Ben Orozco at Usable Space

But first, can I say something about the show that’s up at Usable Space now? Two things actually. The first is that I liked it. The second is that I didn’t.

I really liked it, actually. It’s a show about the failures of translation between 2D and 3D. The space featured more than one vinyl palm frond, whether draped onto the floor or animated by a hidden box fan. Ben’s work is cartoonish, something like the coyote who paints tunnels onto cliff faces, watches the roadrunner speed through, then tries it himself and ends up a pancake. It’s pratfall trompe l’oeil, not to say the work fails, or isn’t impressive, just that they’re funny at their own expense. It’s clumsy on purpose, to show us how delightful pictorial clumsiness can be. Best of all, Ben doesn’t repeat his jokes. Each piece makes its own logic, leading to a fresh punchline each time. I imagine he’s the type of person who gets bored easily, so never stops inventing.

Maybe I should have quit there and not read the artist statement. (Maybe none of us should ever read the artist statement.) Once I did, the work deflated a little for me. Not to knock Ben’s writing, it’s good writing, though I was disappointed to discover that he and I have such different ideas about what makes his work interesting. He tells a sad story of suburban sprawl in his hometown of Miami, the encroaching parking lots, the palm trees which have supplanted the area’s natural growth.

Listen, maybe this is a bad take, but I appreciate parking lots. Roads, I love them. I used a road to get to Ben’s show. Houses are great too, even the yucky suburban ones that every millennial continues to nurse nostalgic disdain for. I appreciate the unattractive parts of cities that make cities possible, even when I’m pretending to be an aesthetically-minded poo-pooer of ordinary American life. But this isn’t the point. Because Ben, I know, feels the same as I do. He doesn’t want to walk two miles to the grocery store or live in a bug-infested eco-utopia. It’s just that, when an artist is expected to write a paragraph explaining his work, he ends up saying some wacky shit like this.

I was going to quote the statement here, but it felt mean. I do like your writing, Ben, just not as much as your art. The real question is, why do we keep asking artists to write about their work?

So sure, I guess what I’m saying is just that I liked the art and not the statement. (Which, I know, is becoming a running theme here.) But it’s not just the statement. The work, to me, feels a little eager to brand itself. I sense a part of Ben, just a little one, that wants him to be Palm Tree Guy. I don’t blame him. We all want to be Palm Tree Guy. But I’m more interested in what Ben has to say when he’s not trying to be anyone at all.

Okay, this is going to sound insane, but hear me out. What I really want from art is for it to be as packed full of awkward potential as a good first date. Across the table is a person who, in the best case, you might get to know very well. You talk, and little by little an idea starts to form, in your own private headspace, about who this person is. And sure, maybe you course-correct a few times before you really know them. But this is the difference between a bad date and a good one. A good date lets you discover who they are for yourself, “acting natural” as we say. They let you fall in love on your own terms, not theirs. More than anything, they know how to say enough, without saying too much.

Ok, I Lied

I swear, I had this whole thing written about the Nohl and the emotional footprint it leaves on Milwaukee’s art community. The point I wanted to make was that the fellowship, while a very good thing, does in some subtle ways poison the groundwater. It was a beautiful piece, about the trials and tribulations of small-city artists, the reliance on invisible philanthropists, the rejection, and the perseverance of those who have applied to it for years, decades, and still wait to be welcomed home to the winner’s circle.

But here’s the thing, guys. As those closest to me are aware, I’m a huge fan of the lox bagel. And now here I am, sitting in front of this sparkling draft, 99.9-percent-complete, with my fingers all covered in cream cheese. You’d think it would be a simple matter to wipe my hands off, but the writing process is a delicate dance. It can’t be interrupted for anything. And so I’ll have to scrap the whole thing and start over, next week.

(What actually happened is I met with Polly yesterday, right before I was about to publish, and she nuked my whole project. Not on purpose. I think she would have liked the piece. What happened was, she told me a long story about the Nohl, where it came from, where it is now, and the specific challenges she’s facing. If it had been a regular interview, I would go ahead and tell you about it now. But it became clear that Polly is emotionally invested in the Nohl, probably more than you or I could imagine. So I thought it would make sense to take some time to think, and make sure I don’t say anything, you know, stupid.)

Can you wait a week? I promise it will be worth it.

Friday

Saturday