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opposite to the expressionistic aesthetic Carolee was exploring. There was absolutely no confusing our work at any time.
MacDonald:
To an extent, the consciousness of audience and the willingness to confront audience expectations give
Line Describing a Cone
and
Fuses
[Schneemann's landmark erotic film was completed in 1967] one common dimension. Both create a new audience space, where people are very conscious of each other.
McCall:
The brilliant thing about
Fuses
is that it's silent. My memory of seeing that film in an audienceis the constant sense of tension created by the subject matter of the film. One can feel and hear the tension because there is no sound track to cover it. However, the word you used was "confront," which is something I never felt in terms of the "Cone" series. The "Cone" films are rather ethereal in a way. If they're aggressive and confrontational, it's because they're
passive
. They ask to be found; they don't set out to root you to the spot.
MacDonald:
I know you do free-lance design work. Is that how you've supported yourself?
McCall:
I have a small graphic-design business with which I've supported myself since I left art school. These days it's more full-time than it was when I first was here.
MacDonald:
Is it fair to ask you what sort of clients you have?
McCall:
Sure. A large proportion of them are galleries. What I do for them is design their general look and everything they need, including announcements, posters, catalogues, the ads they put in art magazines, business cards, stationery . . .
MacDonald:
Which galleries?
McCall:
The Mary Boone Gallery, the Delahunty Gallery, Blum Helman, Sherry French, Pace, Rosenberg, and many others.
MacDonald:
Do you think of your experience as a designer as separate from your films?
McCall:
I'd always considered it to be completely separate from my filmmaking, a way of filling in the gaps between grants. But gradually my attitude toward it changed. You begin to feel very strange if you spend three-quarters of your time doing work to make money, but describe yourself in terms of work that only takes twenty to twenty-five percent of your time.
The relationship between money and the making of art is complex. Grants were supposed to work like this: You got grants as a young artist to help you through that difficult period. By the time you were in your thirties, you were supposed to have a gallery to sell your work and give you a living. But though painters and filmmakers in New York shared a social and intellectual space in the seventies, their economic structure was utterly different. Painting is supported by a smaller number of peo-