(note: jump to bottom of post, below photos, to read about once missing/now replaced photos…the saga continues with a new post, all published originally on GT )
I recently received a packet in the mail, of promotional materials for an exhibition at Richland Community College , for a solo show by a nineteen year-old named Eric Trich . A little non-profit venue with a who-cares show, right? I would never normally say anything about it unless I could be a booster. Who wants to spoil the party? I haven’t even seen the show, and I won’t. So what could I possibly have to report?
I guess I just wanted to reflect a bit on the politics of presentation – the presentation in this case being rather lavish. Included were an 18” x 24” poster, a handsome double-sided card-stock folding essay with list of works, in addition to the obligatory post-card – which (not to be overshadowed) is oversized.
God, where to start. First, who wastes this much paper anymore? Some significant commercial galleries in LA and NYC, who used to create mailable posters for shows by artists who actually deserve them, have lately stopped even sending postcards in favor of email. I’ve asked to be taken off most snail-mail lists, because I’d just rather get the email, and save a tree. This kind of cornucopia sets up certain expectations – none of which appear to be met.
The art, as depicted here, is nothing to write home (or I suppose, blog) about. But hey, the kid is 19, and as the materials state, only a second year student at the Art Institute of Dallas , one of those franchise McArt schools advertised during morning court TV shows. You’ve got to show somewhere, and get some gigs under your belt. The work looks like pretty typical art student fair. Save the cheesy iPod references, it could have been made anytime in the last 30 years. Take the card image. 
On a black background, only passably drawn in red and white, is a bearded man, seemingly flayed, copped most likely from an ‘anatomy for artists’ textbook. His muscles are relabeled in a loopy, youthful scrawl with words like “pain”, “lust”, “fall”, compassion”, “wisdom”, “ache.” These vertically roughly correspond with chakra areas – someone has an Alex Grey poster and a yoga book in his bedroom at the parent’s house.
Then there is the following, cringe-worthy text written underneath the figure: “Not Christian or Jew, not Hindu or Buddhist, Sufi or Zen. Not any religion or cultural system. I am not from the East or the West, not of the ocean or up from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not composed of elements at all. I do not exist.”
Well, as the Sufis and Rabbis and Zen masters extol, you have to be somebody before you get to work on being nobody. The work’s sentiment is just fine, if a bit pretentious, clumsily stating something that might be a truth coming out of the right mouth, or transmitted in a more compelling manner. It just seems a bit ironic that the show title, taken from this work, is “I Do Not Exist,” and yet I have never seen a more assertive, or premature, push of an artist’s heroic precociousness. Maybe the title is part of Trich’s own unconcious reaction to be singled out too early.
Other pieces pictured include a silhouetted pope dancing with an iPod (“iPope” it says, in a pun worthy of recent SNL) and a half-way interesting Picasso homage that unconsciously resembles Hockney, ruined with more juvenile text. Then there’s the poster, of the artist’s bare torso, unsmiling youthful visage, and tribal-tattooed shoulders – half in positive, half negative. He both exists and doesn’t exist, get it?
Look, there are important personal developmental issues going on here, many of which I recognize all too well, and I in no way mean to belittle them. The artist himself shouldn’t be taken too much to task, but he’s being set up with all this gear. It frames the art with big neon lights saying “Wow! Look! A phenomenon! Real good art here!” The work’s not great, but it’s passable for a second year art student, which after all is all he really is. As my mentor in college liked to say, try not to worry about what you make before you’re 30 – it will most likely seem like crap later. Much less before 20. In a persistant ancient myth, the Grimm brothers’ version of which is called Iron John, there is good reason why the hero hides his soul-signifying golden hair until he has actually achieved something.
It’s the organizers of this show, of which there appear peculiar numbers of layers, that are doing this young artist the worst disservice. They have torn a protective, mundane obscurity from him well-before he has actually clarified and refined his inquiry, and complicated his coming to terms with an egoic identity no less real just because at this point he’s trying to deny its existence. Not to say this is instant fame and fortune – Gagosian this ain’t, nor would it be. But it would have served Trich well to have to actually make something worth showing before he was handed a solo show.
These guilty promoters, with hazy intentions, include Gerald Peters Gallery , who apparently have picked this kid up (to join their cast of thousands – check their artist list) and helped sponsor this show (most of the pieces are “shown courtesy of” GP.) We’ve all heard or encountered the stories about New York galleries looking beyond the grad school hunting grounds of the 90’s to undergrads during these latter boom times, trying to beat the competition and sew up the up-and-comers. This is taking it to a whole other, much weirder, level. While I have enjoyed some of Peters’ shows of older heavy hitters (a James Surls show in 2005 comes to mind,) many of their more “contemporary” choices are, quite simply, heinous – even when the artists are out of puberty. Richland has put on some decent shows on the past. I have no idea what had them facilitate this one. The long list of thanked sponsors bespeaks either Trich’s commerical savvy (in which case he should aim for an MBA), or Peters ability and willingness to sell pretty much anything to anyone, anytime.
It all shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what art does, and what it doesn’t do; what it is and isn’t about. But it shows an equally clunky comprehension of media and pop culture, aspects of which someone seems to want to mimick. This is all ripe territory. Opportunities are missed here. “Artist emulates pseudo-spiritual testosterone rock hero from 90′s” – I would keep that poster, if it were self-aware. Banks Violette could rock that shit.
Also standing accused – Randall Garrett , the purported curator. In his essay for the show, from slim ingredients, Garrett whips up a frothy biography for a kid who hasn’t done much, and to boot, claims to not exist. After a weighty preamble about the life and ideas of Gautama Buddha and their prescience to our current moment, in the capper for me, he writes: “Let’s rewind to the spring of 2006…Like most kids, Eric liked to hang out with friends, listening to Tool, Rage Against the Machine, and other cool bands on his stereo. He worked in a grocery store, had a girlfriend, and [played football]…he really liked to paint.” It gushes on, and on, and on, about the subsequent wonder years (that include a trip to NEW YORK!!!) full of spectacular insights into science, art (influences include Caravaggio and Bernini), history, religion, and philosophy – or rather, I’m sorry, make that wonder year.
Are you kidding me? Am I just having a bad dream? I half expect to look out the window and see a locust plague, and blood rain. Call this Confirmation of the Apocalypse #436. Thankfully our big blue recycling bin showed up this very week, so at least this stuff can be reincarnated at some later date. Identity, real or nonexistent, is happily always simply in flux.
bottom 2 photos courtesy of Randall Garrett.
other photos: Titus O’Brien
post script: Feb. 25, 2008
holy mother, you never know what kind of nut job you’re going to scare out of the bushes.
Some people in town called me last week to say that “Dallas Artist Siros”, Eric Trich’s art guru or whatever, was out for my blood. He was calling around demanding my address, my phone number, my email, whatever (he was refused). I imagine him saying “Siros wants the sateesfaction. I, Siros, weel eat his heart for the breakfast!” Why do I picture him with a big Greek mustache and crazy, dark Arshile Gorky eyeballs? No offense meant to Greeks or Armenians. I freakin love Arshile Gorky, and Greece – I obviously have to get more pc around here. In fact, I must say that I really feel this sort of warm humorous affection for the Zorba-esque Siros in my mind.
First thought hearing he was after me was, stand in line brother. Second thought was, isn’t this a kind of belated response? My post was months ago. Third, why would he bother? Forth, this is hilarious. Then I forgot about it.
Well, the laughs keep coming. Siros called one of these folks again, saying that they will receive a letter soon from his lawyers. What? They have no real connection with me, short of friendship, and certainly not to my blog. Why he wouldn’t just contact Rainey, or me through my own website, is beyond me…maybe because it’s kind of crazy. But anyway, they got the letter a couple days later, certified, with lots and lots of red “CONFIDENTIAL” stamps all over it (like James Bond!), along with one for my wife. CC’d on the two pager, and assumed to be fellow recipients, are (drum roll please) the dean of UTA, the chair of my dept at UTA, the editor of the Star-Telegram, Randall Garrett, Ashley Casson of Gerald Peters, the Art Inst. of Dallas, the “Fort Worth Modern” (sic), my wife, Road Agent gallery, and weirdest of all, Tim Blum and Jeff Poe, my old bosses in LA, who fired me over four years ago (suffice to say it was the best thing for everyone. I still love ‘em. Thanks for everything guys, if you happen to read this wondering what the hell is going on with that letter.) No Glasstire. No me. Still, a small fortune in postal costs.
Ok, so the obvious intent is slander, and some old school indignant saber rattling. He said as much in his calls. He’s mad at all the horrible things I’ve done to Dallas (“This isn’t about Eric” he said. Uh, ok.) He wanted to really tell me off, I guess, about…well, no one really knows. He was a bit all over the place. He didn’t mention copyright stuff, until the letter. But anyway, I got my hands on one of ‘em, and it’s got this weird, bad fake letterhead, and is written in bad fake legal-ese. “It has come to the attention of SGA Enterprises (New York, Los Angeles, Dallas) and London-Tokyo Investors Group that …a certain Titus O’Brien” is using copyrighted materials, etc, contacting our lawyers, yadda yadda. “We are surprised that a person of Mr. O’Brien’s reputation and education (not to mention a teacher at the university of Texas Arlington) would use these images for his own benefit.” Etc. No address on the letterhead, but there is one on the envelope. It’s the same as the one listed for “The Studio” on the 9×12 manila envelope that enclosed the letter envelope (I guess extra envelopes added to the fear factor), that sits in a residential neighborhood in Uptown Dallas. Smells like Siros Spirit. I don’t remember copyright credits to SGA or whoever on the cards, but as I said, those things hit the recycling bin months ago. If you’ve got one, check for me, would ya?
This is all referring to the pictures I took of the pile of, uh,”promotional materials” that inspired this post. I took them down briefly while checking on things. It turns out we’re good, under a nifty little concept called “fair use”. Since my piece is fundamentally a critique of said materials, and the photos are my own.
Now I’m checking to see if this counts as libel/slander/harassment, since the obvious intent of the letter is to demote my rep with my bosses and colleagues, possibly scuttling my means of livelihood – not even trying to contact Glasstire at all, while writing everyone you can find that I’m associated with, after harassing phone calls where no mention is made of copyright issues to random innocent parties, is certainly leaving oneself open to certain allegations.
The remaining pics were sent to me by Randall Garrett. If you need more pics go the kid’s website (www.erictrich.com). Whoops – they’re down now – you’ll only find a letter from one KR Shook, aka Siros? on that same letterhead. Check it out. Trich is an “astounding…prodigy.” It says so right there. Who needs pictures? And I’d be curious to explore the collections list in that letter…
And one last thing: I just noticed that the writing on the handwritten envelope the missive arrived in, is identical in all it’s loopy irregularities to the scrawl in Trich’s own paintings…
Hey, if I turn up missing, will you guys promise to check Siros’ basement, and maybe under Eric Trich’s bed, first thing?
It looked like the crap the mindless tool-heads in the sculpture department of my alma mater would throw together from junk pulled out of the scrap pile out back. “Hey, we got boom trucks, torches, welders, fluorescent spray paint, and a crit in 48 hours. Let’s buy a case of Milwaukee’s Best, smoke a bowl, and rock! Put in that Zeppelin tape…”
I laughed to watch a tiny cute nerdy chinless Asian kid belt out “Shoplifters of the World,” while next door a painfully uncomfortable guy twitches his way through it. Something shifted when “There’s a Light that Never Goes Out” came on, launching three duets – two young Asian hipsters all in black, some female friends having a ball, and another pair of women, one with an infant, all of whom dance, groove and happily mumble their way through the song. I simply, unexpectedly, teared up. Then I laughed. And I sat down and cried a little more. This pattern was repeated for another 15 minutes, as I walked back and forth between the screens. What the hell was it that got to me?
On the next song, you shift from a pimply nerd on one screen to an incredibly sexy and dangerously self-possessed blond woman who looks ready for a movie contract already. She showed up ready to own it.
Collaged newspaper’s subtly different rates of yellowing are utilized for distinct tones against each other. Distant past collides with current radio information, ingested and spat out in process. An old telegraph gets pinned next to an email. A photograph of a concert seen last week is framed next to a painting from 30 years ago. The way time moves back, forward, stops and starts, flows and eddies, is life, and the heart of this work. Time is its playful concern. So is loss, and forgetting; but no more so than rediscovery and remembering. Like the 50’s style record player Stephen bought at Target recently, everything’s lost, and everything’s found – casually, passionately, curiously, right now.
