the world kaleidoscope

good day sunshine

2010-03-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

Summer is coming to Milwaukee. I am so happy to see the sun again.
Good times are ahead.

It Hurts To Shoot Lasers From Your Fingers, But It's Necessary

2010-03-08T07:43:00.001-08:00

Strange dreams all weekend.

It seems that my subconscious is feeling a tad feisty.

Although, Maxx did get mauled by a bear early Saturday morning. That was fairly epic.
There was also a panther involved.

Henri Rousseau The Sleeping Gypsy 1897

ALSO! Swing by Kevin's Genrepocalypse to see the fruits of 'Friday Music Fest', a weekly music love fest compilation by a group of some pretty awesome musically-minded people.

LASTLY! Limericks 4eva.

There once was a girl who drank whiskey
And it made her feel a bit frisky
She ran through the night
And was quite the sight
As she shrieked in the dark like a banshee

(True story.)

Mikhail Larionov Dancing Soldiers 1909/10

Bigmouth Strikes Again

2010-03-04T10:55:00.000-08:00

Working at Summerfest is bad for my self-esteem. Facebook fans hate on us (mostly), but really, it's just little ol' me behind the profile.

I want to tell you that I'm sorry for letting you down, I didn't mean to make you so unhappy. Sometimes even that I agree.

I know, abstractly, comments are aimed at the music fest as a whole. I'm not so illogical as to take them personally. But sometimes they make me frown, just a little bit, and my heart hurts inside.

So to all of you internet haters, be a little kinder in your criticisms. Because behind every web page you troll and facebook page you complain on is a scrawny little IT kid with hopes and dreams beyond the world of Web 2.0. We have feelings, too.

Oh, and you're fairly ignorant. I loathe you.

PS. My grapes have fungus. This day stinks.

it's a dirty story of a dirty man.

2010-02-22T11:05:00.000-08:00

Writing a book is hard.

Robert Motherwell Lyric Suite 1965

This Bird Has Flown

2010-02-18T11:18:00.000-08:00

I am fixing to write a book.

Not really with the aim to have anyone read it. Certainly not to have anyone buy it.

More as an outlet for the wanderings of my ADD brainwaves.

It will be about a girl who lives her life in a cubicle. She doesn't have much going for her outside of the daily grind, little to content herself with but fantasy romance and cooking for one. Going to work perpetually remains the pinnacle of her day, email conversations with faceless coworkers the brunt of her social life.

Now, I know what you are thinking, but rest easy. This will not be a reflection of my own personal angsts and complaints. I have friends, sometimes, and a cat who makes me smile, usually.

This girl doesn't.

Anyhow, this story will document how this girl falls slowly into the clutches of insanity. And how no one will notice.

She will hallucinate the days away inside her cubicle walls, making friends with computer icons and defeating the dark lord of spam mail. And she is going to love it. It will be the first and best adventure she has ever had.

Who of us would welcome insanity?

Dorothea Tanning The Philosophers 1952

working(wo)man's blues

2010-02-17T13:18:00.000-08:00

PS. Don't blog at work. It's bad form.

Or so they tell me.

*Yawn*

Until tomorrow, friends. xx

Come Fly With Me, Let's Fly, Let's Fly Away

2010-02-17T11:01:00.001-08:00

In. A. Rut.

Someone tell me something interesting.

Better yet, someone take me on an adventure.

(See what I did there? Placing my future in the hands of the anonymous and almighty “someone”? My inherent, unwavering boredom is NOT MY FAULT*.)

"Okay, okay, let’s move to …" *spins globe*

*Note: Caps = self deprecating non-truths

Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want

2010-02-15T21:00:00.001-08:00

I'm fairly certain that this day wasn't real.

Lee Friedlander, Baltimore, Maryland, 1962

Now we can do all of the things I felt bad about doing when I loved you.

2010-02-02T14:04:00.000-08:00

I'm coming back. Stand by.

isn't it time for the birds to sing?

2009-07-30T04:32:00.000-07:00

Max Ensor Masks Confronting Death 1888

in memory of the demon

boris leonidovich pasternak

Night after night he came from Tamara's

wrapped in glacier's blue light.

And marked with his wings

where the nightmare should drone and end.

He did not sob, did not bind

the bare whip-scarred arms.

The gravestone's shadow falls beyond

the fence of the Georgian church.

No matter how wicked the hump

his shadow made no face beneath the lattice.

Next to the icon-lamp the lute

breathed no word of the Princess.

Phosphorus lit through his hair

and the Colossus never heard

how the Caucasus

grieved and went grey.

Two steps from his window

he tugged at the hairs of his cloak,

and whispered into the icy crags: "Sleep, little one,

I'll be an avalanche when I come back!"

time lost

2009-07-18T12:16:00.000-07:00

Rene Magritte Memory of a Voyage 1955

oft in the stilly night

sir thomas moore

when I remember all

the friends so linked together,

I've seen around me fall ,

like leaves in wintry weather;

I feel like one

who treads alone

some banquet-hall, deserted,

whose lights are fled,

whose garlands dead,

and all, but he, departed!

thus in the stilly night,

ere slumber's chain has bound me,

sad Mem'ry brings the light,

of other days around me.

Psychedelic Drugs and Piggyback Rides

2009-07-12T09:56:00.002-07:00

On a short break from my dissertation bubble, I indulged myself in a documentary experience about illustrator / comic book artist R. Crumb entitled "Crumb", directed by Terry Zwigoff, who also did the films "Ghost World" and "Art School Confidential", which are equally brilliant.

The documentary itself centers not only on Robert Crumb, but also his family - his two mentally unstable brothers, in particular. Zwigoff eases into the psychoses of each of the family members, a gradual crescendo that plateaus with Robert's brother Charles admitting his homicidal urges and his brother Maxon apathetically sharing his past of molesting women. With an overall morbid narrative, the film explores the mentality of a fringe society, a look at the darker side of the American experience - the relationship between the sexes, the disfunction of the nuclear family, the deterioration of the human condition, a glimpse into mental illness, all with a side of art world politics and capitalist antipathy.

R Crumb himself is almost disturbingly candid, resulting in a plethora of uncomfortable moments that can either be seen as darkly humorous or incredibly offensive, depending on the audience. I was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that Robert seems quite tame in comparison to his reclusive and (even more) mentally unstable brothers. It has been awhile since I have seen a film that has left me so uneasy, but the overall ugliness of the documentary reflects the often times disturbing themes of R Crumb's work, which, if nothing else, provides a basis for some controversy and the asking of difficult questions about society.

Art critic Robert Hughes, a speaker in the film, pegs R Crumb as "the Brueghel of the last half of the 20th century" due to his bizarre scenes, as well as akin to Daumier for his potent social commentary. R Crumb's work is certainly deliciously controversial, a fact which the documentary superficially explores alongside Crumb's own personal history and artistic motivations. As the film closes, Crumb is moving with his wife and daughter to the south of France, claiming, "France isn't, you know, perfect, or anything, but it's just slightly less evil than the United States." Overall, it remains a perversely fascinating, quintessential portrait of the suffering, twisted artistic-type.

Here is an excerpt from the film, highlighting some of the less controversial moments:

R Crumb's reflections on his work (along with some of my favorite images!):

"I have this hostility toward women, I admit it. It's out in the open. I have to put it out there. Sometimes I think it's a mistake... but somehow revealing that truth about myself is somehow helpful. I hope it is. Maybe I shouldn't be allowed to do it, maybe I should be locked up and my pencils taken away from me."

"My work is full of sweating, nervous uneasiness, which is a big part of me and everybody else. Most people don't want to see that though because it reminds them of inadequate parts of themselves."

"People now don’t have any concept that there was ever a culture outside of this thing that was created to make money. Whatever is the biggest, latest thing, they’re into it. You get disgusted after a while at humanity."

"You must thank the gods for art, those of us who have been fortunate enough to stumble onto this means of venting our craziness, our meanness, our towering disgust . . . "

we are many

2009-07-08T05:57:00.000-07:00

Romaine Brooks Le Trajet 1900

weak with the dawn

pablo neruda

I am alone with rickety materials,

the rain falls on me, and it is like me,

it is like me in its raving, alone in the dead world,

repulsed as it falls, and with no persistent form.

Romaine Brooks White Azaleas 1910

a story of great longing

2009-07-03T11:32:00.000-07:00

Edmund Dulac : Illustrations to Stealers of Light by the Queen of Roumania, 1916

"The light she had thought to extinguish had escaped from her dying hands and floated always farther

across the desert, shedding its marvellous radiance over rock and stone."

"The man had his arm lightly laid across the tall girl's shoulders; they might have been lovers,

so tender was his touch."

i shall not care

2009-07-03T06:38:00.000-07:00

Paul Gauguin Be Mysterious 1890

there will come soft rains

sara teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree

If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

one step backward taken

2009-07-01T06:40:00.000-07:00

David Wojnarowicz The Death of American Spirituality 1987

fire and ice

robert frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favour fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

David Wojnarowicz Water 1987

The Manchester Hermit

2009-06-30T12:11:00.001-07:00

Anopheles Mosquito

A live performance piece that is both intriguing and unusual has taken root at the Manchester Museum. For 40 days, artist Ansuman Biswas, aka the Manchester Hermit, will live in isolation in the Museum's gothic tower, reflecting and ruminating on the relationship between man, object and nature.

Biswas states:

"I see this role as a chance to channel the natural feelings of awe and wonder we feel at the incredible diversity that is around us, and a chance to celebrate the small, quiet things that are often forgotten. Amongst the many physical objects in its collection the Museum has chosen to value a spiritual activity. I hope I can live up to this important duty."

Biswas' only interaction with the outside world will be one-way internet communication via his blog, The Manchester Hermit, which holds his meditations on the museum's collections. Furthermore, each day Biswas choose an object from the museum's collection to destroy... that is, if no one steps forward to care for it. Seems a tad drastic, but proves a severe and effective commentary on decay, destruction and extinction... check out his blog for more on his process and how you can involve yourself in the conversation.

And, of course, if you are feeling a bit voyeuristic, be sure to check out his webcam. I've yet to catch a glimpse of the elusive hermit on the cam myself, but he is sure to make an appearance at some point (hopefully in a non-compromising position. awkward.).

activistas feministas

2009-06-29T11:09:00.000-07:00

what the stars meant

2009-06-24T06:41:00.002-07:00

Francis Bacon, Blood on Pavement, 1988

excerpt from falling water

john koethe

Who cares if life - someone's actual life - is

Finally insignificant and small. There's still a

Splendor in the way it flowers once and fades

And leaves a carapace behind. There isn't time to

Linger over why it happened, or attempt to make its

Mystery come to life again and last, like someone

Still embracing the confused perceptions of  himself

Embedded in the past, as though eternity lay there -

For heaven's a delusion, and eternity is in the details,

And this tiny, insubstantial life is all there is.

Francis Bacon, Two Figures in the Grass, 1954

Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way

2009-06-24T06:37:00.000-07:00

Marlene Dumas, Magdalena 1, 1996

excerpt from begging

charles bukowski

that we were perishable, perhaps didn't occur to

him

or

that greater gods might be

watching.

talking shit about a pretty sunset.

2009-06-23T19:31:00.000-07:00

There is something indescribably sad about the clouds of Manchester at night. The city lights tint the atmosphere with burnt sepia and dull copper tones, a hazy, passionless blaze encompassing, suffocating those bellow. It's eery. Apocalyptic.

The lack of blackness frustrates me. The logic of darkness at night doesn't hold in the city, with its manufactured neon happiness and superficial streetlight stars. There is no respite behind closed lids. The light remains, taunting, dancing on my eyelids, burning my retinas. It skips like stars, a galaxy etched into my skin, and I float, drifting within my kaleidoscope eyes. Blue, purple, white, orange...

I wish I could sleep.

Rothko, Untitled No. 4, 1964

PS. Birds suck. My head hurts.

fable of the mermaid and the drunks

2009-06-22T05:58:00.000-07:00

I keep waiting for his face to show up. Anywhere. Just a jolt, electric, saving me from my revery. (Or does my revery save me from him? I can't figure it out. My revery saves me from THIS.) Detachment. Detachment was never necessary there. He was enough, electric. The only place I wanted to escape to was him. With him.

Smoke-rimmed eyes under harsh street lamps, painted on smiles hiding fury-clenched teeth. Escape.

My beach, my moon, my rough sands and cool hands and caressing breeze.

Floating.

Munch, Separation, 1900

every day you play...

pablo neruda

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.

I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Munch, Eye in Eye, 1894

Shit.

C'est si bon

2009-05-29T08:30:00.000-07:00

I'm running away to Paris for a few days, pulling an Audrey and getting sucked into the clutches of semi-creepy philosophical hipsters spouting about empathicalism. Okay, probably not, but it's going to be awesome anyways. Updates when I return!

There's only one instant, and it's right now. And it's eternity.

2009-05-25T09:22:00.000-07:00

Today, the weather was beautiful again. Priorities: Enjoy Sunshine. Smiling.

It seems my fickle friend insomnia has returned, although I must admit that I feel much less angsty about this than I normally would, mostly due to the fact that I haven't a schedule of any sort to keep these days. And, despite the fact that I only slept 2.5 hours last night, I feel more attuned to myself, my creativity, my core of happiness, than I ordinarily do when I am fully rested.

I sang Frank Sinatra to myself as I strolled down the street. I smiled.

I wonder how deeply I ought to allow myself to retreat into my mind, my daydreams, my sunshine delusions. I think I am happier here. I may never sleep again.

An invigorating Miró for an invigorated me---

Joan Miró, Dancer, 1925

PS. Granola is f'kin delicious.

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

2009-05-22T12:09:00.000-07:00

I wish chocolate wasn't so delicious. Nay, let me rephrase that. I love that chocolate is so delicious. I wish chocolate wasn't so caloric. Nom nom nom.

OH. And I've re-ignited my passionate love for E.E. Cummings.

It is time for a poetry reading. Get ready for your finger-snapping applause. ahem.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

let's live suddenly without thinking

e.e. cummings

Let's live suddenly without thinking

under honest trees,
   a stream
does.the brain of cleverly-crinkling
-water pursues the angry dream
of the shore. By midnight,
   a moon
scratches the skin of the organised hills

an edged nothing begins to prune

let's live like the light that kills
and let's as silence,
   because Whirl's after all:
(after me)love,and after you.
I occasionally feel vague how
vague i don't know tenuous Now-
spears and The Then-arrows making do
our mouths something red, something tall

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*snap snap snap snap*

also:

Piet Mondrian, The Red Tree, 1909

It's funny how long a moment can seem when you're trying to hold on.

2009-05-21T08:40:00.000-07:00

Love taught me to lie.

To be honest, it's a lesson that I've come to appreciate. Deceit has become my favorite bed-fellow, a true comrade, a familiar sidekick. Why, you ask? How could someone come to appreciate such a loathsome skill?

Because, quite frankly, the truth sucks. Ol' Jacky boy had it right when he exclaimed, "You can't handle the truth!" The thought of it makes me cringe. Truth is my least favorite foe.

It's truth that laughs at my clumsiness and lack of rhythm at dance parties. Truth points out that I wear too much makeup, but concedes that I look worse without it. Truth laughs bitterly at my pretenses of confidence and caring, knowing that underneath it all is an emotional dead end. Yet, truth revels most when I am pensive and indulging my self-flagellation, as I sift through past regrets and my biggest mistakes. And, worst of all, when I say it was all my fault, truth agrees.

So when I say that I am glad that love taught me to lie, I mean it. More than anything, it's a method of self preservation. And there is no one I lie more to than I lie to myself.

And there is no where I lie more to myself than in my dreams. I dream of how it should have been, trick myself into thinking that it still could be. Little lies that keep hope alive and a glimmer in my eye. Because there is always a possibility. At least that's what I tell myself.

There's always the possibility that the past doesn't matter anymore. That we both haven't changed and become different people. That I still feel like home to him.

Sometimes I secretly wish that I was completely exposed, that my mind was open and free to be explored and discovered by anyone and everyone. That all my faculties for deception have been torn away, leaving me vulnerable... but free. I wonder what people would think of me. I wonder what I would think of myself.

---

Last night, I dreamed that I saw him. He was looking out on Lake Michigan, deep in thought. I silently watched him for awhile, selfishly soaking in the details of his face, burning it into my memory, reveling in my unconscious delusion. Suddenly, he laughed quietly to himself, a crooked smile on his face, shaking his head softly. I called his name and he turned, surprised. His face lit up, seeing me, and my heart stopped.

I dreamed that we were on the beach, spread out on an old blanket, staring at the stars and listening to the waves. I ran my fingers through his unruly hair and he closed his eyes and smiled, moaning softly with contentment. He told me about his best friend in first grade and his first girl friend in college. He chatted animatedly about music and composing, confessed his passions and fears. He spoke warmly of his mother and proudly of his nephew. He had a smile in his eyes.

I dreamed that I no longer felt afraid. I told him about visiting my great grandmother and the way I felt the first time I saw a grown man cry. I told him about my love for fresh flowers and my secret childhood crush on Joey Lawrence from Blossom. I confided that my biggest fear was dying and growing old alone. He hugged me. It felt natural to be in his arms.

I dreamed that he was perfect and that I was perfect and that we were perfect. We made love and we were closer to one another than we had ever been to anyone before and would ever be to anyone again. We were the only two people who existed in the world. It was strange and it was beautiful and it was absolute.

It had to be right. It has to be right.

Disney and Dali?

2009-05-12T01:49:00.000-07:00

A film collaboration between Walt Disney and Salvador Dali.

(I would like to preface the following excerpt simply by pointing out that it is complete rubbish. It makes you feel all warm and tingly in the recesses of your brain, your intellect squeals in delight as it prepares to bask in the pleasures of discourse on the irrational, closer and closer to that noetic, cerebral climax... and then you ascertain the source. And you die a little inside. TRUMPERY. That is all.)

Our ideas of good and evil are only relative. In that other world where all values are transformed beyond recognition, why should not the relationship between good and evil be changed out of all proportion? Deep in the subconscious there must be a stream of continuity, some mysterious power linking us with that source whence all ideas originate... For a moment, then, let us surrender to the ultimately absurd. Pull down the barriers of sanity and let us indulge to the fullest in the realm of unreason... The escape from reason allows one to create a world that at last has meaning. The intelligence is put to rout.
-Robert D. Feild, The Art of Walt Disney

For the record, Walt Disney is not Surrealist. Not at all. Not even a tiny bit. NEVER. *HUMPH*

For more on why Salvador Dali is a sell-out, read: "An Amusing Lack of Logic": Surrealism and Popular Entertainment by Keith Eggener in the American Art Journal.

...the disciple of Art an abandoned wretch...

2009-05-07T03:18:00.001-07:00

Hans Bellmer, La Poupee, 1934

Eternally chained to only one single little fragment of the whole, Man himself [sic] grew to be only a fragment; with the monotonous noise of the wheel he drives everlastingly in his ears, he never develops the harmony of his being, and instead of imprinting humanity upon his nature he becomes merely the imprint of his occupation, of his science. But even the meagre fragmentary association which still links the individual members to the whole, does not depend on forms which present themselves spontaneously (for how could such an artificial and clandenstine piece of mechanism be entrusted to their freedom?), but is assigned to them with scrupulous exactness by a formula in which their free intelligence is restricted. The lifeless letter takes the place of the living understanding, and a practised memory is a surer guide than genius and feeling.

----Friedrich Schiller, On the Aesthetic Education of Man, The Sixth Letter

Hans Bellmer, La Poupee, 1935

i want to drift

2009-05-04T01:05:00.000-07:00

the sun is shining. in manchester. true story.

I wouldn't have believed it myself if I weren't seeing it.

as the last chills of winter leave the city, they take with them my brooding mood.

the sun brings new perspective, no?

a new perspective is what I needed all along.

*smiles*

'and your very flesh shall be a great poem...'

2009-05-03T02:34:00.000-07:00

My nephews, Evan and Chase, b. 20 April 2009.

"The fruition of beauty is no chance of hit or miss … it is inevitable as life … it is as exact and plumb as gravitation.

From the eyesight proceeds another eyesight and from the hearing proceeds another hearing and from the voice proceeds another voice eternally curious of the harmony of things with man.

To these respond perfections not only in the committees that were supposed to stand for the rest but in the rest themselves just the same.

These understand the law of perfection in masses and floods … that its finish is to each for itself and onward from itself … that it is profuse and impartial … that there is not a minute of the light or dark nor an acre of the earth and sea without it—nor any direction of the sky nor any trade or employment nor any turn of events.

This is the reason that about the proper expression of beauty there is precision and balance …"

Walt Whitman, 'Preface to Leaves of Grass', 1855

L'Étoile de mer

2009-04-22T14:59:00.000-07:00

Les dents des femmes sont des objets si charmants

qu' on ne devrait les voir qu' en rêve ou à l'instant de l'amour.

Si belle! Cybèle?

Nous sommes à jamais perdus dans le désert de l'éternèbre.

Qu'elle est belle.

"Après tout"

Si les fleurs étaient en verre

Belle, belle comme une fleur de verre.

Belle comme une fleur de chair.

Il faut battre les morts quand ils sont froids.

Les murs de la Santé

Et si tu trouves sur cette terre une femme à l'amour sincère...

Belle comme une fleur de feu

Le soleil, un pied à l'étrier, niche un rossignol dans un voile de crêpe.

Vous ne rêvez pas

Qu'elle était belle

Qu'elle est belle.

(Women's teeth are such charming objects

that one ought to see them only in a dream or in the instant of love.

So beautiful! Cybèle?

We are forever lost in the desert of eternal darkness.

How beautiful she is.

"After all"

If the flowers were in glass

Beautiful, beautiful like a flower of glass.

Beautiful like a flower of flesh.

One must beat the dead while they are cold.

The walls of the Santé

And if you find on this earth a woman of sincere love...

Beautiful like a flower of fire

The sun, one foot in the stirrup, nestles a nightingale in a veil of crepe.

You are not dreaming.

How beautiful she was

How beautiful she is.)

Man Ray and Robert Desnos, L'Étoile de Mer, 1928

Life is a horizontal fall.

2009-03-23T09:06:00.000-07:00

William Blake, Satan with Adam and Eve, 1808

Ah! gentle pair, ye little think how nigh

Your change approaches, when all these delights

Will vanish, and deliver ye to woe;

More woe, the more your taste is now of joy

Happy but for so happy ill secured

Long to continue, and this high seat your Heaven

Ill fenced for Heaven to keep out such a foe
- John Milton, Paradise Lost Book IV

Je suis un autre

2009-03-21T14:56:00.000-07:00

I ... have nothing. Tired, ill, constantly. Things feel so heavy, weighing on my chest, making breathing difficult — weighing on my mind, making cerebration difficult.

Wordlessness.

Take it away, Claude ...

Claude Cahun, Self Portrait, 1920

Claude Cahun, Self Portrait, 1928

Claude Cahun, Self Portrait, 1938

"There is too much of everything. I keep silent. I hold my breath. I curl up in a ball, I give up my boundaries, I retreat towards an imaginary center ... I have my head shaved, my teeth pulled and my breasts cut off — everything that bothers my gaze or slows it down — the stomach, the ovaries, the conscious and cysted brain. When I have nothing more than a heartbeat to note, to perfection, I will have won."

- Claude Cahun, Aveux non Avenus, 1930

I want back my naiveté.

Un Peu Plus

2009-03-20T04:10:00.000-07:00

Francesca Woodman, Swan Song, 1978

Francesca Woodman, Space2, Providence, 1975/6

Francesca Woodman, House #3, Providence, 1975/6

". . . Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten. . . . I myself shall continue living in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call, where everything hanging from the the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond. . ." Andre Breton, Nadja

Waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . .

2009-03-15T10:28:00.000-07:00

My coursemates and I had nice treat in our Identity and Visual Representation class this past week. Amelia invited the artist and feminist Faith Wilding to participate in a dialogue with us about her experiences in the women's art and feminist movements. It was quite fascinating to hear about her experiences with Womanhouse at CalArts and working with Judy Chicago and Miriam Schapiro in their attempts to gain recognition for women artists in both the contemporary art institution as well as in art historical study.

Faith is most widely know for her piece entitled Waiting, a performance piece that comments on the domestic, subservient role of a woman who spends life waiting for things to happen to her, rather than achieving them for herself.

Wilding, Still from Waiting, 1972

. . . Waiting to be myself
Waiting for excitement
Waiting for him to tell me something interesting, to ask me how I feel
Waiting for him to stop being crabby, reach for my hand, kiss me good morning
Waiting for fulfillment
Waiting for the children to marry
Waiting for something to happen

Waiting . . .

What struck me most out of Faith's talk was the direct connection between the emergence of the women's art movement and the feminist movement itself. Faith explained that she would never have become an artist if it hadn't been for her involvement in the feminist movement. Indeed, she claimed to have had little interest in artistic creation in the beginning, and even now views herself first and foremost as an activist. Her current work focuses on issues of cyberfeminism, exploring how new technologies and the internet offer the possibility of breaking down gender roles through a faceless medium. I recommend taking a peek at her website or take a look at her essay entitled "Where is Feminism in Cyberfeminism", as it is quite fascinating.

The most interesting part of the discussion, I felt, was our dialogue about the relevancy of feminism in the 21st century. Not to suggest that our generation is post-feminism per se, but concerning the relevancy of the term 'feminism' itself in a post-structuralist vocabulary. Certainly, it would seem that by using the term feminism, or specifying an artist as a 'woman artist', would only work to solidify the very gender binaries that the movement is ostensibly attempting to abolish. Faith spoke quite emphatically on this point, arguing in favor of the term while rejecting its negative connotations, stating that anyone knowledgeable and well-versed in the academic debates surrounding it would have a clear understanding of this. Certainly, the name itself carries an inherent strength, one which ought not be discarded so flippantly.

On the subject, I feel that the very inherent meanings of the word 'feminist' is what works against it many times in contemporary settings. The word itself carries so many connotations of radical women from the 70s that, unless one is well-read in contemporary academic writing, many times those are the images that are associated with the movement, and often times detrimentally. Additionally, by continuing to apply gendered labels to women artists (or 'black artists' or 'gay artists'), we are simply continuing to distinguish them from 'regular' (white, male, hetero-) artists, habituating the 'Othering' of those artists who don't fit into the traditional art canon. In any case, I feel that our academic generation is slowly shifting away from that very distinctive terminology or, at the very least, is more cognizant of its implications.

All in all, Faith's visit was thought-provoking, edifying and quite entertaining. If you aren't familiar with her work, I will plug her website one last time, as well as her involvement with the cyberfeminist group SubRosa-- do visit!

Wilding, Womb Room, 1972

Subversive Spaces, Revisited

2009-03-10T04:53:00.000-07:00

So back in February I wrote on the Subversive Spaces opening at the Whitworth Gallery, expressing my lukewarm reaction to the show and to the space. I stated in my previous post that I hoped to revisit the exhibition sans the opening night crowds and distractions, and I have finally had a chance to do precisely that. I was able to see the show again, as co-curater Sam Lackey took my coursemates and me around the exhibition, answering questions and offering explanations for the presence of certain pieces.

Indeed, having a curator show you around their own show makes the relationship between the pieces seem quite obvious, to be sure. My previous feelings of incoherence have been replaced by feelings of a hyper-coherence of sorts... Sam explained to us that the show has been in the works for over a decade, and one begins to question whether it was, in fact, too thought out. Certainly, not everyone can look at Bellmer and Mona Hatoum and see an immediate connection.

Still, one of the main issues I had with the show was my lack of understanding for the presence of hysterical women, which is something I would like to retract whole-heartedly. Indeed, Sam's explanations seem plebeian to me now, as the connections between the hysterical woman and the domestic space appear so poignant. For instance, these pieces by Surrealist photographer Claude Cahun and contemporary installation artist Lucy Gunning:

Claude Cahun, 1932

Lucy Gunning, Still from Climbing Around My Room, 1994 video installation

Right? The domestic space as suffocating, as prison-- hence, hysteria. Clearly. One can, perhaps, see how this could be construed as subversive. In any case, the connection is quite obvious upon second glance.

Sam also made obvious that the show was broken into two parts: the private and public. In this way, the lack of cohesion between the two sides was intentional, as the private housed a more dramatic version of the surreal and the public took on a more playful sense for the surrealist flaneur. This was my favorite part of the show at the opening and remains my favorite part now, as the Surrealist notion of the outmoded fascinates me. I also feel this part of the exhibition lives up to the title of a 'subversive space' more than the previous, offering new views of familiar landscapes.

So, moral of the story, you need to go see this show. You have until 04 May, so no excuses, darlings.

Bach Remix

2009-03-08T15:16:00.000-07:00

A bastardization or the making relevant of classical music to a new generation that cares little for it? I'll let you decide. In either case, kid's got skills. I especially love his smirk at the end.

Si tu n'étais pas là...

2009-03-08T07:37:00.000-07:00

These past fews days have offered transient glimpses of blue skies, a novelty here in Manchester. Alas, I've been ill, body and mind, and thus unable to enjoy my old friend sunshine. As some consolation, my bedroom window filters in the rays, adding some brightness to this domestic cube. There is something to be said for natural light over the artificial variety. I will never live in such a grey place again.

I've been knee deep in academia these last few weeks (along with a shameless obsession with BBC miniseries...). I find it difficult to believe that we are already at the halfway mark in the semester-- this acknowledgment really ought to jumpstart my ambition, but it hasn't yet. My mind is preoccupied with my fast approaching visit to the homeland. T-minus 22 days until I'm reunited with my kitten, my family, my friends, and hopefully some good, old fashioned Milwaukee sunshine. Still, the moment I leave Manchester I know I'll want to come back. So goes my ill-fated fickle existence.

Brassaï, Statue au Pont du Carrousel, 1940s

"O reason, reason, abstract phantom of the waking state, I had already expelled you from my dreams, now I have reached a point where those dreams are about to become fused with apparent realities: now there is only room here for myself. In vain, reason denounces me to the dictatorship of sensuality. In vain it warns me against error crowned queen at last. Enter, Madam, this is my body, this is your throne."

--Louis Aragon, Le Paysan de Paris, 22

"Oh how I want to be free, Oh how I want to break free"

2009-03-05T04:01:00.000-08:00

It's official: I am giving up art history and academia to start a Queen tribute band. Full out queer, called the Killer Queens, and I'll be Fredericka Mecury. Now, to tackle the small problem of being completely non-musical...

Enjoy the Silence

2009-02-27T10:26:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile. I am alive, worry not my friends. Things have been hectic this week... dissertation proposals and presentations, class readings, applying for fellowships... My brain hurts.

So, I'm taking the night off, headed out to mix and mingle with my art history comrades at a little cocktail soiree, and then perhaps dance partying at Depeche Mode night at the Star and Garter. Tomorrow, I will find myself once again at the library, desperately searching for some inspiration for my course essays. Until then, my friends, relaxation.

Oh, and anyone fancy a holiday in London? : Volunteer Plea for Plinth Artwork. Artist Anthony Gormley is searching for 2,400 volunteers to stand on his plinth for one hour (24/7 for 100 days) in Trafalgar Square. Evidently, it's a lesson in feeling alone in a crowd. Sounds like an easy task, but must be an uncomfortable and intimidating hour, considering the kind of foot traffic through Trafalgar Square. Yikes

Although, I have always wanted to be part of a piece of group art. Yet, I always hoped it would be in the form of a Spencer Tunick. Iceberg? No problem.

The Soul in Limbo

2009-02-23T13:28:00.000-08:00

Man Ray, Rayograph, 1922

"All I know is that this substitution of persons stops with you, because nothing can be substituted for you and because for me it was for all eternity that this succession of terrible or charming enigmas was to come to an end at your feet.

You are not an enigma for me.

I say that you have turned me from enigmas forever."

Andre Breton, Nadja, 1928

Teapot Opera

2009-02-20T07:22:00.000-08:00

Act III: The Final Judgement

... "Our darkest griefs may hold our bright hopes."

Arthur Tress, 1980

Dance of Destruction

2009-02-19T04:14:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was really an exercise in academic intelligence for me. My class with Amelia Jones, "Identity and Visual Representation" has be a painful pleasure thus far, with the first few classes focusing on dense philosophical theories of self, Other and art. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of presenting Jean-Paul Sartre's Being and Nothingness, a beast of existential brilliance. Other texts considered were Lacan, Butler and Hegel... all within a two hour period. Indeed, mental aerobics.

In the evening, I attended the Dominic Johnson's lecture "Glorious Catastrophe: The Rise and Fall of Jack Smith". Johnson is a professor of English and Drama at Queen Mary in London and also a performance artist himself. His work involves an exploration of wound and body through controversial and extreme techniques:

When discussing his work, he was quick to dispel any connection to (or belittling of) the psychological issue of self-harm. He equated, quite humorously, the associations to those of acting and pathological lying.

The bulk of his talk, however, centered around his presentation of a paper on Jack Smith, a little known American filmmaker and performance artist. Smith himself seems like quite the darkly humorous and tragic character, whose work focused on themes of the exotic and the apocalypse. Johnson's well-constructed discussion of Smith's work drew heavily from Lee Edelmen's No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive and Edward Said's oft-referenced writings on Orientalism. Johnson argued that the theme of Atlantis is central to Smith's work as a pseudo-historical example of what a utopian idea may become. Additionally, Smith's camp aesthetic and burlesque, darkly comedic and paranoid redressings exploit Said's concepts of the theatrical, creating an exploration of space estranged and an uncanny utopia. Of course, it was all said much more elegantly and succinctly than I could possibly do justice here. Anyways, I'm looking forward to the book to explore Johnson's ideas more fully.

Jack Smith

The post-lecture discussion was all the more interesting, as Amelia discussed the work in terms of our class discussion earlier that morning by bringing up the problem of the binary. Johnson explained Smith's work "bears witness to one's own confusion"... in a sense, not to destroy the binary but to scramble it, embracing ambivalence and contradiction. An interesting debate ensued on the ostensible recuperation of Smith and the requirements of exclusion for the maintenance of the artistic 'canon'.

Jack Smith

It seems that the theme of the Other has been recurring for me over the past few weeks within my academic life. Certainly, the basic mode of human existence is the definition of oneself through one's relation to the Other, and the subsequent exclusion of the Other. The notion of the binary, emerging in the philosophies of Kant in the 18th century, has plagued philosophers (and us academics) ever since. Still, artists such as Jack Smith, and Dominic Johnson himself, offer a "confusion" through their work, which certainly exists on the edge of the canon.

Jack Smith

Dominic Johnson

And a little side note: Post-post lecture we all went for drink at KroBar, where I had a lovely discussion with Monica Pearl, a professor in the American and English Studies department. She plugged the Sexuality Summer School put on by the University of Manchester, which I will subsequently plug here. According to the website,

'The Summer School addresses current debates within queer studies, emphasising in particular its implication for the interdisciplinary study of culture. It offers an opportunity for students to discuss queer debates with researchers in the CSSC as well as international scholars brought in for the event.'

With lectures by Juliana Snapper, Amelia Jones, Joanne Meyerowitz and others, it ought to be a worthwhile event. However, spaces are limited to only 40 people, so register soon if you are interested. (Cough cough, Anchal. You know you want to attend with me!)

---

2009-02-17T01:05:00.000-08:00

Busy, busy, busy. Just got back from the land of the Irish with the McJohnson's and am doing my best to catch up on all of the studying that I didn't do this weekend. Things are a bit crazy, but I came across this artist and had to share.

Takashi Murakami, from Tokyo. There is a lot of really spectacular pieces coming out of Japan these days... definitely keeping an eye on that market. Here's my favorite from Murakami:

Takashi Murakami, 727-272, 2006

I'll have a proper post with some academic life updates in a few days (after I sleep for three days straight). Also, more on Murakami in the future (he's brilliant, no?).

Obey

2009-02-08T05:19:00.000-08:00

Street artist Shephard Fairey was arrested in Boston on Friday for tagging two buildings with images from his Obey Giant campaigns. Most have become familiarized with Fairey due to his recent commissioned work for the Obama campaign:

Fairey, however, has been an influential force in the graf world for the last few decades. His popular Obey campaign has gained notoriety, with fair reaching influence that even pops up in Manchester, where I have seen first-hand knock offs of the well-known images. For instance, I stumbled upon this little guy near the Thirsty Scholar a few months ago:

Fairey's Obey Giant propaganda campaign was born in the late 80s with sticker bomb movements and graf stenciling. Now, Fairey has moved towards screen prints and pasting, adding a more dynamic quality to these temporal pieces that require fast application due to anti-graffiti laws in most US cities. Here are some of my favorites:

After that unnecessarily long introduction, I've three comments on Fairey's arrest (I won't get angry about neofascist police forces suppressing the creative and political voices of Boston, don't worry). First of all, I find it interesting that Fairey was arrested not because he was caught tagging, but because images from his campaign were discovered on these buildings. This seems a tad circumstantial to me and that the state really doesn't have much of a case without witnesses. I've never heard of a case against a graffiti artist that wasn't based on first-hand witness accounts. Silly.

Second, I find it a bit worrying that Fairey was arrested for images from his Obey campaign. Yet, when he was tagging the hell out of Boston with Obama images, nothing was done. Indeed, the first of his pieces that arose post-Obama were immediately attacked. The implications of this are obvious and I won't patronize you by elaborating on them further. I'll just say that bias and preference ought not exist at any level of political or creative production in terms of 'the law'.

Third, this reminds me of another incident involving the popular graff artist, Banksy, that occurred a year or so ago. Unfortunately I cannot find the news article again as so much time has passed. Basically, the story went that Banksy had tagged a wall in a small town in Spain and, due to his fame in the art world, the town had then declared the wall a public monument that was protected under a plethora of sanctions and whatnot. Still, another unknowing graff artist came along and tagged the same wall, and was promptly arrested not only for tagging but for defacing this now-famous public monument. The parallels between this story and the Fairey incident might not be particularly strong, but both really exemplify the question of who dictates what art is. When one graffiti artist, in the case of Banksy, is considered above the laws of another graffiti artist, or even when one image, in the case of Fairey's Obama, escapes graffiti laws, we enter into a very messy area of contention. In the end, it comes down to the same conservative white male dictating the definition of art that has existed for centuries, all the way to Vasari and even before. Hopefully one of these days we will rise above that, but I'm not holding my breath.

Subversive Spaces

2009-02-07T15:52:00.001-08:00

Continuing the Surrealist trend from my last post, I ought to chat about my most recent gallery experience here in Manchester-land. A handful of my very favorite people in the Manc and I went to the opening for Subversive Spaces at the Whitworth Gallery last night. The show itself fell short of my expectations, as I found the pieces lacked harmony with one another. The concept of the show, bringing together historical Surrealist works with contemporary ones through the common subject of space, had the potential to make a very strong argument. Unfortunately, the connections between the two periods were a tad week and the show seemed a bit haphazard.

Despite its fallbacks, the show wasn't all bad, as the pieces themselves were, in general, quite noteworthy. There were some interesting works by Dora Maar and Brassaï, as well as some spectacular urban scenes by the contemporary photographer Anna Gaskell. There was also a strange room devoted to hysteric women, which seemed a bit out of place considering the show's theme. An interesting and relevant subject, no doubt, but a stretch when relating it to the surreal quality of space.

All in all, the show was sub-par. I would like to visit it again sometime this coming week, when there are fewer trendy hipsters crowding the galleries and polluting the space with pretentious jargon. That really is the worst part of gallery openings, I must say, as it really makes it difficult to get a complete sense of the show. Ah well, at least there was free champagne.

Afterwards, I went out with my aforementioned favorite people for a few drinks and political conversation that was a refreshing deviation from the world of art theory. It was lovely and relaxing (although it did get a tad heated, as every good political discussion ought to). Love those kids, fo sho.

I'll leave you with a Mona Hatoum that was in the show...

Mona Hatoum, Marble Slicer, 2002

On second thought, perhaps the hysteric women were relevant after all. *Cough*

Ceci n'est pas un blog.

2009-02-03T12:55:00.000-08:00

Humor me while I share this nerdy excerpt from The Levinas Reader. This first paragraph of an otherwise arduous essay is, I feel, an excellent definition of art in the postwar period.

"It is generally, dogmatically, admitted that art is expression, and that artistic expression rests on cognition. An artist -even a painter, even a musician- tells. [S/]He tells of the ineffable. An artwork prolongs, and goes beyond, common perception. What common perception trivializes and misses, an artwork apprehends in its irreducible essence. It thus coincides with metaphysical intuition. Where common language abdicates, a poem or painting speaks. Thus artwork is more real than reality and attests to the dignity of the artistic imagination, which sets itself up as knowledge of the absolute. Though it be disparaged as an aesthetic canon, realism nevertheless retains all its prestige. In fact it is repudiated only in the name of a higher realism. Surrealism is a superlative."

-Emmanuel Levinas, "Reality and Its Shadow" 1948

René Magritte, The Treachery of Images, 1928-9

"Surrealism is a superlative." I. Love it. The Magritte fits so well...

Levinas goes on in a rather controversial direction after this lovely little diddy, claiming, very much in line with Kant, that a work of art is positioned outside of experience as a resemblance of reality. As a mere 'shadow' of reality, art escapes the temporal and exists as an interval, in an interval. The time of art, therefore, is not REAL time, and thus the shadow non-being of art is different from our ('our' meaning natural life) REAL being. All of this I can understand, all of this is relatively logical and fair enough, but it is what this suggests that makes Levinas' ideas controversial. Indeed, if art exists outside of the real, it is disengaged from the real and thus art no longer has anything to offer the real. An art that exists beyond reality has nothing to teach in the real world.

(Levinas tries to amend this dismal conclusion by suggesting that the art critic bridges the gap between the real and art, claiming that criticism makes human the inherent inhumanity of art. Certainly, this suggestion of human dialogue with works of art, which he claims persist as a fixed monologue, seems contradictory, but whatevs.)

The Grand Illusion

2009-02-02T14:30:00.000-08:00

This post gains its inspiration from my little brother's latest blog post, Illusions!! =D. (Yes, my little brother has a blog, which is mildly entertaining from time to time.) Upon viewing said post, my art nerd brain immediately jumped to M.C. Escher, the Dutch illusionist artist. I'm sure many are familiar with his etchings of 'impossible realities' and symmetrical decorative works... Jason, I think you might enjoy some of them!

Escher, Sky and Water, 1938

Escher, Relativity, 1951

Escher, Reptiles, 1943

I've nothing to add, really, so I'll let Aristotle do it for me:

The chief forms of beauty are order and symmetry and definiteness,

which the mathematical sciences demonstrate in a special degree.

– Aristotle, ‘Metaphysics’, Book XIII

Of course, Kant repudiates this, as Kant repudiates everything, but that's for another post some other day...

(End note: Yes, my blog title is a Styx song. And yes, Styx is a guilty pleasure. "Lady"? "Come Sail Away"? "MR. ROBOTO"?! Amazing.)

Honing In

2009-01-30T15:18:00.000-08:00

Well, my dissertation topic has been decided. Originally, I was hoping to write on the work of the Pre-Raphaelites, a group who, if you regularly visit my little corner of cyberspace, you know quite well that I am a tad infatuated with. In fact, the PRB was the main reason I chose to earn my Masters degree in Manchester. It seems, however, that they will not be the focus of my research, as the professor who would have been ideal supervising my project with be out of the country until next September...

NEVERTHELESS, I will remain a true Pre-Raphaelite enthusiast, perhaps even incorporating them into my second semester essays. Yet, they will be sadly absent from my dissertation. Le sigh. Anyways, there is no future for a PRB specialist in the US... (this is how I am consoling myself, anyways).

So, instead I will be exploring the images of Robert Mapplethorpe!! Yayyyy! Well, kind of. At least he is deliciously controversial, which I love. It should be an interesting topic which will coincide nicely with my second semester coursework. Mostly, I am excited to be working under the tutelage of one Carol Mavor, whom I adore and worked very well with this past semester on my infamous Proust / Boltanski project. With Carol as my supervisor, I am quite confident in my subject and am actually kind of looking forward to it, in a sick sado-masochistic sort of way. Oh, here's a sampling of my new main man :

Robert Mapplethorpe, Thomas, 1987

My ideas for my project are quite broad at the moment, as they ought to be, I suppose. Anyways, my dissertation will end up being something brilliant about ol' Rob's photographs explored through a discussion of queerness and the male gaze. Good fun, right? I hope so...

Adventures in Manchester

2009-01-29T05:47:00.000-08:00

I went on a plethora of art adventures yesterday... Manchester really does offer a great deal in the realm of visual arts and, best of all, museums are free in this part of the world. The US really ought to adopt this phenomenon. It's very helpful for poor Uni students such as myself.

So, Sippel and I took the day yesterday to adventure around Salford, which is a town just a bit outside of Manchester. It's quite a pretty little corner, as the canal runs directly through the Salford Quays, allowing for lots of picturesque little footbridges and such.

Our first stop was at the Lowry, which holds two theatres and three gallery spaces. They have a permanent exhibit with the works of LS Lowry, an Mancunian artist with a penchant for industrial scenes and "matchstick men".

LS Lowry, Coming from the Mill, 1930

In addition to the Lowry permanent collection, there were two other exhibits on view, both of which were quite entertaining. The curators at the Lowry really strive to bring eclectic, family-friendly exhibits to the space, and their current exhibit on pop-up book art is no exception. Pop-Up Around the World presents popular monuments from around the globe in pop-up form, as well as a corner for gallery goers to create their own pop-ups. Good fun.

(My apologies for the low-quality photos. My camera has nearly reached its end...)

In addition to the kid-oriented exhibits (which are always my favorite), the Lowry also puts on some brilliant photo exhibitions. The current one presents photographs from the Guardian over the last century. A Long Exposure: 100 Years of Guardian Photography offers press photos in an art context, really allowing viewers to consider the skill and artistic eye of these images. It was quite interesting seeing the photograph in a gallery setting and then viewing it within the context of the newspaper. Indeed, the setting of an art piece has the ability to change its meaning.

After the Lowry, Kristy and I headed over to the Imperial War Museum. It was certainly a different experience from the war museums in the states, which are much more sterile. Upon entering the space, we found ourselves immersed in darkness with sounds of bombs and gunfire echoing throughout the hall. It was pretty intense, but makes clear the completely different attitude that most Brits have towards the world wars. Certainly, having these wars occur so close to home makes the British perspective inherently different than the American one. That aside, the museum housed some interesting relics, devoted a good deal of space to women in war, and ended with a pretty political message on modern-day warfare and the myth of peace.

I would have liked to explore the war museum more, but Kristy and I had to jet off back to Manchester for an exhibition opening at the Cornerhouse. We met Larissa and Zara there and took in the new exhibition, Interspecies, which included films on monkeys, a fish one could communicate with through electromagnetic impulses, and a performance piece of a woman living with a pig named Deliah for 36 hours. The exhibit was a tad incongruous, but was still interesting, particularly a film by Rachel Mayeri which explored the similarities between human and primate social interactions. Quite amusing, actually.

So, all in all, the day was pretty much brilliant. Moral of the story, Manchester has some interesting cultural offerings which are good fun to explore. Yet, the Manchester Art Gallery will still always be my favorite because it houses my Pre-Raphaelite loves. Le sigh.

Note: This didn't actually happen yesterday, but a few days ago. I am just lazy and didn't finish the post until this point. Between now and then... Kristy has left us to head back to Wisconsin-land. Tis a sad story, but it gave us the excuse we needed to have a kick ass going away party weekend. We will miss you, Sippel!

"The rest is silence..."

2009-01-22T04:51:00.000-08:00

--For Anch--

John Everett Millais, Ophelia, 1882

When down her weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;

Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indu'd

Unto that element; but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death.

--Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601

Waterhouse does have a few of her (the Pre-Raphaelites did love their tragic women), although they depict scenes before and after her drowning, not whilst it is occurring like Millais. I do like the Millais best, but this one by Waterhouse is lovely as well:

John William Waterhouse, Ophelia, 1894

It looks almost as if it could be an extension of his Hylas and the nymphs, no? As though Hylas is being pulled to his watery grave just behind her. It's all very tragic, but so very, very pretty. As Claudius says:

Are you like the painting of a sorrow,

A face without a heart?

"I am half sick of shadows..."

2009-01-21T18:32:00.001-08:00

John William Waterhouse, The Lady of Shallot, 1888

And down the river's dim expanse

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance --

With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right --

The leaves upon her falling light --

Thro' the noises of the night,

She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

The Lady of Shalott.

~Tennyson, The Lady of Shallot, 1842

Just... tired.

2009-01-20T19:39:00.000-08:00

I wish I could sleep at night. I've developed a recurring case of insomnia since arriving in the UK and it's maddening. 4:15 am, eyes fixated on the ceiling, no respite in sight. Bollocks.

I really loathe the night. Being alone in the dark with nothing for my brain to distract itself with, this leads to nothing but trouble. My thoughts inevitably circle around some pseudo-profound life philosophy and I find myself in the throes of an existential mini-crisis. I always convince myself that I've reached some point of enlightenment, that the next day life is going to be spectacularly different because I've worked out a new life for myself in my mind. Of course, the next morning life continues in the same mundane fashion as the day before.

Anyways, it's taxing, going through a new identity crisis every night. I wish I could just... sleep. Or, better yet, I wish I didn't need to sleep at all. Overrated, right? Right. Ahem.

Fuseli, The Nightmare, 1781

Cry, Baby, Cry

2009-01-16T16:14:00.000-08:00

I have a sliver. In the palm of my hand. It plagues me.

In other, much more important news : CEASE FIRE!

"Israel announced a unilateral cease-fire on Saturday evening in the three-week-old war in Gaza that has killed at least 1,200 Palestinians and 13 Israelis. Prime Minister Ehud Olmert told Israelis in a televised address: 'The conditions have been created that our aims, as declared, were attained fully, and beyond.'"

1,200 Palestinians ... 13 Israelis

Glad your goals were attained, and beyond, Olmert.

A Garden of Internet Delights

2009-01-15T04:23:00.000-08:00

As much as I hate Google Earth for its Big-Brother-esque tampering with the spheres of privacy, this is pretty much amazing.

The Museo del Prado in Madrid is opening its collections to the eyes of Google Earth, allowing people to navigate through its galleries from home. They are offering fourteen paintings (nay, masterpieces) in insanely high-resolution, allowing crazies like me to get up close and personal with the likes of Fra Angelico, Velazquez, Goya... without getting yelled at by up-tight museum guards in Spanish. In addition to this (YES, there IS more...) we get to listen to the audio guides whilst indulging our eyes in pure bliss.

Ah, we also get to look at this guy:

Hieronymous Bosch, Garden of Earthly Delights, 1503/4

I've always loved Bosch for his intricacies... and now I get to see all of his debaucherous details. Brilliant. I'm not sure if I am nerding out about this a little too much... but, well, I am kind of an art nerd... and it's AWESOME.

I wonder what Benjamin (who, to explain it very basically, claimed that art in the modern age has lost its inherent visual 'aura' due to photographic reproductions) would have to say about this development. In any case, I find it to be absolutely brilliant (if you hadn't gathered...). I can't wait to go play!

Update: Check out the Museo del Prado homepage if you are having trouble with the direct link. They will lead you to this wonderfulness!

"You look... exotic."

2009-01-14T08:15:00.000-08:00

Note: Random creepy men stopping young, innocent, unsuspecting women in the street offering them "jobs for ladies" is not okay. So, creeper, take a pen and put that down in your little creepster note pad under the 'not-to-do' list. Creep.

I hate people. Particularly people with penises.

Sad Sad City

2009-01-12T11:16:00.000-08:00

Guess what? The city is bad news for your brain.

Finally, the excuse I need to become the crazy reclusive academic with an inconceivable number of cats, tucked away in some small Tuscan town (San Gimignano!! *smiles*), never to be seen again...

Side note: Perhaps the absurd enormity of Platt Fields Park here in Manchester isn't so absurd after all.

Henri Rousseau The Dream 1910

PS. Is it just me or is poor Henri far too underrated? Gorgeousness.

spit goes clink

2009-01-10T15:36:00.001-08:00

I wish I had found this sooner...

My life will be so much easier now. ♥ xkcd.

♥ Tunes

2009-01-08T14:40:00.001-08:00

I've had a few folk from back home inquire as to what sort of toe-tapping dance party British music I have been stumbling across on my adventures, so I decided to create a little playlist to share. (I've shamelessly stolen the widget from Kevin's blog o' music; it's quite the cute little guy!) Some of the artists are from Manchester, most are from the UK, and a select few are from elsewhere... but this is what I'm listening to at the moment, so take a listen and enjoy!!!

On Sparkling

2009-01-06T11:17:00.000-08:00

Nearly a week after New Year's Eve, and I still am finding teeny sparkles sporadically popping up, clinging to my face, my clothes, my hair... They linger, like leftovers from Thanksgiving and bits of gift wrap from Christmas, testaments to the superficiality of the holidays which becomes more and more apparent as they become more and more distant, what with all that holiday magical-ness wearing off and whatnot. I'm sparkling, and its depressing.

(Does anyone else find the 12-month calendar, the "holiday season", the pre-determined 7-day week confining? Life is cyclical, not linear... we aren't moving towards an ultimate, but recycling our years. Not much changes, in the end. Growing up is a farce.)

I think I find a lot of things depressing. I write about them a lot here. In fact, I think the majority of my posts center around things that disgust me, stress me out, make me nervous... quite simply, things that can pretty much be summed up by the adjective 'depressing.' (With the exception of Puccini, of course. Although 'O Mio Babbino Caro' is an almost tragically desperate aria, it stills makes me smile.) Anyways, my typing about depressing things is in itself a tad depressing, so let's move on...

My essays are... coming along? Proust and Boltanski is half finished... Spirit Photography has yet to be started. This thought depresses me. Hopeless, simply hopeless.

........................

Ahem. So I was thinking of things that didn't depress me so that I could end this post on a lighter, happier note. I thought almost instantly of Klimt (Glorious!), and more specifically of his Mäda Primavesi, one of my very, very favorites. Upon searching the interweb for an image of said painting to share with you lovelies, I came across this bastardization and nearly cried:

*Sigh* Is nothing sacred? Depressing.

On Gaza

2009-01-03T11:32:00.001-08:00

I am deeply saddened by the recent events occurring in Gaza. The Israeli bombardment of Palestinians in Gaza has lead to the mass slaughter of hundreds of innocent Palestinian civilians, including children. Even now, these atrocities are escalating, as Israeli ground forces push into Gaza, creating a new dimension in this attack that has largely been air-based.

Despite the extremity of the slaughter, the White House still blames Hamas for the excessive attacks, claiming they instigated the Israelis after their bombing of key Israeli blockades. However, these very blockades were keeping food and supplies from the starving population of Gaza. Over 425 Palestinians have been killed so far due to Israeli attacks, and over 2,200 wounded. 4 Israelis have been killed. Isn't this extreme disproportion astounding to anyone else? How can the western powers support Israel when the numbers clearly show the mass slaughter of Palestinians?

Now, with Israeli ground forces entering Gaza, the violence will only escalate. Now that the cease-fire has ended, it is uncertain how long the violence will continue. How long will it take, how many lives will be lost, until Palestinian and Israeli leaders realize that this situation requires a political solution, and not a military one?

---

2009-01-01T15:12:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, m'loves. This year's festivities were quite enjoyable... and considering it was Kristy's birthday as well, the girls and I went all out and had a brilliant evening. We brought in the new year at the Bird Cage in Manchester city centre, and I've more than a few battle wounds from high heels and too much champagne. Still, the prolonged recovery time is simply testament to the fabulous evening. Good, good fun.

Here's a treat for the eyes that is soothing and low-key... very necessary this day for all involved, I'm sure.

Audrey Kawasaki, Yume No Ato, 2006

I am a fan of Audrey's work... her femme fatales are brilliant, and usually quite dark. This piece reminds me a bit of Waterhouse's nymphs, seductive and lethal. Most clearly, one can see Mucha in her works, with all her linear curls and waves... very art nouveau. And very lovely. Makes my eyes smile.

Peanuts and Puccini

2008-12-27T10:09:00.000-08:00

Oh. My. I can't believe I hadn't found this sooner :

Yes, that is Peppermint Patty. Skating to Puccini. Whistled by Woodstock. Charles Schultz, je t'adore.

If you haven't heard the Maria Callas version, do indulge (or the Kiri Te Kanawa, which is also exceptional [I can't say better, might be blasphemy, but it's close]). It is my very favorite aria and, of course, Callas performs it brilliantly (that face!). Never fails to make me nostalgic for Florence (and my tortured loves). ♥

Oh, and life updates... Christmas was fab. Probably won't eat for the next week or so (stuffing and potatoes and pie... never-ending deliciousness). Photos coming soon.

Holiday Cheers

2008-12-24T14:08:00.000-08:00

Sending a little holiday love out into the world... I hope that everyone enjoys their festivities and has a lovely time with family and friends. Me, I've spent my Christmas Eve enjoying entirely too much coffee and tea, wandering around the city centre, and then going to the cinema. I saw Body of Lies... very holiday of me, I know. Nothing brings out the Christmas spirit like terrorism and anti-war Hollywood propaganda. My kind of holiday, to be sure.

Tomorrow I am off to Larissa and Zara's, my two very favorite Canadians, for a lovely international Christmas soiree. Ought to be lovely fun, with too much mulled wine, Baileys, champagne... I can't wait! Until then, just preparing a few dishes, wrapping some presents, and snuggling up with a warm blanket and watching trusty Bing and Rosemary in White Christmas. Always puts me in the mood, always.

José Parlá Hackney Canal - Rio Don Diego

(I can't get over how much I love this guy. He's like Pollock gone street. My gift to your eyes.)

Happy Holidays, m'loves.

a cheery wave

2008-12-21T08:28:00.000-08:00

I am a cleaning queen today. Usually the impulse to clean comes about when I have an excessive amount of studying or essay writing to do... however, today it just arose out of a need to find a place for all of my Christmas cards. There's something very nostalgic about receiving letters in the post... despite the radical liberal in me that sees Christmas cards as a waste of tree and a piece of sparkly holiday religious propaganda (is that extreme? I think that's extreme) I still can't help but smile when I get one. Le sigh... I'm getting soft in my old age. Moral of the story: Christmas cards make me clean. Or something.

Speaking of sparkling happy things...I'm reminded of a passage from Proust (not surprisingly, as I live, eat and breath him these days):

'I enjoyed watching the glass jars which the village boys used to lower into the Vivonne to catch minnows, and which, filled by the stream, in which they in their turn were enclosed, at once "containers" whose transparent sides were like solidified water and "contents" plunged into a still larger container of liquid, flowing crystal, conjured up an image of coolness more delicious and more provoking than they would have done standing upon a table laid for dinner, by showing it as perpetually in flight between the impalpable water in which my hands could not grasp it and the insoluble glass in which my palate could not enjoy it.'

-Proust, Combray (201/2)

Klimt Water Nymphs (Silverfish) 1899

This is one of my favorite images from Proust (and also a lovely Klimt that fits in ever-so nicely). He translates the visual so well into text, with his obscenely long sentences, rich with possibilities of meaning. The image of the translucent minnow, a visual blur between water and glass, and glass and fish... form becomes content, content becomes form (eat your heart out, Haydn White [Eat your heart out? Seriously?]). It's a gorgeous image, and one of many examples why reading Proust isn't as torturous as it may at first seem. One gains a rich visual (as well as aural, but we'll save that for another day...) pleasure from Proust.

PS. "...The ancient Greeks had an expression (quoted by Plutarch as a 'Parable of Pythagoras') that translates as 'Eat not the heart.' It meant not to consume oneself with troubles or worries, which could be almost as devastating as eating one's heart."

--James Rogers Dictionary of Cliches

***

2008-12-19T12:50:00.000-08:00

John William Waterhouse Hylas and the Nymphs 1894

The Pre-Raphaelites are brilliant. When mixed with the epicly entertaining literary phenomenon that is Greek myth... unbeatable. It's such an erotic piece, delicately executed, brilliantly colored... the ultimate in visual pleasure. I would never leave the Manchester Art Gallery if I had the choice. I wish I could put Hylas in my pocket and take it home with me. I'd probably be deported. Le sigh.

Waterhouse rock my socks off. Gorgeous.

the death projects

2008-12-17T12:29:00.000-08:00

Christian Boltanski, Réserves: Lac des Morts

I think I am a masochistic person.

I've two essays to write for this term, both offering a fair amount of freedom in topic choice. Still, I've decided to write both on different representations of death in a variety of artistic mediums. 12,000 words... 50 pages... x amount of photographs, images, texts, representations... all dedicated to my academic ponderings on a subject that literally nauseates me due to my completely (ir?)rational fear of it.

Is there pleasure in self-torture? I'll let you know when I've finished my little projects of doom. If not in their creation, I am sure there will be pleasure in purging them from my life, flinging them at my professors and running for dear life. Oh. Dear. Life.

never become emotionally attached to man, woman, beast or child

2008-12-15T10:19:00.000-08:00

Sally Mann Picnic 1992

As there is a geometry in space, so there is a psychology in time, in which the calculations of a plane psychology would no longer be accurate because we should not be taking account of Time and one of the forms that it assumes, forgetting—forgetting, the force of which I was beginning to feel and which is so powerful an instrument of adaptation to reality because it gradually destroys in us the surviving past which is in perpetual contradiction with it. (Proust, The Fugitive, 637)

When it comes down to forgetting versus a surviving past, I would take forgetting any day. I want to exist in a perpetual state of amnesia.

Blogging with apathy

2008-12-14T04:58:00.000-08:00

I have a love / hate relationship with blogs, as with most things in life. I will blog with vigor, then something will happen in my life of some mild significance, and I will then delete said blog because it has been made obsolete by this event. Then, the effects of this happening slowly fade, and I am left blog-less and alone. I could blame my fickleness, or a momentary shame in my posts' lack of substance, personal embarrassments, hopes unfulfilled, etc etc. The feeling one is left with is akin to destroying an ex-lover's letters or the photographs of a friend-turned-enemy. It didn't leave me with the euphoric void that I sought... there is no pleasure in destruction.

I've been pondering death quite a bit lately. Not because I'm morbid (questionable) or suicidal, but because I am writing an essay for a course concerning the subject in terms of photography. (There is an irony in this choice, as I've never encountered a person more terrified of death than I. The personal crises are constant.) Roland Barthes claimed that the photograph testifies to both the existence of a thing at a particular past moment, but also exposes its pastness in absolute terms. Photograph becomes both witness and memorial, evidence to a past life and an eternal death.

I wonder what Barthes would say about the blog. More immediate than a memoir, more transient than an op-ed... Perhaps not a death, as the photograph, but certainly a witness. And when the witness is destroyed?

"Thus, History consists of tiny explosions of life, of deaths without relays. Our human impotence with regard to transition, to any science of degrees... (Death, real death, is when the witness himself dies)."

Barthes, The Rustle of Language, 362

Despite the implications, its uses are more simply explained, at least in my case... blog as the ultimate tool for procrastination. I really don't want to write this essay.

the world kaleidoscope

good day sunshine

It Hurts To Shoot Lasers From Your Fingers, But It's Necessary

Bigmouth Strikes Again

it's a dirty story of a dirty man.

This Bird Has Flown

working(wo)man's blues

Come Fly With Me, Let's Fly, Let's Fly Away

Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want

Now we can do all of the things I felt bad about doing when I loved you.

isn't it time for the birds to sing?

time lost

Psychedelic Drugs and Piggyback Rides

we are many

a story of great longing

i shall not care

one step backward taken

The Manchester Hermit

activistas feministas

what the stars meant

Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way

talking shit about a pretty sunset.

fable of the mermaid and the drunks

C'est si bon

There's only one instant, and it's right now. And it's eternity.

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

It's funny how long a moment can seem when you're trying to hold on.

Disney and Dali?

...the disciple of Art an abandoned wretch...

i want to drift

'and your very flesh shall be a great poem...'

L'Étoile de mer

Life is a horizontal fall.

Je suis un autre

Un Peu Plus

Waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . .

Subversive Spaces, Revisited

Bach Remix

Si tu n'étais pas là...

"Oh how I want to be free, Oh how I want to break free"

Enjoy the Silence

The Soul in Limbo

Teapot Opera

Dance of Destruction

---

Obey

Subversive Spaces

Ceci n'est pas un blog.

The Grand Illusion

Honing In

Adventures in Manchester

"The rest is silence..."

"I am half sick of shadows..."

Just... tired.

Cry, Baby, Cry

A Garden of Internet Delights

"You look... exotic."

Sad Sad City

spit goes *clink*

♥ Tunes

On Sparkling

On Gaza

---

Peanuts and Puccini

Holiday Cheers

*a cheery wave*

***

the death projects

never become emotionally attached to man, woman, beast or child

Blogging with apathy

spit goes clink

a cheery wave