RUDIMENTS 90.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 90

Making Cars

Clarity. I think that's the best word

I can use to try and approximate what

it was I was seeking to achieve. It was

my feeling that most people  -  those 

I knew and had seen and grown up 

with  -  had missed that. They worked

through their lives in a working form

of confusion; it passed muster, yes,

but for most people I ever saw they'd

never brought anything to states of

having been defined, decided upon,

and effected. The rest of their lives

and times just seem ad hoc, by the

moment, reactions. In my life, the

people who have affected me the 

most, stunned me, even, have been 

those who appeared to me to have

reached 'clarity.' All ages, all varied

sorts of people. It was always good.

I never reacted to fashion, money,

looks, and all that  -  motorcycles,

artists, workers, teachers, it was this

'clarity' that I always reacted to, and

sought. Running for President? OK.

Show me some clarity first, jerk.

-

You know the way a horse eventually

finds its trot, or its gait; it soon enough

slips into that sweet spot, for horses,

where land and hooves become one, 

rider too, I guess, if there is one. That's 

clarity, maybe that's even 'horse sense,' 

whatever that was supposed to have 

signified. But it can get that way for 

individuals too, not the same of course, 

but symbolically, in terms of trot and 

ease and comfort, it's like a oneness 

that breaks into the routine. Like the 

zen thing with archery  -  hitting the

target perfectly without even aiming.

It's the aiming that throws everything

off. And I think church people call it

'grace,' as well.

-

Maybe it's also what's behind that 

odd 1960's idea of 'charisma'  -  

although I doubt that one. The two 

biggest jerks of that era I can pick 

out were John F. Kennedy and, later, 

of course, (or 'off course'), from him, 

William 'Jefferson' Clinton. It was 

more media hype, soon disproved. 

The only charisma either of them had

probably ended up where it shouldn't

have been. Involving the 'fairer sex,' 

I mean to say. [Can we say that anymore?]

Running through the 1960's, for most

of the time, was an outrageous almost

religious respect for this 'martyred' 

President guy. I sure could never abide 

it. There was, first off, never any 

connection for me between secular, 

political junk and religious martyrdom  

-  which was supposed to involve strange 

sanctity, devotion, rolled eyes, and taking 

one for the cause, as it were, knowingly 

and by choice. Not like Kennedy, whose

accidental head was just a bit too high 

in the convertible Lincoln that day. I

never dropped a tear or spent a moment

thinking about loss over that one. Same

with Clinton, whatever that mess was. 

He could keel over tomorrow and, 

maybe, I'd think about sending a card. 

(Or emailing one through a personal 

account, just for fun.

-

The whole 1960's thing was in reaction

to an assassination. That's how it seemed

to be  -  maybe not so much in New York 

City, where it was mostly subsumed by 

commerce, but lots of other places. I 

never undertook or had any 'analysis' 

(NYC and Park Ave. was filled with 

tons of shrinks too), but if I had I'm

pretty sure that for those next 7 or 8

years that was always high on the list 

of things your basic, cheap-visit, shrink

would get started on : how you felt 

about that, what were your feelings, 

in light of the murdered President, 

towards you father and family? There

was, everywhere, compensation going

on for what had been defied as a horrid

and gruesome national crime played 

out for days in prime-time primitive 

TV formats. Every commentator had 

become a form of a national shaman,

and every talking head had become a

healer. Where that left President Johnson,

I could never figure out; but all I saw on

his part was projection and over zealous

compensation to start wars (beginning 

with the 1965 invasion of the Dominican

Republic), and then other things. Everything

was in place  - kind of like now  -  to

gin up for war and destruction. It was a

mass-hallucination that was being formed.

Frenzy-induced manipulation to kill and

be killed. Everyone sick just strode to the

front : politicians, music and entertainment

people, scientists, mad bombers, you name

it. They talked. Everyone listened, and it

all went on for years.

-

Seen through the eyes of Art, my particular

perspective then, I guess, even Art trended 

that way: it sort of lost self-control over

itself and began trending outward into

movements of this or that  -  the frenzied 

and the vile, the sexy and the outrageous.

The breakdown there too became pretty

complete. One guy had himself nailed

onto a Volkswagen, really, crucified to a

bug. Another guy, Vitto Acconci, had

a platform built, in the gallery, that people

walked over, like a fake floor, underneath

which he, the 'artist,' was. Masturbating.

Another guy, for his 'art,' had himself

publicly shot in the foot for his own

'peformance' art. Too bizarre, but it was 

a wartime of its own. God knows what

else was done in the name of 'Art' that

I never knew about.

-

Sometimes, even in the Studio School,

where supposedly 'artists-in-training' were

perfecting their skills and craft : life studies, 

drawing, classes in theory, art history, and

the rest, we'd wind up just avoiding each

other's eyes in some weird-warp of too-self-

conscious embarrassment over what 'Art' 

was on its way to becoming. I know I've

told this story before, and probably too 

many times, but in the studio I had, I

shared some space with a Jewish kid

from Montclair, NJ. He wasn't that

often present, went home a lot. etc., but

when he was there he worked. Since we

shared a big studio room (atop that famed

Youth Hostel I've also written of, kind of

next door, but also underneath) and all

he ever painted, and I mean ever, were

maybe 3 feet by 5 feet painted portraits

of military people. Really. Just like that:

Staring out, standing straight, maybe 

on an airfield with a helicopter or

something behind them, with all their

uniform things, service ribbons and badges,

military cap, maybe gloves  -  all that you'd

think of. It was really strange, especially

for me because sometimes he'd be gone

a few days in a row and I'd be stuck with

Sergeant Dunkirk or whoever the hell it

was, 3/4 complete, staring out at me.

Whew! Talk about clarity!