David Petersen Artworks

Oh where does the time go? The sands of the hourglass just slip by when in the midst of some serious slacking. And I have been slacking. Maybe it is the summer heat, or maybe it is lower back pain. Could also be attributable to the endless supply of Old Milwaukee in the refrigerator.

So, in this lazy, semi-drunk before noon spirit, let’s keep it light. How about some shout-outs? The first is much-belated and much-deserved and is bestowed upon the trio of nerd/punk/artists Hardland/Heartland for their fully successful event that inaugurated the Summer Events Series at Art of This. Way to go boys and girl, what a treat and thanks for inviting us old guys to the after party.

A sad shout-out goes to the now late George Carlin. I am still not sure why the handrail of the escalator goes faster than the steps, but I will certainly continue to lose more sleep.

Some long distance props goes out to Franconia where my old friend and one-time undergrad muckraker Holly Streekstra has just competed her latest sculptural project. A Camera Obscura made out of a small trailer house painted up traveling carnival style, this marvel is not only technically tight, light tight and trimmed out to the nines inside and out, but damned comfortable as well. Make the trip out there dammit and the wonders of Americana, science and mosquitoes will thrill both mind and soul.

A quick, consoling pat on the back to me for just biting the tongue, blood be damned, and not dragging a couple recent local art ‘exhibits’ out behind the barn for a good throttling like my daddy used to do. C’mon y’all.

Stevie Wonder on drums. YouTube that shit right now.

And, lastly, just in case I don’t get back here before next Saturday, a grand and gratitude-filled thank you shout-out to my daughter Ruby for making the past year the most amazing of all time and who, despite her frequent bouts of whining and crying, continues to remind me on daily basis how it is just going to get better and better. Happy Birthday Sweetheart.

Providing me with ample opportunity to fib my way out of the house after dark in order to ‘help’ facilitate their latest creative mindblast, the local trio that makes up the artistic whatchamacallit, Hardland/Heartland, will entertain and enthrall the Art of This die-hards this Saturday night, with a multifaceted, nonfunctional, electro/sono/video/performo playland of failure and futility, properly celebrated, eventually inebriated. C’mon by. The Golden Energy awaits you.

There was something on my mind a moment ago but it seems to have passed. It wasn’t necessarily hilarious or controversial, though it was disparaging. I was gonna rag on something. What was it…? Oh yeah, me!

Anyway, as I said, the moment has passed and the sun has suddenly come out, so screw it. Let’s keep it positive. Instead of poo-pooing the new images I have on the Artworks, images of art that should have been on there months ago, images of art from both here and New York, art that was mostly destroyed in transit from NY, art that will now R.I.P. in a cardboard box somewhere in the cellar, I will feign excitement of their new incarnation on the Internet. Ta-da!

Courtesy of Free Will Astrology, by Rob Brezny, for the week of May 15, 2008, the horoscope for Sagittarians like myself:

“In his folk song ‘Farewell to the Gold,’ Nic Jones tells the story of a failed gold prospector. After two years of finding no more than a few flecks of the precious metal, the unlucky man is giving up his search. ‘Farewell to the gold / that never I found,’ he sings. ‘Goodbye to the nuggets / that somewhere abound. / For it’s only when dreaming / that I see them gleaming / down in the dark deep underground.’ If I’m reading the omens correctly, Sagittarius, it’s time for you, too, to say goodbye to a quest that hasn’t panned out. Yes, it’ll be sad. But here’s the happy ending: Within a month of the time you surrender, you’ll be led to a better quest with more chance of success.”

It wasn’t exactly one of the choices on the poll, but well said. I’d better drink on this one.

Knock-knock.

Whyyoustillbloggin’

Whyyoustillbloggin’ who?

Whyyoustillbloggin’ when I heard that nobody reads yer shit.

Ouch, that’s cold.

Let’s maybe make this a short read with a small chore. We’ll take a poll. The world is full of polls right now, what’s one more?

Should I:
a)keep the blog alive?
b)let the blog quietly and peacefully pass on?
c)eliminate the writing while continuing to find and post humorous if not always art-related photos?
d)give up the art charade once and for all?
e)go back to college for yet another difficult to obtain but real-world obsolete degree in art history or some shit that might let me eventually work on a Ph.D?
or
f)just get a library card?

I read now that Robert Rauschenberg passed away Monday. I suppose that makes a lot of people sad, and I am sorry to hear about that. His work has always somewhat confused me, not necessarily because of the work itself, but rather because I have rarely agreed with what the critics and historians have said about his work. Like when Saltz called him an ‘artist suicide bomber.’ What the fuck is that all about? Seriously Jerry, even R.R. knew when to say when on the theatrics. Maybe the writers have more intimate information about his intentions than I do, which is likely the case. Anyway, I am hesitant to go into it. Maybe they have Ph.Ds and I don’t. Sleep well Bobby, sleep well.

Sheesh, this is getting more morbid by the minute. How are the results of the poll coming along? Let’s hit the newsdesk… So far not a single vote for any of the six choices. The art world has spoken, very softly. I guess the seventh choice was either:
g)how about take yer poll and shove it?
or
g)since when did you have a blog?

Since back in the day.

Already it has been at least three weeks since visiting New York and still I am finding it difficult to focus on anything but the following: my death-defying cross-Brooklyn (and first) ride on a tall bike; vegan chili dogs; and the unclassifiable new sculptures by Bryan Savitz that defy not only categorization and definition, but a fixedness and stability, not through denial but rather by their protean ability to exist in various roles (art-historical, aesthetic, conceptual, etc.) simultaneously. Just take a look:

The photos do them absolutely no justice, but that’s the internet for you. Guess you had to be there. www.rare-gallery.com

I have tried to keep up with the deluge of events that have been taking place the last two weeks, but I succumbed in drunken-like exhaustion at a certain point. Probably just blacked out and went zombie style. And that was like Wednesday. Fortunately, my domestic partnership requires that a small surveillance camera be attached somewhere on my person, just in case of benders and the like. Here is a run-down of the tape.

Saturday night, I ditched out on the family when local artist and deadbeat like myself, Ruben N. picked me up in his newly-tricked out German automobile. Umber studios received us like we had just scored a half dozen Eightballs, which he had. Though the imagery is somewhat blurry, it appears we were taking in the reception for the collaborative drawing, painting and collage work of Andy Ducette, Ric Stultz and Michael Winslow. But you would have thought the party was for us - the lights weren’t even on when we showed up and I don’t even know who those artist guys are, but once we did, that 42nd St. art space began to glow.

Tuesday afternoon, Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, a pair of recent GED recipients-turned security guards inexplicably get way too rough with me during my attempt to retrieve pretty much world famous artists Jo Jackson and Chris Johanson. The newly arrived visitors were aghast at the sight of their driver slammed face down on the pavement atop his half-finished six pack. Talk about slamming some brewskis! (Too easy.)

Thursday night, Walker Art Center, after an absolutely hilarious and mind-altering conversation between the visiting artists, we are chased willy-nilly through Loring Park by ravenous paparazzi and random player haters, down Hennepin Avenue, across half of downtown until we reach the Monte Carlo, one of Minneapolis’ oldest restaurants. Thank goodness they were still serving dinner, but seriously, it’s 2008, guys can keep their hats on at the table.

Saturday night, the big Opening Reception at Art of This for the visiting artists, a tremendous and supportive turn-out of locals who like to have a good time. A quick apology to the TAC faithful who showed up with bells on, only to be slightly slighted by the guests of the night. That was the most youth we have ever had at the space, and we hope you won’t forget where we are. Big ups, as they might say.

If you were at the Dirtbombs show and I didn’t say hello, it may have been because I was too blown away by their cover of INXS’ Need You Tonight. It’s unexplainable, but goddamm, for one rainy Saturday night it was the jam. Here’s the image from my low-jack.
This may have been the longest bloggity-blo-blog of my life. The past four weeks have just been that way. There should be all sorts of wacky spectacky coming up in the the not-too-far future and I hope to see you there, or at the very least, capture you on video so I can watch it at home the next day. C’mon!

Let the good times roll, friends of the Artworks, all signs point to the end of what was easily the longest, nearly insufferable, most-spent-indoors winter of our lives. In honor of this much-anticipated departure, just now, pants-less, I stepped out the door of the studio and took a leak in the yard.

Pizza Party! John Marks, who has made myriad motions of modification in regards to my writing manner, albeit minor, is throwing a pizza party at his palatial Phillips estate this evening. 8pm sharp. So what if the ‘long paragraph’ is an overused trope here on the old blog, what are you my freaking english teacher? Your crusts are usually too dry.

This afternoon, if anyone wants to partake in a discussion of the art work of one Richard Prince, in either English or French, maybe in regards to his use of appropriation as a tool to critique American culture or as a tried-and-true aesthetic device employed by all sorts of artists smarter, richer and deader than Reecharr Preence, one that the Artist has exhausted in every sense other than the one that has made himself très riche, that as the trendy commodity, feel free to meet me in the lobby at about noon. Bring me something to eat, would ya.

Tomorrow night, get on over to the gallery, Art of This, you know where it is. We have an exhibition opening for local artists Suzy Greenberg and Alison Hiltner and their conceptually collaborative show, PATHOLOGICAL. The party is going to be off the chain, especially after all the attention from local media. Plus, Alison has promised a short dissertation on the obsolescence of the contemporary gallery and the promising future of amphibious art work. Can you say ‘Pool Party?’

Two weeks from right about… now, yers truly will be touching down on a JFK runway for a brief four day respite in New Yawk City. I am already swelling with anticipation, feeling a rejuvenation, a revival of all my faculties, a certain je ne sais quoi that is being funded by those idiots in government who are literally buying votes by doling out checks. Gawd bless America. The itinerary of this trip is pretty simple, it’s all about chilling with the old boys from back in the day and eating at least four slices of Rosario’s a day. Plus, Saturday night is the big art opening up on 26th street. If I had more info, like I asked for at least two weeks ago dammit, it would be shared now. So let’s just focus on pizza.

Yikes, who needs a drink?

Well, it has been four or five days since returning from the South, and I haven’t had an adult beverage since we crossed back over the Mason Dixon Line, which in my book is Highway 62 in south Minneapolis. And believe it or not, I believe the lack of spirits is hampering my hankering to describe our trip to the city of St. Louis. Which is a crying shame, considering all the things we saw and the people we met and the parties we crashed and the hotel room we destroyed. Straight cash homey.
After a total of 10 treacherous, white-knuckle hours driving through southern Minnesota and Iowa, and then into Missouri, get off Interstate 70 at Grand Blvd. and hang a right, heading further south, beginning to notice the blight that massacred north St. Louis in the 90’s, building after building after building bombed out, no windows, no doors, just empty black sockets like those of skulls, and after about a mile of this the guilt starts to burrow into the belly, and we are going to a freaking art museum conference for crying out loud, oh there it is, the big shiny metal structure, with giant windows to boot, standing out like a brick of white gold in the pile of shitty crumbled up bricks that we just drove through with our heads hung so low you’d have thought we were working on the car’s exhaust.

Did I bum you out? There’s no beer in my house, so go to hell.

Seriously, St. Louis needs a hand. Fortunately, there are a few pretty sweet individuals down there that are attempting to do some pretty sweet stuff, fixing up buildings, activating neighborhoods, exhibiting some art that is totally out of place, but what the hell? Now, don’t get me wrong, I understand the whole ‘gentrification’ cycle and how the decimated neighborhoods that were once thriving, usually minority neighborhoods get neglected by city and state officials who have developers whispering in their ears about how in five years they can turn that ‘crummy, crime-ridden’ part of town that is always giving them grief in the newspapers into a great big civic hand-job if they play their cards right. And I understand how the artist types are usually the unintentional foot soldiers in this war on the poor and their homes and maybe they should share some of the blame, but usually they are renters and they have no choice when the warehouse is sold and ‘River Heights’ or ‘Greenwich Metropolitan’ are conceived.

St. Louis has a little different story that is only beginning to be told. The artists are just buying the buildings themselves. Which, sure, is a testament to how rotten it must have gotten, for the developers stuck to the downtown portion of the city. But out in the neighborhoods, the artists are stepping up, no more renting for them. They are going all in, as they say on the riverboats, investing in their projects, themselves and their neighborhood, not to mention the city that will certainly come calling in the future. Just don’t sell out, don’t sell the fuck out!

A couple quick shout outs to Boots Contemporary and the BootPrint they are leaving behind. It’s the real deal. Yeah I’m talking to you Juan and Georgia. Also, I gotta mention the Cheshire Hotel, in all its 18th century English Inn glory, thanks for the towels and painting. And lastly, to one hot momma running the Shangri-La on Cherokee St, damn you got it going on. (p.s. I’m the one who had the Moroccan stew).

Due to some unfortunate and infuriating technical, web-based difficulties leading to malfunctions, temper-tantrums and finally consumption, the -and you will have to trust me on this one- completely amazing and thoroughly critical rant on the recent atrium installation of Chinese artist Cai Guo-Qiang’s piece, Inopportune: Stage One, at the Solomon R. Guggenheim in New York, vanished into thin internet ether. Godfuckingdammit. I am not rewriting it.

Which is a terrible shame considering the amount of effort and hate that went into the posting. Maybe hate is an inaccurate term. How about ‘ire.’ My writing was filled with ire. If you would like to become acquainted with the source of this ire, please visit the NYC Guggenheim website to see the short video on the installation and adoration of Cai’s work, a nine-Chevy Metro, electric light rod monstrosity dedicated to inducing the Upper East Side set into a state of conscience-cleansed drooling. The janitorial staff is busting their asses just to keep the floor clean. And that’s not all, because while visitors head straight for their masseuse after craning their necks for 45 seconds at the suspended automobiles, the museum administration is at the chiropractor getting a readjustment from patting themselves on the back. Again. Next season, maybe they’ll just have one big hand-job fest.

But that is not what I wrote about the first time I wrote about what I am writing about.

It doesn’t really matter anyway. It doesn’t matter how upset I get with Peter Schjeldahl turning all warm and fuzzy about the beauty of car-bombings because Cai is such ‘an elegant and pleasant man,’ so Taoist and not at all ‘defensive about indulging aesthetically contemplative viewpoints on terrorism.’ It will never amount to jack shit how vehemently I disagree with Curator Lady Alexandra Munroe’s assessment of the work’s harmonic transcendence of the violence it is meant to portray. Two tears in a bucket ain’t gonna do squat to help me explain to anyone who thinks the victim of a car-bombing, whether killed, maimed, or related to one killed or maimed gives a spit about what someone who is driven to work at an art museum calls ‘beauty’ or ‘violence.’ Because, apparently, they are way off.

And that is what I wrote about, like a week ago. Before I reminded myself who I was all hot and bothered about. The self-sheltered delusionals at the Guggenheim. Goodnight Guggenheims, certainly you will sleep well.

Faintly, we sense the end of winter slowly nearing but the situation is beginning to turn pathetic. Having run out of hockey fights to view on YouTube, we have begun retelling them, each of us memorizing their favorite like a good Guy Montag. Which is yours? Ruutu v. Tucker? Boogard v. Laraque? Or an oldie like Dave Schultz v. Dale Rolfe? Classic bloodbath.

Mysteries on Antarctica are not uncommon. Apparently, neither are fisticuffs.

I am going to bed with all these beers.