David Petersen Artworks

It has come to my attention that at some point a promise was made, by me, to ratchet up the criticism, nice-nice and shit-talking in regards to local art work exhibited in our galleries, museums, hotel lobbies, living rooms, elementary schools, etc, and that this promise has proven to be nothing more than hot air. Is this true? Probably, who can remember anything they once said these days? I say shit all the time, how can I possibly recall all of it?

Plus, have you seen the art work in elementary schools these days? Utter tripe. Seriously, could you make at least one finger-painted tempera mess that expresses the Zeitgeist? How much do you think that blob of thumb smushes you call clay is going to demand on the swollen art market? And kids, your papier-maché masks are unconvincing as functional (albeit reified) artifacts of self-identity as well as pot-shots at Western Imperialism. Awful. Although I did hear 3rd grader Johnny Jasperson took a piss on the cover of a Nylon magazine featuring Dash Snow. Paging Mr. Saatchi, paging Mr. Saatchi.

Unfortunately, that is all the art I get to look at these days, on my scouting visits to local public schools. Kindergarten is right around the corner for my 5-month old daughter. And I am pushing 40. Do you honestly think I have the time to not only get out of the house to see some work, but to then critically bust its chops or smooch it with praise? Do you actually want to know how I am even half a shit aware about contemporary art? Why am I getting so angry?

Through the tubes of the Internet, and every once in a while with the assistance of a left over Friday New York Times Arts and Leisure section at the coffee shop, I somewhat pathetically attempt to keep tabs on the big bad Art World. Whether it’s Martin Puryear at the MoMA, Jeff Wall at SFMoMA, or Jenny Holzer at MASSMoCA, I am usually somewhat capable of maintaining a watchful eye on the American institutional comings and goings. Nationally, the gallery scene is much much trickier, and it usually takes an out-of-the blue phone call from an old pal in New York to alert me to something worthwhile. Like when Savitz called me to say he had finally seen something that wasn’t just another load of crap trying to take advantage of the art-star hedonism and balls-to-the wall capitalism that has engulfed and regurgitated us all whether we like it or not. Keith Tyson at PaceWildenstein, show called ‘Large Field Array.’ Pretty badass.

Locally, it is cold. And unfortunately I am not talking about the weather. Things seem pretty slow. The autumn shows I was optimistically hoping to see were either missed and then read about, read about and then intentionally missed, or missed altogether. And even the few things that were attended were gestural, ambition-driven surveys like WAC’s ‘Brave New Worlds’ and the 3-D Biennial in St. Paul, either needlessly overwhelming, carelessly underwhelming, just the place to be, or a disappointingly abrupt end to your evening. Much like this posting of Blah Blah Blah.

No more promises.

Well, what more is there to say? If you were present, you are probably zip-lipped with embarrassment that you attended. Some most likely stumbled into the misfortune of having some would-be friend waste their time with an obsolete summary of the night’s events. Others just went to the bar and washed it all away with a sea of overpriced beer and tacky shots. Another successful showing of art in New York.

Why all the negativity? Certainly it couldn’t have been all that bad. Possibly true. There was the late-night trip to Midtown, my brother and myself posing as lighting contractors for admittance into the Waldorf-Astoria service entrance, up the elevator crowded with tired eyes, get off at the Third Floor, or was it the Fourth? stepping out into the glass and stainless steel spectacle that was the kitchen of the Grand Ballroom, in an irrational but exhilarating attempt at procuring a tray of half-sipped and lipstick-stained Champagne glasses. Then there was the chase down several flights of steep stairs and I know I made it to the bottom but it gets fuzzy after my encounter with the doorman who I am pretty sure used to wrestle as the Undertaker. Cleans up real nice. And of course my brother gets away Scot free, tray and all, and refuses to explain how, which immediately sends up some red flags of suspicion, except that the tray has the hotel emblem right in the middle of it, and the glasses we drank out of at the opening were etched with the old ‘W’ & ‘A’. Disturbing all over the place.

We also cannot forget the destruction of the $50,000 computerized router. Or the subsequent two trips to Bellevue Hospital. We wish we could forget the waiting room. We definitely are certain not to forget that my name is Davis Patterson, and sure I have insurance, I just left my ID at home but I have always lived at 123 West 69th St, NY, NY 10023 and I have no allergies to penicillin or any pain medications that may need to be, hopefully, oh please oh please, prescribed. We don’t remember being discharged.

As much as my memory can muster, that must be the trip to New York in the nutshell that is a bottle of Demerol. Yeah, whatever, we did what we had to do every opioid-influenced step of the way. Toes get stepped on, eyes get gouged, Champagne don’t finish itself and it is pointless showing artwork in New York if you are not willing to lose a toe, an eye, or in my case, both.

It’s good to be home.