To day is my birthday. I turned 46 years old today. 46. I have to say that I have never imagined myself being 46 years old. It is a strange number.
I got all kinds of birthday well wishes from my Facebook friends which was really very strange. Kind. I usually keep a low profile about my birthday, but there it is on my Facebook page.
Sometimes I hate my birthday. Like the year I turned 39, I was so depressed and angry about getting older and leaving my 30's behind. 40 was a piece of cake but last year was terrible. Turning 45 really freaked me out and I was very unhappy. I have a much better attitude about this one. Oh sure, I am on the down hill slide heading towards 50. And yes, I realize that even if I am lucky enough to get to be 90 years old before I die, I am already more than half way there. But 46 feels good to me.
A couple of years ago I started attending this "boot camp" and doing all kinds of crazy work out stuff. Maybe that was purely a function of being afraid of getting old, but I would get up at 6 AM and go run around like a 20 year old for an hour, even though I would still be drinking and smoking like a 20 year old too. I thought I could handle it and I was strong. Last summer when I started to have serious liver failure I was at the beginning of a contract with the boot camp guys. I thought I was terrible dehydrated before I found out that my liver had stopped working like it used to. SO the guys at the boot camp suspended my membership and now, this month I have returned to the gym. It has been going good and today I went for a Saturday morning workout. I told this one woman there that it was my birthday. When I told here I was 46, her eyes almost popped out of her head. I am not sure that she had ever met someone THAT old. But really, she said, she never would have guessed I was over 39! That sounds pretty young from where I am sitting these days.
All in all it has been a pretty good birthday.
DK
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Here is another dream...
I dreamt that I was an American living in Nazi Germany during World War II.
I was living below the radar but I was in fact living surrounded by German solders.
I was living with a bunch of other prisoners of war.
There was a plan to escape. A train to catch at the station. We all had fake papers and cloths to wear. Very much like that old Steve McQueen movie, The Great Escape.
It was the time and day to make our escape. I was dressed in a woolen suite with a hamburg hat. I looked in a mirror and I had red and blue paint all over my face and neck.
I had to sneak back into the barracks to wash. I had to slip past the guards and I did not speak a word of German. I had to get past a particularly Arian looking guy and I was terrified as he said something to me and I grumbled a response. I was afraid he would start a conversation.
I was in the bathroom washing my face and hands and I could not get all of my mess off. But it was time to go.
I could hear the train whistle and had only moments to get to the station....
Then the alarm went off and I had to get my son off to school.
DK
I dreamt that I was an American living in Nazi Germany during World War II.
I was living below the radar but I was in fact living surrounded by German solders.
I was living with a bunch of other prisoners of war.
There was a plan to escape. A train to catch at the station. We all had fake papers and cloths to wear. Very much like that old Steve McQueen movie, The Great Escape.
It was the time and day to make our escape. I was dressed in a woolen suite with a hamburg hat. I looked in a mirror and I had red and blue paint all over my face and neck.
I had to sneak back into the barracks to wash. I had to slip past the guards and I did not speak a word of German. I had to get past a particularly Arian looking guy and I was terrified as he said something to me and I grumbled a response. I was afraid he would start a conversation.
I was in the bathroom washing my face and hands and I could not get all of my mess off. But it was time to go.
I could hear the train whistle and had only moments to get to the station....
Then the alarm went off and I had to get my son off to school.
DK
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Baseball Stories- Passing the tradition From Father to Son to Father to Son
I went to the New Yankee Stadium last Sunday. I decided it was for some reason really important to take my son to a game there in the first week of the New Stadium.
My son doesn't give a shit about baseball, but I felt compelled to take him anyway.
When I was a kid my dad didn't know or care anything about sports, but every once in a while he would get some tickets from a client and feel compelled to take me to a game. Sort of like forced fed bonding was the way I saw it even back then when I was in my youth. I mean my dad did not give a shit about sport, he once told me that he wasn't sure, but he thought that he might have met Babe Ruth once...
There is a funny/tragic story that I like to tell that one time my Dad was driving me to a game at the Stadium. There we were stuck in traffic. Neither of us really comfortable with each other or having anything to say. My Dad had the radio playing and suddenly that song, "The Cat's in the Cradle with a silver spoon, little boy grew into the man in the moon....When you coming home Dad? I don't know when..." You know the rest. Whell the silence in the car was totally palpable and I just couldn't take all of the irony so I started talking just to say anything, trying to start up a conversation. And I remember my Dad pointed at the radio and said to me, "Shhh- I am listening!"
Anyway- such is the ethos that compelled me to take my own son to a game. He had a really good time. The Yankees won which was important to him. Although, even though he really doesn't know much about baseball, he's told me for years now that he is really a Red Sox fan. He asked me on the way to the game when I was going to take him to see the Sox? NEVER son. I am trying as best I can. But you have got to be out of your mind if you think I am going to contribute to some awful habit that you are starting now...
DK
My son doesn't give a shit about baseball, but I felt compelled to take him anyway.
When I was a kid my dad didn't know or care anything about sports, but every once in a while he would get some tickets from a client and feel compelled to take me to a game. Sort of like forced fed bonding was the way I saw it even back then when I was in my youth. I mean my dad did not give a shit about sport, he once told me that he wasn't sure, but he thought that he might have met Babe Ruth once...
There is a funny/tragic story that I like to tell that one time my Dad was driving me to a game at the Stadium. There we were stuck in traffic. Neither of us really comfortable with each other or having anything to say. My Dad had the radio playing and suddenly that song, "The Cat's in the Cradle with a silver spoon, little boy grew into the man in the moon....When you coming home Dad? I don't know when..." You know the rest. Whell the silence in the car was totally palpable and I just couldn't take all of the irony so I started talking just to say anything, trying to start up a conversation. And I remember my Dad pointed at the radio and said to me, "Shhh- I am listening!"
Anyway- such is the ethos that compelled me to take my own son to a game. He had a really good time. The Yankees won which was important to him. Although, even though he really doesn't know much about baseball, he's told me for years now that he is really a Red Sox fan. He asked me on the way to the game when I was going to take him to see the Sox? NEVER son. I am trying as best I can. But you have got to be out of your mind if you think I am going to contribute to some awful habit that you are starting now...
DK
Saturday, April 18, 2009
I WANT TO KNOW WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.
I want to know what is wrong with me. Last night I went to a dinner for this prestigious Art Magazine. They had this big fundraiser and I was asked to contribute some works. I was asked to create a special project for them, to lend my name and my talent to them and help them. Of course I said YES. I did this project and I was told how wonderful I am by all of the staff. I went to a huge cocktail party and I was asked to stay on for the exclusive dinner part of the program as “thanks” for lending my help. Throughout the evening I was told how great the project turned out by so many of the guests.
There at the dinner was this art dealer who once shunned me, and whom I had hopped would give me time of day now that she saw me there in this new light. WELL. I could not have been more mistaken. There I sat at a table for the guests whom had contributed their sweat. This art dealer came and greeted every other artist at the table but seemed to make a point of avoiding me and then, later in the same evening, when I said “Hello” in passing, was so physically bothered by this that my wife commented that I must have done something to have offended her. I must have done something. I mean, I have no fucking clue what I could have done, but I must have done something to bother this woman when all that I have tried to do was to be the kind of artist who made the kind of work that this woman would want to sell; to be the kind of artist she would find irresistible and want to associate herself with. Instead, I have alienated myself from her with that being the total opposite effect of what it was that I really wanted to achieve. I just want to know what the fuck is wrong with me. How come I am so bad at what it is that I want to be good at and why is it that I am so fucking good at being terrible at what it is that I want so badly to do well.
There at the dinner was this art dealer who once shunned me, and whom I had hopped would give me time of day now that she saw me there in this new light. WELL. I could not have been more mistaken. There I sat at a table for the guests whom had contributed their sweat. This art dealer came and greeted every other artist at the table but seemed to make a point of avoiding me and then, later in the same evening, when I said “Hello” in passing, was so physically bothered by this that my wife commented that I must have done something to have offended her. I must have done something. I mean, I have no fucking clue what I could have done, but I must have done something to bother this woman when all that I have tried to do was to be the kind of artist who made the kind of work that this woman would want to sell; to be the kind of artist she would find irresistible and want to associate herself with. Instead, I have alienated myself from her with that being the total opposite effect of what it was that I really wanted to achieve. I just want to know what the fuck is wrong with me. How come I am so bad at what it is that I want to be good at and why is it that I am so fucking good at being terrible at what it is that I want so badly to do well.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Here is a nice comment from the NYTimes.com proof
#7 –s. “Proofreaders are no fun to drink with.” Nice pun there!
I’ve loved Proof, particularly the writings of David Kramer and Sacha Z. Scoblic. Kramer because he just has a fascinating mind and communicates his perspective on the world so warmly and with such humility, Scoblic because hers were most often the entries at which I laughed out loud in (self-)recognition.
Cheers!
— FJP
It sounded nice and totally lifted my spirits.
Thanks.
More at:
http://proof.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/04/13/last-call-readers-speak/
DK
I’ve loved Proof, particularly the writings of David Kramer and Sacha Z. Scoblic. Kramer because he just has a fascinating mind and communicates his perspective on the world so warmly and with such humility, Scoblic because hers were most often the entries at which I laughed out loud in (self-)recognition.
Cheers!
— FJP
It sounded nice and totally lifted my spirits.
Thanks.
More at:
http://proof.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/04/13/last-call-readers-speak/
DK
Go See GUEST OF CINDY SHERMAN
Not to come off as a movie reviewer but I want to write about a movie that I saw last night, and, of course, about me.
Last night I went to see Paul H-O's Guest of Cindy Sherman. Paul H-O is this irreverent New York City Art World hanger-on er who back in the 1990's, when the art market was sliding into oblivion during an economic downturn, started a Cable Access TV show called Gallery Beat. Paul forsakes his art career to put all of his energies into this show which, to paraphrase him, maybe 40,000 people watch. But his infectious energy and from-the-hip candor leads him to meet all in the art world just as the economy takes shape and the Art World goes on a joy ride that takes it out of "homier" So-Ho and into Corporate, and humorless Chelsea.
Anyway- Paul somehow gets the attention of Cindy Sherman, the great Artist/icon/photographer and does a multi-part interview with her. Sherman is known as a recluse when it comes to the media, but she provides Paul with total access. They soon are smitten with each other and Paul and Cindy become something of an item just as her career leaps from stardom to super-rock-star Madonna-like status. For a while the ride is lots of fun, but soon Paul is becoming uncomfortable with his role (or lack there of) . Paul is sick of being seated separately at dinners (with place cards saying Guest of C.S.) and begins to look for an outlet.
As a chronicler of things over almost a decade, Paul does what he does best and carries his camera with he tries to figure out this dilemma. His access is now even greater through his connections to Sherman, so Paul goes on to interview David Furnish (otherwise known as Elton John's husband) and other spouses of uber-famous people as they all commiserate about things like getting cropped out of pictures by the paparazzi. It is really sad, funny and Paul is endlessly infectious.
A nice movie for anyone who has been around the New York art scene for the past 10-15 years.
Which is where I come in...I watched the movie and fully expected to see myself walking past the background of any number of shots. But what was most telling and most articulate about the film was Paul's compelling description of how his Cable Access show went from running joke to "Get the fuck out of my gallery" once the art world started to crank in the money. It seems that no body liked or wanted to hear anyone say anything about the emperor's new clothes once the money rainstorm started to rage.
All of a sudden it was totally clear to me what happened to me and my art career over the last 10 years. All of my best attempts to be a gate crasher were appeased and then ignored, hoping I would just go away. Cindy Sherman, being a great artist, knew damn well that having Paul H-O around would keep her sane and grounded during this crazy head trip. And Paul, being a shrewd street smart guy got as close to the center as possible until he was finally asked to leave.
I've been saying for years now that the 90's was the best time in New York that I can remember. I got to see the 1980's up-til now. I am glad that money is leaving the scene. Oh-sure, I only wish I had got some before the faucet was turned off. But now that it's off, everyone can get down and dirty again. And I do better when everyone around me isn't turning away because I am such a slob.
I just have to keep reminding myself not to get too bitter about not getting what I never had, and start working again. Hopefully Paul H-O will keep on doing just the same thing too.
DK
PS- Check out the NYTimes.com opinion page for the Proof section. Nice comments there from the readers Re: My Posts.
Friday, April 10, 2009
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