Property Rights

I saw this item on artforum.com and thought that it had really fascinating implications. It also seems to play into the worst stereotypes of gallerists as opportunistic, self-serving, scale-covered charlatans who will stop at nothing to make buck. Even if it is patently dishonest and morally reprehensible:

Rauschenberg Sues to Stop Gallery from Selling Items Pulled from His Trash
02.28.08

Artist Robert Rauschenberg has filed lawsuits against a Florida artist and art gallery, reports USA Today. Rauschenberg says that Robert Fontaine and the HW Gallery of Naples, Florida, improperly sold artwork under his name, complete with bogus certificates of authenticity, after pulling discarded pieces from the artist’s trash. "Rauschenberg is an incredible artist,"

Yale Freeman, Fontaine's attorney, said recently. "But what happens when that incredible artist discards material? Do the laws of abandonment apply?" Neither Rauschenberg nor his associates can comment because the matter is under litigation, said Mark Pace, speaking on the artist's behalf. Pace is executive assistant to artist Darryl Pottorf, a close Rauschenberg colleague and confidante. Rauschenberg's attorney, Lawrence Kolin of Orlando, could not be reached for comment. "I have no comment," Lauren Greenough, director of HW Gallery, said Wednesday.

HW Gallery lists four Rauschenbergs on its website. The lawsuit filed in US District Court in Fort Myers asks that Fontaine and his associates be stopped from doing anything likely to mislead others into believing that works of art not attributable to Robert Rauschenberg came from the artist or are approved by the artist.

*note: the image pictured is pulled from HW's website. I do not know if it is one of the contested images or not.

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.

Cry Havoc

"Cry havoc and let loose the hounds of war!"

This is taken from Marc Antony's famous speech in Julius Caesar.

Reading Shakespeare can be confusing, an exercise in frustration as his words are meant to be spoken. So it it appropriate then, that a spoken-word poet, retranslates one of Shakespeare’s most famous (many of us were forced to read it in high school) plays, the aforementioned Caesar as the play/poetical Julius X. It is a recasting of Malcom X’s final days through the framework of Julius Caesar.

Al Letson is known across the country and here in Jacksonville as a powerful, clever, and insightful poet. I also have the good fortune to count him as a friend. He has been working on the form he calls a poetical, for several years now. I saw his first effort, Chalk, and I have steadily watched the progress of the poetical Julius X.

Julius X debuted this month in Jacksonville at Players by the Sea. Last weekend, I went out to catch it, and was, with very few exceptions impressed. The cast worked together, transitioning seamlessly between Letson’s words and those of the Bard with clarity and ease...one often forgot that this performance was two ideas become one.

Using minimal sets that echoed the shapes of Harlem, ancient Rome, and Mecca, the director, Barbara Williams (who has directed Letson many times before) created an atmosphere tense and melancholy. There was no promise of a happy ending here, but Williams managed to make the journey to the final tragedy compellingly terrible--laced with betrayal. The result was a play that the audience could not tear their eyes from.

There were a few dissonant notes, the seers, while effective in conveying the terrors ahead in the Ides of March were, at times, a bit too dramatic, verging on camp. But praise certainly goes to David Girard’s Cassius; as Cassius, Girard seemed to savor his own cunning evil, holding it in his entire form the way others experience a fine wine.

Brutus was played with convincing anguish by actor Larry Knight, who realizes only too late, that perhaps Juius X must not die. Cast in several smaller parts (Marullus/Caius/Reverend), Ryan Sinclair emanated gravitas and wisdom; even if that wisdom (as Malcolm X would surely argue) was misplaced. And Renee Freeman as the Soothsayer is clearly that being who thrives on others' misery.

Letson’s play covers the few months between X’s return from Mecca and his death. It chronicles the man’s epiphany that Islam—as he experienced it--is a religion of inclusiveness, and his own personal transformation in regards to race relations in America. It is also an effective glimpse into the power-struggle that was occurring inside the Nation of Islam.

But more than anything else, the play reminds the audience--whether one agrees with the title character’s views or not--of the imperfect nature of humanity, the lessons that history carries, and the lengths that the power-hungry will go to to condense and maintain that power.

It is also worth mentioning that the 43rd anniversary of Malcolm X’s assassination has just passed, February 21. This year, he would have been 83. One wonders what the organization he formed after breaking with the Nation, the Muslim Mosque Inc., would have accomplished. That of course, assumes another assassin’s bullet would not have found his heart.

On a personal note, it aroused enough curiosity in me to finally sit down and read Malcolm X's autobiography. More than just the tale on one man's life, it is an anthropological snapshot of a time consigned by the history books as *literally* black and white, when in reality there were many, many shades of grey.

Be Mine

For the past two years, my sweetie and I have had a very low-key Valentine's Day. This year wasn't too different, only instead of joining the hordes crowding out the city's most popular restaurants (not that we don't love you Bistro Aix...) we decided to spend it with friends.

Cafe Nola, inside of MOCA Jacksonville, is one of Downtown's favorite lunch spots (the shrimp salad wrap, with hints of lemon is worth the extra-long lunch hour alone). But many people don't know that chef Kathy Collins has started opening three nights a week (Weds, Thurs, & Fri).

This posting might seem out-of-place on a blog where I regularly rail against/wax poetic-ish about works of art, but the thing that really garners my respect about Nola is Collins's enthusiasm and dedication. She strives to work within a framework of accessible food, while maintaining a commitment to contemporary cuisine.

She took over cheffing and managing the restaurant from the former company that was handling it, Chives, about a year ago. Since then she's had an uphill battle; though the lunch crowd is strong and supportive, there are things she wants to accomplish as a chef, that are in many ways best for the evening meal. Whether it's pairing wines, or creating coursed dishes, there are simply limitations to the lunchtime aesthetic. Especially considering her primary diners are Downtown business people and art-community types--people who don't often have time for a three course lunch, paired with wine flights.

I've been in for dinner several times, but this was far and away the best. The prix fix menu ($39 per person, including a bottle of champagne to split), had two courses per person and a shared dessert. It's been a long time since I was equal parts satisfied and surprised with my meal: I started with the shrimp; it was poached in champagne and served chilled over a bed of greens with a blood orange vinaigrette that'd been laced with chunks of sea salt. Here there was a play of flavors and textures, the citrus bite of the vinaigrette set off the cool creaminess of the shrimp, while the sea salt provided added crunch and just a hint of the sea.

For an entree, the lure of fresh truffled papardelle pasta with portabella mushrooms and fresh thyme proved too strong to resist. I slowed down to eat this dish. It is so rare to find good Italian food in Jacksonville, that I savored the experience. The scent of the truffles filled my mouth while the fresh pasta was both comforting and refined--finished against the fresh greeness of the thyme, it was a dish of classic flavors, carefully balanced against one another.

For dessert we split the chocolate pyramid with the creme anglais heart, coconut truffles, and chocolate sauce. Though chocolate can be overwhelming, Collins transformed the dessert into manageable bites, each varied enough to tickle the palate.

Overall, it was a wonderful, quiet meal spent among friends (it'd be disingenuous of me to pretend that I don't count the chef and the front-of-the-house-manger among my peeps). The only drawback, the kitchen seemed to be a little understaffed and it took a while for our first course to appear.

But if one can't overlook small things on a day no-one likes to work (Valentine's is famous for bringing out amateurs), then perhaps staying at home is advisable (one caveat, Matthew's in San Marco is where fine dining has died--the last time we were there we got to witness a Sopranos-esque character throw wads of cash around, have his date serenaded by a barbershop quartet, and then listen to a keyboardist play weak renditions of Yanni's greatest hits).

Anyway, enough of where not to dine. Check out Nola for dinner...added bonus? Viewing the new Duval Carrie sculptures the museum just acquired, they're right there in the lobby.

*What's that in the picture? Meat and Potatoes Redux: a medium-rare petite filet with a sliver of fois gras, roasted baby carrots and a gruyere and potato gratin served with a cabernet sauce. There really is a reason the French are consistently at the top of the food pyramid.

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.

Not A Vegetarian

Image, copyright Gary Larson

I am not a vegetarian. I used to be, but after ten years, the siren call of bacon lured me back into the meat-eating fold. Recently though, I read a bit of information in the NY Times that directly corollated the growth and consumption of meat to energy terms; and that I haven't been able to stop thinking about.

"Growing meat (it’s hard to use the word “raising” when applied to animals in factory farms) uses so many resources that it’s a challenge to enumerate them all. But consider: an estimated 30 percent of the earth’s ice-free land is directly or indirectly involved in livestock production, according to the United Nation’s Food and Agriculture Organization, which also estimates that livestock production generates nearly a fifth of the world’s greenhouse gases — more than transportation.

To put the energy-using demand of meat production into easy-to-understand terms, Gidon Eshel, a geophysicist at the Bard Center, and Pamela A. Martin, an assistant professor of geophysics at the University of Chicago, calculated that if Americans were to reduce meat consumption by just 20 percent it would be as if we all switched from a standard sedan — a Camry, say — to the ultra-efficient Prius. Similarly, a study last year by the National Institute of Livestock and Grassland Science in Japan estimated that 2.2 pounds of beef is responsible for the equivalent amount of carbon dioxide emitted by the average European car every 155 miles, and burns enough energy to light a 100-watt bulb for nearly 20 days."

Wow. It really puts human appetite into perspective. Combine that with the cruel and unsanitary conditions the animals are raised in, it's enough to inspire a return to vegetarianism. Or at least to spur a reduction in burger consumption.

Might not hurt the old *squeeze* waistline either.


http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/27/weekinreview/27bittman.html?pagewanted=all

Got People? Not Likely

Taxes are daunting. Especially when you're an artist, freelancer, or any other category that doesn't place you square under the one-employer rubric. So, most people I know get help with their taxes...and believe me, this help can result in the savings of hundreds and even thousands of dollars.

So, in 2005, when I went to do my taxes, I went to H&R block...I thought that my situation was relatively simple: a full-time job, and a few freelance projects. 

Fast forward a year, and the IRS is sending me scary letters, saying I owe thousands in back taxes.

Oh, and their must-vaunted protection up to $5,000? Sure, if you buy it. Plus, be sure to keep your receipt...they won't honor their commitment without it; apparently H&R Block doesn't keep those records.  

Insult to injury: whatever funds they then pay out to you? Become tax liabilites for you. I.e., they write you a check to cover the $1,000 you suddenly owe the IRS, you now must declare that on your current fiscal year taxes. Paying taxes on paying taxes...awesome.

My advice, steer clear of H&R block and find a reputable accountant. When I did, it even cost me less to have my taxes prepared. Freelance weirdness and all.  

I think it's especially important for artists to be aware of this, as the system is not set up for the self-employed. Consider setting yourself up as a corporation. As a corporation, you get benefits not accorded to private citizens.

...and we still think our country is a democracy? Protect yourself, the government won't.

Draw

In thinking about words, word origins and definitions, for most critics, there is one source to turn to, the Oxford English Dictionary. I thought it might be instructive to look at the etymology of two words through this filter: drawing-because it might add a little depth to the idea of how one considers it, and opinion--because it seems rather timely.

Though “drawing” is recorded as entering the English language circa 1305, it was then describing motion (as in to draw a weapon...or a bucket of water), it isn’t until 1530 that it is applied in the sense that it relates to mark-making.

Here’s that entry:
2. a. The formation of a line by drawing some tracing instrument from point to point of a surface; representation by lines, delineation; hence, ‘any mode of representation in which the delineation of form predominates over considerations of colour’; the draughtsman's art.


"Opinion" seems to have entered the lexicon in 1340, and seems to always have been about the view of the individual.

Here’s that entry:
1. As a count noun: a view held about a particular issue; a judgement formed or a conclusion reached; a belief; a religious or political conviction. Formerly (also): a plan, an intention (obs.).

It is interesting then, that the view of the individual asserts itself when the “one team one fight” mentality is challenged instead of hiding behind the shield of "league". And to note that since opinions are (often) supposition and not based in fact, they can be recanted. See: jaxcal chat.

Drawing update

There are a few things happening soon that seem to be an organic outgrowth of the act of drawing; of working with limited resources to great effect.

The first, perhaps works on a metaphoric level:

“Next Things Next” the February show at OPAQ gallery. But before I speak too highly of this show, the reader should know that I am not an entirely objective source: two of my new works will be included in the show.

However, if one cares to overlook the self serving nature of the post, I was intrigued after chatting with Matt and Katie about the the works to be included in the show…Katie said that many of the works have been executed with “a delicate hand.” That phrase, somehow so old-fashioned, yet evocative piqued my interest.

Matt and I also talked about the suite of drawings he’ll be installing at the show; he said that the images he’s creating have their roots in technical drawings…but that he doesn’t really have experience in executing them.

Further in line with the drawing theme, MOCA is examining drawing as a process in a series of exhibitions which open in mid-April 2008. The featured show is works by LA artist Chris Natrop (pictured top). Also on exhibit will be drawing by John Bailly (second image), a Miami based artist who teaches at FIU.

Natrop’s work has similarities to Swoon’s installations and to Tord Boontje’s gorgeous work, especially the uber-popular lamp-shades (final image) and wall panels. The Miami-based Bailly’s work recalls Phillip Guston and, to a lesser extent, Anslem Kiefer…pieces with a “lexicon of spattered gestural marks and weblike textures.”

Also, the 3rd floor will host an exhibition entitled “Making Marks: A Survey of Jacksonville Drawings.”

Exciting no?

Drawing: Personal and Practical

According to Holland Cutter, "For Michelangelo drawing was the most practical and personal medium; it was a laboratory, a diary, an end in itself. If you could do a perfect drawing, he came to think, why bother to turn it into a painting or sculpture? Perfection in any form was the goal."

The show up at the Morgan Library and Museum in midtown Manhattan, examines the role of drawing in 16th Century Florence. It triggers thoughts of the current role of drawing; what an intimate gesture, unaffected by artifice it is. How immediate and wholly satisfying it can be, and how the disparity between the formal works an artist presents, and casual drawings and studies can be quite startling. 

Closer to home, the best example of this I can think of is the Lucian Freud etching currently on view at MOCA. Freud's paintings are celebrated as violent, deliberately ugly and ungainly portraits of the human body on par with those of Titian, Rubens and Velázquez, but the etching on view (in this case taken as an example of the artist's drawn work) lacks the power of Freud's paintings, and instead exists for the viewer as an example of process. 

Perhaps that is the crux of the drawn line, it is a look behind the curtain into something honest and unadorned; relying on a quality of of line and an arrangement of form in (or against) space.

  

Simple. Lovely. 

Public vs. Private

Sometimes the things you say in private, to friends over drinks, aren’t the things that you bring to public discourse. Over at Jaxcal, Byron King recently posted a rant saying that in all of Jacksonville, there is no arts writer; no-one whose insight and commentary should appear any other place than that august institution that is Jaxcal.

Wait.

Jaxcal is a blog. Jaxcal is ostensibly a community effort. Jaxcal is King’s baby and the place he is wont to post whiney and mean-spirited tirades before getting the whole story, then pull them down in a fit of regret. Perhaps King hasn’t realized that it isn’t that there are no art critics in Jacksonville, merely none that care to be associated with the pet project of a tactless cannon.

Good luck finding “your” art critic Jaxcal.

http://www.jaxcal.org/uncategorized/wanted-art-critic

Maxhouse

Just a few brief words on the Peter Max madhouse this weekend at R. Roberts Gallery: Incidentally, the above two pictures were shot while the cops weren’t looking, and right afterwards I was told, “no pictures please.”

But moving on, for my day job, I write at a local arts magazine, and this time around, one of my assignments was to interview Peter Max. He is, I am happy to say, one of the nicest men it’s even been my pleasure to speak with. The impact of his work aside (which one may or may not like), he truly believes in the tenant of compassion, living and working within a framework of belief that calls for him to honor his own body and contribute to the community as a whole.

So it was with curiosity and a little bit of trepidation that I headed up to the gallery on Sunday (even at the museum opening I overheard people talking about Peter Max). The place was packed; there was a line out the door for people who wanted to get things signed, and there was another line of people who’d just purchased things and were getting them signed, along with a photo of the artist (I guess that’s why there was a “no pictures” policy…silly and a little capitalist, but perhaps necessary to control the crowd…draw your own conclusions).

It was an interesting intersection of fine art and commerce, of celebrity and artist, and the approapriatness of it all. Yet perhaps this is just the organic outcome of a lifetime spent hanging out with celebrities and celebrity artists (one imagines Warhol would embrace it as the natural order), and of a culture that seeks to validuate itself through contact with these notables, even if it is only fleeting and peripheral. The only time I’ve seen something similar was when Frank Stella came to town. People mobbed him and asked him to pose for pictures too.

As to the aesthetic value of Max's work, unarguably it evokes a specific time and mindset, which, although I can’t relate to, seemed certainly to heighten the spirits of a certain generation…I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever been to an opening where more people were smiling.

At that point, whether or not one bitter scribe aesthetically agrees with the work at hand becomes a moot point. Time to relax and be happy for everyone else.

Optimism Shines

I love hip hop music, one of the things I love most about it though, is that like jazz, it can be stretched in so many directions.

This summer, I met and had the good fortune to hear the band Zullo. Recently, the collective (and that they truly are, there's like ten people up on stage), released their first EP, (appropriately) entitled Bricolage.

Though clearly a fledgling band, Zullo has wed their talent to funk, jazz, soul and blues with a little post-Tribe-esque hip hop thrown in to round it all out. The result? A sound whose roots are clearly traceable, yet unique: a little deconstructed jam band, mixed with a little Wu Tang that makes heads bob and bottoms shake (and hippies do whatever it is they do).

Perhaps the best part though, is their youthful unjaded approach to the material, clearly, the band loves the music just as much as the audience does. That in and of itself is a nice break from the “uber cool” techno/pop/electronica crowding out airspace and clubs in recent years.

Check them out at: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=98494912

Last Night

Last night, in addition to the pinched faces and over-arched eyebrows of guests fastidiously turning up their noses–until mightily lubricated that is–at canapés, MOCA Jaksonville played host to two new shows: Continental Shifts: The Art of Edouard Duval-Carrié (paintings) and Contemporary Visions: A focus on Jacksonville Collections.

The museum also presented their newest acquisitions, three resin sculptures by Duval-Carrié (two pictured). The sculptures see their antecedents in the elaborate garden statuary of the Greeks and Romans. However, unlike the measured and stately vessels and ornaments that might dot ancient gardens, Duval-Carrié’s orange, glowing statues have more in common with artists like Jaume Plensa, Warhol, and (to a lesser extent) Beatriz Milhaze and Keith Haring. Haring is cited because the scuttlebutt about the museum says that originally, the works were created for a Miami nightclub (Haring used to paint nightclubs like the Tunnel in NYC back in its heyday), but were actually too big. So its important to consider the works in the light of their original mission…and in this case not take them too terribly seriously. But enjoy them nonetheless.

The collectors’ show was, at first glance an interesting glimpse into the holdings–and by extension–the artistic and aesthetic values of the city’s ruling class. Some pieces were labeled as a part of this collection or that, and others were simply labeled “private collection,” among these a suite of photographs that keen-eyed gallery goers might have seen before; included in this suite? A Diane Arbus and a Henri Cartier-Bresson. Well played private collector.

There were works that were instructive as well, a surprisingly delicate Hans Hoffman (pictured), which–when mounted on a wall en diagonale from a Helen Frankenthaler–makes a succinct art historical summation. Incidentally, though I am a huge Frankenthaler champion, the Hoffman is sublime.

And of course, it was refreshing not only to see works not often exhibited but to be introduced to Leonard Baskin via his “Hydrogen Man.” A woodcut (pictured), the figure is defined by a critical mass of lines and markmaking; disjointed and unhappy, "Man" seems to be a statement on humanity’s fragility, filtered through inevitable death and decay. As a study in restraint and technical proficiency, he merits a return visit.

Contemporary Visions: A focus on Jacksonville Collections, was also smart on the part of the museum in that it provided a showcase for collectors who might get swept aside in favor of the Haskell collection, which enjoys such a prominent friendship with the museum. By essentially endorsing these collector’s selections, the museum provides provenance for the works exhibited, while building relationships with those that can insure the museum’s future. Yes, its been a much-debated practice as of late, but to the defense of the museum, these are hard times...and no artist was really shown whose body of work could be argued to be outside the modern/contemporary canon.

Though many of the works aren’t in and of themselves masterpieces, it is pleasant to wander about peering at things…perhaps a bit like pawing through a scaled-down version of Ali-Baba’s treasure cave; maybe his cousin, Ali-Junebug’s stuff. And the perpetually surprised faces with over-red mouths? All a part of the show, canapé or not.

*Editor’s note: the images that accompany this post were snapped on a camera phone so ArtIsn’tRocketScience apologizes for their poor quality. We’re working on getting a new camera.

Tomorrow AIRS will talk about Duval-Carrié’s paintings, and take a peek at Sang-Wook Lee's work, Ramen Noodles 2008.

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.

Ride de Riddim

images thanks to Urban Art Warfare and 74 Soundsystem

I remember when I learned how to dance. Specifically, I remember when all the things my best friend and her brother taught me came together, when I let the music lift me up, and out of myself. *No longer so painfully self-concious that I assumed everyone within my sightline was discussing my various shortcomings, not just as a dancer, but as a person, I became “that white girl who could dance.”

I still am. Maybe less so, maybe with a little more jiggle in my jiggy, more bottom in my windin’, and less hot in my drop. But dancing is still that one thing that I love, and what’s better to dance to than dancehall and hip hop--when you can feel the bass in your chest and in order to talk to people you need to lean in close? Not many things.

So I exhort you to come out and check out 74 Soundsystem, Jacksonville’s best reggae crew, and ride de riddim.

TSI, tomorrow night.

*Incidentally, I can still remember dancing with a group of girls at my 8th grade dance, that’s where it came together for me. The song? “Atomic Dog.”

Woof.

Changing of the Guard

Philippe de Montebello, the much-vaunted director of the Met announced last week that he will be stepping down at the end of 2008, after thirty years with the museum. “After three decades, to stay much further would be to skirt decency,” he said. “This has not been an easy decision — it’s wrenching for me, it’s been my entire life. But it’s time.”

Montebello’s decision to step down comes at time when the very role of a director is being revised. The pool from which to choose is quite small, and, one imagines that it would be very hard to fill Montebello’s shoes. It is interesting to note though, that the director did not have a PhD in art history just a specialty in northern French painting. In fact, the Times reports that “He arrived at the Met in 1963 as a curatorial assistant in the department of European paintings and except for four years — from 1969 to 1974, when he served as director of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston — he spent his entire career there.”

For many people, he is the personification of the Met experience itself, a charge that he dismisses. But, it will be interesting to wait and watch and see what happens next with NYC’s biggest tourist attraction, and by extension, museums around the world.

A list of those presumed to be in the running:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/09/arts/design/09futu.html?ref=desig

Back in the saddle?

Andrehn-Schiptjenko 2006

I keep saying that I’m going to get back on the blogging horse and I seem to keep avoiding it like the plague. There are lots of reasons for this I’m sure, but I won’t bore you with a list of my laziness-inducing neuroses here. Instead, I’ll offer up this list of things overheard at last year’s (read ’07) Art Basel Miami…which I did not attend.

But I enjoyed this list as a snapshot of the fair nonetheless.

From the blog www.artworldsalon.com:

Miami v(o)ice: Overheard at the fair…
Tuesday December 11, 2007 | 00:25 by The Transom in Miami Beach
This just in from Pablo Helguera, who had his anthropologist’s notebook with him over the past few days in Miami:

My threshold is $25,000.
This year the fair is better… the gallerinas are hotter this time.
Tom Krens said that I was his son.
In Dollars, Euros, or Pounds?
The AC in Scope broke down.
How is it possible that they don’t have black tea?
I tried to sit by the pool at the Delano, but you have to buy a $400 bottle.
Too bad that you came with your girlfriend.
The painting with the circles in White Cube was $200,000, but there are six hundred more in the series, my dear.
I can’t get rid of this Korean dealer.
I have socialized enough in my life to have to sweat in a corner with a watered-down drink and having my eardrums shattered.
Twenty-two fairs? Really?
This work of yours is identical to this other artist’s work I saw at Pulse, but I don’t mean it in a bad way.
They gave the keys of the city to Sam Keller.
I don’t feel like hanging out with the Boston crowd.
She arrived totally drunk demanding her painting.
The party of the Russians at the Raleigh is awesome.
I can’t talk now because this collector is going to walk away.
So the elevator door opens and everyone sees my bra sticking out.
So, did you decide if you are getting the metal junk piece?
That artist is young but bad.
You know that you don’t need an invitation.
I prefer that you invite me.
I am standing here in front of an installation with pinkish balls, and you?
Please don’t introduce him to me.
I would have sworn that it was a real baby!
They haven’t even let me go to the bathroom in three days.
I don’t care- he is so good-looking that I want to do an exhibition with him.
Knight Landisman knows everybody.
One would think with so many millionaires here the food would be half-decent.
I don’t have any business cards left.
I bought it because I think that every work that takes Joseph Beuys as a subject is important.
I don’t price works by the square foot.
I haven’t been able to move from this corner in two hours.
The U.S. government can’t do anything about the housing bubble.
I love those colors: white and black.
Hi, have you met Hans Ulrich Obrist?
You get all this sand into your shoes.
When I told her that I was an artist she turned away.
I loved it but I didn’t understand anything.
According to her, they sold everything.
You can do this fair in five minutes.
If the director of the Brooklyn museum says so, it must be true.
How is it possible that Julio Galan’s works haven’t gone up?
Supposedly I am working.
Now that I saw the work again I didn’t like it so much.
There’s Joan Jonas. I missed her talk.
I had a blast spending their money.
I drove them around all over Miami for hours, but they never found a hotel room.
He is a mediocre millionaire loser artist who has impregnated all the women in Paris.
What are we doing in this party?
I can’t afford Sam Taylor Wood.
Next time I won’t even tell my family that I came.
Cab rides are more expensive here than in New York.
And now we have to pack to take everything back.
Let’s go to Marlborough to see the Boteros.
I sat with her for two hours and in the end she didn’t buy anything.
They didn’t deliver the works until Saturday and they didn’t even apologize.
I am so sick of Facebook.
It’s Russell Simmons!
I am looking for the next El Lissitsky.
It’s impossible to get a reservation at this restaurant.
Aqua is more relaxed, but the work is less good.
They don’t know how to make good mojitos here.
This year they didn’t bring anything political.
There aren’t any good moderators anywhere.
She makes them in three different sizes.
I had no idea that you were the same artist!
You are better off going to Gagosian and buying a Nan Goldin.
It was a one-by-one inch gouache, and it was four thousand dollars.
I am sleeping on the floor of my dealer’s hotel room, but please don’t tell anybody.
It works when you make a VIP face.
To say that he gained weight is an understatement.
When is your art convention going to be over?

Christmas Cheer

I love this short film by Guilherme Marcondes. I've seen it before, and posted it several places, but I thought it'd make a nice re-entry into the world of blogging...that I seemingly uncermoniously left last month.

While that wasn't/isn't the case (I was traveling) I do have some writings to post. Especially my thoughts on the recent Winter Selctions over at J.Johnson...better late than never. Maybe?

Until then, enjoy this:




www.guilherme.tv

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.