I never know where to place these art pieces in my booth. Sometimes I place them near the front entrance, while other days I hide them behind the couch, facing away from the crowd, cached away like the artists who created them.
This particular collection of art was never meant to be seen, much less scrutinized. And some days I want to protect their innocence. While on other days, like today, I want to impose their authenticity and glue them onto windshields and drape them over stoplights and insert them underneath every phone glass. Either way, their location in my booth is a symptom of my mercurial moods.
The flea market setting (amongst all the tents of barter and exchange) doesn’t help the indecision. There’s too much noise vying for influence. So sometimes, in an effort to see them with a sober mind, I throw them into the back of my flying 1991 Ford Ranger and take off to Cleveland, Ohio—a place where I trust dispositions.
***screeching tire noises***
Nobody projects onto Cleveland, Ohio. Nobody dreams about walking and getting lost in its streets, or imagines themselves blasting down the boulevard with their arms waving out of a sunroof. If I see something in Cleveland (a statue, a broad walkway, a seedy-looking bar), I know it exists not to appease or profit off of my grandeur ideas of Cleveland but because Cleveland necessitates it (through need or desire).
When there, I take the paintings and drawings out and I lay them against the brick. And there, in a setting void of performance, I absorb the collection of art with clarity. I see the brush strokes and slashes of ink and enjoy knowing that the force behind the movements is not for my judgement or jealousy or appreciation, but for that specific art piece’s craving for such movements.
This art, much like Cleveland, exists for itself.
In attics, in basements, under candlelight, and in secret, these various artists created these works without ever having the intent of sharing them. They were made solely for the need to create—free from the restrictions of art classes and critiques and far far from performace.
In the world they rejected, they are called outsider artists. In my giddy little world, I call them Cleveland Authentic. Here they are. I hope you enjoy their company and their art (they certainly don’t appreciate yours):
Séraphine Louis (1862-1942)
Louis, pictured above, was a house cleaner who painted in secret under candlelight beneath a France bustling with industry, fashion, and war. She was discovered when a German art collector visited his neighbor’s house and discovered a painting of apples and was shocked to learn the painter was his very own house cleaner, Louis.
Madge Gill (1882-1961)
Madge Gill’s parents isolated her from the rest of the world, so she created her own. In her attic, she scribbled thousands of drawings and sketches. She credits her inspiration to her spirit guide, Myrninerest. Even after her art was discovered, and people offered to show her work in renowned galleries, Gill refused, claiming the art belonged to Myrinerest.
Bill Traylor (1853-1949)
William (Bill) Traylor was a self-taught artist. Born a slave, Bill lived through the Civil War, Jim Crow laws, the Reconstruction, and later became a prominent figure of the budding urban African American culture in the South. While living on the streets of Montgomery, Alabama, he and his art were discovered at his ripe age of 75.
Martín Ramírez (1895-1963)
Martín came to the United States from Mexico to work on the railroad and to send money back to his wife and young children. After a handful of years of work, he ended up homeless, battling mental issues, including schizophrenia. He was later institutionalized, where he remained for his life and where he created his surreal drawings.
Voila. Four Cleveland Authentic artists. Four artists who probably never said thank you without meaning it. Four artists who combated the challenge of their lives with expression.
And as an extra little gift, here is this song by the Texan musician named Jandek, who ducked the spotlight that chased after him and only sent his albums by mail order.
Thanks Ily H.A.G.S.