David Petersen Artworks

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.

Egads! I have put my stinky foot into my big fat mouth again. No, that’s not it. My big fat mouth let my flabby lips flab away again. Again! And, as usual, it is my own undoing. Every time I start gabbing it up with the press, godluvem, I wind up saying something that seems completely casual, an innocent conclusion to the conversation. Just a comment, a throwaway, pleasant perfunctory. But no, the tape was still rolling, the journalist’s mind still probing for a simple sound bite, a sexy little quip for quotation. Oh bless their underpaid hearts. Just stop using the stupidest of the stupid things I say. Sheesh.

First, and this was like a year ago, so I only fret about it before I go to bed at night and then again at 4 a.m. when Annie has to get up to feed the baby, it was the 8 a.m. phone interview that was all about how Art of This operates and why it was showing a certain artist and how the project was a development in the young artist’s work. Yet somewhere in all this drowsy artspeak I let slip some irrelevant insignificance that this artist’s work was trendy and seemingly accessible for young collectors. Oh, and I am sure I said it loud and dumb, but how was it germane to the conversation? What did it have to do with the artist’s project? And why would that be the only line that made it into print? Art of This doesn’t even sell work (note to painters)!

Skip ahead to this afternoon during my daily perusal of the Internet, all of it, when I come across a preview for Angela Zammarelli’s February 9 exhibition at Art of This. It’s an excellent piece. Complete with background of both artist and gallery, the preview captures the spirit of Angela’s work as well as why it is a good fit at AOT. We, artist and gallery, really couldn’t ask for much more. But good old petersen’s (sic) gotta keep running at the gums, the dumbass. Concluding the excellent and much-appreciated article (please keep up the good work on the good work) is a punctuating piece of pitiful ‘I am a complete and utter nimrod.’ And again, I am quite sure the words were in fact expelled from my mouth, the words referring to Angela’s work being, ‘It’s pretty nuts,’ although it is quite possible and maybe even rather likely that the words may have been ‘It’s pretty fucking nuts,’ or simply ‘Fucking nuts.’ At this point, the concluding line might as well read, ‘Fuck, am I high.’ At least then a stingy Victorian editor may have given the line the ax.

The point of all this regretful, neurotic babbling is that despite the benefits of a working relationship with members of the Fourth Estate, I will inevitably leave a few loose threads blowing in the wind for a writer to use against me. And I would ask that they not do this anymore, or at the very least attempt to excise the unnecessary idiocy, but that might risk a reluctance to preview shows at Art of This, and that would bum me out. This would also greatly disappoint my mother, who really gets off on my looking like a monosyllabic dimwit in print. The lesson to be learned is that, strangely, this isn’t about just me, it is about the artists. And if a few poorly chosen phrases turn up in such a way as to make the artist look a little better and a whole lot smarter, well, then I guess I have done my job. Fucking nuts.

Wassup nerds! I just finished a double shift of breakfast and lunch at the CC Club and realized I’d better get this in before passing out on the sweet, less than sparkling, less than ceramic tiles of my bathroom floor. Correct me if I am wrong, but tomorrow is Art Shanty Project day out on Medicine Lake. Although it appears that the weather won’t be bone-chillingly cold like last weekend, I hope you are all able to attend. Of course, more people will probably show because of the warmer temperatures, but where’s the fun and excitement in that? There will be little to no risk of frostbite, hypothermia or death. And let’s be for real, if there is no risk of death, what’s the freaking point? Like my breakfast this morning. Don’t get me wrong, breakfast was great, completely thirst-quenching. But I could still focus my eyes. So we stuck around, did a meet and greet with the suckers who worked all morning, and got our bellies back to the bar. Where’s the danger, you ask? I am really not sure. I am also not sure why there are french fries in my pants pockets. Must’ve gotten the munchies. Did I mention I am high as a kite?
What is going on here? All I wanted to do was invite you to the Art Shanty Projects on Medicine Lake, wherever that is, and listen to me on the radio tomorrow. Listen to me, me, me. I could also use some help with talk-radio topics because, unlike last weekend, there is no football game to simulcast. And since there can’t be too many people interested in me talking sports, sports, sports all day - which I can totally do - feel free to swing on over to the K-ICE shanty with some beer and we’ll have a chat. Or, if you are radio shy, just drop off a sixer and watch me go. Seriously, come on out, there’s bike races and karaoke and wild dogs and a bunch of hip, normally fashion-conscious artists in frumpy, lumpy winter clothing they wouldn’t want to be caught dead in. So there is some danger after all.

11 January, 2008, 1900 hours, Art of This Gallery hosts the launch party of the Abandoned Antarctic Research Post. The event is well attended but Petersen is sick as Shackleton after crossing the Ross Ice Shelf.
12 January, 2008, 1400 hours, the Abandoned Antarctic Research Post lands and is erected on Medicine Lake. Part of the Art Shanty Project, the AARP (isn’t that for old people?) is assembled in less than 5 hours. The Knitting Shanty is set up in 45 minutes. It is not even a very cold day.
15 January, 2008, 1000 hours, a visit to Research Post is made in an attempt to seal up the many air leaks that are integral to the shoddy construction. Efforts are aborted when someone’s cranky 6-month old daughter gets even crankier.
18 January, 2008, 2000 hours, the ARP! (not to be confused with AARP) release party begins at Art of This Gallery.
2400 hours, inspired by the two screenings of Fernand Leger’s ‘Ballet Mecanique,’ ARP! editor Tiffany Hockin is seen tackling the bar in the basement of the gallery.

19 January, 2008, 0900 hours, Team Abandoned Antarctic Research Post arrives bright and early to its shanty. The temperature is absurdly low and when John Marks’ thermos of coffee shatters while getting out of the van, all hope is seemingly lost.
1100 hours, the first item is abandoned at the AARP. The easy money was on a receipt or a used tissue, but the Team was shocked to receive ‘directions to Judd’s.’ The item was promptly bagged and labeled.
1300 hours, Sean Connaughty abandons a stick of weeks-old beef jerky that he regretfully took a bite of in the dark the night before.
1400 hours, Petersen has his photo taken in the Snapshot Shanty by artist Molly Roth. Unfortunately, she mistakenly took thirty seconds of what is now a terribly embarrassing YouTube clip of the portrait-sitter trying to remember how to smile without affect.
1600 hours, visitors to AARP arrive with a bottle of Canadian whiskey, several nearly unbearable hours late.
1700 hours, the sun is close enough to setting for me, let’s get the hell outta here. The day’s high temperature on the lake is -6º.
20 January, 2008, 1200 hours, Petersen returns to Medicine Lake, armed with a thermos of coffee, a can of Miller High Life and a mysterious optimism he can’t quite put his frosty finger on.
1230 hours, Paper Snow Flake Appreciation Day in the Medicine Lake Drawing Club. Tim Nickodemus everybody, give him a round of applause.
1300 hours, a quick visit to the Postal Shanty. Fill out postcard, give Gabe Welker a High Five and we are on our way.
1400 hours, David Pitman, host of the K-ICE 97.7 radio station shanty has the balls to hand over the microphone to Petersen. This is followed by 2 hours of a nearly un-listenable rebroadcasting of the 2008 AFC Championship game between the San Diego SuperChargers and the New England Patriots.
1600 hours, Petersen is invited back to call the Super Bowl in two weeks.

There you have it. It has been terrifically cold and tremendously fun out on the frozen lake that is my Antarctica. We’ll see ya out there.

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.

Well I have only been here four hours and already I have gotten in two fights at the airport, ran into two old rocker friends from way back when and been handed two different jobs. This is gonna be a good week. Oh, I also threw my camera in the river so there won’t be any photos for a while unless they are from the paparazzi, so you never know.

Apparently there have been concerns lately regarding my “stability.” Those concerns have been dispatched, as have those who raised them. What? A guy can’t disappear for a few days to make a little art? Somebody got a problem with a little drinking and yelling? Can’t handle a meltdown? Be gone.

It just so happens that me and Count Chocula scored some pretty sweet tickets to a hockey game. Problem was, it was in Edmonton, Alberta. That dude sure knows how to party, and that was just the beginning. But unfortunately, two weeks of some pretty solid “drink all day, drink all night” takes its toll on us old guys. I get cranky. The Count gets righteous. Next thing you know, you’re doing the spread eagle on the hood of a cruiser cause the dude in the Hummer just happens to be a city council something or other and he didn’t appreciate it when your U-lock removed his passenger side mirror. And the mounties really don’t being called ‘pig,’ ‘Dudley Do-Right,’ or ‘dicksucker.’

Needless to say I had some time on my hands. And a chance to clear the cobwebs out of my head and the booze out of my blood. And a few moments of degradation, deprivation and de-shit knocked out of me. All the better to get to work on my upcoming show, opening in twelve days mind you, in Brooklyn, NY.

So that is the story and I am sticking to it. Plus I got the Edmonton police record to show for it. As for those little pansy puffs back at the studio who wet themselves at my inconvenienced absence, good luck working with them nerds over at the copy shop. We don’t need ya.

Dear reader, we here at the Artworks need to express our sincerest apologies for the lack of communication. These times…these are not good times. Unfortunately, as the saying goes, the shit has hit the fan. The chicken that is the Artworks has had its head chopped off, the head being our inspiration, our leader, the guy who writes the checks around here. David has flown the coop. He’s lost it. For real. The Artworks staff has been barred from the studio, the ‘artist’ having barricaded himself inside, refusing to come out until who knows when. We can only assume that either he is awaiting some sort of epiphanous moment of art-making ‘Eureka,’ or he is lying dead on the studio floor. Or somewhere in between. Speculation can be maddening.

In the meantime, we are doing our best to compile the art pieces that are ready for shipment to Brooklyn, NY for the December 1st opening at the Arm Letterpress. Entitled, ‘SwingBoomHissFlush,’ this show is the uncalculated confluence of David’s ‘irrational addiction to an unconditional love of American sports’ and the ‘racially based hypocrisies (he) can only eat as crow from the giant porcelain platter that is (his) white guilt. His words, not mine. Anyhow, these new works of paper and print, if I may speak for the artist, begin a blind, destination-less backflip into a pool of play and player-hating, where the thrill of victory meets the agony of defeat in a cage match of allegory and Barry Bonds apologizing. Oh he’s lost it all right.

How is it the kids say these days, “OMG”? Seriously, OMG, if I don’t getting going I will be certainly crushed. Let’s set the metaphoric scene: a grizzled Professor Indiana Jones is racing out of a dark and winding tunnel, chased by a momentous bolder that obviously has no qualms about smushing him flat. Miraculously, he evades the would-be bone-crusher, only to find himself frantically fleeing a band of arrow-launching and blow dart-blowing locals that may actually boil him for supper if their projectiles find the pale-skinned target. Nevermind Dr. Jones has just attempted to pilfer their sacred lands of invaluable treasure for the benefit of a greedy University, so you might not be that upset if he is turned into an entrée, but you have to admit, it is a very exciting escape. That is how we are beginning to feel here at the Artworks, as if we are running just steps ahead of an accelerating and uncompromising boulder, and if we can outrun that, a bunch of outraged hungry people. I pray we are not dinner.

Thusly confused, are you? MB. I will cut to the chase, no pun intended. Seriously. As some of you may have already heard, the Artworks is taking the show on the road, back to beautiful Brooklyn NY, to exhibit new work (New Work!) at a great place call The Arm Letterpress, 281 N. 7th St, between Meeker and Havermeyer. Williamsburg. Ooooooh. This event was originally planned for Springtime, but due to expediting circumstances the opening reception will be held December 1st.

So let’s just say that the big boulder is rolling up my ass and I am beginning to feel cooked. But never fear faithful followers, never fear Letterpress, we are getting are shit together and going to make this happen. I already came up with a title, a mysteriously cryptic little thing called, “SwingBoomHissFlush.” Who knows what it could mean? And who knows if I will come up with any art work that has any remote connection to these four words? Nevertheless we shall plow forward - I wouldn’t want to disappoint the locals, with their discerning eyes, territorial sensibilities, and fashionable blow darts. I have heard they are as hungry as ever.