I was all dressed to jog when I looked out my window and saw needles of rain slanting past. Exasperated, I undressed and watched the rest of When In Rome, feeling guiltily entertained and unproductive. Romantic comedies have never been my thing (they make me feel too girly), but what's a guilty pleasure if it isn't unpleasant and dislikeable in some way?
After the movie, golden sunlight made the slick world glow outside, and I bounded back into my workout clothes and out the door. Everyone was putting out free stuff, and just as I nearly fell over myself noticing a narrow, asymmetrical two-story boat-shaped house on McGee, I stumbled upon a curbside box with all the colors of thread I'd been wanting for months, and a seal keychain and tennis balls and poster tape. I couldn't believe how useful it all was and stashed some into my back pocket, resolving to take the rest on the way home. As usual, I deliberately chose random streets I hadn't seen before and eventually wound my way through a charming Victorian-lined lane to the Ohlone Trail, where I discovered that there were two halves to the community garden, one of which I had never noticed. I turned around at Gilman, but not before wandering into a plant nursery and realizing I could buy all the garden things I'd been wanting here and wondering at the beautiful flowering kale and dreaming of having my own garden, built from scratch, a clean doorstep, and time to cook dinner every night. Fat chance, you tenure-dreaming academic, you.
Normally I avoid wide car-dominated streets like Sacramento, but on the way back I was drawn to an outdoor tent on the sidewalk that seemed to be exploding with wooden wares I couldn't quite identify from a distance. To my amazement, it was the birdhouse tent I've often driven past. The artist Michael introduced himself and invited me into the backyard. I picked my way through his garage, which was clearly a basement performing arts venue with an elaborate upright piano and bar, and up a steep flight of stairs where I found myself beneath the shade of trees in a bewildering maze of birdhouses, each so different from the rest. It was another world, right off that busy commuter thoroughfare--a world of debris-turned-magic. Amongst the rows was the birdhouse of my dreams: a chapel with a little belltower. Save that one for me, Michael (how you remind me of Paul and his loft-turned-performing-arts-center), until I have a chance to break open the piggybank and return for the Friday music!
As if this wasn't enough, after picking up the rest of the loot on McGee and doing another double-take at the nautical house I must have passed multiple times and never noted, I stumbled upon Helly Welly's lighting store. I was walking now to cool down and the storefront, past which I had driven so many times, issued a challenge to the greying sky with golden light and musical instrument lamps. Helly led me through a wonderland of clarinet lamps and chandeliers made with transparencies she'd created in 1970s performance art events.
I made the final leg home in twilight, when all the world holds its breath in anticipation of the night. Time comes to a standstill at twilight, and it seems that time could stay stopped forever, and yet twilight is the most fleeting and rapidly changing part of the day, yielding to dusk and then to darkness. I can't love it enough. I was regretting missing Berkeley Artisans Holiday Open Studios this weekend, but the open studios found me, as they often find wanderers.
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
27 November 2010
26 June 2008
a haunted artist
With the monumental spectacles generated by today's film industry, I expect to emerge from a film more emotionally affected than from an art exhibit. Not so for the haunting Frida Kahlo. Her art speaks more loudly for her than anything or anyone else can.
After the delightfully bird-like mischievousness of her self-depiction in "Frieda and Diego Rivera" (1931), her art as exhibited at SFMOMA is a series of intensely painful and individual experiences. She poured her pain directly into her paintings, transmitting it to the viewer in an uncannily visceral way. The honesty of her autobiography in art is stunning enough, but seeing her torn asunder by her philandering husband in "The Two Fridas" (1939) is almost mortifying. Staring into "Moses" (1945), her ongoing search for a belief system, one sees a fanatically cluttered foreground which reveals almost no depth, and yet one gets the distinct experience of looking into infinity.
Kahlo's pain seems to end or at least reach a reconciliation as one enters the last room, filled with eye-popping, joyous still lifes and "The Love Embrace of the Universe" (1949). This redemption is just as a viewer would hope. Yet she was in her worst physical condition by that point, having undergone endless operations and an amputation. Had she truly achieved peace, or was her artistic joy a forced Act III? "I hope to leave joyously -- and never return." What happy, unhaunted soul says such words?
Diego Rivera specified that Kahlo's room remain locked for fifty years after her death. It has finally been opened, her extraordinary Tehuana / Chinese / Indian wardrobe discovered in pristine condition, the colors still intense. One cannot help but wonder at how she stands out in every photograph, whether she is alone or with a crowd. She is inevitably the most dignified, proud, and eye-catching. Is it her majestically un/traditional wardrobe, her tightly-bound hair, her features, her high forehead, her masculine air, or the way she holds her chin that mesmerizes? Or can the fire of one's spirit blaze through one's face to the camera lens?
Speaking of Kahlo's wardrobe, if you are looking for a reproduction of the shirts and skirts she wore in her self-portraits, you can buy them at SFMOMA for $200 to $1800 a pop. Having garnered limited recognition during her lifetime, I am sure Kahlo would have been proud to see the queues winding down the stairs at SFMOMA for her exhibit. But what of the gift shop?
After the delightfully bird-like mischievousness of her self-depiction in "Frieda and Diego Rivera" (1931), her art as exhibited at SFMOMA is a series of intensely painful and individual experiences. She poured her pain directly into her paintings, transmitting it to the viewer in an uncannily visceral way. The honesty of her autobiography in art is stunning enough, but seeing her torn asunder by her philandering husband in "The Two Fridas" (1939) is almost mortifying. Staring into "Moses" (1945), her ongoing search for a belief system, one sees a fanatically cluttered foreground which reveals almost no depth, and yet one gets the distinct experience of looking into infinity.
Kahlo's pain seems to end or at least reach a reconciliation as one enters the last room, filled with eye-popping, joyous still lifes and "The Love Embrace of the Universe" (1949). This redemption is just as a viewer would hope. Yet she was in her worst physical condition by that point, having undergone endless operations and an amputation. Had she truly achieved peace, or was her artistic joy a forced Act III? "I hope to leave joyously -- and never return." What happy, unhaunted soul says such words?
Diego Rivera specified that Kahlo's room remain locked for fifty years after her death. It has finally been opened, her extraordinary Tehuana / Chinese / Indian wardrobe discovered in pristine condition, the colors still intense. One cannot help but wonder at how she stands out in every photograph, whether she is alone or with a crowd. She is inevitably the most dignified, proud, and eye-catching. Is it her majestically un/traditional wardrobe, her tightly-bound hair, her features, her high forehead, her masculine air, or the way she holds her chin that mesmerizes? Or can the fire of one's spirit blaze through one's face to the camera lens?
Speaking of Kahlo's wardrobe, if you are looking for a reproduction of the shirts and skirts she wore in her self-portraits, you can buy them at SFMOMA for $200 to $1800 a pop. Having garnered limited recognition during her lifetime, I am sure Kahlo would have been proud to see the queues winding down the stairs at SFMOMA for her exhibit. But what of the gift shop?
03 December 2007
After three years, I have rediscovered it: The quote that expresses my understanding of and approach to the perceivable world.
"It is the mark of our period that everything can be regarded as a work of art and seen in textual terms. I count this, to vary a title I envy Suzi Gablik for inventing, the re-enchantment of the world. Contemporary art replaces beauty, everywhere threatened, with meaning."
--Arthur Danto, "Art and Meaning" in The Madonna of the Future
This means so much more to me than it did when I first read it, before I had developed a more nuanced and wide-ranging appreciation for art, a sense of my own artistic identity, and a grasp of all the facts needed to understand Danto's arguments. Thanks, Professor Seeley.
It can't be coincidence that while writing this entry I learned of the movie My Kid Could Paint That.
My next struggle: How to apply Danto's claims to music and sound.
"It is the mark of our period that everything can be regarded as a work of art and seen in textual terms. I count this, to vary a title I envy Suzi Gablik for inventing, the re-enchantment of the world. Contemporary art replaces beauty, everywhere threatened, with meaning."
--Arthur Danto, "Art and Meaning" in The Madonna of the Future
This means so much more to me than it did when I first read it, before I had developed a more nuanced and wide-ranging appreciation for art, a sense of my own artistic identity, and a grasp of all the facts needed to understand Danto's arguments. Thanks, Professor Seeley.
It can't be coincidence that while writing this entry I learned of the movie My Kid Could Paint That.
My next struggle: How to apply Danto's claims to music and sound.
13 September 2007
The (B) for the Belgian Rail may look a bit outdated, but its history is distinguished: it was designed by leading Art Nouveau artist Henry van de Velde.
13 August 2007
London day 6
I stated that the color of London is black. I still hold this to be true, but with one slight emendation: the other color of London is pink. It's not just Jon; an inordinate number of British men wear tailored pink shirts with their (mostly striped) suits. In fact, one of the major retailers on Jermyn Street is Thomas Pink. It carries an inordinate number of women's shirts with French cuffs, which makes me greatly regret the fact that I have neither the money nor the occasion to own one. Nevertheless, the British toiletries shops may warrant a return on Wednesday.
I spent the morning putting together a BRAT diet for Jon's queasy stomach and then found the charmingly colorful, hidden, and happily alternative Neal's Yard. Both were accomplished with much wandering around and backtracking. The matter-of-fact man at the takeout counter had a South American accent to match the bright, un-Londonish colors of the triangular yard. While awaiting my tremendous and affordable portion of scrumptious vegetarian food, I got to talking with a certain James and his partner, who were moving to France. Soon we were chatting over scalding hot vegetarian chili, gluten-free basil bread, and free juices as part of the deal -- mine was cashew, a juice whose existence I had to consume to believe. Definitely a place to which I will return.
St. Martin in the Fields was closed for renovation and St. Paul's choir was on vacation from Evensong, so I was out of luck church-going-wise in London. Fortunately Naomi had made up for it this weekend. So straight I went into the Tate Modern, where I shelled out for the Dalí and Hélio Oiticica special exhibits. I was a bit Dalí-ed out by the end of the first exhibition, especially after seeing his puzzling and slightly gruesome films and then topping them off with the (in comparison) saccharin Destino, with its anachronistic early-20th-century soundtrack and modern animation. The swinging bell tie-in had lost its magic since the Boijmans van Beuningen, which somehow managed to display all of Dalí's works more imaginatively. Nevertheless, I was pleased to have examined "The Persistence of Memory" and a number of other chef d'oeuvres up close, and Oiticica's work turned out to be pleasingly informed by Klee, Malevich, et al, yet blown up into strikingly spatial cosmic systems of warm tropical colors. I might still give in and get that Tate timeline... to think I'd never heard of Oiticica before! My late arrival left no time to see the most exciting avant-garde exhibits, and those are free, so obviously I must go back.
From the Tate I made a beeline to Savile Row to peek into London's dearest haberdashers while there was nobody else around to notice. They were all doing the two-button thing (only Chip would know the proper term and context for it), and to my delight I could even see tailors busy at work in the basement of one of the stores. To my amazement, they all offered "bespoke tailoring" -- in other words, clothes made to order without a pre-existing pattern. Definitely British. Of course I ended up outside a giant Brooks Brothers once I turned back onto Regent Street, but not far past it was my ultimate evening destination -- Ramen Seto, home of the cheap bowl of noodle soup.
The ramen was actually mediocre and the soup overly rich, but anyway it was merciful on my wallet and allowed me to time hop into Harrod's for a look at the tea selection. I'd had a difficult time imagining the department store to end all department stores, but I finally found that it was a Disney-like fairyland made of course to much more sophisticated standards than any Disney attraction and filled with a mind-boggling amount of designer merchandise, but nevertheless Disneyish in its extravagant existence outside of any practised interior aesthetic. Still worth another trip -- I am not, I repeat, not coming back from England without tea.
Every year Euge becomes more glamorous, and she was dressed to rival any Londoner when I found her outside the Ritz. We were met with much more resistance trying to get into the Landsdowne Club without a printed letter of introduction, and I wonder if the lack of a white male in our presence had something to do with it. But finally we earned our time to catch up, and discovered that she's been living in another branch of the apartment/hotel residence that I stayed in with Josephine and Victor. Big city, small world!
Afterwards we wandered about the club, but other than the lovely ground floor and swimming pool, the club didn't offer a fraction of the luxuries of the Yale Club of New York City. In fact, none of the reciprocal clubs I've visited can hold a candle to it. But I have yet to make it out to Stoke Park. They're bound to make me eat my words. In any case, the deal I have with the Yale Club as a non-NYC-resident/full-time graduate student is unbelievable. I suppose most in my position don't do so much traveling, but as it is I get access to exclusive clubs for a laughable annual membership fee back home. Euge is raking in the money, but for this week I have the posh deal in London: club-hopping. A great sport if you can pull together the look and a bit of spunk.
Incidentally, while everyone finds it funny that ancient rivals Oxbridge share their turf at the Oxford & Cambridge Club by St. James', I just learned from Wikipedia's article on the Yale Club that our 22-floor James Gamble Rogers-designed facility also plays host to the Dartmouth Club, the Virginia Club, and the DKE Club (presumably not for your typical frat party).
I spent the morning putting together a BRAT diet for Jon's queasy stomach and then found the charmingly colorful, hidden, and happily alternative Neal's Yard. Both were accomplished with much wandering around and backtracking. The matter-of-fact man at the takeout counter had a South American accent to match the bright, un-Londonish colors of the triangular yard. While awaiting my tremendous and affordable portion of scrumptious vegetarian food, I got to talking with a certain James and his partner, who were moving to France. Soon we were chatting over scalding hot vegetarian chili, gluten-free basil bread, and free juices as part of the deal -- mine was cashew, a juice whose existence I had to consume to believe. Definitely a place to which I will return.
St. Martin in the Fields was closed for renovation and St. Paul's choir was on vacation from Evensong, so I was out of luck church-going-wise in London. Fortunately Naomi had made up for it this weekend. So straight I went into the Tate Modern, where I shelled out for the Dalí and Hélio Oiticica special exhibits. I was a bit Dalí-ed out by the end of the first exhibition, especially after seeing his puzzling and slightly gruesome films and then topping them off with the (in comparison) saccharin Destino, with its anachronistic early-20th-century soundtrack and modern animation. The swinging bell tie-in had lost its magic since the Boijmans van Beuningen, which somehow managed to display all of Dalí's works more imaginatively. Nevertheless, I was pleased to have examined "The Persistence of Memory" and a number of other chef d'oeuvres up close, and Oiticica's work turned out to be pleasingly informed by Klee, Malevich, et al, yet blown up into strikingly spatial cosmic systems of warm tropical colors. I might still give in and get that Tate timeline... to think I'd never heard of Oiticica before! My late arrival left no time to see the most exciting avant-garde exhibits, and those are free, so obviously I must go back.
From the Tate I made a beeline to Savile Row to peek into London's dearest haberdashers while there was nobody else around to notice. They were all doing the two-button thing (only Chip would know the proper term and context for it), and to my delight I could even see tailors busy at work in the basement of one of the stores. To my amazement, they all offered "bespoke tailoring" -- in other words, clothes made to order without a pre-existing pattern. Definitely British. Of course I ended up outside a giant Brooks Brothers once I turned back onto Regent Street, but not far past it was my ultimate evening destination -- Ramen Seto, home of the cheap bowl of noodle soup.
The ramen was actually mediocre and the soup overly rich, but anyway it was merciful on my wallet and allowed me to time hop into Harrod's for a look at the tea selection. I'd had a difficult time imagining the department store to end all department stores, but I finally found that it was a Disney-like fairyland made of course to much more sophisticated standards than any Disney attraction and filled with a mind-boggling amount of designer merchandise, but nevertheless Disneyish in its extravagant existence outside of any practised interior aesthetic. Still worth another trip -- I am not, I repeat, not coming back from England without tea.
Every year Euge becomes more glamorous, and she was dressed to rival any Londoner when I found her outside the Ritz. We were met with much more resistance trying to get into the Landsdowne Club without a printed letter of introduction, and I wonder if the lack of a white male in our presence had something to do with it. But finally we earned our time to catch up, and discovered that she's been living in another branch of the apartment/hotel residence that I stayed in with Josephine and Victor. Big city, small world!
Afterwards we wandered about the club, but other than the lovely ground floor and swimming pool, the club didn't offer a fraction of the luxuries of the Yale Club of New York City. In fact, none of the reciprocal clubs I've visited can hold a candle to it. But I have yet to make it out to Stoke Park. They're bound to make me eat my words. In any case, the deal I have with the Yale Club as a non-NYC-resident/full-time graduate student is unbelievable. I suppose most in my position don't do so much traveling, but as it is I get access to exclusive clubs for a laughable annual membership fee back home. Euge is raking in the money, but for this week I have the posh deal in London: club-hopping. A great sport if you can pull together the look and a bit of spunk.
Incidentally, while everyone finds it funny that ancient rivals Oxbridge share their turf at the Oxford & Cambridge Club by St. James', I just learned from Wikipedia's article on the Yale Club that our 22-floor James Gamble Rogers-designed facility also plays host to the Dartmouth Club, the Virginia Club, and the DKE Club (presumably not for your typical frat party).
12 August 2007
England days 3 + 4
Naomi rushed into the train station to meet me a few minutes after I arrived, although to be honest I'd been dallying around and figured I was probably the one keeping her waiting out front. She'd had several appointments in the morning, but what kept her was the alarming news that John had not just been ill, but experienced a minor heart attack at some point over the past couple days, and neither of them had put all the symptoms together. Nevertheless the perfect hostess, she made lunch and tea for me at John's place and afterwards let me amble around town while she made the first of several visits to John in the Yeovil hospital.
I was utterly taken by Sherborne Abbey's golden-hued Hamstone and vast and varied fan-vault ceiling, lingering the better part of an hour wondering and reading while someone provided a soundtrack on the organ. A brisk walk up Cheap Street (the oddly-named main shopping thoroughfare) turned up no florists still open as I'd forgotten the time in the abbey, but finally I came upon a delightful music shop at which I could buy a gift for John to ease his time the hospital. I chose a new Joseph Jongen/Flor Peeters album to make the connection a bit more personal and ensure I wasn't doubling something in his extensive library.
The drive to Naomi's parents house in the 200-person town of Dewlish sped by as we talked and enjoyed the countryside, and her vegetarian parents fed me a veritable Turkish feast. It was one of the best (and most lavish) meals I'd eaten all summer. A peculiar combination of being at the exhausted end of my tour, relaxing into the countryside after the oppression of otherwise delightful London, knowing I was taken care of and had no schedule or priorities whatsoever, and going into food coma put me straight to sleep, though I'd promised to be up in ten minutes for more socializing. I woke up in exactly the same position on top of the covers nearly ten hours later.
Nell and Naomi took me to the hilltop ruins of the 1000-year-old Corfe Castle, where many children were running around during the "birthday celebration" of some 1950's British children's author whose books had been banned from certain libraries in the 80's for not being PC. Obviously the stories were good enough to stand the test of censorship and time and even Harry Potter. A walk around the town with its traditional stone roof tiling proved that the 21st century had even penetrated to here: a gallery sold USB keys in the shape of various animals. There was also a lavender bunny whose removable tummy you could warm up in the microwave and which would release the aroma with each squeeze, but this seemed a bit extravagant and anatomically weird.
Best of all was our picnic and walk along the seaside cliffs. The landscape was basically untouched because, ironically, it is used by the military as training ground. Signs everywhere warn you not to step off the path lest you get shot or step on an unexploded mine, but dogs seem to wander freely ahead of their owners and blackberries are just starting to ripen. Gentle and yet close-set hills of green and cliffs set against a remarkably blue ocean made for the loveliest walk I've taken all summer, through a foreign yet familiar verdant and dramatic landscape. The place names here are exotic to me. Some are also amusing -- Affpuddle and Blandford?
Naomi left for Yeovil to see John and stayed in Sherborne overnight, and I enjoyed a rice dish Naomi had made for the dinner party made by the person she'd learnt it from. Her parents talked animatedly of their big band and about Nell's amazing vegetarian farmer uncle, but I was getting comatose again, so ended the evening watching the beautiful film "Girl with a Pearl Earring". Every scene had been composed with the care of a Dutch masterwork, the gorgeous colours straight out of Vermeer's own palette. The storyline was restrained, never veering into the sex or violence that most films think they need in order to make it big. If only the characters had been better developed -- time to read the book. It's remarkable how many books Vermeer, one of my favorite artists, has inspired. And I'm fonder of this painting than of the Mona Lisa. She's more beautiful, more luminous, more hypnotic, more alive (I know this is sacrilege), and her gentle yet acute gaze will follow you wherever you are in the room in which the painting hangs (the Mauritshuis in The Hague).
I slept like a baby once more, again not disturbing the covers at all or even all the things piled up in a corner of the bed. My dreams were strange and vivid, but I couldn't be bothered to remember them. Something about hurrying to keep up with a schedule. You can never quite escape who you are, can you?
I was utterly taken by Sherborne Abbey's golden-hued Hamstone and vast and varied fan-vault ceiling, lingering the better part of an hour wondering and reading while someone provided a soundtrack on the organ. A brisk walk up Cheap Street (the oddly-named main shopping thoroughfare) turned up no florists still open as I'd forgotten the time in the abbey, but finally I came upon a delightful music shop at which I could buy a gift for John to ease his time the hospital. I chose a new Joseph Jongen/Flor Peeters album to make the connection a bit more personal and ensure I wasn't doubling something in his extensive library.
The drive to Naomi's parents house in the 200-person town of Dewlish sped by as we talked and enjoyed the countryside, and her vegetarian parents fed me a veritable Turkish feast. It was one of the best (and most lavish) meals I'd eaten all summer. A peculiar combination of being at the exhausted end of my tour, relaxing into the countryside after the oppression of otherwise delightful London, knowing I was taken care of and had no schedule or priorities whatsoever, and going into food coma put me straight to sleep, though I'd promised to be up in ten minutes for more socializing. I woke up in exactly the same position on top of the covers nearly ten hours later.
Nell and Naomi took me to the hilltop ruins of the 1000-year-old Corfe Castle, where many children were running around during the "birthday celebration" of some 1950's British children's author whose books had been banned from certain libraries in the 80's for not being PC. Obviously the stories were good enough to stand the test of censorship and time and even Harry Potter. A walk around the town with its traditional stone roof tiling proved that the 21st century had even penetrated to here: a gallery sold USB keys in the shape of various animals. There was also a lavender bunny whose removable tummy you could warm up in the microwave and which would release the aroma with each squeeze, but this seemed a bit extravagant and anatomically weird.
Best of all was our picnic and walk along the seaside cliffs. The landscape was basically untouched because, ironically, it is used by the military as training ground. Signs everywhere warn you not to step off the path lest you get shot or step on an unexploded mine, but dogs seem to wander freely ahead of their owners and blackberries are just starting to ripen. Gentle and yet close-set hills of green and cliffs set against a remarkably blue ocean made for the loveliest walk I've taken all summer, through a foreign yet familiar verdant and dramatic landscape. The place names here are exotic to me. Some are also amusing -- Affpuddle and Blandford?
Naomi left for Yeovil to see John and stayed in Sherborne overnight, and I enjoyed a rice dish Naomi had made for the dinner party made by the person she'd learnt it from. Her parents talked animatedly of their big band and about Nell's amazing vegetarian farmer uncle, but I was getting comatose again, so ended the evening watching the beautiful film "Girl with a Pearl Earring". Every scene had been composed with the care of a Dutch masterwork, the gorgeous colours straight out of Vermeer's own palette. The storyline was restrained, never veering into the sex or violence that most films think they need in order to make it big. If only the characters had been better developed -- time to read the book. It's remarkable how many books Vermeer, one of my favorite artists, has inspired. And I'm fonder of this painting than of the Mona Lisa. She's more beautiful, more luminous, more hypnotic, more alive (I know this is sacrilege), and her gentle yet acute gaze will follow you wherever you are in the room in which the painting hangs (the Mauritshuis in The Hague).
I slept like a baby once more, again not disturbing the covers at all or even all the things piled up in a corner of the bed. My dreams were strange and vivid, but I couldn't be bothered to remember them. Something about hurrying to keep up with a schedule. You can never quite escape who you are, can you?
21 July 2007
Rotterdam 2007: City of Architecture
I love Rotterdam. After quite a costly ticket and lots of hurrying, I made it to the Netherlands Photomuseum and didn't regret a single cent or drop of sweat. And the Nederlands Architectuur Institut finally brought Le Corbusier's posthumous Eglise Saint-Pierre in Firminy, France to my attention. Not quite on the posthumous scale of the Sagrada Familia, but still damn cool. Anyone want to make a pilgrimage with me? Or a Paul Rudolph road trip?
I took home a new favorite Dutch photographer from the Fotomuseum, Aart Klein. Yet another reason to avoid the photography shelves at De Slegte... this could be very dangerous.
I took home a new favorite Dutch photographer from the Fotomuseum, Aart Klein. Yet another reason to avoid the photography shelves at De Slegte... this could be very dangerous.
17 May 2007
liberty kingdom hundred waters rainy day
I had totally forgotten Scully's approving commentaries about Friedensreich Hundertwasser (Regentag) until the NYT wrote about his posthumously completed Napa Valley winery. I had nearly forgotten about Anselm Kiefer, whose work blew me away at SFMOMA over winter break, until I came across a book on him on an orange reshelving shelf in the Art Library after playing the carillon for senior tower tours this afternoon. But I had no idea until I visited the site of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill that they were responsible for the new international terminal at SFO as well as several other buildings I've admired around San Francisco (as well as one I'm not as fond of, the 60's Bank of America world HQ) and have developed a wonderful proposal for the redevelopment of Treasure Island into a haven of sustainable living. Save a unit for me, guys!
16 May 2007
Through a thought-provoking article on reviving urban centers through innovative architecture, I finally discovered Giorgio de Chirico.
08 January 2007
an afternoon of art
I am awed. I am ashamed I'd never heard of him before. I am officially a fan of Anselm Kiefer. I caught Heaven and Earth at SFMOMA during its last weeks, and although I had to take in most of the paintings from the benches to rest my leg, the works were mostly of monumental enough size, savagery in stroke and texture, and power and yet complexity of message to reach me no matter where I was standing. Born in Germany in the final months of World War II, Kiefer fashions works that confront/question/challenge/reshape not only his country's psychological and spritual response to the war, but also raise existential questions about religion, redemption, recovery, and humanity's place in the cosmos. His massive paintings of deserted grandiose manmade spaces, apocalyptic landscapes and forests, and visions of hope and despair charge the viewing experience with emotion and questions. It is easy to ignore even brilliant art, but impossible to ignore his, tempting to believe the statement by a critic that he "melted a frozen curse on German civilization." His art is the work of a thinker and an introvert deeply philosophically involved with humanity, fascinated by the past and the future, heaven and earth, at once horrifying and beautiful.Another unlikely memorable work was a film by British artist Phil Collins, dünya dinlemiyor ("the world won't listen"). Collins postered Istanbul calling the misfits, the disgruntled, anyone at all to perform karaoke covers of The Smiths songs for the camera. The entrance to the exhibit was plastered with these posters in all their variations, the only one in English blaring "KILL THE DJ." Watching these sincere, poignant, often painfully embarrassing performances, I had difficultly chosing a reaction -- should I feel closer to the Turkish after hearing them belt out these English songs by heart and discovering an unexpected cultural commonality, or should I be disturbed as usual by the cultural imperialism of the West?
Afterwards Doris took me out to dinner at an Indian restaurant and I took her out to dessert at the Canvas Gallery. It was wonderful to reconnect after two years and to share the turns our lives have taken. I'm starting to realize that, despite having been out of college for a year, I'm only now learning what it's like to be a graduate student, to connect and be able to talk about it, and to realize that in a sense, whether we're working in music or medicine, the challenges we face have a common thread. A study found that best friends tend to only stay best friends as long as they share similar problems. Chicken or the egg -- my friends and I continue to share problems even as those problems change. To ramble more, I'm struck by the balance my friends have found between pursuing crazy dreams around the globe and taking on serious long-term programs. So many are in doctoral programs already; everything that's happened is wonderful and puzzling and contradictory and logical.
Scanning through my Google alerts for "carillon," I got a surreal surprise from the following excerpt (having skipped over the headline, which contained important info): "They have also started advertising more in The Carillon, the U of R student newspaper. Judging by the first half of the season, it just might be working."
I wondered if at any time in the history of the universe I would have missed a student publication at the UR named after my obsession, but of course the article was about the University of Regina in Saskatchewan. Whew.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)