Letter

Two months after launching a Patreon account I pulled the plug. I wrote thank you notes to all the contributors (most of whom read this newsletter, so, thanks again!) and shut it down. There are many reasons but it boils down to the queasy feeling I got every time I opened the Patreon page. It just never felt right.

I never got a handle on what I should be doing there once people committed to sending me money. I sent out a bunch of art and books as rewards, somewhat haphazardly. Posted some art and writing I was working on. It all felt nebulous. No beginning or end.

Someone told me recently that people are making a bunch of money off newsletters these days. But I can’t bring myself to paywall mine. I use it as a kind of sketchbook, in addition to sharing news. I don’t know that it would feel right to charge readers for such an incomplete, unpolished thing. Over the last five years, since I quit Twitter and Instagram, this newsletter has been my main online soapbox. I get more out of writing it than readers get out of reading it I suspect.

There was none of the same satisfaction with the Patreon. It reminded of the worst aspects of Kickstarter and social media. That insatiable need for reaction and approval. The sense of a shapeless, ever-growing organism that swallows all one’s efforts with little acknowledgement, aside from the implicit, drug-like need to continue.

The newsletter has never felt this way. By having to put it out every Monday, I have a kind of structure to my week. Every week starts with a new newsletter. All the Patreon did was add stress. In order to offer something worthwhile to readers there I’d need to take something away from the newsletter and that was too high a price to pay.

It may seem crazy to turn down money. Considering I only promoted the thing here, my Patreon could’ve been judged a success. Instead, it felt like a dead end. I wonder sometimes about other eras, when artists had patrons. What and how much did they lose by submitting to their sponsors’ wishes and whims? If Patreon is the cyber era Medici, did those Italian painters feel as crummy back then as I do now coming hat in hand to ask for help?

I’ll continue trying to figure out ways to get by from my work. The low-price art sale I started last year will continue. Just about any painting I have on hand can be yours for $200 or less. I’ll keep carrying my books in my bag everywhere, in case I meet someone who wants to buy one. What else can I do? I’m open to suggestions.

The same day I pulled the plug on Patreon I got an amazing package in the mail. Lynda Barry sent me a signed copy of her new book, along with a note about Soviet Stamps, and a check. It was the most flattering feedback I’ve probably ever received. The fact it came from a certified genius was icing on the cake. I sat at the coffee shop with tears running down my face rereading it.

I got a new coat. The old one wasn’t worn out but had been wearing on my nerves for some time. A vintage job bought at a vintage shop on Milwaukee, it was grey with prominent fur collar. Or faux-fur, as I found out from my itchy, burning neck the first time I wore it.

The coat fit well in the store mirror. I liked how it looked. It made me look like an Edward Gorey character. I attached a bunch of old Soviet buttons to the furry collar to decorate it. It was from the 50s or 60s. A substantial piece of clothing. It had heft. For a week or two the novelty of the thing made up for its deficiencies. The most glaring problem was lack of pocket space.

I carry a lot around with me. A sketchbook in one pocket, a notebook in the other. An mp3 player (was an iPod, upgraded recently to an Activo CT10) in a third. A Parker Jotter always in the inner pocket. Wayfarers and prescription glasses wherever they’ll fit. Gloves, a scarf, and a winter hat stuffed into all remaining spaces.

I took the coat in to a Chinese seamstress around the corner from my place. Her store had no signage in any language; just a bunch of mismatched furniture in the window. She emerged from some inner sanctum after I’d stood inside the door a minute. I asked her to extend the pockets to reach the bottom of the coat, mid-thigh. She said it wouldn’t look pretty. I said it was practical not cosmetic. Besides, who looks inside of someone else’s pockets to inspect workmanship?

Her alterations made it possible for me to carry all I needed to carry, but soon the coat’s other drawbacks came to the fore. I couldn’t wear the thing without a scarf to protect the back of my neck from the synthetic fur collar. I lost the bottom of its three buttons while riding my bike. The other two buttons strained as I pedaled so eventually I just kept the coat unbuttoned while riding. The weight of the thing was a drag too. I felt oppressed by it to the point that I dreaded putting it on. When I took it off inside, it took up room, almost like an extra person. It was cumbersome. On a recent plane trip to visit my parents, I chose to where a sport coat and a sweater just to avoid having to stow the thing on the plane. It wouldn’t have been unreasonable for Southwest to’ve charged me for an extra seat.

Buying a new coat less than two years after this one felt ridiculous. I like wearing my clothes till they’re nearly rags. But something had to be done. I didn’t want an article of clothing in my life that caused stress. I like clothes I don’t have to think about. So I took a trip downtown.

Macy’s was having a winter coat sale and I found a nondescript blue number within 15 minutes. It had snaps and a zipper rather than the dreaded buttons and appeared to have the requisite amount of pocket space. I paid and went into the men’s room to change. The first stall I tried didn’t have a hanger, so I moved down to one with the entire door missing. For a fancy downtown department store, this bathroom was run down and seedy-looking. Forgotten.

I took the old coat off and removed the Soviet buttons and the recently-acquired Yellow Cab badge. I was about to fasten them to the new one when a disheveled man appeared by the first of the stalls. I went back to what I was doing, but could still see him in my peripheral vision, seemingly hesitating before checking the first stall. Then he moved closer and I turned to look at him. He had his dick out and was stroking it, a question mark in his gaze. I gathered my coats and walked out past him.

Out in the brisk winter air I felt ten pounds lighter. The new coat felt like a weight off my shoulders. I went for a coffee in the Monadnock, to finish what I’d been doing, away from prying eyes and stroked members. A few minutes later I was back outside, lugging the old coat like a corpse, dead weight. I thought of finding clothing-drop-off spot but couldn’t think of any downtown. I wanted to be rid of the thing. Waiting for the bus, I noticed the deep window sills on the first floor of the Monandnock, laid the thing there, and walked away relieved.

Perhaps my masturbating friend from Macy’s will find it. It’s perfect for his purposes.

Have you ever started a movie or record or book and known within minutes that it’s a masterpiece? It happened to me a few nights ago with Krysztof Kieślowski’s Blind Chance. It’s a hard thing to put a finger on: why does this movie flow as if inevitable, no matter how farfetched this or that plot point or element may be, while any number of other movies which look so similar on paper are dead on arrival? I kept trying to figure it out but then gave up and just enjoyed what Kieślowski made. His 70-80s Poland is familiar to me on a base, elemental level. It feels like part of my DNA. The decor of the apartments, the fatalism, the absurdity of interactions with the powers that be.

The other night, a young woman came to the bar. It took me a few looks to place her. She works at Bite, where I worked twenty years ago. A couple months ago we had a short exchange in which we learned we’re both from the Evil Empire. She came here in the 90s. I didn’t remind her of any of this because a young man soon joined her for what may or may not have been a date.

They talked a lot about tattoos. Both were pretty well covered. Then, about an hour into their visit, she figured out where we knew each other from. We formally introduced ourselves. Then I excused myself because there were other drinkers to tend to and because the guy looked a little put out to have his time with her interrupted. They stayed for a couple more hours. Then he left and she stayed. We talked some more when I wasn’t helping others. She drank more.

I thought she’d gone to the bathroom but when I checked after not seeing her for half an hour realized that she’d split. 

I met Amanda Goldblatt at a radio show recording at the Dial. She was being interviewed. We know people in common. It’s inevitable when you’re in the book racket. I’d just donated a rolling suitcase and a half’s worth to Open Books a day or two before, but bought her book anyway.

I started it on the bus home and got sucked in right away. It’s that same thing as with Kieślowski—it just flows. If I retrace my steps, reconstruct the timeline, I took a break from reading Goldblatt’s book to watch Blind Chance. I don’t know what the connection is. But what are the odds of falling for a book you knew nothing about, putting it down, and turning on a movie which you knew little about and sensing within minutes that it is a masterpiece?

And where does the disappearing Russian girl fit into all this?