Letter

Across the street a house was demolished and a new one has gone up within a couple months. It’s an astonishing pace compared to the gut rehab of the upper stories of the one I live in. That took a year and a half. The sounds of construction are relentless, whether above my head or across the way.

Since starting to paint at my French easel on the sidewalk a few months ago, the sounds of the neighborhood have become a lot more of a factor. Acknowledging passersby too. From behind my window the sounds are mostly muffled and no human interaction is necessary. I say hello to the neighbor who spends his days fixing up and selling bikes but it never goes beyond simple greetings.

I’ve lived here over three years but standing out on the sidewalk makes me feel the specificity of this block. Inside your house it’s your world and in a way could be located anywhere, whereas this tree in front this bit of broken pavement is not quite like any other.

I’ve always liked painting rows of disparate houses, how they clash or cohere by architectural detail, but during this current bout of plein air, I’ve been extra cognizant of the spaces between the houses; the gangways, the narrow paths butting into chainlink or wrought iron gates, with garages and the backs of other houses partially visible in the distance.

I don’t know how these paintings relate to the collage work that’s been dominating my time the last few years but it’s all part of the same thing with me, I think. The marks, the words, whether on paper, canvas, or computer screen.

It’s all the same thing even if I don’t have a name for it.

Xylouris White at the Hideout was one of the better recent shows I’ve seen.

I talk with Stan Klein about this, that, and the other and with Mallory about Kevin and reviewed The Unknown Country.

Working on some posters for the book-release…

The text comes in as I’m driving through Ohio back to Chicago. It’s an offer of a job at my favorite bar. I’d thought I was done with all that almost two years back when I quit the Skylark. True, I’ve done the occasional fill-in shift, but bartending every week felt like it was in the past. Yet I call back right away and say I’ll take it. It’s surprising to me how quickly I accept.

A month in it still feels right. The reviewing racket has become increasingly an uphill battle. There’s a new editor I’m miles apart from and the whole critic business has never been a perfect fit. There’s always a part of me that feels while writing a review and rendering judgments as if I’m working for the enemy, betraying the people who make things. It’s not a chicken/egg situation. In the best-case scenario, a critic can help point the way toward something good, but their writing can never be anything but secondary; a reaction rather than an action. Plenty of good work done that way but it depends on someone else to take a chance and express themselves and can’t exist without it.

As to my own efforts in that arena, they’re fine but nothing to write home about. At my best I write clearly and easily, but I can’t and won’t ever give all my heart to it. It’s sort of like going to the gym rather than playing a match to win.

With that in mind, pouring drinks becomes a more attractive way to make money. There’s no mistaking or blurring the lines with any sort of creativity. It just doesn’t use the same muscles. But just like every service industry job, it’s a great vantage point from which to look and listen.

I already wrote a bar book and doubt I’ll gather enough impressions for a second, but one never knows. I’m not there to gather material, yet it can’t help but accrue. My antennae are always up.

The fact I’ve had an art show up the first month bartending at the Rainbo Club complicates matters. When a drinker finds out I made the pictures on the walls it makes them look at me differently. They ask questions they wouldn’t otherwise. I feel exposed in a way I don’t care much for. But by the time you read this, that will no longer be a factor. The show comes down August 6th.

It’s still a new part of my weekly routine but being at the bar every Sunday at 8pm feels right. Come by and have a drink sometime.

I talked with Joe Judd about starting Myopic Books, then Tangible Books thirty years later.

Went to Nero and watched the covers for my book come out of the Heidelberg. Should have copies by the end of the month.

I didn’t mean to publish another book this way, but here it is. A couple hours after I finish writing this, I’ll get on my bike and ride three-quarters of a mile south to Bubbly Creek Industries, home of Nero Ink. I will look at a final proof of the thing I made, then they’ll make plates and offset print it on an ancient machine in the basement. I plan on being there to see how these sausages are made.

I’d been sitting on a draft of this thing a couple months after sending it to a few publishers to gauge interest. I keep hoping someone else will put skin in the game and take on some of the load off my shoulders but it’s just not happening. Not at the speed and under the conditions that I could accept anyhow. So I return to doing everything myself.

I have endless reserves of patience in certain matters and next to none in others. The trouble with sitting on a completed book, waiting on someone else to make it real, is it prevents me from moving on to the next thing. It’s like an itch just out of reach. I could ignore it if I had better self-control but why suffer when I could scratch myself bloody?

After not hearing back from anyone, I put a couple pages into Affinity to see what the printed version might look like, then just kept going. After an indeterminate amount of time—that dream flow state that art-making gets you to if it’s working—the entire book was done.

The printer in Michigan I worked with for the previous five books got sold to some larger company so I’d already been looking around for an alternative when a friend at Pleasant House told me about the press his brother had started working at. It’s a union shop in my neighborhood started by a former anarchist kid. I showed up one afternoon and, after about fifteen minutes of talk and an informal tour of the facility, knew I’d have my new book made there.

One of the wrinkles with this one is I wanted full-color images inside. The book has thirty-plus collages. I tried converting them to gray scale but they lost a lot in the process. I had no idea what this would set me back. Matt set my mind at ease. It’s more expensive than my previous books but still in the range where I can charge $20 for it and make some money.

I should have the boxes of my books in my house in a matter of weeks. Then I’ll sit at my desk and sign and number each of the 500 copies. Then I have to think up what to do for promotion. If you have a store or podcast or something, please get in touch. I’m not going back into any version of the Musk/Zuck-O-Sphere, so I have to spread the word through others or in different ways.

In any case, I’m happy with the way this one turned out even though I didn’t see it coming.

Last week to see my Rainbo show, I’ll be there Saturday, August 5th, 4-7pm. Meet me then if you’re free. If you want to see it another day this week or the Firecat show whenever, drop me a line.

I talked with my old Pearl Art & Craft colleague and current Mad magazine fold-in artist Johnny Sampson and with Mallory about the magical Jews inThe Possession.

How’s about a bookmark?