Day 7 | stitch, stitch, walk, fidget, listen to it rain

stitch, stitch, woman's work. still working round the way in which i handle memory. exploring new understructure material--electrical conduit bolted together. i think when i fully understand the material, it will be a much quicker and lighter weight understructure to use.

my process involves fidgeting, writing, reading, watching, listening, walking, being outdoors, and just flat out making when i've no idea what to do. the making will lead to ideas. ideas lead to making.

normally my sketches are full sized and end up being the end product. tubes simply wont fully obey to be something that they are not, so i have to find a way to work with the material that it agrees with. today i sketch, sketched. not my usual practice, just did.

i walk a lot. for what ever reason, i am compelled to be outdoors, to be walking, to be absorbing what is not me.

----drifting

so close, surely the wake of my passing stirs the fine hairs on her pale petite eye glassed face as she utters, leaning into her brother, staring up at me, "is that Miss Johnson? Miss Johnson...is it? but her (meaning me) hair isn't curly. it would need to be dyed black..." a smile stretches across my lips, not for her because she is already several paces back, but just for the hearing of her lilt little voice floating along side me. she doesn't have a splattering of faint freckles bridging her nose, but in this moment, i want her to. almost speaking, staying to play. hesitant for it wouldn't be very strangerly of me. 

even at an amble, the trestled bridge trundles underfoot. the path now lines with child high wild flowers. lush weeds. purples. pinks. it feels good, a sense of wooded home. up the hill following the rustling of the river, the road narrows, as I enter the cooling canopied lane. is it wrong that i am thumbing out each move? mmmm. pedalogical wander lust. 

from forest to farm, i move. ha. this black shadow beast put a yearn in me for my own dopt happily munching in mischief unfenced. i listen

day 6 | i am unequipped to befriend only the here, the now, in aseemingly nakedless contextless masked present

i stand to move to the studio. YOU ISOLATE the voice says. well i do live in the woods, my microforest, my hermitage. ok.  instead, i stand, move with the gentle meal herd whom appeal. meander to the thrift. watch them mull over worn once loved things. it reminds me of a previous life with less than gentle female mulling overs, always new, yet unloved. now 50 cents, then 150 bucks. it is still a mulling, a harvesting. frankly, it is still shopping, still compulsive acquiring. its more a pattern than problem. a harvesting of having, innately human. i relax into it, picking up a ball of creamy string. i don't bother with the white or blue. the intended drive, an hour in course, to retrieve its twin, discarded now as unnecessary as i slide a solitary bill from my pocket. ooh nice, three quarters in return. oddly the creamy string was there almost as gift. no. gift. not even gently used. nothing rewound, just pristine cream. a kindly gentle weirdness washes over me as a thing  finds me instead of me, it. gift. there is a shift, a reminder, to return to listening to this moment instead of memory unwound. attend to the gifts. they do come. they have always come. it is refreshing.

dormant lay the histories that did the current shapings. Yet bam, the creamy thread laden gift dissipates from mind with abruptness, disrupted by dead histories emergent audible leakings. they move. i edit, cull down, delete. pulled out of a sense of presence within a conversational context, this moment now falls backwards splintering on the edge of yesterday's horizon. just a short hyperdigested excerpt not soo negative but still a dredging. Muck, mucking the morning. a few more words, then a push to set aside. it doesn't stir emotion, just creates a muckiness to the here. the gentle meal herd now down to two, part back to each studio, not from push or muck, but simple geolocational natural divide. i am left with my own whys. Why did i muck the moment? i understand that there are two lived histories that muck into my mouth. these muckings, tribal and residue of faulty cohort reflections, cause harm no matter how abbreviated. the gift dissipates.

i am unequipped to befriend only the here, the now, in a seemingly nakedless contextless masked present. how do I unlearn nakedness? 

i do/don't understand this unequippedness. i stand aside from myself; i watch. the facilitated studio -- i laugh, connect, coordinate, collaborate, bond, inspire, love, am home. the colleagues -- well...undisclosed mixed thoughts. the neighbors -- I live in the woods. the alone -- i laugh, play and pout. i meander.

i am not even dirty yet.

day 5 | unpacking waning. YAY. making, digital tip taping, writing, thinking waxing.

mentoring and facilitating making methodologies and explorations well, has required much. coasting or flying by the seat of my pants never an option though suggested by a colleague. it has made me girl soft! my little digital artifacts are a tad tender. this was to be expected, so i packed six year old athletic tape. gloves create too great a distance between me and the making, thus i've resorted to digital tip taping. the textures are perfect for remaining connected to the work.

day 4 | i keep bumping up against writing

in grad school, i studied graphic communication, design. i literally ate up the language, socio-psych, philosophy, and cultural research along with the manipulation of the flat static space. ha. glasses then bifocals required in support of that munching. pushing back from the computer at professorly insistence and pulling up to old fashioned digital technologies, all ten of them, i really began unfolding. the scents of contemporary art and design history fascinated not in and of themselves, instead, primarily as a context, a setting, in which to translate the hum and thrum of what was happening around me both then and now. the discovery of my own ten digit technology (using my freaking bare hands composed of two opposables with eight clutchers and pointers) was like stepping into my own skin for the first time. i began the course change from designer to artist. frankly though, i wouldn't even have noticed these changes except out of fear (again, fear? really? well, the low grade kind) i couldn't get to and hold or maturate an idea (thesis) plus fear of boring art historians through regurgitory acts of research shoveling. the low grade performatory fear had me unpacking it all on the page. forget the academic writing etiquette which had bound up my pen historically, just lay it all out, don't worry about cutting the fat off either. well, not all of it came out via my unpacking pen, some manifested in objects occupying real space. self side-note, i didn't knowingly write or make about my tribe or the unit. knowingly came later. underneath designer, artist, educator, once tribal member and wife, laid writer. it gave access to all parts of myself.

what kind of writer is yet to be determined for it is still a tad unruly, visceral. scratching pen to page, thumbing my way across a keypad with all its faulty but humorous auto corrects and my embarrassingly frequent thumbos, to what intent? to make writing a full blown habit, moderately tameable, perhaps even a professional practice, harnessing it to some degree to see where it will take me, i have some hopes. i don't want another CAA ad for a professor of experimental art writing or a position to facilitate the play of language between design and studio to pass under my nose because i've not prepared. i am not sure were writing will take me, but i am pretty dang sure i would thrive to return to the studio mentoring environment to guide practical art writing, writing as sketching, experimental writing, both linear and nonlinear process to get to the visual gesture, to get to the meat, to facilitate the practice of making, to explore the intersection of written and visual language in studio practices. the writing life is a key component in the contemporary art climate. 

writing already informs my practice, unpacks my life, but where will it take me? pretty clear on that i want to follow.

PRACTICE TO DATE 

art pocessing writing practice 

art + life merge | thinking outloud blog [evolution viewing, begin with 2006] 

art writing practice 

Like a dog gets excited to go for a walk 

The Formal | Cunt Positive | Bad Painting 

Collection of Other Essays

day 4 | not novel but definitely some rubbertized sketching

day 4 | unpacking, rubber + reading fidgeting but actual movement slow

haven't found a moveable rhythm. unpacking, i am still compressed, much as i was prior to trekking. still need to shake loose, decompress, unfold, decurl. silenced histories threaten to rewind. write to find my way forward. unpacking just needs to happen. 

making: the conduit bent and behaved a tad differently than expected but definitely with doability. lacking mastery, the skeletal underform will function, but i haven't sensed its surface, its skin. thumbed out words and visual rubberized gesture yet to merge. still stymied. get up. play. it will come. though its slowness concerns.

day 4 | revisiting the near past [very] as i unpack to begin movingforward again

funny that my go to stress indicator is not going off at all. so there is forward looking fear, but not stress. perhaps this is why i unpack. my unpacking since grad school has been through language...the art, the making a mere visual gesture from the real work, the writing, but very important.

APR 29

My go to stress indicator omg I feel FAT. Picture says, WRONG GOOBER; clearly you are stressed out of your wazoo to think that self. Admittedly I have put on weight since my ~115 refugee look (what the hell are movie stars thinking...at 5'9" that just look sick). Now up to a whooping 125-27 or so. The difference feels fat but in fact is NOT. Though it would be equiv to ten 1lbs steaks being sewn on to my frame, typically my ass. Perhaps i exaggerate a tad, but my emotions scream fat. I actually needed some of those steaks staked to my frame. Why would I be noting feelings of fat...stress? SSTRRRRESSSSS. Ha! Long-term exposure to stressful, even hostile, environment. Crap. Yup. Fat is my go to stress indicator for about 35 years. No matter how deeply I crawl into my woods, it does not alleviate the stressful environment.

Read interesting article on linkin! Bing! Bing! BaadaBing! No duh. The article nailed a pin on the head. Ouchy. But I already have had a clear picture of that, just have never figured a good work around. It is something I've never experienced before, even remotely. And then there is the extended duration. As is my habit, I sucked up blame where it didn't belong to me, minimized, rationalized other's behavior, and that resolved absolutely nothing. But then to do anything would have accelerated it. Perhaps that would have been a better path. Blown it up. It has definitely opened my eyes to my own habits and what does belong to me AND WHAT DOES NOT. Posted 29th April

day 4 | revisiting my writings unarchiving them from their short lived assumed as i begin the dreaming with movement

June 11, 2013

April 2013

dehinged dehoused

I am looking for a door
I've a stack

clustered leaning 

dehinged dehoused 

more in my box 

absent passages 

invisible thresholds 

vacant nowheres 

there is no through 

there is a work buried in this thought. I know. not highly original but it is there. 

I'd slide open a window 

thrust my leg out 

again I've a collection 

disembowelled dehoused 

no sliding, cracking, propping 

absent vantages 

invisible thresholds 

vacant gaze 

there is no through 

read a series of essays penned in 2005 and 06...am appalled at lack of pursuit. though I did laugh at the changing face of academic essay. perhaps I will post a few an see if they inflame and direct. 

Penned

Like a dog gets excited to go for a walk 

http://kathrynkelley.blogspot.com/2013/05/not-once-did-i-bore-art-historian-in.html

The Formal | Cunt Positive | Bad Painting

http://kathrynkelley.blogspot.com/2013/05/revisiting-old-writings-and-laughing-at.html

Collection of Others

http://kathrynkelley.blogspot.com/2013/04/old-but-somewhat-relevant-in-my.html

Posted 27th April 

day 4 | fidget, cut, revisit writings -- the twits and twitches read uncannily accurate in the foretelling

i fidget, worry, fret, wonder of dream, revisit ideations of risk, tentatively scratch and stroke the keys. in silence i unpack two years of untruths that i've allowed to be strapped to my back. around an agressor, i recess, withdraw, go silent. my bad. three scissors my ass. but that was the norm, the beer and karaoke party parrot ear chewings, the unavoidable not me mania mantra. i allowed it to shut me down, curl me up, stifle important parts of me that were quietly emerging. i am responsible for my own recess, no matter the cause. yet, no matter the fault, aggressor, recessor, both, to pretend i wasn't damaged by it, is ... well, it is pretend. but now, here in this space, i begin the exercise of following the tether to that internal place just a little ways back and pick it up again, open it, uncurl it, provide breath again so i may drift forward into a space where i will belong, severed from the not me mania. still though i am trying to shake off the curl ups and shut downs of recessing. i will. i will soon. soon i will run not away but toward.

April 2013

i walk when i should run
i dread when i should dream
i hold back the scratch of pen
the keys silenced from their clickedy click
visceral visual gesture dissipates in this silence

smallness pinpointed from bulgaria with love
yes i knew
the walk in, round, through
things that make small
they wrestle from within and without
private made public in a frightening unpack of postings
so as life drifts forward into more grounded presence
the risk of making visible
its realities make unsafe
the pen now sits still, the keys silent,
not for fear of smallness
but for the reveal results
hunger and desheltering
unfriending history erasures reached
making the twits and twitches read
uncannily accurate in the foretelling

i need to scratch
the rhythm of the stroked key
i am drowning in the silent stillness of unwritten posts
but i don't want to be afraid, hungry, desheltered or memory reedited
so i will scratch and stroke my way out of silences
i will post under an assumed
i think it will assist me to get back to my making
to dream off the back of dread
to open my gait to test run it for a bit

of course
i drink too much diet coke.

day 3 | i bump about the cyber social media water cooler [fb] forsomedistraction in attempts to avoid the hole

there is a hole. i find it. i remember the Units nonverbal disdain when i would step in it, real or metaphorical. i may not see it but inevitably i sense it coming. others, as he did, just stood and stand by, with a silent watching. not that different than i watching others step into their own.

the more i sense the hole coming underfoot, in heart, i paste on a smile. click. up post a series of selfies, all smiles. i bump about the cyber social media water cooler [fb] for some distraction. incomplete thumbed out blurts and imagery. i stave off the hole. sometimes i am quite successful at skirting its perimeter. 

there are, however, somethings that scare the undisclosed word equivalent of fecal matter, *&(#, out of me. in spite of having, it scares the UWE of FM to take a year with no real income let alone corporate supplied medical insurance.Tesla has been very, very good to me. why I bought low and actually sold a good portion high, I don't know. i did. it helps. i am not a stereotypical free spirited artist, fiscal risk is very difficult for me. the thought of being sixty or so as my lips mime, "would you like fries with that?" undoes me. yet i know i need to spend the time setting an altered course. i know my nature of monotasking; therefore, this span, however long, is needed to adjust and risk some new ventures, some dreamed of transformations. i certainly don't want to get to be a grandgirl and have not risked trying. so this is a year of facilitating some dreams that have been tickling the back of my tongue for some time (2006). i straddle the fence between utter fear paralysis (almost purely financial) and a full out run for it. 

the hole. i've stepped in it. found it today. felt it yesterday, the day before. the hole is that i wont run. that i'll just stand spinning my mind with not a single outward reality based move. i do move, what if it is not enough? what if i make it not enough? below that fiscal fear perhaps is an even more real fear. what if I I I I don't make it enough?! implode -- self sabotage. common to me. common to most in our own secret sophisticated manner that, frankly, is quite transparent. i am afraid. though i move, i am in the hole. it is not unexpected. the fiscal fear clearly indicated its coming. i will shake. i mean really there is ground in the bottom of the hole as well to use as leverage. 

day 3 | plastic + paper down; ready to haul tubes now that the bed magnet has released.

Mmmmm, alarm goes off with the light leaking round the walled curtain crevasses. I jump from the bed, grab the rumbling device from its charge, putting an end to its rhythmic aural harpy reminder that I cognitively premeditated this getting up. Flopping back with an added slithering I become undercover again with said device now wedged under my pillow to muffle its upcoming re-reminder. Bad Kathy, unproductive, grrrr, murmurs the edge of my thoughts. GET UP. This is not art camp, girl friend. This mental morning talking to does me less than good, gentle silence perhaps a better turn.

Each morning, all of three, I've rolled a little later from the warmth of scantily covered the twin. Admittedly the thrum of drizzle on the roof's top is lulling and most artists clearly do not ramble out this early based on the unpeopled streets and studios. I mean it is 5 am. But hey this isn't art camp, this is a key transitional space in which to develop a new routine for myself.

The plan. Up with the sun, which happens to be about 5, develop a write/walk regimen, communal meals, studio, read, studio, write, listen, be present with whom ever I am with even when only with myself, then return to down with the dark and a reflopping back and slithering to be undercover each eve.

Process begun.

Will I be able to get it out of the building upon completion? Grrrr. The light weight frame was a snug fit maneuvering it up the stairwell with its midway right angle and secondary angle into the hallway. Ha, plus navigating three standard door framed thresholds. Knowing my usual self, the tubularly framed structure will be a joke to get out. Think skid marks down the hallway and ceiling. 

But my plastic [no trace left behind - Dexterish] is laid and I am ready to get off my duff and haul up the tubes tubes.

Tube on! Move Kathy.

day 2 | bite sized

Disassembled, added cross beams, a few more to add, to whittle pieces down to small. Small meaning transportable, bahahaaaa, but doesn't really mean small since they are still eight feet in height and about four feet in width. But much more doable. And NO, I hope, they will not look like a couple of na-nee na-nee boo-boo tongue out.

A few bolts and a couple of cross beams and sewing begins tomorrow :0

Finding ground in Vermont (June Residency)

Putting my feet down for the month of June and a smidge of July as part of a fellowship at the Vermont Studio Center. As is my practice, I will write my way through as I find ground in this majorly transitional period.

My Vermont blog is here www.KathrynKelleyVSC.blogspot.com 

 I have arrived and begun.

day 2 | still finding my ground

A tad discombobulated, as I am still coming off 3 1/2 half years (plus a fourth year prior but that one is a blur) of push and shove mostly in silence interspersed with blurts...I loved every moment of finding and developing new ways to operate a contemporary studio course in the best interest of 30 to 50 studio mates to be guided and explore (bonus 60 to 96 for the contemporary art history and practice lecture).



Develop I did -- systems of studio management through collaborative teams used to flesh out work during ideation and early fabrication, guided critiques that allowed vibrant dialogue, banter, and such sans the interruption of authority because they were peer operated, exploration of mediums, self reflections and pushing creative and work processes. I developed and implemented a ton silently and quietly as is my nature...ha except with my students. But outside of the blurts when I was unduly poked, it was a behind the scenes endeavor. It was excellent but exhausting...how do you give constructive critical feedback in three courses (two studios and one lecture per semester) ranging in size from 30 to 50 each? You just do. It is foundational. A grade does not suffice...a grade is actually somewhat irrelevant, what matters is feedback on what is working and why, what is not working and why...where are the disconnect between intent and reception...what cues enhance, which detract and WHY? 

It was a great program and run. I am done with that for now. Now is the time to regroup and follow a new direction...teaching/mentoring wont every be far away for it is how I am hardwired. VSC is perfect to begin a major transition, not just a little change, but big ones. Where will I go? What will I do? Tug. Mostly, what will I do? To go just to go, isn't an interest. This month will be finding ground. 

Discombobulated but fidgeting about with a new understructure material that is cheap, cheap, cheap.

oops! Too BIG, though in theory it is modular! Yup.

Such a lovely space to find ground.

day 1 | arrival

Wanna back track and unpack my five day passage to this space, but my mind has already moved forward and as is my habit, much get swallowed in the wake of this moment. My norm is that a huge portion of my history submerges in the wake of time. Still bobbing in the waters of my mind behind me as I adjust to this new space is my time deinstalling Mark Schatz's exhibition in Cleveland, three hours with the Gladding clan in Lexington, an evening with the Stirling newly weds in Oak Ridge, riding a ferry across Lake Champlaign, stopping behind a line of cars on the hwy to allowing an alligator turtle to cross, being diverted by my smartphone map off Ethan Allen Pkwy onto Nursery road, a one lane dirt road winding through the heart of....a nursery...for half a mile, and then popping back out on to Ethan Allen Pkwy, stopping for lunch at the Bearded Frog Grill, driving the two lane windy back roads (the only roads) through the Adirondack's and finally arriving at the Vermont Studio Center (VSC). Lovely. Ending the day with a meal with all the June resident artists, staff, and founders. Gazing across the hall seeing the most beautiful older woman relaxed with non-manic sparkle in her entire demeanor, a founder, and feeling like this is just where I should be at this moment.

Cleveland: Mark Schatz's work

Discovery of electrical conduit as an understructure

Lexington: Gladding Clan

The Route

The final leg to Johnson, Vermont

Arrival Johnson, Vermont: Schulz sculpture studio at the VSC

pristine studio. hmmmm. 

the shop

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Love After Love
by Mary Oliver

The time will come 
when, with elation, 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror, 
and each will smile at the other's welcome
and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was your self. 
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 
all your life, whom you have ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life. 

Derek Walcott, Collected Poems 1948-1984, New York, Farrar Straus Giroux, 1986.

missing my black shadow beast

slim to ...

"Today, see if you can do the opposite of your ordinary personality pattern. Give up trying to avoid conflict and see what happens." enneagram num nine thought of the day

materiality

materials I have played with that I would like to explore merging/combing--tar, plaster, rubber, domestic thresholds (doors/windows and parts), mattress quilting, found metal and LANGUAGE. ha, all of which are a bit heavy or loaded.

other skills sets I have that could be incorporated but that I don't feel strong compulsion for -- 2d animation, video, photography, interactive media...so they are in my tool box. 

think. think. think. 

I love my weeds

gone for a week and bam, i reap what i did not sow! i find this to actually be the norm. much in life is a reaping of what has not been sown in our lifetime or as an extension of our own actions--either pro or con. to think we truly reap what we sow is crap. every day for my entire adult life i have reaped both pro and con from things i did not sow. do i play a role, can i have influence, absolutely. much in life is not earned or deserved. each stands on the shoulders of what came before. to believe that one is truly autonomous is just arrogance.

not that I actually spend time indoors

but I've moved my grown up furniture from storage a plopped it down in the hermitage. a little large for the space.

pretty much yup

All our life, so far as it has form, is but a mass of habits. -- William James, 1892

diggidy dogineering

toady from Pan's labyrinth, wonderland or Chinese take out. dopty I know I was late today, but....

Not once did I bore an art historian in grad school in spite of my failure to comply with typical standards! Revisiting old writings and laughing as my narrative stands still. What was I thinking? Bahahaa.

Essay excerpt written by Kathryn Kelley, 2007. Essay "like a dog gets excited about going for a walk on a leash" on Post Modern art for Dana Padgett was written in response to several questions Dana posed to the group.

Excerpt [full pdf]

On the heels of Modernism, I fall into a void where there is no individuality, no unique private world, no authorship or originality. I find myself not in utopia but dystopia. There is no space; there is no silence. All inventions have been invented and recombination replaces creation. I fight the void. Unable to focus on my present, I become incapable of representing my current experience except through things that already exist. I dredge the archives seeking new meaning through new combinations. A rapid rhythm of change accelerates as I move through the limited number of combinations. Empty space is filled up. I consume all. Time becomes fragmented. I become isolated, disconnected and discontinuous. Signifiers fail to link into coherent wholes. My mimicries of other styles and mannerisms are hollow. I pile up the appropriated fragments ceaselessly and empty them of their significance. The promise of new meaning evades me. The narrative stands still. My reality becomes that which is defined by media. Life is subordinate to the laws of the market. High and low culture merge. I sense loss. I drink Diet Coke “like a dog gets excited about going for a walk ON A LEASH.” 1 I define myself not by what I am but by what I am not. Who am I? I am Post modern...part I: SIGNIFIERS FAIL TO LINK INTO COHERENT WHOLES [Salle, Polke]...MY REALITY BECOMES THAT WHICH IS DEFINED BY MEDIA.  I CONSUME ALL [Sherman, Bickerton, Koons]...I DREDGE THE ARCHIVES SEEKING NEW MEANING THROUGH NEW COMBINATIONS [Stockholder, Calame, Appelbaum].

admittedly these are older and surely need refined but read more anyway [pdf]

Not once did I ever bore an art historian in grad school in spite of my failure to comply with MLA standards! Revisiting old writings and laughing at Greenberg's great Pea-ness. what was I thinking? Bahahaa.

I contemplate developing time to start writing about art again. I need to direct my writing more purposefully. Why? Besides because I need it for myself my writing is highly accessible, funny, and educated. I am not always funny, but I always take a stand, and that is funny cause frankly it is just art. Ha!

excerpt from The Formal | Cunt Positive | Bad Painting essays by Kathryn Kelley, 2007. Written in response to three questions proposed by Dana Padgett on Greenberg, Feminism, and Bad Painting in an Art History Post Modern course.

Clement Greenberg’s views on Modern art can be summed up in his eating habits. Imagine the round white disc of the dinner plate sitting in front of Greenberg— gravyless mashed potatoes neatly stacked to the left, tightly corralled green peas on the right, low and central on the plate a bland pork chop (oops, not pork) filet of fish. Most assuredly, Greenberg carefully compartmentalized this meal, breaking it down into the most elemental groupings, never allowing his food to become co-mingled or touch. Each item would remain independent of the others; each basking in its own uniqueness and being most palatable in its pure form. For instance, a pea would lose value if it became embedded in the potatoes or mixed with the fish. The pea should be valued for its innate structure of being a pea. This formal structure was to be fully explored—the surface, the shape, and the properties of its pigment. The pea should justify itself; render itself pure by making explicit that which was irreducible about it. The pea should avoid anything that called up associations with potatoes or fish. Then Greenberg, with great authority, could speak and write to the power of the pea. He would stand tall and firm and promote his formal view of the modern pea. The pea would justify the pea in the same way that logic established logic or paint, the painting. All other foods would fall by the way side and he would proudly tout this pea-ness. It would simply be the pea-ness for pea-ness’ sake. Simply substituting the pea for painting reveals truths and fallacies in Greenberg’s theories of Modern Art. As far as I am concerned the story of the pea sums it up, but, since you need to know that I know what you expect me to know, I shall set silliness aside and connect some of the peas...read the rest [pdf]