"The Happiness of Objects" is the title of a new exhibit at the Sculpture Center in Queens, New York. The title is inspired from a book by W.J.T Mitchell entitled, "What Do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images." In it the author notes that "modern, rational, secular" people don't generally treat pictures like persons, yet "we always seem to be willing to make exceptions for special cases." The curator of the Sculpture Center took that concept and created an exhibition, where visitors, upon entering, receive "The Object's Bill of Rights" from which below, I've selected a few of those rights to share:
The Object has the right to many lovers The Object has the right to fuse with other objects The Object has the right to acknowledge its history of production The Object has the right to be out of order The Object has the right to define the terms of its exchange with other objects The Object has the right to be gendered, non-gendered or hybrid The Object has the right to create its own language The Object has the right to a new identity The Object has the right to free speech Sign or design? That is the question of the object.
One particular work is a two-foot-wide, four-story transparent structure titled Flatland (2007) constructed by Ward Shelley (image below!). For twenty days, he and five artists live in a "two-dimensional space." Apparently, Flatland is streamed live online, accessible twenty-four hours a day at www.flatlandproject.com.
More about the exhibit: http://www.sculpture-center.org/pe_hoo_des1.html
More of the Object's Bill of Rights: http://www.sculpture-center.org/pe_hoo_des1.html
A blog of the Flatlanders: http://flatlandproject.blogspot.com/
Plath's well-known poem, "Daddy," was published two years after her death in 1965. Text of the poem:
You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time—- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off the beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene
An engine, an engine, Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——
Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two—- The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
Punk rock blew up in the late 70s and early 80s with the Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Ramones, the Stilts, and about 30 other bands that unconformed through conformity and were established by their anti-establishment ideals. Raw music coupled with a DIY ethic and a ripped, torn, and mucusy aesthetic spawned legions of dark-eyed, died-haired followers. Not coincidentally, stock in Elmer's Glue soared for three years and a bunch of old grey-haired men on the Elmer's Board of Directors filled their suitcases with gold bricks. These bands and their seedy entourages spawned in the streets of Manchester and grew outward, new spawns riding the whip in the back alleys of Brooklyn and the Lower East Side. They were united by the unrelenting constant punk aesthetic, which was more ideological and philosophical than they gave themselves credit for. Sid Vicious spewed more vomit than rhetoric.
Punk rock still exists, but as an evolution of the form in which it originally appeared. Here are a couple of bands that are still slammin' it to the man...
He's from Larvik, Norway. He can't play drums or piano (though after watching this video, this modest claim would seem absurd since his unique style completely makes up for it).
Coalinga, CA might not sound like much. It's certainly not a place I had heard of or would even think to stop at. There are a few fast food chains for the hungry truckers, the 39.99 per person motels for the weary traveler and two competing gas chains. After my car slowed to a complete halt on a stretch of Interstate 5, AAA and circumstances out of my control led me here.
If my car’s timing belt hadn’t finally decided to deteriorate into nothingness in the middle of nowhere, I may have never stumbled upon:
It’s the only one of its kind in the area and the closest thing to any bit of culture for miles. Unless, of course, you count Hamid, from Iran, who works at the auto repair shop and his co-worker Kheru, from Tanzania. The latter is a pleasant old man full of sweet fortune cookie wisdom like: "A good companion on a long distance, is the short cut."
Of the many things that can happen to one in a bad string of events, always look on the bright side of life.
this video, this song, this guy... his name is justin roelofs. he was the guitarist/vocalist for alt-rock band the anniversary. it looks like he had a few tricks up his sleeve. vocal vibrations and rapid flash beats. enjoy.
white flight's debut EP, titled "white flight," was released in february 2006 on justin's own label, range life records...
Range Life Records: www.rangeliferecords.com White Flight (on myspace): www.myspace.com/whiteflightsounds
"I’m getting too old for this," has only been an utterance of mine as of late and has generally never applied to concerts, until...
Imagine 250 people (mind you, really hip looking people) shrunk down to your knees and stuffed into a room. Half of this room just happens to be a restaurant/cafe and the other half occassionally serves as a concert venue... Wait a minute. Am I in someone’s attic and this is just another follow-up to Honey, I Shrunk the Scensters?
I miss the intimate concert experience. Back when Of Montreal was playing on campus in a dining hall and I wasn’t cramming my neck just to see Barnes in his infamous spandex. There couldn’t have been more than 40 people and the entry was 3 bucks.
It’s not that they didn’t deliver because the music was great. But I needed air, not people’s elbows poking at various parts of my body or the flamboyant dude next to me throwing his arms and shaking his ass as if he were the only one on that dancefloor and everybody was a hologram he could move through. I also didn’t need the girl in front of me to toss her pony tail, back and forth across my face as she tried to synchronize to the beat. Oh the mesh of a crowd that has become the OM fan club! Was it a joke that everytime Barnes took off an article of clothing that girl’s were screaming and fainting? Is he a new sex icon? (Admittedly, I can see the appeal!)
I sound like the Scrooge of Fun. Thinking back, I wonder why I suffered through those shows, sometimes on my tip-toes, sometimes feet firmly planted to hold my ground against the incessant moshers. This was the first show I've been to, where I didn't care enough to jump up to glimpse band member's limbs. I also ended up leaving my place behind The Tallest Student Here and going towards the back where the merchandise was, taking advantage of the free water (yes!) and I did dance back there! No shame in booty shaking when there's no one around you but the staff.
What I miss still exists. It usually happens at the beginning of any musician’s career. Perhaps they re-formed recently, like Hello, Goodbye and didn’t publicize their last concert till very late, so only 10 people showed up (though that's a shame because it was pretty damn good). Well guess what, there were couches and I could sit and stand as I please and not be in anyone’s way and I could suck in air freely like a fish out of water. They didn’t play their three-minute songs any less enthusiastically and afterwards I was invited to join them at a bar.
It’s not that I don’t like seeing people dancing, singing along and all that good fun, cause I do! But after the small superficial chit-chat before any show it becomes every man for himself and people forget how tall they are, how obstrusive their movements can be and that even if they fart, it still smells, but let’s just be a little more mature about it than point fingers and make faces!
Perhaps my expectations are becoming greater. I need to be blown away with something orginial everytime. So far it happened twice last year and coincidentally, it involved sitting.
Can't get much tougher than these four Japanese girls. Video from OOIOO, one of the side projects of the Boredoms, a "Japanoise" rock band from Osaka. OOIOO was founded by drummer/singer/trumpeter Yoshimi P-We, and yes, that's the Yoshimi from the Flaming Lips' album title.
The Rinpa Eshidan are a group of people brought together by a "common creative expression." And it's pretty awesome. The emphasis lies on the creative process itself, rather than the final product. The images themselves lack permanence. Like all good things in life, they are spontaneous and fleeting. Unless, that is, you make a video of that good thing, then it's all permanent again. I smell a contradiction...
For more cool Rinpa Eshidan videos, visit their website at: www.rinpaeshidan.jp
Air France is a Swedish outfit whose ep 'On Trade Winds', according to their somewhat mysterious label Sincerely Yours, is a "romantic and brave attempt to track down reality in four acts." Proclaimed profundity aside, here's a link to their video for 'Beach Party'. In spite of the video's imagery of some swanky country club polo extravaganza, the song is a feel-good tropical jam with lyrical samplings of Lisa Stansfield's 'All Around The World', and for some reason I can't stop listening to it.
Pozzo: Who are you? Vladimir: Do you not recognize us? Pozzo: I am blind. Silence. Estragon: Perhaps he can see into the future. Vladimir: Since when? Pozzo: I used to have wonderful sight - but are you friends? Estragon: (laughing noisily). He wants to know if we are friends! Vladimir: No, he means friends of his. Estragon: Well? Vladimir: We've proved we are, by helping him. Estragon: Exactly. Would we have helped him if we weren't his friends? Vladimir: Possibly. Estragon: True. Vladimir: Don't let's quibble about that now. Pozzo: You are not highwaymen? Estragon: Highwaymen! Do we look like highwaymen? Vladimir: Damn it can't you see the man is blind! Estragon: Damn it so he is. (Pause.) So he says. Pozzo: Don't leave me! Vladimir: No question of it. Estragon: For the moment. Pozzo: What time is it? Vladimir: (inspecting the sky). Seven o' clock... eight o'clock... Estragon: That depends what time of year it is. Pozzo: Is it evening? Silence. Vladimir and Estragon scrutinize the sunset. Estragon: It's rising. Vladimir: Impossible. Estragon: Perhaps it's the dawn. Vladimir: Don't be a fool. It's the west over there. Estragon: How do you know? Pozzo: (anguished). Is it evening? Vladimir: Anyway it hasn't moved. Estragon: I tell you it's rising. Pozzo: Why don't you answer me? Estragon: Give us a chance.
There was an exhibit at the MOMA in San Diego a few years back. The piece was a video focusing on the subtle art form of buffing, or the process of removing graffiti with chemicals or by painting over it. An orange, plastic couch was positioned in the center of a white walled room for visitors. It was all as absurd as it sounds.
For those who thought that tagging was the only medium for graffiti:
Alexandre Órion; 27 years old, born in São Paulo, Brazil. He combines painting and photography in an amusing way.
For more: http://www.alexandreorion.com/_orion.htm
our present world may be concisely characterized by its tendency toward hyperindividuality. it is becoming progressively easier for one's voice to be heard. with the aid of the internet, publishing is free. other formats of expression are becoming progressively easier as well. bands make studio recordings out of their own bathrooms. movies are being made on cellphones. technology is revolutionizing individuality... and a few other things. thus stated, we humbly add our "voices" to the pool, with the chance that somewhere out there, someone/something will be interested. as critics of music, books, society, and all other planetary going-ons, we hereby commit ourselves to posting anything of intrigue that has not already been reviewed or trodden on by the plethora of writers/musicians/journalists/bloggers before us or around us. as dim lights in an expanse of neon, we accept the task of shedding what little light we may have on the works (whether trivial, absurd, or grand) of our contemporaries... and maybe some of our own words here and there... also, as a reaction to the general favor for everything new, we will also consider cool shit from the past that should not be forgotten. like fads from the early 90s and 1870s porn. ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in-between, this is:
terrigenus - (Latin) indigenous, born from the earth, human being
