LOCAL

    I hate the term “local artist.” It connotes whittlers and outsider crackpots living in shacks, heated by wood, piecing together discarded junk passed off as assemblage sculptures, feeding cats……OK, I know I fit the profile, but still. Just because an artist lives in the East Village and shows in Chelsea do you ever hear of him or her referred to as “local?” The term is a not so subtle way of saying your range is limited. That also may be true, but it’s not from lack of trying. P.T. Barnum was only one of many citiots who visited the Catskills, soaked up the local vibe, and returned to the mean streets of NYC 1870 when the leaves began to turn. Then, after ripping off the country artist, he declared his NYC FAKE was the one worth paying 50 cents to see. What a douche! 

   Artists may be sprinkled around these hills, working their tails off, but the machine is in New York City. If you don’t show in NYC you are essentially looked on as a nobody. The New York Times (as a matter of policy) will no longer cover any artists showing outside of the five boroughs. If it doesn’t happen in NYC it doesn’t happen. I refuse to bend to the fascist dictates of urbanism in the art milieu. I may show locally but my influence is global. People in France are reading this as we speak. Shout out to Luella, Orla Rae, Cass, Jeremy, Marta, Jacob, Ptolemy and Dave West!

     

    I didn’t always feel this way. When I first moved to the sticks I kept a low profile. I exuded the snobbery of one who had spent the previous twenty years in urban centers like San Francisco and New York. I’d paid my dues and even though my career was in the dumpster I kept my chin high and looked down my nose at anyone who suggested I join a local “art society.” All I had left was my delusional self-esteem, resisting any notion my art could be associated with a rural locale. I had a plan. I would continue to work in the country but keep a low profile, trying to get a show or gig in town. Tick-tock….tick-tock….zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

     As hard as it had been for me to get recognition living in the East Village, when I moved 80 miles north it was as if I had disappeared off the face of the earth. The internet was in its infancy and it would take me almost a decade to recognize that the world wide web was here to stay and buy a computer. Turns out that was a good move. Two days after buying my little white Mac I started my first blog- www.luckymike.blogspot.com. For the first time in my life I was a transmitter— not just a receiver—and I could pontificate from anywhere, even my couch in the country. I still wanted the approval of the urbane art world in general, but had become less dependent on it. Then came the mass proliferation of social media. The pathology of getting “likes” on the one hand thrilled and satiated me, but on the other sent chilblains of neurosis down my spine. It wasn’t enough. I began to reassess my own strict policy of not showing in the country. It wasn’t like I had too many options.

    In 1999, with the help of Tony Labat, I established The Old School for Social Sculpture in the Glen Wild one room school house I had purchased down the road from the church. Twenty graduate students attended a two week session in strategies for the art making process. It wasn’t a studio or residency program; rather a series of faculty presentations and informal discussions. The students lived in tents in the woods. I invited Alix Lambert, Robin Winters, Kiki Smith, Alex Grey, Tom Murrin, Carlo McCormick and Linda Montano to come and stay and teach a twenty-four hour class. It was my first attempt at getting people to come to me. It was a great success. A couple of the student alums, Sharon Glazberg and Eduardo Cure became close friends. 

    Then I got divorced, 911 happened, I got fired from my city job as a carpenter, went broke and almost lost everything. The Old School went kaput. If it wasn’t for the support of friends and family I would’ve gone belly up. John Letourneau lent me $2500 to pay my bills, no questions asked. Eventually I sold the schoolhouse and slowly began clawing out of my depressing hole.  

     We convened our first CLGM church service in 2010, fifteen years after I moved out of the city. Soon thereafter I began to scatter large sculptures on my front lawn, immersing myself in a newly found enthusiasm for the “studio practice” and my growing community. The pastoralists heard about my efforts and I started to get a little press. As time passed I no longer religiously adhered to my previous snobbery when it came to showing locally. In fact I replaced it with a reverse chauvinism, now opposing showing in the urban context. Glen Wild, Greenfield Park, Mountain dale, White Sulphur Springs and Hurleyville have all become my art districts. I now fully embrace showing locally. Any day of the week you can view my work in one of these hamlets, for free. I encourage younger artists to follow my lead. Now that the leaves are changing, you don’t all have to go back into town. Just don’t call yourself a local artist.