| Here's how it was. This was way back in the | | | | principle as a writer is that old adage: How |
| very early seventies. I had recently arrived | | | | do I know what I think 'til I see what I say. |
| in Los Angeles from Iowa, where I had been | | | | I couldn't begin to sort out my ideas and |
| completing a doctoral program and working in | | | | feelings until I had them down in words. |
| the Writers' Workshop in Iowa City. I was a | | | | |
| poet. I had never taken much interest in | | | | So I sat down and began to write. And I |
| art-though I was educated enough, of course, | | | | wrote and wrote. Judging prose, in those |
| to be aware of "modern" artists like Picasso | | | | days, to be a little bit beneath a man whose |
| and Matisse. I had even, at my boarding | | | | lofty calling was to be a poet, I wrote it |
| school in England, enlarged a blue Matisse | | | | all as a poem, and the poem turned out to be |
| flower cutout to reproduce as a mural on my | | | | some thirty pages long. Evidently I found |
| study wall-to the considerable consternation | | | | that I had quite a lot to say, and much of it |
| of my "housemaster". | | | | had to do with the growing realization that |
| | | | this "mess" of an art show curiously |
| But though I had lived in London for three | | | | resembled how I felt about my life-and how I |
| years in my early twenties, I had not | | | | managed it-when I was seven years old. |
| stumbled across anything that would qualify | | | | |
| as "contemporary art." Then at the | | | | My life was all a difficult, impenetrable |
| University of Iowa, the Art Department was, | | | | mystery. Nothing was as tidy as it was |
| to my knowledge, mostly traditional, under | | | | supposed to be, not even my clothes. Nothing |
| the firm hand of the lithography master | | | | ever fit quite right. I was clumsy, |
| Mauricio Lasansky. | | | | inelegant. I used to spill ink on the desk |
| | | | and smudge my fingers, and then the exercise |
| Then... Los Angeles! The shock of the new! | | | | books in which I had to do my arithmetic. |
| My eyes were opened, first, by my soon-to-be | | | | |
| wife, Ellie Blankfort-she of the Ellie | | | | It was the struggle between the unruly, |
| Blankfort Gallery fame, during those years in | | | | rebellious reality of the inner self and the |
| the very early seventies. Soon after we met, | | | | discipline that others want to impose on it |
| she landed a job running the Art Rental | | | | from without-the classic struggle for |
| Gallery at the Los Angeles County Museum, and | | | | individual freedom in the face of despised |
| she was meeting the younger set of artists | | | | and feared authority. Eventually, it proved |
| she was soon to represent in her gallery. I, | | | | to be a losing battle for the child and a |
| the poet, observed nervously from the | | | | victory for the teachers. Inky fingers and |
| sidelines, somewhat befuddled by the strange | | | | all, I was forced into submission to the |
| things some of these artists were doing. | | | | rules. |
| | | | |
| I was not deeply offended, however, until the | | | | WHEN I WAS A SMALL BOY. This art was talking |
| day we went out to see an exhibition at the | | | | about me! No wonder I was so angry and |
| Orlando Gallery in the San Fernando Valley. | | | | uncomfortable! |
| I arrived there to find hand-made, primitive | | | | |
| axes protruding from the walls; books | | | | Later, when the writing was done. I met the |
| mutilated with cuts and slashes, their pages | | | | offending artist, Gary Lloyd. (Gary, where |
| stuck together with unidentifiable goo; | | | | are you these days?) He loved the poem I'd |
| mysterious-but definitely unpleasant-stuff | | | | written, and proposed our collaboration on a |
| growing in mason jars; and Vaseline smeared | | | | book. We made it-a cumbersome volume with a |
| unceremoniously on the white walls of the | | | | hatchet handles for a spine, a battered |
| gallery. | | | | aluminum cover, and pages rendered illegible |
| | | | by layers of mesh and grease-proof paper, and |
| And then there was an inscription somewhere | | | | smears of Vaseline. We spent hours in Gary's |
| in bold, childish lettering: WHEN I WAS A | | | | Culver City studio putting this thing |
| SMALL BOY, BOB WENT HOME. | | | | together. We even sold some copies to |
| | | | respectable collectors. The County Museum |
| That was it. I was appalled. Appalled that | | | | has a copy. |
| someone could create this kind of hideous | | | | |
| mess and call it art. I went home angry to | | | | So there you go. This was the great |
| have wasted my precious (poet's!) time on | | | | epiphany, for me, the initiation into the |
| such frivolity. | | | | world of contemporary art. It came about |
| | | | through anger and indignation, a reaction so |
| And yet I could not get it out of my mind. | | | | strong that I was unable to ignore it. It |
| To my distinct annoyance, the images kept | | | | came about because I had the intuitive wisdom |
| playing around in my head, refusing | | | | to listen to that contrarian voice and heed |
| stubbornly to leave. The indignation | | | | its challenge. In the months and years that |
| continued to rile. So I did what any writer | | | | followed, I continued making my first few |
| does, I assume, when confronted with the | | | | tentative steps into writing about art. I |
| unknown: I started to write about it. | | | | even discovered that prose could prove a |
| | | | satisfying medium. I began to write pieces |
| At the risk of irritating those who've heard | | | | for Artweek, first, then for Art in America, |
| me say it a hundred times before, my guiding | | | | Artforum... I had found a calling. |