Monthly Archive for August, 2011

Miscellany. 08.30.11.


New Cornucupia and the Big IOU, a temporary installation by John Salvest at the Penn Valley/Memorial Hill Park in Kansas City, Mo. Goes on view this Friday, through October 16. (Image courtesy of Grand Arts.)

 

Calendar. 08.26.11.


An image of Paul Rudolph’s Micheels House, in Westport, Conn., just prior to demolition. Part of the series After You Left, They Took It Apart, by photographer Chris Mottalini. The series will be on view at the Picker Art Gallery at Colgate University in conjunction with another Rudolph-themed show: An Architect’s Vision. The university’s arts center was designed by the architect. Opens next Tuesday, in Hamilton, N.Y. (Image courtesy of Mottalini.)

 

Miscellany. 08.22.11.


Smells, reflected, in NYC. (Image courtesy of BruceLaBounty802.)

From a story on the slipping American Middle Class
“Over time, the United States has expected less and less of its elite, even as society has oriented itself in a way that is most likely to maximize their income. The top income-tax rate was 91 percent in 1960, 70 percent in 1980, 50 percent in 1986, and 39.6 percent in 2000, and is now 35 percent. Income from investments is taxed at a rate of 15 percent. The estate tax has been gutted.” — More in The Atlantic.

And America’s Hero Complex
“’America needs heroes,’ it is sometimes said, a phrase that’s often uttered in a wistful tone, almost cooingly, as if we were talking about a lonely child. But do we really ‘need heroes’? We need leaders, who marshal us to the muddle. We need role models, who show us how to deal with it. But what we really need are citizens, who refuse to infantilize themselves with talk of heroes and put their shoulders to the public wheel instead. The political scientist Jonathan Weiler sees the cult of the uniform as a kind of citizenship-by-proxy. Soldiers and cops and firefighters, he argues, embody a notion of public service to which the rest of us are now no more than spectators. What we really need, in other words, is a swift kick in the pants.” — From a must-read by William Deresiewicz in the New York Times Opinion section.

Random Linkage

What I’m reading.

Women, by Charles Bukowski. A novel of unrepentant womanizing, with nods to the writing life….

Page 140 (from the 8th printing by Ecco/HarperCollins):

There is a problem with writers. If what a writer wrote was published and sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold very few copies, the writer thought he was great. If what the writer wrote never was published and he didn’t have the money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great. The truth, however, was that there was very little greatness. It was almost nonexisistent, invisible. But you could be sure that the worst writers had the most confidence, the least self-doubt. Anyway, writers were to be avoided, and I tried to avoid them, but it was almost impossible. They hoped for some sort of brotherhood, some kind of greatness. None of it had anything to do with writing, none of it helped at the typewriter.

 

Calendar. 08.18.11.


An installation view from Extended Collapse, by Annie Han and Daniel Mihalyo, otherwise known as Lead Pencil Studio. The piece is part of an installation that is now on view at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art, in Arizona, through October 16. Architect Magazine has a short piece and slideshow on the Seattle-based duo. (Image courtesy of Lawrimore Project.)

  • L.A.: Ai Weiwei, Zodiac Heads, at LACMA. Opens Saturday, in the Fairfax District.
  • NYC: 1911 and The End, two group shows at Christopher Henry Gallery. Opens today, in SoHo.
  • Plus, find my favorite NYC summer shows over at Gallerina. (You’ve got one day left on the post-punk posters at Kasher! Totally worth it…)

 

Miscellany. 08.16.11.


Getting set to party at the Tropicana in Havana. (Image courtesy of San Suzie.)

Hey y’all, San Suzie — the Art Nurse otherwise known as Rosa Lowinger — is quoted all over a story in the September issue of Vanity Fair on the history of Havana’s Tropicana nightclub. Unfortunately, the article is only available in the print magazine, but it’s worth the newsstand price for the anecdote about the 18-inch penis. (Seriously.) In addition, the photos are by none other than William Eggleston. Speaking of which, if you haven’t picked up Lowinger’s highly-readable book on Tropicana, this is as good a time as any.

Random Linkage

Calendar. 08.11.11.


Sister Cool, 1974, by Dennis Morris. Part of the exhibit Becoming: Photographs from the Wedge Collection, exploring the depiction of African-Americans in photography, at the Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University. Opens today. (Image courtesy of the Nasher.)

What I’m Reading.

Conquest of the Useless: Reflection From the Making of ‘Fitzcarraldo,’ by Werner Herzog, the German-born filmmaker’s reflections — drawn from his journal — on the making of what amounts to one hell of an impossible film.

P. 195 (from the first edition hard cover):

Mauch was operated on by Dr. Parraga, with our extraordinarily skillful cook putting in the sutures. Since all the anesthesia had been used up during the almost eight hours it took to operate on the two people wounded by arrows, Mauch was soon in agony, and even analgesic spray did not do much good. I held his head and pressed it against me, and a silent wall of faces surrounded us.

Mauch said he could not take any more, he was going to faint, and I told him to go ahead. Then he thought he was going to shit in his pants from the pain, but he could not decide between the two options, and in the end did neither. On a hunch I sent for Carmen, one of the two prostitutes we have here because of the woodcutters and boatmen. She pushed me aside, buried Mauch’s head between her breasts, and comforted him with her lovely soft voice. She rose above her everyday existence, developing her inner Pietà, and Mauch soon fell silent. During the operation, which lasted almost two hours, she said over and over, ‘Thomas, mi amor,” to him, while the patient yielded to his fate. As I stood watching, I felt a deep affection for them both.

 

Miscellany. 08.08.11.


Havana Hot Rod: A 1957 Dodge Coronet on the street, in Cuba. (Photo by San Suzie.)

On Curls

Wigs (Portfolio), 1994, by Lorna Simpson. (Courtesy of MoMA.)

It’s my spoken rule never to actually read the New York Times Style section, just look at the pictures. But I couldn’t resist poking into Judith Newman’s essay on curly hair. As a sporter and supporter of all things big and curly, I’m always happy to see someone call the blowout mafia on the bullshit. (Seriously, formaldehyde??? That’s so Damien Hirst.) But the piece, I thought, overlooked what I think is an ethnic issue that is also tied to curly hair. We live in a society that prizes WASP standards of beauty above all. I think there’s a certainly undesirability to curly hair because it’s seen as too ethnic, too Jewish, too Latino, too Black. Too, well, unruly.

It still feels like a bit of defiance to wear hair that is big and curly. But not for simple aesthetic reasons. This story could have been an interesting dissection of what we as a society consider beautiful and why. Opportunity missed.

Now, back to looking at the pictures.

Random Linkage

Nature break.


I <3 jungle sounds.