Archive for 2012

Abandoned Storage Unit #3: Billy Childish art, The Nutmeg, and Fellini’s Juliet of the Spirits

September 19th, 2012

 
 
 
 
      Hey y’all. I present thee with Abandoned Storage Unit #3. As usual, a motley throng of wiring, styrofoam bits, plaster chunks, cinder blocks, corrugated tin sheets, old mattresses, broken lamps. And in and among all that stuff, some choice goodies.
      First up’s a painting by Billy Childish (click to zoom in):
 
 
 
 
 
 
Childish Russian Shepherd Boy 
 

       Billy Childish (b. 1959, Chatham, Kent, England)
          Russian Shepherd Boy, 2011, oil and charcoal on linen

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
      I knew of Childish as a prolific songwriter and recording artist, but I had no idea he worked visually as well. What a lovely surprise. Well deployed pastel blue and pink highlights here, lending bright contrast to the swamp thing murk & tangle of the canvas; sending veins of weird, slightly radioactive cheer through the boggy boughs. And it wouldn’t even be bog without the seated boy, whose detailed luminous red and white presence anchors the work in the natural world (as does the title as well of course). That ghost-boy’s coy and mysterious expression is so well executed. What’s he up to — is he shirking his duties? What’s he holding, a staff? Banjo? We wonder about him, want to know what he was up to before the canvas moment, what he’ll do after. He’s the offset nucleus & anchor of this expressive painting’s power, helping balance its marshy flora against its sinewy, psychographic phantasms.
 
 
 
 

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     Next up is an image I found some time ago and return to every so often when I want a hard jolt of how beautifully alien the natural world is:
 
 
 
Nutmeg Aril
 
 

          (Nutmeg seed with aril)

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     The nutmeg. That gorgeous, lustrous red webbing is called the aril of the nutmeg seed, which, when dried, becomes the spice known as mace. Watching the aril’s semi-menacing membrane, & how its gothy serpentine lacing beguiles as much as it warns, I’m not surprised to learn that freshly ground nutmeg contains myristicin, a psychoactive substance which, in sufficient dosage, can produce convulsions, palpitations, hallucinations, paranoia, and delirium, among other symptoms. Nutmeg was notably used as an intoxicant in the states after WWII, among young folks, bohemians, druggies & prisoners. I get buzzy just staring at the aril, thinking about how varied and wonderfully alien are the forms found in nature.
 
 
 
 
 

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      Finally I wanted to talk a little about Juliet of the Spirits, one of my favorite Fellini films. A movie full of, as usual with Fellini, magic, spirits, beautiful clothing, weird colors, great Nino Rota music, baffling & exotic mystico-spiritual passages, leer-heavy cross-talking carnaval-esque parties & gatherings, and heaps of psychodrama & flashbacks. Not to mention a masterful performance by the titular protagonist and one of the main reasons I continue to explore Fellini’s ouevre: the director’s wife herself, Giulietta Massina.
      There’s so, so much to say about this film, and a great deal of it’s already been typed and inked. The little niche of it I want particularly to explore is the relationship between Juliet and her mother, and how this relationship plays Juliet’s own recovery of her sense of self and agency.
      The film establishes early on Juliet’s well-hid dissatisfaction: she’s married to fashion P.R. romeo & man-about-town Giorgio, and she’s well aware of her husband’s frequent absences & rumored infidelities. She keeps up appearances admirably at the frequent parties and gatherings the two hold at their gorgeous enforested villa. Why can’t she leave Giorgio, despite growing mounting evidence of his cheating? Simple Italian partiarchal influence? Perhaps its her lifelong martyrism (something the film goes to pains to depict), her strong Catholic values, & maybe her simple fear of striking out on a new path to happiness and self-discovery.
      Despite her pain, she maintains perfect and constant social composure — with perhaps a few cracks beginning to appear — & being a gregarious goodwilling and healthy social being, delights in the constant, shifting cast of characters surrounding her: psychics, spiritualists, models, celebrities, her doctor, a sculptor, and various other hangers on and true friends ranging from absurd to freaky kinky to true confidantes. Just about all of them in some way start to open her up to her own discontent and to possible antidotes and solutions for her issues.
      Much of the film in fact has to do with this, with Juliet figuring out herself in relation to others’ ways of finding fulfillment sexually, spiritually, personally. Toward this end the film is strongly psychodramatic, with Juliet finding fulfillment/escape in her developing ability to access a rich dreamlike inner landscape of visions, memories, spirits, and an assortment of characters who symbolize conflicting hungers, pains & needs of her heart-mind. Soon this power, which at first strikes her as a kind of alarming but heady & increasingly attractive spirit-communing or magic art, becomes unchecked and a liability to her as she’s overwhelmed by so many voices all clamoring for within for her to act definitively — in some form or another — to regain her dignity, agency, sexuality, confidence. But Juliet cannot yet act, still shackled as she is to fear, to martyrdom, to holy suffering misery — a suffering that we learn has been fed and nurtured for decades by her mother (pictured below).
 
 
 
 
 
Still from Juliet of the Spirits
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     It’s worth pausing to note that Juliet’s mother, a severe and imposing matriarch, has belittled her throughout the film for not being beautiful enough, for not wearing nice enough clothes (Juliet’s style is well composed & attractive and steers clear from the gaudy and over-made-up excesses of many of the women around her), and throughout the film is complicit in maintaining (&, clearly, having helped construct) Juliet’s neurosis of quiet, smiling suffering. And Juliet’s flashbacks make clear this has been the case since her early childhood. Juliet’s path to empowerment will have to go through her mother.
     Which brings us to the image above, which is from a waking-vision sequence near the end of the film, at which point we find Juliet overwhelmed and bewildered by her psychological voices, by her inner spirit parade’s clamoring for her to act. Giorgio has left for another “business trip”, mumbling pre-emptive denial of any ‘rumours’ going about just as he leaves, and Juliet has been in a state of profound anxiety and pre-nervous breakdown fear and pain for a good ten minutes. She resorts to begging her interiorized mother to help her. Juliet then discovers a small door in her bedroom (a vision-door that is) and is about to open it; her mother then materializes in a vision and loudly and angrily commands her not to. Juliet is able to deny her mother’s wishes and open the small door, in which she discovers a narrow corridor and her childhood girl self tied to a metal grill with fake flames around her. She’s able to free the small martyr version of herself and thereby unlock her own sense of agency. The film ends not long after in a beautiful sequence of self discovery and emancipation, as Juliet is able now to launch herself forth, walking out of her house and away from an emotionally abusive relationship, and hopefully toward a renewal of herself as a still-vital woman and human (see below; Juliet can be seen in the bottom-left):
 
 
 
 
 
End Scene Juliet of the Spirits
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     Of course, we can also read this denouement as Juliet having been brought to full mental splintering breakdown through her interior journey and travails. In this light, her striding forth is less empowered shackle-break and more mad wayward broken-steering-wheeled careen; straitjacket nutso wandering out of the asylum. Or, to pull back a bit, at the very least she’s in equal measure broken and confounded by her inner saga as she is transformed into a healed whole being by it. But I’m keeping things optimistic today folks. Let’s just wish Juliet — all the Juliets in our lives — the best and send her good energy as she strolls on out into sun and fresh air, ready to meet the welcoming world.
 
 
 
 
 

Some stuff about nutmeggggggggs at botanical.com.

More of Billy Childish’s art at billychildish.com.

Ebert’s review of Fellini’s Juliet of the Spirits at rogerebert.suntimes.com.

 
 
 
 

[posted by: C Way at 9:40 PM]

[file under: ABANDONED STORAGE UNITS ||| paintings/drawings ||| photography ||| video/film]
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Living With Irony (Part 1 of 2)

September 17th, 2012

 
 
 
     Pitchforks and torches are raised; the Irony witch-hunt wears on. We Americans are addicted to killing it or declaring it dead or demonizing it. In recent memory we have: Seinfeld provoking a backlash against irony’s corrupting influence, Eggers’ “Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius” causing all sorts of nervous handwringing like this NY Times piece — & then along came 9-11 with heaps of blowhards and kneejerks, however wellmeaning, declaring Big Bad Bogeyman Irony dead (see this NY Mag article) or in desperate need of maiming. And now we have another well-meaning thinker on the subject, Christy Wampole, opining in the NY Times the other week about how to root out irony from our lives as if it were some evil little soul-mole that could be scooped up by the scruff and snuffed out. Way I see it, irony isn’t something to be disposed of, or something we should even want to erase, and that’s what I’m going to talk about in this essay. Irony’s not going anywhere, and our goal should not be to banish it. It should be to understand it, accept it, minimize it and, ghasp, even enjoy it.
     First off: I like Wampole’s article. I like the frustration and spirit behind it. When she’s at her best she’s nailing a lot of what’s wrong with our age — our emotional apathy, our reluctance to put forth sincere feeling statements and actions, our disconnection from our own authentic reactions to the world, our defensive way of relating to people. Particularly sharp to me was this indictment of modern advertising which turns into a spot-on drumming of a particular kind of emotional and mental malaise (“ironic living” as Wampole calls it):

“Take, for example, an ad that calls itself an ad, makes fun of its own format, and attempts to lure its target market to laugh at and with it. It pre-emptively acknowledges its own failure to accomplish anything meaningful. No attack can be set against it, as it has already conquered itself. The ironic frame functions as a shield against criticism. The same goes for ironic living. Irony is the most self-defensive mode, as it allows a person to dodge responsibility for his or her choices, aesthetic and otherwise. To live ironically is to hide in public. It is flagrantly indirect, a form of subterfuge, which means etymologically to “secretly flee” (subter + fuge). Somehow, directness has become unbearable to us.”
 
     There’ve always been people like this. We’ve all met them, whether we live in Williamsburg NY or Williamsburg VA, people who live tucked deep in smirks and winks; who, like emotional trauma victims, sadly spend far too much time in interpersonal retreat, smoke & mirrors & passive-aggression; who sarcastically joke about everything, about their own jokes; who turn the struggle of finding meaning and living meaningfully while we’re alive into a game. When I meet these people — and I’ve veered close to this kind of living myself at times — I’m troubled for them, I want to help them. They’re not just geek-chic mustachioed trombone-playing fixed-gear bike riders, to seize upon a few of Wampole’s expressed signifiers of “ironic living”. In my experience, they’re often depressed or otherwise (temporarily, hopefully) emotionally stunted, whether through trauma or through surrender to this aspect of the Zeitgeist. Addicted to the isolating comfort of their warm, hidden emotional pillow fort. It’s a dangerous mind trend that, in any era, has always needed serious attention as a kind of collective-spiritual bellwether, as it threatens to undermine and eat away at what’s best in us: confident, direct, purpose-driven, meaningful living. And so Wampole is dead right to sharply condemn this kind of living and advise us on how to watch for and avoid it in ourselves.
     What I don’t like about Wampole’s article, and what diminishes its punch and keeps it from being a more powerful statement, are the following: 1) her conflation of these problems with other, unfocused shallower complaints, 2) her tired mis-identification of/focus on the “hipster”; 3) her failure to properly contextualize & explain the “irony” she decries (you have to understand your enemy before you wage war). But the most serious of her essay’s problems to me is # 4): her contention that irony is something that can or should be eliminated.
     We’ll start with item 1). Take the first few paragraphs of her essay, where she succumbs to a kind of kitchen-sinkism of framing the problem, lumping together a good many behaviors and observations about who and what is wrong here in a soupy terrine of traits, most of them perfectly harmless and tangential to her main and most cogent arguments. Trombone playing? Bike riding? Facial hair experiments? Questionable fashion choices? All of these are gimmes, stock targets that mean little in the context of Wampole’s much more affecting passages about humans living emotionally-shallow lives and failing to connect with each other. Every era in the U.S. — from the 19th century bohos and revolutionaries hanging out at Pfaff’s to the 50s Beats free-versing to Charlie Parker — has had its dandies, their fashions dashing or disastrous, peacocks who happen to look to the “outmoded” (to use Wampole’s modifier) past for inspiration. Some of these folks have been posers, some wastes, but a good many of them have been genuine, authentically-living culture-shapers who lived forceful, authoritative, hungry lives. They weren’t just muttering Bieber-shirters. I mean Jesus, just about all artists and art-lovers engage in some healthy interaction with the past; without it we’d be ahistorical nimrods living in the perpetual iPad-tapping now, neglecting behaviors, expressions, instruments, modes of transportation and yes, even hairstyles of previous generations in order to learn from them, adapt them, recontextualize them. Name a true artistic revolutionary from the past two hundred years and I’ll show you precisely how they resurrected or engaged with some form of the ‘outmoded’ past to shape their then-contemporary critique, revolution, artistic expression. To the extent Wampole confuses value-neutral behaviors and hobbies and outward signifiers like trombone playing and mustachioing with much, much more noteworthy and corrosive habits and trends of mind and heart — emotional disconnecting, ultra-meta speech and signifying — her thesis suffers and comes like run of the mill 20-something alternative weekly “hipster” bashing.
     Which leads me to closely-related objection #2) — I have a problem with Walpole’s reliance on the semantic trap “hipster”. A verbal quicksand, a joke-word run ragged and obliterated to wisps, seven letters we’re all better off avoiding, and which, like ‘alternative’ was in the 90s, much too over-determined & charged with assumptions to be of any use. It’s simple: Hip = trendy = fashionable = sceney, and hip people across eras have never just been space-wasting nostalgia-bots. They’ve always been located somewhere in the continuum defined by the twin poles of A) feeling, thinking, contributing members of society helping shape culture and leading authentic emotional lives; B) vacuous empty hangers on, leeches and posers. Instances are few — but how spotlit and pounced upon! — of true cases of B). And yet that’s what everyone wants to focus on when they say “hipster”. Trucker hat empty-heads, layabout inheritors. It’s mostly a bogeyman, a myth. I’ve lived in NYC for 10 years and spent a great deal of time in Williamsburg and surrounding neighborhoods. Most fashionable looking, hip young kids I meet — whether they come from money or not — are sincere and trying to do something with their lives. I’ve rarely met the irony exemplar Walpole describes. That’s because they rarely exist. It’s a mental phantasm we construct and uphold in order not to focus on the real issue — why we’re not doing more to change our lives and the world. Easier to rail against this scary fake arch-Ironiste scapegoat than get to work and make a difference ourselves.
     And speaking of fraught terms, let’s move to item 3) — the big daddy – “Irony”. Here’s where I really start to take issue with Wampole. Because once you understand irony and it’s place in human relation to self and to other, it’s kind of hard to make grand pronouncements that one must or should lead a life without it. Wampole didn’t establish an irony baseline in her piece, a benchmark of what it means in this context, and her only version of ceding the point comes here: “Throughout history, irony has served useful purposes, like providing a rhetorical outlet for unspoken societal tensions.” If we’re doing something as significant as trying to address a malaise of the age, it just seems right that we define and address the issue and agree on what we’re fighting against. I’ll give it a shot: Irony is tension. Tension between what we mean and what we say, between surface meaning and deep meaning. It’s been with us since humans learned to speak, and it’ll always be with us. We find it in everyday speech, in plays, in poems, in movies, in novels, in gestures, in actions. Sometimes we do it out of fear — passive-aggressively saying “It’s fine!” to a friend when they put us off for the third weekend in a row. Sometimes we do it for pointed and controlled effect, like when we resort to ridiculous hyperbole that we can’t possibly mean to make an effective point. There are infinite ironies, and infinite contexts for them.
     Which brings me to #4) — is Irony something we should aim to eliminate? Even if we all agree our spirit is, or is approaching, one of unchecked ironicizing? Hell no. Irony is in us because saying what we mean all the time, and acting authentically 100% of the time, is impossible for socialized adults (Wampole’s point that children and animals are bereft of irony is meaningless; that’s like saying quartz crystals are devoid of pubic hair or tulips are devoid of mammary glands). Otherwise we’d all be running around thinking, acting and living with absolute candor and immediacy, which would lead to a social implosion. If I said everything I meant and felt fully constantly I’d be bludgeoned to pulp within a halfday. And if everyone around me did the same, I’d probably be in jail for doing the bludgeoning. Why on earth would I want to live without irony? Or live in a world without irony? I need the cognitive palliative and padding of distance. What’s more, I’m delighted by controlled, occasional irony usage. I love a sharp sarcastic barb. I love a writer deftly satirizing a hypocritical political leader. I love 19th century British novels where slippery innuendo-laden ironic dialogue hypnotizes with shifting subtexts of meaning. I like that with my close friends I enjoy an occasional little verbal teasing dance of ironic imagery and wink.
     I believe humans need irony — not only as artistic technique whereby detachment entertains the audience and allows the creator to transmit feelings and ideas in different, otherwise-difficult-to-access registers; but also as an inescapable life strategy whereby we create emotional space to weather, over the years, the impact of living with ourselves and others. Irony isn’t Evil, it’s an unregulated reliance on it in our lives that’s the problem, a sustained pattern of feeding and mutating within us what should just be a small part of our overall response to the world. When we’ve overfed the normally-occurring irony response within us, it’s much easier for us to succumb to alienation, isolation, cowardice. And THESE are our true enemies. Not irony, but what its cancerized form allows to come darkly oozing out of our human spirits: institutionalized apathy, everyone disconnected from each other, everyone afraid to connect and put themselves forward except through FaceBook photostreams and sniping blog comments; communication that’s mostly memes and circuitous non-talk. Or, less troublesome but extremely annoying, people who, day to day, can’t even come out and articulate what they like and dislike, but who instead rely passively on other forms of communication, like clothes and images, to clandestinely speak for them: young adults wearing New Kids On the Block shirts (who don’t love but hate New Kids on the Block), or who wear shirts with awful airbrushed scenes of, say, wolves howling against the full moon sunset or something (knowing it’s a cheap dated look and flaunting their anti-fashion), who wear Camp Jesus Christ pins on their messenger bags when they think Christianity is a joke. Think of this form of Mutant Irony as one of many immuno-compromising spirit ills that allow the true virii — fear, apathy, isolation — to swoop in and sicken the soul. In the words of poet Charles Bernstein, “The absence of irony in a work [...] is like a windowpane without a window: impossible to justify” (Harper’s, Dec 2012). A “work” here is not just a poem, it’s a life. Irony is not the enemy. Irony is just a lens we live with. But don’t make your whole house out of window glass, fool.
     So how do we live with irony? Accept that it’s part of how we relate to the world. Call it a flaw, a foible — I prefer to see it as immutable fact, just another lens in the eye we happen to have to see through as socialized adults. It’s there, so learn to use it on occasion. Like cayenne chili powder or ginger when cooking: a little goes a long way, and creates a nice tension in the mouth, some pain and some pleasure, some fascinating disharmony. Sarcasm at the right time, ironic distance at the right time, whether relating to ourselves or to others, whether in literature or in art, can add a delicious spike of friction. Or maybe it’s an inside cliquey catchphrase that only you and your friend know, one which means something totally different than what it appears to. Maybe it’s just saying you’re happy as a clam when inside you’re ready to rip sinews out of throats. Sometimes irony is a lot like lying, and lying (in doses) is part of being functionally social. We lie — whether we admit it or not, whether we want to or not — to protect ourselves and others, to spare the emotional exhaustion that results from 100% emotional authenticity. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s there. Another way to frame all this then is that irony is part of the necessary lying we do as humans, and knowing how to deploy it within reason, and while giving primacy and most of your energy and attention to truth and authentic living as best you can, is part of the complex contradictory spice that makes being human so damned deliciously awfully weird and wonderful. “Within reason” is the key here — watch for unchecked irony abuse in your manners and speech, and examining why you use it. Are you using it because you’re depressed, anxious? Because it’s safer to not put yourself out there than to utter true pronouncements consistent with your ideas and feelings? Or are you using it responsibly within the context of a life largely spent being connected, honest and real with yourself and others? We should always be checking in with ourselves about our motivations for how and what we do and say; this is just one more set of questions to ask so that we can make proper use of irony as a fun, frisky, tense, challenging part of our social and expressive toolkit.
     I’ll end this essay how I started it: I like Wampole’s essay a lot and I urge anyone who’s concerned they might be hyper-ironicizing their existence to read it. While judicious deployment of irony brings humor and fun spiky tension to life, there is a line; watch for it, feel for it, be mindful in walking up to it. If all you’re doing with your friends is trading vacuous non sequiturs, if you’re sarcastically rasping at everyone in your life, if you’re drawn constantly to the worst postmodern pastiche endlessly-referential shit-art, you’re probably dumping too much of that aforementioned cayenne powder on your scrambled eggs. You’re gonna numb your tongue out.
 
 

     (P.S. — As a footnote, and possible precursor to another essay, I wonder about Wampole’s feeling that the “ethos of our age” is ironic. Mutant irony is perhaps rampant, but I think I also see much more of the equally frustrating opposite — whatever we choose to call it — a kind of kneejerk over-emotional screeching from right wing and left wing alike; (the worst of) OWS and tea partying, anonymous hate speech, people saying exactly what they mean +1000 in very loud ALL CAPS all over Twitter and everywhere else they can microblog and ramble, SMH Fuck-My-Life Facebook-generation overreactions, Best-Ever sensationalizing, conspiracy-theory-fed reactionary bigotry & outrage. In short, I see a lot of decidedly unironic anxiety-driven unregulated emotion. I know I’m lumping a lot of stuff into one glob. I’m trying to describe an ill that I sense to be on par with Wampole’s rightly identified malaise of emotional inauthenticity — a kind of falsehood of spirit in the other direction, just as damaging, of unchecked emoto-burst, explosive feeling-flare. Too much immediacy, too little detachment, so much discharge of feeling that all perspective is lost in an unsubtle blast of Worst.Weekend.Ever frothing. We need to watch for that trend too.
     P.P.S — Oh and one more thing — in the second half of this essay, I’ll treat two modern artworks, “The Comedy”, directed by Rick Alverson and starring Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim, and Heidecker & Wood’s album “Starting From Nowhere” — artworks which both, for better/worse, either treat or employ irony heavily enough to be right in the thick of this conversation.)

 
 
 
 

[posted by: C Way at 12:07 AM]

[file under: non-fiction & essays]
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Abandoned Storage Unit #2: Satish Gujral’s ‘Composition’, Carlos Alonso’s “La Muker Del Vestido Colorado”, and Yayoi Kusama at the Whitney

August 31st, 2012

 
 
 
     

 
 
 
 

       Carlon Alonso (b. 1929, Argentina)
          La mujer del vestido colorado, 1956, oil on canvas

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
      How are all you pups? Back with another Storage Unit. First up’s “La mujer del vestido colorado” by Argentinian Carlos Alonso. I just discovered the piece tonite, as well as the artist. I love the subject’s wan, moody sidelong glance, her large eyes, her pursed mouth, her androgynous features. The black-maroon jacket dress opened to reveal the swath of red heat beneath. Red, the color of anger, hunger. Herself revealed, like a patient worked over by a surgical team, viscera bared, skin pulled & pinned back. Her eyes, angles, and the smudge of red on her cheek reminds me a little of Schiele (always delicious for me). I like too how there’s some strange armor-like bulk to the fabric in the arm region; the subject could be some kind of dystopic mercenary with her future-polymer exoskeleton peeled away momentarily while she waits for her contact to arrive.
 
 
 
 

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       Satish Gujral (b. 1925)
          SATISH GUJRAL 1965 COMPOSITION, 1965, mixed media on canvas

 
 
 
 
 
      Gujral is a Punjabi-Indian artist. I just came across this piece on Artnet today. I love looking at this. Troubling and serene. I like the tine-like downward thrust of the object; how, left-offset, it anchors the work and gives it momentum. I like it’s strange conglomeration, like a trident after some kind of graphic-glitch youtube pixellation spasm. I like the barnacle-like encrustation of it. I also think of an underwater centurion, centuries dead, rusting away in his armor. Surrealist Yves Tanguy and his large scale underwater-alienscapes comes to mind — something in Gujral’s assemblage here has the same extra-terrestial presence for me as that artist’s works. Finally, I also think of Louis Nevelson sculptures, their stacked purposeful hodgepodges. Gujral’s is a rich work that rewards meditation.
 
 
 
 
 

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      Yayoi fucking Kusama. Look at that kohleyed dotter dot, look at her look right back at us. Yum. She’s such a good egg, and my recent trip to the Whitney to catch her retrospective there burnished the ecstatic obsessive glowy shrine for her I’ve set up in my mind even more than it already was. I don’t think I’ve posted about another artist as much on snailcrow as Kusama — see here, here, here and here — and I’m perfectly happy to add yet another passel o’ pics to the mix.
     So much wowed me at her Whitney exhibit. First, the strength of her early 50s work. Just look at this trio:
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 

       Yayoi Kusama (b. 1929)
          The Germ, 1952, ink and pastel on paper
          Corpses, 1950, oil on canvas
          A Flower, 1952, ink on paper

 
 
 
 
 
 
      I first fell in love with Kusama by way of her vibrant polkadotted pumpkins, boxes and installations; and her ruminations on infinity in the form of mirrored chambers, pools of floating mirror-orbs. And I feel that stuff’s among her greatest work. But discovering these early-50s works with their expressive coils and streaks, busy cilia and numinous shimmers, and firmly-established visual character and impact was a revelation for me. It deepened even further my admiration for her capabilities, her power, her instincts from the get-go. She was already capitalizing at an early age on the themes and traits that obsess her now, & that would characterize much of her later output: dot-work, obsessive attention to small details (these early canvases were a wonder to stand near and scrutinize), fleshiness and biomorphic repetitions, hieroglyphic-like impact. I just can’t explain enough how rewarding this was to see in person.
      Another thing I love about Kusama’s early 50s work is how some of these pieces conflate the micro and the macro — I can recall a piece at the Whitney that was sort of this globe-like dotted presence against a black background that felt either cosmic in scale, some kind of breathing judging mega-planet pulsing in deep space, or micro — maybe a nucleus, or a unicellular critter glowing in the guts of a spider. It was Kusama’s way of investing the object with force, with a weird sentience, and her use of lighting, glow and color gradation that gave it this dual citizenship as an entity vast and atomic all at once.
      I think what got to me most was the fact that her early works are imbued with such vitality and personality, such confidence, just like her later, more celebrated works, and, as I’ll touch on, especially like her most recent pictographic canvases. Take “Germ” — in its halo of Klee-like colorwork, this great floating animalcule serenely pulses, either nebulon-vast or scraped off the tip of an eyelid and spied on under-lens, secreting benevolence and blood into the universe. And look at “A Flower” — that barbed wire whipping, that bulging eye, that tree trunk stalk. Not a flower but the spirit of a flower perhaps, staring out in alarm, flailing psychic feelers, or maybe whipping its field of attraction into inward-pulling net for passing bees. Made me think right away of P.J.’s hairwhip from the cover of “Rid of Me”:

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
      And “Corpses”? This is such a great, creepy piece. I’m reminded of Kay Sage’s surrealistic work, with big metal eggs and geometric solids hanging out on platforms against vast featureless terrains. Here Kusama masses coiled viscera, like a close up of ropework on a shipdeck, against a featureless sky and the barest hint of sea or land. A bold statement of repetition, of vaguely uncomfortable and half-alien flesh that you find later in, for example, her phallic protuberances and tentacle-work. For me her “Corpses”-esque works remind me as well of certain late 60s/early 70s progressive rock album covers, take for example this back cover of a Comus record which in spirit and in execution (anatomically-vague mass against a flat background) came immediately to mind:
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
      Now keep all this stuff in mind as you fast forward to her work from the last few years:
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

       Yayoi Kusama (b. 1929)
          Joy I Feel When Love Has Blossomed, 2009, acrylic on canvas —
          Late Night Chat is Filled with Dreams, 2009, acrylic on canvas —
          Eyes of Mine, 2010, acrylic on canvas

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
      New visual language, and yet not so new at all. Note the familiar motifs and traits and tics: life-under-the-microscope biologic teem; the vacuoles, the lipid sacs, the paramecia, the cilia, the little wriggling virii and organelles, the ribosomal dots. The large tentacle-like shapes looming in from out-of-frame in “Late Night Chat is Full of Dreams”; the eyes in “Eye of Mine” echoing that in “A Flower”; the pictographic shapes and symbols in all three paintings. The stark, simplified heavy outlining and bold color against flat backgrounds. And of course dots, dots, O them dots. Some of what energizes and sustains these late works was prefigured in her 50s work, some of it draws from her obsessive gray-wavelet minimalist canvases, some of it suggests her polkadot pumpkins, some of it her giant dot-tentacle canvases. Such a rich drawing from herself here, such a diligent revisiting and refueling from her own abundance of expression.
      I celebrate these late works too for their sheer color impact — they really need to be seen live (isn’t that always the case?) to have this aspect appreciated. In person, all those hot colors and contrasts stacked up close (three or four high and wide per wall if I remember right) present a joyous color- and meaning-kaleidoscope. At the same time, seeing all these at once can be a bit lysergic, can lead to an almost headachy troubling ecstasy. Dissonances arise, and the eye just gets bludgeoned with all those sharp densities of dot, dash, eye, wriggle and spike and recurring but context-less and seemingly meaningless symbol: starfish, woman in profile, coffee cup, spermatazoa, jellyfish, crustacean, you name it. It’s all like a bunch of Haring dudes fed Giza dust and Gary Panter blood and biology book plant cell insets and then turned inside out and their guts microscoped in on a day later.
      What helped me vastly in absorbing and learning from all these canvases — and not just tolerating but embracing and integrating their visual heat — more than I would have at any rate — was Kusama’s titleing. Compare her 50s titles (“A Flower”) with these — “Joy I Feel When Love has Blossomed”, “Once the Abominable War is Over, Happiness Fills our Hearts” and “Shining Stars in Pursuit of the Truth are Off in the Distance Beyond Universe, the More I Sought the Truth, Brighter they Shone”. Sounds like Fiona Apple album titles (I mean that with all due affection, being a huge Apple fan). Having language like this in mind when trying to not just fleetingly glance at but study four, five, six of these in a row right in front of you helps enormously. Once I really took in the titles I was able to sit with these pieces, feel them, gain from them. Otherwise their volume — color-wise, but also as shotgunning of glyphs — can overwhelm, especially in aggregate in one big room.
      For instance, when I was able to take “Late Night Chat is Full of Dreams”, meditate on those nouns and pair up what that language meant to me with the actual image, it opened me up to be able to accept and work with the visual language. This is the kind of stuff Pettibon has made a career of, and it’s fascinating to see Kusama open up her titleing and explore the possibilities in the space between text and visual. Sometimes that game can be superfluous for a given work, but in this case, with this artist, with these works, her rich — if at times a bit belabored — titleing really helps the viewer hold on to a kind of highly personal backstory/narrative when viewing/reading these late canvases. A narrative open to interpretation of course but which, to this reader and viewer, seems to be one of rapturous tribute to the gift of surprise love, and the optimism, wonder, mania and even paranoia that gift can bring.
      I leave you with one last little Kusama bit — another one of her pumpkins, this one a squat adorable greeny:
 
 
 
 

 
 
 

       Yayoi Kusama (b. 1929)
          Pumpkin (Green) – from 5 Porcelain Pumpkins, 2002, porcelain


 
 
 
 
 

KUUUSAAAAAAAMAAAAAA at the Whitney here.

Check out Kusama’s page at Artsy.net here.

More Gujral works at Artnet are over here.

Finally, find Carlos Alonso at Wikipedia over here.

 
 
 
 

[posted by: C Way at 11:50 PM]

[file under: ABANDONED STORAGE UNITS ||| Ekphrasis ||| paintings/drawings]
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Abandoned Storage Unit #1: Rodin’s Hanako, Daisuke Nakamura Vs Bogdan Cristea, Joey Diaz on Second Chances, John C. Bogle

August 24th, 2012

 
 
 
     Bigg shit’s changing on the S.Crow, and here’s how: no more Art of the Day. Just don’t have time sadly — too many skillets on the stove, had onions burning over here, corn oil frying up the joint over there, a whole zucchini exploding in the back — just wasn’t working. In fact, no more mandates to myself to try and post daily period. I’m just not a commit-to-anything daily kinda guy. Y’all will just have to accept my catch-as-catch-canness. Fuck it my friendz n frondz, I did my level evil best. No regrets as Tom Paxton wrote.
      So what’s left? Occasional posts on art (broadly defined), as always. Ekphrastic posts, posts on art (or non-art) stuff I’m hating on at the moment (called “Slags”), posts on art (or non-art) stuff I’m adoring at the moment (called “Lauds”), and big weird shambling bizzaro conglommied hodgepodges on multiple subjects called “Abandoned Storage Units”, the first of which type of post is happening now motherfuuuuuu’ers:
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

       Auguste Rodin (b.1840 in Paris, d.1917)
          Two Masks of Hanako, bet. 1907-8, Bronze (topmost), Bottom-most: material unknown — plaster?

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
      Rodin couldn’t make enough busts of Japanese dancer Ohta Hisa [1868-1945], otherwise known as Hanako. Purportedly he made more sculptures of her than any other sitter. His perseverance is our gain, since, if these two masks are any indication, his complex subject inspired Rodin to a rare degree of striving to — & I don’t say this lightly, being a huge Rodin fan and well acquainted with his diligence and commitment to his work — beautifully carve essence and emotion into existence. Isn’t that topmost piece a stunner? The Pride, the trouble around the brow, the full sensuous mouth, the fold under the left eye, the serenity, the fleeting pathos passing across her countenance. The youth in her, the wisdom of age in her. So much passes through and across these features. And the second-most piece, well, christ, what to say about that. The seized up visage of an immolated martyr, revenge-murderer, possessed sorceress, orgasm-peaking lover.
 
 
 
 

*  *  *

 
 
 

      Next up is, well, just fucking watch it, at least to the :50 second mark if you could, more if possible:
 
 

 
       Daisuke Nakamura Vs Bogdan Cristea
         M-1 Challenge 5 – Japan, courtesy of HDNET fights, July 17, 2008

 
 
 
      So what’s this? Yus yus, first time I’m posting about the combat arts. I’ve become a big mixed martial arts (aka MMA) fan in the past year or so, and these two practitioners of the art, Daisuke Nakamura and Bogdan Cristea, exemplify here one part of what makes this sport capable of beautiful displays of breathtaking skill — the submission art of Brasilian jiu jitsu. MMA bouts can thrill with all kinds of explosive striking, spinning back kicks and bulldozer uppercuts — many matches offer little else besides that — but what really hooked me about this sport wasn’t haymakers and flying knees (as fun as those are) but rather the jiu jitsu, the part-improvised body-strategy involved in trying to apply submissions/holds and, with equal improvisation-ready strategy, evade them. Watch both fighters deftly, rapidly transition from submission attempt to submission attempt, attempting to execute hold after hold against his foe only to have his opponent escape. All this fluid tangle, blink-and-miss-it give and take, it’s like listening to two skilled debaters or conversationalists interweave ideas and theses and & tropes & innuendoes & argument-sealing rejoinders, just leaves you breathless. The 1:40 mark and on is particularly lovely, with Nakamura rolling his opponent in an attempt to execute an armbar. If you’re interested in this kind of thing, you owe it to yourself to watch the whole damned fight — I guarantee you’ve rarely if ever seen a ground scrap this heated.
 
 
 
 
 

*  *  *

 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
      Joey fucking Diaz. I’m a huge fan of this comedian, love his filthy, honest lunatic stories delivered with loud sputtering gusto, while he, wide-eyed in wonderment as if surprised and overtaken by the sheer brute force of his delivery and presence, always seems on the verge of some kind of blaze-of-glory combustion (example here, from his many appearances on Joe Rogan’s podcast). He gets you laughing not so much because of clever cracks or jokes but by dint of his convulsive fucking bazooka personality — it’s just his force of will that gets you guffawing in shock & mild trepidation at where the hell the guy is going to go next. He’s fearless and completely in touch with his core when he’s entertaining in a way that’s rare — he’s performing but not really, more just tapping into the current of himself for better or for worse and turning the amps up to 12. But what makes all this even more impressive for me is how, by contrast, Diaz will mix things up (unconsciously or not) with these moments where he’s vulnerable, where he’s disarmingly hushed in some moment of unaffected appreciation for the world, for women, for psychoactive drug experience, for friendship, whatever; or where he’s candid about what most would consider very private details of his life; or where he’s nakedly direct about his flaws and serious moral miss-steps. This is the Diaz that has deepened my appreciation of him as an explosively talented artist & narrator & performer, and this is the Diaz that you’ll find in one of his most recent posts, a post that moved the hell out of me with its simple plainspoken immediacy and confessorial power. Find it here, and I’ll quote part of it below:

 
 
 

We all have interesting lives because from time to time we struggle with life or our personal demons, how we overcome them and continue to live gives us that second chance. What many people don’t know about me is that I was married and had a child after I got out of prison and before I got into comedy. After a while my true colors started to show and like everything else in my life at the time, the marriage fell apart. It was fine, we had both made a mistake but their was a child involved. I made a simple deal with her because I wanted to stay in the childs life. After a few months, she got a boyfriend, I started fucking around and before you knew it we had a situation.
     The drama escalated and I ended smacking the guy, she took me to court but in the end the only one who suffered was my little girl in the car that day that witnessed the whole thing at the age of 4. I noticed her crying and it hit me, I had seen this type of behavior as a child and between you and I it didn’t do a fucking thing for me. Between that situations and many others I decided that for everyones sake I would move to Seattle for a while to give the situation air before it got worst.
     I would visit every few months but after a while I started to lose her, between me being away and whatever the Mother was telling her, it was starting to show, now I have nothing because we haven’t spoken in years.
     Now thats a great story and all, and I had a great time smacking the guy and acting like a fucking fool but the truth was…..I failed as a Father, period. For years it was my own little secret, but once I came to terms with that, it made my life a lot easier.

 
 
 
 

*  *  *

 
 
 

 
 
 
 
      Who dat? John C. Bogle, founder of investment management company Vanguard. What’s he got to say? This spot-on shit:
 
 
 

“Too much money is aimed at short-term speculation — the seeking of quick profit with little concern for the future. The financial system has been wounded by a flood of so-called innovations that merely promote hyper-rapid trading, market timing and shortsighted corporate maneuvering. Individual investors are being shortchanged, he writes.

     Corporate money is flooding into political campaigns. The American retirement system faces a train wreck. America’s fundamental values are threatened. Mr. Bogle remains a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist but says the system has “gotten out of balance,” threatening our entire society. “You can always count on Americans to do the right thing — after they’ve tried everything else,” he says, quoting Winston Churchill. Now, he says, it’s time to try something else.

     He advocates taxes to discourage short-term speculation. He wants limits on leverage, transparency for financial derivatives, stricter punishments for financial crimes and, perhaps most urgently, a unified fiduciary standard for all money managers: “A fiduciary standard means, basically, put the interests of the client first. No excuses. Period.”

 
Source: The New York Times
 
 
 
 
      I guess you could look at this as a Vanguard plug. But whether it is or isn’t — and it’s probably at least some of one — it’s such a great concise summary of the lobster tank we’re all clacking around in folks, while the amuse bouches & celery foam & ostrich-beack canapés get passed around on crystal dishes and $20-a-glass prosecco’s sipped by wan brain-flecked vampire mouths. And I like the Bogle quote not just because of how it sums up the predacious and short-term way our financial overlords have seen fit to shark around and devour the middle and lower classes with subprime mortgages (and, now, the ugly scourge of for-profit colleges) — but how it applies to what’s happening to all of us, financially or otherwise:
      Collective anxiety and helplessness in the face of so many rapidly changing technologies, so many changing ways of life, so many threats (imagined or otherwise; fear-mongered & fed to us or otherwise) looming from within and from without, so many sources of hopelessness and dread have eroded at our collective intrinsic moral fiber. It’s like this: when you’re locked up in a train car with thirty other confused scared people and you think you’re headed to the killing fields, most people are going to break down and go into survival mode. Community begins to break down as higher-functioning aspirational society-building impulses are replaced by desperate amphibian hoarding, tribalism, pecking order, rule of might and me-first scrambles. As it happens in the micro, so it can happen with nations.
      It doesn’t have to be this way — people can band together and collectivize to ward off a common enemy and thereby escape, or cripple, or hijack that killing-field-bound train. But first I believe there’s an inevitable phase of short-term-minded thinking and acting, panicked mad scurry; of pre-Y2K bunker building, generator buying, canned food stockpiling, and, yes, rapacious operations visited upon us from on high by those cloud-wreathed oligarchs already far removed from the consequences of their dehumanized 21st floor boardroom actions and requiring little force to nudge them toward full-scale Après-moi-le-déluge cruelty.
      I hope desperately that we emerge from this phase and realize that we cannot allow ourselves to descend to myopic amorality even if our corporate oligarchy has (& shows no signs of stopping doing so); that we’ll just hasten our own slavery by doing so. Our only chance is to think long term, believe and act as if the world will be around for centuries and is worth fighting for and saving & upholding culturally environmentally and in all respects that we hold dear (even if data seems to support the opposite conclusion), and never forget that our fellow human beings are worth sacrificing our desires and comforts for at every possible opportunity.
      An isolated, suspicious populace attacking itself while in the grip of end-of-the-world dread is the best friend of those who seek absolute control.
 
 
 
 

More information about Rodin’s Hanako busts here.

A terrific list of unheralded MMA fights here.

More JOEY FUCKIN DIAZ — including info about his comedy cds, merch and tour dates — here.

More on Mr. Bogle in the Times here.

 
 

[posted by: C Way at 9:17 PM]

[file under: ABANDONED STORAGE UNITS ||| Combat Arts ||| Comedic Arts ||| sculpture]
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Help Fund Pianist Tania Stavreva’s upcoming record, “Rhythmic Movement”

July 5th, 2012

 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
     I first heard NYC-based, Bulgarian-born pianist Tania Stavreva several years ago, live, opening for Amanda Palmer at Webster Hall. A diminutive woman dressed in black appeared on the stage, smiled & said very little, and in short order (& I suspect to the surprise of others in the audience aside from myself) began ferociously attacking the keyboard, precisely delivering the rapid, spiky lines and complex percussive rhythms of a Piano Sonata by Argentinian composer Alberto Ginastera (I don’t recall which Sonata or I’d cite it — too many beers that night). I love classical piano and I love it loud, fast and complicated, so I was flat-out floored (not to mention happily schooled — I had never heard any Ginastera before that night).
 
     I have since followed with much interest Stavreva’s flourishing NYC career, live when I’ve been able, from her NY recital debut at Carnegie’s Weill Recital Hall to her intimate-venue performances around the city, always enjoying her artfully-chosen repertoire of classical piano chestnuts (pieces by Satie, Debussy, Chopin), lesser-known, sometimes even slightly avant-garde works (works by the aforementioned Ginastera, Mason Bates, Carl Vine, Alexander Vladigerov) to dynamic modernist Eastern-European warhorses (Prokofiev’s “Suggestion Diabolique”, Scriabin’s Sonata #3). Stavreva’s performances are intense and frequently electrifying, with plenty of opportunity to showcase her rhythmic prowess and athletic virtuosity. If you haven’t seen her live yet, and if you love thoughtful spirited piano playing, you’re in for a real treat.
 
     But the big news is, aside from how awesome Stavreva is and how you should go check out her stuff right now, she’s got a new record coming out entitled “Rhythmic Movement” and she very much needs your donation support (and soon! just under 2 days left) to raise enough money to record it. Donate whatever you can spare to via her Kickstarter).
 
     Below is some additional information on how you can help this gifted NYC pianist and proponent of new & challenging classical music fund her Kickstarter project:

 
          
 
     And here’s a couple clips of Stavreva — in the first she’s playing the 4th movement of Ginastera’s Piano Sonata No. 1, Op.22 — in the second, Variations on a Bulgarian Folk Song “Dilmano, Dilbero”, Op.2 by Vladigerov:

 

 
 

 
 
 
 

And below, check out more of Tania’s music & bio:
 
 
http://www.youtube.com/taniastavreva
 
http://www.myspace.com/taniastavreva
 
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Tania-Stavreva/72024680157

 
 
 
 

[posted by: C Way at 10:22 PM]

[file under: Music]
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