Women Artists ( a/k/a "Artists" )

A while back I read about an art museum tour guide who asked a group of visitors to name a female American artist other than Georgia O'Keeffe. After a pause, someone finally replied, "Frida Kahlo?"

ELIZABETH MURRAY

I found this shameful, but realized I couldn't do much better. Most anyone can rattle off the names of a few male artists like Norman Rockwell, Andrew Wyeth, or Andy Warhol without the benefit of an art history course. But female artists, well . . . why don't we know more about them? Is it only due to a lack of publicity? Or are we still such a male-centric society that successful women in the Arts continue to suffer the same biases that women in so many other fields have, arguably, overcome?

So since then I have memorized the names and familiarized myself with the works of 38 American painters, sculptors, and photographers who happen to be women. It was easy, starting with a couple of books of prints I happened to have at home and soon moving on to whatever was available at the library. Quite helpful, of course, was the Internet. Many female artists whose work has apparently never been collected in book form nevertheless have web pages, and magazine or journal reviews of exhibits and museum acquisitions were in abundance. Wikipedia helped cut down on the biographical reading time and even provided links to other female artists I'd never heard of. And of course Google can't be surpassed for viewing a wide array of images that might have been otherwise hard to locate. In general, though, these women artists weren't all that difficult to find.

LORNA SIMPSON

The list grew quickly at first, then slowed some after I'd covered the more well-known artists-- usually those who'd lived and worked many years ago-- and had then begun looking for more contemporary women, those still creating in their respective mediums. I'm sure it's not going to stop at 38, but here's the list so far. See if any of these names are familiar to you.

JULIE MEHRETU

Diane Arbus
Alice Aycock

Peggy Bacon

Jennifer Bartlett
Chakaia Booker

Margaret Bourke-White

Louise Bourgeois

Mary Cassatt

Elsie Driggs

Helen Frankenthaler

Nan Goldin

Nancy Graves

Grace Hartigan

Eva Hesse

Jenny Holzer

NAN GOLDIN

Lee Krasner

Barbara Kruger
Louise Lawler

Sherrie Levine

Helen Levitt

Agnes Martin

Julie Mehretu

Marilyn Minter

Joan Mitchell

Grandma Moses

Elizabeth Murray

JOAN MITCHELL

Alice Neel
Louise Nevelson

Susan Rothenberg

Alison Saar

Cindy Sherman

Laurie Simmons

Lorna Simpson

Sandy Skoglund

Kiki Smith

Joan Snyder

Pat Steir

Sarah Sze

When I told friends what I was doing, the big question posed to me was, rather predictably, "But what can you do with all that useless information?"

BARBARA KRUGER

I'd like to think I don't have to "do" anything with it. It's at the very least a good exercise for improving my memory; I write out the list a minimum of once a week, sometimes grouping the artists by medium or artistic movement, more often just by the order that their names pop into my head. (I once tried writing the list alphabetically from memory, but all that did was make me crave peanut M&M's.) And let's not forget that I came up in the era of Knowledge For the Sake of Knowledge (pre-Reagan Administration, in other words) and firmly believe that it's just fine to pursue a degree in Liberal Arts, even if you're doomed to spend a few post-graduation years in the Peace Corps.

HELEN LEVITT

Via Facebook, I turned the question around and asked others for suggestions on making my "useless information" useful. Rather more sarcastically than predictably this time, my friend Dane said, "You could use it to pick up women," inadvertently reinforcing the choice of the word useless. My friend Bobby thought I'd probably be able to impress Lesbians, but in my experience Lesbians aren't much impressed by anything less than the ability to pull a car engine. (Kidding!)

LOUISE NEVELSON

But, for the sake of argument, let's say Dane and Bobby are onto something, that utilitarianism is the goal and there will someday be a real-world opportunity to use what I've learned. I'd like to think the scenario would go something like this:

I'm at a party, or maybe having dinner with a group of friends in a restaurant. The conversation turns to Art. (Shut up. I have sophisticated friends. It could happen.) At one point, a strikingly handsome and well-built young man is overheard to say, "People just aren't at all familiar enough with the work of American women artists. I mean, how many female artists can any of you name?"

Heh heh heh.

Hoping not to sound arrogant (or overly prepared), I would first ask the young man if he was referring to women painters, or sculptors, or photographers. But no matter which category he specifies, by God, I'm ready for him.

PAT STEIR

Abstract Expressionists of the 40s and 50s? Sure . . . how about Grace Hartigan, Helen Frankenthaler, Joan Mitchell. Eighties-era photographic artists? I like Cindy Sherman, Nan Goldin, and Sandy Skoglund. A sculptor or two? I'd drop the names of Louise Bourgeois and Kiki Smith.

Just in case the young man should think I'm merely throwing out names by rote, I can bring up a few interesting facts about any of these women. What was the impact on Lee Krasner's career of being married to the most famous artist of the time? "Unfortunately, it was most fortunate to know Jackson Pollock," she stated. Or why did graffiti artists Kenny Scharf and Keith Haring get so much attention in the 1980s, I can ponder aloud, when Elizabeth Murray was turning out cartoon-based Neo-Expressionist work every bit as interesting and skillful? And if you think Walker Evans was good (I'd continue), take a look at the photography of Helen Levitt. No contest!

ALICE NEEL

A portraitist? Can't beat Alice Neel. A Minimalist? Agnes Martin's color-field canvases rule! How about a photographic artist who's female, still living, and black? Why, Lorna Simpson comes to mind.

EVA HESSE

In no time at all, the bemused look on the gorgeous and hunky young man's face turns to one of admiration, perhaps even awe. And before the evening is over, he approaches me-- shyly, charmingly-- and says, "I'd love to talk more about this. Can I come home with you?"

Useless, my ass.

I Am What I'm Not

Too often to suit me, I've been referred to as a negative person. "Sarcastic" and even "cynical" have been used to describe me with pretty much the same frequency that other folks are called "nice" or "sweet."


I really don't get that. I don't see myself as negative. I do see myself as a staunch realist. I am stubbornly unwilling to stick a big shiny bow on a rather obvious disaster and go "There! All better!"


Am I cantankerous? If you insist. Curmudgeonly? I'm honored. But does that make me a negative person, or just a healthily skeptical, astutely critical one? It's not as if I'm fervently campaigning on Facebook for a DISLIKE button. (You know who you are . . . ) And how does one argue with such an untenable accusation? I mean, if you call me a negative person and I reply, "No, I'm not!" aren't you then going to say that since I'm not agreeing with you, it just goes to show how negative I am?


I'll admit to being a born contrarian, but most often of the John Locke "Don't tell me what I can't do!" school (for all the "Lost" fans, of which I am one). I especially don't like to be told to feel something I genuinely don't feel. When aimed at me abruptly and without solicitation, the words "Cheer up!" and "Smile!" rarely evoke the desired result. I recall reading the quote-- admonition, really-- "Be nice" on the Facebook profile of a well-known Knoxville blogger. I don't know why it is, but shit like that always makes me not want to be nice. Rather, I want to reply, "Who the hell are you, my Sunday School teacher? Fuck you!"


But enough with the defensiveness. If you must think of me as negative, I'd prefer you do it in the photographic sense. Photo negatives aren't entirely darkened images, of course. They're merely reversed, a contrasting view.


For months now, friends have been saying "You should write a blog!" This reminds me of the time when a woman in the beauty salon chair next to my friend Anne strongly encouraged her to become a stripper, assuring Anne, "You got a real good body, honey! You oughta strip!" Can't be given a much more back-handed compliment, in my opinion. What an awful thing to say! How dare you?! Do I look like the type of person who would write a blog??


All I mean to say is, there are a lot of really lousy blogs out there, and my initial thought about writing one was that I had no business dumping one more load onto that growing pile of Internet crap. And besides, so many bloggers I've read just reek of meMeME desperation when sharing their every mundane thought and pushing their inflated opinions of themselves. On this one guy's blogger profile I read, he described himself as "a writer of Dreams, an Embroiderer of Reality." To me, that's just a fancy way of declaring "I am one of the most pretentious assholes who's ever sat down at a keyboard."


And then I happened across an essay by Frank Bruni in the online edition of The New York Times titled "Harry, We Hardly Knew Ye." Bruni expressed a sense of relief that the final Harry Potter movie had been released. Not a fan of the books or the films, he professed not to hate them but, due to a number of circumstances, he just never got into them. And this set Bruni and many others at odds with their contemporaries, "standing apart from a cultural phenomenon that so many embrace," as he put it. Bruni went on to apply this to other cultural phenomena in which some of us just don't have the slightest bit of interest. Whatever you refuse to buy into-- be it "Star Trek" or Starbucks, Jonathan Franzen or "Jersey Shore"-- Bruni opined that "all of you have been there, on the outside of some mass-market craze or niche obsession that seemingly two out of every three people you know won't shut up about, their exuberance a sort of reprimand for what you're missing." Further distilling his thesis, Bruni wrote, "The fervor with which others latch onto a new enthusiasm makes you triply conscious of your own decision not to, so that even if your choice reflects only the limits of time, budget, or energy, you treat it as a declaration of independence. You are what you're not."


Now that I totally get. I remember watching an episode of "The Dick Cavett Show" sometime in the 70s on which actress Candice Bergen stated, without a trace of arrogance and to her host's apparent astonishment, that she had never eaten a McDonald's hamburger. I admired Candice Bergen immediately, though I didn't share her specific anti-fast food stance, and have since marveled at how much an unexpected factoid like that-- expressed in the negative, if you will-- can reveal about a person. In our modern world of too many choices and apparently endless options, "Who are you?" is for some of us a more difficult question than "Who are you not?" If you consider it, this would seem to be a part of human nature. Even though young children may not yet be able to articulate all of their needs, they can usually, by God, tell you what they don't like.

And so, with Frank Bruni and Candice Bergen as my inspirations, I decided to just relax and take a decidedly negative approach to launching my new blog. What follows is not at all a Bucket List, nor is it meant to be a display of Ayn Rand-ian merit badges. Many of the items have to do with personal taste, but some of them just, well, never happened.


If you know me, or know anything about me at all, pretend for a moment that you don't. Then check out how much you can learn about somebody by looking at the negative.


* I have never had a broken bone.


* I have never watched an episode of "American Idol."


* I have never voted for a Republican candidate in any political election.


* I have never purchased a copy of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.


* I've been to several countries in Europe, but in the U.S. I have never traveled west of Dallas, Texas.

* I have never willingly and/or intentionally eaten a raw tomato.


* I have never sat through "Gone With the Wind" in its entirety.


* Up until about 4 months ago, I have never not owned a dog.


* I have never met my birth mother or birth father, or anyone (to my knowledge) who is my genetic relation.


* Although I'm a graduate of the University of Tennessee, I have never attended a UT football game, or UT basketball game, or any other UT sports event.


* I have never uttered the words "Oh boy, chicken wings!"


So as for this blog, I can't tell you what it's going to be. I can tell you what it's not going to be. It's not going to be a political blog, though I'm sure I'll get political on occasion. I might now and again tell you about some place I ate or a dish I fixed, but it's not going to be a foodie blog. For obvious reasons, it's not going to be a Mommy blog, or even a Daddy blog.


I merely aspire to share my enthusiasms with you, if in my own negative way. To show you who I'm not and possibly encourage you to think about who you aren't as well.

Just keep in mind that the negative image of a photograph is fundamentally necessary to produce a positive image. You can't truly appreciate the light without the darkness.

I Am Paris Hilton's Pussy

Before I officially launch this blog, I feel I should set the tone by informing you, in the interest of full disclosure, that I used to write another blog a few years ago, on MySpace.


I can hear you, you know. "Tired old MySpace?" Or as Saturday Night Live's Seth Meyers once astutely observed, "the abandoned amusement park of the Internet." But back then, about the time I'd just discovered it, that joint was hoppin'. The first thing you noticed about MySpace was its full-on party atmosphere-- costume party, that is. Unlike the profiles on subsequent social networks such as Facebook and Twitter, most everyone on MySpace adopted a persona. Besides the usual adolescents attempting to hook up or goad each other towards suicide, the majority of MySpace users were apparently adults trying to project an image of being someone they weren't. From circus clowns to Catwoman, Adolph Hitler to the Buddha, everybody was somebody else.


"Persona" probably isn't the best word for all the images being created, since there was also every non-human characterization one could imagine. The Eiffel Tower might be friends with the planet Uranus, and Rosie the Robot from the Jetsons could count the Three Little Pigs and Sasquatch among her friends. Why, I even happened across a page (claiming to be a cup of Starbucks coffee) that upon examination I found had only inanimate objects as friends, hundreds of them. It was a virtual Sam's Club of MySpace alter egos. Toilet paper, Chinese take-out, steel-belted radials, hair gel. Think about the implications of this: That many people had actually taken the time to go online and register a MySpace account, Google up a few pics, and pretend to be . . . duct tape. Or a box of enemas. It was mind-boggling. And to me, mind-boggling almost always = so fucking cool.



Like all the best parties, though, the most fun was to see what celebrities had shown up. I should say had "allegedly" shown up, `cause there were masses of Michael Jacksons, scores of Chers, and way too many George W. Bushes. Unlike today, when that guy tweeting under the name Ashton Kutcher is probably Ashton Kutcher, you could never tell who the hell you were talking to on MySpace. The standard constraints of Time and Death didn't apply to MySpace membership either, as James Dean, Dorothy Parker, Lizzie Borden, Genghis Khan and more had RSVPed their Yes to this World Wide Web bash.


As it so happened, another popular trend of the time was for young female celebrities to expose their genitalia in public, usually when the paparazzi were there to record the event for tabloid posterity. Actress Lindsay Lohan, singer Britney Spears, and whatever-she-is Paris Hilton, eschewing their undergarments and ignoring the word "private" in the term "private parts," were photographed baring their willy washers while partying, dancing, and exiting limousines. Seems like every week or so you'd see another of these desperate-for-fame-and-attention girls featured in a scandalous online photo spread (pun absolutely intended).


So call me a slave to the zeitgeist, but I decided that my own MySpace persona would be "Paris Hilton's Pussy." It made a lot of sense at the time. I mean, all her vagina's public appearances were getting more media coverage than the TV shows, movies, or CDs of Paris Hilton the Celebrity. And that's how I came to characterize Paris Hilton's Pussy-- as a sentient, even intelligent, almost autonomous being, separate from Paris herself. The setup was easy. MySpace had tons of designer backgrounds to use, so I threw up some Louis Vuitton wallpaper and used matching colors for my text fonts. Certainly pics weren't difficult to find, though I passed over the obvious beaver shots for suggestive publicity photos of Paris perched on a bed and holding one of her huge, furry pet felines, adding my own caption of "This isn't how Paris usually plays with her pussy." Hurr hurr hurr.



The profile copy practically wrote itself: "I'm the much-traveled vagina of heiress/celebutante/whore Paris Hilton. Honey, I've seen more traffic than the L.A. Freeway during rush hour." Finally, I sent out Friend Requests to lots of those pages claiming to be Paris Hilton and other celebs, believing they might think this to be funny. And I assumed that would be that.


It hadn't been my intention to write an in-character blog when I created that MySpace page; I only wanted to go to the cool party. But as soon as the profile was up, I started receiving Friend Requests, albeit initially from people searching for the real Paris Hilton, go figure. Next thing I knew, PHP-- as her fans came to affectionately call her-- had over 700 MySpace friends.


And those friends started asking questions ("Why doesn't Paris Hilton ever wear panties?") and PHP started answering them ("Masks are for Trick or Treating!"). Soon I was doing a sort of Ask Paris Hilton's Pussy column, and that eventually morphed into my first blog. That's right, a middle-aged gay man writing from the point of view of a rich young celebrity's talking vagina. Feel free to psychoanalyze the hell out of that one.


It was a good time to be Paris Hilton's Pussy. An ex-boyfriend name of Rick Salomon had already released a home video titled "1 Night in Paris"-- filmed in night vision!-- of himself and Paris banging away, with an infamous scene in which Paris answers a cell phone call in the middle of sex. So any escapade of Paris Hilton's easily became a jumping off point for a new PHP blog entry.


Good example: Paris Hilton didn't pay her bill to a storage facility company, so they opened the unit and auctioned off her belongings, releasing an inventory to the media. Some personal letters and nude photos and a prescription for Valtrex were among the more interesting items to be liquidated. As a result, PHP released on her blog a list of the items found during her most recent gynecological exam: tampons, condoms still in their wrappers, a vibrator (with dead batteries), three sets of car keys, some bills and loose change, and a bejeweled dog collar belonging to Paris's teacup chihuahua,Tinkerbell.





It was also around this time that Paris Hilton was first arrested and charged with DUI. After a number of these incidents, she was sentenced in 2007 to do time in the Los Angeles County Jail. Paris ended up not having to serve the entire length of her sentence, as so often happens in the cases of celebrity offenders. But it still provided enough fodder for some salacious "Reports from Women's Prison" by PHP. To hear PHP tell it, Paris hadn't actually been drinking, but rather PHP had made the mistake of using a Margarita-flavored douche before Paris got behind the wheel, which, combined with an empty stomach, went straight to her owner's head. PHP claimed to have blacked out, because the next thing she knew she was in a holding cell where another very friendly and nurturing inmate named Big Liz was apparently attempting to resuscitate her. 

And so it went. Readers continued to ask questions ("I heard a rumor that Paris Hilton has vaginal polyps?!?") and PHP continued to answer them ("I prefer to call those 'speed bumps.'"). A comedian in the U.K. even wrote to me saying he hoped I didn't mind that he was reading PHP's blog on stage in his performances. (I didn't mind, so long as he didn't become hugely rich and famous for reading PHP's blog in his performances.) Perhaps the most gratifying part of the entire venture was when I discovered that if I Googled the words "paris hilton's pussy" my very own MySpace page was invariably within the top three out of hundreds of thousands of hits, beaten out only by one or two paparazzi photos of the real deal. I felt like I had achieved fame of a sort.


Then one day, just about the time I'd started an online campaign for funds to build a large Plexiglas observation deck, similar to the Grand Canyon Skywalk, over the threshold of Paris Hilton's Pussy, I logged onto MySpace and found my entire site had been dismantled, blogs removed and posts deleted. Only the original profile and a very few photos remained. The MySpace authorities had raided Paris Hilton's Pussy!


I blame Paris Hilton's actual fans-- and my own indiscretion in sending them Friend Requests-- for this turn of events. I doubt it was any of PHP's friends who snitched, since most of them embodied identities such as Yeastwoman, Sausageman, Fagalicious, Dildo Cozy, KY Jelly Monster, and Lesbian Flashlights. And anyone knows there were more risque things to see on MySpace, not even counting all the shirtless 14-year-old boys pulling their pants down to reveal some butt crack or a bit of pubic fuzz. But I digress . . . 




No, Paris Hilton has some true supporters in this world, God (or perhaps Satan) only knows why. And I feel sure those folks totally didn't get the PHP joke, or, more accurately, they don't think Paris Hilton is the total joke I believe her to be.


And that's fine. It was a good experience which in many ways prepared me for the launch of this blog. It's my hope that fans of Sharing My Enthusiasms (if any) will become as devoted as those of Paris Hilton's Pussy, same as I hope that the inevitable critics will . . . well, I hope they'll just eat shit and die.


How's that for setting the tone?