Her voice. It’s hard to believe that, except on record, it’s gone: the spellbinding sass, bite & swagger of it. That’s also the side of Amy that most everyone knew best — the saucy blustering Winehouse of “Rehab” & of lyrics full of sneering, profane kiss-offs. And, in its extremes, this was the side of Amy that was unfortunately even celebrated (or at least obsessively catalogued): the Winehouse of garish tabloid spreads, of tattoos & brawls & of unapologetic loutishness.

Her sharp edges & stylish Sid Viciousness aren’t why I’ll miss her most though. & I certainly won’t miss the aggressive public dysfunction — anyone with a complicated childhood (i.e., most of us) can collapse and/or lash out for the camera. What made her special to me was her vulnerability and enormous sensitivity as an artist, qualities that tended to get obscured against the backdrop of her overdocumented mess. It was how her lyrics reveal a shrewd self-regard, often disarmingly brave in how thoroughly it explored (and skewered) her longings, malfunctions & love-life disappointments. It was how she invited everyone in to listen to her struggles with needing love and pushing love away. It was naked lyrics like these: “I stay up, clean the house, at least I’m not drinking / Run around just so I don’t have to think about thinking / That silent sense of content everyone gets / Just disappears soon as the sun sets”. It was how her voice softens into silk & yearning in songs like “Wake up Alone”, “Back in Black” and the wrenching “Love is a Losing Game” (probably my favorite Winehouse song). And it was how she’d get you with a sudden long-lashed wink, some smirky bit of black humor, some lyrical equivalent of a soft sad chuckle in the midst of all this. That’s what I’ll miss most about her art. Without this side of Winehouse — without the insight & playfulness & yearning & songwriting prowess — the punchy assertions of lyrics like “you don’t mean dick to me”, & the vinegar of her Fuck The World persona would lack context and be unremarkable.

Let no one forget why it should matter to us that she’s gone — & it’s got nothing to do with the “27 club” bullshit or the “tragedy” of another addiction-death (there is no “tragedy” here, just someone intelligent who continued to make awful decisions & not avail herself of all the resources money and influence can secure) — her absence moves us like it does because she was such a damned good singer & songwriter, because she fought valiantly to wrest beauty from the pain of her life, because she had so much more to share with us all.
 
All writing © copyright C. Way / Snailcrow.com 2011

Oye readers! I’m taking a bit of a break from Art of the Day (and SnailCrow.com posts in general) for the time being. Hope to resume posting very soon, so do check back now and again… & thanks for your support & readership!

-Snailcrow

       Chakaia Booker
       Foci, 2010, Rubber Tire, Stainless Steel

       Source for 1st picture: flickr user alexdanielletravelling
       Source for 2nd picture: flickr user researchgirl
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 

       Hans Hokanson
       Helixikos Number 3, 1969, Bronze

       Source for 1st picture: flickr user dabvembarb
       and 2nd picture: huntersandgatherersathome.blogspot.com
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 

       Alice Aycock
       Three-fold Manifestation II, 1987, steel

       Source for 1st picture: picasa user muriel
       and 2nd picture: flickr user janejai1000
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 

       Ursula Von Rydingsvard
       LUBA, 2010, cedar, graphite, bronze
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     Two new things for Art of the Day. First, my longest break since I began this whole daily (hah!) art-writing project. Sorreee. (But, as you’ll see, I’m trying to come out of the deep freeze tonight with a big proper ice-crackin’ thaw). & Second, instead of posting stuff I’ve never seen before and may never see in the flesh, today I bring you pieces I’ve actually beheld/beloved & basked in the presence of & belingered about & around. Namely, artworks I just saw last weekend at the gorgeous, sprawling Storm King Art Center in Mountainville, New York (about 1-1.5 hrs outside of Manhattan depending how you get there). The wealth of artworks (115ish or so) were integrated throughout the landscape in all manner of ways: nestled meekly in and among woody rambles, installed upon & boldly yawping from knolls & prospects, tucked behind cricket-strewn tall grasses, spanning burbly creeks, shooting up & out of the flatlands stark and mystical, serenely wave-carved into the earth itself. Even if the Storm King tract were art-less it still would’ve been a lovely Saturday full of upstate New York early summer breezy beauty. The addition of well-curated, occasionally breathtaking sculpture harmonizing (or playfully contrasting, and in fact creating a whole range of concords & even discords) with the surroundings made the whole day even more memorable.
      Some words about one the pieces shown above: Chakaia Booker’s “Foci”, the piece I looked forward to most. What a beauty. It dominated its surroundings with equal parts menace & firm earth-deity stewardship; sturdy & tall like a Zulu warrior shield, creepy like some ominous fire-blackened signpost, proud & awesome & low-voiced like some ancient spirit of the forest. I circled it carefully, watching how at all angles it revealed itself, its parabolas & barbs & scales & rubber sharkteeth, feeling that special humming joy you get in your gut & chest when you’re in the presence of art that moves you fully: in form and content, structure & spirit, architecture & emotion, texture & movement.
     I want to let the work of the stellar photographers cited above speak for itself, but I’ll just say two more things about the pieces I chose: 1) they were my favorites of the small portion of total Storm King artworks we managed to see (definitely looking forward to returning in the fall), and 2) as terrific as the above photos are, it goes without saying that there’s nothing like experiencing these pieces in the flesh (esp. in good weather), so make the trip, pay the $12, picnic at the cafe, get a little tipsy, & go enjoy the hell out of the treasure that is Storm King.