Out of the Graveyard

In 1927 in the heart of the United States’ central Appalachian mountains, an audition was held at the Norton Hotel in Norton, Virginia. The audition’s purpose was to find musicians playing traditional Appalachian mountain music to then bring back to New York to record phonograph records for Brunswick Records –one of the three largest recording companies of the time. Among the 150-odd hopefuls was a 29-year-old coal miner and banjo player named Moran Lee ‘Dock’ Boggs. Boggs was born and raised in Norton and, until he was offered a trip to New York to record, had never found a reason or the means to leave. After the trip Boggs began receiving a steady stream of recording offers and live bookings, but depression era frugality and the fact that his wife Sara felt that there was little honour in the life of a musician meant that by the mid-1930s, in order to ‘keep down trouble’, Boggs had returned to an arduous but morally secure life deep in the mines of the Appalachians.

In 1952, Bogg’s 1927 recording of Sugar Baby surfaced on an influential collection of folk music recorded by major recording labels in the 1920s and 30s assembled for Folkways Records by Harry Smith, now known as the Anthology of American Folk Music. Established in 1948 by music entrepreneur Moses Asch, by the mid 50s Folkways was a significant influence within the young folk music revival community. It was a unique company, known not just for the music they released but also their commitment to the full experience of buying and listening to recorded music. Each of the liner publications that accompanied a Folkways recording was rich with biographical and musicological material. The visual identity and quality of Folkways releases is a worthy subject in of itself.

In 1963 folklorist and musician Mike Seeger (son of musicologist Charles and half-brother to musician Pete) launched an investigation into Boggs’ whereabouts. He hadn’t gone far, and Seeger eventually tracked him back to Norton. Incidentally, he had just retired from the mines and, conveniently, just brought home from Kentucky the very same banjo that his wife had exhorted him to pawn to a friend in the mid-1930s. Seeger invited Boggs to consider touring again, including arranging an appearance at the 1963 Newport Folk Festival – the year Bob Dylan made his Newport debut. While reporting the details of Dock and Sarah’s impending tour in July 1963, local Norton newspaper The Coalfield Progress reported that ‘it will be the first time for Mrs Boggs to visit the big cities of the East, and she still isn’t exactly sold on the idea.’

In the years between Boggs’ retirement and death Seeger acted as his chronicler. By the time he died in 1971, despite having spent 41 years of his life mining coal rather than plucking at strings, Dock Boggs had developed into a revered and singular figure in Appalachian folk music.

A band member once bemoaned Boggs’ decision to play, yet again, the funereal dirge Oh, Death by telling him to ‘get out of the graveyard’. It’s fortunate he never did, because the mournful nature of Boggs’ music has proven to be an instrumental factor in its endurance. But while it’s tempting to suggest such characteristics hold primacy in determining an artist’s endurance, the reality is that Boggs’ legacy is inextricably linked to the institution that sought him out in the 1960s – Folkways Records.

In 1986 the entire Folkways operation and collection was acquired by the national museum of the United States, the Smithsonian. Today known as Smithsonian Folkways, the organisation operates as part museum, part record label. It is a fascinating concept, and their website provides astoundingly easy access to the collection, supported by a trove of written and visual material. The releases are all available on CD and digital download, and many are available on vinyl and cassette also.

This narrative of a record label museum born from the vision of a singularly focused entrepreneur is uniquely American. The closest equivalent to Moses Asch Australia has would be Warren Fahey, founder of the Australian Folklore Unit. Since the mid 1970s Fahey has intermittently travelled Australia documenting traditional music and in 1974 he began Larrikin Records, which sought to record and distribute Australian music as well as a range of other musicological and folkloric material. The retail shopfront associated with the Larrikin label was also called, appropriately enough, Folkways Records. Since the demise of both companies, many of Fahey’s recordings reside in the music collection of the National Library of Australia, Macquarie University Library, and the National Film and Sound Archive. The 500-odd Larrikin Records master tapes are currently owned by Warner Music.

While there have been moves to establish an Australian institution similar to the American Folklife Center or the Smithsonian’s Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage in the past, none have ever made significant progress. All of the institutions that hold Fahey’s work and other important archival material do integral work in the area of collecting but none of them appear to have the commercial imperative to distribute material as a record label, which is a key aspect of what makes Smithsonian Folkways seem so dynamic and forward thinking.

Browsing through the Dock Boggs records available through the Smithsonian Folkways website, it’s alarming to ponder how many similar artists that this gap in our national collecting ecology may represent, and how many opportunities will pass before we’re able to correct the mistake.

In 1927 in the heart of the United States’ central Appalachian mountains, an audition was held at the Norton Hotel in Norton, Virginia. The audition’s purpose was to find musicians playing traditional Appalachian mountain music to then bring back to New York to record phonograph records for Brunswick Records –one of the three largest recording companies of the time. Among the 150-odd hopefuls was a 29-year-old coal miner and banjo player named Moran Lee ‘Dock’ Boggs. Boggs was born and raised in Norton and, until he was offered a trip to New York to record, had never found a reason or the means to leave. After the trip Boggs began receiving a steady stream of recording offers and live bookings, but depression era frugality and the fact that his wife Sara felt that there was little honour in the life of a musician meant that by the mid-1930s, in order to ‘keep down trouble’, Boggs had returned to an arduous but morally secure life deep in the mines of the Appalachians.

In 1952, Bogg’s 1927 recording of Sugar Baby surfaced on an influential collection of folk music recorded by major recording labels in the 1920s and 30s assembled for Folkways Records by Harry Smith, now known as the Anthology of American Folk Music. Established in 1948 by music entrepreneur Moses Asch, by the mid 50s Folkways was a significant influence within the young folk music revival community. It was a unique company, known not just for the music they released but also their commitment to the full experience of buying and listening to recorded music. Each of the liner publications that accompanied a Folkways recording was rich with biographical and musicological material. The visual identity and quality of Folkways releases is a worthy subject in of itself.

In 1963 folklorist and musician Mike Seeger (son of musicologist Charles and half-brother to musician Pete) launched an investigation into Boggs’ whereabouts. He hadn’t gone far, and Seeger eventually tracked him back to Norton. Incidentally, he had just retired from the mines and, conveniently, just brought home from Kentucky the very same banjo that his wife had exhorted him to pawn to a friend in the mid-1930s. Seeger invited Boggs to consider touring again, including arranging an appearance at the 1963 Newport Folk Festival – the year Bob Dylan made his Newport debut. While reporting the details of Dock and Sarah’s impending tour in July 1963, local Norton newspaper The Coalfield Progress reported that ‘it will be the first time for Mrs Boggs to visit the big cities of the East, and she still isn’t exactly sold on the idea.’

In the years between Boggs’ retirement and death Seeger acted as his chronicler. By the time he died in 1971, despite having spent 41 years of his life mining coal rather than plucking at strings, Dock Boggs had developed into a revered and singular figure in Appalachian folk music.

A band member once bemoaned Boggs’ decision to play, yet again, the funereal dirge Oh, Death by telling him to ‘get out of the graveyard’. It’s fortunate he never did, because the mournful nature of Boggs’ music has proven to be an instrumental factor in its endurance. But while it’s tempting to suggest such characteristics hold primacy in determining an artist’s endurance, the reality is that Boggs’ legacy is inextricably linked to the institution that sought him out in the 1960s – Folkways Records.

In 1986 the entire Folkways operation and collection was acquired by the national museum of the United States, the Smithsonian. Today known as Smithsonian Folkways, the organisation operates as part museum, part record label. It is a fascinating concept, and their website provides astoundingly easy access to the collection, supported by a trove of written and visual material. The releases are all available on CD and digital download, and many are available on vinyl and cassette also.

This narrative of a record label museum born from the vision of a singularly focused entrepreneur is uniquely American. The closest equivalent to Moses Asch Australia has would be Warren Fahey, founder of the Australian Folklore Unit. Since the mid 1970s Fahey has intermittently travelled Australia documenting traditional music and in 1974 he began Larrikin Records, which sought to record and distribute Australian music as well as a range of other musicological and folkloric material. The retail shopfront associated with the Larrikin label was also called, appropriately enough, Folkways Records. Since the demise of both companies, many of Fahey’s recordings reside in the music collection of the National Library of Australia, Macquarie University Library, and the National Film and Sound Archive. The 500-odd Larrikin Records master tapes are currently owned by Warner Music.

While there have been moves to establish an Australian institution similar to the American Folklife Center or the Smithsonian’s Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage in the past, none have ever made significant progress. All of the institutions that hold Fahey’s work and other important archival material do integral work in the area of collecting but none of them appear to have the commercial imperative to distribute material as a record label, which is a key aspect of what makes Smithsonian Folkways seem so dynamic and forward thinking.

Browsing through the Dock Boggs records available through the Smithsonian Folkways website, it’s alarming to ponder how many similar artists that this gap in our national collecting ecology may represent, and how many opportunities will pass before we’re able to correct the mistake.

Originally written for Kill Your Darlings

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Posted by pageantcrack on January 31, 2013

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The Scaffolded Artist: Professionalisation in the supported studio

Few artists are independent. Almost all rely on or seek support of some kind. There are, however, certain artists that require particular types of support. In 2010 I became involved in a project called the Supported Studios Network (SSN). The working group that maintains the project consists mostly of artists who work within visual arts studios that support the professional development of differently-abled artists. These institutions are called, unsurprisingly, ‘supported studios’. The SSN has numerous aims and objectives, all of which pivot around the belief that ‘supported artists’ are able to contribute meaningfully to cultural production in Australia and therefore should have access to development opportunities in all aspects of professionalised art making.

The False Economy of Outsider Art

Efforts to professionalise the supported artist are necessary to counter the historical positioning of differently-abled artists within non-professional contexts. Such artists are often seen as practicing within a psychological or health framework – art therapy – in which art making is a method rather than a cultural form. Alternatively they are included in the dubious category of ‘outsider art’, whereby they become fetishised as practitioners allegedly operating beyond the despoiling influence of commercial or professional concerns. In ‘Outsider Art: Spontaneous Alternatives’, Colin Rhodes describes the outsider artist in such terms as to place them beyond the reach of professionalisation:

The desire to make images and to communicate something of the otherwise unsayable is innate in all of us…A few people become professional makers of images or spectacle, that is artists in the modern western sense. But there is also a rich and varied group of creators who did not fit into the official category of the professional artist, however it is defined. [1]

Outsider art is an out-dated method for framing non-normative cultural production. The implication of Rhodes’s use of past tense in his description of the outsider archetype suggests such designations are relevant to art history, but not contemporary practice. Despite this, supported studios often promote their artists as outsiders, either because curators and other artists have suggested this term for their artists, or to access a market through which to sell work and continue supporting their artists. It takes only a cursory survey of the outsider art market in Australia to realise that this is short sighted and delusional, not least because the market is small and unlikely to grow, but also because the concept of a professionalised outsider artist is a contradiction in terms.

Within the theoretical confines of outsider art there is no room for an artist’s participation in any non-artmaking activities associated with a professionalised practice such as formal training, networking, discussion, promotion and association with artistic networks. To apply the label of outsider to an artist on their behalf is to ghettoise them within a narrow and unbending market not equipped to sustain professional practices.

The Apparitional Mainstream

Even when studios eschew outsider art as a mechanism to professionally develop their artists, what often remains as a rallying point is a common and highly developed awareness of these artists’ perceived marginalisation from the so-called ‘mainstream’ art world.

Studio ARTES, a Northern Sydney studio, recently held a panel discussion on this topic at Sydney College of the Arts as part of a symposium focused on supported studios, supported by a grant from the National Association for the Visual Arts (NAVA). One panel member representing a Sydney artist-run-initiative made it clear that while he would normally object to being cast as representing the ‘mainstream’, in the context of the panel he would make an exception. The participant’s willingness to sublimate his discomfort with the term ‘mainstream’ is emblematic of current tendencies surrounding work to professionalise supported artists. To some degree it has become the norm to describe this work as being primarily the act of integrating the supported artist with an apparitional mainstream, while simultaneously pushing aside concern about the equivocality of that term.

Adam Geczy describes the art world as it exists within contemporaneity as a ‘system of fluid and constantly redefining demarcations’ and argues that ‘there have always been outsides to art, and these outsides are multiple and exist according to many categories’.[2] Geczy’s view is paralleled by Rhodes, who describes this world as a ‘complex set of dynamic relationships’ amongst artists and institutions, and furthered by Hans Belting, who, in equating contemporary art with the concept of ‘global’ art, elucidates a model most readily defined by its lack of definition:

Art on a global scale does not imply an inherent aesthetic quality which could be identified as such, nor a global concept of what is to be regarded as art…it indicates a loss of context or focus and includes its own contradiction by implying the counter movement of regionalism and tribalisation. [3]

This view seemingly destabilises sector-based projects such as the SSN by suggesting that there is, theoretically, no definable supported studio sector for them to represent. Simultaneously, it illuminates professionalisation – supported or not – as being a subjective and highly individualised process with no common beginning, pathway or end. Such a process is not a strategic project or industry trend but rather an endless series of projects undertaken on an artist-by-artist basis within the detribalised and interwoven network of individual artists and institutions that Belting, Rhodes and Geczy describe.

How this plays out in real terms can be demonstrated by the recent Studio ARTES project, Studio ARTISTS Collaborate. Through this project a number of supported artists were paired with practicing professional artists relevant within their discipline. For example, supported artist Robert Smith was paired with installation artist Alison Clouston. Smith produces work prolifically, predominately by drawing masses of small portraits on any paper he can access. On a material level his practice is basic; however its simplicity obscures the complex emotional processes and layers of meaning that his process represents. Alison’s role in the project was not to advise Smith on technical matters, but to assist him in refining the complexities of his process into something communicable through installation and video work. Meanwhile, Matthew Calandra was mentored by Michael Kempson, artist and Director of Cicada Press at the College of Fine Arts. Unlike Clouston, Kempson’s role was not to assist in the development of the conceptual basis for Calandra’s work, but to expose him to new and more complex production techniques than he had experienced in the supported studio, as well as a network of likeminded artists.

A key factor in the project’s success was its facilitation by studio staff possessing in depth understanding of each artist’s individual practice, the multiplicity of artistic networks operating within Sydney and, most importantly, which of these networks offered the best professional opportunities to the artists.

Critical Distance and the Art of Talking

What other non-artmaking skills are required of a professionalised artist? Rhodes repeatedly argues that in order to operate professionally within the cut and thrust of the art world, however it is defined, an artist is ‘not least expected to talk: to other artists, to dealers, critics, curators, and to collectors, about art’ and to be seen as doing so.[4] Besides simply supporting the expansion of professional networks, this act of speaking allows an artist to communicate a rationale for their presence within the networks they seek to operate within. There are innumerable ideas, critical theories or points of view available to the artist for this purpose, however none can be deployed convincingly without evident application of critical distance, a process requiring engagement with art at a theoretical level.

It is often the case that supported artists do not discuss their work with other artists, collectors, curators, writers or dealers. This may be because they are unable to access opportunities to do so, because they are not interested in doing so or, in some cases, because they are simply unable to do so. Networking and integration into any community can be difficult for the supported artist, and contemporary art communities especially so as they are mostly based in the inner-city while supported studios are often (though not always) located in suburban or regional areas, these include: Project Insideout in the northern Sydney suburb of North Ryde, NSW, or Art Unlimited in Geelong, VIC. Where studios are located in more central locations, such as Arts Project Australia in Northcote, VIC, or Roomies in Marrickville, NSW, they tend to enjoy a noticeably higher profile among contemporary art networks.

If the supported artist is unable or unwilling to talk about their work and the work of others at a theoretical level and be seen as doing so, does this immediately disqualify them from opportunities to professionalise their practice? Is it possible or acceptable for an artist to develop a professional practice by allowing others to apply critical distance to the work on their behalf? Can the support of a studio extend this far?

Frédéric Bruly Bouabré: The Scaffolded International Artist

Ivorian artist Frédéric Bruly Bouabré has been prolifically producing work since the 1970s. His work explores a number of ideas including the documentation of his own visions, which began in 1948, and the modest task of drawing together all the knowledge of the world in a single work.

Bouabré’s professional career as an artist began with his inclusion in the landmark exhibition Magiciens de la Terre (Magicians of the Earth), curated by Jean-Hubert Martin and displayed at the Pompidou Centre, Paris, in 1989. Since that exhibition Bouabré has gone on to participate in solo and group exhibitions at reputable galleries in the UK, Spain, France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Japan, Sweden and in Australia as part of the Gallery of Modern Art’s 21st Century: Art in the First Decade.

In a review of a Bouabré retrospective at Birmingham’s Ikon Gallery during 2007, critic Richard Dorment justifies Bouabré’s practice for him by applying critical analysis to the work and stating unequivocally that it is derived from a professionalised practice.

Bouabré more than holds his own. I can’t say this exhibition transforms him into a major artist, but then I’m sure Bouabré doesn’t give much consideration to those kinds of labels. What is important is that after seeing this show you could never categorise his work as either folk art or outsider art, as I had feared. [5]

As far as I am aware Bouabré does not work out of a supported studio, but neither is he visibly active as a professional artist beyond the production of his work. There is no evidence of him engaging with art (either his own or that of other artists) at a theoretical level, actively promoting himself as an artist or desiring formal training. Yet somehow he has managed to develop and maintain a high-profile international practice as a professional artist, including exhibiting his work at the Bilbao Guggenheim and the Tate Modern.

The Intimidating Long-view

There are many supported artists who, at very least according to the guidelines set out byNAVA [6], can be considered professional artists. John Demos is a supported artist whose work explores complex systems such as science, mathematics and language. He has received formal training, exhibits regularly, offers work for sale, has received grants and undertakes residencies, and he has done all of these things with support and guidance from the coordinator of the Project Insideout studio at Macquarie Hospital.

If the fluidity of visual arts networks can accommodate artists such as Demos and Bouabré, and it is acceptable for them to professionalise with the support of a third party, then theoretically all that remains is to ensure that the structure that supports them is able to do so over the course of a career. This cannot be achieved without significant long-term funding. When considered with this intimidating long-term view, it becomes apparent that the appropriate function of a group such as the Supported Studios Network is not to professionalise the supported artist, but to assist the supported studio in identifying sustainable income streams and methods for providing continual support to their artists. In other words, it is our job to do what all other representative bodies seek to do: build a better, stronger scaffold capable of providing safety and structure to professionals working in an uncertain industry.

Originally published in Un Magazine 6.2

[1] Colin Rhodes, Outsider Art: Spontaneous Alternatives. Thames & Hudson, London, 2000, p. 7
[2] Adam Geczy, ‘The Solid Fraud of Outsider Art’ in Alan Cruickshank (ed.) Broadsheet, Contemporary Art Centre of South Australia, Adelaide, 2010, p. 66.
[3] Hans Belting, ‘Contemporary Art as Global Art: A Critical Estimate’ in Hans Belting & Andrea Buddensieg (ed.) The Global Art World. Global Art and the Museum, Ostfildern, 2009, n.p. Available at http://globalartmuseum.de/media/file/476716148442.pdf.
[4] Colin Rhodes, ‘An Other Academy’ in The International Journal of the Arts in Society, Volume 3, Issue 1, 2008, p. 129-134.
[5] Richard Dormet, ‘Frédéric Bruly Bouabré: A childlike world of goodness and colour’ in The Telegraph, 4 September 2007, accessed 20/09/2012http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/3667687/Frederic-Bruly-Bouabre-A-childlike-world-of-goodness-and-colour.html.
[6] National Association for the Visual Arts, What is a Professional Artist?, accesse d 19/09/2012 http://www.visualarts.net.au/advicecentre/definitions/professional-artist.

20130131-140942.jpg

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Posted by pageantcrack on January 31, 2013

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The Scaffolded Artist: Professionalisation in the Supported Studio

Few artists are independent. Almost all rely on or seek support of some kind. There are, however, certain artists that require particular types of support. In 2010 I became involved in a project called the Supported Studios Network (SSN). The working group that maintains the project consists mostly of artists who work within visual arts studios thatSSN-logo-290 support the professional development of differently-abled artists. These institutions are called, unsurprisingly, ‘supported studios’. The SSN has numerous aims and objectives, all of which pivot around the belief that ‘supported artists’ are able to contribute meaningfully to cultural production in Australia and therefore should have access to development opportunities in all aspects of professionalised art making.

The False Economy of Outsider Art

Efforts to professionalise the supported artist are necessary to counter the historical positioning of differently-abled artists within non-professional contexts. Such artists are often seen as practicing within a psychological or health framework – art therapy – in which art making is a method rather than a cultural form. Alternatively they are included in the dubious category of ‘outsider art’, whereby they become fetishised as practitioners allegedly operating beyond the despoiling influence of commercial or professional concerns. In Outsider Art: Spontaneous Alternatives, Colin Rhodes describes the outsider artist in such terms as to place them beyond the reach of professionalisation:

The desire to make images and to communicate something of the otherwise unsayable is innate in all of us…A few people become professional makers of images or spectacle, that is artists in the modern western sense. But there is also a rich and varied group of creators who did not fit into the official category of the professional artist, however it is defined. [1]

Outsider art is an out-dated method for framing non-normative cultural production. The implication of Rhodes’s use of past tense in his description of the outsider archetype suggests such designations are relevant to art history, but not contemporary practice. Despite this, supported studios often promote their artists as outsiders, either because curators and other artists have suggested this term for their artists, or to access a market through which to sell work and continue supporting their artists. It takes only a cursory survey of the outsider art market in Australia to realise that this is short sighted and delusional, not least because the market is small and unlikely to grow, but also because the concept of a professionalised outsider artist is a contradiction in terms.

Within the theoretical confines of outsider art there is no room for an artist’s participation in any non-artmaking activities associated with a professionalised practice such as formal training, networking, discussion, promotion and association with artistic networks. To apply the label of outsider to an artist on their behalf is to ghettoise them within a narrow and unbending market not equipped to sustain professional practices.

The Apparitional Mainstream

Even when studios eschew outsider art as a mechanism to professionally develop their artists, what often remains as a rallying point is a common and highly developed awareness of these artists’ perceived marginalisation from the so-called ‘mainstream’ art world.

Studio ARTES, a Northern Sydney studio, recently held a panel discussion on this topic at Sydney College of the Arts as part of a symposium focused on supported studios, supported by a grant from the National Association for the Visual Arts (NAVA). One panel member representing a Sydney artist-run-initiative made it clear that while he would normally object to being cast as representing the ‘mainstream’, in the context of the panel he would make an exception. The participant’s willingness to sublimate his discomfort with the term ‘mainstream’ is emblematic of current tendencies surrounding work to professionalise supported artists. To some degree it has become the norm to describe this work as being primarily the act of integrating the supported artist with an apparitional mainstream, while simultaneously pushing aside concern about the equivocality of that term.

Adam Geczy describes the art world as it exists within contemporaneity as a ‘system of fluid and constantly redefining demarcations’ and argues that ‘there have always been outsides to art, and these outsides are multiple and exist according to many categories’.[2] Geczy’s view is paralleled by Rhodes, who describes this world as a ‘complex set of dynamic relationships’ amongst artists and institutions, and furthered by Hans Belting, who, in equating contemporary art with the concept of ‘global’ art, elucidates a model most readily defined by its lack of definition:

Art on a global scale does not imply an inherent aesthetic quality which could be identified as such, nor a global concept of what is to be regarded as art…it indicates a loss of context or focus and includes its own contradiction by implying the counter movement of regionalism and tribalisation. [3]

This view seemingly destabilises sector-based projects such as the SSN by suggesting that there is, theoretically, no definable supported studio sector for them to represent. Simultaneously, it illuminates professionalisation – supported or not – as being a subjective and highly individualised process with no common beginning, pathway or end. Such a process is not a strategic project or industry trend but rather an endless series of projects undertaken on an artist-by-artist basis within the detribalised and interwoven network of individual artists and institutions that Belting, Rhodes and Geczy describe.

 

Matthew Calandra. Image courtesy Cicada Press.

How this plays out in real terms can be demonstrated by the recent Studio ARTES project, Studio ARTISTS Collaborate. Through this project a number of supported artists were paired with practicing professional artists relevant within their discipline. For example, supported artist Robert Smith was paired with installation artist Alison Clouston. Smith produces work prolifically, predominately by drawing masses of small portraits on any paper he can access. On a material level his practice is basic; however its simplicity obscures the complex emotional processes and layers of meaning that his process represents. Alison’s role in the project was not to advise Smith on technical matters, but to assist him in refining the complexities of his process into something communicable through installation and video work. Meanwhile, Matthew Calandra was mentored by Michael Kempson, artist and Director of Cicada Press at the College of Fine Arts. Unlike Clouston, Kempson’s role was not to assist in the development of the conceptual basis for Calandra’s work, but to expose him to new and more complex production techniques than he had experienced in the supported studio, as well as a network of likeminded artists.

A key factor in the project’s success was its facilitation by studio staff possessing in depth understanding of each artist’s individual practice, the multiplicity of artistic networks operating within Sydney and, most importantly, which of these networks offered the best professional opportunities to the artists.

Critical Distance and the Art of Talking

What other non-artmaking skills are required of a professionalised artist? Rhodes repeatedly argues that in order to operate professionally within the cut and thrust of the art world, however it is defined, an artist is ‘not least expected to talk: to other artists, to dealers, critics, curators, and to collectors, about art’ and to be seen as doing so.[4] Besides simply supporting the expansion of professional networks, this act of speaking allows an artist to communicate a rationale for their presence within the networks they seek to operate within. There are innumerable ideas, critical theories or points of view available to the artist for this purpose, however none can be deployed convincingly without evident application of critical distance, a process requiring engagement with art at a theoretical level.

It is often the case that supported artists do not discuss their work with other artists, collectors, curators, writers or dealers. This may be because they are unable to access opportunities to do so, because they are not interested in doing so or, in some cases, because they are simply unable to do so. Networking and integration into any community can be difficult for the supported artist, and contemporary art communities especially so as they are mostly based in the inner-city while supported studios are often (though not always) located in suburban or regional areas, these include: Project Insideout in the northern Sydney suburb of North Ryde, NSW, or Art Unlimited in Geelong, VIC. Where studios are located in more central locations, such as Arts Project Australia in Northcote, VIC, or Roomies in Marrickville, NSW, they tend to enjoy a noticeably higher profile among contemporary art networks.
If the supported artist is unable or unwilling to talk about their work and the work of others at a theoretical level and be seen as doing so, does this immediately disqualify them from opportunities to professionalise their practice? Is it possible or acceptable for an artist to develop a professional practice by allowing others to apply critical distance to the work on their behalf? Can the support of a studio extend this far?

Frédéric Bruly Bouabré: The Scaffolded International Artist

Ivorian artist Frédéric Bruly Bouabré has been prolifically producing work since the 1970s. His work explores a number of ideas including the documentation of his own visions, which began in 1948, and the modest task of drawing together all the knowledge of the world in a single work.
Bouabré’s professional career as an artist began with his inclusion in the landmark exhibition Magiciens de la Terre (Magicians of the Earth), curated by Jean-Hubert Martin and displayed at the Pompidou Centre, Paris, in 1989. Since that exhibition Bouabré has gone on to participate in solo and group exhibitions at reputable galleries in the UK, Spain, France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Japan, Sweden and in Australia as part of the Gallery of Modern Art’s 21st Century: Art in the First Decade.
In a review of a Bouabré retrospective at Birmingham’s Ikon Gallery during 2007, critic Richard Dorment justifies Bouabré’s practice for him by applying critical analysis to the work and stating unequivocally that it is derived from a professionalised practice.

Bouabré more than holds his own. I can’t say this exhibition transforms him into a major artist, but then I’m sure Bouabré doesn’t give much consideration to those kinds of labels. What is important is that after seeing this show you could never categorise his work as either folk art or outsider art, as I had feared. [5]

As far as I am aware Bouabré does not work out of a supported studio, but neither is he visibly active as a professional artist beyond the production of his work. There is no evidence of him engaging with art (either his own or that of other artists) at a theoretical level, actively promoting himself as an artist or desiring formal training. Yet somehow he has managed to develop and maintain a high-profile international practice as a professional artist, including exhibiting his work at the Bilbao Guggenheim and the Tate Modern.

The Intimidating Long-view

There are many supported artists who, at very least according to the guidelines set out by NAVA [6], can be considered professional artists. John Demos is a supported artist whose work explores complex systems such as science, john_demosmathematics and language. He has received formal training, exhibits regularly, offers work for sale, has received grants and undertakes residencies, and he has done all of these things with support and guidance from the coordinator of the Project Insideout studio at Macquarie Hospital.

If the fluidity of visual arts networks can accommodate artists such as Demos and Bouabré, and it is acceptable for them to professionalise with the support of a third party, then theoretically all that remains is to ensure that the structure that supports them is able to do so over the course of a career. This cannot be achieved without significant long-term funding. When considered with this intimidating long-term view, it becomes apparent that the appropriate function of a group such as the Supported Studios Network is not to professionalise the supported artist, but to assist the supported studio in identifying sustainable income streams and methods for providing continual support to their artists. In other words, it is our job to do what all other representative bodies seek to do: build a better, stronger scaffold capable of providing safety and structure to professionals working in an uncertain industry.

[1] Colin Rhodes, Outsider Art: Spontaneous Alternatives. Thames & Hudson, London, 2000, p. 7
[2] Adam Geczy, ‘The Solid Fraud of Outsider Art’ in Alan Cruickshank (ed.) Broadsheet, Contemporary Art Centre of South Australia, Adelaide, 2010, p. 66.
[3] Hans Belting, ‘Contemporary Art as Global Art: A Critical Estimate’ in Hans Belting & Andrea Buddensieg (ed.) The Global Art World. Global Art and the Museum, Ostfildern, 2009, n.p. Available at http://globalartmuseum.de/media/file/476716148442.pdf.
[4] Colin Rhodes, ‘An Other Academy’ in The International Journal of the Arts in Society, Volume 3, Issue 1, 2008, p. 129-134.
[5] Richard Dormet, ‘Frédéric Bruly Bouabré: A childlike world of goodness and colour’ in The Telegraph, 4 September 2007, accessed 20/09/2012http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/3667687/Frederic-Bruly-Bouabre-A-childlike-world-of-goodness-and-colour.html.
[6] National Association for the Visual Arts, What is a Professional Artist?, accesse d 19/09/2012 http://www.visualarts.net.au/advicecentre/definitions/professional-artist.

Originally published in Un Magazine Issue 6.2 (December 2012) 

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by pageantcrack on December 11, 2012  •  Permalink
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Presentation to Midwestern Council

Reblogged from Cementa_13 Feb 1-4:

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Last Wednesday night Ann and I attended Midtwestern Council Open Day to ask for funding and the use of public facilities for Cementa.  That night, as we waited our turn, we were able to listen to the local residents addressing some of their serious community concerns.  Predominately, it was the coal mines that had the gallery overflowing with concerned residents.   We listened to many protests that centred around the impact of the mines as they surreptitiously attempted to build factories and accommodation in quiet, rural communities.  

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Nothing to do with me, but I love it.
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by pageantcrack on November 14, 2012  •  Permalink
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Myraeth – In Glorious Death

Occasionally, when I’ve had enough grimmy kvltness for one day, or I’ve just a bit too much slamming brutality for the mo, I’ll throw on something to take off the edge. Sometimes it’s Bruce Springsteen, sometimes Alison Krauss. Recently I’ve been enjoying early 90s club hits, like Culture Beat and Technotronic. I’m a definite subscriber to the variety is the spice of life way of thinking.

While listening to Sydney band Myraeth’s In Glorious Death I realised that melodic death serves exactly the same function. It is pleasing to listen to, relaxing even. Insomnium is pretty much my metal Technotronic – what I listen to when I don’t want to pinwheel around the local refinery, Footloose style.

This should not be interpreted as condescension because, in the same way that writing an enduring pop song takes significant skill and an appreciation of the craft, writing evocative melodic death and gothic doom take considerably more skill that constructing eviscerating slams or brain-rattling breakdowns. Taken in this context it’s fairly apparent that, even though I’m not even sure if I like it, Myraeth’s debut In Glorious Death is excellent, world class even.

It is a decidedly Gothic take on the melo-death genre, assisted by the addition of Samantha Kempster’s (ex-Lycanthia) vocals deployed with excellent restraint throughout the record. Particular mention should go to opening track ‘Monarch’ and third track ‘Confession’ , which, with their mournful strings, are straight from the Angel and the Dark River songbook in the most satisfying way.

 Originally published on Loud Online (November 2012)

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Tony Iommi – Iron Man: My Journey Through Heaven and Hell with Black Sabbath

Simon & Schuster

Black Sabbath guitarist and sole mainstay Tony Iommi deserves your respect. As charmingly befuddled as that bat-chewing reprobate Ozzy Osbourne may be, just imagine trying to run a band with him in it. A Herculean task you can be sure, yet Iommi did it for nigh on a decade. Add thirty years of revolving door lineups and ‘Sabbath was only good when Ozzy was in it’ being thrown at you, and you’d forgive him for giving it up at some point. Not Tony Iommi. He just kept grinding out the riffs, for better or worse.

And that’s exactly what Iron Man is about – Iommi staking his rightful claim over the history and legacy of Black Sabbath (who – I shit you not – started life as ‘The Polka Tulk Blues Band’). As you’d expect, Iron Man has plenty of inebriant-fuelled ‘this one time, at band camp’ moments to keep you interested if you’re into tales of mountainous cocaine consumption and that sort of thing. If you aren’t, Iommi’s self-deprecating and unexpectedly homely turn of phrase makes that stuff less obnoxious than it usually is. The real value in Iron Man isn’t the throwaway sensationalist fodder anyway – it’s hearing the story of one of history’s most influential bands from the one guy who was there every step of the way.

Originally published on Loud Online (November 2012)

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Coheed & Cambria

Originally published in Hysteria (Issue 11)

What a friendly fellow he was.

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by pageantcrack on November 8, 2012  •  Permalink
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John Peel’s carcass: Grindcore at the BBC

Of any figure in music broadcasting no shadow looms larger than that of controversial  DJ, John Peel. For over 35 years the late BBC radio DJ’s well-heeled drone, eclectic taste and unwavering commitment to championing new music guaranteed him a dedicated following and he became the benchmark against which all radio DJs are measured. Peel’s legacy is nothing short of apotheotic. Indeed for a young Jarvis Cocker listening to Peel’s weekly show was an ‘act of religious devotion’. The internet heaves with similar remarks about his influence and contribution and his Peel Sessions are now used predominately as markers of prestige for the artists who were asked to participate in them.

When British punk reared its sneering head in the mid-70s Peel was one of the only radio DJs to play it, however just a few short years later it had lost its rebellious sheen, moving offshore to the United States where bands such as Black Flag would bash it with renewed vigour into the shape of hardcore to come. Peel began to look for something that would signal a return to the vile extremity of punk’s early days. He eventually found what he was looking for in his hometown of Ipswich. The band was Extreme Noise Terror, and the genre was grindcore. In the foreword to Choosing Death: The Improbable History of Death Metal & Grindcore Peel wrote:

At one of those Ipswich gigs, ENT were joined by the even faster Napalm Death; at another by the short-lived but murderous Intense Degree. All three bands recorded sessions for my radio programmes and most of the tracks they recorded ended up on the Hardcore Holocaust compilations. Almost everyone I knew who heard these compilations, or tracks from them, thought they were all crap. A result, I thought.

Grindcore is essentially the bastard child of hardcore punk and heavy metal, with a stated goal of being faster and heavier than all else. With a propensity for puerility and tongue-in-cheek violence, it was, and remains, a belligerent and extreme genre of music. It’s about as heavy and fast as music can reasonably be before descending into pure noise, though it’s not uncommon for that line to be overstepped as well. The progenitors of grindcore are commonly cited as being from the US, but it was British band Napalm Death, and their debut release Scum, which formalised the genre and gave it a name. In 1987, a 48-year-old Peel broadcast Napalm Death’s most well known ‘song’: the one-and-a-half second opus, You Suffer. In September that year Peel invited Napalm Death to the BBC to record their first Peel Session.

Peel’s support for grindcore facilitated an explosion in its popularity. Scum reached number 8 on the UK independent charts and Napalm Death were invited back in March 1988 to record their second Peel Session. In October that year their second album, From Enslavement To Obliteration, unceremoniously jackbooted Sonic Youth from number one on the UK independent charts and sold 35,000 copies straight out of the gate. Even New Music Express (NME) felt compelled to give the band a cover feature, declaring grindcore to be ‘the music for which Jerry Lee, The Who, Helter Skelter, The Ramones, Damned, Pistols, Northern Soul, Speed Metal and Speed Core were just practice.’

Peel went on to promote the careers of a number of other grindcore bands, including the aforementioned Extreme Noise Terror and the animal rights proponents Carcass, whose 1988 debut Reek of Putrefaction Peel declared to be his favourite album of the year. Unseen Terror, Intense Degree, Doom, Bolt Thrower and Agathocles all recorded Peel Sessions between 1988 and 1997. Less than a year before his death Peel recorded a session with Anaal Nathrakh, an utterly feral amalgamation of grindcore, black metal, industrial and death metal.

Although his attention was not surprising, Peel’s profile and affiliation with the BBC presented a moral conflict for grindcore, at least in theory. Here you have a genre founded on a basis of extremity – extreme speed, extreme volume, and extreme concretion. It was not designed for the BBC, and it was most certainly not for the scrutiny of the public at large. The risk that such attention would force a commercially expedited demise like that suffered by punk was a real and present danger and yet, to this date, grindcore remains one of the few music genres to have enjoyed disproportionate mainstream attention and remain, for the most part, unspoiled by commercial interests.

One reason for this is that grindcore’s inherent sense of humour and appreciation of irony makes it uniquely constituted to weather such attention. A more prominent reason however, is that no matter which way you slice it, there is simply  no money to be made with grindcore. Despite being one of the most well-known and respected contemporary grindcore bands currently working, the members of Virginian band Pig Destroyer all still maintain day jobs. When asked in a recent interview whether he would like to make a living off Pig Destroyer, vocalist J.R. Hayes responded:

No. It’s already my passion…If I had to rely on the band for my bills I’d have to think about it differently. We’ve always done exactly what we’ve wanted to do. I couldn’t ask for any more. Fuck money. Who could ask for more than creative independence?

While this might seem like purist posturing, it’s more likely to be an acknowledgement that grindcore’s sonic extremity, dissonance and antagonistic subject matter ensures its default setting is DIY, irrespective of the attention it receives. Peel’s actions in dragging it into the view of the masses gave it the best possible start in life, but ultimately its fate was to slide grunting back into the crepuscular world of extreme metal sub-genres, where it has maintained itself dis-respectably ever since.

Originally written for Kill Your Darlings (November 2012)

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What Are You Doing Here?

In the search for metal knowledge, there is always a place for a niche perspective. Bazillion Points is one of the very few publishers worldwide focused on presenting these niche perspectives, often getting down to surprisingly specific terms. Their title Swedish Death Metal by Daniel Ekeroth covers, as the title suggests, the history of the Swedish death scene, Only Death is Real documents the history of Celtic Frost (1981 – 1985 only) and their recent publication We Got Power traces the beginnings of hardcore in Southern California during the early 80s.

So a title like What Are You Doing Here? is not a surprising addition to their catalogue. It is written by Laina Dawes, a Canadian writer and activist, and as the title suggests, it’s about her experiences as a black woman involved in the Canadian and US metal scene. Niche, right?

Well, yes and no.

Dawes writes the book in the first person and states up front that a significant motivator in writing the book was to work through some of the issues she faces because of her race and gender, but also as a way of reaching out to other black female metal fans and musicians. The bones of the book are the interviews that Dawes conducts with these people, as well as a smattering of relevant academics, and they do provide a great deal of insight into what the black experience of metal and hardcore is. In this respect, it is a niche topic.

As a male, white, Australian reader it’s tough to know how to approach this book, and it’s difficult to say how relevant it is. It would be easier if the book was academic or even semi-academic in its approach, because that would likely include a range of perspectives and some unbiased peer-reviewing. Such a method would allow the author and the reader to address the topic detached from personal or emotional associations, and also invite outside perspectives that would be perhaps somewhat unqualified, but still valuable. But that is not what Bazillion Points does, and it’s why we love it. It certainly isn’t what this book is either. The overarching ‘voice’ of the book is Dawes’ alone and it’s clear that this is as personal a topic to her as could be imagined. While there are interviews, they are delivered and interpreted with the clear intention of aligning with Dawes’ experiences and perspectives. Given the title of the book this goes without saying perhaps. The book does exactly what it says on the tin – it’s about one black woman’s experience in heavy metal. But Dawes lets herself down and risks alienating the non-black, non-female reader at a number of points when it becomes clear that she is perhaps too close to the subject to offer a constructive or unbiased assessment, manifesting in some quite painful generalisations and indulgent editorialising.

Although many people won’t be able to identify with the main conceit of this book there is still significant value to be found in it. Dawes’ discussion of female representation in metal is valuable on a general level and she also presents interesting documentation on the history of black involvement in the scene. Dawes also goes into some detail around the Afro-punk movement that, while fascinating has, given Australia’s very low African or African-American population, received very little coverage here.

In terms of what an Australian reader might take away from this book, then, the most valuable aspect is its core message about inclusion and difference in metal, hardcore and punk. This message is a starting point for exploring what it is like to exist as a minority within these scenes. Dawes recites many, many examples of situations where racism and sexism arise and how reactions to it differ from indifference to indignation and boycotting.

Taken as examples, the situations Dawes puts forward are relatable to almost any scene in any place and prompt some questions relevant to Australian metal. What is like being a woman in the metal scene? What about someone of Asian descent? Indian descent? Aboriginal? A person living with disability? These could be, but don’t seem to be, questions that we might ask ourselves here in Australia. In general, is Australian metal welcoming and embracing of difference? As I say, I’m a middle class white guy so it’s difficult for me to say, but just being inspired to ask these questions is where the value in What Are You Doing Here? rests and why, after consideration, the book might not seem so niche after all.

Originally written for Loud Online (October 2012)

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by pageantcrack on October 14, 2012  •  Permalink
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Grave – Endless Procession of Souls

When Loud Online’s shr-editor asked me to review the newest Grave offering and said he’d flick me a promo copy, I smugly and with great satisfaction informed him that seeing as I’m now a premium Spotify subscriber I required nothing from him so prehistoric as an mp3. Yes, that’s how I roll. I managed to get a few rotations in before, predictably, I left home without my iPhone and was rendered de-Spotified. As I refuse to let Steve Jobs direct my illustrious writing career from beyond the grave here I am, writing my thoughts on Grave’s Endless Procession of Souls while listening to Dwight Yoakam’s Guitars, Cadillacs, Etc., Etc... on mp3. You bet your sweet ass that’s how I roll.

To say that Grave are in it for the long haul would be an understatement. Where Entombed’s Left Hand Path defined the Swedish sound, Grave’s 1991 debut Into the Grave refined it and has ever since allowed the band to count themselves amongst the high-royalty of the genre. Since reforming after a (relatively) short hiatus in 2002 they have pumped out a fresh one with clockwork regularity; one every two years. Endless Procession of Souls is numero dix.

On the surface it always seems astounding to consider how a band might be able to consistently release superior records over a period as long as 25 years with nary a misstep to be found. Talent no doubt plays a part, but with Grave it may also be explained by the fact that they have never really pushed beyond the sound that made them infamous, making them an excellent case study in risk minimisation. Additionally, frontman Ola Lindgren is the sole band member to have survived from Into the Grave til now, so there has been no shortage of new blood and energy injected into the line up over the years.

While in no way belittling the achievement, Endless Procession of Souls is really just another slab of what Grave do and what they have always done, which is release top-shelf Swedish death with just enough roll in it to make you want to fly-kick the neighbours. In keeping with this formula that has served them well for over two decades, it’s straight up old-school death from the word go. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast, then slow again, then fast again; you have most certainly heard it before. That said, the reason why your copy of Left Hand Path was fused to your teenage stereo is the same reason why the relative unoriginality of Endless Procession of Souls won’t be an issue for you now – it’s a timeless sound that never gets boring, even if it’s not particularly inspired. And this record is an example of the sound in its best, most hard hitting form.

Particular mention should go to “Encountering the Divine”, the groove of which will prompt an involuntary pimp walk if listened to whilst in transit, though what is most notable about the record is the quality of the production, which is as close to perfect as it could be in most ways that could be mentioned. It is an excellent example of how modern production technology can enhance and expand upon traditional production styles, possessing all the elements that marked Swedish death of the early 90s, but just sounding so much better as it rolls right over the top of you.

If you’ve been wondering what the dickens has happened to Entombed, you don’t need to anymore. They ain’t re-entering the fray anytime soon, and we don’t really need them anyway provided Grave keep delivering the goods. See you in 2014.

Originally published at Loud Online (September 2012)

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by pageantcrack on September 27, 2012  •  Permalink
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