IN MEMORIAM

   I’ve repeatedly been confronted with life and death scenarios in my work. Memories of times (and organisms) passed: I bought and branded a cow, only to have the poor bovine get out on the road and get killed by a pick up truck. I invented a fictitious artist by the name of Kristan Kohl. After showing “her” work in my gallery I killed K.K. off, hoping that the old cliche of a dead artist’s work being more valuable than that of a living artist held true. It didn’t. Then, after starting the CLGM I vowed to get any congregant’s name that died tattooed on my person. I’m a little behind in that respect. The death rate is accelerating as my desire for more ink declines. I’ve killed many deer and turkey, incorporating the process and their remains in my work.  Metaphorically speaking I have “killed” multiple vehicles and turned them into sculptures. But it’s my most recent piece, that has to do with my inability to deal with rejection that most concerns me now. I’ve yet to pull the trigger on this new piece, but I know I’ll have the opportunity soon.

    Rejection is one of those things that any artist becomes intimately familiar with very early in one’s career. Some are more susceptible than others to the slings and arrows of being told you are not wanted—for whatever reason. I admit I’m especially sensitive to it. That’s why years ago I stepped away from the art world. It wasn’t any particular rejection that got to me; rather an overall ambivalence that followed a relatively hot period in my career. I was on a roll. I’d gotten a few grants, was showing regularly and and even was included in a large seminal museum show of conceptualists. Then, unexpectedly, the phone stopped ringing. The opportunities that had been so consistently coming my way ceased. I remember it vividly.

    I’ll be the first one to admit I have a tendency to shoot myself in the foot on many occasions. It’s a character flaw I’m well aware of. But honestly, I did nothing to purposefully queer my career. So as I waited for the phone to ring, I pondered just what had gone wrong and wondered what to do next. I decided I had to start from scratch, reach out to galleries and try to get representation. Anyone who has put themselves through this process knows how humiliating and bone-crushingly painful this can be…..especially in NYC. I was barely in my thirties and a complete reject. Nobody wanted me.

    That’s when I decided to embrace my “loser” status, realizing there was entire community just like myself. I switched from the static/conceptual arts, that depended on the art world machine for recognition and gravitated toward rock and roll, with a dash of religion, rediscovering my iconoclast/theology roots. Being a reject here was tolerated, if not expected. If I didn’t ask for acceptance from the art world I didn’t run the risk of being punished. Life went on.

     Fear of rejection led to prolific obscurity and relative happiness. The work piled up. The move to the Catskills in 1995 provided me with new context, while I still secretly pined for art world acceptance. But pining is a far cry from actually courting it. Failures were repeatedly re-defined and placed neatly in a row as the years ticked by. Rejections became almost nonexistent….almost. This is what brings me to these memories of rejections past. I still, periodically, try to get something published, apply for a grant, try to get shows or attempt to sell work. I put myself in peril. I should know better. It rarely goes well. I don’t handle rejection any better now than I ever did. But, what I am getting better at is coming up with weapons to strike back once rejected—or worse—ignored. I’m gonna make this work for me. I’m starting a hit list of individuals who will receive this new piece. I hope it will be effective. Be forewarned— you could be next.