Heart

Since I barely have ten hours of experience with the boat, Thomas sailed us through the rough Boynton Beach Inlet. As the sea widened, I noticed the whitecaps and looked at Thomas, who was smiling.

Talking was hard to do so I sank in the bow seat and enjoyed the fire of the late-afternoon sky. Against the ocean and everything that comes with it, including the birds, many of my writings on this blog seemed flimsy. But not the bit about Heart, though it might be confusing and likely to be misunderstood. What Heart might be was clear as I watched Thomas head into the waves. It was clear in a way my writing wasn't, and it was a clarity no intellectual machinery could diffuse.

I blamed my writing and moved on to the walls of dark water rising above us. The wind had picked up and soon Thomas and I were both soaked. The night was almost upon us. I thought of asking him to turn around but the warm water felt good. We were in the Gulf Stream. Maybe if I were Hemingway or Dewey I could write about Heart, I thought. Really? My shortcomings aside, not even Kierkegaard, who did as good of a job as anyone, could make much sense of Heart in Words. Pointing towards a cloud. Hand waiving. That's all we have.

And examples. Thomas, for me.

The Architect

Thomas and I drove to Encinitas to see a juggler who goes by the sobriquet “The Architect.” The drive this time of year is pleasant but I was happy when we finally arrived. The show was arranged at an old ranch—the type of production you know has some poet behind it. We sat under a eucalyptus tree with a good view of the stage, which was maybe the size of a small bedroom. The excitement built as the crowd grew, and when The Architect appeared we burst into applause. The Architect was dressed as a nurse, which at first seemed confusing but after a while began to make sense. His entrance was nothing to speak of, and during the show he barely acknowledged the audience. The show, however, was enthralling.

He began with one red ball, which he easily kept in the air, ease he exaggerated by looking at his watch while the ball went up and down. Then he brought in a second ball and about the time that second ball went up, a sudden breeze crossed the stage. The two balls were easy for him but the insistent little wind was definitely disturbing their trajectory. A third ball went up and a fourth. Each new ball exaggerated the unpredictability of the others, but The Architect didn’t seem to mind the chaos when four or five or six balls were in the air and his skill was enough to hide the balls’ uncertainty. But when the seventh ball went up the situation changed. The Architect’s efforts to compensate for the wind became noticeable and his movement lost some of their grace. The ninth ball ended the act.

We were walking towards our car when we saw the juggler coming out from a barn. He was not wearing the nurse uniform but jeans and a t-shirt. Thomas, who likes to talk to everyone, complimented The Architect on the show. The Architect thanked Thomas, said something about the wind, and introduced himself as Rick Gibson.

The Lucky One

Thomas asked me today what had I earned and I answered, “Nothing, everything I got I got by luck.”

“That’s a fancy, muchacho,” he said, “you’re not that lucky.”

Then I remembered this:

‘Till, gaining that vital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated by reason of its cunning spring, and, owing to its great buoyancy, rising with great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea, fell over, and floated by my side. Buoyed up by that coffin, for almost one whole day and night, I floated on a soft and dirgelike main. The unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths; the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks. On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.’

“I guess I earned at least one pleasure,” I said.

“That’s the one I was thinking about,” he said.

Santa Monica Studio

We have finished the construction on the Santa Monica studio, and seeing the effort, some people have asked me if the project takes away from my work.

The question seems to point at a more definite understanding of my work than the one I have. To me, “the work” is always shifting and always feeding on that shift. The question also underestimates the value of this particular “detour.” It would be hard for me to make a categorical distinction between the process that generates a painting and the process that decides I should hang the deer head in the studio’s library. In each gesture I am trying to sort myself in relation to it and to find something refuge-like in the final assembly. Space and furniture, for instance, are something quite distinct from the position one takes towards painting only if the purpose itself is quite distinct. For me, the studio is an embodiment of the same point of view that generates the artwork.

The artwork and the studio have many (though not all) of the same aims and provide me with similar comfort and discomfort, so what is the meaning of lost time or interruption of the work? I gain energy by using it.

The End of a Lovely Season

The measurement of time seems more arbitrary than it did before. Seasons come and go, and it is hard to satisfy the hunger of their coming and going.

As my last entry for this year I am including a working excerpt of a conversation between Thomas Hoveling and myself (which in its final version will be included in the catalog for my exhibition in Australia), and a brief description of the weekend workshop I will teach this summer at the Anderson Ranch.

The Lovely Season
Excerpt from a conversation between Thomas Hoveling and Enrique Martínez Celaya.

“Tell me about the children who appear in many of the recent works,” he said while turning on the lamp by his side. I thought about our other conversations about childhood and I wanted to say something new, even if it was not true.
“Everything seems possible with them but also, they might show signs of the many things that will not be possible.”
“How about the two sculptures of boys?”
“Maybe they’re to the image of a child what a petrified tree is to a tree.”
“You don’t see these children as symbols?”
“No. I realize there’s a tendency to read images as symbols to be decoded though psychological or political machinations, but to me images are flatter. They represent themselves first and foremost. To stop at the thing…,” I said fearing I was sliding towards my typical, and dull, philosophical observations.
“Do you think our society is becoming more sophisticated about images as it is often said?” Thomas asked.
“I guess it depends what you mean by sophistication. One way to see our world is as a river of images moving quickly past our consciousness. Everyone is quick with the glimpse and the quick interpretation. But the whole thing is fairly trivial, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know anything about that world, really. I’m out of the loop,” he said.
“The current seems to be moving towards small screens with little movies and a taste more defined by sampling than by sustained engagement; the art fair booth with the one painting by each artist, the music download with the one hit song.”
When I finished talking, we remained quietly sitting near each other, while I tried to dissimulate my embarrassment. I shouldn’t have been speaking in front of Thomas about the restless spirit of modern life. It must have tested his patience.
“Let’s eat,” he said.


Brief Description of Workshop at the Anderson Ranch

Stumbling Towards an Artwork that is not as Terrible at it Could Be

Topics to be discussed include the challenges of making art in the age of careerism and art funds, the struggle between entertainment and art and the obstacles and help in the formation of an artist. In addition to the lectures, a selection of critiques will be held as a well as a “symposium” between the participants, the artist and his created character, Thomas Hoveling. The “symposium” will include debates with volunteers regarding artistic worldview, question and answer and interviews.

Each day will consist of a lively discussion followed by a critique and/or a directed argument.

Foolishness

The Head of the Extension Program: Don’t forget your notes on Beckett. Work hard. Remember: The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom

Marty The Fool: It is always a late arrival. And no one is waiting for you at the palace.

The heavy bottom lip of the Head of the Extension Program lost whatever shape it had.

The Times They Are a-Changin

Now I have finished Nomad, which will be shown at the Miami Art Museum this fall and winter (opens to the public November 2). For better or for worse, the environment—its parts and their relationship—represents most of what I know about painting.

Earlier this afternoon, after I finished my notes on Nomad, I went for a long swim in the ocean. The beach was empty. Then a skinny and hairy man sat down on the sand and turned on his radio. I got out of the water. We both nodded—he seemed homeless and his radio was small. I sat near my things and we both looked straight ahead, towards the horizon: a band of dark ocean under an almost white sky. I could hear his songs. They seemed to be coming from farther away than the twenty yards between us. Dylan’s The Times They Are a-Changin came on. While listening, I noticed the dark clouds moving above. I knew it wasn’t going to rain but I left when the song ended, just in case.

Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won't come again
And don't speak too soon
For the wheel's still in spin
And there's no tellin' who
That it's namin'.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There's a battle outside
And it is ragin'.
It'll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin'.
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'.

House Where Nobody Lives

Our house is almost empty. The toys are gone and my family is gone. Only I am left behind—to finish a few projects. I did a walkthrough last night. It reminded me of that song by Tom Waits, "House Where Nobody Lives.”