Annette Lemieux

Annette Lemieux

Conceptual mixed media artist Annette Lemieux's work is included in the collections
of the Museum of Modern Art, New York; The Whitney Museum of American
Art; The Solomon R Guggenheim Museum; The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston;
The Decordova Museum; and numerous museums around the world. She has received
numerous grants and fellowships and exhibits regularly at the McKee Gallery,
New York, and was included in the Whitney Biennial 2000. Annette Lemieux
lives in Brookline, Massachusetts and teaches at Harvard University.

Robert Birnbaum: You were born in Norfolk, Virginia.

Annette Lemieux: Yes.

RB: Is there a story behind that, or was it an ordinary circumstance?

AL: My father was in the military.

RB: Navy?

AL: No, Marines. So I guess that's why I was born there. We lived
in Virginia, North and South Carolina when I was young and then when I
was 3 1/2 or 4 we moved up to Torrington, Connecticut. Then my mother
decided that she didn't want to go on the Marine tour anymore and
said, "I'm staying here." So then my father took off to
wherever and I grew up in Torrington. It was also my mother's hometown,

which probably made it easier for her to say, "See ya."

RB: Did he come back?

AL: Oh no. He wasn't invited back.

RB: How long did your father serve in the Marines?

AL: He was a lifer. 22 years. He served in Korea and Viet Nam.

RB: Torrington, Connecticut sounds normal.

AL: (laughs) It's an old mill town. After the war, the factories

went downhill because they weren't producing ball bearings. So the

whole place was—and still is—disintegrating. There are many empty storefronts.

RB: What's the population?

AL: I have no idea. I honestly don't know. I'm bad with numbers.

RB: How big was your high school?

AL: I don't remember, but it was pretty big. It wasn't like

a small cow town.

RB: You went to art school directly after high school?

AL: No, I went to a community college my first 2 years, in Winsted, Connecticut.

And then I had plans to go to Syracuse University, but I couldn't

afford it. It couldn't afford me, in terms of giving me money. So

then, I followed a friend, stupidly, to Flagstaff, Arizona and once I

was in Flagstaff, Arizona, I felt like I was on a deserted island. Void

of civilization. So I went back to Connecticut that next year and didn't

go to school. Then I returned to school half time at the University of

Hartford.

RB: How did you end up in Flagstaff?

AL: I went to visit my father and he drove me from San Diego to Flagstaff.

I hated every minute of it.

RB: The drive or the company?

AL: With him. He was strange. He was a Jesus freak at that moment in

his life. It was like I was on a different planet. The landscape was strange.

RB: Was he out of the military at that point?

AL: Yes. I think he needed another club to join. He needed a larger-than-life

support system.

lemieux

Lily

(2000) by Annette Lemieux

RB: Why did you go to art school?

AL: The natural thing to do I think.

RB: I didn't go to art school. (Both laugh)

AL: For me it was very natural. I remember going into my guidance

counselor's office in high school, saying, "I want to be an artist."

And he burst out laughing and talked me into applying to secretarial school.

(laughs) Then I went to my art teacher and said, "I guess I'm going

to secretarial school." He burst out laughing. He said, "No, no, you have

to go to art school. We'll find a way and the money to get you there."

So I got a scholarship and then Basic Educational Opportunity Grants.

But I always made work. I remember my first painting in kindergarten.

RB: You said, "I always made 'work'." Instead of

saying, "I always made 'art."

AL: Is that what I just said? Yeah, I don't want to be presumptuous.

(laughs)

RB: Do you remember the first thing you made?

AL: Yes.

RB: Do you still have it?

AL: No. I didn't have the kind of parents that kept things.

RB: What was it?

AL: I think it was a background under the water seascape for a shadow

box. I remember there were three things: blue water, a brown rock and

probably an orange fish. I remember wanting to make the fish feel real.

So I put the head of the fish on the right side of the rock and the tail

of the fish on the left side of the rock and I created 3 dimensional space.

I couldn't believe it. So for me it was a very exciting moment.

RB: Was being an artist synonymous with being a painter? Was painting

the same as art, in the minds of children?

AL: Probably because it's the most immediate material. Everyone

has a piece of paper and watercolors or pencils. As opposed to paper maiche

or pottery. Back then, any ways. I studied painting in Art school but

now I am mixed media.

RB: Let's jump ahead 30 years. Now, you are teaching at Harvard

University.

AL: (Long pause, both laugh) Next question. (laughs)

RB: Here you are, having left high school with ambitions to be an artist.

One teacher tells you to go to secretarial school and another encourages

you. 30 years later you are at the world's greatest university, teaching

art.

AL: Yeah, kind of a big coup.

RB: Does the past reverberate in your life as you move forward? Do you

carry with you the memories of these things?

AL: Constantly.

RB: You have been teaching at Harvard for a while?

AL: On and off since '96. You want me to say this; they made

me a Professor of the Practice. I knew that's what you were fishing

for. I taught at Brown from '92 to '96 and then at Harvard.

At one point I was teaching at both places. Which was too much: it was

all teaching and no making art in my studio. I'm really lucky and

hopefully they're lucky having me there. Professor of the Practice—they

try to bring people in from an industry—that point of view as opposed

to an academic point of view, that's what I'm there for. I'll

be teaching conceptual mixed media based work. We created a new track

for the kids so that the kids can do theses with a conceptual thesis.

It's always been there since I've been there but never formalized.

Instead of doing a thesis on painting or sculpture or photo there is now

also conceptual mixed media.

RB: Is Harvard interested in teaching artists art or creating artists?

AL: Both, probably both.

RB: Do you want to talk about the brouhaha surrounding the last director

of the program?

AL: Well, no. I'll say Ellen Phelan created a great program. There

were many reasons why she was asked to leave. We were told some. I wasn't

there and I don't know what's true or not true. She created

a terrific program and there are a number of us that are still there working

with the new Chair and trying to keep the program as good as Ellen made

it.

RB: I want to indulge my own interest here. I am more interested in understanding

what's involved in living as an artist than what the product—the

art—of that life is.

AL: How you survive as an artist.

RB: Right. I find talking about art—art theory and criticism has this

language that I find opaque. I understand that every discipline and life

form has its own language games…

AL: A lot of artists feel that way too. About Artspeak, that's a

very common feeling.

RB: You left school in that late '70s, early '80s?

AL: I graduated in the fall of '79 or '80 and I went to New

York City. Luckily while I was at Hartford Art School, Jack Goldstein

and David Salle were teaching there. Big names in the '80s in the

New York art world. So I got to New York and I sort of had a job lined

up with Goldstein, and that didn't work out, and when that fell through

I called up David Salle and I started assisting him and artists in his

same gallery, The Mary Boone Gallery. So I supported myself by working

as a studio artist, as an assistant, as a bookkeeper—that didn't

last—as a receptionist—that didn't last, as a waitress—that didn't

last.

RB: How long did each of those jobs that didn't work out

last?

annette lemieux

Walking

on Water Revisited

(2000)

by Annette Lemieux

AL: About a half year each. I also did demolition. I did window

dressing.

RB: Demolition?

AL: You go in a place with an ax and you start whacking away.

RB: Great training.

AL: Yeah. I remember walking home—I was in lower Manhattan—in

Soho and I would have to walk to the West Village, covered in white dust.

People looked at me kind of funny, but I thought walking covered with

white dust was kind of normal.

RB: Maybe they thought you were from New Guinea.

AL: I don't know. Let's see, where were we?

RB: Would it be fair to say that your early years as an artist in lower

Manhattan were years of struggle and scrapping for survival?

AL Oh yeah. I remember having a $2-a-day budget. Which was pretty great

back then. It bought me a challah French toast breakfast. Coffee and orange

juice and a pack of cigarettes…

RB: How much were cigarettes?

AL: Less than a buck or a buck. Now they're $5. You can only live

on a $2-a-day budget for so long. I maybe pulled it off for a month but

I was starting to get weak. I remember walking by grocery stores and bodegas

wanting to steal fruit. I couldn't, I'm a Catholic girl. It

was a pretty hungry time.

RB: What about the endless stream of openings and receptions and thereby

supplement your diet?

AL: You know I never did that. People do this, stuff themselves, and

drink themselves to death. But no, I don't remember food being at

a lot of openings. Or maybe it was all gone by the time I got there. I

have no idea. (Both laugh).

RB: I think it's funny that event planners and publicists have finally

become aware that there is such a crowd—the free shrimp crowd—people

who show up at events simply to gorge themselves.

AL: Oh yeah, Elias Fine Arts has the best food. Or maybe the only food

out of many galleries.

RB: Really. I guess I never get there early either. Early '80s,

this is the time of Basquiat and Schnabel.

AL: Yes, it's the beginning of it. I worked for David [Salle].

Julian [Schnabel] but we didn't get on so well. Matt Mullican, Gary

Stephan, Troy Brauntuch. These people were either at the Mary Boone Gallery

or Metro Pictures. It was the rebirth of painting and a lot of money in

art. Luckily in '85 I quit David—after a while you can't

be a studio assistant. You just start drooling.

RB: You were drooling because of the big money art work was getting?

AL: It was more like it was hard to be in someone else's studio,

watching them make work and doing everything for them so they could make

their work and feeling miserable because you were not in your studio doing

the same, full time. I worked 2 days a week and would work all the other

time in my studio and that's why I was so broke. I left David so

I could get health insurance via another job. I didn't tell you this,

but in '83 I was run over by a white Ford van. I was sort of an invalid

for a while. The insurance company wouldn't insure me, in the end,

anyway. So I was stuck doing this horrible book keeping inputting job

for this art moving company. It was really terrible. I was really miserable.

In '86 I got two grants, one from NEA and one from the New York Foundation

for The Arts. I had a show that was doing pretty well. So everything was

coming together that one year and it afforded me to quit my awful job,

get a larger studio. Also, to get a very cheap small apartment in the

East Village. Basically, I just worked full time from '86 to '92

without a need for a teaching job or any kind of employment. Then the

art market crashed in the early '90s.

RB: In that period of full time art making, were you showing regularly?

AL: Oh yeah, I think I do about the same now. It hasn't changed

much 2 or 3 shows a year. Plus all this other crap you do, like benefits.

RB: You do benefits?

AL: Oh yeah, judging shows. Panels. Lots of stuff.

If I couldn't do my work, it would be as if someone took the air out of me. It was a necessity to survive. So it would have been that or die. I didn't have a choice. So I just worked my ass off.

RB: You mentioned being lucky—I'm certain you are acquainted

with artists who haven't been so lucky—have you considered what

you might have done had you not been lucky? Is there a pivotal point where

you became confident you could live your life as an artist?

AL: Well, if I couldn't do my work it would be as if someone took

the air out of me. It was a necessity to survive. So it would have been

that or die. I didn't have a choice. So I just worked my ass off.

RB: Were you tested past a critical point?

AL: I was tested. I think that I am constantly being tested.

RB: How were you affected by the art market crashes of the early '90s

and the early 21st century?

AL: I was teaching in a lot of different places to keep things going.

I would have just enough sales to be able to produce another show. This

year I had a windfall. I did really well with my last show in Aspen at

the Baldwin Gallery. I get pretty good critical support but that doesn't

mean you are selling out your shows or even selling one piece out of a

show. There has always been just enough to keep it going.

RB: A peculiar place for a serious art gallery, Aspen?

AL: Actually, not. That's where people vacation, who have money

and who are collectors. And they have plenty of time to ski and look at

art.

RB: How do you compare the opening reception in Aspen to one that might

take place in Boston?

AL: I was there Christmas time, so everyone who was supposed to be there

was there, vacationing. It was closer to a New York opening than to a

Boston opening. In terms of big-name collectors.

RB: And you did well in that show?

AL: Yeah and it was difficult work. It wasn't easy work. It was

mixed media work, Plaster sculptures, marble sculptures, paintings that

wouldn't necessarily be paintings for a painter. Photographic work

done on sheer material that was enormous. So, it was difficult but they're

[Baldwin Gallery] are doing a great job with it. A 10-foot-high sculpture

made out of about 15 feet of hair just sold.

RB: A sculpture made of hair? Whose hair?

AL: It's real hair. There are all these bald women in Europe

walking around. It was 7 ponytails—but it's more like 7 times

3, 21 European ponytails. It takes about 3 good-sized ponytails to make

a nice ponytail. It had to be real hair, of course, because that's

how I am. It was dyed to my color and I pin curled it to reproduce the

waves that curl my own hair. It's great when you are working with

such weird materials because a whole new world will open up. This happens

constantly because I am constantly working with new materials. But the

piece, which was created after 9/11—not that that work is so directly

connected to that media experience, because I didn't experience it

first hand—I couldn't do any negative imagery or negative assemblage

in my studio. So all the images or things were positive gestures. For

instance, one painting was called Comfort Painting. It was a circular

big pillow on a wall that you could lean on to. The hairpiece was called

Rescue; it imitates a knotted rope for someone to climb down.

RB: Why couldn't you do what you refer to as negative images?

AL: I had an aversion to anything that was difficult to look at…that

brought up images of 9/11 or images of war or devastation. Similar to

Busby Berkeley films in the '30's while WWII was about to happen

and the Great Depression is going on. Maybe it was some sort of escapism,

I don't know.

annette lemieux

Fall

(2000) by Annette Lemieux

RB: Have you gotten over it?

AL: No. I'm preferring making images that are more positive—that

have a lot more to do with life and less about death—there was always

a lot of death in the work. Now there is more life in the work.

RB: At what point in your life did you start to look at the body of your

work say things like, "There is a lot of this or that in the work?"

AL: My last year at school. I got a BFA at Hartford Art School

and never got an MFA because I didn't have any money. I also didn't

have the knowledge on how to do that, how to get a MFA. The work became

very self-conscious then because I finally pulled it together. And everything

started to make sense—why I would do one thing and not another. As

soon as I got out of school I started to look at that work that I produced

and saying. "Okay, what's wrong with it? What's missing?" I

would analyze that and put those things in the work and I constantly make

work that way. You make a piece and you say, "So what?" and then, "What

is missing and where else do you have to go?" You have to be self-critical

all the time. It's a hard way to make work but…

RB: It just occurred to me that writers I've talked to don't

reread their work.

AL: Really. They don't reminisce about a piece?

RB: I've never asked that question. They may have a sense of their

work's totality.

AL: Have you spoken with writers who are also critics?

RB: I'm sure I have.

AL: I'm curious about how people work. A big part of teaching is teaching

your students how to critique their own work, by having group critiques.

And you ask a set of questions…not that there are any right answers

but it's important to try to articulate what you are trying to pull

off so that you can figure out how to do it better.

RB: Strange word, 'better'. I think the notion of there being

no right answer or solution is quite right. In writing, much is made of

choices that are presented to the writer.

AL: Yeah, I try to teach the kids what materials would best make their

idea physical. Whether a painting or sculpture or mixed media piece—we

look at it and analyze it—there is skill critique as well as mental critique.

It's about keeping your ideas clear, are they communicating. When

I was first introduced to the word 'conceptual' I had to look

it up. I didn't know what the hell anyone was talking about. I always

thought about my work as practical art making as opposed to impractical

or unclear or retinal. I had problems with work that was purely formal.

RB: Two things that really interest me about an artistic life. One, is

the connection to the real world…

AL: That's a good one.

RB: Meaning the practical issues. Does one have a schedule and pay attention

to the clock? Do you do the same things everyday? Do you wake up at 4

in the morning and say, "I have to do this." How much does your

life resemble the ordinary workaday life?

AL: Work should consume you. But you have to know when to shut

it off. Like, I love going home and putting on my cowboy pajamas and watching

dumb TV. When you are working that hard conceptually and physically in

the studio, you need to know when to shut it off. If you over work you

are making less work in the end because you are exhausted. I'm like

5 days a week, 9 to 5, 9 to 6 because that's when everyone else is

working. Maybe, I'm like this little industry like everyone else.

When I was younger I probably worked longer hours and more in the evening

because I was younger and I had a lot of assistants-assistants would go

get my lunch—I remember when I couldn't afford an assistant

I didn't know how to go get my lunch. I realized there was something

really wrong when you can only operate in your white-walled area. That's

why I like teaching. You get stupid if you are in the studio all the time.

It's important to participate. I used to ride my bike a lot to my

studio and you have no confrontations when you are on your bike. You have

more confrontations when you are sitting in your car having road rage

or when you are walking and you stop in all these different shops to get

stuff for the day and you have these great exchanges and you see things

you weren't even thinking about looking at, that somehow influence

a piece. So, it's really important to participate in the real life.

That's why I'm 9 to 5, five days a week. Except when I'm

teaching.

RB: Do you have visions or out-of-body experiences?

AL: Every night.

RB: Fantasies that somehow overcome you or come over you that disconnect

you from so-called reality?

AL: I have a very vivid dream state every night. In color. I don't

know if this answers your question when I am working—really working,

the world falls away. You are in this zone and there seems like this bottomless

well of ideas. When you are not working it doesn't come to you. For

me, only through work can I make work and work begets work.

When I am working—really working, the world falls away. You are in this zone and there seems like this bottomless well of ideas. When you are not working it doesn't come to you. For me, only through work can I make work, and work begets work.

RB: I don't think we have exhausted this subject, but let

me get to my second concern. How conscious are you of art as commodity

in your work?

AL: I really don't pay attention to that too much. You can't.

You really have to leave that outside of the studio. I remember in '86

making a really enormous, big brown painting and saying to myself, "Who

the fuck is going to want this big brown painting?" It actually did sell

in that show. They don't know what they want. So you make your work

and hopefully they want that when they see it. I was never interested

in the idea of art and commodification. Like doing a whole career about

that. There are artistes from the '80s who do that. I think it's

a good idea for one piece, not even one show. It's very boring. There

is always economics involved in whatever you do. So it's kind of

silly.

RB: We've both seen the Johns to Koons Pop art show at the MFA.

Jeff Koons is the artist that manufactures and has his assistants make

his work.

AL: That's a pretty common practice. It's very Warholian.

But Ruebens did it too. Everyone did it. Michaelangelo had assistants.

Rubens had a guy who painted the lions; a guy who painted the trees or

a girl who painted the rocks. Rubens created the idea of factory before

Warhol.

RB: So, this would not be a source of condemnation for an artist the

fact that they mass-produce work.

AL: Art should not be confused with skill. Skill is a part of

it. Anyone can learn how to paint. The eye to wrist coordination—one

reason I stopped making very large 2 dimensional paintings was that in

1983 when I got in the accident in New York I got run over and I had to

recuperate for more than a half a year and I couldn't make my large

geometric paintings that were actually symbols like flags and crosses.

So I started thinking about the work pragmatically, coming up with the

idea, "Okay, I can do photos of this or I can go buy this at a store

and it will be a sculpture after I manipulate it somehow. Or I can acquire

the paintings that somebody did and recombine them and call it something

else. So, mixed media conceptual is really how am I going to make work

from the bed with all these casts on my body."

RB: What did you do with the casts?

AL: Threw them out. Not something you want to remember. It wasn't

a pretty moment in my life. It was pretty hard.

RB: What's the "Strange Shapes of Objects" show?

AL: Oh, "The Strange Life of Objects."

RB: Sorry.

AL: That was going to be the title for my mid-career show at the

Rose Museum [at Brandeis University] that I recently cancelled. That title

comes from a quote from a Robert Pinkus article about my work.

RB: Can we talk about why you cancelled that show?

AL: It just wasn't the right situation.

RB: What is this notion of 'mid-career"?

AL: You are half way through your career and someone wants to

show it and summarize you at this point in time. It's not like a

retrospective. It's quite common that artists in their 40's

have a mid career survey if they have a big history.

RB: I take it such a show involves much self-assessment?

AL: No, I don't want to assess myself. The point is you have to

have a very good curator doing that.

RB: And you are not creating new work.

AL: This is looking at your entire body of work. For me that would

mean 20 years worth of work. At one point I was working with this great

curator Lelia Amalfitano and she left the museum. She was one of the people

that were dismissed from the Gallery for the School of the Museum of Fine

Arts during the Malcolm Rogers reorganization of the corporation…

RB: (Laughs heartily)

AL: Why are you laughing?

RB: I love euphemisms

AL: So she [Lelia] left the Rose and I was quite disappointed,

not being able to work with her. If I were to go on to do this I would

have to recreate another situation with her or someone like her.

RB: So we get the story after all?

AL: Pretty much. That's the polite version.

RB: How do you look at the future?

AL: Of what? Of me?

RB: Your work.

AL: I'm just going to keep on making it until I can't. I just

look forward to making really good work. Without planning where that's

going to go. I 'm more concerned about making really good work.

RB: You have representation?

AL: Uh huh. In Boston it's a number of people. Barbara Krakow,

in terms of doing shows. Mario Diacano, once in a while, because he reopened.

RB: Your work is always changing. Do you go through clearly delineated

phases?

AL: I'm constantly in a communication phase. [Robert laughs] So

you have these different ideas that you want to communicate and then the

materials follow.

When you know someone's

work and you understand the visceral quality of the work then you

can view it in a website. You are not really viewing it the right

way, but you have an understanding of what it probably feels and

looks like.

RB: But in terms of the visual presentation, you could go from

labeling garbage cans…

AL: Which I have never done. I just want to make that clear…

RB:...to the Black Flag print you did.

AL: Look has to do with language if a particular look carries

a particular phrase then you use that look. But it's not about the

look it's about the language it offers. It's not style conscious.

RB: Right. That's you. But curators who are assembling shows,

what level are they operating on, visual or conceptual?

AL: Both. Mixed media and being stylistically different is not

new news. Think of Duchamp, Art De Povra and the conceptual work from

the '60's and '70's. A lot of people have difficulty

with it still. A lot of people think art is only painting.

RB: Someone who sees a piece of yours, how would they know what you are

working on currently?

AL: Oh, they know. Especially with web sites new work is pretty

much up now. People don't even have to go to galleries. When you

know someone's work and you understand the visceral quality of the

work then you can view it in a website. You are not really viewing it

the right way, but you have an understanding of what it probably feels

and looks like.

RB: It's like seeing art in a book.

AL: Yeah, but it's not the best way. But a least you can

be familiar with what is going on stylistically. Especially if you don't

have opportunities to get to New York or Documenta.

RB: Do you look at art on the web?

AL: When I first became computer friendly, yes. But not so much

anymore.

RB: When you go to New York do you go to a lot a galleries?

AL: Not a lot. I can maybe do five a day. I don't see a tremendous

amount. I never saw a lot of work.

RB: The current show at the MFA has over 200 pieces in it. Were you able

to digest the show.

AL: Oh yeah. I know the work. There were a couple of nice surprises though.

It was nice to see the Baldessaris and the Lichtenstein that reminded

me of Monet's cathedral paintings at different times of the day.

RB: I like the alcove of three Anselm Kiefer paintings.

AL: I liked the left one which had poppies and had to do with how life

like poppies can grow in the middle of construction sites or the middle

of a war. And if you go to Italy in the spring or early summer, it's

true you see a construction site of dirt pushed up as a hill and you have

poppies growing on top. It's somewhat amazing how life sprouts in

the worst situations. I really love that painting. I know the other stuff

so I loved the surprises.

RB: This ends Part I. We'll try for Part II soon.

Copyright 2002 by Robert Birnbaum

All photos by Red Diaz / Duende Publishing

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