Creating new

...works takes up most of it's time in the creation process due to my need to just look at it. I can spend the afternoon, many noons over and over, just looking at new work.  This becomes especially true when I am working on the next phase in the evolution of my work. Sitting about ten feet away, and staring. Routinely walking away from the piece and then returning. (Something I learned to do when I was a college freshman, with a drawing of mine that looked finished. However I felt every time I glanced at it I saw that it wasn't fully realized. I propped up this drawing at the far end of the den outside my bedroom and stared at it from a distance until I understood what could be done).  If it is the day after I just started a new piece, I make a point upon my return to the studio the following day to not look at the painting until I am fully settled and situated, with a cup of coffee in hand. Then I finally allow myself to face the work and stare at it.  It is as if this new work showed up in my studio and I am seeing it again for the first time. I quiet my mind, and listen to it.
Yes. Listen.
Some of my paintings are much more talkative than others. I have a painting I did several years ago that spoke incessantly to me while I worked on it.

You, Me, God

48" x 54"

Watercolor, graphite on the backside of gessoed canvas

1998

This painting is deeply personal, and unfolded it's purpose of aligning me with myself, where I came from, love and the struggles I face, and how God reveals to me.

Some paintings don't talk to me until much later. Saving their thoughts until I am ready to listen and hear what it is they have to say. Most all of my paintings tell me their name, or title, if I ask. Putting a word in my head that frequently isn't a word I am familiar with, causing me to have to look it up in the dictionary.

Now, I'm not trying to sound all mumbo-jumbo here. Although if you know me, you understand that this is a natural part of the world I inhabit, and is part of the alchemy in my process. My goal is to impart the importance of listening, of looking, of being quiet. Quiet allows me to see something I may not have realized is there. Quiet gives me room to hear what is there if only I just listen. A painting is always like that, and I can look for hours. I must. I encourage all to allow the time to take in a painting in this way. That is why there are always wooden benches in museums placed back from paintings, so you can sit attentively and look and listen. Often I hang a particular painting near my bed so at night it is the last thing I take in. Quieting my mind to listen, opening my eyes to see so when I fall asleep I am open to my unconscious, and all the unseen worlds that my conscious eyes and ears don't connect with during the day. Plus, it gives me the opportunity to check in with a piece and see generally what I am up to. Giving me the option to go further if need be, to reflect, and then the following day when I go to my studio I have that information distilled for me when I work.

My new paintings which I am currently considering as "(The) Space Between" pieces are taking much quiet consideration. I was thinking while I was working on the current studies that I needed a reference from an artist before me, and was trying to think of who or what that was. The name Franz Kline popped into my head. Not an artist I have spent any time considering, nor can I say his work has stuck with me from anything I saw. However I am always trusting of quiet information so I googled images, and there they were. The first remark in this historical line of work (not ultimately 'the first' but first in terms of contemporary art, that reflects this direction for me...I could also site the line drawings of Van Gogh, and Picasso...but then I am not here to do research for you...just ask that you look as well), that gave me encouragement to continue. No artist in any medium works in limbo. To fail to question what came before and not recognize your place in the historical line is to deny your place alongside those that came before, and those who will stand next to you, after. So while I make a point to always work originally, I make another point to know what was done before me. Listening to what others have said too.

Study for (The) Space Between

8" x 12"

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

2011

The Space Between

...is where I/we all seem to be right now. So much dismantling of the land is shaping up. Tornadoes, earthquakes, floods. We have to remember we are on a ball made of rock and water held together by unseen force and floating through space defined by the lack of substance in between objects. So much and so little happen; royal weddings come and go of a privileged class by birth which are media-vomited down our throats as if they were all that mattered, terrorist leaders taking their last stand behind sandy walls, and celebrity children of celebrities selling out Radio City Music Hall on account of bad behavior.
I am reading Life by Keith Richards. He writes of the silent quiet spaces between the chords, the drums, the vocals that become interesting, beautiful.
I think it is the many dazzling facets of ones Life that become the brilliance. The facets. The flat blank spaces between the hard angled ridge in a diamond.
The space.
We are so compelled to fill our lives with constant, that the moment of pause makes one unnerved. Fidgety. Vulnerable.
Keith is right. It is the space that is beautiful. It allows you to recognize where you just came from, and gives clue as to where you may be headed.

Study for (The) Space Between 

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

8" x 12"

Michael Gardner

The Shells/New York City Post 9-11 Paintings

www.michaelgardnerart.com

I am finishing preparing for The Artist Project NY. I have nine new paintings done, and one left to finish. I had previously painted 10 large oil paintings in 2009 on canvas. These paintings were based on the small watercolor studies I did back in 2001, from polaroids I took of daily life in New York. Manhattan to be exact. A month after the 9-11 attacks to be timely precise. I took the polaroids as I wandered about the city. I love polaroids, something about them makes for a perfect time-capsule of a moment in a way that I don't find in 35mm or digital pictures. I think part of that notion is based on Andy Warhol's polaroid work. Part of it comes from my work in high fashion, where you polaroid the model as the final look is established and becomes the reference for the runway. Part of it comes from making the daily bible in TV or film. Polaroiding the actor in their look for a particular scene, noting what is worn and how in the event you need to re-shoot. A snapshot of that exact moment. So I was for me, trying to hold onto those days shortly after this singularity of 9-11. Trying to remember what life was like before and not yet ready to digest what was now. In fact now was now post the event, and life was moving along as it had to. We are always trying to keep All of It in status quo, but God doesn't work that way. All That Is uses evolution to express itself, and evolving is in my mind doing God's work. Allowing yourself to grow and change. Accepting events, the momentum of life, and change as the only permanent status we actually have. It took me nearly 10 years to allow myself to make the large scale paintings of The Shells, as was always my intent, from the small delicate watercolor studies. When I finally did, I was living in Los Angeles and had my studio downtown. Downtown Los Angeles; where Hollywood comes to film all the outside "N.Y." scenes due to the buildings and facades they dress up to appear as the real place, when they can't or won't go to N.Y. to film, and where I found myself on the 10th floor of a building in my studio listening to the noise of the city below. The same noise any large city would produce. It could be N.Y. sound-wise with sirens, busses, and various loud pedestrian antics rising up to my open window just like the wolves I used to listen to howling down 8th Avenue in Hells Kitchen where I lived when I started this project. It was the perfect time to paint The Shells.
A few months ago I applied for and was invited to participate in The Artist Project NY, and I knew it was time to show these paintings, and in the city they were meant to be shown. I wanted to paint some smaller pieces for the show. A new reflection on The Shells that moved the series forward in another way. I came across Andy Warhol's Reversals, and realized that I wanted to look at these paintings in this inward style. I wanted to make the background as important as the foreground "action" of the figures, if not stronger. In this way I hope to show how ephemeral and transient the Moments are, and drive home what I learned after 9-11. Life is precious, fleeting, and fragile. We are all but shells, and like a shell hard and beautiful, but surely Time will wear down the shell and but a grain of sand will remain. And as William Blake wrote long before:

To see a world in a grain of sand 

And a heaven in a wild flower

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour

Geranium Shell

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

44" x 60"

Fuschia Shell/Reversal

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

18" x 30"

In my studio in prep for the show. New paintings.

The Shells/Reversals

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

18" x 30" each

Upon meeting Stephen Hawking...

I'm working on 33 Variations starring Jane Fonda. It is because of her and her generosity that I was able to meet, speak to, shake hands with, and be in the presence of Stephen Hawking. And he did in fact speak back to me, which I learned firsthand takes time and patience. He said "yes". More on that later...
Stephen came to see Jane, whom he described as his heart throb, on account of Barbarella, and that being just one of many reasons I would bet! And why not? How perfect that this man of Science would be attracted to the beautiful and sexy Barbarella, the first lady of outer space, who is charged with helping to save Earth from a deadly weapon. He brought her a beautiful bouquet of flowers...we all stood around in a semi circle as Jane introduced him to Moises Kaufman, the writer and director of 33 Variations. Jane plays a musicologist who is struck with ALS as she is writing what will be her final paper on Beethoven's 33 Variations. Jane asked him if as with Beethoven upon losing his hearing resulted in creating some of his most beautiful works was the same as Stephen's mind being freed from the constraints and distractions of the body. After several minutes he replied "Yes. It gave me the freedom from having to teach". We were dumbfounded with delight, and all laughed as he shared this with a grin and a twinkle in his eyes. I stood directly in front of him in this semi circle, about 15 feet away. I was struck by his presence. Awestruck is more appropriate. I joke sometimes that after working in showbiz as long as I have, that I've met everyone. However, I never imagined that I would be in the same country at the same time as Mr. Hawking, let alone get to be in his company. Jane related to Stephen that there was a man present who was  their costumer and had read all his books and was so excited hearing of his visit. She looked for me  and asked me to come forward to meet him. Time stopped for me, and no joke. This is one of those moments that time speeds up and stops simultaneously. You step out of your body and something else takes over...I stepped forward to greet him (in front of I would guess 30 - 40 people?). The word on my mind the past couple of years has been "vulnerable". This on account of Francesco Clemente, who said to Charlie Rose in an interview that an artist must "cultivate vulnerability". In the past couple of weeks several people in my life have made mention of the importance of allowing yourself to being vulnerable. Well, my opportunity struck me like lightening. I said to Stephen: "I can't say I've understood all that I've read in your books, but I've tried to. They have been an enormous inspiration to me". I then wanted to say something about how important I believed his life was during this very specific time in our world's history, what with the state of humanity...but all that came out next was, "you're a very special man, and I am blessed to be in your presence". During this his kind assistant who was with him from Cambridge reached over and placed his hand in mine. It was all I could do not to spill tears from my eyes, and keep my voice from breaking entirely. I was moved to meet him in a way that I cannot begin to translate. I feel like I've been enlightened. I feel like I was blessed to meet a man who with all the grace and patience of a saint conducts his life in a way that is a parable for all of us. As I stood before him and looked into his eyes I felt like he was coming from a great distance, but his presence was enormous and palpable. I believe that he must operate on many levels due to the confines of his body and the chair he wheels through life in. But there is nothing imperfect about him. There isn't anything that I would now after meeting him think of as handicapped, or inhibited by difficulty. His grace and insight allow him to thrive in a manner that no one else could possibly imagine, and or replicate, but which allows us to learn beautiful lessons from. I know I will think about and meditate on Stephen for a very very long time, more than likely for the rest of my life...there was that much there for me from that brief but infinite crossing of paths. I hope that as an artist I can distill this into works that share a glimpse of this infinite.

Before the time with Stephen was finished, I was having a picture taken with him. I told him about an argument I had online with the British artist Damien Hirst about conceptual art. I shared that my response to something Damien said was constructing a box and sealing it with tape. I wrote on the box Schrodinger's Cat. I related how Schrodinger's idea that the cat existed and didn't exist at the same time was a basic law of physics, and how much these ideas inspire me. He responded, "Yes".

ps Schrodinger's Cat is pictured in the Wednesday, November 24th post below...coincidence? There is no such thing...

...and Patti Smith sang of Horses

The first time I saw Patti, it seriously disturbed me. Late at night I am up watching SNL and The Patti Smith Group performed. Something from her cracked something inside me. I didn't know what she was, I didn't know why she was the way she was. I feared drugs. I feared the devil. I feared the worst. The next day at church me and my friends discussed what in the world could possibly be wrong with her...her drummer destroyed his drum set at the end of the song My Generation. It is 1976 and I am 9. A few years later my cousin Shelley had the album Easter. I was mesmerized looking at this album cover...Patti had hairy armpits.
It was August 1988, and I had just moved to New York City. I was invited to go to The Whitney to see the Robert Mapplethorpe retrospective. It was a thursday night, and the museum was open for free after 5pm. Looking at his photographs blew my mind. Something from him cracked something inside me. Why would you put your genitals inside barbed wire and a trap? Again I feared drugs, excess...the devil.
I lived on 24th street, between 7th and 8th. I would go up to the roof of our building and stare at The Chelsea Hotel. All the years I lived in NY, I never went inside the Chelsea. I was afraid I wouldn't come out...I would stand on our roof and smoke and watch the sun set, and the lights inside the hotel come up and I thought about all that transpired there, not knowing exactly what or with whom, but feeling it. Sensing it. Rumors and stories would float in the air to me and slowly over time I would understand.
I wanted to be free, to be brave, to allow. In my own ways I was as free and naked as Patti and Robert, although I didn't think so at the time.
In Manhattan Patti lives across the street from my dear friend, Byron. He tells me that Patti owns the building next to his; a ground floor empty space that she uses as a studio. Bright open windows is all that separates her studio from MacDougal Street. One day as I leave Byron's apartment I pass the studio and look inside  and Patti is inches away from my face. Paper is pinned to the wall and she stands there, drawing as intently as I have ever seen another artist work. I freeze, and I imagine in that moment all the things that Patti and I will never do together, beginning with her sharing some of the wall space so I can paint with her. Tonight after I watch her interview on Tavis Smiley I dream of Patti and that studio. In my dream it is 2001 and when I pass her studio, I stop and knock on her window and she invites me in...
It would be a few more years before I would even own a copy of Land, and I would be living in Los Angeles. It may have arrived in my studio via iTunes...but as the hoofbeats of Land pounded their way through me it was as if time ceased to be a format and Robert, Patti, and I were brought together..."Horses" would chant in my head for years to follow, and I would begin work on a series that remains today un-concluded. It is about freedom and adolescence...two things that Robert and Patti cracked in me.
Just Kids is the book Patti writes about her story with Robert, New York, artistry, and love. It is about the struggle I have with myself and my work, and it reads like an unfolding dream. It is beautiful and it explains to me what I feared back in 1976; Myself. Today I don't have that fear anymore, but perhaps a few of the daemons remain...coaxing me to unfold myself further. I have a love for Robert and Patti that will remain unrequited, but feels as real as any love affair I have ever had because emotions and artistry defy logic, as that is what they have taught me.

White Horse

60"x76"

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

2010/2012

www.michaelgardnerart.com

Backstage and on Broadway from the wings....

I wondered tonight how many shows I have worked through, and ultimately listened to. If I have worked in the theatre, basically nonstop since 1993, then I have heard well over 5000 performances. The breakdown would go something like this: Cats = #1 (having worked there for 2 1/2 years) then The Scarlet Pimpernel (all 3 versions), Saturday Night Fever...and so on, and then it becomes more of an even mix of numbers...per show/play. Most shows I worked on for at least a year. If you don't miss a day of work, which many times I didn't, that is 416 shows a year. Some were short runs, some closed too soon. I have always considered this a real privilege. I love my work, it isn't my "A" plan, but it is an "A-" plan for sure. I work with brilliant artists, and it affords me my studio...
Backstage.
Listening to Laurie Beechman singing Memory from Cats. How many times did I listen to her, perhaps a hundred times? More, maybe? Her amazing voice I can still pick out in my head in brief moments...such a fierce peformer and singer. Douglas Sills singing Into the Fire, maybe 600 times? Sandra Bernhard singing about the rivers on Mars, Genius. I will hear a song from a show I've worked on, and in my mind I see exactly what I am doing, at that moment and with whom, backstage. I don't usually see the performance of what is happening, just who I am interacting with, and what task is at hand. In many of the shows if I didn't have a cue I would pick out a special moment and watch from the wings. Watching Carol Channing every night walk the passerelle in Hello Dolly, or eating the potato puffs with Horace. Claudia Shelle would quietly run through the White Cat adagio all by herself in the dark. Every show. Sometimes quickly, but with the same concentration, and application. As beautiful as watching her perform it moments later for the audience of the Winter Garden Theatre. Tonight I watched Alice Ripley's reaction at the end of singing Didn't I See This Movie when her husband Dan walks in. Shocking...unbelievable...beautiful and haunting. I watched it twice today, being a two show day. I was curious what happened at the end of this rocking song, so I watched from the wings. Even busy with changes backstage, I listen carefully to I Miss the Mountains, the previously mentioned song, and a specific line she says about grief. The way she says it every night tells its own story, all by itself.  What I get from these performances each night, from each show I work on, I have never quite been able to calculate. I know the energy of working with a performing artist enables me to constantly think about my own work as a painter, which one might think of as constant/not live...but I think of what Fosse said; "pretty picture" and I think of each picture, of each second, of each moment that a stage performer works to convey; amidst all the scenery, lighting, music, and staging. Each moment conveying an ever reaching arc of emotion that lives on in the audiences memory, reflecting the human experience...and I strive for that 'live' feeling in my work. Listening to a performer while backstage, usually in the dark, it feels to me like you are being let in on a secret. Not seeing them, just listening, gives it a nuanced air that might get missed in viewing it onstage. There are so many distractions designed to coerce the story along to its conclusion. And rightly so. For me, I try to let the viewer in on a secret too, in my paintings. Silently looking at the story and noise, color and shape, texture and harmony of its picture.

Dancer in Attitude 

Wire sculpture

9"

...and then there was Orion.

...Midnight, November 20. Just got home from a long day of pre-production on Next to Normal, the national tour. The sky had been full of clouds and rain all day, but as I got home the clouds parted, the Moon bloomed the night sky full, and there he was. Orion, big as your hand when held flexed straight armed and up to where he stands. I had been looking for him every night for the past two months. Who was feeling crazier, me or Diana, the character that Alice Ripley examines in Next to Normal? She sings of missing the mountains, sings of something lost and forgotten, sings of who she used to be...or maybe wasn't...or maybe of something that was just misplaced. And I finally found Orion after looking for him. What does Diana find? Reality in its' infinite wisdom reveals to us what we design, and it's timing is not coincidental. I pondered if Diana didn't create her family out of her delirium entirely...that perhaps Gabe isn't the only one missing. If you are free enough to not continually create the same reality day after day, then the possibilities are endless. If you don't carry the past around with you like a heavy emotional weight, then you are free to fly, and those memories are but part of the multidimensionality you access to recreate experience. Why I wasn't seeing Orion I don't know, but he was there. It was me that wasn't.

Schrodinger's Cat 

Box, marker, (cat)

1'x1'x1'

2009