Gillis, Steven Benchere
in Wonderland (Digital Review Copy from Hawthorne Books & Literary
Arts)
Every now and then I get ahold of a book that makes the
reading experience just a little bit more special—more than the pleasure of
reading the story—it’s what I think about while I’m reading it and the churning
of thoughts after I’ve set it aside. When I started writing this—this, whatever
it is, my review in a sense, but not a review in another sense, my musing or my
study, my pondering. I done dragged out a trunk load of notions, harvested
quotes from the book and mined from art history by the bushel, and have spent
days cutting, pasting, rearranging, setting aside, and leaving out to finally
get this—this is what I want to say about Benchere
in Wonderland. This is my first reading
of a Steven Gillis novel, he’s been on my “to read” radar for quite a long
time, I’m so happy to have become acquainted (at last). It’s taken me longer to
write this than to read the book. Throughout
my journey, I bookmarked dozens of pages—if it were an actual paper copy, it
would be riddled with dog-ears at both top and bottom corners and yes, underlined
with notes in the margins. I read it on my laptop and read it on my phone of
all things! (I never thought I’d ever go to that tiny screen—so you see, it
made my brain itch enough that I had to read it wherever, whenever, with
whatever.) So, let me spell out my general sentiments, as if you haven’t
already guessed—I loved the book. (I will definitely want to acquire a hard
copy for my library so I can have the tactile experience of dog-earing it
properly.)
Let me tell you about my experience with Benchere in Wonderland—I wandered into
the Kalahari Desert, observed Benchere working on his sculpture, and indulged in
the complex theories having to do with “What
is art? And the apt proclamation, “Art
for art’s sake!” The core of Benchere
in Wonderland is ideas and ideals, art and the man, and the human nature
brew of shit happening, whether instigated or not, but sometimes it’s our
actions that start the landslide. With that said—while I read the book, I brought my art school baggage, art
historical knowledge, and my experiences as an artist for the excursion. As a
reader with this artsy background, I appreciated the emotive howls of Michael
Benchere when he felt set upon, misunderstood—irritated—or simply full of himself.
I am Benchere, fickle
and firm and quick to howl, I want, followed by, I will.
I will, I say, I will,
again. (From page 13, Prologue)
Benchere is very human (and he loves his dog, Jazz.) His
fumbling courtship with Marti in the beginning is sweet, just as his grieving
for her is emotionally palpable in ways that are relatable. He’s back to
fumbling when he’s faced with Deyna and feels the natural confusion of feelings,
loyalty to memory, and longing to fill the hole in his life—something he never
imagined, thus, his hesitation and reluctance is as expected for a man who
recently lost his wife. His memories of Marti blend with the present—with her, Benchere
went from an unknown sculptor fresh out of college to an unlikely, yet very
successful architect, then after his achievements, he quit to follow his
bliss—being a sculptor, which in turn garnered success because he is “Benchere”.
The public figure—a brand name—the art and the man who makes it—and then the
peanut gallery that sits on the sidelines with expectations and their opinions
about what it means—this. THIS. THIS!
What is “this”—what is art? (In my experience, everybody has
an opinion on this question—some are relatively strong opinions, not
necessarily agreed upon by all who are listening—they’re just that,
opinions—not the answer, right or wrong.) It’s always funny to me how everyone
seems to have their own idea about what art should be—and persist to shout each
other down about their point of view—abstract or realism, right or left, Coke
or Pepsi, literary fiction or commercial fiction, chocolate or peanut butter. The
artist’s intent and the viewer’s experience of the art is a crapshoot. Same
goes for books—I connected with this book in a personal level, which books do
for everyone who reads them, and so, like art, books can be read and
interpreted based on personal experience—revered by one, reviled by another.
Art for art’s sake!
It is what it is—it’s the artist getting in the studio to
dirty their hands making something out of nothing. The artist is compelled to
do this act of self-expression—not everyone is so “blessed”—a good many lament “I can’t draw a straight line to save my
life.” Well, shoot—neither can I, that’s why I use a ruler, even then I can
fuck it up if the ruler moves, but who cares? It never stopped me from drawing
a horse when I was seven years old—granted, it looked more like a dog, but
whatever, I made it—it was mine—it was beautiful.
Does art have to be about something—does it have to “make a
statement” for it to be acceptable or exceptional? Whistler said it with eloquent flair so
typical of him (which I happily found quoted on page 153 in the midst of an
intense discussion between Benchere and Deyna):
"Art should be
independent of all claptrap – should stand alone [...] and appeal to the
artistic sense of eye or ear, without confounding this with emotions entirely
foreign to it, as devotion, pity, love, patriotism and the like."
Benchere believes art
is meant to inspire the human soul, not issue dictates or dogma. “My art is no
roiled fist. I am not some poster maker. My sculptures aren’t done up as a
stomping boot or raised middle finger to be monopolized and propagandized for
any faction, right or left.” (P 34)
An artist makes art with the materials of choice—some plan
out their studio endeavors with set parameters in mind, while others wing it
for the joy of getting their hands dirty—they immerse themselves into the
meditation of creativity—the flow of pencil to paper, paint to canvas, hand to
clay, hammer to metal, flame to weld. It’s a beautiful state of mind to be in,
the struggle both frustrating and passionate, questions and epiphanies, or just
the general ramble of thoughts and knots of personal problems outside the
sacred realm of the studio, the things that make you grumble to yourself and
cause you look up and pause to ask, “What
do I want to have for dinner?” Answered with a shrug and “ah, fuck it,” and
then back to work. The natural stopping point happens with a sigh, the artist
steps away, it’s like waking from a dream—you’ve been gone a long while, time
slipped away because last you knew you ate breakfast, the coffee you brought
with you has gone cold, you’re starving because you missed lunch, and dinner is
late. That is a good day. Goodness knows being an artist isn’t easy—it’s quite
terrifying because there’s no money in it unless you’re very fortunate and slip
through the keyhole of circumstances that put you with the right people who
will support you—not just nurture your talent, but believe in you. Benchere is
one of the lucky ones, he’s achieved the artist’s dream of following one’s
bliss—for the moment, his is intending to construct a 300-foot sculpture in the
Kalahari Desert. (How fucking cool is that?)
Benchere and his marriage to Marti reminded me of the
numerous husband/wife creative duos of art history, and the notion of going to
a location to create a work of art reminded me most of all of Christo and
Jeanne-Claude. Once upon a time, I had the pleasure of experiencing The Gates. Like many people, I have
wrestled with the purpose of their work, and because they mystify so many
people with their desire to wrap or drape the landscape, buildings, bridges (or
whatever tickles their fancy) with fabric, they are probably one of our most
controversial contemporary artists. They create work of visually impressive
scale (and pay for it themselves without using public funds.) They insist that
their projects do not contain any deeper meaning than their “being there”.
Their purpose is simple—they want to create works of art for joy and beauty, to
create new ways of seeing familiar landscapes. The Gates on a sunny day in February was indeed very
beautiful—ideal, very whimsical.
"I am an artist,
and I have to have courage ... Do you know that I don't have any artworks
that exist? They all go away when they're finished. Only the preparatory
drawings and collages are left, giving my works an almost legendary character.
I think it takes much greater courage to create things to be gone than to
create things that will remain." – Christo
Sadly, Christo is now without Jeanne-Claude—yet he soldiers
on with plans for new projects. Throughout the process of making the sculpture,
Benchere thought of Marti, and keenly felt her presence (absence.) When he
climbed to the top of the sculpture to install Marti’s wind chime it was
incredibly touching.
Art is—if anything—very personal for the artist.
“It takes an inflated
sense of self to build such a thing.” (P. 34) Any self-respecting artist is
a bit of a narcissist—some of us don’t like to admit it because it’s frowned
upon to be selfish and self-centered, but it goes with the immersion thing that
happens in the studio. And therefore, Benchere howls.
The brief interludes with the characters, Rose and Stern, were
mysterious and yet, highly amusing. At times, I saw them as the infamous art
critics Hilton Kramer and Clement Greenberg sitting back, kibitzing over why
Benchere is creating a sculpture in the Kalahari Desert. Then I saw them as the
Muppet Show hecklers, Statler and Waldorf, musing aloud to one another from
their perch about the state of affairs unfolding in the growing community of
Benchere’s followers in the desert below them. This may not be the intention
for them, but this is my point of view—my experience of them.
It’s
only natural that Benchere’s intentions are suspect, he is a political person,
known for civil disobedience and all the water stirring dissention that goes
along with that sort of agitation—he has drawn attention to himself in this way
as well, which causes questions about his reason for being in the Kalahari
erecting a 300-foot sculpture. When it comes to his art—he becomes cagey and
sidesteps the questions that people put to him regarding what it means.
Everyone seems to have an idea about what it is he’s up to when he sets out to
build this 300-foot sculpture in the Kalahari Desert—some political statement
to incite the people to do—what? Something—but he says not. He’s building a
sculpture. Simple. You think? (Chuckle.) Unfortunately, being a public
personality doesn’t allow for anonymity—someone that big cannot fart and not
have someone wonder what he meant by that emancipation of gas. The technology
of our time makes news of events travel with instant persistence, so that
anyone who wants to know about what Benchere is doing and the consequences of
his sculpture can watch it unfold—almost like being there, the cast of
characters that build up around him is impressive and yet absurd. He refuses to
take responsibility for other people’s actions or the connection they’ve made
to him, his art, and his politics. As the project commences, the camp is a magnet
for followers of Benchere to congregate—some want to exploit while others want
to be part of the experience and they declare, “We have shown up solely because you are here.” (P. 118) As the
camp population continues to grow, human nature and it’s penchant to meddle,
muddle, and attempt to create organization in chaos is a disaster waiting to
happen as factions and factors make fractals less mind-boggling—it is a
distraction that Benchere was not counting on when he set out for Africa.
When
people in areas of political tension start building sculptures at
demonstrations and chant “Ben-chere,
Ben-chere!” as they run away—the police or military destroy these inspired
maquettes—so everyone watching says “Hmmmmmm….” Benchere throws up his hands
and says, “Art is open to
interpretation, but that interpretation is personal. People are free to
interpret my art any way they like. But people can’t use my art to assert their
own shit and pretend that their assertion comes from me. You can’t hoof-tie art
and drag it around in a gunnysack, yanking it out in order to tell people what
to think or not think.” (p. 149)
The
anthropologist, Deyna—the anomaly that pokes at Benchere—continually challenges
him during their discussions—
“Nothing occurs in a
vacuum,” Deyna says. “The moment you place something in the world, there is
consequence.” (p. 110)
“I’m only interested
in making my sculpture. What comes of it comes of it.” (P.110)
Then in making the comparison anthropological exploration to
art Deyna says “You’re searching as you
create, never completely sure what you’re going to find and yet knowing, if all
goes well, you’ll discover something amazing in your work.” (p. 111)
And then a few pages later:
“My personal politics
are just that. My beliefs are mine and my art is something different.”
(p.152)
“And what is that
thing?”
“This,” Benchere says
and slaps his chest then throws out his arms with such force as to surprise
himself.
(p. 154)
This.
The debate goes on—Benchere goes on from there.
What is art…
I found I could say things with color and shapes that I
couldn't say any other way - things I had no words for.—Georgia O’Keeffe
This.
6/17/2015 Laura J. W. Ryan
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