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art

A Sharkforum Glossary of Terms
by Mark Staff Brandl

Sharkforum Funnies
by Mark Staff Brandl


biz niz


comic art

Sharkforum Funnies
by Mark Staff Brandl


film

Art Film Con Game?
by John Haber


design


humor

A Sharkforum Glossary of Terms
by Mark Staff Brandl


lit


local color


music


original fiction

Apathy
by Paul K


people


photo blogging


photography

Streets of Chicago
by Ray Pride

Intimacy Saturations
by Todd V. Wolfson


politics


sensible ideas


social ills

(Neo-)Sophistry
by Mark Staff Brandl


sport


the media


theatre


web gems


word of the day

creosote, n.
by Simone Muench

infelicitous, adj.
by Simone Muench

plinth, n.
by Simone Muench

amative, adj.
by Simone Muench

prognathous, adj.
by Simone Muench

« June 2006 | | August 2006 »

July 31, 2006

Welterweight Johnny Costello: Jack Warden, RIP

Jack Warden, who died in New York City on July 19, was raised in Louisville, KY. He was born in Newark, NJ, but by his high school years he was down here and cutting classes in order to indulge other interests. Eventually, Warden, born John Lebzelter, would be nominated for Academy Awards and appear in some of the finest motion pictures made during American cinema’s Golden Era (the 1970’s). Those other interests back then included boxing, at which he excelled, winning dozens of professional bouts at middleweight until war called.

He joined the Navy and then the Merchant Marine and finally ended up in the Army’s 101st Airborne. Lebzelter was in practice to land on Normandy beach as a paratrooper when a chute failed to open during a training accident and left him in traction for eight months. He later landed in Europe and fought in the Battle of the Bulge before being shipped back stateside, unsure of what to do to make money.

He chanced to meet theatre legend Margo Jones who persuaded him to try acting. The stage was a bug that bit John (now known as “Jack Warden”) hard.

His early work in the seminal teleplay “Twelve Angry Men” gave a clear indication of his potential as a character actor. His later stage and screen successes underscored the realism he brought to each role. Nominations for Emmy awards and Oscars (for “Shampoo” and “Heaven Can Wait”) did little to gloss Warden’s everyman persona. His filmography of over a hundred movies can boast of work with all the major directors and writers of the era, notably Hal Ashby (Warden played a thinly disguised President Jerry Ford in “Being There”), Sidney Lumet (“The Verdict”) and Norman Jewison (a hilarious turn as a crazy judge in “And Justice for All”).

Like his onetime boxing opponent Charles Durning, Warden played small character roles with a dignity and self-confidence that raised many a picture from the B-list to the A-list.

C 2 the B 2 the Z / The Out-Takes

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These are kinda out-takes. Third or fourth drafts. Maybe.
Do you think these are bad?
I don't think Chrysta Bell and I can take BAD photographs. Books full of beauty. Heart.
Cigar. Chango's. Empty Grocery Store. Municipal Building. Big Lots®. Retail Strip Center......

CB has been creating music with one of my heroes,
Director/Musician/Painter/Etc.......David Lynch.
Two of my favorite movies are THE WIZARD OF OZ & BLUE VELVET.
When David Lynch made WILD AT HEART, I wondered if he had made it just for me....

Chrysta Bell has been my muse* for a full decade, and I thank my lucky stars for that !
She is my muse* of all muses. She gets it. Gets me.

*(a guiding spirit, a source of inspiration.)


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Poem of the Week: from "Halt (Naïve)" by Dan Beachy-Quick

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Chicago born, Dan Beachy-Quick grew up in Colorado and upstate New York. He attended Hamilton College and the University of Denver. He worked for two years with autistic children—which left an indelible mark on his sense of language and (im)possibility. He attended the Iowa Writer's Workshop. Currently, he teaches in the Writing Program at the School of Art Institute of Chicago. Beachy-Quick is the author of three books, North True South Bright (Alice James), Spell (Ahsahta), and most recently, Mulberry (Tupelo), which was released in June 2006.

From "Halt (Naïve)"

B. Moby Dick


Mute latitudes, blind: the ocean mutters dumb
The jellyfish’s phosphorescent thumb (stinger),

Mutters dumb the dark ink inside the squid
That is the White Whale’s food. The ocean stings

The bit lip shut: I misspoke, I see I misspoke.
The ocean mutters: “no more, no more” (a message

Spoke not only to shore). I hear what I am told.
No ears are deaf save those that need not hear:

Who below the ocean knows the ocean
Murmurs most darkly to himself. White Whale—

Sailing-men say you do not die—
You in silence, silent lie, and flame your thought

Toward some uncharted depth-of-mind. You’ll divine:
Chapter Closed. Me? A coral reef? A captain

Or a Captain’s leg? A flaming-thought thinks
Itself, you do, you do. Your white silence the dark shark

Flees from in fright. No tooth threatens you,
You know. You know

Men think your tongue is dumb and mute with nacre—
I suspect—your tongue is dumb—as is a sodden acre.

July 24, 2006

creosote, n.

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creosote, n.
1. A colorless to yellowish oily liquid containing phenols and creosols, obtained by the destructive distillation of wood tar, especially from the wood of a beech, and formerly used as an expectorant in treating chronic bronchitis.
2. A yellowish to greenish-brown oily liquid containing phenols and creosols, obtained from coal tar and used as a wood preservative and disinfectant. It can cause severe neurological disturbances if inhaled in strong concentrations.


“Somehow swallows nest in the creosote eaves,
flit-scatter, fall back & return.”

--Joshua Marie Wilkinson, “Pictures Inside the Mattress Before Your Brothers Are Dead”

From Pinball Publishing



simonelSM.jpg More Blogs by Simone Muench | EMail Simone


Poem of the Week: "Made in the USA" by Francesco Levato

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Francesco Levato is the author of Marginal State (fractaledgepress 2006), a collection of poetry. He is the founder of the Street Level Series, a reading series of poetry that engages social issues, and is the founding editor of the literary journal Ink & Ashes :: a journal of the senses, Some of his work has appeared in Witness: Anthology of Poetry (Serengeti Press); Out of Line; Poets Against the War; Voices in Wartime; Snow Monkey; Poems Niederngasse; and After Hours. His awards include a poetry fellowship from the Vermont Studio Center.


Made in the USA




Candied lips part wordless
like the spindles of her legs, slick
with another's sweat, burdened
by the weight of a belly not her own,
in her head measuring the time
till it ends.

His conquest, like all others,
another stain on the bed, a stain
barely worth the bill pulled
from his wallet, from behind a photo
of the nuclear family smiling,
so secure in themselves, in their position
beside a row of credit cards, a wife,
two kids and dog gathered at his feet,
a pillar of the community.

His skin bright as his teeth, not tinged
by any undertone, not like hers
or the yellowed stars, the promises
of the flag kept outside the factory gate,
in sight but out of reach,

it hung over the doorway
where she applied to work, to live
in America, was painted on the ship
that carried her and countless village girls
to this island protectorate, much smaller
than she imagined a great country to be,
and now here, in the backroom
of some offshore brothel, teasing her
from the background of his photo, sewn

into the label of her panties
thrown on the floor, and printed
on the cardboard coffin of her Barbie doll,
bought with a few nights of pain, whose sweet
expressionless face, whose silence,
is all that is required of her.


Gone SHARK Fishin' (back next week)


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July 22, 2006

A Sharkforum Glossary of Terms

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In an effort to be as lucid as possible and yet still be able to rant at a moment's notice in our own brand of language, the Sharkforum Contributing Editors would like to present the beginning of a list of terms and expressions peculiar to us, yet freely available for wider use. This list will be regularly updated. This is a work in progress. Feel free to use the terms and to suggest additional ones.



CC= "Curatorially Correct." Formed in obvious mimicry of the famed reactionary term, "PC," ("Politically Correct," or as Liberals have oppositionally reframed it, "Patriotically Correct"). This is an adjectival formation describing art overly concerned with obeying currently modish preferences of local curators, to the exclusion of other minor matters such as quality, truth, criticality or integrity.

KC= "Kiss-assly Correct," or for more timid speakers and publications, "Kowtowingly Correct." An even stronger form of CC; art made by those having the tendency to obey academic pundits' imperatives in the hope of being allowed to join the club and have superficial success.

TC= "Technologically Correct." Art using the mandatory, most currently fashionable technology and/or techniques; e.g. in the mid 1990s: a video on a monitor on the floor; in the late 1990s, rooms with video projections on two walls and/or a neo-Dada, gesture-installation involving tons of collected refuse or identical, purchased objects. This may also involve so-called traditional forms, when they obey hip imperatives such as the current "too much turpentine" school of painting. In the later case, the term would be better expanded as "technically correct."

Krill= Those art-puddle denizens who swarm about in the shallow end of the pool, thinking their mere massing of nearly identical minds makes them a presence to be accounted for. Best seen as fodder.

Apex Predator= From Wikipedia: "Apex predators ... are predators that are not preyed upon in the wild. These species are often at the end of long food chains, where they have a crucial role in maintaining and determining the health of ecosystems. Even those not dangerous to humans (for example, owls) are formidable predators in their respective niches. ... Apex predators often have a special place in human culture and they have come to represent aspects of nature that humans find important and often appear in heraldry."

This phrase has been commandeered by the chief Shark, Wesley Kimler, to designate the position he is calling the actual creators of art (frequently termed "artists") to occupy, rather than routinely conceding this status to various other "professional dinner guests," such as critics, gallerists, cardinals, popes, curators etc. The Shark sees these latter individuals as most productive when active as "secondary" supporters concentrating on their honorable, contributive duties rather than attempting to be the tastemakers or stars, thereby usurping the role of creators (note: curator derives from Latin, curare, to take care of)

Mr. Curator / Ms. Curator= A somewhat belittling term, originating with the Shark (see below), for the curator of contemporary art at the Art Institute of Chicago with whom he is in sharp, philosophical and aesthetic disagreement. Others of the Sharkpack are not necessarily in agreement with his identification of this man as the Enemy, yet, nonetheless, agree with a generalized personification of members of the Consensus Clique (see below) and therefore have expanded the term, and gender, to be able to use it in a wider fashion. This is not unlike the criticism of Clement Greenberg in Late Modernism in the US, who was one of the greatest American art critics, yet who had such a malevolent, dictatorial hold on the art scene at one point that he was often referred to as "the art pope" or "Culturberg," the "dictator-critic" and worse. These appellations were then often used in a wider sense for any and all critics attempting to decree which art was correct and prescribe what artists should do.

PoMo= The chief portmanteau word now bandied about in cultural circles, short for Postmodernism or Post-Modernism. Postmodernism describes a movement of intellectual theory which needs little explanation to the artsy readers of Sharkforum. Once quite a revitalizing force in the philosophical arena, it has solidified into a rather staid, pedantic hegemony. It began, in English, simply as Post-Modern (with hyphen) describing rather accurately, if hesitantly, the position of the arts after about 1979; that is, no-longer Modern, thus After-Modern, thus Post-Modern. The term was quickly elided into the hyphen-less postmodern, in chi-chi imitation of French and German. In English, the progression of a noun from two paired words into a hyphenated word into a fully adjoined word is cultural, not a personal choice, and generally takes generations, as in to night into to-night into tonight. This simple orthographic fact was in fact a power-play, as part of a successful endeavor by a small sub-set of Post-Modernists to colonize the word, allowing it only to express one chosen range of meanings, in short Deconstructivist, relativist, French literary-theory-based artwork — essentially a kind of semantic gamesmanship, more sophistry than substance. This made it more of a style term than an intellectual description, probably hastening the current attempt to abandon the word, which in its hyphenated form is nevertheless historically accurate (everything after Modernism is Post-Modernism, by definition, just as we are all "Post-WWII").

LaMo= LAte MOdernism of a LAMe form. Silly attempts to return to some imagined good-old-days of Modernism, such as Monochrome painting, slipshod lackadaisical "anti"-abstraction, new International style buildings etc. You can't go back. Culture must move on, though perhaps learning from the past and using it to criticize the present.

PoPoMo= Either the derriere, popo, of the Bigfoot Monster which appeared in the 1970s in Illinois and Missouri, called "ILMO" and "MOMO," or the condition of culture now, hovering somewhere between Extremely Late Modernism, Post-Modernism and Post-Post-Modernism.

The (PoMo) Academy= The Neo-Con power-based web of connected artworld denizens now dominant in the artworld. More similar to the 17th century French Academy und Charles LeBrun than to Modernism, out of which movement they stem, this group dominates universities, curatorial positions, magazines, journals, museums and much else. It enforces the production of large shock-oriented installations (épater le bourgeois), destined to be called "grande machines," which are manufactured of mock intellectual endeavor through collaged, patchworks of memorized clichés, contrivances and strategies, all derived from a prescribed list of possibilities. Blog article on Sharkforum.

(PoMo-) or New Mannerism= Postmodernism seen as an ever-duller period of transition similar to historic Mannerism. The postmodern artworld is dominated by distended copyists of Duchamp, resembling Mannerists such as Vasari who endlessly ”sampled” and combined aspects of Michelangelo’s work. Mannerist art’s traits tended to be stretched proportions, capriciously patterned rhythm, broken symmetry, willful dissonance, unreal and unresolved space, overly fashionable (although not intellectual) theorizing, coldly calculated style, exaggeration of borrowed forms — in short, confused over-refinement. Thus, New Mannerism is a blanket term for several of the Neo-Styles of Postmodernism. Exaggerated spectacle, capricious ”shoddy-chic” structure, unresolved technological borrowings, overly fashionable poststructuralist theorization, and so on. The artists of the PoMo Academy are, thus, mostly PoMo Mannerists. Blog article on Sharkforum.

Beige Mush= The Shark's derogatory term for the glut of quasi-art by minor artifact producers flooding the scene. While well-intentioned, these people resemble hobby handicrafts producers more than artists, no matter what their education, due to their lack of ardor, absorption and quality. Therefore, he finds that much like an amateurish mixing of too many colors, the results en masse resemble beige mush. As The Shark adds, beige mush is "the porridge of an egalitarian stew, where one man's meat is another's poison, where everything is subjective and nothing is greater or lesser than anything else...."

Shark= Painter Wesley Kimler has been known to give very candid, even blunt, interviews in which he advocates painting, assails the contemporary academic artworld pecking order, while campaigning for the autonomy and self-reliance of creators. He is also notorious in Chicago for rallying for a new art scene. Nicknamed "the Shark" due to his ferocity in debate, he organized, with fellow artist David Roth, this website, e-zine and artist group titled Sharkforum, which you are now reading. Link

Shark Ed= A character in several senses of the word who resides on the Sharkforum site. Sometimes called "Ed." (with scare quotes, with or without the period), he is deeply inspired by an overdose of reading EC comics which were created under the editorship of Bill Gaines. He is the editor-in-chief of our no-Indians-all-chiefs team of editors. Usually this is a pseudonym for Site-Master David Roth, but not always.

Ex-Pat Shark= Another silly nickname we've dreamed up for an editor here — the one living mostly abroad, the one with a too long, mongrel name, Mark Staff Brandl. Also called Continental Shark, Theory Shark, Marky Sharky and various profane expletives. We'll be working on the other contributors soon — how about Film Shark for Ray? An expatriate is one who has taken up residence in a foreign country, originally referring to the large numbers of British citizens, now including many other nationalities as well, who never consider themselves emigrants, yet who seldom return "home" to live. Link

P.S. Join the Sharkpack and we'll make up a ludicrous, aquatic nickname for you too.

Pollyanna-on-Prozac= Based on the misuse of the heroine's name from Pollyanna in a 1913 novel by Eleanor H. Porter, the derogatory term pollyanna has come to describe someone who is forced-cheerfully optimistic. Prozac is an antidepressant drug, fluoxetine hydrochloride, which has in recent years become the most popular "mood adjustor" of the upper middle-class since valium. It is rumored to make one artificially happy about everything, a kind of self-induced hebephrenia. Therefore, Pollyanna-on-Prozac describes a naive, anti-critical artworld person who always expects other people to pretend that "everything is alright," that any given situation is just jim-dandy as it is.

Neo-Neo-Neo-Neo-Neo-Dada= Still big in the Charts. First there was Dada; then Fluxus, an exciting movement first describing itself as Neo-Dada; then Pop, also at first called Neo-Dada by detractors; then Fluxus influenced Mail Artists and the like; then Appropriation Art; finally evolving into current Neo-Conceptual "gesture" installations. Every one of these movements was rather refreshing and anti-authoritarian until the last two, which in fact were pro-authoritarian, and succeeded in becoming the ruling authority. If you count the list, they are, though, historically seen, actually Neo-Neo-Neo-Neo-Neo-Dada more than Neo-Conceptual.

Neo-Con= Either Neo-Conservative, the reactionary, imperialistic cult behind George Bush --- or The Neo-Conceptualists in art (see Neo-Neo-Neo-Neo-Neo-Dada). The latter is a derivative movement of artists using strategies taken from the Conceptual artists and/or quasi-Duchampian form to achieve a (hypocritically denied) opposite goal to that of Marcel's, domination of power and position within a commercialized artworld.
At first rather fecund in the hands of Feminists, and a freeing force in an artworld investment bubble called Neo-Expressionism, it is now the international, dictatorial, academic style.

Consensus Clique= A few people gathered together, who actively exclude as many others as possible (particularly artists) and tacitly agree to agree on everything. They check in with each other regularly and only promote the lowest common denominator of what they concur on. This is not a conspiracy, they say, just a very convenient conformity of (small) minds to have identical tastes in order to achieve hegemony. Additionally, let them now be called the Consensoriat (when they have positions of power), and let the sub-period of time at the close of Postmodernism be designated the Dictatorship of the Consensoriat. And let us now work to bring its demise to a hasty conclusion.

You have a bad attitude. = Our favorite compliment.

Self-Promotion= When an artist, not having known well enough to be born into the correct class or not having developed the correct connections through KC activity, is so presumptuous as to personally suggest her or his art deserves attention instead of awaiting that hallowed discovery and beknighting by a member of the Consensus Clique.

(Neo-) Sophistry= The newest form of an age-old erroneous and self-serving belief that the validity of an argument is irrelevant (even non-existent), that it is only the ruling of the audience which matters. Sophists claim there is no reason to search for or even desire such things as quality, truth, analysis, criticality, social justice, etc.; only triumph over others matters. Many of the "powerful" in the artworld of today, even artists themselves, make no claim to any actual desire for anything beyond a rather bovine, suburban, view of career success and are happy to teach this and promote it and themselves in universities, museums, Kunsthallen, exhibitions, biennials and the like. Blog article on Sharkforum.

Installative= Adjective; meaning Installation-like, involving or subsuming ideas from installation art, particularly into the realm of painting or photography. Created by applying the suffix "-ive," (Performing or tending toward a specified action) to the root of "installation." Similar in construction to demonstrative and analogous in meaning to sculptural or painterly.

Non-Calvinist art= Having no fear of your body, even making things with your own hands. Celebrating the mind and the body as intertwined. Additionally, neither homophobic nor heterophobic. No fear of sensuality or intellectuality.

Hypocritics, Curatoadies and Artjellyfish= Three varieties of lowlife misusing divinely inspired professional callings (see "Krill").

Pintophobia= The pathological fear of painting, primarily due to an inferior interpretive eye, an absence of historical knowledge, a lack of backbone and an obsession with fashion.

Remoras= Also known as "shark suckers." Those krill who are wannabe Sharks, yet are only truly fit to parasitically clean off a Galeocerdo.

Yellow-Pages Art= Coined by and borrowed from London-based Irish painter Mark Francis, this term describes art objects, or more often installations, made without the investment of any personal physical making or even much concentration. Just get on the phone and order a whole bunch of prefabricated things and have them delivered to the gallery. It's a "momentously critical" creative shrug, discharging art from anything as tedious as ardor.

Meatloaf = A term offered by Mark Philips. Meatloaf is art that follows a recipe with slight variations --- touch of this, dash of that, --- but in the end it is still just the same old mediocre meatloaf. Nothing special, nothing risked, just something cranked out because it's consumable.
Also called "chum" in Sharkspeak: that is, bait usually consisting of oily fish ground up and scattered on the water, especially bait thinking itself creative because it exactly complies with the consensus beliefs of it's cronies.

This glossary has been compiled by Mark Staff Brandl in collaboration with Wesley Kimler and David Roth. Drawing with apologies to Bullwinkle and Jay Ward.

The One Percent Doctrine: Vice President Cheney Completely Controls US Foreign Policy and No One Even Bothers to Deny It.

The One Percent Doctrine
By Ronald Suskind
367 pp., $27.00
Simon and Schuster

For those interested in the back-room machinations that got us stuck in Iraq, this is the definitive explanation, the best book to read. Suskind previously aired the grievances of former Treasury Secretary Paul O’Neill and the author’s inside access is proudly on display here. There is no attempt made to skirt the idea that Bush and Cheney planned to attack Saddam from the moment they laid claim to power. The question was, always: How did they do it? This book answers that question. Reading it is like reading a professional arsonist’s commentary on the hows and whys of the Reichstag’s burning.

The major revelation in Suskind’s book is that of the cyanide gas poisoning plot that was to cripple the New York subway system before the al-Qaeda higher-ups decided it was a non-starter. The administration has taken much credit for this twist of fate as well as others documented herein. The problem is that most of these “victories” have turned out to be lucky accidents of intercepted information. The Bush anti-terrorism program has largely exhibited a buffet of miscoordination and broken lines of authority (and also pure ignorance).

It’s Cheney who is and always has been in the driver’s seat in this administration. That much is made clear in the opening paragraphs. The Vice-President makes it clear that if there is 1/100 chance that a new terrorist attack will occur (and be sponsored by a foreign government) then that 1% chance should be treated as a certainty. Thus, the book’s title.

That was the Cheney policy and that was what led us into war with Iraq and during all of it George W. Bush was largely silent. Indeed, this book takes great pains to remind the reader that GEORGE W. BUSH HAD NO IDEA WHAT WAS GOING ON. It is almost painful to read the accounts of early national security meetings when Bush and Cheney played Laurel and Hardy. It is hard to believe that this sort of incompetence obtains at these high levels. It is also somewhat frightening. The image of Bush cowering behind “Uncle Dick” – and at the same time asking him not to undermine his authority in national security meetings – is hilariously funny until the queasy reality sets in. And then there is nothing funny at all. It is all stranger than fiction and scary as hell.

The liberals amongst us will take to this tract like ducks to water but more important questions loom. Why was Iraq targeted when other rogue states posed far greater threats? We are now seeing the emergence of actors like Hezbollah and North Korea who present real, well nigh unpredictable threats. Why have these been ignored and downplayed? Only Cheney knows.

And Cheney will never tell. So much of the current US long-term strategy in the middle east and central Asia is tied up with economic concerns stretching through Haliburton and the CIA and the British government and the Mossad and the bad debts racked up by Enron and the American thirst for oil and electricity. We as citizens will be paying for these decisions for two generations and yet we do not know on what basis these decisions were made. It is unlikely we ever will know. But Cheney knows. “The One Percent Doctrine,” after all, makes that abundantly clear.

For anyone still wondering, or still wringing their hands, over the shaky justification that led us to war in Iraq “The 1% Doctrine” is instructive reading. For those who’ve lost loved ones in the Middle East this book is very nearly indigestible

July 21, 2006

The Sun Shines Bright on My Old Lebowski Home: Notes on Lebowskifest

It is probably not an exaggeration to say that the Coen Brothers’ “The Big Lebowski” has become well-loved enough to have seeped into the popular culture. It is also almost true that Lebowskifest – a fan-launched convention celebrating the film – is rapidly soaking through the otherwise moribund summer entertainment scene. Started in Louisville, KY some five or so years ago, the event has spread to Vegas, LA and New York City, its quirky charms winning over both fans of the film as well as newcomers.

This year’s gathering – the Louisville one – begins on September 29 and boasts a musical performance by Jon Spencer (actually, his new band Heavy Trash) as well as all of the madness the weekend has come to represent. For those unfamiliar with this oddity a brief description is perhaps in order.

So, first imagine several hundred adult men and women dressed as Vikings and hippies and paraplegics all… bowling. Yes, bowling, and with all their hearts. As a Lebowskifest veteran I am permitted to speak of these foolish rituals without fear of reprisal. Married couples and One Night Standers from all over America and the world become tipsy on white Russians and compete against each other for the 20 or 30 lanes for rent. It’s not the drunken bacchanal described by Hunter Thompson in his classic piece about the Kentucky Derby but it’s not too far off. The film runs for days on a big screen TV in an endless loop whilst the faithful parrot the dialogue, shouting at and mimicking the actors. Lebowskifest is a perfect hybrid of redneck sporting event and hipster rock gig. It’s NASCAR welded to a participatory “Rocky Horror” viewing. In its midst I, the evening’s musical entertainment, sit with one of my stooges waiting for the closing ceremonies to commence.

I’d talked my way onto the program for (second annual) Lebowskifest by (once again) reminding organizer Will Russell of my past friendship with Townes VanZandt. Townes had contributed a version of the Rolling Stones’ “Dead Flowers” for the film’s closing scene. Voila! I was hired for a fee of zero. I toted a mandolin player with me to the bowling alley, setting up some minimal equipment and staying strictly inside the alley’s bar. No way do we want to have to interact with these bowlers and freaks and psychopaths and … bowlers. Drunks, we can handle, but some of these others... We greased our throats all night with milk and Kahlua, waiting until well after midnight for the chance to play our one song. We made a pretty good mess of it. The saving moment came when a similarly disheveled, seemingly disinterested, slovenly slacker emerged from the lanes demanding to be heard.

Perhaps it is unfair to call Jeff Dowd a slacker. It is certainly so to call him a singer. Nevertheless he has run a gauntlet of jobs (professions?) since arriving in Los Angeles in the early 1970’s. He has been a stunt man, maitre d, security guard, driver, actor and “consultant.” How Dowd initially hooked up with the Coens is a matter of much conjecture – indeed, much mythology. How Dowd hooked up with me was much more easy to nail; he simply stormed the stage.

How else would the Dude have done it? Jeff’’s singing voice was bad and his breath was worse but he brought to a lackluster performance a certain raw edge, a je ne c’est quoi which was otherwise (it must be said) lacking. If we’d not had to share a single microphone, my take might be lighter. But, there it is. He was awful and so were we. The crowd loved it and insisted we keep trotting out warhorse rock standards – Credence and so forth. Bob Dylan, Kenny Rogers, stuff from the movie. The next year we did it all again, but with a full band. Will Russell dumped us the following year for My Morning Jacket. This year there is to be a panel discussion featuring various serious academics discussing the sociological import of the oddball characters in the film. Sample topic: Images of Masculinity in “The Big Lebowski.” The Dude has yet to announce his intentions as to attending. For music, as mentioned, it’s Jon Spencer’s band. I don’t hold it against Will. His only response when I asked was “Take ‘er easy.”

At that last performance (“Lebowski III”) I was greeted with a $40.00 parking ticket upon completing the show. The parking lot attendant was a young man of Asian-American descent. I tried to argue with him as he threatened to call a local towing company. I was clearly out of my element. As Walter would have said, “the Chinaman is not the issue.”

July 19, 2006

Streets of Chicago

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Thirty-two of my photographs from Chicago streets are part of
"Chicago Car Culture," at the Cultural Center through August 27.


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Art Film Con Game?

What happened to the idea of art films? Great question, and since it's got me thinking, let me dare a full post instead of a comment. I'll argue that, first, film became accepted as art, including mainstream film. Second, an outsider venue for art films became less crucial, thanks to video. But could those assumptions be changing as money centralizes yet again? NOTE ADDED: You'll see that I embellished this, because I wasn't satisfied with how it ended.

I think a couple of things happened to art films. First, the term dates to a time when film as an art was an open question. Moreover, answering that question favorably seemed at first to hinge on an opposition to Hollywood films. There were art films, mostly European, and art houses, to show them.

But people got more comfortable taking film seriously. In addition, François Truffaut's auteur theory in France and Andrew Sarris's American Cinema at home made it clear that the mainstream had long competed with what Europe can do. A new blast of American film in the 1970 then seemed to settle matter. So did Pauline Kael's championing of their grit, as in her classic description of the ending of Bonnie and Clyde, but also in her admiration for even better directors, such as Martin Scorcese, Rober Altman, and Francis Ford Coppola. I'd vote for the first two Godfather films as the only other movies to compete with the sense of tragedy in Orson Welles at his best. Douglas Gordon's 24-Hour Psycho

As one last twist, another round of revisionism championed something that might have seemed even schlockier than the previous target for champions of European art film, film noir. I've my doubts about Billy Wilder and rest, so there. But there was a move toward this view in France as early as Truffaut's and Sarris's glory days. Think of the style and quotes in Jean-Luc Goddard's early movies and Alain Robbe-Grillet's novels. It's ironic that an arty European film last year in turn quoted the race through the Louvre in Goddard's Bande à Part

If art film lost ground as a context, the art house and other walls between types of theaters seemed to lose value, too. Multiplexes and conglomerates drove them out from one side, the top down, but so did video rentals and sales from the other side, the bottom up.

It's interesting to wonder, though, whether art movies are having a comeback. Is the growth of the small studio within the large one or the success of Harvey Weinstein's productions a last attempt to fend off the inevitable failure of big money? Has it already happened with this dreadful summer of Jennifer Anniston and Johnny Depp? Commercial pressures are worse than ever, more good stuff has been coming from outside the United States over the last couple of years than ever before, and lots of small movies play only in smaller venues (like the Angelica, say, in New York).

Stranger still, almost as soon as I got used to video (and before I have the capability to download whole movies myself, films I want to see may now never turn up at local video stores. Forget imports from the Third Word: stick to Western white males. I've been wanting to rent a version of The Cherry Orchard from about three years ago, and I can't. I've wanted for ages to see Alfred Leslie's movie about the Cedar Bar, in the days of the great American painters, and that one went straight from a Tribeca film festival (sold out) to the library of MOMA. I may eventually have to pull press privileges and beg his gallery (Allan Stone) for a look.

And, speaking of galleries, then there's real video art, while video stores are renting TV shows. When Douglas Gordon's 24-Hour Psycho shows the entirety of the Alfred Hitchcock classic in slow motion, it plays at MOMA, and I can't rent a copy, then where are we? Maybe the wheel will turn yet again!

NOTE ADDED. If it does, where will it stop? Perhaps one successor to art films took possession some time ago: instead of art films, think of cult films. Almost anything can become a cult classic, past or present, and it does not even require broad consensus. If enough people consider M. Night Shyamalan, The Matrix, or even Tim Burton a cult classic, perhaps they can. After all, what else makes a cult in any field, by definition?

The change reflects the loss of a modernist canon and the growing dominance of a market model, with freedom of choice, even as it rebels against the choices offered. It reflects the acceptance of popular culture and of even art’s role as entertainment. It parallels the term indie in music, and indeed one does speak almost interchangeably of independent movies, not necessarily solely as defined by independent channels of production and distribution.

It may not resolve all my qualms either. It may not make films of marginal gross more generally available. It may retain some of the worst biases of mass entertainment after all, as in catering to the tastes of teen and post-teen males. Somewhere, however, in the space between small studios, cult films, art video, and others, there may yet be room for the movies.

Shark Week is Finally Here!

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The most important week of television period begins July 30 with Discovery Channels annual week long sharky extravaganza/hommage/paen to us sharks. Why can't all buildings be thus festooned? Wouldn't the world be a better place?


July 18, 2006

Sharkforum Funnies

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A little summer fun.


Sharktracks: Warren and Kimler in the Chicago Sun-Times

Sharkforum's very own Lynne Warren has curated "Chicago's best museum show of the year so far" at the MCA, and The Great White Wesley is featured along with others. The Sun-Times review can be found here.

Sharktracks: Dr. Muench at No Exit in Chicago

Stephen Elliott is bringing his “Progressive Reading Series” to Chicago...

When: Tuesday, July 18 - 7:30 pm
Where: The No Exit Cafe - 6970 North Glenwood, Chicago, IL, 773-743-3355
Price: $10 - $20 sliding scale
Featuring:
Stephen Elliott, author of Looking Forward To It
Aleksandar Hemon, author of Nowhere Man
Audrey Niffenegger, author of Time Traveler's Wife and The Three
Incestuous Sisters
Peter Orner, author of The Second Coming of Mavala Shikongo and Esther
Stories
Dan Beachy-Quick, author of Mulberry and Spell
Simone Muench, author of Lampblack & Ash


Purchase tickets online at ActBlue. Just print out your receipt and bring it
to the door as your ticket. Tickets are also available the night of the
event.

The proceeds from LitPac’s Chicago event will benefit the campaign of Tammy
Duckworth, running against conservative state Sen. Peter Roskam in Chicago’s
6th Congressional District.

Spread the word! Please forward this email to everyone you know, and ask
them to do the same. Help Democrats take back the House this fall!

Read more about The Progressive Reading Series
here.
Read more about Steve Elliott here.

(If you want to contribute $$ but cannot make it to the event, don’t fear!
Just follow this link.

July 17, 2006

Intimacy Saturations



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Sophistry or the Definition of Art?

Mark's note on sophistry is news to me, and I guess it's bad news. But I am having trouble figuring out how to take it, and I wonder if it might not actually be part of an attempt to define art. I'll indulge in my usually paradoxical philosophical approach "below the fold"!

I hadn't heard that one, actually. I find it hard to believe that the validity of any statement turns on its audience. Who would get to vote, how would the votes be weighed or counted, and what if the statement challenges the composition of the audience? How would the audience decide, short of engaging in statements open to argument? Statements exist only in a language, which presupposes some such mix of public, shared, and debatable terms, propositions, and understandings.

However, if the particular statement is "X is a work of art," where you fill in X, then some such criterion of truth is less obviously self-refuting. In fact, it sounds like quite a familiar argument, the "institutional theory of art" notably proposed by George Dickie of U. Illinois-Chicago. However, it, too, gets one into deep water, for much the same reasons. It may be no more than a symptom of how hard it is to come up with a definition for art that involves criteria of any kind, including this one. In my own allegedly funny glossary of terms in art, I define art as what artists do and artists as people who make art.

As you guys all probably know, Dickie picked up where, he thinks, Arthur C. Danto left off, although Danto did not agree with where that led! (I'm going to quote from myself on the man and what I have called hypothetical works of art.) Art, Danto concludes, cannot depend for its being on visual qualities, much less the skill in representation prized in Kant's time. No formal distinction, he argues, can distinguish art from "ordinary things." It even exceeds the say-so of the art world. What art can do is create meanings.

Now that runs into trouble, too. It forces Danto to see indiscernible objects, art and non-art, everywhere, and that is literally too much of the same thing. When he does not, it bothers him. Did Warhol start off with loosely painted Pop anthems? Danto calls the gesture "mere superstitiousness and aesthetic conformity." To me, that gorgeous phrase captures instead Warhol's lifelong love-hate relationship with fine art and mass culture. It thrills me, and it refuses to leave things as "ordinary" as advertising quite so meaningless.

He also remains uncomfortable stepping outside art—and into society or history. The openings give art a context, but not in the sense of much recent criticism. At one point he tracks a chain of causes, from artist to cultural movements, but after that, "I don't know." Criticism turns itself into a reverse ready-made of its own, drawing back from life.

A related approach dear to Danto or Dickie is to imagine a hypothetical work and wonder if it is art. That can lose sight of something: the art market traffics in nonexistent works all the time, and one can see them with one's own eyes. Writers insert fragmentary novels into fictions. Broadway audiences for Art view a white canvas through the entire play. It destroys a friendship while pushing the boundaries of art, or so one believes as long as the play goes on.

Other hypothetical museums remain invisible, but the works still matter. Historians piece together careers by contemplating works that have vanished or changed irrevocably. Any visitor to Milan, in fact, can join the game. Imagine The Last Supper as it once stood.

The problem is that, pursued as definitional in terms of audiences, one has to know all too well what those hypothetical squares look like, which means they are no longer hypothetical. To make his case, Danto or Dickie must assume indiscernible objects. However, that assumes visible differences cannot explain art. To counterattack, one must insist on the differences. However, that assumes differences exist and matter.

If Danto's hypotheses sound suspicious, a formalist counterattack as perhaps Mark has in mind only makes matters worse. It distrusts hypotheses too much. In reality, art's guessing games will not go away. One continues to recall artists' lives and reconstruct their intentions, and one cannot explain intent as shorthand for the finer visual evidence. When I compare Artemisia Gentileschi to Caravaggio, I have made a useful interpretation. I cannot convert it to a finite set of statements about her paintings' physical traits.

One side grounds the interpretation of a work of art in a given, the artist's stated concept. The other grounds interpretation in the sensual nature of the art object, again placed temporally and logically prior to questioning. Both sides, then, use and deride hypothetical works of art, because they cannot pierce what Wilfrid Sellars, a philosopher, has called "the myth of the given": they ask for a place to enter the world—a place that may not exist. There has to be a way outside those traps. Do not just ask what hypothetical works of art mean. Look.

In short, a philosopher cannot—and need not—abandon a thesis, but encounters with art have a nice way of transforming hypotheses into life. Imaginary art can never become real, but all art throws life into the workings of the imagination. Critics and philosophers share the priceless job of looking for it there.

Anyhow, you can read more on my site, with luck in longer versions that cohere better!

Poem of the Week: "Toro, Cielo, Sirena" by Lauren Levato

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Writer, artist, and feminist activist Lauren Levato is literary editor for Ink & Ashes :: a journal of the senses, and editor for PISTIL. Her writing has appeared in after hours, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Midwest, and Wicked Alice. She hold degrees in professional writing and women's studies from Purdue University and studied political journalism at Georgetown University. Her awards include a poetry fellowship from the Vermont Studio Center. Her chapbook Marriage*Bones (2006) is available from fractaledgepress.

Toro, Cielo, Sirena

I. Toro

Il toro torna al fonte del proprio dolore
fino alla morte di uno o l’altro.


Your father left you waving
the carnelian flag of his death,
his blood converting to poison
despite wishbones snapped,
despite wishes lobbed upward to stars,
not knowing that while you could see
them shining they too had already died.

Now your mother drags chains
through the house, an everlasting
processional of pain, memory, regret.

She has forgotten the twelve-year-old girl
dispensing morphine in the living room
but she will never let go his still muddy
hunting boots, those discharged shells,
his last deer still in the deep freezer.

           The bull returns to the source of her
           pain until one, or the other, is dead.


II. Cielo

Il cielo fiorisce attraverso il deserto,
una pesca, Matura. Pronta.


The first boy to present
his palms face up to your body
seemed nice enough to marry.

Groping for a replacement,
a wet nurse to suckle,
he got you both lost in the desert.
There you found your horizon, the future
pouring from the sky, hot truth wilting
his plump skin like an earthworm stuck in the sun.

          The sky blooms across the desert,
          a peach. Ripe. Ready.


III. Sirena

Quando le sirene si sbudellano
per l’amore di uomini sensa gambe.


When mermaids gut themselves
for the love of legless men
the whole world is finally falling apart.
We sang out a love song.
They ripped us from our water,
      hosed off our skin,
      cut off our hair,
      hid our breasts.

It only takes a night to drain
all the water from the ocean
and fill it up with poison sperm.

Now she is savagely quiet,

a moonless shore at the bottom of a bucket.


July 14, 2006

Glenn Wexler: The Flatness of Three Dimensions

Artist Glenn wexler has an opening tonight in Chicago at Zolla Lieberman Gallery. 325 West Huron, Chicago, IL 60610 tel. 312.944.1990

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July 13, 2006

infelicitous, adj.

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1. Inappropriate; ill-chosen.
2. Not happy; unfortunate.


July 12, 2006

A Ritz Cracker is a Ritz Cracker is a Ritz Cracker....

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Apathy

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Apathy and Other Small Victories by Paul Neilan
St. Martin’s Press
231 pp.
$17.95


The best debut novel I’ve read in a long time is Paul Neilan’s “Apathy.” Neilan, a Portland, OR based novelist is wickedly adept at satire. His prose bites without actually tearing flesh or drawing blood. He is Chuck Palahniuk without the hatred. This is not meant to imply the writing is toothless, it is not. Rather, Neilan is able to viciously parody any number of “modern types’ – people we all know trapped in the mundanity of everyday American life – without condescension and with gentleness and compassion.

“Apathy” is about an everyman named Shane who lives a dead-end existence working a job he hates at the Panopticon Insurance Company. He is drunk, lonely and chronically broke. He hooks up with a woman in a bar. Her name is Gwendolyn and she tears him up physically during their sporadic, angry sexual liaisons. She gets him the job at Panopticon which he hates, of course, as much as he hates Gwen and himself.

Did I mention this was one of the funniest books I’ve read in years?

Like Chuck Palahniuk, fellow Oregonian Neilan proffers the most disgusting scenarios imaginable and then exaggerates them so far “over the top” that reactions of laughter and disgust become inseparable. That Neilan’s humor comes across as more gentle should be neither surprising nor taken as petty criticism.

Shane agrees to have sex with his landlord’s wife as a way to pay his rent. The results, needless to say, are hilarious and tragic. Eventually… there is no eventually. Shane remains nihilistic to the end and there is no redemption except laughter.

Which is kind of like real life, I think.

July 11, 2006

TONIGHT IN CHICAGO

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Piper at the Gaters of Heaven: R.I.P. Syd Barrett

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Syd Barrett, co-founder of Pink Floyd has died. Here's a link to the AP piece. Barrett was easily one of the strangest figures in the psychedelic scene which sprouted in the late 1960's and early 1970's, and his departure from "The Floyd" marked the beginning of the mainstreaming of their sound.

I've been a fan of Pink Floyd for a very long time, and will even admit to an abiding love and admiration of The Final Cut, but there's just nothing on any of the post-Syd records which can compare in velvet-grooviness to Lucifer Sam, or the strangely cute Bike.
Say what you will about the cinematic range of later Floyd offerings - Piper at the Gates of Dawn is one of the most original records of that time. It's been a long time since I've attempted listening to Madcap Laughs, but I recall having had a bit of trouble with it. Regardless of Barrett's inability to know which trip should be the last trip his place seems pretty well cemented in music history.

Fans of mind-bending music won't have that much trouble missing him - they've been missing him for almost 40 years.

plinth, n.

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1. A block or slab on which a pedestal, column, or statue is placed.
2. The base block at the intersection of the baseboard and the vertical trim around an opening.
3. A continuous course of stones supporting a wall. Also called plinth course.
4. A square base, as for a vase.


"Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-
formed bull was stalled!
Sing to me of the night you crawled across the
temple's granite plinth"

—Oscar Wilde, “The Sphinx”

July 10, 2006

amative, adj.

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Relating to or inclined toward love, especially sexual love; amorous.

“amative coquette kohls her eyes”

—Andy Weaver, “My Ignorance of Mina Loy”

Poem of the Week: "the dollmaker's apprentice, or various form of violence" by Kristy Bowen

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Kristy Bowen's work has appeared in a number of electronic and print journals, including Cranky, Diagram, Slipstream, and Another Chicago Magazine. She's the author of several handmade and limited edition chapbooks, most recently The Archaeologist's Daughter (Moon Journal Press, 2005) and errata (dgp, 2005). In 2004, she was selected as first place winner in the Poetry Center of Chicago's Annual Juried Reading. A sometimes collage/text/book artist, she is the editor of the online poetry zine, wicked alice, and founder of dancing girl press, which publishes chapbooks by female poets. Her full-length collection, the fever almanac, is forthcoming from Ghost Road Press in 2006.


the dollmaker's apprentice,
      or various form of violence


Now that we have capsized
in our dark boats, the milk

goes bad, incandescent.
Still, he loves them, pale

invertebrate things, how they
suffer of astonishment,

of pinafores. The heart
like a hinge box,

or better, leeches in a jar.
We went out in the glass-bottomed

boat and upset the teacups.
Night gathered like a skirt.

On some subcontinent, we broke
the spine of the thing we could

not name. The tiny woman bathed
in blue light, who wanted

an umbrella, wanted a suitcase,
needs a dictionary, and only

the smallest lamp.


(Neo-)Sophistry

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Brandl, Blind Mute Cover, 2002, Ink on Paper

There is a new Sophistry now rampant in the world and even in the artworld, where one would least expect it.

The essential claim of Sophistry is that the actual validity of an argument is irrelevant (even non-existent); it is only the ruling of the audience which matters --- and often only the ruling of a "chosen" audience of fellow-believers. Thus any position ruled true by these "judges" must be considered literally correct, even if it was arrived at by naked pandering to prejudices, or even by bribery or by coercion. Critics such as Socrates have, of course, argued that this claim relies on a straw man caricature of logical discourse and is, in fact, a self-justifying act of sophistry.

Sophists claim there is no reason to search for or even desire such things as quality, truth, analysis, criticality, social justice, etc. In fact, they claim that there is no real knowledge, yet they historically insist on teaching this very "fact" of know-nothing-ism, producing students who excel in memorization, performance, and what we nowadays call yuppie-career-development. Socrates criticized them, noting that they are not concerned to know and teach the way anything might really stand, but only to prevail over others, merely to win, without provoking their listeners to desire anything of importance. Sophists, according to him, are not only ignorant of the essential nature of the phenomena they profess to teach, they practice deception.

In a parallel manner, many of the "powerful" in the artworld of today, even artists themselves, make no claim to any actual desire for anything beyond a rather bovine, suburban, view of career success and are happy to teach this and promote it and themselves in universities, museums, Kunsthallen, exhibitions, biennials and the like. One prominent European curator and art school director has even openly claimed his position as a complete Sophist. Most others in similar positions would deny it, but practice it, which is Sophistry at its most conformist.

Thus Neo-Sophistry is the newest form of an age-old erroneous and self-serving belief, often born of a very middlebrow envy of creativity, deeper intellectual thought or vital desire.

Ask yourself, why are you in this fight? Are you an artist or critic or curator simply because you were too incompetent to be a success in a "real" career such as banking or popular music or novel-writing or...?
I don't think so.

Weren't you actually CALLED to art in some way, by someone? Think back. Duchamp said that that he wanted to be the "champion of the world or champion of something" yet denied easy success at every turn. He eventually claimed (fallaciously it later was revealed ) to have renounced his vocation. Explaining this retreat to his patron Katherine Drier, he wrote: "Don't see any pessimism in my decisions; they are only a way toward beatitude."

Do not be conformed to this world of Neo-Sophistry, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Confidence in your calling is your source, not hypocrisy or careerism. These are false gods.

Neo-Sophistry in art leads to the blind promulgating the mute.

...and NOW for Something VERTICAL : Part II (I Used To Shoot Film : Part II)

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Jeez, I hope to offend someone with this "title" as I did a few weeks back....
This is some art from before the ownership of digital cameras.....
Very random, arted & with LOVE !!!!!!!
I hope to be back with some NEW SHIT, next week.............

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The Underground

Chagall drew us floating above the houses,
our skin the underneath blue of a winter fire,
our hands open in the mud-spill inside an oxen bin.

He was breaking into the snow of our city.
Despite the frantic wire arms of a naked woman
waving a cross you'll barely see, one black lacqured dot...
if it is a nostril breathing,

a flame forced at our throats.
Our title is lost, but we'll know it
by the reference of a stranger
so close, we can see the eyebrows.

July 07, 2006

Sharktracks: Kimler, Warren and Drawing at the MCA

Drawn into the WorldJuly 8 - October 15, 2006
The Museum of Contemporary Art
220 East Chicago Avenue
Chicago, Illinois 60611
312.280.2660

This first-ever survey of drawings from the MCA Collection charts the rich and varied landscape of the medium and presents works which may not conform with what normally comes to mind when thinking of drawing. While the majority of works in the exhibition are rendered in traditional drawing materials such as graphite, color pencil, charcoal, and ink, there are also a number of works that feature unusual materials -- soil, gunpowder, petroleum jelly — or have been drawn on nontraditional supports, such as dried ficus leaf, newspaper, or hide. A wide range of styles is also featured, from abstraction to figuration, from crude child-like renderings to highly finished, classical drawing techniques.

Highlights of the exhibition include thirteen of the charcoal sketches South African artist William Kentridge used to shoot his animated film History of the Main Complaint (1995–96); sixty-four gouache-on-paper sheets that make up Sol LeWitt’s “portable” wall drawing One-, Two-, Three-, and Four-Part Combinations of Vertical, Horizontal, and Diagonal Left and Right Bands of Color (1993-94); and of drawings for projects such as Claes Oldenburg’s Mouse Museum -- built by MCA preparators for his 1979 exhibition Mouse Museum and Ray Gun Wing -- and Max Neuhaus’s Sound Installation as installed in the MCA’s former facility.

Drawn into the World features approximately sixty works by artists such as Matthew Barney, Lee Bontecou, Henry Darger, Kerry James Marshall, Ana Mendieta, Laszlo Moholy-Nagy, Jim Nutt, Ed Paschke, Suellen Rocca, Miroslaw Rogola, Dieter Roth, Ed Ruscha, Gary Simmons, Nicola Tyson, and Karl Wirsum. The exhibition is augmented by loans of works by Chuichi Fuji, Wesley Kimler, Gladys Nilsson, and Deb Sokolow and was organized by MCA Curator Lynne Warren.

July 06, 2006

Show Some Respect: Memorials for Robert Heinecken

We marked the passing of artist Robert Heinecken just over a month ago. Here are the details for upcoming memorial services. - ed.

Chicago
Date: July 15
Time: 6 - 9 PM
Place: Adduci Studio (under EL in alley red door)
1544 N. Sedgewick
(312) 440-9467

Los Angeles
Date: August 12
Time: 10 - Noon
Place: The Charles E. Young Grand Salon in Kerckhoff UCLA

Guests can park in parking structure 6.
Attendants will be stationed at the lot from 9-11 to sell $8 permits.
For a Map click here.

Memorial donations
Robert Heinecken Memorial Fund at the University of New Mexico
c/o The UNM Foundation
MSC07-420
University of New Mexico
Albuquerque, NM 87131

July 05, 2006

prognathous, adj.

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Having jaws that project forward to a marked degree.

“The prognathous Neanderthal,
To them, conceals the Bruce”

—Bernard Dowd, “Young Democracy”

The long weekend, dusk 'til dawn

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July 04, 2006

Stacking the Deck: "Full House"

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Who could imagine the Fourth without the flag everywhere in sight? And the Whitney has ushered in the holiday with a classic sighting. In "Full House," a museum-wide celebration of American art, a Jasper Johns flag painting welcomes visitors to the third floor. But suppose a constitutional amendment, banning desecration of the flag. Would those images still have a home?

Now, no one at the Whitney is complaining or apologizing. Three Flags even flies high on the museum's home page and in advertising. As I note in a much longer exhibition review on my own Web site, from which this is excerpted, "Full House" also leads to a lesser-known and less-colorful flag, a photo by Robert Mapplethorpe of an icon nearing the end of its days. Have I, then, asked a stupid question? Do not be so sure.

For one thing, do not underestimate the artists. Of course, Mapplethorpe has gotten museums in trouble before, and his image dates three years after President Nixon's resignation and two years after the fall of Saigon, perhaps the last time that the flag occupied such contested ground. However, for Johns, too, art's loyalty to American values seemed anything but certain. Abstract Expressionism had everyone talking about whether American culture had triumphed, and the state department even took an interest in its public-relations value. One can see Johns as turning against the New York school in all its triumphs. He painted his first flag in 1955, only a year after Senator McCarthy's censure, with memories still fresh of cultural figures grilled on Congress—and he would not consent to a public display for three full years.

Perhaps Johns meant no disrespect when he made a flag look so stiff and made it far too "in one's face," literally so, to salute. Perhaps he did not anticipate a Democratic "surrender monkey" when he painted his White Flag. Still, do not underestimate politicians out for an easy moral victory either. The 2006 Whitney Biennial took no flak for distributing free posters of torture at Abu Ghraib, by Richard Serra, but the press and politicians leapt all over Amy Wilson for that same image not long before. "Full House" is taking no flak either, but what if the Whitney sought funding for exhibiting closer to Ground Zero? What if Mayor Giuliani were now running for reelection—or for president?

Also do not underestimate the passions of ordinary citizens or the complexity of the issues they would face. You would have to decide, say, whether to keep displaying a flag as worn and weary as Mapplethorpe's or, conversely, to trash it. Others, perhaps the government, would get to ask what you mean by that decision, especially as no one can remember an actual flag burning for the law to target. Such ambiguity endangers the arts far more, too. For every work of art that seeks to send a clear message, many more refuse to do just that, by their very nature as art. My preceding history notwithstanding, politics may hardly have entered Johns's mind.

Protests against America merit defense, because they may reflect America's best interests—or simply because the right to protest is itself in the interest of democracy. Protests that try to seize the higher ground of American interest, where both sides stand for the constitution and a nation's standard of justice, occur far more often, and they, too, deserve protection. However, one should not overlook either how often art gets in trouble because it refuses to give answers one way or another about what it or America means, and people prefer easy answers. I myself cannot say for sure in which category to place controversial images on display this past year—a flag draped across a gallery by Hans Haacke, a flag straitjacket by Lisa Charde, or a flag that James Lee Byars may once have soiled with his shoes on his wya to a typically come-what-may event in Southern California. That ambiguity is keeping museum lawyers busy right now, but it also has a lot to do with why your own thoughts and actions need protection.

You may not think of Jasper Johns when you hear about a flag-burning amendment, but maybe you should. Oh, and that show of the permanent collection is definitely worth a visit. Surprised that a museum would devote itself to just that or that you should care? My longer review delves into my own expectations and the view of American art that "Full House" delivers.

Open Thread: What Does America Mean to You?

OldGlory.gif On this Independence Day we thought it might be interesting to do a little informal polling. There's been so much froth in the media over the last decade or so about those who "hate America" and why that it might be instructive to see just what people really think.

Happy 4th!


The MCA Gets Sharky

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The Shark swims into the Museum of Contemporary Art in the exhibition Drawn into the World. July 8- October 15, 2006: since as you should all know by now, carcharodon carcharias is what is known as a 'sneaky shark' -prefering the hit and run style of approach to procurring lunch, The Shark is quite happy (and relieved) there will NOT be an opening as things are a little dicey for him at the moment, what with the shark attack incident on bad at sports last week.....

The drawing above will be shown. Below, the remainder of the series. All works are black gesso/charcoal on paper, all appx 84X84" .

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The Academy

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Since the pejorative use of the words academy and academic will continuously pop up in our Shark attacks, in particular in mine, this lapsed art historian would like to lay the source of these terms clearly out in the open, since it has come to my attention in recent discussions with other artists that many weren't certain as to what the words referred. Pedagogic Mark presents a work of history. Any resemblance to persons dead or living is purely intentional.



The first Academy of Art, called the Accademia del Disegno, was founded in Florence in Italy in 1562 by Giorgio Vasari . Vasari is the founding father of art history due to his monumental Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects, a gossipy, rambling collection of anecdotes concerning creators. Vasari himself was an exceedingly mediocre painter, very much in the heart of Mannerism with his attempts to glean the "best" devices from each of the Renaissance masters and combine them into an artificial whole, with the heaviest weight of his hero-worship resting on Michelangelo. At this academy, students studied the "arti del disegno", a term coined by Vasari. This included lectures on anatomy, geometry and an emphasis on piecing together derivative aspects of technique. Disegno, originally meant drawing, but came to include the concept of plan or composition, as the idea the artist had in mind before beginning to carve or paint a work. It later offered the source for our modern term design.

Another academy, the Accademia di San Luca, named after the patron saint of painters, St. Luke, was founded somewhat later in Rome. The Accademia di San Luca was most concerned with art theory, perhaps the first such institution in the world. It, and many later academies, were founded in an effort to make, or create, a position for artists as men (sic, historical sexism) "who were gentlemen practicing a liberal art" as distinguished from "mere" craftsmen, who were engaged in manual labor. This began the historical antagonism academies have had to autodidactic creators and the academies' accompanying disdain for technique and preference for verbal validation.

The Accademia di San Luca later served as the model for the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture founded in France in 1648. The French Academy used their own notion of the term "arti del disegno," calling it the "beaux arts", from which is derived the English term "fine arts."

The painter Charles LeBrun (1619-1690) is the most (in)famous Academician. He was the director of the French Academy. Le Brun saw himself as painter, theorist, arbiter of taste and school director. He was the dominant artist in 17th century France, due to his position of power, not to any inventiveness of his art, which it thoroughly lacked. All that was done in the royal palaces, all important public commissions, were directed and controlled by Le Brun. He was the virtual dictator of the arts in France. From this situation comes the standard pejorative use of the term "academic" in modern art and art history. When one wishes to compliment a knowledgeable scholastic researcher or professor nowadays, the replacement term is usually that of scholar.

Typical for any academy, in the French Academy works of art were examined according to established, systematized categories which students had to memorize. Famous painters were even "graded" from 0 to 80 according to how well they "performed" in composition, drawing, color, and expression. Drawing was held to be superior to color; color was seen as simply an addition to drawing. Drawing, it was claimed, appealed to the mind, color appealed to the "inferior senses." A frequent illness of every academy has been the disdain of sensuality in favor of a rather middlebrow conception of intellectuality.

In the academies, certain " classical" art models were identified and enforced as prototypes artists had to study and emulate if they wished to succeed. A successful showing at the salon, the huge, florid exhibitions organized by the Academy, was a seal of approval for an artist, making his work saleable to collectors and giving the artist the chance to be considered for public commissions. William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Alexandre Cabanel and Jean-Léon Gérôme were the leading figures of this academic art world. Style, and ideology, thereby became closely associated with the ruling academic elite, with patronage and even with the state.

Academic art, in whatever form, has thus inevitably come to be linked with the power-structure and the power-relations of society and its artworld(s). Academic art contains a hardly veiled regulation of values, usually having some relation to the maintenance and reproduction of social power, even if only within the artworld, yet this may reach into the educational system and government, especially as younger academicians are usually recruited from the ruling classes.

French academic art enforced the production of large paintings called "grande machines" which were manufactured of mock emotion through collaged, patchworks of memorized clichés, contrivances and strategies, all derived from a prescribed list of possibilities.

During the 1860s, the Impressionists, Realists and a few other artists concluded that academic art was formulaic and artificial. The Modernists, as they came to be called, were innovative in their subject matter and painting techniques, often using forms and choosing subject matter which were considered trivial or degenerate by the Academy. Juries, dominated by Academicians, inevitably rejected the artists' paintings and sculpture. These artists thought that if their work was exhibited well, it would gain acceptance. They sought favorable viewing conditions by creating their own exhibitions, seeking out their own critics, in short creating their own alternative to the academic artworld, over which they eventually triumphed.

Special thanks to Christopher L. C. E. Witcombe, the source of much information on the academy.

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July 03, 2006

I Used To Shoot Film....

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.....around 4 years ago, I didn't even have a point-and-shoot digital camera. I didn't know Photoshop all that well, but was learning. Now it seems like a whole different world, visually.........


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cervine, adj.

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Relating to, resembling, or characteristic of deer.

“Like cervine tails twitching in bad weather”

—Lucie Brock-Broido, “Rome Beauty”

Poem of the Week: "Drive" by Duriel E. Harris

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Heralded as one of three Chicago poets for the 21st century by WBEZ Chicago Public Radio, Duriel E. Harris holds a Ph.D. from the University of Illinois, an M.A. from the Graduate Creative Writing Program at NYU and a B.A. in Literature from Yale University. A member of reedist Douglas Ewart’s experimental jazz choir, Inventions, Harris is a co-founder of The Black Took Collective and the Poetry Editor for Obsidian III: Literature in the African Diaspora. Harris has received grants from the Illinois Arts Council and the Cave Canem Foundation. Drag, her first book, by Elixir Press was hailed by Black Issues Book Review as one of the best poetry volumes of 2003.

Drive

Cool night, like the snap of peas or dry branches underfoot.
Someone's waiting for me: a photograph of my breath.
The moon is cropped stingy and my skin is a tethered shade of heat
drawn to outer darkness and the gentle sucking in the thick of it.

Looking for the turn. Dull stretch of road the weight
of any other. Rolling straight back into clannish trees
like a cinnamon woman, powdered cleavage, struck
dumb in the spirit, falls back trusting.

A dredlock creeps from behind my ear, scrapes my nose, yarn
between my eyes. I slip its tight coil into place with a motion
reminiscent of white girls' easy laughter and the prep school I hated,
tinged with the riddle of their dearness and my brown body unseen.

Looking for the turn. Sign posts become tar field scarecrows,
mute Colored, bowed heads at 3 a.m. wherever trees shoot up
in a clearing. And down a piece there's a church, one room sanctuary,
one paint-chipped iron rail at the front three steps. The doors

are swollen shut from rain; above them, a cross-shaped window
broken out, fist-sized, where Jesus' head would be.
Cool night passes through the jagged godhead whistling,
condenses on the stained glass pane the way a house settles,

the way our bodies soften into earth, the way our suffering
mists, seeps into the bloodstream and runs. My we,
us, we people breathing on both sides of the hold belly.
Greed and our flesh trials nursed the second half of the last millennium.

What I wouldn't do for a bidi. I turn on the radio.
There. And I'll turn again before I reach the leaf dense trees
to go where I'll spend the night. Haven, where someone's waiting
and smells like cornbread under cloth, like thighs, moist

armpits, is a double portion, ribbed, combed, and fastened.
At the end of it: a bell my fingers feel for.
Sometimes, I dream a lonely highway and wake up driving;
sometimes, I am wet and full and prone in the pasture.

While inside me, desire shepherds the hills swallowing night's crisp
center and loose pearls in the swayback of darkness until I
breathe, reaching, replenished, forgetting, palpable
and palatable like pulling smoke but more than momentary

shuttling lungs and ear drums, more than, until I am a dream
within a dream within a dream like electric organ humpback
s and only-born-once Al Green's happiness squealing
eeeeeeeeeee moan for love eeeeeeeeee over road hiss

over dirt shoulder scratches over prairie far off trees and sky
darknesses taking up space until I am an ellipsis, spinning.



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