Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Yesterday I overheard Mia on the phone, talking with one of her friends when she didn’t know I could hear.

I heard her say that I had been offered a couple of jobs recently, and that although I’d been really interested in them, and they would have been great opportunities for me, I decided not to pursue them because they weren’t good for us as a couple.

This was true, and one of them was especially intriguing to me; for a time, I’d wanted it very badly. But they were both in locations that offered nothing for her in terms of job prospects. Because of this, and because I never seriously considered going without her, these opportunities quickly became moot.

As I listened to her emphasizing again to her friend how difficult it was for me to say no to these opportunities, I felt a little glimmer of…something. Validation? I hadn’t known that she knew just how much I wanted them. She went on to say that sometimes it was hard thinking of the couple first, rather than the individual, but it was just what you did, and that she was bound by the same duty; if she got an opportunity that didn’t include me, she would have to say no as well.

I went back around the corner to let her finish her conversation in peace and thought about this. I was reminded of a moment in grad school, when I sat in on a class taught by my advisor Tony Miraglia. Tony, being provocative, said one day that the most important thing an artist could have is a wife…and then sat back to watch the effect on the room. There was an audible intake of breath, some loud protests, charges of continued sexism in the art world, nervous laughter. Having gotten everyone’s attention, he allowed the bedlam to die down, then said that he would stand by that comment. More bedlam. He waved his hands for quiet and smiled, and said that he didn’t care if you were a man or woman, straight or gay, or even if you ever officially got married. He clarified that if an artist has a supportive spouse, one who understands and appreciates the artist’s work, as well as the time and effort that went into it, the artistic work will be immeasurably easier. If an artist has a spouse who doesn’t support the artistic endeavor, that spouse is in effect in competition with it. He/she may not understand or take an interest in art at all, may not understand or like your particular work, or perhaps worst, he/she may be jealous of the time involved in creating it, feeling that it is detracting from the relationship. In any of these cases, with a non-supportive spouse, the artist is doing a great disfavor to the artistic practice. With this competition established between the relationship and the work, it will always be difficult for the creative energy to flow freely, to have the support of someone who understands your career, even to schedule time in the studio. Tony’s bottom line: there are many things that go into being a successful artist, not least who you choose to share your life with.

I thought of all of this because I realized once again that I’m lucky to have the most supportive partner imaginable. Mia is a champion of me and my work, and does a million things, big and small, all the time to help me out in my practice, whether it is coming up with marketing ideas, talking about my work to others, buying studio furniture for me for Christmas…I am very lucky, and I know it.

Gay Bashing at the Smithsonian

This article was originally published in the New York Times on December 11, 2010.

By FRANK RICH
Published: December 11, 2010

Each Aug. 4, my wife Alex and I visit a church to light candles for two people we loved who both died tragically on that day two years apart — my mother, killed at 64 in a car crash, and Alex’s closest friend from graduate school, killed by AIDS at half that age. My mother was Jewish but loved the meditative serenity of vast cathedrals. Alex’s friend, John, was a Roman Catholic conflicted by a religion that demonized his sexuality. Our favorite pilgrimage is to an Episcopal church, Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, not as some sectarian compromise but because of its AIDS chapel, a haunting reminder of the plague that ravaged that city’s population, especially its gay men, some time ago.

What helps give us some solace is the chapel’s mesmerizing altarpiece. It was the New York artist Keith Haring’s last completed work in the weeks before his death by AIDS at age 31 in 1990. Titled “The Life of Christ” and radiant in gold leaf, it crowns its anguished panorama of suffering with a pair of angels ascending to heaven — all rendered in Haring’s whimsical, graffiti-inspired iconography. Even as he was succumbing to a ruthless disease that had provoked indifference and cruelty rather than compassion from too many of his fellow citizens, Haring, somehow, could still see angels. You needn’t be a believer to be inspired by the beauty of his vision.

Not every artist struck down by AIDS could hit so generous a note. Such was the case with David Wojnarowicz, a painter, author and filmmaker, who, like Haring, was a fixture of the East Village arts scene in the 1980s. When his mentor and former lover, the photographer Peter Hujar, fell ill with AIDS in 1987, Wojnarowicz created a video titled “A Fire in My Belly” to express both his grief and his fury. As in Haring’s altarpiece, Christ figures in Wojnarowicz’s response to the plague — albeit in a cryptic, 11-second cameo. A crucifix is besieged by ants that evoke frantic souls scurrying in panic as a seemingly impassive God looked on.

Still from A Fire in My Belly

Hujar died in 1987, and Wojnarowicz would die at age 37, also of AIDS, in 1992. This is now ancient, half-forgotten history. When a four-minute excerpt from “A Fire in My Belly” was included in an exhibit that opened six weeks ago at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, it received no attention. That’s hardly a surprise, given the entirety of this very large show — a survey of same-sex themes in American portraiture titled “Hide/Seek.” The works of Wojnarowicz, Hujar and other lesser known figures are surrounded by such lofty (and often unlikely) bedfellows (many gay, some not) as Robert Mapplethorpe, John Singer Sargent, Grant Wood, Thomas Eakins, Georgia O’Keeffe, Andy Warhol, Andrew Wyeth and Haring. It’s an exhibit that would have been unimaginable in a mainstream institution in Wojnarowicz’s lifetime.

The story might end there — like Haring’s altarpiece, a bittersweet yet uplifting postscript to a time of plague. But it doesn’t because “Fire in My Belly” was removed from the exhibit by the National Portrait Gallery some 10 days ago with the full approval, if not instigation, of its parent institution, the Smithsonian. (The censored version of “Hide/Seek” is still scheduled to run through Feb. 13.) The incident is chilling because it suggests that even in a time of huge progress in gay civil rights, homophobia remains among the last permissible bigotries in America. “Think anti-gay bullying is just for kids? Ask the Smithsonian,” wrote The Los Angeles Times’s art critic, Christopher Knight, last week. One might add: Think anti-gay bullying is just for small-town America? Look at the nation’s capital.

The Smithsonian’s behavior and the ensuing silence in official Washington are jarring echoes of those days when American political leaders stood by idly as the epidemic raged on. The incident is also a throwback to the culture wars we thought we were getting past now — most eerily the mother of them all, the cancellation of a Mapplethorpe exhibit (after he died of AIDS) at another Washington museum, the Corcoran, in 1989.

Like many of its antecedents, the war over Wojnarowicz is a completely manufactured piece of theater. What triggered the abrupt uproar was an incendiary Nov. 29 post on a conservative Web site. The post was immediately and opportunistically seized upon by William Donohue, of the so-called Catholic League, a right-wing publicity mill with no official or financial connection to the Catholic Church.

Donohue is best known for defending Mel Gibson’s anti-Semitism by declaring that “Hollywood is controlled by Jews who hate Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular.” A perennial critic of all news media except Fox, he has also accused The Times of anti-Catholicism because it investigated the church pedophilia scandal. Donohue maintains the church doesn’t have a “pedophilia crisis” but a “homosexual crisis.” Such is the bully that the Smithsonian surrendered to without a fight.

Donohue’s tactic was to label the 11-second ants-and-crucifix sequence as “anti-Christian” hate speech. “The irony,” wrote the Washington Post art critic, Blake Gopnik, is that the video is merely a tepid variation on the centuries-old tradition of artists using images of Christ, many of them “hideously grisly,” to speak of mankind’s suffering. Those images are staples of all museums — even in Washington, where gory 17th-century sculptures of Christ were featured in a recent show of Spanish sacred art at the National Gallery.

Christ After the Flagellation contemplated by the Christian Soul, Diego Velasquez, 1628-1629

Dead Christ, Gregorio Fernandez, 1625-1630

But of course Donohue was just using his “religious” objections as a perfunctory cover for the homophobia actually driving his complaint. The truth popped out of the closet as Donohue expanded his indictment to “pornographic images of gay men.” His Republican Congressional allies got into the act. Eric Cantor called for the entire exhibit to be shut down and threatened to maim the Smithsonian’s taxpayer funding come January. (The exhibit was entirely funded by private donors, but such facts don’t matter in culture wars.) Jack Kingston, of the House Appropriations Committee, rattled off his own list of exaggerated gay outrages in “Hide/Seek,” from “Ellen DeGeneres grabbing her breasts” to “naked brothers kissing.”

It took only hours after Donohue’s initial battle cry for the video to be yanked. “The decision wasn’t caving in,” the museum’s director, Martin E. Sullivan, told reporters. Of course it was. The Smithsonian, in its own official statement, rationalized its censorship by saying that Wojnarowicz’s video “generated a strong response from the public.” That’s nonsense. There wasn’t a strong response from the public — there was no response. As the museum’s own publicist told the press, the National Portrait Gallery hadn’t received a single complaint about “A Fire in the Belly” from the exhibit’s opening day, Oct. 30, until a full month later, when a “public” that hadn’t seen the exhibit was mobilized by Donohue to blast the museum by phone and e-mail.

The Post’s Gopnik has been heroically relentless in calling out the Smithsonian and the National Portrait Gallery for their capitulation. But few in Washington’s power circles have joined him, including the Smithsonian’s Board of Regents — a gilded assembly of bipartisan cowardice that ranges from Senator Thad Cochran, Republican of Mississippi, to Senator Patrick Leahy, Democrat of Vermont. This timidity has been particularly striking given that the city’s potentates gathered to bestow the Kennedy Center Honors last weekend on the choreographer Bill T. Jones, whose legendary artistic and personal partnership with Arnie Zane came to a tragic end when Zane was killed by AIDS at age 39 in 1988.

It still seems an unwritten rule in establishment Washington that homophobia is at most a misdemeanor. By this code, the Smithsonian’s surrender is no big deal; let the art world do its little protests. This attitude explains why the ever more absurd excuses concocted by John McCain for almost single-handedly thwarting the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” are rarely called out for what they are — “bigotry disguised as prudence,” in the apt phrase of Slate’s military affairs columnist, Fred Kaplan. Tony Perkins of the Family Research Council has been granted serious and sometimes unchallenged credence as a moral arbiter not just by Rupert Murdoch’s outlets but by CNN, MSNBC and The Post’s “On Faith” Web site even as he cites junk science to declare that “homosexuality poses a risk to children” and that being gay leads to being a child molester.

It’s partly to counteract the hate speech of persistent bullies like Donohue and Perkins that the Seattle-based author and activist Dan Savage created his “It Gets Better” campaign in which gay adults (and some non-gay leaders, including President Obama) make videos urging at-risk teens to realize that they are not alone. But even this humanitarian effort is controversial and suspect in some Beltway quarters: G.O.P. politicians and conservative pundits have yet to participate even though most of the recent and well-publicized suicides by gay teens have occurred in Republican Congressional districts, including those of party leaders like Michele Bachmann, Mike Pence and Kevin McCarthy.

Has it gotten better since AIDS decimated a generation of gay men? In San Francisco, certainly. But when America’s signature cultural institution can be so easily bullied by bigots, it’s another indicator that the angels Keith Haring saw on his death bed have not landed in Washington just yet.

An Evening with Cleve Jones

I had the great chance to see Cleve Jones on Friday at a small Q&A-style talk.

Some might know him best as the young activist from the movie Milk. I first heard of him when I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area during the late 80s and early 90s; he was quoted in the paper on a regular basis about the rampaging AIDS epidemic.

His activism on this issue led him to create the world’s largest public art project, the AIDS Quilt. The quilt is made of panels, 3 feet by 6 feet, which memorialize people, mostly young gay men, who have been lost to AIDS. The panels are sewn and decorated by friends or family, and often include more than a name: perhaps the dates of birth and death, a silkscreened photo, a favorite quote, a sentiment from the survivors. This quilt is like any other, with a variety of colors and styles from panel to panel; some are somber, some are over-the-top fabulous, with everything in between.

 

I saw the quilt on Sproul Plaza at UC Berkeley, and will never forget the panel that read, under the deceased’s name: “Received a Purple Heart for killing a man, and a discharge for loving one”. I cried.

The personal is political.

The quilt has gone on multiple tours of the country, been laid out on the National Mall in Washington DC, and was even part of President Clinton’s first inaugural parade.

 

This past year, Cleve was involved in another kind of public documentation, when he began Testimony: Equality on Trial. This performance and video project was a response to the Prop 8 trial, which took away the right of gays in California to marry. Our Supreme Court blocked this historic trial from being televised for the American people, so to provide access to the details of the trial, Cleve hit on a simple idea: Verbatim transcripts of the trial were reenacted in public places, filmed, and uploaded to the internet so that anyone could watch them. (Prop 8 was found to be unconstitutional and is now on appeal).

The main thrust of Cleve’s remarks the other night were that the most effective messages in the struggle out of second-class citizenship are the ones that reveal the humanity behind the statistics. The quilt panels, and individual videos that are posted online (think the It Gets Better Project) get people talking. The act of coming out to family and friends attaches a friendly face to what might otherwise be only a scary abstract.

This is old-fashioned, grass-roots story-telling. The personal is political.

Back to the studio, to tell some more stories.

Vermont Studio Center: Return

My month at the Vermont Studio Center was fantastic in every way: the scenery, the friends I made, the visit across the border to Montreal, the time to focus completely on my painting.

Having the chance to appreciate weather, instead of cursing it as I run back upstairs (four flights!) to get my umbrella.

Being reminded of how nice it is to see dogs that look and act like dogs–playing in the river, chasing each other, running–rather than being carried in designer bags, wearing boots and sweaters, and looking either nervous or pompous (depending on the dog).

Discovering interesting new details, such as the rows of metal flashing that cover Vermont roofs, which cause the snow to melt and slide off the roof in stripes (!).

Even better, I was calmer and more focused. Happier. I resolved to figure out ways to take these feelings back with me into the “real” world, so that I didn’t leave the best parts of myself in Vermont, suspended in a month that would all-too-quickly fade into memory and come to seem unreal.

In Vermont, I was doing exactly what I wanted to do: I wanted time and space in which to paint, and I wanted to relax, to shake off some accumulated stress from my old job and the hurry-up lifestyle of NYC. Check, check, and check. The whole purpose of the Vermont Studio Center is to give you time to work, and the quiet pace of Johnson was exactly what I needed–slow enough to make life easy, but not boring.

I realized that in my “real” life, what I wanted and what I was doing were not in alignment with each other at all. My job was competing against what I really wanted to do (paint) and that part of my life couldn’t be taken seriously–by me or anyone else–as long as I was squeezing it into the margins–after 5:00 PM, on some weekends, in between the usual transactions of daily life.

Although I know I’m coming back to my usual errands, chores, and concerns, I am committed to making sure I stay in alignment at home.

Here are some observations and lessons that I think will be worth taking back with me:

I like working big.

Sometimes I can’t check off everything on the to-do list. That’s OK.

Avoid the temptation to reflexively check my Facebook and email. This is a waste of time and energy.

Don’t put on TV to “relax” (I know myself; I just get sucked in). I watched it twice in a month and that felt like plenty (though I did miss Dexter!)

Try to limit multi-tasking. My apartment is small, so with one sweeping glance, I can see all the things needing my attention: computer, food, shower, laundry, dustballs under the desk…try to focus and finish one thing (which is more satisfactory anyway) instead of jumping around.

I think I’ll do better if I develop more of a schedule.

After living with total strangers for a month and being on my best behavior in the house, I realized that I could be kinder and more helpful to Mia.

Look around.

Appreciate things.

I made the right decision to leave my job. I am happier.

I am extremely lucky to have had this time at the Vermont Studio Center, and I’d be happy to give any specific advice about the program to anyone considering a residency there.

Vermont Studio Center-View from the Red Mill