Giving Up On Dreams

I have a dream...A dream that is altruistic and yet somewhat self-fullfilling. It is a dream to live a creative life and be fed by it, a dream to put beauty out into the world and see others enjoy it, a dream to be considered a "somebody" in my chosen profession, so that I can benefit from continuous work. It is a simple dream that I have spent my life pursuing. I write this post with cheeks hot, tears surfacing, blood boiling and a tiny stressor away from a stroke, for I can honestly say with conviction that I have given up on that dream...but not for lack of really trying. 

In this instance, the reason has yet to come to me, but as I look back on the past two years of utter failure, being deceived and betrayed has a great deal to do with it and I am questioning all that is good. I am questioning my faith in the universe and in people. I question the laws of Karma and hope has fled the coup entirely. I wonder what I did wrong and what lesson(s) I need to learn from this. I ask anyone to give me insight as I tell my story.

After investing $100G (factoring interest) into art school, still broke and hopeful, I risked everything I had left and moved to Miami with my husband and partner, Nicholas  to begin a career as an Artist. For the first six years, I kept a day job and let Nicholas toil away, setting up our art studio and getting odd jobs for small creative projects. I worked tireless nights in the studio creating props for movies and TV and commissioning objects that no one else in Miami was capable of fabricating, while still working 9-5 in a desk job in social service, working my way towards eventually quitting my job in 2006 and becoming a full time artist in the studio.

Our 1st Public Art Piece, "Two, If By Sea" 2008- Little Haiti

Things came slowly at first, but we were able to remain solvent as we took any creative build job we could get and networked constantly to get more work. Eventually we were sought after and work was flowing pretty continuously, enough to pay our bills and keep us fed. It was not yet enough to put money into marketing, so I worked constantly to create a social network, become well respected in my community, built my own website and marketed through all free means.

This led to us eventually getting a break and get a commission for our first public art sculpture in 2008, which allowed us to prove that we could take a very small budget and create an amazing artwork that benefits the community. Once that sculpture was installed, we were hired to create several large-scale public art pieces for a local housing company, and we put all of our trust into our Art Representative, who brought us the work, but would not allow us the freedom to market it or publicize it on our own, as the company sought the publicity for the works and still have not listed our proper names on most of the pieces.

Botched Installation of "Together for One Another" 2009

We gave the art rep the benefit of doubt and knew we had to continue accepting work through her, for our options were still limited. Eventually,  she had thrown us under the bus for issues that were the fault of the company and their lack of communication with us, which led to some artworks not being installed or transported properly and damaging the artwork in the process. Through no fault of ours, this reflected badly on us, and we paid the price, as that company will not use us any more. 


That didn't stop us, and we desperately decided to trust our art rep enough to give her another chance. She brought a $150G project to our drawing board from another company and we worked day and night for months with a small stipend and presented an awesome project. Months into the project, a glimmer of hope for us, and it was gone in one quick phone call with a poor excuse; we figured it was likely given to someone else, and we were likely lied to again. Poof! We were foolish to trust them. We stopped looking to her for work, obviously. Betrayal #3. (We should have stopped at 1, honestly.)

We decided, perhaps the gallery game would be the direction for us, as good art representatives are pretty hard to come by. We consulted with a local, well-known gallery owner who was closing up her space, in exchange for doing an odd-job for her. Her odd jobs eventually became so numerous, yet not paying for our time, and we were once again deceived and cheated out of the good pay we earned. In addition, we were basically told by her that we will never "make it" because we are not ass-kissers and would not kiss her wrinkled ass. I felt it wrong for a gallerist to use their Artists as she did and I came to distrust her and the whole Miami gallery scene. We had to get even just to not starve, so we kept the last deposit she gave us for materials for yet another non-paying project, as we rightfully earned that money and quickly ended our relationship with her evil ass and the gallery game for good.  

All the while, we kept our studio running and started to create smaller works, and 

eventually got another "break" in winning a bid for a high-profile public art project for the City of Miami. Again, though, we trusted the city officials to work with us on the project and we again worked hard on the development of the project, investing hundreds of hours and lots of money. We trusted the process would eventually pay us and lead to a productive year. That was last March. We have yet to see any money  or any movement on the behalf of the city, and were also starving at this point.

We figured it might just be the city we are in, as everyone involved in our career had let us down at one point. Even our studio space was no longer a nurturing environment, as they betrayed their own mission to provide affordable workspace. There was no longer a safe space for us to create here in Miami. In December of last year after re-reading my blog post about literally starving,  "One-In-Eight-Americans", we decided to pick up and relocate to Detroit, my home town.

We discussed our plans thoroughly with all of our family and friends in Michigan and we had everyone on board and behind us and happy to see us excited and motivated to start fresh and build anew in a wonderfully creative atmosphere. We spent three months and thousands of dollars on renovating our home, found an agent, and listed the property. We even found several prospective properties in Detroit and began planning our space there. After stressfully showing the house for two more months, we got a purchase contract and the money was on the table. Then, without warning, out of the woodwork, an 86 year-old family member, who co-owned the place with us decided he wanted half of our proceeds, which leaves us with not enough to buy a house, even in Detroit. Surprised, (as who the fuck needs that kind of money at age 86), we stopped everything. 
Betrayal # 6; The last straw.

Our future as Artists

We gave up on our dreams.

Now, I wonder how I am even alive or how I can recover. I feel so angry and so abused by all of this and I wonder how anyone can remain positive or not feel like a victim, as I recover from being betrayed by almost every single person that played a role in our evolving to this point??? Are we even evolved or are we simply used and scarred? And what can we learn from this? One thing is for damn sure...we cannot trust a single person ever again.

On one hand, we have built (on the cheap) a beautiful portfolio of works that are being enjoyed by the communities they grace, and we are grateful for the chances we had to create them, but what about us surviving? Where is our cheese? Where is our next meal? What foul life is this to starve? 

I cannot believe anymore in, "never give up" or "just have faith, and good things will come", or  "Just do good and you will be rewarded." This just does not seem true when one goes hungry. It has been proven to me time and time again to not be true. 

(And by the way, those who betrayed us are doing just fine. So, is it really, "lie, cheat and steal and you will do well"? Or how about, "Use others and benefit from their hard work and good times shall rain upon you"? Maybe....)

What good is it to dream when there are thieves awaiting to take from us at any turn? 
What good is it to do good in this life if it means to starve and suffer just to maybe not suffer the next life? 

Seems flawed to me. Please help me answer these questions, for I am out of answers and left with nothing to live for or strive for and grasping with my last breath for something to hope for.

"Pick Spot and Stare"- Transcending Physical Reality in Times of Sorrow

    I have been spending an awful lot of time studying patterns, lately. The pattern in the blue ceramic tile of the  bathroom floor, the Arabic letter patterns on the Afghan rug in the living room, or the way that the light shines through the patterns of the trees peeking through my window; they all have my complete attention. 

     All my expectations wash away of the world and the people in it. I no longer am fearful. I am no longer grieving, or thinking of loss. I am no longer aware of all the other stuff; the traumatic stuff. I just pick a spot and stare. 
    Sometimes I count the tiles or try to figure out the pattern and number of stitches.  Sometimes I imagine the paisleys in the duvet as protective waters and I swim. I steal away from my body and barely move, but just breathe and count, breathe and swim and breathe...sometimes I even forget to breathe and have to remind myself. 
In...out...In...out...    
     In my silence and stillness, I notice the purposeful mistakes in the weaving of the rug, the randomness-yet awareness of the growth of the tree limbs, the thought put into each tiny tile placed in the grout and I know that all of this is temporary and these things will fade into non-existence eventually. I am reminded of the smallness of everything. At that point, nothing else matters. 
Breathe in...out...in...out...
    It doesn't matter what ills may try to come into our sphere, our sacred space. It isn't ours to keep. It doesn't make us who we are and we observe the right to not absorb it, but allow it to roll off our backs into the protective waters of the paisley. 
     There is so much trouble in this world right now and so many souls around us hanging in the balance. In our tender place, we have compassion for the those lost souls, who struggle to have the freedom from need, or just be still and want nothing. For what are these things worth? The only thing I know that is real, that is really real is the love I feel. Nothing else matters.
   
   

For All Tomorrow's Parties

The sculpture that first influenced me to be an Artist.
"The Fist" Sculpture dedicated to Joe Louis, Robert Graham 1986

No, this isn't Nico singing low, with Lou Reed, about the depressed girl in the corner...This is a happy story with a happily-ever-after sort of feeling. It's about a girl, who as a young bride, left her hometown of Detroit for a better life in the tropics. She met her husband, Nicholas in college, and soon-after, the school-sweethearts married and took off for a better life in Miami, Florida. A better life, to them back in 2000 meant opportunities not available in her decomposing home that was "Detroit burning".

Nicholas in our potential foyer,
imagining many guests!

Amongst naysayers, we went back to a sub-zero Michigan winter, hoping to find a good-enough reason to leave behind Miami, our loving family of friends and all that we built here. Instead, we found multiple reasons. Beckoning with promise, we go with a passionate & wild-west-pioneering spirit, and we even have multiple spaces to incubate our ideas and expand continuously for years to come. Trading in our tiny castle on the beach isn't so bad when what we get in return for the money, is a mini mansion, with enough room to invite all of our Miami peeps! We even have enough left over to help out friends and family and start a new business to boot! 

Now, the greener pastures may be Detroit. It is brimming with hope, opportunity, creative ideas, funding for those ideas, togetherness, willingness and cooperation. Sounds about right for me.

Communities are rebuilding from ashes and pulling together and taking back the land from the banks who disposed of it and left it raw with burning embers. Artists are buying up properties cheap and are using them for creative co-ops, museums, urban farming, food co-ops and learning and healing centers. Areas that 15 years ago were scary as shit, once burnt to the ground and filled with crackheads are now growing, creative communities with yoga studios, coffeeshops and galleries. 

Some of it is even gentrified enough for a certain known coffee giant to plant themselves! The renaissance of Detroit is palpable.  Critics, you MUST see it for yourselves!!! Christ! There's even a Whole Foods on Woodward in Midtown!!!! WTF is right!

I was surprised to see many mom & pop places doing well!
(Detroit Shoppe on Woodward)

In Detroit, the Artist as an entrepreneur, calls the shots. Anything is possible and encouraged! Artists keep Detroit alive, not just the people making money off of the Artists.

We came to Miami for it's art scene, only to find the opposite. Strict rules of conduct and every-man-for-themselves attitude make it like New York, and unless you are a child of the scene, a relative, or an Abramović, Banksy, or Fairey, (or in Miami, a Britto, ugh), you are nobody and treated as such. That's not fair. Why submit to that? Knowing that, we just don't fit in here.  

Another reason to be there is the DIA (Detroit Institute of Arts). This great collection itself lends to an importance to preserve what came before us and not honor so much what the future might hold.

Our goals for this year are simple: Plant ourselves in a place in which our love, ideas, energy and brilliant light can shine. We leave a beacon and invite all of our friends and family to partake in that brilliance and see for themselves a real place with real ideas. Real beauty is built from love. For that is Detroit, and that is our art, and that love is what makes us real.

'Ain't No Love in the Heart of' THIS City

Another month has escaped us, and we find ourselves entering a new year still in flux; we are in a sort of suspended animation due to a certain municipality and their utter lack of accountability with public art. Ten months without pay is stupid. It's wrong. When we expressed this politely in tears to city officials, they told us to "get a job." We have jobs, THIS is our job. Unbelievable.

I need to be where the love flows for Artists; Artists who only wish to give back to our communities something that is lasting and iconic, and get paid. You see, getting paid for our time is how we survive, just like everyone else. If an Artist does anything free, just for exposure, they simply end up naked.  

Our naked journey with this current City conundrum is to raise a work of art that means something to all of us and encourages love through the icon of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.. We are following a parallel to the journey of this man in a small way, as it was his effort to expand the civil rights movement despite the conditions of the masses or the unwillingness to believe by the people in charge. We wish to simply get art on a bridge, but we struggle with how painfully difficult it is. All this in a city that claims to be a home for Art.
 
On the flip side, greener pastures may move our industry north; the direction in which our image of Dr. King points. Pointing us onward and upward always, we take these lessons, heal these burns, pick up shop and build this piece in a different city, infuse the art with the love of the art alone, and give it the respect it deserves. We deserve that too. What ever happened to respecting Artists around here, anyway. Food for thought...

MAM to PAMM, From Humble Beginnings to 100% Ego

This past weekend, I was invited to be present for the Friends and Family preview of the newly erected Perez Art Museum Miami (PAMM) and the museum park mud pit. I visit this museum with much trepidation, of course because I feel that no complete collection of worldly acclaim should have some real estate guy's name on it. That's just me.

The walk into the museum was indeed a muddy one, as the scaffolding still surrounds the entire building and no concrete has been poured yet for walkways from the street, despite the fact that their scheduled opening date is just 2 weeks away. Frankly, I do not think they are anywhere near ready to open to the critical public or any person who does not enjoy a walk in the mud.

For Those in Peril on the Sea, Hew Locke (2011)

Upon entering the building, my friend Pam and I had to traverse an obstacle course of construction materials, winding wooden ramps and waft through skunk-y plumes of pot smoke, with water dripping from the dozens of dirt filled tubes that will no doubt become the hanging gardens. It was seemingly a dangerous trek, so I was very happy to be wearing flats and not heels.

Once we finally entered what I think is the front, heavy wooden doors greeted us and we were invited in by the smell of fresh and new wood, as the wooden floors were not even finished, (and I hope they consider not varnishing them, as they were beautiful as is). A hanging garden-like art installation of boats welcomes us in, drizzling the space with wonderful color and flora and fauna dangling from the boats. I was glad to know this pivotal installation was from Britain/Scotland Artist, Hew Locke, and that it symbolizes the diaspora of people to Miami in boats. Major props to you, Hew!

The Galleries were well cooled, and I was happy to have brought a sweater, being so wet and cold the whole time. The A/C ran through the wooden slatted floor vents placed in front of the art, (inviting a Marilyn-style pose with a skirt eventually), the scent of moisture was throughout the halls and the roof leaked in tiny drops all throughout. It even dripped on us in the little alcove facing the sunset through the scaffolding, which despite the water, was indeed a beautiful sight. 

The space was really, really unfinished and I write this critique with that in mind, and with anxiety for the ones responsible for such a tight deadline. I did enjoy the galleries though. I  especially enjoyed the fiber art and text art spaces, which show a wide representation of the last two centuries, but seem ahead of their time, as if the work was done yesterday. It lent to the newness and freshness that is this museum. 

The museum is being touted as a premiere event space, and that shows in the ego of the design. No bad to Herzog & de Meuron, but this space screams "ego" and "real estate". The hanging gardens, the wide expanses of grey open patio and the sterility of straight lines says "event space". This is no surprise to Miami, whose Art Scene is nothing but a big party anyway. I haven't been to an opening yet that doesn't have people placing wine glasses on pedestals next the art, and that scares me a bit about this collection and the future reputation of Miami Art.

I am looking forward to attending seminars, workshops and lectures, as their lecture hall and its wide expansion is inviting and leads you upward into the buena vista of the bay and the cruise ships entering the port. Beyond this is Weiwei's bicycle installation, which is temporary, but seems as if it was designed for the space and permanently part of it, drawing art into the beautiful view and making it the reason why we are here.

My review is mixed, as I don't think they should open so soon and I fear for the proper preservation of a $40+ million collection.  I am happy to see that some of the museum staff has stuck around from the humble days of MAM, and they seem optimistic, even after describing their work conditions as "prison-like" for the past year.

I also think that with the Miami Voters contributing $100 million in public funds, and Mr. Perez only $40 million, that the name should respectfully reflect that and due to that, I will not contribute any further in membership or donations and have heard that from others.  Its just tacky, and if this museum does not want to be reputed as such on an international level of esteem, they should bring a more sophisticated name to it. I think the names of the galleries should be displayed in sight and not 20 feet high, there shouldn't be drips in the ceiling, and there should be a clear and visible driveway before they even consider bringing in Art Collectors and the like. I see some criticism in the future, but I will be back for more to see how, and if they pull this off.

One in Eight Americans

Eighteen months have passed; a hiatus from writing or feeling the need to share my thoughts in any tangible form; No blogging, no journals, not even letters to friends that never get mailed. I had felt my words grow uninteresting for a while and abstained for the sake of boring others. Today, I finally came to my point of breaking that silence. I feel I have had enough notable WTF moments of late to retroactively chronicle a series of posts that will keep us all laughing, crying, shitting our pants and crying again from sheer shame. This sudden need to burst began earlier this week over a bowl of oatmeal. This was no ordinary bowl of oats. This oatmeal was life-altering!

To begin, I must share that for 9 months prior to this breakfast encounter, my partner and I had been working on a City project without pay and hadn't sold any art for over a year, so skint doesn't begin to describe our situation. Grapes of Wrath is more like it. Our wallets growing thin, us growing thinner, certain bills not paid, things shutting off, no phone, foreclosure of home imminent, and still not a positive word from the City, I began that day driving my car aimlessly; the whole drive with tears staining my face and soaking my chest. With no gas to spare really, my initial intent was to drive into the ocean off of a bridge or find a parking garage tucked away somewhere and put a hose from my tailpipe into the car, to my detriment. Luckily for the possible poor sap that would eventually find my body, that didn't happen and I instead ended up driving to my art studio at the Bakehouse.

At this point, I had not eaten in almost 36 hours. I had entered my studio to a family of tabby cats, glaring hungrily at me with their orange and white faces and little pink noses. I savagely searched the crevices of my cabinets for something to feed them, my own hunger taking a back seat to theirs. What I found was a packet of instant oats, but it was the whole kind with whole flax seeds in it, and the cats really didn't want anything to do with that. So, I decided I should really feed myself and took this bowl of oats into the kitchen of the Bakehouse. I set it on the counter for a moment, as I got distracted and spoke with a friend, then came back to enjoy my humble meal.

My gratitude for this simple food was immeasurable. What was really profound to me though was the realization that occurred when I looked into the bowl and saw that I was eating dozens of boiled ants as a nice little additive to my oats and flax. They likely attacked the bowl when it was on the counter. 

It really did not phase me. In a normal state of mind, I would have felt ill and thrown the bowl immediately into the sink. However, at that moment I kept eating until the last crunchy spoonful. It wasn't during my gracious (and protein-packed) meal that I had felt my epiphany. 

There is a switch that goes off in each of us, if we are ever fortunate enough to know real hunger and real lack. When basic human needs are unmet, the appreciation of things gets redefined. I felt at that moment that the universe was seeing my need for the protein (as I had later spent my evening physically exerting myself in the act of making art). Nothing else mattered and nothing still does. I am breathing, aren't I? I have my hands and feet and they move and do things for me, don't they? I was more in the moment than I ever had been before, and felt wholly enlightened.

When my body and mind grow weary from many challenges, and ants are what I have to eat, even in this land of plenty amidst a venue of prosperous people eating gourmet cheeses and drinking fine wine, I knew at that moment, that I appreciated that bowl of ant oatmeal far more than they do their 16.99/ lb. slice of Gouda. 

In that moment, I was truly free.

Be a Bitch or a Pushover

     Two weeks ago, I wrote about sucking at sales and reaffirmed what I need to do to improve and be more aggressive. I wrote with determination and assurance. However,  the very next day, I got a phone call from a V.I.P. and was given a production job, and I completely sold out. I took the job for a third of what I usually charge and I felt icky about it. 

     This was unusual for me, as I caved in not because I needed the money fast or was competing for the job; they approached me personally and asked me to do it like it was a favor to them. I caved because the person that asked me to do the job is someone I greatly admire and is a real superstar in the art world. The reason this person is successful and wealthy, is because they never cave in. I knew they could afford to pay what the job was worth, but they insisted it be done for much less. I had much to learn from this...


     At that point, I knew that the universe had made this person think of me and impart on me their wisdom. I stood no chance negotiating against not just a master specialist, but a literal celebrity in their field and I felt obligated to submit. I am working to be at their stature in the community and I am being blessed with their presence and teachings.

      Obviously, one does not get that far up on the ladder and not get what they want in negotiations. When haggling price, there is a delicate balance between being a bitch and being a pushover. With this person, I could have been a bitch and said, "I'm sorry, I cannot do it for less", and they would have been just be upset and found someone else to do it, but I lose out and will not get the privilege of spending time with this guru of sorts.(Plus, being a bitch is not a way to win friends in high places.) If I was a total pushover, I would have done it for free just to kiss ass...so not me!

     This was a good lesson for me. This person was neither a bitch nor even close to a pushover, but simply a real badass. The job was extremely difficult physically and took several days to complete, but it is finished. I sit here sore, (sprouting muscles only men should have), with a check on its way, and am uniquely humbled. But, I also feel like a badass for getting it done and aspire to be at the level of my client. It is an awesome balance I look forward to perfecting........some day.