You Can Draw

I brought the following handout to my drawing students. It's from the 19th Century Academie de Beaux Artes. Charles Bargue was a terrible artist but could simplify things amazingly well. He would make these diagrams to help the students understand how to approach form through line. Some of my more saavy/easily bored students amused themselves by reworking the diagram. Please consider this an assignment. You can print out the original form. Scan and send in your version by June 1st. The best (most absurd) version wins a twenty dollar bill autographed by your royal highness. Get drawing kiddies. (send to strangepics2hobo@yahoo.com)

Life in Trees

Just finished Calvino's Baron in the Trees. Not a great novel, but Calvino has a knack for taking a simple but unusual idea and running with it. The main character, Cosimo, initially decides to climb into the trees after being scolded by his parents. He resolves to stay in the trees initially to spite his parents and win a challenge with a neighboring girl. His reason for climbing into the trees dissolves as he becomes preoccupied with the strategies for living above ground. His freedom, independence, and ingenuity in finding ways to survive brings him into adulthood and forms his identity. Staying in the trees, keeps him from trespassing on other nobles' land and represents uncharted territory for him to claim and explore. The charm of the novel is in taking an idea as simple as a child's rebellion and mixing it with a will that allows the consequences of a creative act to unfold. How many kids have fantasies about faking their own funeral in getting back at their parents (and won't they be sad then!)? By the next morning in the life of the average kid, everything is back to normal. Cosmos will to stay aloft doesn't stem from the passion or ability to hold a grudge, but stems more from the desire and sense of expectation in autonomy and the possibilities of a creative act. For Cosimo, the life of living in the trees offers a path to exploring and discovering the world from a new vantage point. He achieves status and finds ways to interact with the community around him without compromising his pact to live apart from that community. It is easy to associate Cosimo's decision to live in the trees with a chosen life path of the bohemian/artist/writer/philosopher. Calvino adds a sense of the enjoyment of creativity in Cosimo discovering how to maintain essential comforts and necessities of life in his new world. Food, heat, shelter, bathing, travel, sex, relieving oneself, cooking, and engineering all have to be figured out anew by the lead character in the story.

One becomes less interested in the life as the novel tries to close. The destination of a walk is seldom at its end. This holds true for Calvino. The general glee Calvino's absurd scenarios give us are gems in themselves and don't always need 200 hundred pages to reveal their worth. Like Kafka and Borges, the drawing out of a story can sometimes dull the sparkle and charm of Calvino's ideas. Kafka could give a sense of monotony in 6 pages as well as a hundred. Calvino can involve you in a story within a couple of paragraphs. The short below is from Calvino's Numbers in the Dark.




The Man Who Shouted Teresa
by Italo Calvino

"I stepped off the pavement, walked backwards a few paces looking up, and, from the middle of the street, brought my hands to my mouth to make a megaphone, and shouted toward the top stories of the block: "Teresa!"
My shadow took fright at the moon and huddled at my feet. Someone walked by. Again I shouted: "Teresa!" The man came up to me and said: "If you do not shout louder she will not hear you. Let's both try. So: count to three, on three we shout together." And he said: "One, two, three." And we both yelled,
"Tereeeesaaa!"

A small group of friends passing by on their way back from the theater or the cafà saw us calling out. They said: "Come on, we will give you a shout too." And they joined us in the middle of the street and the first man said one to three and then everybody together shouted,
"Te-reee-saaa!"

Somebody else came by and joined us; a quarter of an hour later there were a whole bunch of us, twenty almost. And every now and then somebody new came along.
 Organizing ourselves to give a good shout, all at the same time, was not easy. There was always someone who began before three or who went on too long, but in the end we were managing something fairly efficient. We agreed that the "Te" should be shouted low and long, the "re" high and long, the "sa" low and short. It sounded fine. Just a squabble every now and then when someone was off.We were beginning to get it right when somebody, who, if his voice was anything to go by, must have had a very freckled face, asked:
"But are you sure she is home?"

"No," I said.

"That is bad," another said. "Forgotten your key, have you?"

"Actually," I said, "I have my key."

"So," they asked, "why dont you go on up?"

"I don't live here," I answered. "I live on the other side of town."

"Well, then, excuse my curiosity," the one with the freckled voice asked, "but who lives here?"

"I really wouldn't know," I said. People were a bit upset about this.

"So, could you please explain," somebody with a very toothy voice asked, "why you are down here calling out Teresa."
 
"As far as I am concerned," I said, "we can call out another name, or try somewhere else if you like."The others were a bit annoyed.
 
"I hope you were not playing a trick on us," the frecled one asked suspiciously.

"What," I said, resentfully, and I turned to ther others for confirmation of my good faith. The others said nothing.
There was a moment of embarrassment.
 
"Look," someone said good-naturedly, "why don't we call Teresa one more time, then we go home."
So we did it one more time.

"One two three Teresa!" but it did not come out very well. Then people headed off for home, some one way, some another.
I had already turned into the square when I thought I heard a voice still calling:

"Tee-reee-sa!"
Someone must have stayed on to shout. Someone stubborn.

Hobo and J-Lo

Saw and shook hands with Chris Moore from Project Greenlight this Wednesday. Strangely enough he was at Wesleyan at a thesis show. I didn't know his name, I just remember him as the annoying guy on the HBO special, so my response was pretty immediate. "Hey, Project Greenlight, how you doin?" He was definitely satisfied with the recognition, and I was, with horror at the recognition, a meager two degrees of separation from J-Lo.

Come to the dark side, Ther'l be plenty of candy for you

I watched the Aristocrats recently. A documentary about the dirtiest joke ever told. It's not a great film, but there is a nice segment from George Carlin where he speaks about trying to find the boundaries that our culture gives itself, and that he feels his job is to pull, through laughter, a few people beyond the line of their comfort to a reality that is more inclusive. A couple of years ago there was a letter to the editor of the New Haven Advocate about Sasha Baron Cohen's Da Ali G show. The letter was expressing amazement and a little disgust that TV would let Cohen get away with some of the topics he presents. The editor said that one of the things we want from humor is to deal with difficult topics, to make us feel a little uncomfortable, that there is a release in stepping beyond the boundaries of what is comfortable or politically correct. And he said that the more talented the comedian is, the longer the leash society allows the artist to exist over that line.

Whenever I return to my family and former home, I feel hellbent on trying to pull the members of my family beyond that line. Anybody that has felt formerly hemmed in by society or a community tends to appreciate all that challenges and critiques the "moral" fibers of a community. The reason many blacks applauded OJ Simpson not being found guilty for murder wasn't because they thought he was innocent, but that it pointed out that the system didn't work. Most whites never experience that sense of being bound by rules that don't benefit their own well being.

In my family, I've always been the comic relief. But I also come across as one that likes to shock and rile people up. And there is plenty of evidence for it. Arguing that Pulp Fiction has more religious insight than The Passion. Getting my brother to laugh with Don Hertzfelt's Rejected and then offend him with Billy's Baloon. Presenting the banned Warner Bros. cartoons like Coal Black and de Sebben Dwarfs. Begging my mother this trip to watch Southpark's Woodland Critter Christmas.
Sending this picture as a response to an email of my uncle's saying he needed to teach the arab's how to think. Asking for money as a teenager to buy the "never trust a preacher with a boner" Jimmy Swaggart t-shirt. I think the desire to shock and offend through humor and exposure to different parts of our culture is sometimes the most effective way to fight for a level playing field and a community in which one can belong.

Now ,Little Man, I give the watch to you

Both my Grandmother and Grandfather died this week. Ruth's funeral was Saturday. Al's will be Monday. Soon, their possessions will be handed down to the relatives and friends. My father has more possessions than his house will hold, and the garage is in similar troubles. Heavily into antiques, estate sales, and ebay, he has an extensive collection of flow blue plates, American primitive and craftsman furniture and lamps, and strangely enough.....taxidermy. Other than a moose, mountain goat, grizzly bear rug, 4 ducks, a rooster, a buck, walrus tusks, a buffalo rug, and a wild boar, some of his more unusual finds are a lamp made from 3 zebra legs, an elephant leg umbrella/cane stand, and a whale-penis cane. I don't necessarily believe in Destiny (how could I, I'm not king) but it seems like the foot of the largest mammal on land and the penis of the largest mammal at sea have a place in each other.

My father also owns a stuffed beaver that I have agreed to take home with me. I was always amused by the novelty of the piece, but it's history and return to my father's ownership made it impossible to pass up. My father had the piece for years, and one of his friends, that was also an animal lover, always complimented the piece when she visited. Margaret was her name and she had a pug and two cats. After a number of years my father decided to give it to her. Margaret had it for a few years. When she died, the beaver went back to my father, but it returned looking a little different than when he gave it to her. Apparently, the beaver had something that smelled or tasted interesting to Margaret's cats and they licked the beaver fur every which way until it looked vaguely like the beaver was wearing product in it's hair. This it the piece as it stands now and gets handed down to me.

For the Birds

I mark the day of adulthood from the first moment I stood up to my father. That was about 15 years ago. A troubled relationship soon blossomed into one of mutual respect. Working on projects was our first act of camaraderie. Our first project together was a small launch ramp for a bicycle. Since then, we've been involved in fountains, frames, rabbit cages, roofing, pruning, injuring ourselves, taxidermy, planting, chopping with axe and chainsaw, and rabbit catching. The latest project was an aviary.



I think we were secretly channeling the Florence Baptistery in our design.

Cynic in CandyLand

Back in Cali for Spring break. Spring is already evident here. The colors and exotic plants that are able to grow in this climate make it seem like a fantasy land. In the East we look at the people from the West and mutter in the back of our head "God Damn Hippies!" Being out here, one can see how it happens. There are so many people here in Sacramento that look like they're having a good time basking in the sun drinking their coffees. It's amazingly nice out here, almost to the point of being uncomfortable. One gets so used to the uptightness and angst of the East coast that one doesn't know what to do out here. One can't help but be sympathetic to the Larry David character in Curb Your Enthusiasm. Sacramento feels a little like being in a Thomas Kinkade painting.

Front Room of the Whitney Biennial- A Room to Die For

The highlight of the Whitney: Urs Fischer and Rudolf Stingel. This is the front room as you enter the biennial on the fourth floor. There was a wonderful sense of dialogue between the two artists' work. Urs Fischer had cut giant holes in two sides of the white walls of the gallery, showing the aluminum structured interior of the walls. Cut with a saws-all, the irregularity of the holes and their scale completely redefined the modernist white cube experience one resentfully has come to expect. One steps over and through the giant cavities with an understanding that you're not viewing an isolated art object but actually moving through it. Inside the gallery Fischer had two revolving cast aluminum branches spinning arcs just above the floor. The votive candles at the end of each branched-radius applied evidence of time past on the floor. Wax Residue on floor= Past. Burning Flame + Orbiting Branches= Present. Waxed Candle in Proximity of Flame= Future. The palette of the room was grisaille. Silver, Blacks, Whites. Rudolf Stingel's giant painting first appears as a photograph. Up close one sees that it is painting. The reserve and determination of the piece is astounding. Thousands of strokes of paint on brush under a will of a desired outcome.
Seen up-close and from the left side of the piece, the weight of the arm on the bed has that of a fallen idol. The 19th Century Painter, Ingres, could give tremendous weight to an arm through the languid pose of the figure.


Through scale and foreshortening, Stingel gives a strong sense of gravity to his piece. Fischer's dripping candles reiterate that gravity and reference another tie between the two artists- Gerhard Richter.

The votive quality of Fischer's piece and the Richter-like photographic quality of the Stingel's link well. Both artists' work has a force through monumentality, but in both there is nuance and insight. The weight and force is refined and directed. This is a room to die for.

More Press

Here's the write up in Play Magazine that came out today. This is the show that's up at University of Bridgeport presently. The hard copy has more pics so I'll post those soon.
Off to the Whitney Biennial today.

Lesson in Interpretation

I saw this guy on the street with one glove on his left hand, (my impulse to be a smart ass has magnum force) so i engage him in prattle:

"What's up with the single glove? Did you lose the other one, or are you really into Michael?"

"No, It's a strange thing, one of my hands always feels warmer than the other one."

"So you wear the glove on the left hand because that's the colder one? You want your hands to feel the same?"

"No, I wear it on the left hand because it is the hand that feels warmer. I just want to be normal, this way there is a reason for my left hand feeling warmer."

Ultrasound

I've been listening to the Tapes 'N Tapes album The Loon incessently, and appropriately imposing it on the students in class. (What are teachers made for but to impose)(You will appreciate me one day)(once the brain washing finally works)

Other vibrations that have recently found their way to my eerie canals:

1.Arab on Radar's Biggest Little Prick in the Union and Don't Call Him a Retard
2.Ariel Pink's Immune to Emotion and Credit (I associate the latter with Pac Man)
3.The Animals' CC Rider and Tobacco Road
4. The Joggers' We've been Talked Down to
5. Larry David interview Podcast
6. The Kinks' Victoria

I recently made an amazing or terrible mix, depending on your persuasion in the universe, with sound quotes from Star Wars. it is as follows:

Get it On 4:27 T-rex
Darth Vader - It Is Pointless To Resist
My Best Friend's Girl 3:43 The Cars
Victoria 3:40 The Kinks
Mirror In The Bathroom 3:09 The English Beat
Low Rider by WAR
Cherry, Cherry 2:43 Neil Diamond
Bust a move - 2:04 Young MC
Get Up Offa That Thing 4:09 James Brown
Pump It Up 3:13 Elvis Costello
Nothing In This World The Kinks
Star Wars - If you only knew the power of the dark side
ACDC - TNT 3:34
Sheena Is A Punk Rocker 2:48 Ramones
Yoda 0:08
Me And My Monkey 2:23 Beatles
Blister in the Sun 2:24 Violent Femmes
Stuck In The Middle With You 2:45 Steeler's Wheel

The best part is that the bit rate is not consistent so when darth vader comes in and says IF YOU ONLY KNEW THE POWER OF THE DARK SIDE, it is three times as loud, and it's a great transition to ACDC. Jame's Brown screaming is pretty hot as well. (I think I have to pay Paris Hilton for the use of that adjective)

Strange Fruit or A trip to the Gallows

Junior high: Stereotypically, like most males I was interested in mechanics, physics, and string theory. Certainly not in the classroom but in daily practice. In Junior High there was a whole slew of kids that discovered the adhesive powers of mucus and promptly shared it with their comrades. I was introduced to the fine art of Hangin' Loogies. The covered hallways of the school had relatively low ceilings, about 8 ft. high. One could muster up the phlegm in their throat and spit it onto the ceiling. With a little luck, skill, and knowledge, the Loogie or Luger, would suspend itself like a stalagtite for a time before falling. This sport developed into a cruder activity that involved a lookout for the Vice President and a battalion of the more skilled hanger boys. The Vice Pres wore a toupee and was notorious for giving detentions freely. The VP had a specific route he took from his office, so when properly spotted the message could be relayed down the halls to the Luger boys. They would practice their string theory in advance and then quickly move to a distance to observe the fortune of their hypotheses brought to the application of a moving target. The best of the Luger boys understood that if you had a cold, the body created more viscous phlegm. This translated into more hangtime.

This brings us to another point: Most of us have had a head cold and sore throat. After the initial runny nose and sneezing, there comes a time when the cold settles in the chest. Coughing is more severe and occasionally brings up very viscous phlegm. At this stage of the cold you want to do everything you can to rid your chest of this phlegm.

I've done a lot in the last few years to look respectable and act responsibly, but anybody that knows me well enough, knows what the polish is covering. Basically, the remnants of the boyish prankster. Schooling and a love of the arts have brought some sophistication, but for the life of me, I still find it ridiculously difficult to pass by the channel that plays Jackass, Wildboyz, or MXC.


Enter 2006: My junior high days long behind me, I'm dressed in a new shirt and sports coat that I've bought for an opening. I'm in my car on my way to the opening. It's just past 5 so there's a fair amount of traffic about. I'm getting over a cold but still have the painful chest cough. In the middle of driving I go into a coughing fit and inevitably break free some phlegm from the confines of my lungs. I'm not about to swallow it, so I roll down the window and try to spew it out with a great gust of blowing. Imagine my horror as it hits the top of my car window frame and swings back towards me. I freak out. Desperately trying to pull myself away from the monster I've created, and torn between driving responsibly and doing every sort of body movement I can to avoid the disaster while still holding onto the wheel and pedals, I just miss swerving into the car next to me and probably look like I'm having an epileptic fit or doing a swami dance. This foreign behemoth swings there like a pendulum for a good 10 seconds before grazing my shoulder and attaching itself to my sports coat.

If there is a moral to this story, it might be: Separate identities in a single individual eventually arrive at a face off.

Checking the Pulse

Here's a new piece recently finished. Anybody in the city (NY) this weekend can check it out at the Pulse Art Fair in the booth for Freight and Volume gallery. Pulse, like Scope, is an extension of the Armory Show and runs at the same time.

Feedback from friends on the picture is that it's a little too sweet/sentimental to truly be mine.

The Making of a Hero

I've been getting wicked press as of late. This is the story on me the local paper of the hicktown I grew up in ran last Sunday. Modesto is mostly known for the Scott and Lacey Peterson case and the Gary Conditt story. Modesto has gotten a bad rap thus far, but i was enlightened by my Norwegian friend that the band Grandaddy is also from Modesto.

Everyone with fashion sense has given me a bad time about the first photo the article ran (seen below), but I have to say I'm still satisfied with it. Satisfied in the same way a dog returns home from a stroll in the park toting its new rolled in perfume. One friend said I looked constipated, the other said I was trying way too hard to look cool, which I agree with. The worst part of it is I actually photoshopped the portrait in.



Since the Times review, the New Haven Register wrote a story, then the Modesto Bee kicked in, and I just had an interview with Play magazine this morning. I could get used to this. Play magazine is doing a story on the show that's up now at University of Bridgeport. Now if I could actually sell a freakin painting.

Incognito a Go Go

I'm no longer Incognito. A new student suggested that I'm really lagging and need to make another post on the blog. I thought for sure that I had done enough to keep students (other than the bohemian crazy types that could make sense of my ranting from prior experience) from discovering my secret identity as a blogger, and all around slacker. The gig is up. I asked how the blog was discovered. The student said with a google search. I can't for the life of me figure out how that happened. I tried typing in all sorts of nonsense to get a link to the blog. Anyhow, I think the student is right. It is high time to post. Spring Break is here, and I plan on posting like a rabbit in heat, so for those few of you that check in regardless of my neglect, I'm back.