Another entry in the list of terrible biographies. Mostly I read this because curious about David Ireland’s life before art (he started making art in his 40s), when he was an insurance salesman for 7 years in Bellingham and had a wife and kids. Every other work seemed to gloss over those years, but at least Klausner gets to the bottom of the gossipy stuff for me. I’m also bored bored bored of reading about men who all gather and do art and lift each other up and yak yak yak about their process. Perhaps I’m still in a crabby mood after viewing the 1973 film Painters Painting yesterday, wherein only Helen Frankenthaler was the only woman interviewed, albeit briefly, and one of the dumb questions was “Is it hard to be a woman artist?” which she deflected by saying basically it’s hard to be an artist, period. Some of my rage boiled over onto reading DI’s biography, I guess, but it was also extremely poorly written/researched. One thing I will agree with in DI’s point of view is that a life can be an artwork. But this book is neither life nor art.