Matthew Barney / Interpol Sucks

Hurray for insomnia.



I've been wanting to make short films that involve really elaborate but seemingly pointless rituals for a while now, which is something that Matthew Barney is really good at. I know that his movies, to him, and thick and rich and a messy symbolic SOUP and it shows this thought. But I have always just enjoyed them at face value, I simply enjoy the activities that are happening and feel no real need to connect them. He simply lets the viewer be, as if you are an infant seeing something totally unrelatable. The full cremaster cycle is coming to Portland soon and I am tempted to shell out the $20 bucks to see all five of them. [Not really a bad deal at all.] I've only seen the order and Drawing Restraint 9, thanks to the MICA screening. Did you know that the legit cremaster is only an edition of 10 copies? That is nuts.

Drawing Restraint 9 is also awesome thanks to the fact that the music is ballin, thanks to the fine lady that is Ms. Bjork.

That Interpol video was trying to pull some Matthew Barney shit, but it did'nt work because Interpol stopped making good albums three records ago, the costumes are not an 80th as cool, and Ian Curtis is dead. I won't lie though the first time I watched it I thought it was kind of pretty. I'm a sucker for weird exchanges involving viscous matter. What can I say.

And why this made me think of the star, I have no idea. But here is that. Pulled from here.



I construct a five-pointed star (made of wood and wood chips soaked in 100 litres of petrol). I set fire to the star. I walk around it. I cut my hair and throw the clumps into each point of the star. I cut my toe-nails and throw the clippings into each point of the star. I walk into the star and lie down on the empty surface. Lying down, I fail to notice that the flames have used up all the oxygen. I lose consciousness. The viewers do not notice, because I am supine. When a flame touches my leg and I still show no reaction, two viewers come into the star and carry me out of it. I am confronted with my physical limitations, the performance is cut short. Afterwards I wonder how I can use my body – conscious and otherwise – without disrupting the performance.

Marina Abramovic

Tale of A Tub

This poem, by Sylvia Plath was my favorite in high school...I was just thinking about it and had to put it up. It still has maintained it's effectiveness.

The photographic chamber of the eye
records bare painted walls, while an electric light
lays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw;
such poverty assaults the ego; caught
naked in the merely actual room,
the stranger in the lavatory mirror
puts on a public grin, repeats our name
but scrupulously reflects the usual terror.

Just how guilty are we when the ceiling
reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl
maintains it has no more holy calling
than physical ablution, and the towel
dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk
in its explicit folds? or when the window,
blind with steam, will not admit the dark
which shrouds our prospects in ambiguous shadow?

Twenty years ago, the familiar tub
bred an ample batch of omens; but now
water faucets spawn no danger; each crab
and octopus--scrabbling just beyond the view,
waiting for some accidental break
in ritual, to strike--is definitely gone;
the authentic sea denies them and will pluck
fantastic flesh down to the honest bone.

We take the plunge; under water our limbs
waver, faintly green, shuddering away
from the genuine color of skin; can our dreams
ever blur the intransigent lines which draw
the shape that shuts us in? absolute fact
intrudes even when the revolted eye
is closed; the tub exists behind our back;
its glittering surfaces are blank and true.

Yet always the ridiculous nude flanks urge
the fabrication of some cloth to cover
such starkness; accuracy must not stalk at large:
each day demands we create our whole world over,
disguising the constant horror in a coat
of many-colored fictions; we mask our past
in the green of eden, pretend future's shining fruit
can sprout from the navel of this present waste.
In this particular tub, two knees jut up
like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise
on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap
navigates the tidal slosh of seas
breaking on legendary beaches; in faith
we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail
among sacred islands of the mad till death
shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

Fabric In A Can.

Apparently this can be sprayed on, removed, then washed and reworn again?!?!

IChing/ Iturbide

I am trying to read the I Ching, and while it is impressive and charming, I simply have no idea how to apply it to my life. I suppose I can't. It's really hard to continue reading something that is merely interesting but not useful. I typically can find a use for the most esoteric of texts, I am able to bridge some sort of connection to them, but I just can't figure this one out. I guess the only reason I thought I would give it a try is because of Lucy Lippard anyway.



This image by Graciela Iturbide was just on my mind.

The Yes Men

Recently watched their documentary and it was kick-ass. I just received this image in the mail and it reminded me of it.



Survivaballs!





Their most epic stunt thus far:



Here is their website. If I ever become rich, I am going to give them half of my money because they will probably put it to better use than I ever will.

Danny Treacy

Suprisingly there was something at first thursday this month that I enjoyed more than Nina Katchadourian's Sorted Books, which I expected to be much more exciting in person than they actually were. Don't get me wrong, the photographs were impeccable sharpness and quality, presented in an interesting way [bright red walls! gutsy!] but as soon as I saw some of the actual sculptures of the books it just flattened the expierence, ironically enough.

Anyway, what I loved were these enormous prints by Danny Treacy at Blue Sky. He finds discarded clothing from a site, then melds it together into these bodysuits that he photographs himself wearing. Some are more discordant than others, but they always cover the entire form. These nearly humorous polyglots of multiple textiles are displayed among less decayed objects, the latter of which hold much more eeriness. Although the prints were stunning, I found his performance of sewing and actually wearing these garments to me more intriguing. Each image is titled "Them" and his entire body is obscured in each image. Had he photographed the garments as lifeless sacks, the dynamic would've changed completely for me.

Who Knows? Kiki and LB

I am into these french movie background songs right now.



I saw this Kiki Smith exhibit at the Henry Art Gallery in seattle and the only part of it that I really got into was the books. There is this dialogue between sculpture and photography that has been going on for a while now, but the sort of dialogues that were taking place in many of these photographs seemed forced. In the enlargements especially. Smaller snapshots forming a barrier between the floor and the wall worked much better and felt really casual. There is something really raw and unfinished about Kiki that I can't help but like; although for some reason I can't help but continusly compare her to my beloved LB. Louise has a similar rawness but her approach melts together into a polished piece in the end. Kiki does not really do that for me yet.

Ok so I am in Portland Now

And this is what happens when you search Portland art:



Oh no.

To help me cope, here are some images involving food.



Corin Hewitt



Marcus Gaab



Emily Keegin

And two sculptures involving blue blobs. I swear the next post will be more articulate.



Carl Ostendarp



Ernesto Neto