the artist-
voter diary 
by Larry Litt



We dropped the old voter registration drive 
table down in front of Ronald Feldman Fine 
Arts on Mercer Street figuring we'd get 
some of the artists and collectors to 
register as they came out of the "Artists 
for Freedom of Expression: Campaign '96 
Benefit Sale of Artist Editions" 
exhibition. In the show are at least two 
dozen of the most famous, collectible, 
internationally recognized and capital A 
level artists, each of whom donated their 
work for the fundraising drive to support 
candidates and organizations who support 
the arts. 
I like the idea, I like some of the art 
more than others, I couldn't afford one even 
if they gaveit to me, considering I'd have 
to pay taxes on it and, of course, frame 
it. 
So I returned to the table where I waited 
for the politically committed and hopefully 
flush, to remind them that they could be 
unregistered. After a few hours of asking, 
"Are you registered," and always the same 
or similar answer, "Of course, but thanks 
for asking," I decided I wanted to do 
something more than register voters. I 
decided I wanted to donate a work to the 
"Artists for Freedom of Expression: 
Campaign '96 Benefit Sale of Artist 
Editions" exhibition and really help the 
causes and candidates who support the arts. 
So I went into Mr. Feldman's gallery again. 
Only this time I asked the receptionist, 
"Is Mr. Feldman in?" 
"He's very busy. Can I tell him what its 
about?" she asked with very businesslike 
courtesy.
"Well," I stammered, "I'd like to donate a 
piece of my art to the fund-raiser for the 
arts."
"Does Mr. Feldman know you?"
"No, not really. I mean yes and no. He said 
'hello' to me. I'm the guy sitting at the 
voter registration drive table out front."
"Are you an artist?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a gallery?"
"No."
"Have you had any shows in New York?"
"Not yet."
"Well," she said sucking in her breath, 
then exhaling slowly and carefully, "well, 
you can send us your slides and resume. 
We'll let you know."
"But the show will be over by then."
"We'll be selling works for Campaign '96 
until Nov. 5th. You don't have to be in 
the exhibition for us to sell your work."
"I kind of wanted to be in the show."
"If Mr. Feldman knows your work it's a 
possibility. But he knows the work of many 
artists who aren't in the show. He's very 
fair about that."
"Could I just bring something in and if he 
doesn't like it he doesn't have to use it?"
"Mr. Feldman is a very busy man," she said 
looking at me pityingly, I thought, "but 
you can try. I can't promise anything. Just 
leave it with me." 
"Oh, thank you very much. I'll be back 
tomorrow. Thanks again." 
I turned to leave, then stopped and turned 
back. "What's your name?"
"That's not important. Anyone sitting here 
can help you."
This time I sighed, turned, walked out of 
the gallery. 
Back at the table I thought about what I 
could bring in to impress Mr. Feldman 
enough so he would put me in the show. I 
didn't want to do just anything. I had to 
make a masterpiece, something that's never 
been done, the first one of its kind. I 
believed I had to be the first artist to 
comment on the entire political process 
itself. I was also giving myself a headache 
thinking about it. Or it was my 
hypoglycemia kicking in from hunger. So I 
closed up the table and went to my favorite 
Chinatown restaurant, Tai Tung. As I ate my 
vegetable lo mein I noticed a poster on the 
wall. It was in Mandarin characters, but it 
had the big check mark in a box that 
symbolizes voting in this city. I stared at 
it long and hard, wondering how many people 
in this restaurant were eligible to vote. I 
stared at it and wondered if it meant the 
same thing to the Chinese as it did to me. 
I stared at it and wondered what it meant 
to anyone at all. Finally I began to see 
double. The poster changed in my mind's 
eyes from one box to two with only one of 
the boxes checked. Suddenly I was 
challenged with the question, "Will there 
be anything else?" 
"Yes, I said, "there will be a frame. A 
really nice frame."
"Not on the menu," was the answer. I looked 
up to find the looming waiter writing a 
check.
I ran back to my apartment-studio, took out 
a pad and began playing with boxes and 
check marks. After three minutes I learned 
that there are only nine different 
combinations of two boxes and a check mark. 
My head was throbbing with ideas. Looking 
back, it could have been an MSG headache. I 
downed a couple of ibuprofens, then ran 
over to Pearl Paint to buy supplies. I 
picked out half a dozen 18-by-20-inch 
prepared canvases, the same number of gaudy 
frames, and a dozen tubes of really good 
acrylics. I lined up to wait to pay. When I 
reached the counter, I gave them my credit 
card. 
A minute later I heard, "Sorry, your card 
isn't any good."
"What! Put it through again please." I 
tried to control my rage at the Visa 
idiots, whomever they are. I've learned 
anger means nothing to functionaries. But 
no credit? The ultimate shame and disgrace. 
The art world exists on credit. 
"I put it through three times, already. Do 
you want to pay cash?"
"Let me see. I'll be right back."
I had about 20 $ on me and the charge 
was for $326. I walked out of Pearl 
wondering if I'd paid my plastic money 
bill. I walked up Broadway until I came to 
National Wholesale Liquidators, the 
ultimate discount store. I knew they sold 
ready-made picture frames for a few bucks. 
I chose a couple of 4-by-6-inch gilded 
wooden frames after reviewing several 
styles in chrome and plastic. I paid $5 
cash for both. 
Back in my studio I cut some shirt 
cardboards to fit the frames. I drew boxes 
and check marks with colored magic markers 
and enhanced each design with more colors. 
By 2 a.m. I had made 20 paintings and 
chosen two for framing. I believe an 
artist's day is a journey filled with 
unknown roads that lead to transcendent 
vistas. I slept the sleep of creative 
exhaustion. I took two more ibuprofens for 
my headache. In the morning I placed the 
two little paintings into their gilded 
frames and wrapped them in brown paper 
bags. I went straight to the gallery. At 
the reception desk I asked for Mr. Feldman. 
There was a different woman behind the desk 
this time. She looked at me, picked up the 
phone, and said into it, "Mr. Feldman, your 
coffee's here." 
"No, no," I said, "I'm bringing some art 
for Campaign '96. I was told to come back 
today." I exaggerated my instructions. 
Omission for art's sake is no crime.
Mr. Feldman came through the door. He 
walked me away from the receptionist. "What 
do you have there?"
I opened the bags and held up the two 
little frames. Mr. Feldman studied them for 
a long minute.
"I like them," he said (which gave me more 
hope than anything anyone's ever said to 
me), "but I can't put them in the show. 
These works," he turned his head slowly to 
imply the walls filled with art, "are 
bankable. I need work that can bring in 
money for the campaign."
"But you can try to sell these." I must 
have sounded like a beggar.
"I couldn't give them away in this show. 
See me again when you're selling for these 
kind of prices. But I appreciate your 
concern. Keep up the good work." He smiled, 
turned and walked back to the office.
Thanks for your time," I said. "Have a nice 
day." But he was gone.
The gallery doors seemed heavier than I 
remembered. The air was hot, thick and 
dirty on Mercer Street. My little paintings 
burned like fire in my sweaty hands. 
What should I do with them now that they 
exist? They must be seen, I decided. But by 
whom? And for what reason?
(Continued next month In Artist-Voter 
Diary) 
Larry Litt is a New York-based arts 
activist, writer and performer.