LOVE LETTERS: I will cover you with love when next I see you ...

This is a story about love. It evolved over myriad scenarios, and there also came a time when I would question whether or not to pursue it. The conflict was whether I could be real about love or not. The intervening events were useful in determining that I could indeed be real, because that was the most important thing of all.The above passage. This one, I saved, from an ordinary mass emailing following the purchase of a now-forgotten item I once shopped for. You know, how Google just “knows” what you really want out of life and establishes a secret trajectory that will get you there, whether you “know” it, or not. I rarely even acknowledge these unsolicited emailings, let alone ponder content for a series of months. But, this one, I did. It hit me directly in my marrow, and turned me right on. The above passage. The one that forced me to think consequentially about love — the physical expression of love — as a issue of confrontation. That’s how this began.

What claimed my attention was the obvious ardor of Flaubert’s language, coupled with an odd menacing tone that I was initially unable to flesh out. The circumstances present in my personal life, now and at that time I first read it, don’t differ from what Flaubert was describing on behalf of his fortunate lover’s future pleasure. My own marriage is an extraordinary pleasure trip, nine ways to Sunday! What confounded me was the subtle - dare I utter it - predatory nature of Flaubert’s intention, as if Colet had no choice regarding her participation in any part of her lover’s fantasy of love. I have to admit, the whole process became mixed; first one agenda, then another — both valid and relevant, in my opinion — but how to integrate both into a single concept? Isn’t this precisely the conundrum that love, in all its maddening and glorious forms, manifests? I find that integration is possible, but also — strangely — relieved that it doesn’t come without an ideological challenge. To wit, I realized that while Flaubert was describing a future sensational physical encounter of love with Colet, I could not be certain that she was actually receptive to it in the way that her lover clearly desired. Stumped and fixed, without Colet’s response, I remained unsure of her consent. Taken at face value, the letter described only her husband’s passion; to believe that she shared equally in this pursuit was at best, glib, and at worst, in service of a future encounter that might be ill-advised. In other words, in the absence of clear consent between two people — even between committed partners in love — sexual behavior can be viewed, ultimately, as predatory. In the cultural cacophony that is the Me-Too movement, I felt that such a stone unturned was a highly relevant issue. This is how it began.

Given a sensuously pithy letter and my own socio-political reaction to it, I organized the Miller White 2019 summer invitational around the expression of physical love, with creative encouragement from Flaubert. The artists were guided only by the letter itself, with my own inquiry into consent left out of the directive. That was my imperative alone, not theirs. Instead, I

asked them to simply approach the directive in such a way that would add a dose of rigor to their individual concepts of the act of loving.

For me, as a curator, hashing out my ideas and values is not only meaningful, its also part of the fun. I want to be more than a tinkerer; I want to find the exceptions to my rules, break free of self-imposed trivialities and raise the potency of the underlying narrative. As with all of my invitationals, I wanted to find a way to go “all the way.” In other words, further than the visual component of the show, the artist statement proved the means; the temperature was raised by adding the language of love, not beneath the image but rather in service of it. This became prudent upon the realization that some acts of love will never occur. The loved one may be deceased, otherwise unavailable, somehow incapable of or indisposed to mutual affection. What happens when we love someone to whom we are unable to express physical intimacy? Literally, how would one profess the utter magnitude of their ardor in the absence of a clearly defined statement? That’s how it evolved.

We are also endeavoring to be supportive of the emotional health of our communities, especially during a time when the prevailing cultural ethos is difficult to navigate. Its an incredibly vulnerable show, with the artists at their most fragile. Never to imply they are weak in character or creative process, rather the fragility that is exposed is weighed against how very close they will let the viewer get. This doesn’t happen without strenuous effort and only the bravest will heed that call; that level of confrontation is just not popular in a global culture that is more comfortable expressing emotion in the cloud! We don’t “know” anything about love; we can only offer insights, which then may be useful to others. We do this visually first, and then we add dimension with our words. In one of the most opaque industries on the planet, I think it is refreshing that we actually “open our mouths” and say something, even if we are really shooting from the hip! Opening up a dialogue: this is the power of arts and culture!

Love — in all forms — is macrocosmic; it is a matter of ultimate human concern. Indeed, the images that comprise this show are at once “pleasure,” per usual; what exalts them is that the artists went all the way by underscoring their love with personal statements of love, not about it. Thus, lukewarm became strategically incendiary. This is not love as an afterthought, rather it is more a line in the sand. After eight years as a gallerist with close to forty shows under my belt, I have yet to see as honest an inquiry into as unpopular a topic as this one, this foray into the expression of physical love.

Neither trivial nor child’s play, expressing love behooves us to reach higher and dig deeper. Never a contest, love is a dance in which leader and follower are interchangeable roles, neither of which is superior to the other and both of which are essential to the awesome task of creating the ideal of love we all need, not merely to survive but to thrive amid life’s challenges to that ideal. If we are not prepared to assume both and go all the way — to make us and others feel safe in love — we should exit the stage. Making love is work. Spiritually strenuous work that is often thankless and undignified, but never, ever lacking in importance.

Are we all saying something important? Perhaps. Then again, it is possible that nothing important was said, only that saying it was. Finally, I just know there is another person out there who is more valuable to you than all the gold, silver or diamonds in the world. Find that person and tell them how much you care for their presence in your life.That is real life and that is the real magic of love.

In the final summation, Artscope Magazine selected Love Letters for their cover and feature story in the September/October 2019 issue. Why? Because love is life; without a liberal experience of it along the lifespan, we humans would cease to exist. And, most importantly, how we express love determines the true value of the gift we exchange with the myriad souls along our path. Conscious, daring and abiding love.