I have placed a sign up in the window of Empathinc.
/ Gallery / Studio that reads: “We may close, but we never
doze.” OK, there is no sign that says that, because that
would be incredibly lame. But I am an artist, so conceivably I
could make a sign like that if so inclined. That I have not is
more testimony to my capricious and (medicated) predisposition
to procrastination than to any display of prudence. Editing is
not my strong point.
The three years that Empathinc. has maintained a
physical presence (in Charlotte, NC) have been imbued with many
meaningful human exchanges. Empathy in corporate – a way
of being that recognizes a position within wholeness even when
not feeling particularly whole. Tell me about it. Stud.
Dallas philanthropist Robert K. Hoffman (one of
three founders of the National Lampoon magazine) said prior
to his recent death, “I now realize the only effective method
to travel and connect across time and space is art.” I often
struggle with any usage of the word only, but standing in a space
that houses both a labyrinth (perhaps the oldest known image made
by humankind), and crystalline contemporary Japanese painting
- well, I must grab onto the very middle of this historical thread.
I feel the tension; sense the vibrating thrum of linkage.
Many fascinating things occurred when visitors to
Empathinc. crossed the threshold in from the street. It was as
if there was a disconnect from one approach towards reality, to
another. Only recently, I have discovered a remarkable curiosity
expressed regarding the process of art making. See, one day I
was standing in the supermarket staring at the bread, checking
sodium levels and the like. And I realized that the bountiful
shelves where chockablock full of perfect loaves in perfect wrappers.
I had no idea whose hands had kneaded the dough (wait, the answer
probably is no hands at all, but that causes the homey essence
of this metaphor to evaporate, so bear with me). I did not who
grew the wheat or where it was grown. I had no concept of how
the calcium sulfate or the sodium stearoyl lactylate were hatched,
or delivered, or whatever it is that makes them be. And I considered
that this was the nature of so much art in galleries and museums
and even homes: that the art had taken on a life that was separated
from most human involvement. We end up attempting to enter into
meaningful exchange with what is, for intents and purposes, loaves
of bread. Objects.
I am not even attempting to suggest that we quit
painting, or framing, or sculpting, or showing. Museums are incredible.
Museums help me purchase my daily bread. I’m soaking in
them now. But I know (and my ignorance is expanding at an alarming
rate) I know that bread on a shelf satisfies no physical hunger.
So open a storefront. Listen in dialogue instead of quietly dreading
tomorrow’s dental appointment. Operate in space beyond all
habits. Empathy in corporate. There are no doors to shut. No lights
to turn off. Only bread, and each loaf flies free amongst the
myriad stars.
