This military guy seated next to me on the plane from Portland to New York farted in his sleep the entire flight, and I thought to myself "this is why we must hold accountable not only systems of domination but those individuals who act as their agents as well."
There was something so slow, sad, and dumb about this man–name Gallagher, as the other military guy seated on the other side of me told me. His farts smelled toxic and made me think about his diet; what were they feeding him and where did he come from?
I hate to ever admit to myself or out loud to other–but here I am doing that–that sometimes it is very draining "being an artist" simply in that I am probably giving little parts of myself to others at a consistent rate. I think I've gotten better at managing that and getting new or similar pieces back, but after a week like this one, of smiley studio visits and a lecture–all fine and worthwhile–I feel washed out. And then I feel scared because if I get to keep doing this, then I'm always going to have to manage this rate of replacement problem.
I also don't like admitting this feeling because much like even making an artwork in the first place, it runs the risk of sounding like an announcement of my own importance. Do people really want so much of me that I could get hollowed out? What a pathetic, narcissistic fantasy! Is it really so exhausting? I should be so lucky!
The other layer to this is that its hard to know how absolutely disturbed this voice in my head is or isn't because it's not a good look to bring up in conversation the problem of people wanting you to do the thing you love, talk about yourself, and tell them how you did xyz.
Maybe this low-level fatigue is called for but I guess it has to be between me and me. And perhaps it is important to say that in admitting this to the no one of this blog's audience, I don't hope for sympathy; rather, I'd like for someone to tell me that I should drink more water and take a nap and I will feel better or something.
I bought so many books at Powell's. I had a beer and a martini with the students after crit, and then I walked to the bookstore a little drunk and felt really guilty smoking a cigarette on the street in Portland where I was certain I was being judged. At Powell's I had a coffee which ran through me very quickly . I only mention this because it was scary and evil-feeling. I couldn't concentrate and felt a full bodied sickness for those fifteen minutes. I focused more on book buying after I felt better even though I still felt a little drunk and unfocused. I wondered if I looked confused or weird browsing at such a wobbly pace. But there is no way I stood out to anyone. I'm trying to be better at remembering that people don't know me and therefore usually couldn't possibly think I'm acting out of the ordinary.
Anyway, in my drunk browsing I ended up with books exclusively by dead white men: Walter Benjamin book of short prose, script and production notes for Samuel Beckett's Film, Brecht, Ibsen's Peer Gynt, an old copy of Kafka's Amerika mostly for the illustrations, Virillio, Jean Cocteau. I texted Zoe and asked for a woman writer recommendation partially out of genuinely wanting to even things out, but mostly because I had this vision of the white choppy haired feminist cashier looking at my stack of books disapprovingly, hypothetically prompting me to vomit from the anxiety of letting everyone down even though it would be mostly people I categorically do not fuck with. So, I got Helen DeWitt's Last Samurai, and some Jean Rhys, both at Zoe's suggestion.
I read some of the DeWitt on the plane as we descended in to JFK and found it very good; I'd been reading some of a friendly acquaintance's debut novel on the ascent because Natasha, Emmanuel and I agreed to read it as a 547 book club sort of thing. I was liking it, but in reading the DeWitt, I realized I didn't like the woman we sort of know's debut that much. It was good (I think?) but maybe it was something about the prose or whatever, like it isn't particularly experimental in style but somehow feels very much like Reading with an exhausting capital R. Maybe this means that on the other side of it some exhausting Writing capital W happened. I'm finding it interesting but maybe a little joyless, and now I'm sitting up in bed after a nap wondering why I like any of the writing that I like.
Saturday, June 29, 2019
Sunday, June 23, 2019
At 745am I was awoken by the sound of something repeatedly slamming into my bedroom window. I crossed the room and saw that there was a collared dove perched on the fire escape staring back at me. I expected a body but there were no carcasses in sight. The bird stayed there, looking past me with a sort of glazed expression. Birds always look kind of glazed, I guess, but it seemed particularly unfocused and unconcerned.
A few months ago, something similar happened, but this time a pigeon dropped from what must have been very high up in the sky judging from the force of its landing. It crashed, essentially, completely decapitated.
I immediately freaked out, mentally running through the scenario of trying to get the landlord to have someone remove it. I called her and she said that recently she'd had to have the handyman remove one from under the stoop; she would try to get ahold of him.
After we spoke, a giant brown and white hawk swept onto the fire escape. Its landing was like in an action movie, where a villain lands with a sweeping noise and there is sort of this hissing atmosphere and the fight is about to be on and cracking. Anyway, the hawk tried to take the body, which I guessed she had dropped in the first place, but she saw me in the window and took off. I went back to writing and waiting for the landlord to call back. Finally, the hawk returned; she swooped without landing and the carcass was gone after that.
I took my braids out last night and now i feel naked and sort of like a calf or something. I wouldn't say that the braids bolster my personality, but going to sleep in two little twisted buns makes me feel like I must look comically vulnerable and somehow weakened. There is some strange air of chastity around going to bed with properly cared-for natural hair; it's hard to explain so I'll think about it more before trying.
A few months ago, something similar happened, but this time a pigeon dropped from what must have been very high up in the sky judging from the force of its landing. It crashed, essentially, completely decapitated.
I immediately freaked out, mentally running through the scenario of trying to get the landlord to have someone remove it. I called her and she said that recently she'd had to have the handyman remove one from under the stoop; she would try to get ahold of him.
After we spoke, a giant brown and white hawk swept onto the fire escape. Its landing was like in an action movie, where a villain lands with a sweeping noise and there is sort of this hissing atmosphere and the fight is about to be on and cracking. Anyway, the hawk tried to take the body, which I guessed she had dropped in the first place, but she saw me in the window and took off. I went back to writing and waiting for the landlord to call back. Finally, the hawk returned; she swooped without landing and the carcass was gone after that.
I took my braids out last night and now i feel naked and sort of like a calf or something. I wouldn't say that the braids bolster my personality, but going to sleep in two little twisted buns makes me feel like I must look comically vulnerable and somehow weakened. There is some strange air of chastity around going to bed with properly cared-for natural hair; it's hard to explain so I'll think about it more before trying.
Friday, June 21, 2019
gezellig
The last few days have felt pretty uneventful; Amsterdam has a very boring sheen to it. There's no reason it should be totally uninteresting, but I can't muster up the enthusiasm. It could just be that I'm over traveling entirely. I'm sitting in a hotel room with heavy black out curtains drawn over this massive glass window that runs the length of the room, because if I don't close them everyone who walks by the hotel can see me sitting here. This is what we call a Major Design Flaw.
The opening for the exhibition was fine. I milled about texting Zoe while they christened the museum and interviewed the curators, all in Dutch. I felt that it couldn't possibly count as rude to be texting when there was no translation. After the remarks they had this black drumline band with kind of carnivale style dancers march the length of the out-of-use munitions factory that houses the institution. This was pretty funny; all these Dutch people clamoring to get a video of them. It stopped being funny when I thought about it for another second and realized the scene was indistinguishable from something that would happen in the US.
I ran into a woman, J, a nice curator who I'd been missing emails from for at least a year. A bit desperate for someone to latch onto, I wandered around with her a while and hoped she didn't think I was annoying. We eventually sat outside on the patio overlooking some body of water and talked about institutional politics and her life in Amsterdam. She expressed a wistfulness about the reliance on government money in the Netherlands, and said it would be so great to have more private funding like in the US. She was the second young art person on this trip to say something to this effect–the other being L from Madrid. I told her that the grass is always greener and it sounded meaner than I'd intended.
I was meant to meet with this important woman, H*, while in town. When I arrived at the opening Liv texted me and said H would be there; so, I spent a lot of time anxiously scanning for her. Finally, fortified by my reasonably successful 30 minutes of social interaction with the young curator, I introduced myself. H enthusiastically hugged me and we sat down to chat. She introduced me to some guy she was standing with and he quizzed me for a while about my interests and my practice and I felt a bit like some sort of wind up doll, but it was okay. Then H and I talked for a while, just the two of us, about art and dirty money. I was a little drunk and probably talked too much. At one point I said, "oh my god; I'm talking your ear off I'm sorry." Which was lamer than just talking incessantly. Anyway, during our chat, all these people kept approaching her and saying they were big fans and fuck the haters (H has been on the receiving end of some distinctly unfavorable press over the last few years). She was very gracious about it, but it seemed to be frustrating.
She wanted to see my video so I took her inside to show her. We stood in front of the video and I told her I was a bit over explaining the piece to people because at this point it feels like just a study for future work and I don't care for found footage. She seemed to get that and then we talked about Arthur Jafa and Mark Leckey and music for a bit and she seemed impressed with my take. She and her friends asked if I wanted a ride back to town, and I took them up on it.
This ended up meaning that her collector friend's driver was going to take us to this old school bar for a night cap. We drove really fast while the collector blasted 70s Dutch hits from the front seat and told us that this was his city. At the bar, this old woman with fishy plastic surgery lips and a pink tee with leopard print text that said something in Dutch served us Jenever, which we then drank with our hands clasped behind our backs as was the tradition. The collector told me that H spoke highly of me and listed the last few artists she'd spoken so highly of as if to say hang on to your hat. This was flattering and H seemed bashful, like she'd been outed for liking me. He also told me he didn't believe in the concept of Black Art, only in artists who are black and in art. This was the second time I'd heard this distinction drawn so aggressively that day–once by a white man and now by this black guy–and I wondered what about Dutch language or culture engendered such an intense stance on the matter and then I wondered whether I was giving culture too much credit and this was just a thing people say. I found myself nodding and agreeing with him. "Sure," I said. I thought I was humoring him, but today I think maybe I don't really disagree. Haven't I basically been proving to myself through failure after failure that there is no observably 'black' object, only sets of relations that are structured by blackness and therefore reek of it somehow?
Anyway, the collector guy seemed to like me but also seemed strangely skeptical of me. He said that I talked and he heard words but didn't "feel" anything. I said that I have a tendency to speak in disinterested terms when I'm excited about something. H said I shouldn't say that to be nice to him and that she felt a lot when I spoke.
The collector said that my generation didn't know how to be challenged or didn't want to be; and I said that may be the case more broadly, but I–perhaps out of step with my peers–am always looking for a good fight.
----
*name has been changed because she is important-important!!! like whoa you're talking to me right now?
The opening for the exhibition was fine. I milled about texting Zoe while they christened the museum and interviewed the curators, all in Dutch. I felt that it couldn't possibly count as rude to be texting when there was no translation. After the remarks they had this black drumline band with kind of carnivale style dancers march the length of the out-of-use munitions factory that houses the institution. This was pretty funny; all these Dutch people clamoring to get a video of them. It stopped being funny when I thought about it for another second and realized the scene was indistinguishable from something that would happen in the US.
I ran into a woman, J, a nice curator who I'd been missing emails from for at least a year. A bit desperate for someone to latch onto, I wandered around with her a while and hoped she didn't think I was annoying. We eventually sat outside on the patio overlooking some body of water and talked about institutional politics and her life in Amsterdam. She expressed a wistfulness about the reliance on government money in the Netherlands, and said it would be so great to have more private funding like in the US. She was the second young art person on this trip to say something to this effect–the other being L from Madrid. I told her that the grass is always greener and it sounded meaner than I'd intended.
I was meant to meet with this important woman, H*, while in town. When I arrived at the opening Liv texted me and said H would be there; so, I spent a lot of time anxiously scanning for her. Finally, fortified by my reasonably successful 30 minutes of social interaction with the young curator, I introduced myself. H enthusiastically hugged me and we sat down to chat. She introduced me to some guy she was standing with and he quizzed me for a while about my interests and my practice and I felt a bit like some sort of wind up doll, but it was okay. Then H and I talked for a while, just the two of us, about art and dirty money. I was a little drunk and probably talked too much. At one point I said, "oh my god; I'm talking your ear off I'm sorry." Which was lamer than just talking incessantly. Anyway, during our chat, all these people kept approaching her and saying they were big fans and fuck the haters (H has been on the receiving end of some distinctly unfavorable press over the last few years). She was very gracious about it, but it seemed to be frustrating.
She wanted to see my video so I took her inside to show her. We stood in front of the video and I told her I was a bit over explaining the piece to people because at this point it feels like just a study for future work and I don't care for found footage. She seemed to get that and then we talked about Arthur Jafa and Mark Leckey and music for a bit and she seemed impressed with my take. She and her friends asked if I wanted a ride back to town, and I took them up on it.
This ended up meaning that her collector friend's driver was going to take us to this old school bar for a night cap. We drove really fast while the collector blasted 70s Dutch hits from the front seat and told us that this was his city. At the bar, this old woman with fishy plastic surgery lips and a pink tee with leopard print text that said something in Dutch served us Jenever, which we then drank with our hands clasped behind our backs as was the tradition. The collector told me that H spoke highly of me and listed the last few artists she'd spoken so highly of as if to say hang on to your hat. This was flattering and H seemed bashful, like she'd been outed for liking me. He also told me he didn't believe in the concept of Black Art, only in artists who are black and in art. This was the second time I'd heard this distinction drawn so aggressively that day–once by a white man and now by this black guy–and I wondered what about Dutch language or culture engendered such an intense stance on the matter and then I wondered whether I was giving culture too much credit and this was just a thing people say. I found myself nodding and agreeing with him. "Sure," I said. I thought I was humoring him, but today I think maybe I don't really disagree. Haven't I basically been proving to myself through failure after failure that there is no observably 'black' object, only sets of relations that are structured by blackness and therefore reek of it somehow?
Anyway, the collector guy seemed to like me but also seemed strangely skeptical of me. He said that I talked and he heard words but didn't "feel" anything. I said that I have a tendency to speak in disinterested terms when I'm excited about something. H said I shouldn't say that to be nice to him and that she felt a lot when I spoke.
The collector said that my generation didn't know how to be challenged or didn't want to be; and I said that may be the case more broadly, but I–perhaps out of step with my peers–am always looking for a good fight.
----
*name has been changed because she is important-important!!! like whoa you're talking to me right now?
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
amsterdam
Arrived in Amsterdam tonight. I'm very excited for when I am back in New York and this blog will just be me in New York, talking about being me in New York, and so on. And you can only make so many blogposts with "I miss my friends" as the final word before people get bored.
I spoke to Natasha from the airport in London as I waited for my flight and we talked about her shoots in LA, which went well and about feeling ready to get back to NYC, and about feeling settled yet also ready to, like, get going life-wise or something. I feel very settled, and for this reason eager to get back to life in NYC. Even though I know I have to go to wherever for whatever, it doesn't feel like it used to, where the time home also felt like a visit. It also probably has to do with feeling more "self-possessed," but I'm not sure that is the exact right word for the feeling. I keep describing it to myself and others as feeling, for a while, like I was watching myself live my life from a few steps away, a little bit indifferently. Now, I just feel like me–standing in the same place as my body, moving with it–like I'm making choices, and like I want things as badly as I always wanted them, instead of placing a strange shroud over those desires. Like many things, this sounds far sadder than it was. Or maybe not; maybe no one thinks it's that sad. It's a bit confusing because it's not like I didn't want and I didn't do–the sad part is really the feigned disinterest.
Anyway, D and I parted ways at the airport and I flew to Amsterdam and he went back to NYC. In retrospect, maybe we should have made a bigger deal about going our separate ways; but I think it's okay. I don't think anything was done wrong; I'm just making the feeling of missing him mean that I should have done something differently. Very silly.
This nice guy from the institution who I'd given a very hard time over email about flights collected me at the airport and took me to my hotel. He was very easy to talk to and I felt good that I hadn't lost my touch for the peculiar forced intimacy of a long ride with a stranger who isn't an uber driver. I secretly really enjoy when they send someone from the institution to get me, because more often than not oversharing with each other wins out over 45 minutes of awkward silence (why are airports always so far away from the rest of the city they serve?). I like this because I like people but I'm not outgoing enough to strike up intimate conversations at random day-to-day. I also like this because then I arrive at the institution with an ally of sorts for all of the forced socializing ahead of me.
I read both Sally Rooney novels while we were in London and really enjoyed them. I think I've successfully opened myself up to fiction again after a multi-year hiatus.
It was nice to hear Natasha's voice over the phone, and it made me wonder if I played myself by not calling friends more often from the road. Obviously, I didn't and it's just made me miss them more. I'm very excited to get back to 547, and just very excited about Things over all–except for being in Amsterdam; honestly, I do not care.
I'm too tired to continue writing, and nothing interesting has happened to me between the airport and the hotel really. My head hurts from the weight of my braids, so I'm going to lie down. It's late anyway.
I spoke to Natasha from the airport in London as I waited for my flight and we talked about her shoots in LA, which went well and about feeling ready to get back to NYC, and about feeling settled yet also ready to, like, get going life-wise or something. I feel very settled, and for this reason eager to get back to life in NYC. Even though I know I have to go to wherever for whatever, it doesn't feel like it used to, where the time home also felt like a visit. It also probably has to do with feeling more "self-possessed," but I'm not sure that is the exact right word for the feeling. I keep describing it to myself and others as feeling, for a while, like I was watching myself live my life from a few steps away, a little bit indifferently. Now, I just feel like me–standing in the same place as my body, moving with it–like I'm making choices, and like I want things as badly as I always wanted them, instead of placing a strange shroud over those desires. Like many things, this sounds far sadder than it was. Or maybe not; maybe no one thinks it's that sad. It's a bit confusing because it's not like I didn't want and I didn't do–the sad part is really the feigned disinterest.
Anyway, D and I parted ways at the airport and I flew to Amsterdam and he went back to NYC. In retrospect, maybe we should have made a bigger deal about going our separate ways; but I think it's okay. I don't think anything was done wrong; I'm just making the feeling of missing him mean that I should have done something differently. Very silly.
This nice guy from the institution who I'd given a very hard time over email about flights collected me at the airport and took me to my hotel. He was very easy to talk to and I felt good that I hadn't lost my touch for the peculiar forced intimacy of a long ride with a stranger who isn't an uber driver. I secretly really enjoy when they send someone from the institution to get me, because more often than not oversharing with each other wins out over 45 minutes of awkward silence (why are airports always so far away from the rest of the city they serve?). I like this because I like people but I'm not outgoing enough to strike up intimate conversations at random day-to-day. I also like this because then I arrive at the institution with an ally of sorts for all of the forced socializing ahead of me.
I read both Sally Rooney novels while we were in London and really enjoyed them. I think I've successfully opened myself up to fiction again after a multi-year hiatus.
It was nice to hear Natasha's voice over the phone, and it made me wonder if I played myself by not calling friends more often from the road. Obviously, I didn't and it's just made me miss them more. I'm very excited to get back to 547, and just very excited about Things over all–except for being in Amsterdam; honestly, I do not care.
I'm too tired to continue writing, and nothing interesting has happened to me between the airport and the hotel really. My head hurts from the weight of my braids, so I'm going to lie down. It's late anyway.
Saturday, June 15, 2019
espresso martini
We are in London now. We met up with dear old friend N at the bar at our hotel and then went to Shoreditch House for drinks with him and some of his friends here. N works in tech at a very big bad company but one that we don't talk or think about that much day to day. Some of his friends also work there and some others work for other more publicly controversial places.
Fun gossip turned into I guess one would say "political" discussions, the details of which–to me– are too bonkers to recount in detail. It was fascinating overall in the sense that maybe I've given people who work in tech too much credit for knowing what's going on. They were all clearly very intelligent, but had such strange ideas about things. For instance, they all had only recently read about incels in the news–something that the rest of us have been talking about for about a year. Also this one woman from Mexico was so mad about "latinx." She is "latina," she said emphatically. Everyone–including me–was very nice to her about why that is okay for her personally but the idea of the x is also fine and I felt confused because I had this conversation in 2013 with like, my parents and they came to understand it then. D wisely excused himself to go to the bathroom as this part of the conversation took off.
The topic of eugenics came up and someone deemed it inevitable that in the next few decades either state-sanctioned or corporate eugenics programs would be commonplace. He said this was just fact and also said population control was the number one thing that made sense to like, work toward considering the coming issues on our plate globally speaking. This was incredibly freaky in that it was like, void of any ethical or moral considerations. Like, he insisted that we would reach this point with the brewing techno-political whatever situation, but my counter was that it seems more important to draw a line somewhere and say that sure, this could be happening, but we say it's bad and won't get on board.
N mentioned that this person he had been involved with from the middle east (vaguely, generally speaking) had cut ties with him because of his work for the big bad company due to their contracts in the region. He seemed sad or annoyed about it; D and I assured him that he wasn't at fault and the person was being sort of shitty, letting this conflict of interest so strictly dictate their romantic goings-on. However, ultimately, I guess I admire their conviction, while I still think being so dogmatic is not the nicest way to carry on interpersonally or something? The company is definitely bad. But N's job seems lovely and his life is good and he'll pay off his student loans and be alright so I can't fault him for that because he's a dear friend and I want the best for him. Can't blame the person either though as the issue is close to their heart.
Everything seems complicated, but most of all frightening in that writ large these people who actually work for the companies that are doing all the Stuff are blissfully unaware and have the politics of someone entering their freshman year at a liberal arts college. For once, I feel glad to be in the art world.
Also, everyone seems to drink espresso martinis in Shoreditch and claims it's as good as cocaine.
We danced a bit, but the DJ played this awful remix of "One Thing" by Amerie and I concluded that I miss New York and my friends who despite everything seem to have their heads screwed on straight.
Fun gossip turned into I guess one would say "political" discussions, the details of which–to me– are too bonkers to recount in detail. It was fascinating overall in the sense that maybe I've given people who work in tech too much credit for knowing what's going on. They were all clearly very intelligent, but had such strange ideas about things. For instance, they all had only recently read about incels in the news–something that the rest of us have been talking about for about a year. Also this one woman from Mexico was so mad about "latinx." She is "latina," she said emphatically. Everyone–including me–was very nice to her about why that is okay for her personally but the idea of the x is also fine and I felt confused because I had this conversation in 2013 with like, my parents and they came to understand it then. D wisely excused himself to go to the bathroom as this part of the conversation took off.
The topic of eugenics came up and someone deemed it inevitable that in the next few decades either state-sanctioned or corporate eugenics programs would be commonplace. He said this was just fact and also said population control was the number one thing that made sense to like, work toward considering the coming issues on our plate globally speaking. This was incredibly freaky in that it was like, void of any ethical or moral considerations. Like, he insisted that we would reach this point with the brewing techno-political whatever situation, but my counter was that it seems more important to draw a line somewhere and say that sure, this could be happening, but we say it's bad and won't get on board.
N mentioned that this person he had been involved with from the middle east (vaguely, generally speaking) had cut ties with him because of his work for the big bad company due to their contracts in the region. He seemed sad or annoyed about it; D and I assured him that he wasn't at fault and the person was being sort of shitty, letting this conflict of interest so strictly dictate their romantic goings-on. However, ultimately, I guess I admire their conviction, while I still think being so dogmatic is not the nicest way to carry on interpersonally or something? The company is definitely bad. But N's job seems lovely and his life is good and he'll pay off his student loans and be alright so I can't fault him for that because he's a dear friend and I want the best for him. Can't blame the person either though as the issue is close to their heart.
Everything seems complicated, but most of all frightening in that writ large these people who actually work for the companies that are doing all the Stuff are blissfully unaware and have the politics of someone entering their freshman year at a liberal arts college. For once, I feel glad to be in the art world.
Also, everyone seems to drink espresso martinis in Shoreditch and claims it's as good as cocaine.
We danced a bit, but the DJ played this awful remix of "One Thing" by Amerie and I concluded that I miss New York and my friends who despite everything seem to have their heads screwed on straight.
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
sandra pompidou
D and I went to Pompidou and saw everything that's up currently, basically. It's a true bummer that, as one wanders from like Chagall and Braque and early modernist painting all the way through to contemporary art, things just basically get stupid and less interesting. Or the bangers are fewer and further between.
Anyway, one thing we saw was Vito Acconci's Remote Control, which I'd only ever gotten to read about or see stills of. It was so good; I am aware that people think that this work is fucked up or whatever because Acconci is–no way around it–sadistically remotely controlling this woman. But regardless, I think it's quite brilliant; and as a work that is so directly about exercising control, I'm willing to entertain its modeling of a sadistic potentially misogynistic dynamic (it also made me think of J.W's coke bottles, which operate similarly; I don't mind the grossness since it's part of the topic under investigation? Though V.A.'s working through control is more....solvent than J.W's probably.) Additionally, Remote Control is brilliantly set up so that you can only really hear Acconci's directions or suggestions if you stand closer to the screen that shows him. The effect that this has is that you lose sight of Acconci and listen to him in your ear as you watch the screen with the woman tied up. I've been revisiting psychoanalysis and film theory and all that comes after and against it lately and so this feels especially interesting in relationship to spectatorial identification; in order to fully see/hear the work, you are forced to align with his position. You also can choose to stand closer to her and watch him, but the whole thing is far less interesting from there. Politically, this is all rather useless and it definitely doesn't subvert some dynamic, but it is very compelling in its modeling of these mechanisms all together (camera, screen, identification, objectification, control). And of course, also the set up being two TVs facing each other. And the fact that in the original production of the work, the two could only see each other via camera.
Anyway, this got me thinking - what are the all time best artworks with closed circuit TV components or something similar!!!! For me the first few I can think of:
Vito Acconci - Remote Control
Ulysses Jenkins - Just Another Rendering of the Same Old Problem
Dan Graham - Present Continuous Past
On the ride home, I told D that when I really love an artwork it's like watching a heist be pulled off. But not in the sense that the art has pulled one over on is. More like Oceans 11 start to finish; like wow you had all these moving parts, every one with their job (The Bag Man, the Decoy, etc.), and you pulled off the job. Like any good heist film, there's usually a hitch or a moment when thing's aren't looking so good. Like, maybe the gang isn't such a well oiled machine, but then it pulls through. Anyway, this sounds dumb to me now that I've written it down. In any case, it feels nice to be excited about a work of art.
Edit: Oh, now I am wondering - do people get mad about something like Remote Control because they believe art to be "self-expression" rather than an investigation? If you think that way, then yeah I guess it's really bad. Approaching it structurally though, doesn't it gain some merit fore really adequately modeling in one fell swoop the operations of gender, control, and camera-mediated interaction or something? Serious Questions here.
Anyway, one thing we saw was Vito Acconci's Remote Control, which I'd only ever gotten to read about or see stills of. It was so good; I am aware that people think that this work is fucked up or whatever because Acconci is–no way around it–sadistically remotely controlling this woman. But regardless, I think it's quite brilliant; and as a work that is so directly about exercising control, I'm willing to entertain its modeling of a sadistic potentially misogynistic dynamic (it also made me think of J.W's coke bottles, which operate similarly; I don't mind the grossness since it's part of the topic under investigation? Though V.A.'s working through control is more....solvent than J.W's probably.) Additionally, Remote Control is brilliantly set up so that you can only really hear Acconci's directions or suggestions if you stand closer to the screen that shows him. The effect that this has is that you lose sight of Acconci and listen to him in your ear as you watch the screen with the woman tied up. I've been revisiting psychoanalysis and film theory and all that comes after and against it lately and so this feels especially interesting in relationship to spectatorial identification; in order to fully see/hear the work, you are forced to align with his position. You also can choose to stand closer to her and watch him, but the whole thing is far less interesting from there. Politically, this is all rather useless and it definitely doesn't subvert some dynamic, but it is very compelling in its modeling of these mechanisms all together (camera, screen, identification, objectification, control). And of course, also the set up being two TVs facing each other. And the fact that in the original production of the work, the two could only see each other via camera.
Anyway, this got me thinking - what are the all time best artworks with closed circuit TV components or something similar!!!! For me the first few I can think of:
Vito Acconci - Remote Control
Ulysses Jenkins - Just Another Rendering of the Same Old Problem
Dan Graham - Present Continuous Past
On the ride home, I told D that when I really love an artwork it's like watching a heist be pulled off. But not in the sense that the art has pulled one over on is. More like Oceans 11 start to finish; like wow you had all these moving parts, every one with their job (The Bag Man, the Decoy, etc.), and you pulled off the job. Like any good heist film, there's usually a hitch or a moment when thing's aren't looking so good. Like, maybe the gang isn't such a well oiled machine, but then it pulls through. Anyway, this sounds dumb to me now that I've written it down. In any case, it feels nice to be excited about a work of art.
Edit: Oh, now I am wondering - do people get mad about something like Remote Control because they believe art to be "self-expression" rather than an investigation? If you think that way, then yeah I guess it's really bad. Approaching it structurally though, doesn't it gain some merit fore really adequately modeling in one fell swoop the operations of gender, control, and camera-mediated interaction or something? Serious Questions here.
Tuesday, June 11, 2019
fan fictions
D and I took adderall early on yesterday and worked from a café so we didn't speak to each other pretty much until the evening at which point we went to dinner at Palais de Tokyo.
Maybe because the majority of the galleries are closed right now or maybe just because, but the courtyard has this very dystopian feel. All these skaters and unpleasant looking guys are posted up by the fountain and there are people's little nesting areas in the buildings nooks and crannies. I don't mean this in a fetishistic sci-fi way; it struck me primarily as a great set if one were to make a dystopian film in Paris. Maybe that's no better. Anyway, now I'm thinking about how maybe it's a real brain worm to see a building in disuse with some seedy elements and think d y s t o p i a. But also I think it's ok to like, use your imagination and to use it to think about worse versions of the present. I really think that's alright.
Anyway, we left the restaurant and somehow the whole way home we talked about art criticism. D had read this thing about film franchise fan theories and the death of the author and how we should stop writing fan theories off as people trying desperately to figure out or read meaning into the movie. I said this was an interesting take and made me think that art criticism is all just fan theories about artworks.
We further explored this on our walk via that whole Simone Leigh Whitney Biennial post thing and also somehow Rosalind Krauss' L'Informe show–maybe because I'd been reading about both earlier in the day. But basically the takeaway was that, duh criticism should live on its own and nothing id definitive. It's all just fan fiction and there is nothing real to be unearthed about art or a film anyway. With the Simone Leigh thing, her position is so frustrating because it entirely shuts down the flow an artwork exists in or something. (Like you only want people who share your set of references to approach the object? Maybe you should write a love letter to your people then and not make a sculpture. Certainly you can speak to a specific group primarily but I don't think you can (intelligently and responsibly) be upset when viewers outside that knowledgeable group present their criticism (fan theory).)
Later, we talked about climate change and this self regulating hut that yesterday at dinner O--- said he was hoping to design and whether it was scalable and whether that was even the point of it. Then we watched Big Little Lies.
I hope that O--- makes his hut; it seems cool at the very least.
Maybe because the majority of the galleries are closed right now or maybe just because, but the courtyard has this very dystopian feel. All these skaters and unpleasant looking guys are posted up by the fountain and there are people's little nesting areas in the buildings nooks and crannies. I don't mean this in a fetishistic sci-fi way; it struck me primarily as a great set if one were to make a dystopian film in Paris. Maybe that's no better. Anyway, now I'm thinking about how maybe it's a real brain worm to see a building in disuse with some seedy elements and think d y s t o p i a. But also I think it's ok to like, use your imagination and to use it to think about worse versions of the present. I really think that's alright.
Anyway, we left the restaurant and somehow the whole way home we talked about art criticism. D had read this thing about film franchise fan theories and the death of the author and how we should stop writing fan theories off as people trying desperately to figure out or read meaning into the movie. I said this was an interesting take and made me think that art criticism is all just fan theories about artworks.
We further explored this on our walk via that whole Simone Leigh Whitney Biennial post thing and also somehow Rosalind Krauss' L'Informe show–maybe because I'd been reading about both earlier in the day. But basically the takeaway was that, duh criticism should live on its own and nothing id definitive. It's all just fan fiction and there is nothing real to be unearthed about art or a film anyway. With the Simone Leigh thing, her position is so frustrating because it entirely shuts down the flow an artwork exists in or something. (Like you only want people who share your set of references to approach the object? Maybe you should write a love letter to your people then and not make a sculpture. Certainly you can speak to a specific group primarily but I don't think you can (intelligently and responsibly) be upset when viewers outside that knowledgeable group present their criticism (fan theory).)
Later, we talked about climate change and this self regulating hut that yesterday at dinner O--- said he was hoping to design and whether it was scalable and whether that was even the point of it. Then we watched Big Little Lies.
I hope that O--- makes his hut; it seems cool at the very least.
Monday, June 10, 2019
first bloggy
Kyle and I made a blogging pact a few weeks ago but I haven't delivered. Then I told Zoe about it today and she made two posts in the time that we were speaking about it, so I feel that I have no excuses.
D and I are in Paris for one more week. We were in Venice before this and Spain before that. We were supposed to stay here through the 18th, but now I think we will go to London for the weekend.
Paris has been good. Maybe that makes it sound like I'm blah on it; it has been good in a liveable and pleasant and beautiful way that reminds me of being in LA without the isolation or something. We have run into a few art friends and made a few new ones. In NYC, I forget I do actually enjoy meeting new people. But also, I think we have been lucky to meet particularly good people on this trip.
I don't think either of us has done quite as much work as we'd have liked to but I think that that is okay. I feel a little bit adrift mentally, like I don't really have any exact work to focus on except for screenwriting and editing; for the first time in a long time I don't have any overdue projects or unfulfilled artistic or writing obligations hanging over my head. I'm mostly just chewing on concepts for stuff that I think I'm supposed to be making for the next year. That feels good but also somehow frightening.
Have gone to see more art here than I have since moving to New York–or than I did in LA, to be honest–I think. At least in terms of openings. I'm not sure if the results of this are a net positive or not. But it feels fun in a way and I feel like art is worthwhile again for me, if only as a form of entertainment–as in all art appears as a parody of itself these days (which is not to say it is bad!). That being said, I appreciate what appears to me to be an earnest kind of investment in participating in art amongst Paris kids. No one is pretending that someone forced them to be there (at the opening, let's say).
I was going to say that I feel tired of irony, but I think that is the opposite of the thought I meant to have; which was maybe more like I'm tired of ironic distance when it comes to participating in art–like talking about a show as though your mom dragged you to it; maybe this is called like like, faux nihilism. Like "art does nothing it sucks I'm only here because I accidentally got a liberal arts degree and have no skills other than synthesizing information." But on the other hand, I'm more tired of people who enter the arena of "discourse" having made a series of massive assumptions about what art does, is, or wants to do/be. Most often, "art is political" "art is radical" and so on. That's tangential to the irony thing, I guess. I don't know.
Anyway, I think we'll go to London for the weekend and stop feeling the low-level stress of not speaking enough French, and stay in a nice hotel with a spa or something.
Also we saw the new Jim Jarmusch movie, which was maybe not good but definitely fun. Though seems like at Cannes everyone was like ooh la la? I thought it was a bit try-hard. Though, there was this whole thing where the characters were aware of being in a movie in an interesting way. It played into my ongoing layers-of-reality // virtuality obsession. Maybe it modeled something like a kind of cinema that prevents the viewer's identification into it? Simply by reminding the viewer that she sits outside of it through the characters like 'naming' of their situation.
That's all for now.
D and I are in Paris for one more week. We were in Venice before this and Spain before that. We were supposed to stay here through the 18th, but now I think we will go to London for the weekend.
Paris has been good. Maybe that makes it sound like I'm blah on it; it has been good in a liveable and pleasant and beautiful way that reminds me of being in LA without the isolation or something. We have run into a few art friends and made a few new ones. In NYC, I forget I do actually enjoy meeting new people. But also, I think we have been lucky to meet particularly good people on this trip.
I don't think either of us has done quite as much work as we'd have liked to but I think that that is okay. I feel a little bit adrift mentally, like I don't really have any exact work to focus on except for screenwriting and editing; for the first time in a long time I don't have any overdue projects or unfulfilled artistic or writing obligations hanging over my head. I'm mostly just chewing on concepts for stuff that I think I'm supposed to be making for the next year. That feels good but also somehow frightening.
Have gone to see more art here than I have since moving to New York–or than I did in LA, to be honest–I think. At least in terms of openings. I'm not sure if the results of this are a net positive or not. But it feels fun in a way and I feel like art is worthwhile again for me, if only as a form of entertainment–as in all art appears as a parody of itself these days (which is not to say it is bad!). That being said, I appreciate what appears to me to be an earnest kind of investment in participating in art amongst Paris kids. No one is pretending that someone forced them to be there (at the opening, let's say).
I was going to say that I feel tired of irony, but I think that is the opposite of the thought I meant to have; which was maybe more like I'm tired of ironic distance when it comes to participating in art–like talking about a show as though your mom dragged you to it; maybe this is called like like, faux nihilism. Like "art does nothing it sucks I'm only here because I accidentally got a liberal arts degree and have no skills other than synthesizing information." But on the other hand, I'm more tired of people who enter the arena of "discourse" having made a series of massive assumptions about what art does, is, or wants to do/be. Most often, "art is political" "art is radical" and so on. That's tangential to the irony thing, I guess. I don't know.
Anyway, I think we'll go to London for the weekend and stop feeling the low-level stress of not speaking enough French, and stay in a nice hotel with a spa or something.
Also we saw the new Jim Jarmusch movie, which was maybe not good but definitely fun. Though seems like at Cannes everyone was like ooh la la? I thought it was a bit try-hard. Though, there was this whole thing where the characters were aware of being in a movie in an interesting way. It played into my ongoing layers-of-reality // virtuality obsession. Maybe it modeled something like a kind of cinema that prevents the viewer's identification into it? Simply by reminding the viewer that she sits outside of it through the characters like 'naming' of their situation.
That's all for now.
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