Letter

It’s embarrassing to ask people to buy my work. I have no agent or other representative to do this so I have to do so myself. I hate it.

Somewhere years back I made some crucial mistake and didn’t cultivate the kind of connections that might have gained me intermediaries to do the dirty work. I know there are people that enjoy it. It involves creating a kind of mirage before the prospective buyer. To let them imagine how their lives or status will be enriched by the acquisition of whatever’s being shilled at the moment.

There was time when artists had a place in society. There were churches and palaces to decorate. Maybe this infrastructure still exists somewhere but I’ve rarely taken part. Maybe I’m the wrong kind of artist or didn’t fill out the paperwork correctly.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to sell my work. Every last piece. It’s just the process that’s the problem. Ideally, there’s a division of labor. There’s a guy who makes the thing and a different guy who markets it. It’s rare that the first guy wants to be the second guy. Yet that is what social media and the gig economy expects everyone to do. To be producer and product and salesman all in one. It’s a real freedom is slavery type setup. Perhaps there are people suited to the situation. I know I’m not.

Currently, there are two places away from my home where you can see a bunch my work: the bookstore and the spiritual center. But thanks to the wonders of cyberspace you don’t have to vacate the comfort of your couch to procure decorations that might fit the walls of your office or abode.

Additionally, there are dozens of items available via my store. Other work is scattered throughout the site. If there’s a type of picture you have in mind, maybe I can find one to suit your needs.

There must be some way to do this without resorting to irony and black humor but I haven’t found it. If you have ideas, please let know. In the meantime, if you can spare some funds for something I made, I’d be much obliged.

K took me wheat-pasting.

I saw a great play at Theatre Y in Lawndale. In it, a man wrestles with his family’s history during the Spanish Civil War and its aftermath. Like so much else these days it’s difficult not to relate it to the unraveling of this country right now. Art is often that way. Whatever it’s about, we make it about our own problems and times.

Ross McElwee came to the Music Box for a Q&A after a 40th anniversary screening of Sherman’s March. The last time I saw it was in the late 80s at the Coolidge. It’s a movie that starts out to trace General Sherman’s bloody path through the South to conclude the Civil War but ends up a messy dive into the filmmaker’s love and family life. Fewer casualties but still plenty of damage.

I watched a couple more of McElwee’s films at home ahead of seeing his new one later this week. What ties all his movies together is his neurotic, often funny narration. He’s this awkward looming man with the camera on his shoulder. Not fully participating in the events of his life in favor of capturing them on film, yet making it all about himself anyway. I know that move very well.

A lot of the stuff this week is about where memory and family meet. There’s a part of any art that’s happening in the moment but most of it, necessarily, is concerned with some version of personal or societal past.

Christopher Nolan’s remarkable new adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey is yet another example. Anyone who goes to see it and doesn’t receive the clear message to the powers that be isn’t paying attention.

I recorded the Sound and Fury book-release Saturday at Tangible. It was a small gathering but friends showed up and there was good conversation.

I contributed some art for a new press.

Go see Carla Simón’s new one, Romería, then her previous two if you haven’t seen those. More family/memory business.

Listen to Tether by Alden Hellmuth. A new favorite.

K talked about her book on Salt Lake Dirt.

I met Chris Connelly in the late 90s. He was a regular delivery customer of Thai Lagoon. I brought food to his Humboldt Park apartment every few weeks, it felt like. He was also the friendly guy at Reckless Records—which set him apart for sure. Makes sense that the one guy who doesn’t have to be kind is the one who is.

I wasn’t any kind of expert on industrial music but even I knew that Connelly was already kind of a legend by then. He’d been in Ministry, Revolting Cocks, and Pigface. Plus many more bands I’d never heard of. And yet here he was ringing up my record with a smile on my face.

Chicago has been this way the whole time I’ve been here. It’s full of people with amazing resumes who don’t wear them like a billboard the way it’s done in other cities. Here people keep their heads down and go about their business. It’s a place to get things done, not to be noticed.

Connelly is preternaturally prolific. Even without keeping close tabs, I’ve listened to plenty of his music over the past thirty years. He’s tirelessly searching and rarely content to repeat himself. Also, many of his projects aren’t under his name. It would be a full-time job just to catalog all his work. But I hadn’t seen the man in at least a decade when I got together with K last year and found out that he was her work pal at the record store.

It was definitely one of those small-world moments. If you hang around long enough making art of almost any kind, you’ll eventually run into all the other lifers. There is always an influx of the young and an ever expanding exodus of the discouraged, but the ones who keep at it in spite of everything form an exclusive club. Seeing Chris again was one of those affirming episodes. We barely said a word apart from greeting one another but there was a recognition, a welcoming sighting of a fellow traveler.

K bought tickets for us to see Chris’s David Bowie tribute show in April. I have very mixed feelings about Bowie but this concert was a stunner start to finish. It was not a cheesy waxworks impersonation but a fully-embodied interpretation from a lifelong fan. And somehow, even as he interpreted another’s songs, Connelly’s own rang through as well. I have no idea how he did it.

Chris and his wife Shayna came to the Ornery Cuss book-release at Tangible and I asked him if he’d be up for recording a talk. He agreed and came over my place a few weeks later. I don’t know if I asked the right questions or whether fans of Connelly’s music will be satisfied but it was a lively conversation between two guys still chipping away at the craft.

I had a good time and I think he did as well.

You’re invited.