Seven Days in the Art World by Sarah Thornton Page A

he sees it, “The art market simmers underneath all of these schools. Every student thinks that he can jumpstart his career by being in one of these programs. But nine out of ten times the student is in for a big surprise, and nobody wants to talk about it. Whenever I open up the conversation to that aspect of the art world, you can see how hungry the students are. They are dying to know.”
    Most art schools turn a blind eye to the art market, but CalArts seems to turn its back. Some faculty members are pragmatic; they think students need to develop artistic projects that are independent of the fickle swings of the marketplace. Others occupy a left-wing position that believes the neo-avant-garde should subvert the commerce of art. Steven Lavine has been the president of CalArts since 1988. A bespectacled diplomat who talks about the school like a proud parent, Lavine says that “everybody talks a pretty good left game,” but he doesn’t know how far left CalArts really is. “We’ve all made our compromises with the world, so center-left is all we can compliment ourselves with.” President Lavine embodies the distinctly high-minded and down-to-earth attitude that typifies CalArts. “We’re idealistic. We don’t prepare students to do jobs that already exist. Our mission is to help every student develop a voice of his or her own,” he explains. “There is a soul to every great institution, and you go wrong if you betray that. At CalArts, people want to make work that has a relationship to what is under discussion rather than what is hot for sale at the moment.”
    Back on campus, Hobbs and I walk over to the second-year grad studios—two rows of small industrial units facing a sidewalk that student graffiti has transformed into a “Walk of Fame.” Gold stars inscribed with the names of current postgraduates refer to the famous strip on Hollywood Boulevard and to the otherwise unmentionable problem: artists need to make a name for themselves. Hovering over the stars like halo afterthoughts are black spray-painted Mickey Mouse ears that deflate the self-aggrandizement and pay mock homage to CalArts’ unlikely founder, Walt Disney.
    Hollywood affects the horizons of the L.A. art world in subtle ways. After graduation, artists who don’t support themselves through sales or teaching can work in the ancillary industries of costumes, set design, and animation. Sometimes the communities of artists and actors overlap. Ed Ruscha, who admits that “art is show business,” used to date the model Lauren Hutton. Actors like Dennis Hopper, who is also a photographer and collector, or artists like CalArts graduate Jeremy Blake, who made abstract digital works for Paul Thomas Anderson’s film Punch-Drunk Love, move between the worlds. Here on campus, however, one feels that most artists are openly hostile to commercial spectacles, as if CalArts were set up as the conscience or doppelgänger of the entertainment industry.
    Hobbs unlocks her studio. All the doors have been customized with oversized names, cartoon numbers, collages, and even bas-relief sculptures. “Every grad has a space of their own that they are allowed to use twenty-four hours a day. I live in mine. You’re not supposed to, but a lot of us do,” she says as she points to a fridge, a hotplate, and a couch that turns into a bed. “There’s a shower down by the workshop,” she adds. The cube is twelve by twelve feet, with dirty white walls and a cement floor, but it has twelve-foot-high ceilings and north-facing skylights, which give the workspace some dignity.
    A few doors down and across the walk, the class is viewing the installation in Fiona’s studio called Painting Room II, which will be the subject of this afternoon’s discussion. Paint flies beyond the edges of four canvases onto the wall and floor. Pale scribbles evoke the work of Cy Twombly, while the paint on the floor recalls Jackson Pollock’s drip method. The writing desk in the corner