool things off with a poetry invitational. The comment threads here have been mostly civil this week, but the truly awesome poem that Randall Anderson posted by Mark Strand in the "Role of Intent" thread reminded me of how much I missed those poetry breaks.

There is a word count limit in blogger (and an attention span limit in most of us), so share on the shorter side if you would. But in general, whether penned by you or your favorite poet (whether formal or "street" or songwriter, etc.), consider this an open thread on, IMO, the most difficult of all the arts.

To start us off, here is one of my all-time favorites, followed by a simply spectacular parody of it:

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

And by a commenter on Obsidian Wings who goes by the moniker "st" (in an invitational that had to deal with "crocodiles"):

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the eco-tourist
that was in
the river

and whom
you were probably
relying upon
to pay your guide fees.

Forgive me
he was delicious
so crunchy
and screamy.

-- Obviously Not William Carlos Williams

Ivin Ballen's "Sleepless in Seattle at Winkleman Concert Hall" Update

Performing tomorrow evening:

Friday, November 13th, at 7:00 PM
Big Game

Big Game formed in the fall of 2008 when keyboardist/vocalist Erik den Breejen and drummer/vocalist Colin “Baby Rue” Ocon from Acid Canyon joined forces with bassist Mathias “Uncle T” Sias. The trio found common ground in their love of heavy psychedelic improvisation and catchy rock songcraft and the startling juxtapositions these two forces could create. “Humble Pie” and a reworking of The Who’s “The Dirty Jobs” best capture the early stages of Big Game, as these tunes provided ample opportunity for extensive jamming that was later honed and refined. Though their songs are structured and arranged, they allow room for spontaneity and improvisation. Most solos are never played the same way twice. Vocally, the band has a flair for the dramatic, singing sweetly one moment and screaming the next in service of creating an emotional urgency that runs throughout the music.

For more information, please visit the exhibition's blog Sleepless in Seattle at Winkleman Concert Hall

And be sure to check out the original T-Shirts at the exhibition. created by Ivin Ballen for only $20.00. All proceeds go to the bands.

The Role of Intent : Open Thread

Yesterday's post emphasized one section of the quote from Roberta Smith's review that included the coinage "curator's art," but even within the comments on our thread (and over at Conscientious as well) there seems to be equal interest in another statement Smith put in print: "artists don't own the meaning of their artworks."

Joerg goes on to comment on Conscientious:

This is tremendously important - especially so, I think, in the area of photography where so many people still talk about "the artist's intention", or the "meaning" of a photography (and where it might come from) - with the idea that the intentions (by the artist's fiat it would seem) automatically overrules all possible interpretation. No, they actually don't.

I don't disagree with the notion that artist's don't own the meaning of their artworks (being a firm believer in the type of work, among other types, that artists know it takes a viewer to complete), but I think it's also important to make a distinction in this context and pull Joerg's text apart just a bit.

Not everyone who discusses the artist's intention (something I do professionally) does so with the idea that the artist's intentions automatically overrules all possible interpretations. To be quite honest about it, discussing the artist's intention from a sales point of view is sometimes merely a way of continuing to engage a potential collector until they decide whether they love (and must have) a work of art. There are plenty of sales discussions in which I know to leave it out altogether. Some times it's entirely unhelpful.

Of course, we don't hide the artist's intention. It's generally the focus of our press releases, knowing that some collectors and most arts writers are generally happy to read about them (even when they disregard or disagree with them for any review they may write). But I am fairly sure we have never sold a work of art over someone's otherwise reluctance because of the artist's intentions.

So what is the role of the artist's intent in presenting artwork, whether in a gallery or museum? For me, that question seems a bit disconnected from the entire studio-to-collection process, as if the work is supposed to have somehow magically appeared installed in a space, without a history of any consequence to the viewer. In the extreme, the question seems to feed from a sense that a viewer is insisting "Don't tell me how it got here, just let me take away from it what I want to, based on my pre-existing preconceptions and beliefs." And if that's all someone wants from art, I suppose that's fine (but you see, I'm the kind of person who researches the working process of writers, musicians, filmmakers, and other artists I like as part of enjoying their work, so it's a bit of a forced experience for me to purposely ignore the history or intention behind a work of art...it's not my nature).

Of course, I have a different overall experience than the average art viewer. The topic of intention is consistently a fairly big part of the discussion I have with artists during a studio visit. We also discuss aesthetics, breakthroughs, failures, materials, and technique, but what the artist was thinking when creating this or that artwork is certainly covered in depth.

Now I know that the essence of the central complaint here isn't that intention is entirely irrelevant, but rather that it doesn't compensate for otherwise dis-interesting work. But I think the two do tend to get muddled, and so I wanted, again, to pull them apart a bit.

Consider this an open thread on the role of an artist's intention.