UNDERCULTURE

For those of you who do not know me, Bruce is a good friend of long standing. At school, and later at University, Bruce and I would often pontificate and philosophize on the nature of Art, life and everything else. A fair number of years ago, now, he moved over to London. I’ve not seen much of him since, and I’ve not had a chance to chat to him much either. Until, that is, his last bunch of emails, sent in response to my latest paintings.

They do ramble, I’ll not lie, and they do go off the topic a fair bit but, and this is an important ‘but’, they do highlight a fair number of important issues concerning the art-making process. It also touches on ageing (the both of us turn 30). The exchange was so good, in fact, that I decided to display it here for all to see.

In other words, what you are seeing here is last email in a long back-and-forth discussion. In theory, you should read it from the bottom up.

It’s really great to chat, I will not fuck it up with any must do it more type comments … tres po mo, no? [Yes. Although your sentence doesn’t make any sense (which in a very post-modern kind of way kind of fits), I think I get the gist of it.

I’ve not done much design, drawing, and graphic work in about 6 months. I am fulfilling more and more a sales-person-type of job. You know, doing cold-calls and visits. Jesus, it is bloody depressing. I want to do art-stuff. Sometimes, I come home so fucking depressed and tired I can barely sketch. Sorry.]

Sorry to hear aboot the job shite - I don’t really see traveling salesman as your calling - except perhaps in an ironic performance art/ dada kinda way. In fact, I think a Dada-ist interpretation of your current situation could provide some amusing musing. “Excuse me sir, would you like to buy a car?”;”No”; “Well, would you like to sell me YOUR car after what my associate just did on the bonnet?”;”What!”;”Oh Yes, NIKI NIKI PTANG WHOOOOP!” [Hmmm… I have had such fantasies of that. But, slowly, as I am becoming more jaded, frustrated and lost, I have been less and less patient with the people and more and more openly hostile. I just hope that this doesn’t shift onto my clients. And, for some bizarre, fucked-up, reason, they like it. People think that I am crass and unhinged. Oh well.]

Sorry to here about Melanie, I did not know. [Yeah. So am I. It sucks. I’m dealing with it pretty well. I think I may be an alcoholic.]

If you think you may be an alcoholic, spend more time with my old man - it may give you pause. [Or mine… I know. It is scary. How is your dad, by the way? I’ve not seen him since I last saw you.]

Tempted by wealth and happiness - as you must have worked out, the two are generally mutually exclusive. The best I can seem to manage to have one or the other sequentially, which is going OK for the time being (I guess I am largely on a wealth track now, but more about that later) [I laugh at the way that you are able to cut directly to the meat of the matter. Yes, of course they are mutually exclusive. I forget that. But, still, having one is better than having neither, and that’s where my sorry ass is right now. I am trying to fix it all. It’s just so haaard…]

This is a shitty time of life though, isn’t it. You can no longer feel that you about to reach your full potential, or that new things are around the corner - I am struggling with the grim realisation that this IS my life, not just a rehearsal - reality and I are strange bedfellows (I suppose I am a strange fellow all on my own though…). [Again, you are as penetrative with your insights as ever. Yes: This is a shitty time of life, and yes: there is the grim realization that this is as good, as fulfilling and as desperate as it all seems. I’ve been suffering a very similar angst with the realization that I’m turning 30 in a couple of weeks and I have nothing to show for it. A couple of dogs. That’s it. It scares me. I wanted babies, happy woman, paintings. Where did it all go? But, of course, you put it much more succinctly: “The grim realization that this IS my life, not just a rehearsal”.

Yup, the big 30. I had a preview with the medium 29. Strange how it hits you. I don’t know why this age is the appointed one. I suspect, on the bright side, that once you’ve crossed the hurdle, you end up in a much better state of mind where you are able to live for what you are and have, not perpetually in what you want. Most people in their 30’s seem OK, so I guess this is just a phase

Let’s hope so, because otherwise there’s a big conspiracy that’s just waiting for a chance to fuck us all up. On the good side of things, the more biographies I read, the more I realize that artists come to their best stuff in their 30s. And, in case I’ve not waxed lyrical about the James Breslin Biography of Rothko enough, allow me to do so now: it is awesome.

Side note: Have you seen the movie “Pollock” yet?]

I think a lot of this whole fin d’siecle (laugh away at my tawdry attempts at French spelling and use of expressions, but you understand that in London it is ala Mode ; anyway all this coming of age crap is probably at the root of my malcontent. [Yes. I put it down to the existential angst arising from the realization of your own mortality. The way I see it, when you’re a teenager and younger, you think you’ll live forever. Then, you realize that you’ll die, but you think that there’s a way to escape it and that it’s just that no-one’s found yet. And, now, the sudden realization that there is no escape is probably dawning on us…]

Firstly, All the best for Knysna, you won’t need it though. [Thank you. I am still nervous: I haven’t had an exhibition since 2001 and all the old fears of exposure and acceptance are coming out again (”What? You again? I thought I’d dealt with you years ago! Back to your box!”).]

FIND TIME TO DRAW - if necessary make yourself some stupid self-help deal like one sketch per beer last night. You’re good at it and the world does not deserve to be starved of your work! [You are an inspiration. You are right, of course. The one-sketch-per-drink might just do it ]

On that, I have been trying to do some drawing too. I’m quite pleased with it. For a long time I couldn’t bear to put pen to paper. I have transitioned into the realm of Computer Programmer (when not installing W2K), so my brain is quite set in bits ‘n bytes mode most of the time which doesn’t lend itself to finding something to draw that has any real significance (Is it pissy to say that only people who don’t really grok creativity draw for fun… [I don’t think it is pissy. In fact, one of the reasons I don’t paint as often as I should is that it is really draining. It is a fucking roller-coaster ride. And an unpleasant one at that. It’s only when you’ve finished that you go: “Woo wee. That was fun. Let’s do it again.” As for the mental state, I completely understand and sympathize. It is not all that pleasant to put in a full day of drudge and shit, and then be expected to be mentally and emotionally (not to mention physically) prepared to tackle a drawing or painting session.]

… Drawing (any creative endeavor) is fucking hell. It’s horribly difficult to start, once you do, you are naked in front of yourself and your imperfections and then you have to proffer your soul to the proles for their grudging, tawdry approval. Since when is that ever FUN? Deeply satisfying, yes. Emotionally empowering, yes. Generating a sense of connectivity to something everlasting and greater than yourself, yes. But fucking NOT FUN) [I just realized that I bisected your parenthesis. Oops. But, yes: you are entirely, completely right. Art is a lot of things, but not fun. I regard art as a form of surgery. And the only proof that you’ve gone through the surgical procedure being the cloth on the table. The cloth is messy: filled with blood and viscera, but the patient doesn’t look any different. Only the surgeon knows exactly what blood, sweat and gut-wrenched tears it took to make it. Everyone one else just gets to look at the cloth. And this is where art appreciation comes in: One must be able to look at the cloth and say: “ah, yes, I see what kind of surgery took place here. It was a mighty endeavor.” Most people are too fucking scared of going under the knife themselves, or even witnessing the blood-letting that they are unable to appreciate the true significance of the messy cloth. Sunday painters, crafters and the likes wouldn’t know, and neither would most of the people I work with. They only recognize the technical significance of the stuff on the cloth: They walk up to it and say: “ah, yes, there is some blood from the right ventricle, etc.” but they are fundamentally unable to project/imagine/see the process that led to the spilling of blood.

I hope that you don’t mind, but I’m going to turn this email into another art article for Underculture. It’ll be in the art section, so no-one will read it.]

Anyway, my struggle to draw came from the realization that having had a pile of my skills trained out of me in Archi and rest left to rot from neglect, I couldn’t really express myself the same way and needed to find something new; also, you always wonder if you really have anything worthwhile to say. Well, the last sentence is classical rational apathy - we all have plenty to say and we’re not really the judge of that anyway. So, to make a long diatribe even longer, I have started to do some small sketches of improbable machines - illustrations really. [It’s not really apathy, nor is it over-analyzing and rationalizing: it is a necessary process of tracing the steps. It’s like psyching yourself up to run through some spiky undergrowth, running through it, and then trying to retrace your steps so you don’t get lost. But, what you’re telling me here, is that you’ve started doing self-portraits? Ha ha.]

Quite architectural little things, carefully drawn and full of cogs and wheels and things - inspired by Leonardo. Not the most original stuff, but pleasing to draw and pleasantly ironic. I think it is interesting that giant steam engines, the symbol of the phallic glory of the industrial age, can be portrayed as amusing, nostalgic foibles… I would like to say that I am not intellectualizing the process, but you would know I was lying; the major point with the drawings is that they are always drawn in sectional or elevational perspective, and if you look closely, they all will only work in two dimensions - my ickle joke; hee, hee [I have seen many of your sketches like that from back when you were studying. I can imagine what they must be like. It would be nice (although not necessary) for you scan them and send some through to me. I must say, I appreciate that kind of illustrative, intellectual play, although I’ve never really had the patience for it. They sound very Escher-esque.]

It also turns out that Mark Hardman, as he often is, was right. No matter how hardened a feminist they think they are, when it comes to career or baby, most women don’t have much difficulty deciding where the priority lies. (But, because the world owes them a living, they also don’t see why they should not get 2 years maternity leave with pay) [Don’t even get me started about that. I am writing another article for my website, entitled: “Why all the bitches are the same” along similar veins. I couldn’t agree with you more. I have spent more time surrounded by feminists and lesbians in the last year than I ever wanted to, and what I realized is that, at the end of the day, they still all secretly want cock and babies… Sorry. Did that come out all bitter?

We can only hope that things will work out. They generally do. Or you die, in which case it doesn’t really matter.]