Indeed

Sometimes on sunny days when I see the road peel away from me, it is everything I can do, not to keep driving. I don't suspect I'm alone.

*image courtesy Postsecret

Perspectives

Let me begin by saying that I will vote for Obama. It’s pretty simple really. But most of you probably knew that. However, as much as I support him for president, I think it’s important to keep in perspective that he is a politician, and therefore an open target.

The recent cover of Obama and Michele on the cover of The New Yorker doesn’t vilify their character or persons, as much as it pokes fun at those paranoid psychos that actually espouse views that Obama is “un-American,” –whatever that means, and that he’s a flag-burning extremist (Muslim or otherwise) with nefarious plans for office.

However, I find it equally galling that because so many people see in Obama a hope for a better tomorrow, that he is somehow exempt from political cartooning.

Was the picture offensive or in poor taste? Perhaps. But really isn’t that the role of the artist—to upend thoughts and challenge the statue quo—and in doing so, the cartoonist especially is participating in a time-honored, deeply American tradition, the lampooning of leaders lest these same leaders forget that they too (for all their power) are ultimately only citizens.

tryptophan junky

Those of you that know me might know that I was once a vegetarian. For ten years I ate a diet heavy in fruits, veggies, soy-product (in fact, I still like to eat marinated soy “steaks” raw out of the packaging...to the disgust of many friends), and candy.

Then, bacon returned to my life...and with it a slow at first, then exponential increase in carnivorous desire. Finally, late one night, I found myself standing in my parents’ kitchen--pulse racing, tangibly afraid of being discovered--digging leftover hunks of turkey out of the Thanksgiving carcass. A tryptophan junky.

It was then that I re-embraced the morally-dubious, yet inevitable deliciousness of flesh. Though I still eat it sparingly, and rarely (if ever) down a steak...given a chance and a slab of maple bacon, I’ll hork it down quite happily--especially if it is accompanied by bicuits cooked in that same bacon’s fat.

Enjoy the above diagram, thoughtfully provided to me by my friend Juniper...herself a world-class porkficionnado (not to mention fantastic actor and wonderful chef).

Vacation-ish

Growing up, I spent a lot of time at Cleveland’s Museum of Art. Housed in a grand old Beaux Arts style building overlooking vast grounds including a duck pond, orchard, lawn, and fountain, the museum is the repository of some of my fondest memories. From making cement animals with Mr. Maars, to my later stint as an intern and teacher’s aide in those same art classes, I can still close my eyes and picture just about every gallery perfectly: the floorplan of the museum unfolding in my head. It’s a soothing memory—not just specific incidents, but the museum itself.

Now, the museum is undergoing its second expansion in it’s almost century-long life. And while I am mostly excited, I am also nervous…its like my memories are being retrofitted. The architect, Rafael Vinoly, is visually building on the expansion that took place in 1971 under architect Marcel Breuer. Horizontal granite stripes play off of the classical structure in a way that has always made me think of a sailor’s shirt against a suit. I am not sure if it is entirely effective, but it is so deeply ingrained in my sense of that place that it is gratifying to see the nod towards the original expansion...which makes it hard to be objective.

So, I will be in Cleveland for the grand re-opening. I will try to post...but we all know how vacation blogging seems to fall by the wayside.

*images "courtesy" The Cleveland Plain Dealer

Deeply Dangerous and Working Class Theatre

Yesterday I posted about the decision-making and reasons that the arts get lousy coverage (or so it often seems). In that post, I mentioned that often, writers with little to no art background are asked to tackle the arts.

Imagine my surprise when I ran across a series of articles/reviews in The Guardian where they’d adopted that premise, if only for a day. “What would happen if the Guardian's sports and arts writers swapped jobs? In yesterday’s G2, arts critics tackled sport. Today, the sports team take on sculpture, opera, dance and music.

Here it is appropriate to pause for a moment and remember that though these are writers out of their usual place, they are still writers for one of the world’s foremost publications. One may assume that they have a persuasive grasp of language and descriptors.

That said, both sides had some rather elegant thoughts on the subjects they knew nothing about. Even though most of the essays were couched in first-person, mildly autobiographical terms. A way, I suppose, to remain humble and not end up making an enemy of a co-worker by discounting his or her work.

Though not terribly insightful, the essays are nonetheless delightful to read in an almost P.G. Wodehouse-esque manner: slightly farcical and elegant. From Thomas Castaignède’s (rugby writer) description that he found the opera to be a “revelation,” to Judith Mackrell’s (dance critic) admission that horse racing is (initially at least) “addictive.”

However, the more surprising aspect of the two “sides,” was that the arts writers seemed to be universally less engaged in sports, than the “jocks” found themselves to be in art. In fact, Steve Bierley, the tennis correspondent, wrote (tellingly) of Louise Bourgeois’s Pompidou Centre exhibition, “Watch sport and you think about sport. Observe art and you discover yourself. Spirals, nests, lairs, refuges. Bourgeois leads you to dark places you are not sure you want to revisit. Sport is the toyshop; Bourgeois proffers no hint of a welcome. Even the “je t’aime” embroidered on the pillow in one of her claustrophobic rooms seemed like a threat…This woman is deeply dangerous.”

Perhaps it illustrates something about the very nature of art: though not always ideologically accessible, it is perhaps more readily synthesizable than sports which have seemingly endless arcane rules and leave little time for reflection. On the other hand, it might just illustrate the hauteur with which critics often approach the opiates and entertainments of the hoi polloi.

And then there’s this, from Kevin McCarra, chief football writer, on contemporary dance: Tero Saarinen’s Next of Kin “Next of Kin is meant to be a tale about the struggle of an individual, but it had no drive or direction. You want existential crisis, Mr. Saarinen? I'll give you existential crisis. Three days before, I watched John Terry miss the penalty that would have won the Champions League for Chelsea. Maybe it's a terrible fuss for a supposed grown-up to make about a mere sport, but it was striking to witness a millionaire whose wealth is no consolation when his life has been invested in this game. Saarinen's work did not grip me like that.”

Perhaps it boils down to nothing more than a matter of taste. But it is fun to read anyway.

The Way of the Dinosaurs

Many of you know that I work for a local publication. Many of you have also commented to me on the topics/artists/etc…that we cover. One friend in fact, finds it endlessly amusing to tease me about a particularly windy story on watergardens that I penned.

However, other, less kind things have been said to me: to my face, in my home, while consuming my wine. From the conjecture that I’ve slept with interviewees who garner more than one article in a season or year, to the idea that—as a writer—I am only capable of regurgitating an artist’s thesis, or, that I lurk around the scene attempting to write “exposes” on locally infamous artists, people feel comfortable, and justified saying all kinds of things.

I can only imagine the kinds of things said behind closed doors…and that, really, is fine.

However, when I ran across this article a couple of days ago, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, because it basically confirms those things about print media’s relationship to art, that everyone already suspects to be true.

These include young attractive artists, artists with gimmicks, artists whose sales break records, and a host of other "sensational" reasons are the people that get covered. Which of course leads to artists who actively seek these sorts of things/situations out, creating a distrust between the viewing public, writers and even other artists.

However, this is not an attempt to foist the faults of the critical system onto artists. Many daily newspapers have been forced to cut back on staff and consolidate duties, so now the same guy who writes knowledgably about music is trying to wrap his head around art (incidentally John Updike often rails in the New Yorker about art/architecture he hates. Good, if occationally uninformed stuff), it’s a formula designed to fail. And if not fail, then languish in the “human interest,” category...somewhere between AP celebrity feeds and community columnists.

By no means is this a blanket statement; it stands to reason that there are probably more writers out there fighting for stories that newer see print than the public can give them credit for. But, because newspapers and print media occupy an idealistic place in culture, we are doubly disappointed and angered when dubious and self-serving relationships are revealed. Then the credibilty of a publication gets undermined and an endless cycle begins.

And sometimes, speaking from personal experience, you get tired of trying to fight the good fight...and go start a navel-gazing blog.

Soporific!

I have always been an avid supporter of the nap. In fact, it is not at all uncommon for me to average 1-2 naps a week, and friends know that if they call me during a certain time of day, its likely that I’ll answer the phone sounding confused/crazy/like Tom Waits.

However, since college, I have found naps to be a way of staying alert and feeling good (this presupposes I wake up and don’t sleep through ‘till morning). And though there are lots of articles out there to support my views, when I found the above chart, I thought it worth sharing…especially for those of us trying to find the time, energy, and clarity to work outside of the 9-5 grind.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go fluff my pillow (without shame).

*incidentally, the painting pictured is Lucian Freud's Benefits Supervisor Sleeping, it recently sold at auction for $33.64 million.

Stoked

I'm super-stoked that a story project I am working on with my brother and grandfather (both pictured here in front of the house my g-pa's father built with his own hands) is (so far) working out.

More information as I (hopefully) progress. Suffice to say it also involves a cache of letters between my great-grandfather and great-grandmother that spans their entire lives.

Sometimes, Obvious is OK

I ran across this article in the Times today about the Lichtenstein show at Larry Gagosian’s gallery.

In addition to writing a bubbly, sort of sunny review of the show, Roberta Smith makes a few really wonderful points:

“These paintings are themselves bursts, hot flashes of composition, America, humor and color galvanized and made one by pictorial intelligence. Because their visual machinations are perfectly obvious, they make normally arcane terms like form and formalism exhilaratingly accessible. Basically we watch them work.”

dot*dot*dot*

"This show makes especially clear how Lichtenstein’s work functions as a kind of prime in looking at and understanding the grand fiction of painting: the thought it requires, its mechanics, its final simplicity and strangeness. These great paintings convey all this in a flash of pleasure, compounded by the thrill of understanding."

“Roy Lichtenstein: Girls” continues through June 28 at the Gagosian Gallery, 980 Madison Avenue, near 77th Street, (212) 744-2313, gagosian.com

the yumness

I am pleased to share that my good friend, artist Tonya Lee has started her own blog.

Slim on words, but heavy on beautiful images, the blog, Southern Atlantic Shark's Tooth Society reveals beauty in unexpected places. In addition, Lee has posted a link to an article where a high-school student has figured out a way to help manage the "plastic epidemic."

It make s for good and hopeful reading...as I am guessing the blog will.

Better to Obey or Resist?

I found this Florida-based independent artist-run store, Resist Today the other day whilst tooling around the interweb. Though I'm not fully sold on all of their products (lots of the layered imagery we've been seeing so much of), I really liked the tone and some of the information on their blog.

Enjoy!

el monstro

"Art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices." –Oscar Wilde

The recent flap over at jaxcal has got me thinking. Not about monster art per se, but about the grotesque/monstrous/malformed in a historical context.

Art historically, the term grotesque originally referred to the various decorative arabesques, interlaced garlands, and fantastic animal figures discovered in ancient Roman ruins in the 15th century. Later, the word was used to describe the forms often found on/in Gothic churches, and in contemporary parlance, the word is understood to mean the strange, fantastic, ugly or bizarre.

The Oxford English Dictionary describes grotesque as: (n) 1561, a. A kind of decorative painting or sculpture, consisting of representations of portions of human and animal forms, fantastically combined and interwoven with foliage and flowers. b. A work of art in this style. Chiefly pl., figures or designs in grotesque; in popular language, figures or designs characterized by comic distortion or exaggeration. The Italian form grottesco (pl. grotteschi) is sometimes used.

Monster as: (n) 1375, Originally: a mythical creature which is part animal and part human, or combines elements of two or more animal forms, and is frequently of great size and ferocious appearance. Later, more generally: any imaginary creature that is large, ugly, and frightening. The centaur, sphinx, and minotaur are examples of ‘monsters’ encountered by various mythical heroes; the griffin, wyvern, etc., are later heraldic forms.

The use of fantastical forms has a long and storied history in art. Hieronymus Bosch famously used twisted and disfigured forms to illustrate the innate evil in man. Odilon Redon used the monstrous and grotesque in his work to “place us [the viewer], as does music, in the ambiguous realm of the undetermined.” While closer to home, the artist John Casey (a.k.a. Bunnywax) says “…the physical malformations my characters have are the result of biomorphology. My theory is if one could distort one's body based on one's emotion or psychological state, what would that look like? What if the body formed strange huge club-like limbs or a floating head on it's own, without the control of the owner? Whether the figure is in control of that morphing, I'm not one hundred percent sure. I think it varies from work to work.”

And when the word “monster” is applied to his work: “I'm actually okay with the word if it is used in the complex sense of the concept as in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, a being who is ostracized from society but a being who also has complex emotions and a desire to belong, to be loved. The more simplistic idea of the monster being evil is what I reject. There is no such thing as pure evil.”

However, I might float the opinion that this contemporary work is a cultural reaction: these artists might be attempting to synthesize the increasingly extreme and horror-filled world we live in with the creation of literal monsters?

Then there is our shared (mostly) Judeo-Christian heritage that has a huge history of monsters, from the Biblical Leviathan to the Devil himself (based, we now know, on the Roman/Greek god Pan). Whether or not these devils, deities, and monsters were based purely in the imagination, or on objects discovered by ancient people (like dinosaur’s bones), they are ingrained in our psyche, even if they only make a fleeting appearance as the thing that goes bump in the night.

Are these a cultural manifestation a la Carl Jung? Shared terror that gets denuded with a “cute,” perspective? I.e. if we draw them, then they cannot harm us?

Or is it something simpler? A use of humor, whimsy, and imagination to create visual contradictions that are at once sympathetic and provocative. A break from the maxim to create art about “real” issues like poverty, war, and famine. Categories so broad as to be rendered virtually meaningless by non-specificity.

A Breath Of Civility

I ran across a mention of Maya Lin's Systematic Landscapes mention in the L.A. Times and later found a short documentary on it on youtube. The works are deceptively simple and force the viewer to consider the natural environment and humanity's impact on it in a non-didactic manner that evokes concern and questions rather than strident arguments and ugly finger-pointing.

Found Treasures

I promised that I'd write about where I'd been:

Two weeks ago I spent time at my family's lake house in northern Michigan. And despite the cold (fire was the only source of heat) and the somewhat remote location of our cabin, I never felt unengaged. That is, there wasn't a time when I was bored, when I longed for the television, or even a movie (and I brought my laptop just in case).

In between hiking through the woods and discovering a pile of stones reputed to be the foundations of an ancient farmhouse, hunting for fossils on the beach (my brother found one, I didn't…but his fossil mistakenly got packed with some of my found treasures), and rummaging around the attic and old barn, my days where filled.

My brother and I found a few things: my father's diary from 1957—from which we read aloud to the hilarity of the rest of the family, we rediscovered the hayloft in the barn filled, oddly, with timber and an overstuffed chair from the 50s that the mice had had their way with, and we stumbled across the rules to the skeet range from the 40s-60s. We read the first rule: 'Absolutely no drinking on the range'…and my father wondered aloud if a sober breath had ever been pulled there.

There were other, more minor discoveries as well: family photos, and old books made new again, plus a return to simplicity.

Now, back in my day-to-day life, I try to hold on to the feeling of easy expansiveness and to remind myself not to get too bound up in things. After all, I am still the same person who tried to sneak up on a wild turkey…just to see what would happen.

What happened? My brother and I got within two feet of it, when it exploded upward out of the underbrush and scared the hell out of us. Then we went to the orchard and began a debate about crabapple trees.

Go North...

I apologize for being away for so long, I've been traveling (more on that later).

Locally, it is worth noting that George Kinghorn has left MOCA Jacksonville. He'll be the chief curator for a small museum in Maine.

So, we wish George the best of luck! Whether or not we always agreed with his curatorial choices matters not; what matters is we were pleased to see George develop his own aesthetic in concert with larger contemporary concerns. He did not remain static.

Further, I understand that the curatorial duties will be absorbed into two existing positions at the museum. I understand that one of the people who will be making some of the new decisions has a very deep interest in cutting-edge contemporary work. It shall be interesting to watch what happens next…

Won't Pass This Way Again

The New York Times reports that Robert Rauschenberg, the irrepressibly prolific American artist who time and again reshaped art in the 20th century, died Monday night. He was 82.

From the Times' piece: "Cage meant that people had come to see, through Mr. Rauschenberg’s efforts, not just that anything, including junk on the street, could be the stuff of art (this wasn’t itself new), but that it could be the stuff of an art aspiring to be beautiful — that there was a potential poetics even in consumer glut, which Mr. Rauschenberg celebrated. “I really feel sorry for people who think things like soap dishes or mirrors or Coke bottles are ugly,” he once said, “because they’re surrounded by things like that all day long, and it must make them miserable.”

From PBS: "Born in Port Arthur, Texas in 1925, Robert Rauschenberg imagined himself first as a minister and later as a pharmacist. It wasn't until 1947, while in the U.S. Marines that he discovered his aptitude for drawing and his interest in the artistic representation of everyday objects and people. After leaving the Marines he studied art in Paris on the G.I. Bill, but quickly became disenchanted with the European art scene. After less than a year he moved to North Carolina, where the country's most visionary artists and thinkers, such as Joseph Albers and Buckminster Fuller, were teaching at Black Mountain College. There, with artists such as dancer Merce Cunningham and musician John Cage, Rauschenberg began what was to be an artistic revolution. Soon, North Carolina country life began to seem small and he left for New York to make it as a painter. There, amidst the chaos and excitement of city life Rauschenberg realized the full extent of what he could bring to painting."

To attempt to mount a suitable eulogy for him would be a sysiphean effort. Instead, I urge you to read the Times' piece, and then go look at his work when the opportunity presents itself.

Summer Time and the Livin' Ain't Easy

You’ve undoubtedly noticed that my regular posting on this site has been suspended. I don’t really have any excuse or reason for this, except that it’s spring, and I seem to have a severe case of Spring Fever. I find myself less and less able to give measured pronouncements about art and culture because more and more I am inclined to piddle in my backyard, or go treasure-hunting at the beach.

That is not to say that I plan to abandon the site, instead, I will attempt to post interesting thoughts to this site as I find them, and the occational review of a show.

Speaking of shows, Al Letson is mounting Summer In Sanctuary on the 17 & 18 of May at Theatre Jacksonville. Tickets are $15.00 and well worth it.

My review from a couple of weeks ago is here.

Solid Foundations...

Not to beat a dead horse, but I ran across this article concerning the development of young artists in the Wall Street Journal.

I remember how desirous I was to "shake off the shackles of conformity," when I was in high school, and later in college. However, the value in grounding oneself in solid practices can only result in stronger work, both aesthetically and conceptually later on.

Now I wish I hadn't rushed through my foundation courses.

The Laughter of the Dali Lama

In the film, 10 Questions for the Dali Lama, travel filmmaker-turned-pilgrim Rick Ray traveled to Dharamsala, India after he was able to secure a 45 minute audience with His Holiness the 14th Dali Lama.

Ray weaves an overview of the Dali Lama’s life and by extension, the Chinese invasion of Tibet into the narrative of his journey. Using grainy black and white footage and archival film that looks as if it must’ve been smuggled out from behind Chinese lines, he creates a compelling reason for a closer look into the Chinese/Tibetan conflict. And later, a brief interview with a Chinese political prisoner. Indeed, it is worth nothing that Tibetan political refugees still make the 1,200 mile treck from Tibet to Dharamsala for asylum.

Using a deft touch, Ray illustrates the devastation the Chinese government has wrought in just 4 decades on thousands of years of culture and tradition. 10 Questions also raises the very real, and very ugly specter of an eventual impostor Lama, put in place by the Chinese government. But even in the face of that which others might consider the ultimate blasphemy, the Lama just says that he feels sorry for the person the Chinese will select for the job.

However, it is without a doubt that the Dali Lama himself steals the show. Laughing and smiling throughout the interview, His Holiness answers those questions (in between infectious giggles that seem to suggest that though existence is absurd, it should be enjoyed) that in our hearts, we already know the answers to. That compassion, understanding, tolerance, festivals and picnics are the route to a better world. He also notes that while every life is precious, there can be too many precious lives for planetary sustainability.

But perhaps that is his cause, not to reveal arcane secrets of the universe; but to reinforce--to say and keep saying--those things that we know in our hearts to be true: compassion, love, and understanding are the things that matter most. And birth control is a good idea.

The Pen, The Sword, Lost and Found?

John Ruskin is widely acknowledged to be the father of art criticism. And though he wrote in a time, and of place in a manner that largely reflected a concern for the aesthetic nature of an item (be it building or painting) it was his writings that largely are said to have brought art appreciation (or theories of it anyway) to the masses.

Later in life, he suffered from mental disease that rendered his writings more and more incomprehensible, and was also in love with a girl (Rose LaTouche) many years his junior. Famously his first marriage (before he met Rose) was annulled because of his impotence. Ever since, the rumor has been that because his nude wife did not bear a hairless resemblance to the Greek and Roman nudes he’d studied, he could not perform.

However, his dictum, “that art was essentially concerned to communicate an understanding of nature, and that authentic artists should reject inherited conventions in order to appreciate and study effects of form and colour by direct observation,” is still felt today. He said, “go to nature in all singleness of heart, rejecting nothing and selecting nothing.”

I mention him here and now because he was recently name-checked in an article that wittily decries the overburdensome texts accompanying this year’s Whitney Biennial.

Culling other writers' quotes, Eric Gibson waxes rather poetic about the mind-numbing, circular gibberish that accompanied this year’s show. Though I know that I've gone on about the dangers of artspeak before, Gibson does a really wonderful job of illustrating why it is so dully dangerous.

Jesus Loves You and I Do Too

Al Letson

Willie Evans Jr.

In the book The Corner, writers David Simon and Edward Burns chronicle a year in the life of the McCullough family—DeAndre and his divorced parents: Gary and Fran. The book is wrenching in its unflinching look into life at the nexus of drug life in Baltimore. The Corner acts as a chronicle of events, neither condemning nor endorsing the actions of its principle characters. In approaching the book from a neutral angle, the authors convey the endless cycles of hope, addiction, despair, and crime that is a reality for tens of thousands of people. Really it’s a glimpse into another (hidden) culture.

So perhaps it was providence that poet Al Letson launched his newest piece, Summer at Sanctuary in Baltimore, a city not unfamiliar with grinding poverty. “Letson is a powerful performer who tells his story by moving fluidly from one role to the next . . . A show full of gems,” The Baltimore Sun.

Summer at Sanctuary is described as a choreopoem, but in truth Letson does very little dancing. What he does do is take the story of his time at spent at Springfield’s Sanctuary at 8th Street, and use it as a lens through which he tells fragments of his life story, and the lives of the children he was working with.

Though he tells us that the consensus from the kids was that “Mr. Al” was corny as hell, the larger story he is telling is one where grown men confront children in the street, with guns drawn. A story where the 15 year-old boy, Biko, must seriously consider whether or not he’s going to kill the man who threatened and shamed him in the street.

These are the kind of dilemmas that most adults are never forced to deal with, let alone a child. So without proselytizing or beating his bear breast, Letson opens the lid of Springfield—and by extension poverty-stricken neighborhoods across the country—and shows the audience how truly bad things are, yet they are not without hope, its just a different and much reduced kind of hope.

The success of Sanctuary rests largely on two things, Letson’s own observations turned into brilliant wordplay, and the production skills of Willie Evans Jr. Consider this: in describing his initial forays into performing in Jacksonville, he cites Stephen Dare as a huge supporter, “one part Beelzebub and one part St. Luke.” It’s as perfect a description as one could desire for the omni-controversial Dare. While Evans, a member of the A.B.’s (formerly Asamov), a producer, and solo artist, brings a light touch to the score that accompanies the work. In fact, it was because his name was attached to the project that my interest was piqued.

Though there are places where the work runs a little long, overall it is a highly cohesive show that does more than memorialize a middle-class poet’s stint as a do-gooder. Indeed, Letson plans to return to the Sanctuary this summer. One wonders what his days there this time around will be like. Will he once again find himself and another staffer holding on to a thrashing eight-year old girl who wants to die, promising her over and over again that “Jesus loves you and I do too?” Or will he, once again by the grace of fate and the universe, be able to hold his own on the b-ball court against a 13 year-old who makes lay-ups look as easy as the simple, laconic flick of a wrist?

Of the piece, Letson wrote on his blog: “Government can’t change the story of Springfield, of poverty, of lost children. Only people can. God may work through governments at times, although evidence of that in recent times is slim to none, but I think it’s in the heart of man, where he whispers his providence. I hope this piece will soften some hearts so they can hear that whisper and do something.”

Though I am not sure when Summer in Sanctuary will be staged again, I suggest that those people who read and listen to David Sedaris, get out and support Mr. Al when it next goes up.

*apologies for the sorry pics. I promise, I am working on getting a better camera.

Perfect Coffee, Every Time

Coffeemakers are ugly. They sit on kitchen counters like cranky gargoyles that are good for only one thing: infusing the senses with a clanging energy--a bullet in the brain.

For most of the Western world, I’d hazard a guess that a morning cup of coffee looks less like watery, bitter mud, and more like salvation in a cup. However, as a confirmed non-drinker of the stuff, I see the coffeemaker perched on my counter less as harbinger of the day-as-yet-unfolded, and more like an assault on the already limited aesthetics of my kitchen (a former crackhouse we’re trying to restore to wholeness).

So when I wandered into Nestliving a few days ago, I was thrilled to discover that they carry the Chemex brand coffee maker. I’d been researching this product for awhile: in addition to the wonderfully simple lines of the mid-century-esque carafe, it supposedly makes the best cup of coffee in the world. And for those of us who like to support good design but have limited means, the 6-cup version (which is for sale at Nest) is a reasonable $33.00. The same price as the website, but sans shipping.

Since I was so pleased with my find, I got to chatting with the owner Shaan Batten. Though admittedly I was a little suspicious as well: the shop seemed to be very similar to Roost, which was in 5 Points a few years ago. I felt a little defensive for Roost, not least because I count its former proprietor, Tonya Lee, among my friends.

However, after Shaan let me wave my arms around and shout about ideas of authenticity and opportunism (okay, I just did that in my head, in reality I brought up the similarity to Roost in a very civilized manner), it turned out I was being ridiculous (a condition I'm pretty used to). Shaan said that he’d taken pains to not carry the same lines as Roost had, and, that his impression had been that the Roost space had been more experimental than what he was attempting to do. And I had to concede the point, in fact, Tonya herself once said, “The shop was never to generate revenue…it was an extension of my obsession with paintings; just more disposable decorative objects.”

Plus, it is really nice to have a shop selling modern-wares in the neighborhood again—it feels like a commitment not just to design that for purely aesthetic reasons feels contemporary, but to design that functions with people. That’s really the crux of good design whether contemporary or Modern: design that functions within the rubric of its time and place.

Sometimes, there is also hope that thoughtful, deliberate, design can begin to permeate other aspects of life…if we were to all become more present and aware, who knows what changes could be wrought? Maybe just golden tiger wallpaper in the dining room…maybe a whole new way of thinking.

So, does that coffeemaker make the best coffee I’ve ever tasted? I don’t know. But it does look wonderful with cut flowers in it.

Incidentally, there's a Grand Opening party at the shop on the 24th. Go out and show some love.

*click on the title to go to Nestliving's webpage.

"I am become death: the shatterer of worlds."

There are schools of though that assert that in death, there is enlightenment, the chance for transformation, or even to be reborn. Then there are sensationalistic simulations/paeans to death. Notably and recently, Damian Hirst's bedazzled skull.

Less glamorously: Guillermo "Habacuc" Vargas' "installation" Eres lo que lees (you are what you read) wherein he is purported to have taken a starving dog from the streets of Nicaragua, tied it to a gallery wall, and let it starve to death over the course of several days during which time an incense bowl full of 175 pieces of crack cocaine was burning as the Sandanista anthem played backwards on a record player.

Though it seems a little too deliberately embroidered to be completely true, the incident has stirred up international outrage in the form of a protest petition being circulated across the web. The main point being that because of his willingness to let a dog die, or a least pretend to, Vargas should not be allowed to exhibit at the prestigious Visual Arts Biennial of the Central Americas. Conceptually his project was weak, and needlessly cruel…showing such a single-note artist weakens the entire Biennial.

According to the site snopes.com, updated on April 14, 2008, the status of the truth of these allegations is "undetermined."

Even more sensationalistically, Yale senior Ali Shvarts' senior thesis project which involved multiple self-inseminations, and then self-induced miscarriages using abortifacient herbs over the course of nine months. Various (online) sources report the student recorded herself, and preserved the blood from the incidents in a freezer.

According to the Yale Daily News, "Shvarts said her project would take the form of a large cube suspended from the ceiling of a room in the gallery of Green Hall. Shvarts said she would wrap hundreds of feet of plastic sheeting around the cube, with blood from her self-induced miscarriages lining the sheeting. Recorded videos of her experiencing her miscarriages would be projected onto the four sides of the cube, Shvarts said, and similar videos would also be displayed on the walls of the room."

In both instances the artist has stepped outside of cultural norms, and ethics supposedly in order to make a specific point. A point that deals both with the hypocrisy and increasing torpor of humanity. The tragic flaw of both projects, however, is that whether "true" or not—whether the dog died or the girl aborted multiple fetuses in the course of nine months, neither is imparting information that is terribly new. Yes, humans are flawed. Yes, we are often hypocritical. Yes, issues surrounding a woman's body (I'm pro-choice by the way*) are complex and difficult to unravel**.

Though their projects seem (from my comfortable seat in front of the computer) banal and sophomoric, what both Shvarts and Vargas have been able to do is capture the attention of the media and exploit our own prurient interests. Then the question becomes, not even one of morality, but of affording sensationalists like this a platform from which to increase their own marketability.

Incidentally, I did wrestle with whether or not to post this essay, and I’m still not sure I should have. However, the larger issue is one that goes to the credibility of contemporary art: once again, in the public mind, artists will be lumped in with scandal-courting charlatans (at best), or with the ill-conceived, inelegant stunts of the mentally unbalanced and just plain cruel.

It also bears mentioning that Shvarts’ project (at least) has antecedents in the work of Kiki Smith, Orlan, and Ana Mendieta…sort of. But really, it just sort of unsubtly shrieks “I hate myself and my body.” While Vargas’ project is like that guy at the bar that hits on every girl, hoping—at the very least--for sympathy pussy.

*Please note, pro-choice does not mean pro-death, it means that I support a woman's right to choose whether or not to continue or terminate a pregnancy. I, nor any other person I know, celebrates the decision to end a pregnancy.

**Historically, women have always used the means at their disposal to control wanted and unwanted pregnancies.

Flux your Muscles

Flux Gallery in 5 Points is Jacksonville's newest entree into the bumpy art scene here in town. Tim, one of the owners, said that this galley is his attempt to give something to the artists of Jacksonville. A commercial photographer by trade, Tim said that his idea is to provide art at reasonable cost to collectors.

*pictured artwork by Lauren Corben (top), Alex Blett (bottom).

Orsay...

The other day, I had the good fortune to be included in a tasting over at the restaurant that was Crush, and will be Orsay. Because it was an informal tasting menu with the chefs requesting feedback, I won’t comment on any of the dishes except to say that I am excited to say that this new effort will be an elegant reflection of what Crush once was.

The premise is to be one of a modern French-style bistro. I will say this about one dish though, the crème brulee was some of the best I’ve ever eaten. In fact, it was so good, I ate the entire ramekin; there was the perfect balance of bruleed sugar over creamy, custardy goodness without a hint of the egginess that can ruin the experience.

*The above picture is of Jon Insetta (he of Chew, and majority owner), Brian Siebenschuh (who along with his wife, Crystal Vessels are part owners as well) and Sam standing where the former (back) building stood just 48 hours ago. It is where the new lounge, patio and private dining room will be located.

Projected opening? June.

+++Seven++++

image copyright Lee Harvey

In the 4/14/08 issue of the Weekly Standard, writer P.J. O'Rourke comments on seven more deadly sins as released by the Apostolic Penitentiary (the Vatican body that oversees confessions and plenary indulgences). In an article in the Vatican newspaper L'Osservatore Romano, Bishop Gianfranco Girotti detailed the seven new ways we can go to hell or, at the minimum, be sentenced to afterlife in purgatory at the Apostle Pen. The bishop's supersizing of the mortal transgression catalog is thoroughly up-to-date (as translated by the Times of London):

1. Drug abuse

2. Morally debatable experimentation

3. Environmental pollution

4. Causing poverty

5. Social inequality and injustice

6. Genetic manipulation

7. Accumulating excessive wealth

However, O'Rourke has his own take on seven contemporary sins:

1.  Celebrity. This is far and away the besetting sin of the 21st century. Note that the root of the word is "celebrate." What evil, pentagram-enclosed, goat-heinie-kissing ceremony are we celebrating with Kevin Federline?

2.  Communication. In former days just Adam and Eve ate of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and only one time at that. Now everybody's a know-it-all 24/7 thanks to Google, Wikipedia, Facebook, YouTube, email, cell phones, text messages, and so on. A cherubim with a flaming sword is expelling us from the office cubicle of Eden, or would be if he could tear us away from the Internet. (And you, young man in the reading audience, take those ear buds out when your elders are addressing you!)

3.  Youth. Talk about worshiping false gods; why would anyone pray--or pay!--for youthfulness? The young are spotty, sweaty, chowder-headed, and woefully lacking in wisdom, experience, or control over anything, especially themselves. Yet we bear witness to the eternally babyish baby boom. Men in their sixties are on Harleys and snowboards and basketball courts, from which they will proceed to damnation by way of the emergency room. The women go to and fro in the earth, mutton dressed as lamb, with liposuction well-applied to tummy, butt, and brain. And they all come to Mass, when at all, in shorts, T-shirts, and shower flip-flops.

4.  Authenticity. Please do your best to be someone better than who you truly are. Deep down inside we're ravening beasts. This is the meaning of original sin. Everyone's authentic self is horrid. God's message to man has always been, "You can't really be good, but you can fake it. Really."

5.  Caring. This takes so much time and effort that it necessarily results in the opposite of doing something. And notice that when someone says, "I care about the war in Iraq," he almost always means, "I want to lose it." Also there's a bullying logic among those who care. I care more about diddledydum than you do. Therefore I'm a better person than you are. Because I'm a better person than you are, I have the right to order you around. And vote for Hillary on November 4th.

6.  Opinion. It's the reverse of fact. Listen to NPR or AM Talk Radio if you don't believe me, or, better yet, read the opinion page of the New York Times. (I'm talking about you, Paul Krugman.) Some people have facts, these can be proven. Some people have theories, these can be disproven. But people with opinions are mindless and have their minds made up about it. The 11th Commandment is, "Thou shalt not blog."

7.  To Spend More Time With the Family. Alas, I couldn't get this into a single descriptive term, but it might as well be all one word. And when people say it we know that they've been doing something at least as bad as the former governor of New Jersey, his wife, their chauffeur, and Eliot Spitzer in a hot tub together. "We need to move on," is a similar phrase but with the implication of, "And I won't quit doing it until I'm actually behind bars."

Though this post isn't immediately, obviously about art, I thought (well, first I thought it was pretty funny) then I thought about how much of art has been influenced by the Church, and various bodies engaged in deity-seeking and it seemed apropos.

*click on the title link to go to the entire article.

start to finish

I had the pleasure of attending David Engdahl's opening this Friday, and his works really lived up to the advance promotion I gave them in my head. That being said, one of my favorite things about the show was his decision to include some of his preparatory sketches.

The images are both instructive and beautiful in and of themselves. Also Engdahl, who shows nationally and internationally shared a bit if advice with me: He said that he spends 30% of his time creating the work, and 70% of his time promoting them. A lesson perhaps in the power and importance of not resting on one's laurels?

Ambiguous Humanity

Self
Untitled Study 1
The Party Dress

A couple of days ago (March 28), UNF was locked down because of a bomb scare…later it was discovered to be an art project, Self. Justin Budwick had attached analogue-style phones—the kind available at Walgreens for about $10.00—to grey Tupperware boxes, closed with a tiny padlock, almost as an afterthought. Apparently he left the devices positioned around campus with the intension that passersby would pick up the phone and listen to a message, or two, or three from a complete stranger. Campus security didn’t see it that way.

At this point it’d be easy to devolve into a conversation about the redundancy of security, living in a culture of fear, or even the odds that UNF would be singled out for a terrorist attack. But those things seem pretty self-evident. A closer look at the piece is, however, in order. When the receiver is lifted, it triggers a recording: a short sentence at most, of a stranger sharing a bit of information about him/herself. It might be the voice of an old Southern lady remembering how hard it was when she was growing up, or the voice of a confident young man exclaiming over the depth and breadth of his magnificent vocabulary...or another of the people that rarely breach another's consciousness.

As a project, though it has NPR/This American Life-esqe overtones, it is successful in breaching the isolation people carry with themself throughout the day. Posing more questions than it answers: who are these people, how were they chosen, what do they think of the project, Self successfully inhabits an ambiguous realm that requires the audience to reconsider the teeming masses around them as actual people too.

Several other projects (all sculptural) stood out: Kristin Bartie’s Untitled Study 1 a nod to Jean Claude and Christo--though there seem to also be hints of Eva Hesse, and Jessica Carantza’s piece The Party Dress were interesting. Then there was Narooz Soliman’s piece, Stacked Ramen Noodles. In the wake of Sang Wook Lee’s highly satisfying installation still on view at MOCA Jacksonville, Ramen Noodles, Soliman’s piece reeked of a sort of last-minute desperation…not to mention the polyurethane holding it together (perhaps why it was placed outside of the gallery).

As a whole, the entire show hung together with the expected lumps and bumps of a student show. Curating the disparate visions, talent, and sophistication of an amassed group of students is no easy task. But sneaking around the shows of these fledgling artists yields surprises and sometimes, hope.

The Ethics of Art

I found this wonderfully pithy essay by Robert Fulford over at the National Post that muses on his ideas of the ethics of art and those who appreciate it (he calls it his religion). Instead of a didactic treatise that devolves into a gobblygook stream of art-speaked laced adjectives, it’s a rather light treatment of the topic.

Fulford even writes, “we also can't claim that immersion in the arts will create a lively mind. Art education has produced armies of learned bores […] As for those who create art, we get it all wrong if we imagine their work makes them admirable in private life. Rebecca West, a great journalist of the last century, remarked (rather like Antonio Salieri discussing Mozart in Amadeus) that "the power to create a work of art, like a good complexion, is frequently bestowed on the undeserving."

The essay is lively and funny and as I mentioned, it eschews the trope of artspeak for straightforward dialogue. Avoiding the trap of boglike art rhetoric is an idea increasingly gaining purchase. Close to home that idea is embraced over at Urban Art Warfare’s Artist Vs. Artist editorial. Though I tend to like the idea, especially where UAW promises: “there will be no cheesy artsy bullshit questions in any interview conducted on our site. And to answer the question your probably already asking yourself…why are both artists doing the interviews? Because the questions at hand can often be as informative as the answers that follow.” I must make the caveat that the proliferation of often seemingly ridiculous or ripped-off terms in art writing is an attempt to be specific in a diaphanous field; to give form and substance to new ideas. Plus, words like fluxism and onotological are fun to write.

Embracing the un-specific or the seemingly ridiculous also seems to be the provenance of Jacksonville-based artist Brian Gray. Gray recently launched his own site: theouterbox.com, “a central location on the web where the outsider artist, urban art, graffiti, tagging, bombing, and illustrative artist can share their work with the public and inform/educate the masses about what we do.”

From my perspective, I always like to see what he finds on etsy.

*note: the pictured image is from Gray's submission to the Jacksonville Mural project over at the Art Center. Yes, his is the most accomplished piece in the effort.

** if you are interested in the entire Fulford essay (don't worry, it is short) click on the title link.

Tan Lines

A couple of months ago, I posted about the Dan Colen, Dash Snow show Hamster Nest at Deitch. In that post, I made a brief mention of Ryan McGinley. McGinley became famous with a body of work that has been compared to that of Nan Golden (i.e shocking, confessional). But in his recent body of work, I also see a similarity to Slim Aaron’s photographs of the very rich, privileged, and beautiful of the ’70s.

Staged yet intimate the pictures provide an idealized glimpse into an exclusive world. For the past two summers, McGinley has embarked on a cross-country road trip with gaggle of models and assistants. The idea? To create multiple settings that were reminiscent of nudist magazines from the early ’70s. He shot 20-30 rolls of film a day, believing less in composition/waiting for the moment and more in editing. Incidentally the entire project cost McGinley about $100,000 per summer.

“His subjects are performing for the camera and exploring themselves with an acute self-awareness that is decidedly contemporary. They are savvy about visual culture, acutely aware of how identity can be not only communicated but created. They are willing collaborators,” said Sylvia Wolf, in the New York Times. She is the former curator of photography at the Whitney, who organized his show there (he was 24 at the time) in about 2000.

However, looking at his work, I can’t help but thinking of two things: the first, the Lomographic images that one sees on the eponymous site, and a series of watercolor drawings that local artist-turned-nightclub impresario Ryan Rummel was making three or so years ago. Rummel’s imagery was populated with the same waif-thin, androgynous, sexually-charged imagery. So I can’t help but think that not only has this been done before, but also it has been done better.

The Times further quoted McGinley saying, “My photographs are a celebration of life, fun and the beautiful,” he said. “They are a world that doesn’t exist. A fantasy. Freedom is real. There are no rules. The life I wish I was living.”

The sepia-toned, cyan-infused over-and-under exposed prints, though undeniably lovely, are nostalgic and seem a little like Polaroid outtakes from a college photography class. Though they are staged, and there is something inherently decadent and privileged about them, I still find myself liking them more than I dislike them–-or even the premise of the project. Then again maybe I just like tan lines.

The project, I Know Where The Summer Goes, is on view at Team Gallery, 83 Grand Street, cross streets Wooster and Greene, on the ground floor until May 3. And unlike paintings, sculpture, or installation I’m pretty-sure photographs are fair-ish game for online commentary.

One last note: He will be honored as Young Photographer of the Year next week at the International Center of Photography’s Infinity Awards dinner.

*click on the title to go to his website.

A Street Kid Who’s Read Ruskin

Larry Salander was a man with a vision of righteousness: he believed that it was a travesty that Old Master paintings were going begging at auction, while contemporary pieces by artists like Koons were selling for millions. He saw it as a symptom of a larger cultural malaise; as an established NYC dealer, he set out to correct what he perceived as this terrible wrong.

Now he's tens of millions in debt, and being sued by those he once called friends. But for those of us not feeding at the gilded troughs of the uppermost echelons in the art world, his fall from grace is an instructive look at how hype and glamour can inflate an unregulated market; how an empires is built and then crumbles.

For the story, cut and paste the links:

New York Magazine: http://www.printthis.clickability.com/pt/cpt?action=cpt&title=An+Old+Master+in+Ruins&expire=&urlID=27353033&fb=Y&url=http%3A%2F%2Fnymag.com%2Fnews%2Ffeatures%2F45324%2F&partnerID=73272

Portfolio: http://www.portfolio.com/culture-lifestyle/culture-inc/arts/2008/03/17/Art-Dealer-Larry-Salander-Trials

* image= Paul on the road to Damascus, Carravaggio

To the Moon (or not)

image copyright Gary Larson

Over the past nine or ten months, I’ve had a few people ask me why I call this project Art Isn’t Rocket Science. And my answer is two-part-ish:

1. It is a Dave Hickey quote. Actually, it’s a quote he attributes to a friend of his that is like a hero of old. Briefly paraphrased it says: “Past his personal idiosyncrasy that delights in irony and absurdity, she believes in truth in all its ideological/mythological glory, and justice, both karmic and the kind that is meted out physically.” It’s a statement wherein I recognize my own penchant for windmill-tilting...and I do not think I am entirely alone.

2. It is a reminder--to myself--to resist the seduction of the dogmatic proselytizing of my own opinions. Sadly, I am not always successful.

So when I ran across the above cartoon, it reminded me not just of my own theory of art criticism…but of various pathetic projects I have mounted and seen mounted. The tender ministrations of artist attempts (on occasion) to craft a functioning object are sometimes enlightening, often humorous, and I think they only occasionally make it to the moon. Not nearly as often as NASA. Of course, that presupposes that one believes in the moon landing...

Anyway, no, art is not rocket science.