Jeff, Geoffrey, Untitled (Geoffrey) is just fine

Untitled (Geoffrey) Jef Kitagawa (2001) oil on panel

A few weeks ago while I was waiting for the elevator at the UIC Medical Center I saw this JK painting on display. There's a real treasure trove of Chicago artist's works throughout the 4th floor of this building. It just happens that JK is a painter that for a brief time lived at 1822 with us. I have a sort of broad stroke recollection that Don Baum helped organize this UIC collection. It made JK exceedingly proud to be included.
JK was living in a street level apartment over on Wood near 17th. We had been meeting to talk about his painting for several weeks. Mostly he got along just fine with his landlord, then one day he didn't. That's when JK asked if he could stay with us. I called KL and asked her for some help moving him out. Some of his things were in boxes. Some of them were in bags. A lot of them were in discrete piles stacked around the room. It took about an hour to load everything into her car. Eventually it arrived at 1822 where we got the bags, boxes, and stacks re-installed behind some pocket doors.
JK found it difficult living there on the first floor. Every 5 weeks we had an opening reception for a new program. It was loud during the week while we installed work and artists easily confused the public and private areas of the house. All of this led to discomfort for JK. Eventually he and I exchanged our rooms. This meant his studio was on the second floor beside our kitchen. This was a semi public area that would have been the master bedroom adjacent to the kitchen years earlier. Without the walls that defined the former layout it had since become a large painting space for me. For JK it was a much more personal painting space.
JK had this enormously dingy green chair that probably fell out of a broken window somewhere. He sat in it and smoked these tiny rolled cigarettes down to nubs. Then he would tamp, scrape and stab them into piles on a collection of secondhand tea saucers that were arranged around him. It occurs to me that when we talked about this painting from the medical center the central figure was always, Geoffrey. As in the Toy's 'R Us mascot.
I would squat down next to his little painting table say to him things like, "I like this moment here." Then I'd point at some brush stroke or other. Standing behind me with his arms crossed JK would hold onto his elbows. Rocking back and forth on his boot heels listening as he smoked. He'd be briefly animated, "Hmmm I, I, that's not too masochistic/fascist. I mean the order. Geoffrey, the way he's laid down. It's important being." Kind of stammering he’d be real slow like a pot smoker hiding behind a very thoughtful child might be. Then JK'd politely laugh by way of saying, HaHa Ha.
JK had an odd day job back then. A few times a week he locked himself into a tiny room where he would engrave very tiny brass or vinyl plates. These would later be affixed to trophies that said things like, Best Boss Ever, or 2001 League Champs. Before he moved out JK gave me a set of custom name tags that he devised in that room. There were 3 of them set on vinyl with a faux wood veneer. They said, Mikey Likes It, Mikey Doesn't Like it, and Mikey's Ambivalent.

The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too. We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

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