Showing posts with label Julian Schnabel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Julian Schnabel. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Friday, February 1, 2013
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Excerpt from C.V.J. by Julian Schnabel
FIRST ENTRY INTO PARNASSUS
"SOME I LET DRINK THEIR OWN TEARS, SOME I WOULD NOT ALLOW UNTIL THEY CAME TO MY STUDIO." --DON VAN VLIET, 1985
The artists I met at Max's were generally friendly, but the truth is that nobody, particularly in those days, liked the idea of young artists. I remember sitting one night talking and drinking heavily with Neil Williams, David Diao, and Brice Marden.
Brice had been using a wax medium to mix with his paint to make a matte surface. He had been attributed by some as the maker of the last paintings. I thought that meant that all of the information had been buried under the wax of those paintings. Thinking about it now, I'd call those paintings a panel of meaning. They were a tablet, a clean slate, a place to begin to reintroduce language into painting. At the time they just looked like blank grey paintings to me. I didn't think about them much until later, when I thought about them a lot.
All of a sudden Brice said, "Who are you? Why are you sitting here with all of us who have been painting here for ten years? We're painters. What do you do?"
"I make paintings."
"Where do you show?"
"I don't."
"Where are your paintings?"
"In my studio."
"Everybody wants me to come to their studio."
"I didn't ask you."
Neil Williams volunteered that he had seen some of my paintings, some pictures of them, and that I was all right.
David Diao said, "The kid's all right."
Then we all got very drunk and it got less tense.
By four A.M., Neil had left and David asked Brice and me to come to his studio to see his new paintings, knowing they weren't done; he was always a bit of a masochist. We went up and looked at them. I said they weren't finished. Brice said I didn't have a right to speak, that I was just a student. I told him that we were all students and I was just being polite up till now.
He took a drunken swing at me. As I staggered out of the way, he fell into the refrigerator. Then he lunged back at me and I grabbed his arms. We both fell to the floor.
"If you stop trying to hit me," I said, "I'll let go." He got up, walked around David's studio like a cat, and left.
Later I sat in a hammock and cried.
"You come to New York believing in some people's work that you respect and they treat you like a parasite," I said to David. "What's the point?"
"You couldn't pay for an art lesson like that anywhere," David answered.
He was right.
[Continue reading...]
"SOME I LET DRINK THEIR OWN TEARS, SOME I WOULD NOT ALLOW UNTIL THEY CAME TO MY STUDIO." --DON VAN VLIET, 1985
The artists I met at Max's were generally friendly, but the truth is that nobody, particularly in those days, liked the idea of young artists. I remember sitting one night talking and drinking heavily with Neil Williams, David Diao, and Brice Marden.
Brice had been using a wax medium to mix with his paint to make a matte surface. He had been attributed by some as the maker of the last paintings. I thought that meant that all of the information had been buried under the wax of those paintings. Thinking about it now, I'd call those paintings a panel of meaning. They were a tablet, a clean slate, a place to begin to reintroduce language into painting. At the time they just looked like blank grey paintings to me. I didn't think about them much until later, when I thought about them a lot.
All of a sudden Brice said, "Who are you? Why are you sitting here with all of us who have been painting here for ten years? We're painters. What do you do?"
"I make paintings."
"Where do you show?"
"I don't."
"Where are your paintings?"
"In my studio."
"Everybody wants me to come to their studio."
"I didn't ask you."
Neil Williams volunteered that he had seen some of my paintings, some pictures of them, and that I was all right.
David Diao said, "The kid's all right."
Then we all got very drunk and it got less tense.
By four A.M., Neil had left and David asked Brice and me to come to his studio to see his new paintings, knowing they weren't done; he was always a bit of a masochist. We went up and looked at them. I said they weren't finished. Brice said I didn't have a right to speak, that I was just a student. I told him that we were all students and I was just being polite up till now.
He took a drunken swing at me. As I staggered out of the way, he fell into the refrigerator. Then he lunged back at me and I grabbed his arms. We both fell to the floor.
"If you stop trying to hit me," I said, "I'll let go." He got up, walked around David's studio like a cat, and left.
Later I sat in a hammock and cried.
"You come to New York believing in some people's work that you respect and they treat you like a parasite," I said to David. "What's the point?"
"You couldn't pay for an art lesson like that anywhere," David answered.
He was right.
Labels:
Brice Marden,
Julian Schnabel
Friday, May 11, 2012
JULIAN SCHNABEL @ CFA
THE UNKNOWN PAINTER AND THE MUSE HE WILL NEVER MEET, 2012
CRAZY TOWN, 2012
SHIVA (BEZ), 2011
Labels:
Julian Schnabel
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Excerpt from C.V.J. by Julian Schnabel
One night, at a time when I was in the midst of a painting called "Jean Coming and Going," I came home late. I went to the bathroom, then went back to the studio forgetting to button my pants, got up on the ladder, and started to paint. As I was painting, I noticed my pants were falling down. They did. I couldn't pull them up because I had paint all over my hands, and they were my good pants. And I couldn't climb down because my pants were down around my ankles. I tried to pick them up with my elbows but it's hard to get your elbows down to your ankles when you're standing on a ladder. I still had my raincoat on and I remember standing there at four-thirty in the morning deciding whether to shoot myself or laugh. If there was a highlight to the summer of 1973, that was it.
[Continue reading...]
Labels:
Julian Schnabel
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)