May 29th, 2013
Dear Mr. Ovitz:
This letter comes to you after several years of rumination. I was hired indirectly by you to assist in the creation of the Sol Lewitt drawing installation that you purchased for your Beverly Hill’s estate. I wish to thank you for your dedication in supporting the arts and for facilitating the opportunity for this brief employment. With that said, the intent of this letter is not to usher you mere praise for your status as an elite art collector.
To provide a little context as to why you are receiving this letter, it will be necessary to back track a few years. The year was 2009 and your estate was still undergoing the process of construction. Even at this early stage the expansive undertaking was impressive. Devouring the entire peak of prime Beverly Hills real estate much of the house’s intricate 28,000 square feet were still only a hollow impression of greatness to come. The gleaming perforated metal exterior had not been unveiled. And the fashionably sleek elevator was not fully functioning. It was well before the sod was laid across the expansive grounds. It was before the pavement had been poured for the lengthy arching driveway. It was well before all the surveillance cameras were installed and the first Rothko was hung. And before the team of house staff was hired.
It was during this ‘before’ stage that I traveled to your estate for several months. Each day consisted of parking at the bottom of the hill and climbing the steep gravel road that led to your property with the sole objective of scribbling upon the fresh walls of your entry foyer. In a haze of graphite dust the sanctioned Lewitt drawing gradually took shape from light to dark - dark to light, and so forth. Welcoming visitors into the clutches of the Ovitz art collection, this drawing installation served as the constant reminder that this would be an estate that would showcase some very high profile art to come.
Fresh out of undergrad art school and witnessing a private collector as yourself embark upon creating a home that would undoubtedly function as a quasi-institution, instilled within me regaling foresight. Being a young struggling artist fulfilling the role of hired labor to create another artist’s work is all too common, yet necessary for all parties involved. Can an artist successfully function with any longevity outside the bounds of commerce? Sure, such a romantic notion is theoretically possible but it is nonetheless...rare. And as I am sure you will steadfastly acknowledge ‘exchange value’ is a peril that is simply inescapable. That being said, since you are the former head founder of an elite talent agency, I can surmise that just as you chose to represent pre-eminent validated talent, it is just natural to have a fundamental preference to represent only validated works of art for your collection. The thought of complacent ordinariness is probably enough to send quivers down your spine.
This brings me to an artistic gesture that I would like to share with you at this time. It was inadvertently made possible by you as I worked on your Lewitt drawing. One day on the way to work I climbed the steep gravel drive that led to your property just as I had routinely done. But on this particular morning halfway up the steep drive I experienced a sudden jolt of pain in my foot. As I continued climbing the hill the pain continued to intensify. As I finally reached the destination of the entry foyer, I discovered that I had a stone in my shoe. I wish I could relay to you my reasoning at the time, but, instead of promptly removing it from my shoe, I chose to instead leave that stone in place for the day’s work. Perhaps it was artistic inspiration, or just shear stupidity. I went on with the day’s labor becoming quite accustomed to the stabbing pain. At day’s end I finally relieved my foot of the anguish that had been caused by the little stone and finally removed it. I took the stone home and stared at it. The stone sat for days isolated. To symbolically solidify the exchange I decided to take the stone and cast it in bronze. Transferred into bronze it became a remarkably expensive object that was stunningly unimpressive. To round out the exchange I knew what had to be done next.
I placed the stone of bronze into my shoe, climbed the hill once again and went to work at your estate. During lunchtime I slipped away from the designated drawing area and wandered the half completed house with the bronze in shoe. I ended up in the one area of the house that was fully completed...the house’s equivalent of a basement. Although, it resembled more of submarine than a basement the concrete bunker contained a dizzying array of conduit pipes, layers of wires, and circuit breakers. It was perfect, the grounded epicenter of the entire estate. I removed my shoe, took out the bronze stone and delicately placed it the southeast corner and returned to work. The transaction was finalized.
So why are you receiving this letter? All pretenses aside, I was concerned that this could be interpreted as some hyped metaphor of artistic grandeur or come across as the classic scenario of an accusatory ranting by a cynical artist. I really don’t have the intention to dogmatically assign harsh judgment upon the environment in which you choose to live, the lifestyle in which you are accustomed, your taste or status, or just the fact that you are so successfully wealthy. My intention is simply to share with you a perspective from an artist who is invisible to you, one of the many. So this letter does not come to solely inform you of a gesture of art within your ‘collection’ that could be deemed utterly irrelevant. This letter comes to you because I wish to articulate that I am entirely grateful to you for providing one such artist with the symbiotic clarity that satisfies your role as collector, and my role as artist.
Most likely the stone in your estate has long since been swept clean by some unsuspecting member of the cleaning crew. But just perhaps, in the event that the stone from my shoe still remains, it is truly a privilege to be part of your collection.
Sincerely,
Adam Paul Mason