Monday, February 28, 2011
Identity = Bruce Nauman & Maya Lin
Place = Richard Serra, Sally Mann, Maraget Kilgallen, Barry McGee
Play = Hubbard and Birchler, Ellen Gallaghar, Oliver Herring, Jessica Stockholder
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The isolate body in contemporary culture has led to an influx of people who share physical space but are disengaged, or, on the other hand, who do not share physical space but are virtually linked. The flash mob is the quintessential example of isolation with a communal space. In Frozen Grand Central, participants of the mob simultaneously freeze in this highly public, busy space which points to the state of the isolate individual, the one who is physically present but so enraptured in ones own mind that it takes a radical performative experience to get the viewers attention. As society has ever increased their use of gadgetry and consumptive need for information, being private in public has become a hybrid mode of existence. The purpose of ones intention in any given space is less clear, personal privacy has become embedded within public spaces. Through obsessive use of excessive personal gadgetry, has ones ability to be social been altered? At what point does one stop engaging with others, as the space they occupy becomes foreign to themselves?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Saturday, February 5, 2011
It’s just as well. Here in the shade
Behind the house, protected from street noises,
One can go over all kinds of old feeling,
Throw some away, keep others.
Between us gets very intense when there are
Fewer feelings around to confuse things.
Another go-round? No, but the last things
You always find to say are charming, and rescue me
Before the night does. We are afloat
On our dreams as on a barge made of ice,
Shot through with questions and fissures of starlight
That keep us awake, thinking about the dreams
As they are happening. Some occurrence. You said it.
I said it but I can hide it. But I choose not to.
Thank you. You are a very pleasant person.
Thank you. You are too.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
So I finally went to the doctor yesterday. I was attended by a very pleasant middle-aged Asian man, with large bulbous sacks underneath his solemn knowing eyes. He asked me all the right questions, touched me in all the right places, made me stretch and show him how uncoordinated I’ve become, and even took a urine sample to check for kidney problems (which there were none), to which he concluded that there was no conclusion.
“Most likely not a bad appendix”, he said in a slight Korean accent, “because you have had no nausea, fever, constipation, or real colicky pain, but,” he added, “appendixes have been known to be tricky little devils - especially the deadlier ones. These evil appendixes”, he continued, “are quite docile and can rupture with very little pain, causing almost certain death to the unsuspecting”. He chuckled and I half-heartedly joined in the merriment.
I imagined my ancient ‘evil’ friend waking out of its 30-year primordial slumber and clandestinely oozing itself out into my bowels. There it would sit patiently and wait till the final stages of peritonitis set in over my ‘unsuspecting’ body. And as I faded out of existence, its primitive dominance would once again be complete and absolute, if not for a short fleeting dying moment for the both of us; that greedy bastard.
My fantasy was short lived as the Dr. reassured me that it was highly unlikely that mine was of the ‘evil’ kind. Content with his oath, we resumed with our thorough conversation. He said he wasn’t going to rule anything out and went on to methodically explain what real colicky pain meant, what a hernia would feel and look like, and what a mild muscle strain would entail. To which he seemed to think that the later was the cause of my minor, but constant discomfort.
His final diagnosis was that I should keep monitoring the pain, and if it got worse, to either come back and see him, or to seek some sort of emergency medical attention. That I should drink more water, since the stale pungent urine sample I had given him, when looked at under the microscope, had affectionately reminded him of the yellow river - complete with junk boats floating along to market. Also, that I should try not to exert myself too much. And that I should really try to get some exercise. His trained eye could easily tell that mine was an extraordinarily unfit body.
I thanked him, shook his hand amiably, and departed already feeling much improved. Now that I was a bit more at ease, I could concentrate on my other more real problems, such as getting a job and getting on with my career (or lack there of). But most importantly, I now had the time to come up with a nastier, more treacherous medical ailment, which would help impede me from doing or accomplishing anything at all.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
So I woke up this morning only to find myself walking towards the Cedar Tavern in Grenwich Village NYC, in 1955! Don't ask me how I knew or how I also realized I was embodying Arshile Gorky (I took a look at the wallet in my back pocket). All I knew, after I shook my head from the initial shock and decided to allow myself to be taken in by the experience, was that I was to meet up with some friends at the bar around 5 o'clock. The occasion was purportedly to discuss a painting I've been struggling with. Or rather, we were going to attempt to discuss this particular painting that I've come close, several times, to ripping off its stretcher and give up painting once and for all, but inevitably, the conversation would turn to DeKooning's work, women, the latest sporting event, and eventually, Pollack.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
First post = the hardest? Blank canvas? Fuck, I hated blank canvasas (canvi?) when I used to paint. Especially if I stretched/applied gesso/sanded it down myself. Just couldn’t find the will to violate the surface. And when I did finally build enough courage, I would treat her/it with way too much veneration, applying one well rehearsed, transparent mark after another. Had a much easier time with large gessoed pieces of drawing paper laid on the ground. But, that was then and this is now. But still, the problem persists. So, how does one approach a blank page? By jumping in, I guess. And where better to start, than at the beginning – right? And why not start with a whimper instead of a bang, that way there aren’t too many expectations (or any for that matter). So here it goes nothing; literally;
The first time I ever stepped foot into a NYC public library was with my best friend Jason Marino, when we were 7 years old. I didn’t quite link the relationship between the monstrous collection of books before me and the quaint little library back at our grade school. All I knew was that I wanted to read/touch/feel every single book I could get my hands on in this place. So astonished was I by the endless rows of shelves stacked with what seemed to me to be an infinite amount of books, that after taking a good look around and noticing a couple of open windows on the third floor by the children’s section, I motioned to Jason to come close and I whispered, "ok, you go outside and stand over there by that tree, and I'll throw the books we want out the windows so that we can take them home to read." To which he replied, "ok. But you do know that this is a library. We can 'check' out the books with a library card. See”, he showed me the library card his father had recently helped him acquire, “it's free." Blew my fucking little mind.