I’m in a group show at the Juan Ruiz Gallery which opens on Thursday, July 24, 2014, from 6:30 to 9 PM.
The show is titled Short Story, and was curated by Ruben Torres-Llorca. Participating artists are:
Esteban Blanco
Pip Brant
Carol K. Brown
Randy Burman
Liliam Dominguez
Kathleen Hudspeth
Mary Larsen
Rogelio Lopez Marin
Rafael Lopez-Ramos
Ruben Torres-Llorca
Lucy de la Vega
I’m exhibiting three screenprints, each of which was created as a personal commentary about the condition of being an artist in Miami, Florida. They’re part of an ongoing body of work which is produced as the whim–or need–strikes me.
Stupid Lubbers, 2014.
Stupid Lubbers depicts the juvenile Eastern Lubber about a week after spawning as they swarm a hibiscus/monk’s cap which is more a plant I drew from memories than from actuality. I grew up with the Lubber swarmings being a commonplace springtime occurrance, and I’ve re-stated the scene as a contemporary retelling of the Ant and the Grasshopper fable. In Stupid Lubbers there are no longer any ants.
Stupid Lubbers is also created as a pattern-repeat image-when the entire edition is adjacent, the works become a (nearly) seamless pattern–their own swarm.
Magic City Snake Oil, K. Hudspeth, 2013
Magic City Snake Oil (for display only), is an arch comment on selling artwork versus showing artwork. It also has some implied critique of the practice of editioning commercial products, in that I’ve put the edition number of the print on the bottle depicted itself. Artificial production limitations–editions–are just commercial selling strategies to control ‘value’.
My Miami, 2012; Screenprint, Edition of 15, 15″ x 11″
My Miami depicts the artist trudging through sawgrass–have you tried that? It really hurts! They don’t call it sawgrass for nothing!–near a stark overpass. The text reads:
Trudging through sawgrass towards the glittering city of condos as people in nice cars speed by on the elevated roadway.
The artworld is one that can be strange for an artist to exist within. There are so many parties and galas–glamor and the visible trappings of wealth and capital everywhere, yet attempting to earn a living as an artist, and not from any other job, is something that keeps one under or close to the poverty line. It can be disturbing, moving from one to the other, the way one has to, for work. It’s a hell of a commute!
The world that artists live in, not visit, is the wet, cutting slog. At least we can make jokes about it with our peers.