I’ve been settling into my new studio. Wordless for now…..
From “Coming to My Senses.” All Photographs © Iskra Johnson
Iskra Johnson | mixed media artist
I’ve been settling into my new studio. Wordless for now…..
From “Coming to My Senses.” All Photographs © Iskra Johnson
Gage Academy hosts an unusual exhibit this month guest-curated by talented artist Elana Winsberg:
“Any Day is dedicated to the sensitive exploration by artists who are compelled to make work illuminating the many facets of death, life before death and life after death.” The exhibit runs through September 19th, and the opening is Thursday August 14, from 6-8 PM.
1501 10th Avenue E.
Seattle, WA 98102
When I was asked to be part of the exhibit I initially told Elana I had nothing to offer on the subject. Ha. This must be denial at a pretty strong level, since I have done several bodies of work on the theme, both from a personal and political perspective. With a little bit of coaxing I submitted a piece from “What Does Heaven Look Like” and two others of a more personal nature from “Drawings in Dust.” This is a great opportunity to show among artists I admire greatly. Participants include Mitch Albala, Josie Furchgott Sourdiffe, Sam Hamrick, Emma Jane Levitt, Kathy Liao, Greg Lundgren, Memuco, Pamela Durga Robinson, Kurt Vance, Margaret Swanson Vance and Elana Winsberg. Greg Lundgren will present a lecture on ritual, legacy, memorial and the role of the contemporary artist Thursday, September 18 at 7:00PM. Greg is an innovator in the field of contemporary memorials and monuments and this will be a lecture not to be missed.
You will have to attend the show to see my three drawings, (suspense….) but here are some additional ones from the series I did on mourning and loss, using the vehicle of the decoy as a resonant object.
Drawings © Iskra Johnson
It’s a day when the news provokes long discussions of despair and bewilderment on my social media feeds. I find myself in a desperate ricochet between fear of plague, spreading wildfire and epic drought, and I can’t stop thinking of the numbers in Gaza, numbers attached to bodies, bodies attached to the fact of children and hospitals and schools and what can only look to me like slaughter of a trapped people. I hold up a dollar bill and consider what part of it to tear off to protest my taxes going to mortars and grenades.
As I sit in miles of hot stalled traffic I feel increasingly bludgeoned by things beyond my control. This traffic jam is brought to the Emerald City by the Blue Angels. Each summer the freeway closes to honor the Navy’s elite flight squad and the quaint ritual of military preening that carves the sky with white ribbons and shatters eardrums of those below. All I feel as I watch the jets dive between skyscrapers and lilt upward from my rear view mirror is dread. Gaza seems right here, right here in my lap.
I am on my way to see the Jim Dine exhibit at Wright Gallery. The Gallery will close forever in 48 hours, and my mission feels urgent. Jim Dine is one of my five muses, and I have only seen a handful of his drawings outside of books. Not only have I nearly missed the exhibit, but I didn’t even know this world class art space even existed, although it has been open since 1999. With limited hours of Thursday and Saturday, from 10 until 2, and a discreet location, one could be forgiven for missing it.
To get there I wend through a maze of orange traffic cones and barricades and mounds of rubble. Dexter Avenue is about to go. I began my eulogy of this unstoried but precious part of the city with a photo essay on Memorial Day in 2012. That was the beginning of the end, and today marks the final stages. Within a year there will be virtually no low rise industrial or embarrassingly ‘miscellaneous’ buildings left, and all will be re-purposed for the gleaming high tech village and the workers to come. We’ll walk entirely in shadow canyons of concrete and glass, and be pardoned for thinking the throngs of silent people with plugs in their ears and devices in their hands are not quite human.
My completely biased perspective on this situation of neighborhood erasure and gentrification makes Jim Dine’s work all the more poignant. His huge etchings and drypoints are made with powertools. His themes are the heart, the muse, the human hand at one with the tools of hand-work. Dine recently made a gift of over 200 prints to Washington State University’s Museum of Art, and it is from these that the Wright exhibit is composed. Below are two sections from the suite of prints telling the story of Pinocchio.
“I remember sitting on the steps outside the garage….And taking pieces of galvanized pipe, and rolling them down the stairs, just letting them go, like a Slinky toy, but it was a pipe. I would just play with these objects of desire, like a hammer, or I’d grab a screwdriver and pretend to be an adult. I thought they were so beautiful. It was a nonverbal meeting.” –Jim Dine
Stepping into the Gallery is revelatory. The door is massive, silent and soft-closing. The air inside is perfectly chilled. The space: simplicity itself. The architects got out of the way and the art vibrates. This is hallowed ground. All the more so for the heat and the dust, dirt, noise and general calamity outside. We need these places. And we need to pass on the gift of appreciating them, and make new ones to take the place of those that end.
In times of duress art is all the more important, because it matches darkness with light, despair with vision, calamity with imagination. Art like Jim Dine’s dives deep into the heart of what it is to be human. His marks are his unmistakeably. Fragile, arrogant, desperate, joyful — masterful.
Outside the door the world continues. But it looks different.
Site photos © Iskra Johnson, prints © Jim Dine
I fell in love with the bones, the rafters, the beams and the sky in-between.
Then things got very dark, and after a long time they got light again. Many many beams and rafters in between…..
I know an artist studio without roof or walls is impractical. I’ll get used to this. Did I mention that although this is the most anxious summer of my life it’s also the most exciting???
Next I will post the faux barnwood-in-progress floors.
“The point is, not to resist the flow. You go up when you’re supposed to go up and down when you’re supposed to go down. When you’re supposed to go up, find the highest tower and climb to the top. When you’re supposed to go down, find the deepest well and go down to the bottom. When there’s no flow, stay still. If you resist the flow, everything dries up. If everything dries up, the world is darkness.”
― Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
I think there is no better place for me to understand equanimity than the slender borderline between land and sea. To walk the shore on a gray day, with a warm wind in my hair and clouds low on the horizon, to become completely lost in the large rocks and the pebbles and the sand, finer and finer gradations of gray and brown and white and coral that the sea tosses up and time burnishes. It’s the middle path. No chasing after sunsets or epiphanies, no ecstatic longing or grasping at beauty that will fade, because all of this is already faded. I can walk for hours and hours looking down and finding the horizon line and the cloud in every stone.
Neutral. Muse of gray: Leo Adams. The brilliant Yakima artist is my mentor these days, a warm pebble always in my pocket and guiding me as I look to form the aesthetic of a new studio and living space. It seems to me lately that the design world is divided into those who know of Leo Adams and those who don’t. Once you do, you can’t go back: gray and brown will never be the same, and you will look at interior design and painting with completely new eyes. His work blends influences of Asia with the eastern Washington landscape and a Native American materiality and sense of place. It is part of the subtle and potent lineage of the Northwest School, of Mark Tobey, Morris Graves, Richard Gilkey and others who embraced the tonality of this misty overcast latitude and found kinship with the artistic traditions of China, Korea and Japan.
I first saw Adams’ work at the home of a collector in Tieton. Across from a window onto yellow grasses and rolling orchards hung a screen that looked Asian, but not, like sumi, but not, flat yet dimensional, and put together with the most subtle palette of grays I had ever seen. I spent a summer wondering how this work was made, who had made it, what kind of mind could see space the way this artist did. I then discovered that here and there friends of mine knew Adams, and that his way of seeing had influenced northwest design in every way, for decades. Recently he has received quite a bit of attention by way of an exquisite monograph published by Marquand books. It is now a prized possession (bible!). I hope someday to see his home and studio in person, but in the meantime this lovely documentary from KCTS takes me there, as well as through a retrospective of his paintings. If nothing else, becoming acquainted with Leo Adams will mean you never again apologize for dragging sticks and rocks into the house.
I returned home from my recent day along the shore with pockets full stones and a quiet(er) mind. Perhaps this piece is a kind of cloud chart. I’ll need to come up with a new taxonomy to explain this version of the atmosphere. Cumulus Equanimous, that might be a start.
“Here in my isolation I can grow stronger. Poetry seems to come of itself, without effort, and I need only let myself dream a little while painting to suggest it.” ~ Paul Gauguin
“Because she favours solitude and indwelling, an artist can live a significantly more claustrophobic life that she had ever intended.” ~ Eric Maisel
“The ecstatic state of wholeness is bound to be transient because it has no part in the total pattern of ‘adaptation through maladaptation’ which is characteristic of our species… the hunger of imagination, the desire and pursuit of the whole, take origin from the realization that something is missing, from awareness of incompleteness.”
― Anthony Storr, Solitude: A Return to the Self
Sometimes I look back on all of my relationships and am tempted to conclude that the longest and most powerful one, my “primary relationship” has been with solitude itself. It is in the accumulated years of a life alone in a room with work, or in the fields or the streets, wandering, that I have always felt most “my self.” Alone, there is no one to entertain or impress –– only impressions themselves and the gathering of them. If I am lucky there is not even a gatherer, just the verb itself, and some editing hand does the work without my being aware of paying attention, resulting in a collected sense of “coming to my self” ie. experiencing “meaning.”
For an artist the product of this inner process often lives intangibly for a long time. It’s a glimmer, a felt-sense of possibility. Hammering it out into a Real Thing and accepting the distance between promise and actuality can mean a long-distance swim through the slough of doubt, with no wetsuit and no cage to ward off sharks. This is where the fabled suffering of the artist comes in, and it seems to be what most fascinates therapists, analysts, and the people who pay them. The tension I feel between public and private, inner state and outer product, has lately been exacerbated by social media, and the paradox that while one is completely alone in a room there is a potential audience of millions sitting just on the other side of the Device. Others are there, yet not-there. Silence takes on new shapes, as does doubt.
One can always use back-up on irresolvable dilemmas, so I immediately said yes when recently invited to a lecture on “Solitude and Creativity.” The lecture kicked off a weekend sponsored by the Seattle Psychoanalytic Society on “Solitude and Relatedness in Art and Life.” It seemed they had custom made this lecture for me! I conveniently forgot, as I often do when buying tickets to such things, the phenomenon of cultural narcolepsy. It’s the four-foot rule: if a cultural authority is more than four feet away from me and speaking in a darkened room, I fall asleep. Which I promptly did on this occasion, soothed by the comfortable seats and the hush of academic politeness in the auditorium of the Frye Museum.
The hush was abruptly shattered by what will always in the future be spoken of as The Outburst. Lights up, question and answer period murmuring and slow….. references to the speaker’s previous books…. the cost of isolation….. the danger of delusion, and anecdotes of famous artists. Out of nowhere comes the wild man, shouting, half-leaping from his seat with the power of each exclamation point. “I don’t see your face!” he began, jabbing his finger in the air in the direction of the woman on stage. (We can all agree on this first sentence, and this only.) From here unspooled a passionately escalating rant of about three minutes, during which the audience collectively clenched the armrests, and security hovered in the wings. Did the man have a gun? How to deal? Will he take over the entire discussion, like a Trotskyite at a PTA meeting? Does he have cohorts? The speaker on stage did not acknowledge one word of his commentary, and turned crisply to the next questioner. Everyone exhaled, and I started taking notes. Because what he said, or what I thought he said was worth the price of a two hour nap.
But first, what various companions in the audience said he said:
I don’t know, I have no idea what he said, he was so angry, it seemed like years of anger, and it seemed very personal. I was afraid.
He was just crazy. He seemed to think she was his mother.
He kept saying he couldn’t see her face, and he meant that in daily life, in modern life, we don’t see each other. He was talking about the alienation and loneliness of modern life.
Whatever he was talking about, it was completely off-topic.
This being a psycholanalytic gathering we must accept that projection happens, and is perhaps the only currency of “reality.” I’ll accept that my own memory and notes were complete projection. But I heard the man say, “I don’t see your face, I see the color and the shape. But I do not know who you are…” and from there the increasingly adamant tirade addressed the fallacy of her entire premise, that there was a person alone in a studio “being alone” and that there was some kind of suffering. To him there was no alone, there was no person being alone, there was in fact just the unconditional and unidentified: the shape, the color, the abstraction. And this resulted in products (called “art”) that reflected this state, a valuable and irreplaceable state that can only be accessed in solitude. His perspective was not unlike that of a spiritual teacher who chides the student asking about how they will know when they have achieved enlightenment. The answer is likely to blow up the idea of a ‘self’ even being aware of achieving a ‘thing’ called enlightenment, and the student will feel both shamed and annoyed at how off-topic the answer was.
Truly, I don’t go into my studio hoping to brood or do heroic battle with loneliness. I would like to keep my equanimity and both of my ears nicely attached to my head. I go, however, hoping to step into the unconditional, in some unexpected form. Some artwork is the scaffold, the steps to getting to that state, and other work is a report back from direct experience. If we are lucky, the report gives the viewer a glimpse. No face, no name, no limits, just being there. When I see that kind of work I am very hopeful, and transfixed.
It is quite possible the man was off-topic, that he was delusional, ‘mad’ in both senses, yet what he said seemed to me quite wonderful. If anybody was there that night who would like to share their memory of The Outburst, what was said, and what it meant to you, I will be very curious. I am happy to trade projections with you any time.
A few of my favorite writers on solitude, meaning and art:
Anthony Storr, Solitude, a Return to the Self
James Hillman, The Soul’s Code
Eric Maisel, Coaching the Artist Within
And a video interview with the inimitable Agnes Martin
I am living for awhile in temporary quarters between the Collision Center and the Aurora St. Vincent de Paul’s. My white box in the sky is surrounded by several hundred other white boxes neatly stacked and facing each other’s allotted squares of white venetian blinds. This is called an “apartment complex,” and after documenting the construction of dozens of such projects all over the city it is curious to actually live in one. I looked for several months for a place to stay while my house and studio are under renovation. All politics is personal, and all art is in some way political, in that creative obsessions inevitably run into the economic realities and constructs of power behind them.
For instance, take the economic fact that the smallest of those new boxes in the sky, the ones called “studios” start at $1,300 per month and go up as high as $2,800. And some of them are far smaller than 400 square feet, (even, in the case of apodments, as small as 150 square feet) and may have neither kitchen or bath, because what is a coffee shop for anyway? Just plug in your laptop and stay awhile, wash your hair in the sink at Starbucks if the communal bathroom at Green Bamboo Eco-Pod No. 6 is busy. Scaling down from these heights to something within the range of a temporarily displaced artist, it was hugely challenging to find an apartment that did not have mold, ants, a feral manager, reviews that mentioned hypodermic needles behind the dishwasher, or doors so warped that they wouldn’t shut, much less lock. Then there was the bedroom door with the boot-hole still in it. “Will this be on the pre-existing damage list?” I asked. “Yes, thank goodness that anger-management problem is gone,” the manager said, not suggesting that the door would be replaced. As I banged my head on the eye-level chandelier I kept going, and landed in the benign set of cubes where I currently reside, in what is turning out to be an unsettling experiment in identity.
If you work as an artist long enough you will accumulate oceans of stuff. You can drown. It is good sometimes to step away and reconsider. Perhaps one’s ideas of beauty are at fault. Perhaps there is no need for color or iconography or beloved objects. The walls are not yours, and they shall remain without a single nail. Forget about your known circle. Perhaps you need to meet a different person in the elevator three times a day. “Do you hear my refrigerator?” the young man asks. “People always tell me they can hear my refrigerator.” “No,” you say, pressing the button to go four floors down and two blocks over to the trash compactor, “I don’t think I hear yours but I hear three others and I unplug mine to meditate in the morning.”
You had never considered the power of refrigerator generators to create community, but this opens a new door. All things bleak become interesting. Take the large pit beneath the window that may or may not become a swimming pool. Its gray buckets are like persimmons, perfectly placed against a gray background (if you imagine them orange,) and the blue tarp roped across it makes the sounds of the sea as it billows and ripples in every kind of weather. On waking you can imagine steamer ships passing on the far windowsill, and maybe a European boy in knickers scuffs the sand and holds his hat against the wind, with ribbons blowing gaily behind him.
Also, there are always astonishing walls, blank or not, and light writes its poems there, throughout the day and night.
On the second week I went for a run along the new interurban trial. Underneath, plum blossoms smudged pink on tar. Trucks without wheels, fences without posts, everywhere rust, and every spare surface signed by a stranger late at night. Along the backside of the cemetery coiled wire followed the top of Olmstead wrought iron, and a man bicycled slowly towards me, pulling a wagon. His eyebrows had been so perpetually raised in surprise that they had stayed there, like a mountain range, and his face below was impenetrable, mapped by roads with no name. He looked at me long, appraising, and I shivered, and ran faster, towards the young women in pink walking their dogs. An inflatable clown smiled at me from a window in the spare parts warehouse, the anvil clouds of morning flattened into dirty cotton, and I was for a long time the only person on the trail.
In this state I came back and ran into the elevator and up three flights and when I raised the blinds of my new windows I realized just how comforting and powerful it is to have a triangle on a square. This complex was built with a flat roof, but triangles have been attached here and there, to give an impression of “house.” The sun rises there, just between the flat and the angle. I just kept looking at it, the miracle of structure and shape.
The next day I gave in and put tulips in a vase. Each day, only what is necessary. Start with nothing, start with empty, and begin again. I may become a believer after all.
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