Working myself up for when I do my 'performance' of reading the entire dictionary outloud until I lose my voice. Wonder what word I will stop on...
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Eliminating the clutter
Some of these things have been sitting on my desktop for a month and they are beginning to weigh me down. I'm extricating these things here.
Hussein Chalayan's recent video, where strange men follow models and slightly flutter their garments behind them.
I think that Dana might have put this here and I think it might be her cat but I"m not entirely sure. But it makes me feel nice so here it is.
This is what happens when you type bad words into google.
It's been hard to think about anything stimulating lately, when I've just been staring at retail all day and when it's raining 24/7. When people shop they barely even think. It is frightening. They just have these vacant expressions on their faces and float around. I am constantly bumping into people that simply aren't paying attention. Are they fantasizing about all of the future that they could have with the objects in front of them? About how it will improve their quality of live forever? This photograph by Brian Ulrich looks as if it has to be staged, but I know that it is not. People constantly have this exact expression upon their faces when inside of a store.
This picture exemplifies the less fantastic reality of what the person is looking at. How can an environment like this possibly be pleasant? It obviously must be for someone or else it would'nt work as well as it does.
Here is what I've spent most of my time looking at, as opposed to art. Hopefully after this season I will get to see something a bit nicer.
Hussein Chalayan's recent video, where strange men follow models and slightly flutter their garments behind them.
I think that Dana might have put this here and I think it might be her cat but I"m not entirely sure. But it makes me feel nice so here it is.
This is what happens when you type bad words into google.
It's been hard to think about anything stimulating lately, when I've just been staring at retail all day and when it's raining 24/7. When people shop they barely even think. It is frightening. They just have these vacant expressions on their faces and float around. I am constantly bumping into people that simply aren't paying attention. Are they fantasizing about all of the future that they could have with the objects in front of them? About how it will improve their quality of live forever? This photograph by Brian Ulrich looks as if it has to be staged, but I know that it is not. People constantly have this exact expression upon their faces when inside of a store.
This picture exemplifies the less fantastic reality of what the person is looking at. How can an environment like this possibly be pleasant? It obviously must be for someone or else it would'nt work as well as it does.
Here is what I've spent most of my time looking at, as opposed to art. Hopefully after this season I will get to see something a bit nicer.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Back to basics
Robert Rauchenburg's Erased De Kooning
John Baldessari
On this vein of thought, here is some phrases that Bart wrote on the blackboard in the intro to random Simpsons episodes:
THIS PUNISHMENT IS NOT BORING AND POINTLESS
I WILL NOT FAKE MY WAY THROUGH LIFE
I WILL NOT SLEEP THROUGH MY EDUCATION
I WILL NOT EXPOSE THE IGNORANCE OF THE FACULTY
I WILL NOT YELL "SHE'S DEAD" DURING ROLL CALL
I WILL NOT CELEBRATE MEANINGLESS MILESTONES
BEANS ARE NEITHER FRUIT NOR MUSICAL
"BAGMAN" IS NOT A LEGITIMATE CAREER CHOICE
I WILL NOT COMPLAIN ABOUT THE SOLUTION WHEN I HEAR IT
I DID NOT LEARN EVERYTHING I NEED TO KNOW IN KINDERGARTEN
SHOOTING PAINTBALLS IS NOT AN ART FORM
GRAMMAR IS NOT A TIME OF WASTE
IT DOES NOT SUCK TO BE YOU
"NON-FLAMMABLE" IS NOT A CHALLENGE
GENETICS IS NOT AN EXCUSE
I AM NOT CHARLIE BROWN ON ACID
VAMPIRE IS NOT A CAREER CHOICE
FISH DO NOT LIKE COFFEE
SPONGEBOB IS NOT A CONTRACEPTIVE
I WILL NOT EAT THINGS FOR MONEY
And this is just a result of the internet being it's strange animal.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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.
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.
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