Finding Berringer Update

My practicum, Finding Berringer is still on.. A woman who grew up with my work in her home now has it in her own home, travelling from Central Pennsylvania to LA. Interestingly, it is from illustration work I did in the 70's for a decor type production.

Hearing from this nice woman revived a time of leaving college abruptly, with septicemia from a quickie, not yet legal in NJ, abortion of a pregnancy from a date rape, the beginning of a period of great lying to my parents about my college status, the 12 ceu's that cranked into my GPA as '0', (not that I knew what that meant in those days...) and a time of seeking some way to 'not live at home with my parents.

I was working the graveyard shift at the Silver Bell Diner in Belmar NJ. From 10 pm -6 am, I waited tables, smoked three packs of cigarettes and drank coffee.That winter was particularly cold, gas prices were impossible and I had 30 pounds to lose. I had decided to take the tests for OTC Air Force and had scored way off their charts. My math skills made it possible to quickly calculate the exact number of bullets that could be fired through a propeller in a specified time, how to calculate the angle of descent of a missile fired from a jet at a particular height, moving at a specified speed.. and my aptitude for code breaking was quite high. They were anxious to have women officers come in at that time and had promised me... everything a girl could want, including the opportunity to marry an Air Force Officer! wow ! how could resist! I had other plans, I wanted to work in film production, learn to make training films... duh?

But, I would first have to pass the officer's physical and go through basic. Not eating became my full time occupation. I had to get down to 135 before the physical. If you know me ..I weigh 185 now, so picture me at 135, arriving for the physical and 3 hours of written testing only at the end to be told I was 3 pounds over. and had "flunked" the physical ..big red CHECK across the front page.

I was bummed out. I started taking courses for a degree in medical technology using the small amount of money I earned from waitressing. Anatomy and physiology, organic and inorganic chem.. and I began to look for jobs in the classified. I saw an ad that said "artists wanted'.. This was something I had NEVER seen.. and haven't seen since, so I called and went right over for the interview.

It was a commercial lithography workshop where they were printing for international artists, producing editions of fine art limited prints and posters. I was hired on the basis of work I had done in high school. When I said that I had studied printing in college they said, "That's ok, we can use you anyway."

Nothing seemed to be a straight path. I had been accepted to take a professional certificate course in Printmaking at a college in England, and even though I would incur no expenses (full scholarship) my parents would not sign my visa application. I thought that working in a commercial printing studio would give me a lot of practical printing experience I did not realize that this choice would remove me from two things that would haunt me.. academia and the legitimate art world. I did not know that yet. I was happy to be "not a waitress." I had dreams of eventually getting to Tamarind or being able to work with Ken Tyler.. I had met Gene Baro as an undergrad. If I had access to presses, I could eventually produce a portfolio to get a job in his workshop.


I began learning the process of hand color separation work to assist artists from all over the world who flew in for a couple of weeks I worked with Sarah Churchill, Mr Blackwell ( the best dressed list guy), did chromo work for Peter Max, some Dali signed plates... I worked with some terrific studio artists who were around my age, and I met someone who was to become a life long friend. We were all aware of the compromise of our talent, but relieved to not be in the war, or not waitressing.

Eventually, I was allowed to design a couple of lines of wall or poster art. I did work for children's rooms, and a 'line' of florals, barns.. what ever I was asked to do. This ended abruptly as a result of a "fraudulent tax shelter" investigation.

My choice to work at this publishing company would have far reaching, long term staining effect on my future options. It would expose my work and name to SEC scrutiny, powerful pressure from the IRS to come clean and admit that I signed papers misrepresenting the projected value of my work.. I found out that the white midsize car that followed me was the car of choice for investigators and that the click I heard on my phone was a tapping device.

I had grown up in NJ, worked in restaurants during a time when money laundering was the main reason to have a fast paced seasonal restaurant. A time before credit cards, money flying around, no one keeping track of how many lobsters came and went, how much liquor... everyone was paid cash, no one reported tips... acceptable levels of crime. I saw too much of it. I learned how to say"not that I know of" and mean it. I learned to recognize my role of silent witness as
presumed compliance. I learned to not see.

By this time I was living in Boston and finding my way back to the abstract work I had started as an undergrad. In the mean time, I had actually gotten a degree (not in fine art exactly) from my college, married and was about to be divorced from a brilliant investment banker who was becoming one of the boys.

When I left Boston, I had certification in commercial photography, printing, layout, composing and press operation, certification in paralegal studies for general litigation, real estate, corporate and family law.. had worked as an HVAC engineer and had learned triple entry bookkeeping. I had learned how investment houses dump stock on clients and how they reward their brokers. I had a phone number to hire someone to firebomb my car for the insurance. ( I would have to leave in in Chelsea overnight)

I was beginning to sell my abstract monoprints through dealers who really wanted me to distance myself from the commercial work, become a born again art virgin, unsullied by the world of hucksters, charlatans... I was about to be embraced by museum curators, collectors and the market value system and I had to be cleaned up. I also needed to earn some money to be able to buy a bigger press, move my studio to DC etc. I began working with a publisher from Philadelphia. I earned enough money from that association to buy the 48" x 84" press and move to a larger space. This work was viewed with skepticism by people promoting my 'other' work in the Art World, but as long as it stayed controlled it was OK. The pattern of splitting what was considered commercial work and real work was getting annoying. I always did the best work I could do in the situation. Often, the compromises for a commissioned piece in the legitimate art land seemed more a violation because it often involved reducing what I would get paid for the work. As the gap between my growing commercial income closed in on the 'original' work, I became less patient with the jabs at my 'sell-out' publishing work.

Having witnessed acceptable levels of crime in every job I had ever had, I thought it was unfair to hold artists to such a high level of accountability. We are children of dreams and spirit, aren't we?

So, for this woman, she enjoys the memory of growing up with these lyrical prints from her childhood.
For me, it raises a spectre of expectation and imbalance in my role as an artist. It was the beginning of my examination of my role in the creation of work. The act of externalizing something in an external form has many faces..
1. the part where I create, the act itself, the process
2. the form the work takes
3. the venue by which it is delivered to the public
4. My accountability or responsibilty ending or continuing on as a steward

Long ago, I gave up the naming of my work as art, I cringe when I am asked to name it. For me to call it art, presumes that there is some authority that I can rely on to claim my market value or anchor my personal intent in some harbor of knowing. That I leave to the critics, the curators, the whistful legitimizing agencies of market value.. the academic bottomfeeders who appropriate creative property for their own legitimizing agency. This has nothing to do with my making of images or art. The public has nothing to do with the impulse to create order through making someting outside of my self. And finally, once I chose the venue of delivering the work, my role becomes that of the witness to acceptable levels of distortion, appropriation, usery, and maybe even crime.

I walk this walk every day. Teaching from textbooks that cost $90 because of the reproduction copyright fees of market value... I have more respect for someone who sits with their work pinned to a storm fence. I have no tolerance for self promoters seeking to ride the wave of creativity on the back of the art they then supplant with simulacre.

What happens when we call something art? Does it shine the brighter if you are assembling clothepins in a sheltered workshop if it is called art? Does it create distance or community to call some activity art? Setting something distinct, apart from the main and then roping it in for therapy or building community? Isn't this just some very big veil of importance imposed on another quite different activity all together?