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Generally
when we think of prints, we think of a metal plate or stone that has had
an image somehow indelibly etched into its surface. The inks are then applied
to the plate, the plate is run through a press and the image is printed
on paper. Except for nuances in press pressure, plate break-down or unintentional
differences in the application of the inks, each image in the edition is
basically the same. Some people don't like prints for this reason. They
like uniqueness.
A monotype fills the need for uniqueness while still being categorized
as a print. The artist draws or paints the surface of a plate, whether it
be stone, metal or plastic, with ink; the image goes through a press and
is printed on paper. Then 
the stone or plate is washed down with solvent
and the artist starts again.
The Cat Prints are monotypes. Instead of the usual rectangular plate, the plate happens to be in the shape of a cat. I had found what I thought to be the perfect cat silhouette to use. Maybe it helps to describe it as a cat-shaped window. Inks were applied differently on the plate for each print. Sometimes the plate was washed down with solvents so that the process could be started anew, other times whatever was left on the plate of the previous image was simply inked over to make a ghost image underneath all the new stuff.
In
1988, when these prints were being made, I was interested in the surrealist
idea of erasing the artist's consciousness from the creation of the work,
the idea of random choices, chance and automatic actions. The surrealists
tried to create with the unconscious mind. So, under the guidance of the
printers at Magnolia Press, I found out about the process of marbleizing.
It seemed to be a way of using automaticity in the print process and thereby
erased the artist as much as possible in the creation of a work. Or so I
thought.
Marbled papers are usually used for the end papers of books. Traditionally,
the
water
based inks are floated on water that has been made viscous with methyl cellulose.
The paper is then placed on top of the ink which sticks to the paper. The
ink can be manipulated with a feather or a comb before being applied to
the paper and the tray of water can be tipped back and forth to create movement
in the inks. It seemed to be a more or less automatic way of working.
For this series of prints, oil based ink thinned with solvent was floated on the surface of the water with an atomizer. (I suppose, at this point I should warn you "not to try this at home".) Mylar cut in the shape of a cat was used for the plate, the plate was put through a press and the inks were printed to paper.
I’ve always found the creation of an object relatively easy, but not the
selection of already existing objects or creation through automaticity.
I decided to reject the usual rectangular plate and thought I had picked
the cat shape at random. I actually hadn’t because I used a sort of negative
selection. I had rejected other shapes like the rectangle, frogs,
beavers and dogs and I landed on cats. This is a selective process,
but because I selected by 
rejecting
first, I was fooled into thinking it was a random act.
When I look at a Cornell, I often feel loss or nostalgia for something gone. I originally thought it was because the objects that Cornell used are now antiques and that I was feeling the “antique-ness” of the objects in his work. The objects that Man Ray used are also considered antiques today but when I experience Man Ray’s work I don’t get the same feeling as when I see a Cornell. So, early on, I knew it wasn't about the actual objects that were chosen for the work. And I somehow feel that Bruce Conner’s work will not “antique” in the way I thought that a Cornell had. I often feel a quickness to Conner’s work and I don’t think the work will slow down even when the objects in his work reach antique status.
I tried to analyze why the pieces that I admired so much were, well …,
the pieces 
that
I admire so much. And I eventually found that these pieces were the pieces
that made the viewer feel or at least consider Time.
The Mona Lisa has never been a portrait to me. It’s a landscape with a portrait in the foreground. The background of La Giaconda is like John Cage’s 3’44”. It’s a silence. When I look at that background I feel an attenuation of sound and a very slow rhythm. I feel Time. I think most people who look at this work do, too, and they attribute what they feel to her smile, but its actually the moonscape in back of Mona's head running in the background of viewer's consciousness. Cornell’s work makes me feel past-time. I feel still (unmoving)-time when I look at Man Ray’s work. Bruce Conner's work makes me feel immediate-time.
We tend to think of art, especially painting, as objects in space and that’s
what we notice first. The real trick is to incorporate time and energy
into the piece so that people can actually feel it when experiencing the
piece. People like to say that the masterpieces transcend
time or 
that
they’re timeless. But, these pieces are successful because the artist has
somehow gotten Time to impinge on the viewer. They’re not timeless. They
actually contain Time.
These prints are not really cats, although, people have their own ideas about what cats are and these ideas run in the background of their consciousnesses while they experience them just like the moonscape runs in the background of our consciousnesses when we look at Mona. And after finishing up this series of prints I came to the conclusion that all of the surrealists were really one guy.
created 04 March 2008