Day 2 continued
My relationship with the MCA started early in my career and was mostly positive, during the time they occupied the more ghetto space in Sakura Square, a stone’s throw from my original gallery space. It diminished considerably, or I should say the dynamic and attitude changed under new leadership shortly after their move to the building that famed architect David Adjaye designed off 15th street. There was nothing nefarious per-se, I had some truly great experiences with the museum, but overall I felt a great distance from the leadership there during exhibitions they hosted that featured artists I was representing and heavily involved in shaping their careers to achieve the peaks that Museum curators might be interested in. It's hard to carry this kind of baggage internally, but I did, what else could I do, this was simply the unfortunate nature of the preening that is pervasive in the arts. Fortunately I encountered enough lovely and positive experiences with other institutions, galleries and personalities that weren’t as wrapped up in all consuming egos, nor the ethos that nobody should get credit for shows and programming outside of the curator and collectors who contribute to exhibitions. Go figure.
It wasn’t the current exhibition, Cowboy, that drew me to attend this evening, a show filled with the type of art that one expects from this institution but corresponding to a topic that I didn’t feel needed any refreshed or royal treatment by anyone. What drew me to visit was a program for library card holders to reserve free tickets to attend cultural institutions through a limited distribution, advance reservation system. It’s a terrific program I had just discovered, particularly useful for those with either passing interest or low incomes. I now fit into the latter, having cut back extensively on all expenses like so many others in a shifting economy and world that no longer values experience or hard work over digital wizardry. I could fill pages on that topic, but choose not to at this time. I simply wanted to try out this system and get out to view artwork as one of my passions in life that largely slipped away since the onset of the pandemic through my diminished health and status within the arts. My exposure last year to art in the region was largely limited to an exhibition of Xi Zhang’s work EXIT Childtown which I had the good fortune to curate for the Gallery of Contemporary Art in Colorado Springs, a remarkable show that may very well be my last, and greatest curatorial endeavor. But I desired more viewing time elsewhere for the nourishment of my soul, fully knowing how difficult it has been to find myself in public engaged with visual art when I’ve lost so very much of myself through unforeseeable circumstances. It shouldn’t be this way, but there are many, many reasons that it is.
My son Udo was game, he’s normally with his mom on Wednesday and Thursday every week but we agreed he would stay with me the night before treatment and through the weekend to assist in anything I might need, including taking me to Denver Health in the morning. He’s 16, a great kid, my life anchor and the only reason I’ve found the strength to face any of the last four years, particularly the deep hole I found myself in the previous year, a depression so confounding, so hopeless, so unfathomable and difficult to understand, let along navigate. I revere all my time with him, even if his teen brain is trained elsewhere through our devices and the associations they bring that adults are hardly privy to. I’m not the kind of parent to micromanage him, and generally feel that it has worked well for our relationship, one based on mutual support. I don’t believe he has a passion for contemporary art the way I do, but I’ve always believed his exposure through his early years and even through his teens may trigger something deeper once he graduates high school and becomes his own person, with all the freedom and responsibility that ensues. I didn’t know shit about the art world or market at his age, but have felt through my previous role as a dealer that he at least knows more through exposure and osmosis than the majority of the population, whether his age or adults. There is no way to know this, it's just my hunch or something I prefer to believe. Our evening out was fairly relaxed as I attempted to reflect on a few of the artworks in whatever way I could, having grew up in Idaho afterall where cowboy culture superseded art, in fact there was almost no art in my early environment to speak of. How do you explain Richard Prince to a teen? It’s tricky, but I tried through one of his iconic horseback rider images that was presented in the exhibition. Our evening was capped with tasty dumplings and noodle bowls at our mutual favorite neighborhood restaurant Tokio, one of the few dining spots I like to support and introduce people to on occasion, or pick up takeout from in a pinch.
But that’s not exactly what this journal entry is all about. I was going through my emails upon arrival in my “chair,” yesterday and noticed one from the Clyfford Still Museum. I have never visited this museum, which opened around 2012 I believe, so now at least a decade in existence. All reservations for the MCA Denver through the library card ticket program were initially taken, but Clyfford Still had openings, or at least an option to reserve a ticket that could perhaps be used anytime. I have longed to go there, so I committed myself and decided it would be incorporated into an itinerary to be determined later. My initial exposure to this program occurred just before I received the timeline and commitment for my treatment, and when I re-checked the calendar page the following week I managed to score the MCA pass for the night prior to commencing treatment, thinking I would just walk over on my own at the time.
My reasons for never having visited the Clyfford Still Museum are unusual to say the least, considering my past profession and ongoing love and respect for art and those who put in time and great effort to make it, good art anyway, which of course is all highly subjective, I am nothing if not a contemporary art snob, or as one of my good clients consistently affirms, someone with a great eye. Upon the institution's opening, I had managed to offend the original director, Dean Sobel, of whom I had a minimal yet clean relationship with. He was the kind of figure one imagines when visualizing “art curator,” tall, handsome, and with an inner confidence and knowledge that seeps from every pore. I never imagined I would offend him, but as with so many other moments in my past in which my mouth opens, without any degree of thought or foresight, I rapidly dug a new hole within my soul that would fill with persistent art-world anxiety.
Shortly after opening, the museum found itself in the local headlines in an unflattering and highly unexpected capacity. An obviously disturbed visitor managed to make their mark on one of the rare and “priceless “ paintings in the museum, perhaps as a protest or simply out of spite for institutions, rules and authority, maybe even drugs, by peeing on it, or smearing shit, or something like that, I don’t fully recall. Whatever it was it was oblivious to the staff at the museum, causing a minor uproar while providing fodder for news sources at this time, one that preceded online meme culture that would no doubt have made a heyday of the spectacle. All PR is good PR, even the negative, as the adage goes, or better than nothing. As there were still (no pun intended) art critics employed by the local news sources at this time, most were eager for a story like this, so uncommon and nefarious. Ray Rinaldi was relatively new at the time to the Denver Post, and had already exhibited his own persona and image in the art sphere, one very unlike others in the field with greater tenure. Ray apparently didn’t have any background in arts before taking the position, but had a reporters instincts more akin to vultures circling a dead raccoon, seeking angles on how to approach exhibitions or tragedy and present something readers of a wide range might be able to sink their teeth into. I was one of his go-to’s, or so I imagined when I received his call following the unfortunate incident.
Ray apparently considered me an authority in the art community, or maybe just the easiest sucker to solicit an opinion from, something I grappled with at the time but could never entirely resolve or trust the true nature of our interactions. I happened to be in a stupor at the moment he called, in the early stages suffering from a major flu, or strep throat, I can’t recall which, but know for certain I was heavily medicated at the time of his call. Ray wanted to know my impression of this incident, a seemingly straight but also strange request. I had no greater insight into it than anyone might, only the most superficial knowledge that I, like others, had read in the papers. But I also had the title of art dealer, with a beautiful space and program consistently recognized for its ambition, artists and aesthetics that one could place within the more elevated levels of contemporary art. I also had a big fucking mouth. I didn’t think my ego was actually all that large, but my desire to be considered an authority certainly superseded any thoughtfulness towards what might flow from my mouth at that time. And the drugs I was on didn’t help at all this night. What did this incident mean to me? What could I offer that might help others, or namely Ray, to understand about this situation? Well, I explained how shortsighted I felt the museum was in not providing security for the works on view, as most institutions of this nature do, and that perhaps this led to the unfortunate incident. How could they be so dumb, essentially, was what I said. I also tried to profess some knowledge about what this could do or mean to the condition of the painting in question, as if I had years of experience managing and handling artworks of extraordinary value. I did not. Everything that I mentioned, and had no real authority to say, was published in Ray’s article the following day, my name attached to this all together sorry incident in the most unfortunate way. I did believe my thoughts and viewpoints had some validity, it just didn’t dawn on me how the conversation would be incorporated into his piece. It wasn’t flattering to this new institution, and I made a few enemies as a result, not entirely helping my own image with the upper intelligentsia and collectors who revered Dean and the Still museum. Dean never made too much of it, but I could definitely sense his anger with me as he called specifically to suggest as much. This was enough to leave me with an inescapable feeling that I had once again tread in waters I had no business wading into, creating a ceaseless rush of anxiety that piled atop mountains of the stuff that had already built up around me in this profession and my desperate attempt to climb it. That I was able to navigate my ship at all was impressive to so many, including myself, but internally I was a wreck, constantly conflicted by incidents like this, and others, so many others, a good deal having to do with people who had surpassed my climb by leaps and bounds, though not along a similar path as a dealer in support of quality contemporary, primarily local, art. The majority of these people had elevated, bursting egos as well as the ability to manage them without too much distortion from reality.
Enough time has passed that now feel I can, should, and absolutely want to explore the Still museum, I’ve only heard great things about it. I feel a much greater sense of anonymity in this city and its art community at this point, enough that I feel I can venture out and either own up to my baggage or have little fear of the worst of it ever materializing. Life’s now too short to dwell on this kind of shit, outside of personal reflection and advanced understanding.
None of this has anything to do with day two of my treatment, but I am not interested in limiting where my brain may find itself at any given time through this process, it's simply not just about the cancer. I could go on and on about my time, experiences and role in the arts. I have begun that process already elsewhere and at another level entirely, with the hopes of bringing it to life in a more advanced package, with some random points materializing here as well. How can I know, it's all impulsive and therapeutic right now. My writing occurs both in the infusion center as well as outside of it, whatever free time I have and that occasional mental clarity allows.
But I can say that day 2 on my dripline has already been much better already. I did not have good sleep, waking around 2am with a headache and inability to fall back asleep. I normally rise from bed at 5:45am every morning, but took an additional 15 minutes this day. The headache persisted until my arrival at Denver Health, but dissipated once the Benadryl and Tylenol were administered. The strange uneasy feeling I had when the antibody drip first hit me yesterday has not rematerialized, fortunately, a good sign that I am taking to it well. I hope the nausea will stay clear as well following this treatment. I drove myself to the clinic today and plan to drive myself back once this treatment is complete.