ARTISTS' ESTATES ON THE BRINK
#123. Listed Artists, Lab Rats, and Landfills
In a post-apocalyptic future, mankind had just survived a destructive global war, a series of deadly plagues, and centuries of reconstruction. Archaeologists attempt to reconstruct the past, by exploring a chain of wooded islands in Secaucus Bay. Cylindrical soil samples drawn from sylvan prominences lead to a startling discovery. Something strange captures their attention. They notice a thick, brightly colored layer of synthetic material, at a level corresponding to the second quarter of the 21st century. Digs at other historic dumpsites around the world yield similar findings. Chemical analysis of the colorful mass detects heavy metals, resinous residue, desiccated plastics, and traces of botanical fiber. What could explain the concentration of similar materials at a specific moment in time? Archaeologists compare this colorful sediment to strata from volcanic eruptions, or fallout from the asteroid-strike that wiped out the dinosaurs. Researchers finally determined the materials recovered were historic artists’ materials. The artworks had long since deteriorated, but traces of pigment and canvas remained. The mystery was not how so much art came to be in landfills, but why it was created in the first place.
One older artist told me their plan is to leave their art to their kids, none of whom has the least interest in art. An art professor with dusty laurels, limited prospects, and no long-range playbook is reported to spend tens of thousands each year on climate-controlled art storage. A prospective client solicited help from me in donating his works to museums. Most museums today will only acquire artworks that serve their mission goals. I went on to explain that an additional monetary subvention might be expected. The process could be time consuming, and I would have to be paid. The client pitched a harebrained scheme in which I assumed ownership of his artwork, donated it to museums, and received tax deductions in lieu of pay. I declined the silly offer and wished him good luck. Another artist was invited by a museum to donate one his pieces to its permanent collection.
“They should buy it,” he protested. “Why should I give it away?”
I explained that if the museum was not asking for money to accompany the gift, he should regard it as a sale. I have no idea what became of the piece.
In yet another instance, the curator of a major museum had consented to recommend a piece from an artist’s estate to the acquisitions committee. I explained to the clients that such matters advance at a majestic pace, but they chose not to be patient. When they tried to circumvent the process, the curator withdrew his support. Some blame for such blunders must fall to artists who neglected to inform spouses and offspring about their professional activities, leaving their inheritors with chaotic accumulations of artworks, objects and papers, and no plan for its management.
In one plausible scenario, an artist’s heirs warehouse these heirlooms at great expense. Decades pass. Nothing happens. Hemorrhaging money, the heirs finally make the painful decision to disperse it. After family and friends cherry-pick keepsakes, the rest disappears into the waste stream. Years later, one of these painting surfaces at a rural auction. Another comes to light many years later, hanging on a hurricane fence behind a roadside vendor. “Listed artist” is penciled onto a paper tag that dangles from a battered frame, as it flutters in the wake of passing cars. The artist’s name rings a bell, but nobody remembers why.
Kathie and used to enjoy stalking rare finds in antique shops before eBay and 1st Dibs blew a hole in that market. A road-worn RV was parked in a field at a Mid-Hudson flea market. Under its awning sat a pair of vagabond tatterdemalions peddling vintage kitchen blenders, rusty hand tools, old postcards, and a lava lamp. Leaning against one the rickety card tables was a virtuosic pastel of a beautiful slumbering nude. Its lower edge rested in deep dewy grass, while the rest was bathed in bright sunlight. I recognized it at once as by Philadelphia painter Neil Kosh (1926-2010). The carved wooden frame, glazing, and linen mat was worth more than asking price. When I first encountered Kosh in the early 1970s, his work was regarded as outmoded compared to the likes of Alex Katz, Alfred Leslie, or Philip Pearlstein. I cautioned the rustic vendors about leaving the piece in direct sunlight, calling their attention to large droplets of water forming behind the glass. The clueless gobshites laughed and replied, “Listed artist. Listed artist.”
I once found a large painting by another “listed” artist in the back room of a Westchester County bric-a-brac shop. The piece had debuted in an exhibition at The New Museum of Contemporary Art in New York. I rescued the painting for a fraction of its original price, and let the artist know it was now in good hands. He remarked that he couldn't care less. It belonged to the past. Such cavalier indifference makes sense, in a way. Medical researchers don’t keep all their dead lab rats, so why should artists?
Exposure to art has been shown to improve cognitive skills, mental health, and a sense of well-being. I have lately been entertaining the notion of a Johnny Appleseed-inspired road-trip, in a van full of art. Wherever I stop for food, fuel, or an overnight stay, I would leave a painting or drawing. Imagine Terry Allen’s “Truckload of Art” with a happy ending. The 1979 ballad describes the fiery wreck of a Cab-over Peterbilt 18-wheeler, somewhere in Flyover Country. What if Terry Allen’s teamster had not crashed and burned, but scattered his cargo of blue-chip art throughout the land, as a boon to public salubrity?
True story. A prominent American painter decided one day to pare down his inventory. The best paintings were selected for a retrospective at his Manhattan gallery. Secondary works were kept in reserve. Everything else would be discarded. The local trucker was hired to make a landfill run but had second thoughts when he saw the artworks. He kept a few paintings for himself, then distributed the remainder throughout a nearby city. Some paintings were left on lawns and porches. Others he leaned against trees. The artist’s dealer went berserk when one of these paintings later sold for pennies on the dollar at a rural auction. The trucker confessed. All was forgiven, one hopes. I had a similar experience at the height of the pandemic. Before moving out of my Rockland County studio, I culled a hundred paintings from the racks and hired a mover. Most of this work consisted of paintings rolled around Sonotubes, student work, water-damaged works on paper, and whatever I deemed inferior. Once the truck was loaded, I handed the driver a check. “Where’s all this going?” he asked me. “I don’t care,” said I, breathing a sigh of relief as the truck pulled away.
—James Lancel McElhinney
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