Janet Passehl

Janet Passehl is an artist and writer. Her work has been exhibited at museums and galleries in Europe, Australia, New York, and New England. She is represented in numerous private collections. Her poems have been published in journals as well as included in art exhibitions as audio installations. She is the author of one full-length published poetry collection, and she also creates hand-made single poem books that merge visual art and language. In addition to writing poetry, Passehl writes essays for artist’s catalogs. She was Sol LeWitt’s Curator for seventeen years during his lifetime, and remains Curator of his private art collection.

Janet, thanks for taking the time to speak with us about your art practice. Please tell us what disciplines you work in, and what artistic niches, schools of thought, or movements you align with?

“The weavings marry the rational to the accidental, the logical to the organic. They record their own making. The display their own histories.”

My hand-woven plain cloth works are collaborations among material, light, space, gravity, time, duration, nuance, and attentiveness. The time required to dress the loom and weave the cloth is significant and dictates the practice. Thread entanglements, breakages, variances in tension, the vagaries of my second-hand loom and of my own body and mind are reflected in the form, surface, and posture of the final pieces. The weavings marry the rational to the accidental, the logical to the organic. They record their own making. They display their own histories. In addition to plain cloth I also explore the poetry of the ruled line using graphite or color pencil on paper, and I also work with watercolor and text.

“Early on I felt that, being female, I was released from having to hew closely to received forms and strategies espoused in a male dominated field.”

I don't think most artists subscribe to isms or movements, those categories are for art historians and critics. That being said, many artists whose work I've spent a lot of time studying and being inspired by fall under the rubric of "Minimalism": Agnes Martin (who I consider a romantic), Donald Judd, and Fred Sandback have all been important to me aesthetically.

My work, however, doesn't emulate theirs. Early on I felt that, being female, I was released from having to hew closely to received forms and strategies espoused in a male dominated field. I instinctively perceived my practice as aligned with that of women working in the 1960s, '70s, and early '80s whose work was highly original and self-determined. Pat Steir, Ree Morton, and Kazuko Miyamoto in particular have been touchstones over the years.

In addition to your art practice, you have what I would call a “big job”. Would you please describe this for our readers?

It's a colossal job. For thirty-two years I've been Curator of the LeWitt Collection, a body of over twelve-thousand works of art made by or collected by Sol LeWitt. If we were a museum, I'd be all the departments! I essentially created the job, as there as no one doing it before Sol hired me. We evolved it together. When he was alive I kept track of the work he produced in his studio and shipped it to galleries all over the world. I worked with him on three major retrospectives with catalogs.

“For thirty-two years I’ve been Curator of the LeWitt Collection, a body of over twelve-thousand works of art made by or collected by Sol LeWitt. If we were a museum, I’d be all the departments.”

My job still involves the storage, maintenance, and conservation oversight of the twelve-thousand objects under my care, as well as facilitating loans to museum and gallery exhibitions, facilitating research by visiting curators and art historians, overseeing photography, scanning and interpreting thousands of pieces of archival material, and responding to myriad outside inquiries. I also consult on the restoration of LeWitt works in collections around the world, give lectures, interviews, and gallery talks.

It was an almost unfathomable privilege to witness up close the practice of such a brilliant and successful artist (I write that with sincerity and without hyperbole) and get to know his work so intimately. I learned a lot from him and from my colleagues (still learning). The job has also given me some important friendships, and directly and indirectly led to exhibition opportunities for my own work.

Here at AIM Higher, we are very interested in work/life balance, or art/work/life balance. Do you have a routine that is working well for you or is it a daily struggle?

I’m not really looking for balance. My art is dominant. That includes my writing practice which is merging more and more with the visual art. I have a studio in my home so I can be in it as much as possible. I have a three-day-a-week job that's enough to support myself on, and a four-day block of time for my art.

There's never as much time as I would like, of course. I try to stretch time by not rushing. In a strange way, this works. Staying calm. My husband is creative too and is of similar temperament to me. He's happy in his own head and doesn't need a lot attention, so we co-exist peacefully. Same with my wonderful friends. They're either like me or they love me enough to understand my need for alone time and to be in the studio.

“I’m not really looking for balance. My art is dominant. Struggle, in this context, is vital. It forces us to define our values, gives us something to push against and keeps us from complacency.”

Still, I worry that I seem elusive to some. That I'm able to be a constant friend and keep my loved ones close is probably my biggest source of anxiety in terms of how I parcel out my time and energy. Without the people I love, my life would be nothing. My arrangements aren't perfect solutions. There are plenty of things I'd like to do and some I probably should do but there's no room.

Anybody with an imagination can imagine living a different kind of life, with different priorities. Struggle, in this context, is vital. It forces us to define our values, gives us something to push against and keeps us from complacency. Complacency is deadly. Sacrifices and compromises are the measure of the strength of my commitment to my art.

I'm proud of how many balls I keep in the air and what I accomplish. It's a privilege to be able to make choices about how I live my life.

You mentioned that Sol Lewitt is known for his support of women artists. Can you give us an example?

In 1965 and 1976 respectively, Sol took the time to write thoughtful responses to the artists Eva Hesse and Irene Barberis, each of whom had written to him in distress. Hesse was experiencing debilitating self-doubt, likely due to tacit (and perhaps overt) messages she was receiving from certain men about the value of her work. The letter he wrote to her, nicknamed the "DO" letter, is five pages long, a ranting litany of encouragement in ballpoint. It's been reproduced numerous times and is a source of inspiration for many artists. When the male professors in Barberis' art program were telling her she couldn't pursue the spiritual subject matter she wanted to address in her work, Sol, much older and more established than Barberis, wrote to her immediately, dismissing her adversaries and telling her to do exactly what she wanted. That letter has been lost, but it still looms large in Barberis' psyche.

Sol LeWitt’s “Do” letter to Eva Hesse, 1965, image courtesy Letters of Note

One of the most succinct examples of Sol's attitude about women is a note in Rosemary Mayer’s archive that he wrote in 1970: "Dear Museum of Modern Art, Rosemary Mayer is a real artist. [signed] Sol LeWitt”.

In that era many men refused to take women seriously as artists and were outspoken and cruel in their disdain. Most likely, the men felt threatened by these extraordinary women. Sol recognized that women were at a disadvantage, and he was happy to provide entry for them into the art world, for example introducing Hanne Darboven to his New York dealers when she came over from Germany, and encouraging them to show her work.

He did the same for some men. He respected everybody equally and was interested in fairness and in good art being shown. Sol was the first person to buy Jackie Ferrara’s work, from a gallery show 1974. He went on to acquire eight pieces by her. He collected Pat Steir, Sylvia Mangold, Eva Hesse, Shirazeh Houshiary, and Kazuko Miyamoto in depth. Others as well.

Despite your being a woman and an artist, you recently shared with me that you reject the label “women artist,” and do not feel that you have lacked for opportunities due to your gender. For example, you suggested that a show of women artists from the Lewitt Collection be called “Sting. Steal. Spit. Bite.” rather than “Women Artists from the Lewitt Collection,” noting that it would be unheard of to call a show “Men Artists from the Lewitt Collection.” Can you talk a bit more about your perspective, which I find inspiring?

“Until women can just be referred to as artists, we won’t have equality. Language is powerful. ”

As an artist I never felt discriminated against on the basis of my sex, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. It most certainly does. I guess I've been lucky in that regard. As for the label "woman artist" it troubles me because it implies that male artists are the norm and the default. Women are a sub-group. Until women can just be referred to as artists, we won't have equality. Language is powerful.

In 2021, The New Britain Museum of American Art wanted to do a show called "Women Artists from the LeWitt Collection". The show was curated quite well by a male artist, Andy Robertson, who included my work. My request was that the title not include the words "Women Artists", my reasoning being that there have been thousands of shows of all male artists and I've never heard of one called "Men Artists". Why should the subject matter of an all-woman show have to be about it being an all-woman show? Why must gender be the unifying theme?

I suggested the title "Steel, String, Spit Bite", moving the conversation to the range and diversity of materials and processes with with which artists work. (Spit Bite is an etching process.) Of course, my choice of tough-sounding words was deliberate.

You do make an exception for Gwenolee Zurcher’s Women of Spirit salon. SALON ZÜRCHER’s “Women of Spirit” salons took as inspiration the 18th-century French term Femmes d’esprit, which referred to female painters, writers, and intellectuals, routinely under-recognized by their male contemporaries and the public. Three centuries later, it is interesting that this term still resonates. Your own work was included in their 2021 Part 4 salon, which I regret not having been able to see. Tell us a little more about it, and your overall experience with and knowledge of this project.

“The title “Women of Spirit” is a far cry from “Women Artists.” As a designation it is respectful and uplifting, not marginalizing. ”

Gwenolee Zürcher is an important force in raising the profile of older women who have done and are doing significant art and never received the attention they deserved. She’s an energetic warrior when it comes to righting the wrongs of the past, placing the work of overlooked women in important private and museum collections and garnering positive reviews in prominent art journals. She also produces long-overdue catalogs that may be the first or only documents dedicated to these artists. She's done the same for at least one man, but her primary focus is on women.

I was proud to be included in "11 Women of Spirit, Part 4". The atmosphere was collegial and welcoming to the participating artists and gallery visitors—a level of openness and rapport such as I’ve never experienced in any other New York gallery. That one week I had more stimulating conversations than I'd had in years. I loved being with a group of creative women all around my time of life or older, all serious artists who have been striving for decades. The title “Women of Spirit” is a far cry from “Women Artists”. As a designation it is respectful and uplifting, not marginalizing.

In your 2021 interview with Meg Hitchcock, which I highly recommend reading, you said “I’m very ambitious, but my ambition is about making the absolute best work I can make, and the only way to do that is to be totally honest and unsparing. It took me a while to get to this place, but now I’m comfortable with it, and it feels beautiful.” Since women can be derided for being overly ambitious, I’m curious to explore your statement a little further. Can you talk about the journey getting to your current definition of ambition, and what your previous definition of ambition was, for example?

What's different about my definition of ambition now is that it's both more determined, and mellower, than when I was younger. Clearer. Funny to think about now but when I was young I thought I might become an art star, which was a thing in the 80s and 90s. I expected to be a prominent part of the conversation, be sought after, maybe have my picture on the cover of an art magazine. I went around to galleries with my slides and I actually imagined some dealer would detect my brilliance and give me a show. I think maybe on some level I knew this was unlikely, but it seemed like an appropriate ambition to have, and I really didn't know any other kind of art career to aspire to.

Naturally, I became frustrated and discouraged. Never, though, did I consider compromising my work. Excellence was always the dominant part of my ambition, l knew the only way to achieve excellence was to keep pushing my own vision to its edge, even if that didn't bring me the career I wanted.

“What’s different about my definition of ambition now is that it’s both more determined, and mellower, than when I was younger. I realized that there are as many ways to have an art career as there are artists.”

One day, through my job at the LeWitt Collection, I met the artists William Anastasi and Dove Bradshaw. I invited them to see a solo show I had on in Connecticut at the time. Bill invited me to trade work with him. We developed a friendship and over the years Dove curated me into shows in Copenhagen and Cologne. I went on to have more shows with the gallery in Cologne, Thomas Rehbein, and then was included in a huge museum survey in Wolfsburg, which led to inclusion in a museum show in Melbourne. That in turn renewed my acquaintance and subsequent friendship with Sol's old friend Irene Barberis, who showed my work again in Melbourne and has now organized a show for the two of us in Rome. I'd also met Kazuko Miyamoto, another old friend of Sol. She ran a small gallery on the Lower East Side before it was fashionable, and she showed my work there several times. Our aesthetics were compatible and she was an important source of inspiration and moral support for years when I otherwise felt left out.

It was through her that I eventually met Gwenolee Zürcher. As all of this played out, my idea of ambition was shifting. I realized that there are as many ways to have an art career as there are artists, and that my art career would develop through a network of warm and respectful personal relationships. I'm not looking for stardom so much as solid recognition. Beating down doors is not my way, though it might work for others. I've learned to trust the process, both in terms of developing the work itself, and in terms of career.

In your most recent artist statement, you use the term “disruption” in relation to some of your earlier work. In your MFA thesis, I remember, similarly, your describing a desire for your poetry to “disrupt” or “rupture” language/diction/syntax. Do I remember correctly and if so, can you say more about why disruption has been so compelling to you in your practice and what you hope to achieve by privileging it?

The gap between rational thought and intuition is a place I find compelling. Disruption is an attempt to bridge that gap, or at least illuminate it, or maybe even just throw something down into it and listen for an echo. The world isn't a sense-making place and life isn't a sense making endeavor. Disruption is a thwarting of expectations that therefore stretches possibility. There is disruption in weaving but I don't drive it. The process is highly rational but the thread, the loom, and the weaver are organic and fallible. Threads get tangled seemingly of their own accord, which makes me absolutely gleeful.

“The kindest things each of us can do for ourselves is accept our fallibility and forgive ourselves.”

At the end of our phone call, I told you that I have no regrets about my busy schedule. You replied that “you don’t believe in regrets.” I loved that, and wondered if you could say a little more about why you don’t believe in regrets?

Regret is based on a false sense of clarity. The most eye-opening thing my former therapist said to me when I expressed a particular regret was, "Life is messy". That rang so true to me that I forgave myself for many things immediately! We make our choices in the trenches. The kindest things each of us can do for ourselves is accept our fallibility and forgive ourselves.