CONTEXTUAL OVERLOAD

  When I first moved to the Catskills I purposefully kept a low profile. My mindset was that of the citiot—work in the country—but never show there. To join a local art society or participate in a group show was akin to admitting defeat. I avoided any connection to “Sunday painters” or retired college professors who finally had time to “do their art.” There was plenty of work to be done, both on my property and back in the city for wage, so exhibiting took a back seat to survival. I still wrote a monthly column for PAPER magazine, and when they fired me I got a gig writing an outdoor column for the tiny weekly THE RIVER REPORTER. I tried to keep my name out there. In 1999 I organized The Old School for Social Sculpture and prayed that an opportunity would present itself for a show in the “real” art world in New York City. It didn’t.

    Slowly, painfully, my attitude towards showing my work in the Catskills changed. I had no other options. If I was to continue to call myself an artist I would have to find a way to put myself out there, find community again. This goes to the core of the way I had always worked. From my earliest attempts at getting attention in San Francisco, with pieces like The Motel Tapes or attending seminary, the performances, installations, social sculptures and exhibitions have always been self-generated. If I waited around to be asked to be in a gallery show nobody would ever know my name.

     

   Two very important things happened in 2010 that would shape the way I would continue my art career. (I never liked the word practice. I prefer the more aspirational career.) My father died and we convened the first CLGM service of the Catskill era. Almost a decade later I now face a different dilemma. I hesitate to say that I’ve run out of spaces, strategies or ideas for showing in the Catskills, but it feels as if I’m getting damn close. Could I be running out of  Catskill context?

    

    I don’t want to pull back the curtain too much, but it’s fair to say that the CLGM runs itself at this point. If the Band of All Faiths is up for producing a service, with all the hymn writing, rehearsal, drinking and pot smoking that comes with the process, I’m down. It’s fun, the congregation is cool and well behaved, it doesn’t cost that much and people like it. After all, I’m only asking that you bring some food and drink and burn a dollar. The expectations and bar are set very low. It’s no wonder that it’s survived for 34 years.

   The death of my father in April 2010, just before the first CLGM service had a profound effect on my outlook on life and output of work. Mortality was on full display in that little jar of ashes. I entered into a very prolific period. When my mom died two years later I amped up the production even more. My context became the Catskills. The church lawn became my studio. My porch became my gallery. I bought a synagogue down the road, further expanding my studio space and installation possibilities. I drew, sculpted, worked on collages, paintings and installations. I manipulated billboards, tagged the area with large painted yellow rectangles and put up signage exclaiming God Loves Fags and Dykes. Breaking my own rule of not exhibiting locally I had shows at The Catskill Art Society and Gallery 222. When I needed a particular context for paintings I exhibited them at The Rock Hill Ramada Inn over the beds. When the church yard could no longer contain my sculptures I began filling up The Mountain Dale Social Sculpture Park. When all this didn’t fulfill my needs I wrote a book and ok’d the filming of a documentary on the CLGM.

   Here’s the problem. I now feel overexposed locally. There’s only so many people who can possibly give a shit what I do in this little area. Social media reaches a few more, but with slight impact. I think I have saturated the local landscape to the degree that I may be doing more harm than good. Reaching out to the “real” art world isn’t even an option anymore. Plus, I feel an active boycott is in order regarding NYC and cities in general. I’ve become a rural isolationist. Maybe I should do the same in the country, retreat a little—for the good of the community—and my career.