The Interview

Having a visitor to the studio exposes many things, all of which the artist has absolutely no control over. It is like when hanging a painting on a wall for viewing, the artist has nothing to do with what the viewer takes away even though their entire life has moved them to create the very thing which is now viewed in an effort to say something specific. What can you do? It is my job to be creative. It is my job to communicate something ineffable because the words needed to necessarily express this have not yet been created.
Words are created to pinpoint and express a certain reality. If these words don't exist yet then neither does the reality of it or the understanding...only the artist knows of it and like a shaman has to bridge the gap between these existing and non-existing worlds; conveying the illusive, magical thing into a kind of reality.

I am an artist. I am a shaman. I am that bridge, and not having the words I speak my information with pictures; these imperfect but elegant tools of communication.

Discussing and sharing work can be fun with the right person. I had the right person in the interest of Pauline Adamek, who came to my studio recently to interview me for ArtsBeatLA, her online journal and resource for all things arts-related in Los Angeles. She and her cameraman came to my studio located downtown Los Angeles in the Spring Arts Tower, to see for themselves who I am and what it is I do.
Preparing the studio for this, like any visit, is fraught with a kind of anxiety that goes beyond having a visitor into your personal space. As a working studio, it is filled with work. Work not specifically up for view as it most likely is in various stages of prep and duress, and so you refigure the space to show what you are working on, finished or otherwise, hoping it conveys where you are with ideas. Building an impromptu bridge for this visit and hoping you are understood in some context, and the variety of alchemical items strewn about as any artist will have as items of witness and inspiration, don't distract from the works that are dedicated for the visit. One never knows what a visitor will lock on, and I have had many visitors who find that one odd out of the way piece long forgotten or relegated to a quiet spot, and want to know all about it. Not bearing any relevance to where you are now, the need to find correlation and relationship to the works specifically out for survey takes over and can sidetrack the visit in many ways.

Ever as a teenager had your mom come into you room? This isn't necessarily unlike that. It can be a great visit and chat and lead to great things, or she may want to suddenly move your furniture around out of some unidentifiable boredome and odd desire to connect with you, impossible to understand until you have your own kids one day, and then  during this redesign who knows what may pop out from underneath your bed when least expected...
...but I digress.

I shared new works with Pauline. She beautifully created a dialogue that put me at ease and allowed me room to speak of my experience with these works without judgement, but a pure interest and an openness that any artist wishes for when sharing. We discussed the specific paintings I set up in a manner aimed to express the path I have been on in making them, with my alchemical items and witnesses around quietly holding the space and giving of their silent secrets. We talked for 35 minutes, and this was edited down to little over 7. All in all I feel it conveys a good sense of me, my work, how fast I talk, and cracks a light into the ideas that formulate the bridges I make I call paintings.

ArtsBeatLA Michael Gardner Interview

The Word

The challenge of the artist is to see the world anew. To branch out, to explore, to question, to learn, to evolve. Creating new work is sometimes an accidental procedure, sometimes specific, sometimes daring or silly depending. Taking it all too seriously, or forgetting to keep your tongue in your cheek can imply a kind of narcissism that pushes the viewer away, instead of inviting them closer. I take all my work very seriously, but seriously enjoy just as much the light that all seriousness contains, and hope for the viewer to have the same experience.
I was asked if I felt these works were: religious, political, or biblically-specific. I was asked if they were about my beliefs, or if they were based on other religious ideas or faiths, or more spiritual in nature. I was asked if they would offend anyone.
I responded that no, they are not religious.
Yes, they index religious texts with similar but not contextually religious works such as: Stephen Hawkings, A Brief History of Time. Sandra Bernhard's, May I Kiss You on the Lips, Miss Sandra. Shirley MacLaine's, Out on a Limb. Grimm's Fairy Tales, the Kabbalistic text, The Zohar, astrological texts, The Bible, The Qur'an, The Bhagavad Gita, and, The Complete Book of Tarot...so far.
I do not focus on any specific areas of text or book, however my awareness of each drives me to specific contents within each book, and I weave seemingly disparate ideas and ideologies with one and another.
I imagine some will be greatly offended.
I imagine some will be greatly inspired.
I take them very seriously, as seriously as I take great humor and delight in their weave and seeming contradictions because I view them all as so similar. As similar to one another as when one tries to see identical twins as unlike the other.
I view them as paintings, and call them such even though they more closely resemble in technology photographs than anything else, as photographic processes are used in their production.
They are all self-portraits.
They are all portraits.

http://www.michaelgardnerart.com/GalleryMain.asp?GalleryID=120146&AKey=CE893GNT

The Word_0023

Ink on Transparency Film, Matte Photo Paper

8.5" x 11"

2012

Circles in Life...

Last night was Sandra Bernhard's birthday. She is busy with her new show, Sandrology, performing at REDCAT at Walt Disney Concert Hall. Technically part of the Music Center, so she is down the street from where I am at The Ahmanson Theatre working on the Broadway show Follies, here from New York. It makes me feel good she is nearby, schticking it to the crowds that come to hear some sense and sensibility from the one and only who gives it to 'em fresh and sunnyside up.
Would you like juice with that?
Oh she's juicy. The original navel orange.
Twenty four years ago, she was performing Without You I'm Nothing. I would be moving to NY in two months, although I didn't know this at the time as it happened so fast. I arrived in August. A hot, sultry, stinky, crowded, saturday night. Sandra was performing to sold out crowds downtown at the Orpheum Theatre. I desperately wanted to go, but didn't have a dime for extras. Hanging out in a bar when late one night I see on a tv she and Madonna on David Letterman. I think I told people to shut up so I could hear what she was saying. She looked great. NY summer city simple downtown cool. I'm certain the next day I fashioned myself from her example in a simple Hanes tee-shirt, short cut-off jeans, and boots, too.
     Meanwhile in another part of town, Robert Mapplethorpe was laying in a hospital bed from complications due to AIDS.
     Jesse Helms was on the NEA warpath declaring Mapplethorpe works were obscene, and fought to clamp down and eliminate government spending on the arts.
     On a thursday night, I went to the Whitney to see this obscene Mapplethorpe show, The Perfect Moment. Thursday evening's were free at the Whitney, and I was grateful for the sponsorship so I could view Robert's works. I was a young artist and I was about to have my mind blown by his vision.
     In 1998 I met and worked with Ms. Bernhard, as I was the wardrobe supervisor for her Broadway show, I'm Still Here Damn It! A friendship developed that I am grateful for, as she is one of those rare birds whose compassion and concern is matched by their sense of justice while possessing the willingness to stand up for what they believe in. And she can wear designer off the rack. What's not to love?
     This past week I was finishing up my finals for my second quarter back in school at Antioch University. In Academic Writing I was to turn in a research paper, on a topic of my choice. I thought it would be interesting to re-investigate the whole NEA/Mapplethorpe/Helms controversy, and decide for myself how I felt about government arts grants. I worked on this paper for a month. Twenty pages in length, it covered the topic in depth, and I was happy with the work I had accomplished.
On our final day in class we were to share a brief presentation on our paper, our topic. I volunteered to go first, and stated that I would  read the first two paragraphs of my paper. It outlined in a personal format my experience with this show, and examined the NEA, and Helms' agenda.
I began reading from my paper, and when I got to the part where I went to the Whitney, able to see this show for free, I started to cry.
Tears began streaming down my cheeks as I read:
"I didn’t have much money in my pocket, and was grateful for this free evening of art, made available through the generosity of the museum and various sponsors. I was aware of Mapplethorpe’s flowers, his pictures of Patti Smith, and of celebrity portraits. I slowly made my way through the museum. Roberts works silently held their place, adorning the walls." 
I stopped reading. Tears ran down my cheeks. I had no idea what was happening to me. I offered my apologies to the class, expressing embarrassment and exasperation for the emotional response to my story sharing. I continued reading: 
"Glorious prints, with such deep intense blacks, it appeared you could slide your fingers into their depths, trailing ripples into black water at night. Soft luminous bodies, their physical perfection matched in how he captured them. And his flowers. Deep religious visions. Reverent, and also containing an occultish air, tinges of unspoken mystery floating within their folds. Satanic shadows played off their form, as they were expertly lit."
I stopped reading again. I was having difficulty as I tried to hold back my gentle sobs. What the hell was happening to me? I told the class that I was confused and stunned as to my tearful reading, and apologized. They kindly reassured me I was doing fine, and their encouragement allowed me to feel safe in our space to continue: 
"I wasn’t sure what part of the pictures to focus on, my eyes were drawn deeper and deeper into his work. These images, as they grew on me one after another lining the museum’s walls, brought me into his world. My artistic spirit was plateauing, and I wondered how high it could ascend. What I wasn’t prepared to see were all the partially nude black men. In business attire with enormous cocks hanging out of open zippers, or white mens genitals held fast in some kind of trap, barbed wire encasing it all. Finally, in all his glory, was an incredible photograph of Robert himself. Standing with his back to the camera, clothed in nothing more than a leather vest, and leather chaps covering his thighs, Robert looks over his shoulder and stares down the viewer. One leg rests upon a sheet covered riser, his legs spread wide as he crouches, revealing the handle of a bullwhip shoved into his ass. The tail of the whip hangs out and down, past his legs, slithering on the floor. It is incredibly disturbing to me, and I am nervous looking at this picture, with many others around me at the show looking also. Lastly I see Robert in close up, holding a cane adorned with a skull at its tip. You see his hand, the cane’s skull, and his head. All the rest is black. He stares into the camera lens, and beyond. This is the last self portrait Robert would produce. Looking into the eyes of this brilliant artist, I am moved outside my comfort zone. I am grateful to be here, at the Whitney in NYC, to see these works. To be exposed to these ideas. I wonder at the world, art, Robert, AIDS, the NEA, Jesse Helms, and where it all is going to go. The future and my life before me, what is left?"
     I finished reading. Tears streaked down my cheeks. I wiped my eyes, and looked down into my lap. Stunned, shell shocked. I felt like I just had an earthquake inside.The class applauded my efforts, and our professor spoke of the power of the written word. How even when we are writing, at times we are ourselves unaware how deep into our subconscious we are accessing, and what results will play into the stories we share. He commended me on my willingness to finish, and the beauty of my choosing to do so.
     I realized on a profound level the impossibility of Mapplethorpe's work being obscene. The response I discovered I contained inside my artistic soul after seeing his beautiful show, The Perfect Moment, had silted down into me. It became a part of my being, as have so many other great artist's works I've seen and resonated with, even if unaware. What I had understood about his work was now a part of me, even though I had not ever articulated it, until that moment. And I had to read it aloud to a class for the discovery.
     This is the power of art.
     This is the beauty of an artist leaving something behind.
     After this presentation, my tearful emotional response to an experience I had so many years ago in NY, surfaced into my life. Reminding me of where I have been, what has happened, and where I am now.
     The following evening of this class was Sandra's birthday. A tweet from her told me of a friendly gathering and she invited me down to her theatre after our mutual shows bowed. 
     So here I am in Los Angeles now, celebrating the Lady with a sweet group. Toasting, sharing, laughing, and giving it up together. I was reminded of the full circle of things in life. Reminded that where you start is sometimes near where you finish, as one aspect of my life has completed its round. Making way for another to begin. Love and enjoy the road you are on, pay attention to who is with you. If you give the love you receive, those who matter most will be with you along the way.

Happy Birthday Sandy!

David Wojnarowicz

Dear David,

I feel like I know you. I’ve seen your picture of buffalos stampeding off a cliff and wish I owned a print of that. It would hang on my wall, but where in there is the story of you being raped unconscious? Where are the black beauties you ingested that kept you up for days? Where is your positive test result the clinic gave you? Where is the glorified You the Art World conveys whenever you and your work are mentioned? How can I feel like I know you from a work of art compared to your experiences in a car, at the pier, in a booth in a porn shop, in a dark alleyway, in your bedroom as a young boy before you understood who your parents were and were not for you? As a child you walked alone for the first time through the big city streets learning what you needed to make that work of art of buffalos stampeding off of a cliff one day...and you must have thought of me too.

David Wojnarowicz

Untitled (Falling Buffalo)

Gelatin Silver Print

10" x 13"

Edition of 100

1988-89

Semiotics: A Self Portrait

ADOPT: To expand, enrich, grow. A blessing.

APPERCEPTION: Process by which new experience is assimilated to and transformed by the residuum of past experience of an individual to form a new whole. Descartesian creation.

ASCETIC: Lifestyle characterized by abstinence from various sorts of worldly pleasures with aim of pursuing spiritual goals.

BASE: Resoundingly simple, unseasoned, bland. That which a thing stands upon or rests. Fundamental principle.

BRIDGE: A connection between two things impossibly separated from the other, thereby connecting them. The closing of a gap. A plan of escape.

BUDDHA: 

CAUSAL: System where the output depends on the; past, and present, but not future, input. Relationship between cause and effect.

CHTHONIC: In, under, or beneath the earth. Earthy deities or spirits of the underworld.

CORPOREAL: Of a material nature, tangible. Relating to body as opposed to spirit. Undead.

DAEMON: Good or benevolent nature spirits. Supernatural beings of some nature between gods and humans.

DIDACTIC: To teach, intend to instruct, convey information. Educate can be for entertainment and pleasure as well as edification.

DISPARATE: Unrelated, essentially different in kind. So unlike as no basis for comparison.

EPHEMERAL: Lasting a very short time, transitory.

ETERNAL: Infinite duration, perpetual, existing at all times. Simultaneous.

EVOLVE: To develop or achieve gradually. Doing gods work. 

FACILE: With ease.

FASHION: The past, the illusion of dreams. Fashion ruined Fashion for me.

FLUID: A substance that continually deforms under an applied stress. A substance that has no fixed shape and yields easily to external pressure. Ability to flow easily. 

GENESIS: Origin

GOD: Refers to the concept of Ein Sof: Ein Sof is a place to which forgetting and oblivion pertain; However concerning Ein Sof there is nothing there to search or probe; nothing can be known of it for it is hidden and concealed in the mystery of nothingness.

GOLEM: Adam was the first Golem. An animated anthropomorphic being. A monster made of clay who comes to life when Truth is breathed into its breast.

HEDONISM: School of thought that believes pleasure is the only intrinsic good.

HEGEMONY: Preponderant influence or authority over another. Indirect form of imperial dominance.

HOMOEROTIC: Erotic attraction between like.

ICON: A religious work of art. Art. Image, picture or representation of the imponderable. 

INTERSTITIAL: Empty space or gap between spaces full of structure or matter.

ITERATIVE: Involving repetition. Aim of approaching a devised goal, each repetition is its own iteration. The results of one iteration are used as the starting point for the next iteration.

JARGON: A confused, unintelligible language. A hybrid dialect or language simplified in vocabulary and pertaining to its specific group of understanding.

JASPER: Spotted or speckled stone. Traditional birthstone for March. Favorite gem of the ancient world.

JUXTAPOSE: To place together closely such that the disparity between the two becomes exponentially larger ad infinitum. Creating contrasting effect by the placement of each disparate object, a difference that is known as the result of its juxtaposition to another.

KEY: That which opens.

KINESIA: Condition caused by erratic or rhythmic motions in any combination of directions, exemplified by nausea, vertigo, and headache. Disagreement between visually perceived movement, and vestibular system’s sense of movement. Revelation of a Spiritual Truth.

KINETIC: Pertaining to motion. Energized due to an objects natural movement and motion result. The energy of an object due to its motion.

LACONIC: Brief, succinct. Involving a minimum of words, concise to the point of seeming rude or mysterious.

LATITUDE: Freedom from restriction. Angular distance of a celestial body.

LINEAR: Pertaining to or represented by lines. Having only one dimension.

MACHINATION: Crafty action or design toward a specific end result, the result of which can only be achieved through the specific method employed by the machinator. A Design towards an end more interesting than the end achieved.

MEDIEVAL: Unenlightened. A construct rooted in pre-Renaissance dogma and design, and relating to an alchemical lost art or process. Of castles, wizardry, and alchemy. Barefoot.

METEMPSYCHOSIS: The transmigration of the soul.

NEUTRAL: Free from sides.

NOMINAL: Existing or being something in name or form only. Trifling, insignificant, base.

NUANCE: A subtle shaded meaning or indicator, which in turn almost indicates nothing but the nuance implied. More interesting than the referred. Indicating a sophistication of subtlety, Sandra Bernhard.

OEUVRE: The expressed explicit average of a totality specifically in art, the outstanding sum of the body of evidence of a total work.

OMNI: Combining form.

OSMOSIS: Process of gradual or unconscious assimilation of ideas.

PARADOX: A statement or proposition that seems self contradictory or absurd but in reality expresses a possible truth. Thomas Jones.

PATCHOULI: Plant: the scent of which opens doors to magic, unimpeded perception, and elevated sensual awareness of past, present, and future, simultaneously.

POPPY: Flower; harbinger of dreams, the activator of unconscious creativity. Sleep. Unconsciousness.

QUANTUM: The smallest possible unit of any physical property such as energy or matter. Nature and behavior of matter on the atomic and subatomic levels.

QUILT: To weave. A construction of smaller parts into a unified whole larger than the individual sum of parts, but inexistant without said parts. 

QUOTIDIAN: Belonging to each day, commonplace, ordinary. Base.

REDUSE: The process by which the smallest consolidation from the largest still retains its entirety expressed.

ROAD: Sign indicating life, passage of time, and the space in its use. Existing in past, present, and future.

ROPE: A base tool without which nothing else technical or technological could be constructed or utilized. The most base and explicit technological invention. 

SANDALWOOD: The scent-ual effleurage of an angel, recognition of which draws it closer.

SINGULARITY: An unlimited dense point without any volume. A quantity which approaches infinity as another parameter goes to zero.

SYNCHRONICITY: Simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but having no discerning  causal connection.

TANGENTIAL: Diverting from a previous course in line.

THEATRE:

TRANSIENT: Short lived, passing quickly into and out of a locale, temporary.

ULTIMATE: Being or happening at end of a process, final.

UNIVERSAL: Worldwide. Known, recognized and understood by All. 

URBANE: Suave, courteous, civil.

VACUOUS: Empty.

VANGUARD: Leading position.

VISCOUS: Thick, sticky consistency.

WARP: Pervert. Twist meaning of. Change. The juxtaposition of itself into another is to warp.

WONDER: To be filed with awe.

WROTE: By implicit repetition, and capability, expressed in action.

X: The spot. The end, or indication of locale.

XX: Deceased.

XXX: Pertaining to or of a pornographic nature. Poison, and/or alcohol in a child’s reference. 

YARD: A measurement of distance as defined by 36 inches.

YELLOW: A representation of sensual power.

YOUNG: Untested.

ZEALOT: Radical, fanatical, specifically towards a religious or spiritual idea and movement.

ZENITH: The highest point reached by a celestial or other object. The Acme. Absolute end or final, expressed to the Nth degree.

ZODIAC: The signs, symbols of individuation within each sign; of the Heavens.

2012

Apparently the end is near, or at least the end of the Mayan's Calendar. And we know how well they lasted...find me a Mayan, that's all I have to say.
Here is the thing. We're all so quick to focus on trouble. Real or imagined, high or low potential, big or small. There isn't a damn thing you can do about it anyway so get present and enjoy the day. Make plans, follow through, participate, evolve!
Shake up your schedule. Talk up someone you never chatted with before, take a new route to work, create a different workout at your gym, listen to music previously unconsidered. Read a book. When you shake up your life, change your schedule, or handle things differently, the Gods Pay Attention To You. They're like, "Holy Shit, what's that motherfucker up to now? Wait a minute...damn! Look at her go! He didn't! Unh-unh..." They get involved then. Then contribute. They participate and agree with you. They love it.
Have a great and beautiful New Year.

Heureuse Nouvelle Année

Daisy

Graphite on Paper

4" x 6"

2011

Moscow, Russia...

I love Russia. Well, to be exact I have only been to Moscow. But I feel a deep love for the whole nonetheless. I worked in Moscow for two weeks while I set up Pagliacci for Los Angeles Opera via The Israeli Opera who rented our costumes. Directed by Franco Zeffirelli, it played at the Kremlin Palace Theatre. The thrill of going through security to get into the Kremlin, right next to Red Square and working with the Muscovites, is something I will never forget. I remember walking over the bridge that takes you into the Kremlin proper, knowing this was the very bridge that Napoleon crossed on his horse...among so many other people of historical significance...and me. One evening crossing this bridge I remember in particular. The sun was golden light as it was about to set. Deeply set stone-cut bricks  make up the bridge. It is powerful and sturdy, built with precision and strength. To me it spoke volumes about the people; what they had, created, and endured. Standing on this road I felt these bricks underneath, and looking down at my feet as I walked these 'cobblestones' I had the most amazing time travel flashback. I am a teenager. It is nearing sunset also, with the same golden hued evening light-time glow. It is one of the many times I am walking towards backstage in the summer musical theatre production I was a part of for many years. I quickly returned to where I was, on this bridge into the Kremlin. I stood there thinking of the long road of Life I have walked, and the many shows on which I have worked. My passion for the theatre began at that summer arts program I loved so much. I thought to myself, "I have a love for the performing arts so I could be here today, in Moscow, at the Kremlin Palace Theatre." All the Broadway shows I have worked on, all the Stars I have watched, worked with, and enjoyed from the wings...and that moment, right there on that bridge on my way to the evening performance of Pagliacci, is the most special to me.

The bridge into the Kremlin.

Onstage of the Kremlin Palace Theatre

Flying over Moscow en route to land at the Sheremetyevo Airport I looked down and saw nothing but Birch trees. It seemed like fields and fields of Birch trees. Their shimmering leaves catching the light in the wind and their unmistakable white papery bark standing down into the ground like giant white icicles. Russia was a mysterious land to me, a place we were taught to fear growing up in the 70's, and then magically dispelled by Reagan and Gorbachev in the 80's. We were suddenly allowed to be friends.

Me and Peter, Red Square

I wanted to dive into the Moscow World. To understand, to befriend, to know. I felt like I had never lived anyplace else once we were there. I felt the Spirit of Russia as if it was a part of me, and I was a part of it. Its size was marvelous. The food was incredible. The vodka, well...not that I was able to enjoy too much as I worked long days and didn't really want to drink at night as to be too tired the next day, still was delicious. I brought home a bottle that to this day I haven't opened. The coffee each day in the cafe  at the theatre was the best I may have had anyplace. Tiny servings in tiny cups that packed a delicious intense warmth that got you going. Running down the street after the costume designer Ramona, who claimed that Russia had the best cherries in the world. She darted into a shop and came out with a huge bag full of the dark fruits that we enjoyed the rest of the day through fittings. I Discovered one day that American cigarettes were cheap as candy bars, so I smoked Parliaments like all my Comrades at the theatre. I found this incredible honey shop that had some 100 or so different vats of honey. I brought home a couple of jars that I wanted to save forever, but couldn't help myself and enjoyed the golden flavor. Eating apricots soaked in honey from Moscow...mmmmm, heaven.
There are many days when out of the blue I am transported back to Moscow. I can see the light of the day in my minds eye...the beautiful people...men sitting on the sidewalk making brooms out of the fallen branches...the tall statuesque young women each one more beautiful than the next...the expanse...Red Square...St. Basil's...Gorky Park...all of it. I miss it, Her, regularly. I believe that in the future, Russia is where the next pyramids will be built. but that is another story...
The one thing that stayed with me the most though, were the beautiful Birch trees. I took many pictures of these trees while we visited the Novodevichy Cloister. I have loved birch trees since childhood, as many were on my grandma's land in Minnesota. We used to tear off the paper bark and fold it into a canoe-styled shape and float them in the marsh, or down the clear stream that ran through the woods. I always thought of these trees as magical, as silent watchers. The earth in Moscow at the Cloister smelled just like the same earth as on Grandma's farm. Soft and with a slight sandyness, damp and rich. I remember smelling this so clearly and also flashed back to her farm. I felt two places at once. Was I a child at her farm, or a child here, in Moscow?

Outside Novodevichy Cloister

Novodovichy Grounds

Russian Birch

I believe the space of Moscow, of Russia, allows for this kind of experience, this time-jumping through memory. The enormity of her allows an openness that I never experienced in the comparatively and ridiculously cramped, puny, Manhattan, or the country-like Los Angeles. When I thought of these places I felt I could hear Russia giggling..."as if", she seemed to say. "There is no comparison to Mother Russia!" "Come, cleave to my breast!"
But still, it is the quiet gentleness of the Birch trees that I think about most. I painted them several times over. Coming back to them again and again. They are like ghosts, silent young gods. Waiting. Whispering, "come home. Come home."

Birch Tree #1

Oil on Wood

12" x 13"

2008

Church

Oil on Bamboo Curtain

60" x 84"

2008

Russian Birch #1

Oil on Wood Tree Planter

23" x 23" x 15.5"

2008