Byline: Tulsa Kinney

Dear Reader,

The art world as we know it today is an industry. Like it or not, it is a conglomerate not unlike the film or music industry. It is a hierarchical system to be sure, but towards the top, the question of who rules is a little blurry. Is it the art museums with their phenomenally wealthy patrons? Is it the commercial art galleries with their powerful dealers? Is it the auction houses, with their prosperous collectors? Or is it the artist who creates all this work for the collectors, the museums, the galleries and the walls in our homes?

Sometimes the collectors don’t have enough room in their palatial homes to hang all their investments, er, I mean art. So they open a museum in their own honor and share their impeccable and expensive tastes with us, the hoi polloi.

Those museums have names that are recognizable in the philanthropic and corporate worlds of this city: Geffen, Broad, Marciano, Lucas. One, in particular, has been the scuttlebutt of a recent art world scandal: the Marciano Art Foundation, which closed its doors to us.

This particular maneuver provides a closer look into just how these museums operate, when push comes to shove, as transparent tax shelters for the sole benefit of the owners. The Marciano brothers turned out not to be quite as altruistic as the public might have naively imagined. Our legal columnist, Stephen Goldberg, digs a little deeper into the Marcianos’ exploitation of their museum staff and their abuse of our governmental tax system, and what other museums are doing about fair wages for their employees.

But back to the artist, the cornerstone of it all. Are artists mere pawns in this big art-world game, and if so, should they even care?

Along with Goldberg’s piece on the political side of the art world, in this issue, we also feature an artist, Sylvia Fein, who is 100 years old and still hard at work. LA painter Tom Knechtel writes about her amazing retrospective at the Berkeley Art Museum. Her paintings are soulful, full of sadness and intrigue. They take you to another place, a place far away from the commercial art world. When art does what it’s supposed to do—communicate ideas, transport us, offer glimpses of the sublime—we momentarily forget about the questionable machinations of a ruthless art world that can break one’s heart.

It’s not all politics and commerce. There is still some beauty for us to behold. We just need to hang on to that in this big scary world we face today.

Dear Reader,
This is our sex issue, and I regret to say that since my husband passed away last year I haven’t had much to say on the subject.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it, or listening to other people talk about it—it’s just more remote, that’s all. And I don’t feel like faking it. And when I see all these artists focusing on sex in their work, I think, hmm, I bet they’re getting laid.

Whether you’re getting it or not, sex is still on your mind. Even if you’re able to blot it out for a while, it continues to bombard your brain in the form of billboards, commercials and music. It will surface in your dreams, your Freudian slips, your grandmother’s silver tongue.

Sex. It’s what brought us into the world and it is often the source of our last regrets: we didn’t get enough of it, we didn’t do it with the right person, we declined an invitation to an orgy. It’s constantly on one’s mind. And, it is frequently featured in artworks.

History shows us the ancient friezes of Pompeii and vases depicting sexual acts—rather risqué even by today’s standards: orgies, pansexuality, bestiality, pedophilia, you name it. It’s always been there, whether behind closed doors or in closets. Nowadays, it just seems more pervasive, thanks to easy access on the internet and other forms of media.

As our regular contributor Zak Smith’s sex-in-the-art-world feature article points out, as long as people are still making art, there will be art about sex.

Art critic/writer Frances Colpitt reviews the Dallas Contemporary’s current exhibition “John Currin: My Life As a Man,” where male dominance is shrouded in ambiguities. And I interview author Toni Bentley about her 2004 literary tour de force, The Surrender, on the topic of sexual submission and erotica.

The world of sex. It can be fraught with elation, joy and perversion. It’s as natural as the air we breathe, yet so powerful that it can create partnerships for life or destroy families. Even in an issue dedicated to the subject, we barely touch the surface of the role sex plays in art for, as we know, it’s a huge subject in life.

I guess I did have something to say about it after all.

Dear Reader,
Interviews have become my specialty as a journalist, especially if the subject is someone I have admired and whose career I have followed. I still can’t believe my good fortune at having been able to sit down and talk with some of my true heroes.

An “interview” theme is something I thought would be good for the Miami art crowd—our Nov/Dec issue always travels to the annual art Mecca known as the Art Basel Miami fairs. I envisioned Andy Warhol’s original Interview magazine, where the interviews were more like conversations between two celebrities.

So it seemed about as good it gets in the art world when Jeff Poe, of the Blum & Poe gallery, and contributor John Tottenham got together. Two people that are justly celebrated in their own right: Poe, a high-profile art dealer and Tottenham, a well-known Los Angeles poet, painter, writer and man about town. The two have been friends for decades and regale us with stories of the LA punk scene, the horse track and their ailments. Their repartee keeps us on our toes.

Reading it made me wistful for my interview days. I was thinking about which were my favorites or what I felt best about. John Waters, Larry Clark and Mike Kelley came to mind, but they have always been my idols, so it stands to reason that they would be on my top 10 list. After so many interviews though, one starts to pick up certain idiosyncrasies among the interviewees. Things like who might insist on seeing copy before going to press, and who has rehearsed answers, never straying from the script. Then there are the ones who open up so unexpectedly that you walk away breathless. That was what happened to me when I interviewed Mike Kelley.

Kelley opened up to me in a way I was unprepared for. He was an intellectual, and I was afraid we’d go down that path, which wasn’t my preference. I stuck with the question/answer format, though the answers were more than any interviewer could ever hope for. My jaw was in drop-mode most of the time, and I was shaking on the drive home from our meeting.

A triumph for any reporter is when one gets one’s subject to open up. In this particular case, however, I can’t take all the credit. Kelley seemed to have already made up his mind that nothing was off the table when he led me into his living room, where the drapes remained closed. I made an attempt at small talk just to warm things up, but apparently that wasn’t necessary as the minute I clicked the recorder button Kelley blurted out, “So, whaddaya wanna know? Ask me anything.” Even when the interview came to an end, Kelley insisted he could keep going if I wanted. In hindsight I think, what an idiot, why didn’t I? But I really just couldn’t take anymore; I didn’t want to prolong the agony.

It is the hope that the interviewee will give one something rare, not necessarily a deep dark secret, but that they might reveal an unexpected part of their personality.

Mike Kelley did that with me, but it was indeed a bittersweet interview, as he took his own life while his image was still on the cover of the magazine back in 2012. That will always remain a tragic paradox for me. I was thrilled with my interview, but torn and conflicted by the aftermath.

Journalists take risks and go the extra mile to present good material to readers. They are the unsung heroes who want to communicate and present the truth. I think in our Interview issue we captured a lot of that.

Dear Reader
The number 13 is usually considered to be a sign of misfortune, but when you land on it in an unexpected way it can sometimes feel lucky. This September marks Artillery’s 13th year. It seems like a long time, especially for a magazine in this century.

When my late husband and I started Artillery, word on the street was that print media was dying. We preferred to ignore the evidence, refusing to accept that magazines were no longer a part of people’s daily lives. The shift into digital was inevitable, but couldn’t we have both?

It turns out that you can. We’re still here and print is indeed still thriving. Of course we have a vibrant website and social media platform—who could survive without Instagram today? Longevity is great, but it also seems like it’s time for a change. So this September we have adopted a new look. Oddly enough, our new logo isn’t very different to our first one. Our editorial inside pages have more room to breathe, and with the new matte paper you’ll see a difference in the richness of color and texture, adapting a more modern feature to go with our new design. Kudos to Bill Smith, our creative designer, for taking it to the next level, and making a strong case for print in this very digital age. Nowhere on any of your devices will you be able to experience the tactile aesthetic of well-designed page layout that you can hold in your hands and read. There’s just nothing quite like a good centerfold.

With our new look, another change has come about. We bid farewell to our Associate Editor Christopher Michno. He was a strong editor with principles and dedication. We will miss him, but he plans to continue contributing to Artillery and his new venture will keep him securely in the art world. At the same time, I would like to welcome Emily Wells as our new associate editor. She has written features for us, and also has a blog on our website called Art Monster. She will bring a fresh sensibility to the magazine with new writers and new ideas. Expect to notice her mark in the coming issues.

September is always a big month for magazines, and art publications are no exception. The fall season in the art world means all new shows for the upcoming year have been assigned and sealed (for the most part). Artists are busy meeting deadlines while gallery assistants are booking art fairs. All the group shows have been played out and the BBQs are fewer.

As the evening air starts to chill and the days grow shorter, a wistfulness comes over me. I’m not gonna lie: it will be a year since my husband died. He was so much part of the magazine, that it would feel insincere not to mention what another year really and truly means to me. It means it’s been a year that Charlie has been gone.

I somehow got through a whole year of continuing the magazine with a lot of help from my friends and co-workers. I’ve had guest editors chip in and somehow we got through it together, and I’m not saying that flippantly. I look forward to this new season of art, as my last year was a blur. I hope that some of the art will be able to cut through that fog, and judging from what’s to come, there seems to be some hope. Maybe the number 13 could just be a lucky number after all.

Dear Reader,

Traveling can sometimes seem like a pursuit for the privileged. But many of us have the wanderlust, and even the poorest of the poor have been known to get around. I have one friend that globe-trots from “residency to residency.” This is her strategy for exploring the world affordably, and in this peripatetic manner she has managed to avoid paying rent for at least three years.

I’m a person that must leave my familiar surroundings at least a few times a year—and visiting family does not count! Oddly, when I do get away, I always seem to get roped into visiting an art museum in the area (never my first choice of vacation activity). My hosts always assume this is what I want to do; they will announce which museum shows they’re dying to see, checking the calendar sections before I arrive.

Although I’m grumbling now, I always end up enjoying myself. I marvel at each exhibition and the choices that curators make. I like checking out the permanent collections and experiencing the different buildings. I recently traveled east to visit friends and family. I had the pleasure of taking in the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and the Harvard Art Museums in Cambridge. I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed all of the shows—which certainly doesn’t happen much in Los Angeles. But I also think that visiting new museums and seeing what they deem important, visiting the grounds and the neighborhoods, adds to the experience. Like a dog sniffing unknown territory—all my senses are reawakened in the new surroundings.

I’m almost embarrassed to admit it but the most memorable show I saw during this trip east was the Toulouse-Lautrec show at the MFA. I went with my in-laws who are in their 90s and shared each other’s cane (my mother-in-law forgot hers). The exhibition had over 200 works and each piece was meticulously explained in such an engaging way that I believe we read every placard. Eventually I did skip a few and made my way to the gift shop to browse and wait for my in-laws to finish. They breezed through the door exhilarated from the “fabulous exhibit,” both beaming with utter satisfaction.

I just wonder, would I really have been so impressed with a Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit (he’s never been one of my favorites) if I hadn’t experienced it in a new venue, with special people, in another city?

That’s what you get from travel. A Jeff Koons can make you want to vomit at the Broad, but in the garden of the Bilbao Guggenheim in Spain, it’s not even offensive—as LA painter James Hayward tells us in this issue.

Traveling is all about seeing new things and having new experiences. One time I walked with my late husband on a trail that didn’t loop and expressed disappointment that we would have to return “the same way.” He pointed out that walking back in a different direction would give us a whole new perspective. I never forgot that.

Please enjoy our Travel issue this summer. Happy Trails.

Dear Reader,

It’s the month of March, so we’re doing a Women’s Issue—not to be confused with the women’s magazines you might find in the dentist’s waiting room; you know, the ones that typically have recipes, makeup tips, lose-weight-fast diets, and advice on how to keep your man satisfied. There’s nothing wrong with that kind of magazine mind you, but they are the kind my mom would read. That’s not considered to be a put down either—I love those magazines (when I’m at the dentist’s).

March is the month when women are celebrated, so that’s what we’re doing in this issue. We’re not doing a women’s issue because we are sick and tired of living in a man’s world (as my mother used to proclaim), but to honor and focus on women’s contributions to the art world. We also decided to concentrate exclusively on female artists in the review section, and even our Roll Call photo feature only points the camera on women at the openings.

Let this go on record, this is not an “I am woman, hear me roar,” issue. That sentiment has always turned me off. Why should women have to go to extremes to be heard? Men don’t. Why do we have to raise our voices and be annoying? Men don’t have to. “Women have come a long way,” as the Virginia Slims cigarette commercial used to say. Really? We’ve come a long way to smoke cigarettes, just like a man? We can also join the Army and commit murder and torture. Why emulate the most odious proclivities of the male species?

Women can be powerful in more intelligent ways, as we have in the past and still do. In the creative arts, women are created equal but it’s been only fairly recently that women have begun to gain significant recognition for their contributions to the arts.

Right now, here in Los Angeles, it couldn’t be more prominent, with numerous important solo shows by women artists. Photographer Zoe Leonard captured contributor Colin Westerbeck’s attention with her stellar shows at mega-gallery Hauser & Wirth and the Geffen. Veteran photographer Sally Mann finally gets her due with a retrospective at the Getty Museum, considered here by Clayton Campbell. Betty Ann Brown taps into the politically-driven work of Diane Williams, who graces our cover. Staff writer Ezrha Jean Black pays painter Francesca Gabbiani a visit at her Los Feliz studio, while filmmaker Tyler Hubby stays at home trolling Instagram for follow-able artists. Women-performance artists command contributor Leanna Robinson’s attention, and our intrepid news reporter Scarlet Cheng talks with Kim Schoenstadt about what’s next for her “Now Be Here” photo project.

We didn’t just come up with the idea of celebrating women—the month of March did. But we’re certainly happy to, and just for the record, we always have.

Dear Reader,

What’s a world without art? Ask me, I think I know.

My husband died last September. Since then I’ve balked at art. I despised art. I hated anything that took any time away from those precious hours and days I could have been with him. All the Saturday nights spent at openings, when I could have been with my husband. All the hours spent editing this magazine, when I could have whiled away the hours with my husband.

Larry Gagosian could have knocked on my door with the original Ed Ruscha palindrome painting, “TULSA,” and I would have said, “I don’t care, please go away.”

My new world without art persisted even beyond art, as I couldn’t listen to the music I loved. Anything enjoyable soon became unbearable as it reminded me of him. Reading fiction was a series of repeated sentences until I threw the book down. Forget going to a movie. I resorted to listening to bad music on the radio, just to not have total silence in the house. I was indeed living in a world void of art.

Then one day I drove past an art gallery. I decided to stop in on a show I’d been hearing about. I was the only one in the large cavernous gallery. Although the work was not particularly to my liking, I was struck by it. It was formidable, and the sheer volume was impressive. I’m sure there were assistants involved in making the art, but I didn’t really dwell on that. Then I started sobbing as I pondered each piece. Not that the work moved me so, but the quietness of it, the meaning of it, just being alone with it and looking at it, letting it seep into my senses. I wondered what inspired the artist to make such objects. What moved the artist to spend all that time on making those paintings. Was it love?

I think it must be. How could it be anything else? Why would anyone put so much time into singing a song, writing a book or painting a canvas? I wandered up to the second floor with my sunglasses on, hiding my tears. (What if the gallerinas thought I was choking up over the art!) The art up there hit me the same. Ho hum, but who is this person who put so much effort into it? It certainly must have meant a lot to them.

When I left the gallery I had decided that I enjoyed that experience, even though it was painful in a way. Seeing the art made me think in a different way. It’s like I was really seeing again for the first time, emerging from darkness. It made me think that I might be able to bring art back into my world, that it might actually provide comfort, take me to a safe place.
It’s been a struggle getting through these last two issues, and I still haven’t been out to see many shows. But I am looking forward to art healing me and bringing me a fondness for life that I have lost.

I’ve had the help of all my co-workers, colleagues and good friends, to get this issue together. We had the theme scheduled some time back, and we wanted to focus on the “inside” of art, behind the scene. Who are the art dealers (Jeffrey Deitch), the museum directors (Michael Govan), the nonprofit directors (Hamza Walker)? These people don’t make art, but they must have the same kind of love for art, at least we hope so.

Can art heal, bring about change? We’ve had that discussion in these pages of Artillery for over 12 years now. I think I can say yes, it can.

Dear Reader,

The sky outside my office window is thick and hazy; the hot air dry and static. Los Angeles temperatures are hitting record highs and there’s no rain forecast for the foreseeable future. There are forest fires all over California, nearly apocalyptic in size and destruction. Our president’s behavior borders on insanity but nothing stops him. Our country and the world are going to hell, and we all feel helpless. With all this happening, it’s damn near impossible to even think about art. How can art possibly matter?

Yet here in our September issue we explore the theme of Utopia that was enthusiastically suggested by our editorial team. It felt like our bleak present might be just the right time.

But what exactly is Utopia? How can we define something that doesn’t exist? It’s sort of like Heaven, I guess—a dreamt-up fantasy. Nonetheless, it’s something that we all tend to want to experience: Imagine all the people living life in peace… you may say I’m a dreamer—in the words of a needlessly dead rock star. That’s a harsh reality. John Lennon died at the hands of a stranger with a handgun. Gun control anyone? I was skeptical of an issue dedicated to the idea of Utopia, as I am not a dreamer. If there is a hell, I believe it’s right here, right now.

Then I was confronted with all these artists that are making art with devotion and determination. Their intention is to make a statement and do something about our troubled times. Jayna Zweiman, the creator of the famed Pussy Hat, is interviewed by contributor Anne Martens. By definition, she is not an artist; she works as an architect. But she wanted to do something for the Women’s March that she wouldn’t be able to attend, thus the pink crocheted hats. Zweiman is just one example of the artists profiled in our Utopia issue who use their craft to send out a message of love and hope. Christopher Richmond creates fantastical worlds in his films, more like sci-fi, in which we can escape this world and find a new one, but they are often worlds filled with nightmares and confusion. Then there’s Akio Hizume, who works with natural objects such as bamboo, to exemplify the important relationship between humans and nature.

All the artists in this issue produce work that directly addresses what’s happening in the world today. I used to think that art could never make a difference, but the more I see such art the more I believe that fresh ideas can open us up to transformation. Persistence alone can often bring change.

Yes, Utopia is a fiction, like Adam and Eve. When I first learned that Adam and Eve was just a fairy tale, I was mortified. It was the parish priest who taught catechism class to our age group who broke the news. I was like, well, how come it’s in the Bible then, and why were we told that in the first place? I remember being a little pissed off—I felt like I had been lied to.

There was no Adam and Eve; there is no Santa Claus, and no Easter Bunny. It’s all very sad. We may never get to Utopia, but it’s a place to dream about, and what are we without our dreams?

I guess I’ll just close my window blinds.