Neither Fish Nor Fowler
Two years ago, skateboard company and patron of the arts RVCA approached skateboarder Ed Templeton about starting a free glossy arts zine. He consented, but upon the condition that he bring in his friends a collaborators. Templeton brought in
Brendan Fowler and Aaron Rose, friends who had curated together at the influential Lower East Side gallery Alleged. In the early 1990s, the ANP Quarterly, now in its sixth edition, was born. Fowler, who had also practiced as a freelance journalist and conceptual artist, jumped at the chance, but continues to tour with his band Barr. This week, Fowler is in town on tour but his practice schedule precludes a face-to-face interview, so we speak on the telephone. Confirming the time for our interview via e-mail, the 28-year-old Fowler signs, “It’s on like Donkey Kong!”
When did you get into New York?
When did I get here...? Um ... That’s something I should know. Well, when I leave, I will have been here for 18 days, which is the longest I’ve stayed anywhere for the last year.
Whoa! Will you just be playing shows?
Yeah ... the band just got together for the first time ever. The band never met before the first day of practice. And we’ve just been practicing.
How did everyone get along?
They were really chosen for personality as much as anything else. I don’t really like dealing with people who aren’t super duper nice. I think it’s hard for a musician not to be good and not cooperate with other people.
What is your day-to-day when you’re not on the road?
I literally haven’t lived anywhere for a year. I actually just got out of a seven-year relationship, and really it was like my life just fell apart. It’s like, “what do I do?” So I just wanted to take every opportunity, to take every tour, and every trip. And also make a little money while we’re at it. It’s terribly hard. It feels like I’m on a retreat. A weird retreat that doesn’t end.
You and your work are often associated with Los Angeles, but how long have you lived there?
I was born in Berkeley, California, and then my family moved to rural Maryland, like really out of the way.
How did you become interested zines in rural Maryland?
I got really into skateboarding. Skateboarding with my friends, and skateboard videos. And I would be like, “Oh, well I really like that song in the skateboard video—I’d really like to have the album.” And then you can’t find it and you have to look for a place that has it. And then you’re there, and you look for something else. It’s really exciting.
What is the connection between your music and the magazine?
They’re both basic forms of communicating with people in an open-ended, in an encouraging way. I like talking to people and helping them.
Where do you find people for the Quarterly?
It’s sort of like a conversation you would have with your friends, where you say, “Oh man, did you say that? That was so rad,” or “this reminds me of that!” It’s kind of like that conversation, and then having that go toward producing a magazine.
How did you end up in L.A.?
I was in New York [at Sarah Lawrence College], and I didn’t want to get that far from Maryland after college. The short story is this: I had been working at a gallery, Alleged, with Aaron [Rose, co-editor of ANP]. The contemporary art world in L.A. was really, really getting super exciting at that point. I mean, I had wanted to leave New York for other reasons. I was kind of frustrated.
How has the art scene changed since you and Aaron have been out there?
We had decided to move out there in April of 2001. Whatever, it affected the entire world and forever changed the way we think about things—and it totally affected the art world. It affected the economy and nobody was spending any money the way that they were in the contemporary art world. And the L.A. art world was just starting to really thrive, and be really kicking ass in Chinatown, where the galleries are. We get there, and everybody was really excited. And then in a year, it’s like we both had kinda a breakdown. One person overdosed and died. Another got hospitalized for a nervous breakdown. It totally imploded on itself because the economy got so shut down. That was kind of intense. I sort of exited the art world.
What did you do in the meantime?
There’s a lot of production-y kind of stuff in L.A.—working on commercials and other small things. If you’re trying to have non-committal work, L.A. is a great place.
But you’re back.
Now it’s getting back to where it’s more exciting even than it was. I think it’s really gotten back to a place where people thought it was going to be, but better. It’s kind of New York-y in the way that there’s this “contemporary art world.”
How pervasive is the overlap with New York artists?
Oh totally. Well, I mean art has evolved into that really trendy thing to do, which I’m a little less interested in at this point. It’s a little derivative and kind of sad. I will say it’s a very fertile time for kids to do what they want to do. There’s always this phenomenon of people who like art, but aren’t academic about making art. They don’t really have ideas, but they like the idea of making art and so they make this art that’s not worth making. Now it’s very fashionable to make art, whereas before in L.A.—before it was very nerdy making art. And it’s really great and it’s great to be creatively engaged. There’s a lot of fashion-y art. I mean I’m not hating, it’s just…
So what are you really excited about right now?
Oh god! I’m really into the new—there’s this remix of the song “Walk It Off.” There’s this southern rap. And then there’s this verse where Andre 3000 from Outkast lays down a verse and he absolutely entirely annihilates all the southern rap culture in verse, just destroys everything they’re into right now. It’s like on the remix to contemporary southern rap music, destroying contemporary southern rap music.
Barr plays the Kitchen Performing Art Space on February 16th and 17th, with Lucky Dragons. ANP Quarterly is available free at select bookstores, boutiques, and galleries around the city. Subscriptions are available ($20) at rvcaanp.com.