string, kitten whiskers, raindrops

A couple of years ago, I wrote a small piece for the Times Union on hip hop in Jacksonville. In it, I covered three “acts,” the smallest and possibly the most atypical of the hip hop genre was Astronautalis, nee Andy Bothwell.

I wanted to write the article not just because I love hip hop, but because at the time, I was regularly checking out Hip Hop Hell (thanks Ian) and I was blown away by a few of the local and national acts that got booked (Louis Logic). It was there, one tipsy summer night, that I saw this skinny white kid in a blazer and tight jeans get up on stage and craft a pretty flawless freestyle of topics suggested by the crowd.

It was then that I knew the kid--and hopefully by extension the scene--had something viable and unquantifable. Since then, I learned that Astronautalis’s feat is not without precedent, but still, his music, his ability to transform and transcend the specifics of his chosen genre, are dazzling slight-of-hand tricks.

So, it’s with all that gushy loviness that I am super-stoked to say that he’s about to drop another album, Pomegranate, and for those that are curious as to the new sound, here’s his myspace link.

“Then there was me,
I was born a charming man with silver tongue and pearl teeth, this was never how it was supposed to end, we were promised all we dreamed. The envy of the everyman our family seemed complete, our father was a charming man, our mother a Siren. But, now I'm on the run again, this hotel's home to me, after they found the eldest's skeleton floating face down in the stream. The youngest was still tucked away in bed, they thought he was a sleep, till they moved the mirror from his mouth, and the fog that should remain was not to be seen.”

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!

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.

the show you love to hate

An NYC aesthetic that relies on tired tropes of industrialism, found objects, and half-assed workmanship filtered through an unfocused lens of social commentary that might have been fresh 10-15 years ago pervades the images I’ve seen from this year’s Whitney Bienniale.

Alhough noted critic Peter Schjedlahl over at the New Yorker does wax philosophic over the show, “This year’s Whitney Biennial, the most poetic I can remember, feels mildly unhappy and restlessly alert […] Its strongest suit is certain types of sculpture that have flourished lately—the same assembled, shaggy varieties that dominate “Unmonumental,” the inaugural, solid show of the New Museum […] It is full of busy ingenuities that smack of art school—but of art-school studios, not seminars. Two decades of academic postmodernizing have trailed off into embarrassed silence.”

And even I must admit that the curators’ invocation of Samuel Beckett’s notion of “Lessness” (not less is more, less is all) to characterize the Zeitgeist has a lovely sort of longing about it. But the images of the work don’t seem to bear up under the weight of the comparison. Of course, the fact that I am ridiculous enough to even deign to write about art I haven’t seen in person smacks of the worst sort of bravado and hubris. Although I will say it is not without precedent: in 2003, Blake Gopnik, the critic for the Washington Post admitted in print that he didn’t even visit Seward Johnson’s Corcoran show before panning it, nor did he intend to (incidentally, the Cummer hosted a similar show by the same artist in 2005, and I panned it–but I did go to see it).

In the limited images I saw, there were a few pieces that struck me: Charles Long’s sculptures; Javier Tellez’s “Letter on the Blind, for Those Who See; William Cordova’s “The House that Frank Lloyd Wright Built 4 Fred Hampton and Mark Clark” installation; Carol Bove’s “Night Sky Over New York;” and Coco Fusco’s “Operation Atropos.”

Though many members of the media seem quite taken with Mika Rottenberg’s “Cheese” installation, it seems to a be a kind of off-brand, dumbed-down Matthew Barney homage. There’s a rather wonderfully bizarre folksy back-story to the piece, but in depicting a narrative event, it seems that Rottenberg chose to obfuscate the work’s impetus in an attempt to add depth. In reality, the story would have been just fine on its own.

The idea of a Bienniale that culls just about half of its artists from NYC (out of 80, 43 were from/in/based out of NYC and 29 were from California), begs the very question of a prescient look into the “art world.” Instead it offers an incestuous look into the NYC scene. The rest of us might take a few notes, but its worth remembering how fractured the art world is, and though NYC might still be the center of that world, it is not the only game in “town.”

*the embedded video is from the coolhunting site. I especially like it because instead of speaking with one of the glossy-maned curators, they chose to speak with one of the blue collar (its all relative) workers. In this case, Mark Steigelman, the exhibition designer. Then I like it even more when he mentions that he (of course) has opinions about the work, but leaves the decision-making to the curators...it is the kind of open-ended statement that leaves one wondering about the politics involved behind the scene in this type of show.

**also, click on the title to go to the NY Times walk-through of the event and specific pieces, narrated by Holland Cotter.

Murmurs...

"Murmur of Wounds" is imprinted upon a banner floated just below the surface of the pond that faces UNF's library. It is not immediately visible until one is above it, looking down. Then it leaps out of the landscape like a misplaced modifier.

At first glance, it is tempting to dismiss the piece (which clearly borrows from Christo and Jean Claude) as a synthesis of that unique collegiate female who has been reborn under the rubric of Dworkin-esque feminism and Greenpeace-ish activism.

The words are so carefully chosen: "wounds," with all of its juicy, broken bird's wing yet vaguely antiseptic connotations; and "murmur" with a sort of soothing onomatopoeic structure, conjure the softest yet deepest of hurts.

Worth noting: one of the definitions in the OED defines wound as an incision, abrasion, or other injury due to external violence, in any part of a tree or plant. While one of the definitions for murmur includes: to complain against; to criticize the actions of (a person); to accuse. Accurate perhaps, on a campus that is situated at the nexus of commerce and development.

That said, it is easy to image (indulge me in a few generalizations) a group of self-righteously environmentally aware young women sitting around, fiddling with their hemp and bead necklaces, trading war stories (in whatever form, relationship or protest, they take), channeling Eva Hesse and Ana Mendieta, and finally deciding that some sort of action must be taken. A statement must be made.

The thing is, they're not wrong. The message, which is clearly a protest against the rampant development in Northeast Florida, is one that's hard to contest. The placement is clever, and the succinctness is ambiguous enough to tease the imagination. A bit melodramatic perhaps, but effective overall.

Baby Shoes, Never Worn

From the npr.org website:

"Legend has it that once, when asked to write a full story in six words, Ernest Hemingway replied: For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.

In this spirit, of simple yet beautiful brevity, the magazine Smith asked readers to write the story of their lives in one simple sentence. The result is Not Quite What I was Expecting a collection of famous and not-so-famous writers, artists, and musicians. Their stories are sometimes sad, sometimes funny, and always concise."

I think that this is such an incredibly smart project, that I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. And yes, I have wondered about what my own six-word utterance would be, but since I'm under deadline for another project, I haven't really been able to sit still and think about it.

One of my favorites is: "After Harvard, had baby with crackhead." Think of how much is contained in that sentence.

Feel free to post your own here. Or just check out the npr story:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=18768430.

So Hard to Say No

Recently, controversy erupted over one of the Village Voice’s critics: Christian Viveros-Faune, who was once a gallery owner and is now an organizer of two commercial art fairs.

Conflict of interest much? Since the problem really blew up last week, Viveros-Faune has severed his ties with the Voice…or the Voice has severed their ties with him (for the whole story check out Tyler Green’s blog: Modern Art Notes). But his tackling of duel roles addresses a distinct problem in the artistic community, that is the collusion between institutions and publications.

Of course, it is unrealistic to expect that the two be entirely divorced from one another. In addition to a limited pool of resources—both museums and publications—there are the personal connections. So yes, as a critic or writer, it can be hard to remain objective. It can be even harder to say no. But there is a point where, in a position of power like that of the art critic of Village Voice, one must decide.

In a part of the interview that Green conducted with him, Viveros-Faune said, “...in the art world, because success is so based on inside information and insider relations, I find very few people tell you what they really do think.”

And to a certain extent, I must agree with him; there have been many times, when, for the sake of politeness or professionalism, I have bitten my tongue about the success of a given piece of work, and instead inquired about the technique.

However, on the other hand, one assumes that the Voice (and to a larger extent art publications and regular newspapers) operate within a framework of objectivity and honorability. Art Papers, based in Atlanta, goes so far as to say that even the reviewers whose opinions appear in the back of the magazine cannot own a piece of work, nor have connections to the gallery, or a vested interest in promoting the work of an artist that they are looking at. So to assume a leadership role in an art fair, while at the same time acting as a reviewer, it simply smacks of impropriety.

While it may too be difficult to make a living as an art critic (another point Viveros-Faune brings up to Green), especially on a freelance basis, it brings up the entire question of earning a living in this most diaphanous of fields. Really, what the now-deposed critic was hoping to do was to have his cake and eat it too. While we shouldn’t judge him too hard for trying, we should consider the implications of whom our institutions bed down with and how that shapes the scene.

Now he’s free—just like the rest of us—to start his own blog, perhaps: whatIreallythink.blogspot.com.

Heartbreak

“Picasso stirred. Picasso screamed. A genius came to life. His first breath must have entered on a rush of smoke, searing the throat, scorching to the lungs, and laced with the sitmulants of nicotine. It is not unfair to say that the harsh spirit of tobacco is seldom absent from his work." --from "Portrait of Picasso as a Young Man."

I still remember the first Mailer book I ever read, "Tough Guys Don't Dance," a brilliant potboiler that alternately titillated, shocked and disgusted. This was before I even realized “who” he was, and where in the Pantheon of writers he stood. And long before I became exhausted with the relentless macho posing of the writers of his generation (I still can’t stomach Henry Miller).

But the prose in “Tough Guys” made me seek out his other writings, and though I have yet to make it through his entire oeuvre, his passing still marks the end of an era. The NY Times says it better than I can:

“Mailer built and nurtured an image over the years as pugnacious, streetwise and high-living. He drank, fought, smoked pot, married six times and stabbed his second wife, almost fatally, during a drunken party.

He had nine children, made a quixotic bid to become mayor of New York, produced five forgettable films, dabbled in journalism, flew gliders, challenged professional boxers, was banned from a Manhattan YWHA for reciting obscene poetry, feuded publicly with writer Gore Vidal and crusaded against women's lib.”

But as Newsweek reviewer Raymond Sokolov said in 1968, “in the end it is the writing that will count.”

So let’s end this rumination with an answered question, instead of posing a new one:

Q. Who stole the Mona Lisa?

A. In 1911, a mad Italian housepainter—Vincenzo Peruggia—stole the painting to return it to his native country. It was found in 1913 in Florence.

A Note From the Editor

After getting a phone call from my mother (pictured, blue shirt), complaining about how difficult it is to read this, then having my brother back it up (not pictured), I have decided (as you can see) to change the look up a bit. I might like it 'cause its less pretentious...then again, maybe not. Either way, I hope this makes your perusal easier.

But, in an effort to bolster my lost sense of pretention, I'm thinking (we're thinking) about using the "royal we" in future posts. Ridiculous.

Earthworks for your ring finger

Christine J. Brandt ring

A year or so ago, I was reading one of Village Voice writer Lynn Yeager's articles. In it, she talked about the role that that art plays in fashion, and fashion plays in art. She also made the observation that often; she will prefer a couture gown, or a design from an "outsider designer" to contemporary art. Now, while I don't necessarily agree wholeheartedly, I do think that there is veracity in the idea that sometimes the craftsmanship of fashion trumps that of its artistic counterparts.

So when I saw the jewelry from Christine J. Brandt, in addition to taking my breath away, it struck me as really authentic (authentic meaning thoughtful, articulate and true to a vision) work that balances on the line between fashion and art. The raw material contrasting with the highly realized wood base is (to my mind) reminiscent of earthworks and other installation pieces that can normally only be enjoyed in situ or in a photograph, while this, one can wear. That being said, with prices in the low thousands, it might be the photographs that get enjoyed yet.

And in a delightful coincidence, Lynn Yeager just wrote a piece about a photography show of rockers cum photographers, curated by Lou Reed. I tend to be suspicious of these shows, as its hard to celebrate the artistic vision of someone whose technical skill might be good, but whose vision, is, for lack of a better description: as trite as freshmen college students'.

However, what these shows might lack in artistic merit, they more than make up for in prurience. Unlike the paparazzi shots, or TMZ videos, these shots are composed and intimate, the subjects in a relaxed and informal setting. In this respect they are reminiscent of a suite of images that Warhol shot in the late 70s. They were shown at J. Johnson, and the fact that they were celebrity snapshots, by a celebrity artist made them of passing interest, but not necessarily art...more like artifacts.

http://www.villagevoice.com/nyclife/0738,yaeger,77843,15.html

Je ne sais quois

I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I thought I’d leave this snippet of the most recent Deitch-sponsored art parade for people to ogle over.

The parade, which seems to be equal parts (male and female) nudity and performance work I think espouses a certain overarching NYC aesthetic. I say this, because it isn’t the first time I’ve had this thought…and it seems to manifest itself again and again.

The first time it struck me was the first time I visited NYC, I was eighteen and prepared for a world of blaring black, of arched-eyebrow sophistication combined with a certain gritty je ne sais quois. I was wrong, the NYC of 1993 was filled with glittering club-boys and girls, tromping through the streets in impossible platform sneakers and boots, puffy-jacketed thugs in Timberland boots with insane grills, and neo-hippy, vegan, piercing aficionados.

In short: less sophistications, more neon colors and outré-ness for its own sake. (It might also bear mentioning that as I was taking in these sites my hair was cropped close to my head a la George Clooney, I wore tight boy’s tee-shirts, big jeans, and shoes that looked like Frankenstein’s cast-offs).

Even now though, that hallucinatory ethos seems pervasive: a certain lack of subtlety, an embracement of fake fur in faker colors, glitter, and general carelessness. I see it too in the art, jewelry, and clothing being made, as if every voice is screaming to be heard. And, succinctly: I see it in this video.

Or perhaps I’ve lived in the comparative peace and quiet of Jacksonville for too long now.

That being said, the general absurdity and temporal nature of the parade reminded me of the heyday of the Limelight, the Tunnel, other ridiculous clubs of the day, and of a drag performer I once knew named Soigne; it made me smile.