Dan Bina: Writings

Humble Cottage

2011-08-09T19:19:00.000-07:00

For A & N

Humble Cottage

You took me by surprise
Though you shouldn’t have
Clad in warm cedar shakes
Your modern white belly soothed me
Antique America met anew

Riding high set above
Long Island Sound
North Fork rocky beaches
Soft saltwater cool
Full of good taste and grace

Fresh cut grass and lush trees
Supersweet Corn and Rosé
You were in my dreams
Books upon books and smiles
We laughed and were merry

Humble Cottage you
Be less humble
You home full of love
Happy ghost
Till then

An Unnatural Death

2011-07-14T06:51:00.001-07:00

7.14.11.NYC

An Unnatural Death

America and all of Brooklyn is a flood in tears over the body of the small boy Leiby Kletzky. Straight from a gory novel, he was abducted and butchered by a man Aron Levi. The missing persons report fliers that filled my neighborhood and all of New York City were taped nailed and posted everywhere. They now stand as haunting ghosts in an infinitely incomprehensible nightmarish tragedy gone terribly real. Alien to the experience of the average person of decency and compassion this is no act of a human being, a monster they say. They ask, "Why?", but there are no real answers to be found but the real horror of it all which is that the man is human and he is one of us. This sends chills to the bone as we are confronted with ourselves, that piece of human nature we often keep beneath the surface buried below in the murky depths. I am sadly reminded in these cases that our race is capable of absolute love, beauty, high art and charity and we are also capable of worse as if to balance a scale we can sink to the darkest levels and still be all too human. I cry for the boy Leiby Kletzky and his family. I cry for the man Aron Levi and I cry for all of humanity.

Stealing Home Base in Hanoi: Baseball Joey

2011-06-13T19:17:00.000-07:00

Like some strange old kid with a grey beard he rode the train on Sundays to Atlantic Avenue but unlike any kid he went to pick up his medications. His mind was never quite right since Vietnam. Joey lived in the projects off Ave. W for the past thirty-five years. His hearing was partially blown during a V.C. grenade attack while out on patrol. As Joey spoke his voice had a tendency to rise to alarming levels but he was harmless. He had a real bad form of P.T.S.D., which gave him a jittery nervous twitch. He rubbed his head a lot and looked at the floor after saying something. He was completely calm and stable most of the time. Through his face you knew that he along with a generation of fellas got left behind in those jungles holding onto a whole world of shit. His smile was warm but it never really could hide the scars of war.
He loved talking baseball. Since he had come back home to Brooklyn so many years ago it was the last thing for him that made any sense in America anymore. He held on so tightly to that piece of his youth. It gave him something to focus on and it was its own sort of therapy. He could watch game after game season after season. He organized stats and kept records tracking teams and player careers. He was a walking talking functionally dysfunctional library of baseball. Through the years of doing this he had regained some piece of his humanity. It’s how he was able to connect with people. It eased his mind and kept the nightmares away. It brought a smile to his face and when he got to talk about a game or a player there was no stopping him. His excitement couldn’t be contained and some people got nervous over his explosive joys. But it was only Joey it was only baseball. It was his salvation, the saving grace for an old man who had found heaven and hell on Earth.

Brooklyn Summer

2011-06-11T12:40:00.000-07:00

6.7.2011.NYC
It all took place in his backyard, everything. When the sun came back breaking the long cold silence of winter effectually ending our suffering it was finally time for good times and grand times. This certainly included the barbecue. Aaron’s place had unofficially become the hang spot, a base for multiple operations and happenings for the Fort Green patriots and for those willing to make a trek up the hill. Most of the regulars seem to live a step or two away and walk here. Foot power is New York’s real steam, its real driving engine.
We’ve done everything from survive a rapture to watch movies and basketball projected onto a queen sized sheet stretched like hide on a fence. We’ve grilled all sorts of edible goodness and tipped back everything drinkable. The sun shines down brightly from above in the early hours of summer and the yard, part urban garden, shed, patio, is a lovely site to see. It is inviting without any pretension. The signature celebrated earthiness of the space is set off by the massive walls of the Presbyterian Church next door. The old brick walls and stained glass windows cast long dark shadows in the early afternoon. With Aaron’s building working in tandem with the holy, it sets an interesting scene, reminiscent of Shawshank Redemption. We could however not be further from prison while we bask in the warm glows of grilled corn and freedom.
Beer bottles and ash trays are their own flowers in this tiny microcosm in Brooklyn. There again are the actual flowers and tall grasses. The new additions to this Eden are the bamboo shoots that we all watch grow and progress on their journey towards the sun. We watch them with the same attention and eagerness we give to the wings and burgers sizzling nearby. This has become an escape, our dreamland where we can relax and re-absorb life. I thank the Blacks for this haven. This is our new but familiar corner of the world.

Draw Me Airplanes

2011-03-02T08:32:00.000-08:00

A kind old man from Guyana once told me this story in 2007. I paraphrased it from our conversation that afternoon.

I was a teacher back home for many years before I came here. I taught ages 8 to 14. One day a week, we would teach our students art. For one hour on Friday afternoon, 2-3 o’clock. You have to understand my conception of art was very different then, if for instance, I had a picture of an airplane I’d have the children draw it. The colors, lines and shapes. That was art.

So one day as I walked around they were working and drawing away. I remember seeing these bright colors and models of what this plane looked like. We were into the lesson by about 5 or 10 minutes when I went to the back row and I had this young man about 10 sitting quietly. His art book was closed, a pad of about 20 pages or so. I asked him, “Are you finished already?” he quietly replied, “Oh, yes Sir.” I asked him if I could see it. He opened his book. I looked at it, it was a blank page. I asked him, “Where is the airplane?” He silently pointed to the center of the page. I crouched down to look at what he was showing me and it was a small little v shaped mark. I asked him, “What is this?” He said, “The airplane took off.”

I stood there in amazement. It surprised me so much, this student was generally below average in our other subjects, but something really happened there that made me think, what a brilliant idea, the way in which he perceived the idea of the airplane. Later I took it to the Headmaster and he and I both agreed it was correct. It was the assignment, draw the airplane. Now, after working here for about 2 years and seeing art so new to me I remember that child’s drawing from time to time and I am reminded that art is not the picture of the airplane on the paper. It is the perception and internalization of the idea of the airplane in the mind of the artist and viewer. That is where the art is, in each of us.

Dearly Departed

2010-12-08T21:05:00.000-08:00

Release: The Death of my Grandfather

I have been fortunate enough to achieve greater understanding of life through death. At the moments when perspective and solace are needed I have found some comfort through knowledge and wisdom. With the clarity offered only through time, I am reminded that we will and must confront the reality of our mortal natures at various moments throughout our lives. Sometimes these passages can be abrupt and painful and a deeply felt sense of treachery towards life can incite a violent bitterness while other times the loss of life seems akin to kindness, as though it were a merciful act of love upon one by a mysteriously divine grace.

A few weeks ago I was fortunate enough to travel and meet with my mother at my Grandfather’s bedside in Arizona. The desert sun of late September still scorches the earth while the arid dry air burns the eyes. It was not a visit of pleasure but a pilgrimage. We made this trip not knowing what would happen. We were fortunate to eventually bring him home from the hospital and share precious conversations with him. We were lead to believe his life would outlast our previous expectations and were comforted in this new knowledge. Our times together were sparse and brief, my Mother and I spent a great deal of time alone together and with Grandmother. What did transpire in those conversations was of great importance for all of us and will be remembered dearly.

We left Arizona knowing things would get a little better before they got worse. In reality, it would actually be no more than a month before his transfiguration. Hours before his passing, I had a restless anxiety. I wrote to my mother to let her know I was thinking of her. My tension eventually gave way to an uneasy sleep. The morning of, during my commute on the subway, I happened upon one of many possible Jorge Luis Borges’ stories. This particular story was The Immortal. I had nearly finished it when my mother called me to tell me the grave news. I could not help but draw the comparison that man, though he wishes for the eternal, might indeed be more satisfied to live as we all do, briefly.

In the face of my dying Grandfather my senses were capable of directly confronting the eventuality of death but my language could not. I could not speak to my Grandfather as if he were dying though the reality was open and real. There was no need to speak about death while living, as there was still life to live. We had plenty of things to talk about and not talk about. We both could feel the silent waiting patience of death and chose not to discuss its presence. I think we rested knowing it was on its way and instead were comforted by each other while remembering the better days we had spent together.

My Grandfather William passed this October twelfth. The fruit of his labors and the Irish American surviving members of three descending generations walk among us. He lives on in living memories and will be missed.

10-20-10

Artist Statement: The Abstractions: 1.30.10

2010-02-02T09:25:00.000-08:00

In regards to painting's numerous limitations and belittled status in current discourse, I will dismiss myself from judgment and continue the conversation.

Figurative and representational modes cannot on their own encapsulate the whole complexity of contemporary life. I utilize abstract languages to extend the dialogue towards these other ever expanding realities. It's a methodology in art that has existed in its maturity for more than a century. It is obvious that abstraction has taken it's own historical foothold in art but it continues to remain fresh in my thinking process because of its fluid capacity to mold itself to change. That is to say that it seems capable of keeping in step with time.

I took the task upon myself to develop an artistic approach that could be flirtatious while not referencing the body. I wanted to build a painting that could be stern and comedic while not being didactic or funny. I wanted to evoke the new worlds of motion graphics in static form, to maintain that spirit of visual movement in silent stillness. My works seek to be familiar by making slight reference to the world while also being unique singular events held on a shallow stage off Broadway.

The paintings concern themselves with several overarching ideas. They are organized on a formal basis utilizing geometric forms. I use many reductive shapes, boxes, and post and lintel junctions with other simple elements to construct my images to echo the framed rectangularity of the image. I construct my paintings with the illusion of shallow space. By layering images I develope the awareness of the third dimension. Utilizing over painting and under painting, the works never abandon the material nature of paint or its inherent object qualities. I allow paint to behave in a natural fashion where layering and textures are able accumulate in the process of working.

The vocabularies of elements that have been used are thought of as parts like those found in erector sets, legos or machines. These parts are tinkered with into the various apparatus constructions you see. I have a tremendous interest in engineers and their ability to take parts, tools and knowledge to develop and create functional things of value. The film projector is an item I find to be as interesting as filmaking itself. The projector if it were to cease its harmonious operation would leave us without the film performance, we would still have a film but no way to see it in its intended form thus technology acts as the second half of the art. I think of machines, engines, stock material, distribution, warehousing, manufacturing, and production when I paint, not always in this order. The ideas they generate help in translating my experiences into a painting language.

My compositions often play with or emphasize bilateral symmetry like that of a building façade. As in reference to most biological organisms, they are never quite perfect or exact; they give way to varying degrees of mutation. They mirror themselves and deviate all together. They are in the process of conversion or function. Often they can float un-tethered in space or can be anchored in delicate balance. My paintings find themselves at a tenuous moment, as information is spilling out or focused inward. They imply scientific origins but reveal no concrete datum. As cropped spaces from a larger scale world, my paintings imply the viewfinder or aperture. Unlike the traditional window view in historical art these attempt to ride a fine median between conventional space and modern flatness. These paintings use windows within windows to echo the computer interface. They attempt to be unplugged luminescent beacons of a new program immediately abandoned by software developers.

My palette often focuses on high key colors in an effort to compete with and compliment the every day experiences of advertising, objects, architecture, garments, etc. Gradients and broad sweeps of color can converge and diverge over super sweet day-glow hues in ways that fold space and insinuate dynamic range. Natural, soft, hard, and toxic colors spill out and over an empty terrain of storefront displays. I include graphic and pattern elements as a way of broadening the image reference pool to engulf cultural and popular motifs. These examples would include elements from street fashion and popular objects in our natural and synthetic environments, i.e. the ubiquitous faux animal pattern.

The Danimal exploits series refers my interest in the animal print, to utilize natural variety found in wildlife and the human exploitation of it. I find a pervasive reference to the animal kingdom on bed sheets, t-shirts, panties, purses, and overcoats. At once both meaningful and banal, the status of high and lowbrow consumer culture, the animal print has become a loaded symbol of luxury and the cheap exotic. The zebra, leopard, tiger, peacock, etc. all have come to symbolize desire and beauty. I imagine if tigers had lawyers would they collect royalties for the use of their stripes on pillows and coffee mugs? What if animal species could protest the copyright and trademark infringement over their respective brands? I continue the exploitation and abstracting of animal forms into a new value system. Authentic skins and furs continue to be held as valuable commodities in poaching markets, but the world at large has moved on towards the synthetic, towards the extrapolated marks of exotic beauty. I re-hunt these new abstracted animals across the broad American plains from Vegas showbiz glitz to the fashion glamor of 5th Avenue and fluorescent isles of Wal-Mart.

Catcher in the Rye: J.D. Salinger: We Loved You

2010-01-28T11:22:00.000-08:00

Catcher in the Rye: J.D. Salinger: A True Story, No Kidding, I Mean Really.

It took me roughly ten years to pull myself together and return to this book and actually read it. It was assigned when I was a High School student and I never completed the damn thing for what ever reason. I’m not sure if I was too immature, too scared, or just plain lazy not to read it but I didn’t. As it turned out, I was more like Holden then I could have ever even imagined.

A week before my 26th birthday I decided to buy another copy of the famed book Catcher in the Rye. I picked up the edition at my favorite book shop in NYC with the original cover design loosely drawn depicting the books last scene, not the rainbow student edition. I think it was that bland cover that made me never want to pick it up; the minimal design never caught me when I was young and it still doesn’t. I wanted to finally come to terms with that one novel that kept resting in the back of my mind all those years and meet Holden Caulfield once and for all.

I was hooked from the first page. When I came to the book I had finally lived a little and been through the likes of Kerouac, Hemingway and even Steinbeck. Salinger’s character Holden and I became good friends in my mind, honestly. No kidding. I mean I really wanted to give old Jane a buzz. I did. The book was released in 1951 and here I am reading this in 2010 and I dig it like none other. I understand it. I get underneath it and Holden has got a hold on me like we see the world through the same eyes. When people say please, it depresses me too. It actually does.

The last scene of the book when Holden finally realizes his decision and enjoys the moment we both share in the revelation that is coming home. On my way back to Brooklyn after my long day at work and the gym I finished the book with that feeling you get when you are not too sad to let go but also excited for what will happen next even though you are only left in your own isolation.

I finished this wonderful story and I felt like I knew something intimate about its author. As I finished this story in silence J.D. Salinger was also slipping into his own. He would die that same day Wednesday January 27th of natural causes. He was 91.

I sit here now Thursday afternoon. My fiancé Katya sent me the news. I remain stunned that after a decade of keeping myself away from this powerful story, I finish the day he died. Full closure.

Immortality in art, it’s why we make it right?

"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."
~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 26

Selections from: The Jazz Series: Spring 2005

2009-12-01T18:14:00.000-08:00

In New York

When we're dancing
cheek to cheek,
ask if I love you
and make a funny face
You're here in my arms
heart of mine,
I want to be happy.
Just a lucky so and so,
stompin' at the Savoy
in summertime.
You go to my head,
But who cares?
It's alright with me
But now its my turn now
and it is a lovely day
today in New York

_____

Together Now

That sweet embraceable you
I'd dolphin dance in to a blues walk
like someone in love
like the old folks in summertime.
We can boogie-woogie
under old devil moon
only seven steps from heaven.

Just you, just me, and out
of no where, polka dots
and moon beams.
Let's watch what happens
Tangerine tenderly
my funny valentine.

_____

Perdido

We made Giant Steps
through autumn leaves
softly as in the morning sunrise
darn that dream
days of wine and roses
I jumped for joy night and day
when we fell from heaven
I still remember you
and quiet nights spent
on the sunny
side of the street

_____

Lady Day

As time goes by
In my solitude
I'll be seeing you
You were my thrill
My old flame
I'll cover the waterfront
Trav'lin' light
Until the real thing comes along
A dream of life
Say it with a kiss
That's all i ask of you
I'll never be the same
I'm funny that way
Carelessly
Foolin' my self
This is a fine romance

_____

To John

Bye-Bye Blackbird
And deal old Stockholm.
When the lazy bird
riding the blue train
locomotion awaits
the wise one
where crescent moons
and velvet sunsets
shine down on Avalon
west bound
til' Sunday,
remember your lady,
that promise of
a love supreme.

Late Nights and American Muses

2009-11-28T21:21:00.000-08:00

9/7

All by your lonesome waiting for the clock to strike at the midnight hour wondering, why? Why not sleep? You’re too tired to get up and too busy to stop thinking about it, so why not talk to yourself instead? The bottle of cheap red wine you bought at the Russian liquor store down the street that you’ve been drinking out of won’t save you now. No matter what happens you’ll still be a transplanted white suburbanite from half way across this broken dreamland misplaced like a peanut in a bag of skittles.

You were born in the country but never lived there. Yours is a world of fluorescent lights and store bought goods. Stand there tomorrow at your stove-top and contemplate the universe contained in the thin shell of the free-range chicken egg. Whirl your self into a frenzy and be mystified over Nina Simone and the wonder that is a halved grapefruit in sunlight. But for now in the waning minutes of this day, pinewood dust, the same color as your pale skin, is littered across your new apartment floor and arms sore from cross cutting on the miter box for what felt like the same time it took to grow the once majestic tree rests now neatly at your feet like fresh snow on Christmas morning.

Charlie Parker fills your mood of discontent over 11:57. Solo to a new low and swing back up into an early morning serenade but don’t forget to slow dance with your dreams on full moon beams streaming in like mp3 downloads off the worldwide void. Boom. The clock hath stricken and thy still awake.

Crash! The sound of beer bottles cluttered. Let’s dance together. Labor Day. Living a Labor Day life. This is your life.

There is no poetry that could encircle the slide guitar notes of Robert Johnson singing his tune about life in this great big American party.

You stand at a crossroads and look East and West. What’s it going to be junior?

9/10

Mind up in a bind while trying to find a piece to the pie. “Can I get a regular slice?”, two dollars and fifty cents to happiness, why not? Get it while you can. Keep it moving over hot sauce and fresh basil. Belly full dig deeper into the bottom of that bottle and find the ancient wisdom of old sages in fermented harmony with the universe. Roll back the kind wishes and start saving them for rainy days in this autumn season. They say winter will be cold and the women are covering up their toes in leather shoes and boots. Combat operations commence on the rainy days sure to come. It’s the end of summer-skirts, as overcast skies roll on till Spring.

11/29

Kick back Jack with that old indigo mood on parade. It’s just a smooth brush stroke or two to the point of being happy or not so make it happen kiddo. With the sweet taste of Mexican beer on my lips I listen to Mississippi John Hurt wound me in gentle song. He had the softest touch of all of them combined. He could kill a man with his delicate old hands on that guitar. We all have to walk that lonesome valley our selves. It’s just that when I started I took along with me a bunch of stuff to schlep for the trip to keep me occupied. I got a harmonica in one hand, a beer in the other, and I’m toting a wagon filled with a case of Tennessee whiskey, paint, and a wet canvas that won’t leave me the hell alone. Now if I'd a only brought some ice.

Ari Fish: Run Away

2009-08-24T18:30:00.000-07:00

8.24.09 Brooklyn, NY

I am sitting in our small apartment with boxes and stuff in half-packed-mode for our move in a few days to a new apartment, still in, you guessed it, Brooklyn. As Truman Capote once said, "I live in Brooklyn, by choice." My girlfriend, Katya and I just finished watching the internet bootleg copy of Project Runway's opening to the 2009 season filmed in LA. An old friend and classmate of mine, Ari Fish, was a contestant on the show, in which she only lasted one episode.

Thoughts on the matter would not warrant much discussion, but I figured I'd procrastinate further and try to give my own two cents to perhaps make sense and shed some light for all you out there scratching your heads saying "huh?"

It starts in Kansas City. Mid-Coast America. Where is that? Well, it's on the Missouri River on the border between the states of Kansas and Missouri, mostly Missouri. Historically, it began as a French fur trading outpost and grew into the last main gateway for Western expansion of early settlers California bound. Later as infrastructures developed K.C. functioned as a major cattle and freight train junction with its relative central geographic placement in the U.S. As time would have it, it's primary contacts to the outside world were the railroads and roadways in all directions with St. Louis and Chicago to the East, and Wichita, Omaha, Denver, and eventually L.A. to the far West. Isolated? Somewhat, then there was Radio, WWII, TV, Interstates and the Internet.

Fast forward to the 20th-21st centuries and put yourself in K.C. and you have a major urban oasis in the middle of an industrially-federally-subsidized-farmed America with less isolation and more people, highways, sprawls, etc.

In the middle of all this is Midtown. No, not the one you might think of with Rockefeller Center. We are talking about a small region with a few art museums, the Kansas City Art Institute, West Port, and Broadway Cafe. Not the kind you'd find in Times Square, but Kansas City style, a local favorite coffee shop made even more famous by driving a Starbucks out of business.

Kelly's, an old Irish bar converted from a carriage house in the West Port neighborhood that railroad men used to frequent back when they still hadn't connected the country, stands as the area's oldest building. Legend has it that during the Civil war it even served as a stop on the underground railroad where slaves were freed from their shackles and that the chains are still in the basement to this day. The Art Institute's former star professor Thomas Hart Benton who taught Jackson Pollock everything he never used, used to hit up the joint weekly as did many art students and teachers for years.

So an Art Institute in the middle of the country? Yes. It makes sense if you want a cheaper city, with room to work and without all the B.S. of LA or NY. Ari, a local of the Kansas City area, myself from the Chicago area, and many other Mid-westerners as well as coastal dwellers were drawn and continue to be drawn to the best-kept-secret tucked between the Mississippi and the Rockies. So where am I going?, well its back to Ari.

Ari Fish. In school for four years together she always amazed me with her approach to work and in conversation, which was natural, flexible, and challenging. If I said she was a socially responsible free spirit renegade, she might disapprove of labels. She is the ideal student-- a perpetual learner that continues to evolve herself and others. Ari always had an edge and was comfortable on that edge where she could operate with intensity and with the unique experimental nature only she could provide. I have distinct and vague memories of us all working in studio and her ideas, projects and comments always surprised me and kept me guessing. Russell Ferguson served as a major instructor and muse giving her more fuel for the fire. In her studies she changed majors from painting to ceramics and continued to develop her unique vision and most importantly, continued asking questions. As Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge."

As I mentioned earlier, the city and all the creative life it generates acts as both an insulated incubator and distorted amplifier of coastal influences. The major universities in K.C. and with Kansas University in Lawrence Kansas 45 minutes away function as the community's life-blood bringing in fresh views and talent every year. Kansas City, unlike many American cities, has over the years (with it's unique geography) cultivated its own collective voice. Bustling within these social communities, artists are able to live and work in affordable spaces that would make anyone in NY cry if I mentioned rents. This said, I believe Ari is one of our finest examples of creative tenacity fueled with absolute fearlessness. Let the cream rise, as the saying goes.

It is no real surprise that Ari's work was not accepted by the judging panel, as Michael Kors said, "Maybe I'm not smart enough to get it?" This may or may not be the case but it sets the tone that I'd like to convey which is this, though the show presented her as 'spacey' there is a tremendous amount of energy and volume in space which if you follow logical reasoning, gives you room to grow and flourish. Ari will continue on a path unique and with the vision and people behind her that matter. We wish her the best in Germany from Brooklyn, where she is working on a new fashion collection in Berlin.

If you are still scratching your head. Don't jump to conclusions. You don't walk out on a first date by accident. As Buckminster Fuller once stated in regards to expectations, "There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it's going to be a butterfly."

_________________________

Dan Bina
Artist
Blogger
NY-er
KCAI class of 2006

Jack Kerouac: Dharma Bums

2009-08-18T12:25:00.000-07:00

In the last few pages of his second major novel Kerouac's character Ray Smith as a fire lookout at Desolation Peak Washington writes in his lengthy solitude-

...I'd go out to my snowfield and dig out my jar of purple Jello and look at the white moon through it. I could feel the world rolling toward the moon. At night while I was in my bag, the deer would come up from the lower timber and nibble at leftovers in tin plates in the yard: bucks with wide antlers, does, and cute little fawns looking like otherworldly mammals on another planet with all that moonlight rock behind them.
Then would come wild lyrical drizzling rain, from the south, in the wind, and I'd say "The taste of rain, why kneel?" and I'd say "Time for hot coffee and a cigarette, boys," addressing my imaginary bhikkus. The moon became full and huge and with it came Aurora Borealis over Mount Hozomeen ("Look at the void and it is even stiller," Han Shan had said in Japhy's translation)...

4-2-09

2009-07-31T20:58:00.000-07:00

N. A.M. NYC.

Note-

A heavy fog has set in this morning crossing the Manhattan Bridge gazing Southward towards the Brooklyn, the city looks as if on the edge of the world. It just ends. The old stone bridge becomes the last and only crossing joining the two strange remaining islands on Earth. Then begins the light misty void extending into infinity as it swallows up all that it can off into a sublime unknown.

Wedding Toast: 4-10-09

2009-07-26T19:37:00.000-07:00

N. A.M. NYC

Friday. One of the the most glorious six letter words in the English language, particularly at 5 p.m. that very day. A good day to be alive & well with sunshine & slight soreness from yesterday's workout. A hot coffee in hand sipping caffeinated life along the N train tracks. Greta and Aaron are having there party tonight. Ellisa is coming up from B-more to visit for a few days into next week for some acro-yoga classes. Hopefully she'll call off the bus and we can bring her up to the party too. Speaking of the party, I need to solidify my thoughts on the matter. A toast is in order for this evening's festivities. It's not every day that these sorts of things happen to your friends. May I forgive myself for any trespassing into cliche territory and for any trampling into the cheese. Here goes:

A.G. Toast

I have not had the distinct pleasure of knowing our friends Aaron and Greta as long as some of us here this evening, but I would like to note that through their generosity of spirit and friendship I know them no less in terms of their love for each other or for their love of us who have have come to celebrate their joyous marriage. To this I say Aaron & Greta, that though you both may defy some conventions, you also exceed expectations and inspire us all in your love for each other, that when two are married they remind us that not only is love possible but it is the most important fundamental thing in the universe, more powerful than gravity, it binds us in ways that can't be quantified and is thusly mysterious & magical in nature. So I thank you both for bringing the magic to each other and for sharing your new lives with all of us, for inspiring us and for making us once again believers in the power of that most mysterious force called love.

Quote from somewhere memory forgotten past: "All of life can be summed up as an approach to or a departure from the phrase, I love you."

Hope this goes well. Didn't want to be the guy with the long one or the zen guy with a word or two.

Grasping a New Aesthetic Experience:

2009-07-19T10:25:00.000-07:00

7-11-09 A.M. Brklyn

From, break it you buy it -to- break it and send it back.

In many corners of this hyper interconnected universe of pattern interfaces and system functions ever expanding experiments on themes go by on and on like water flowing up and down the East River. Depending on what time your train crossed the Manhattan Bridge, the Atlantic will be pushing its salty waters up stream or the Long Island Sound will be rushing down with fresh drops of Hudson and Harlem Rivers. Anyway you look at it, it’s still all greenish brown.

Greenish, Brownish, ish is the new it. If it is, than it is. If it’s definitive, it’s pushy. If it’s vague, it’s noncommittal-- but ish-ish is the new real. It is now-ish.

Whatever art I have been seeing around me is ish. It is good-ish, bad-ish, faux-naïve-ish, and commercial-ish. The lines have been blurred that once separated the distinctions. Were there distinctions? I see artists working toward new problems in a way that is best described in an observation I had in my youth where a caged puppy had defecated and then comsumed his own matter. It’s efficient, contained and theatrical. It is banal, ostentatious, awkward, beautiful, poetic, silly, fun and sarcastic. Sometimes making a joke of the joke, these young artists are seeing themselves see. Not unlike self-consciously trying not to be self-conscious.

Our work, our Art is earthy, lofty, important, meaningless, synthetic, organic, plastic, biodegradable, recycled, handmade, industrial, fake, real, toxic, edible, wild, and domesticated. It is for the individual and for no one all the same. It is both consumption and production, like puppy.

What else could we know but what we know, what we’ve lived? Live our world of online, All-Mart consumer frenzy terrorism fragmented material culture of multi-stage chemical compounded experiences, we web surf, channel surf, reality surf, text, sext, smoke, joke, breed, feed, drink, think-ish.

Tonight like last night they hit the crumbling streets in hipster cigarette packs through the borough on their way to the infirmary. Can you swim to the other side of this anywhere?

Skip it man. You’re flipping your lid off like a soda pop top tab tossed out from a cab. Who’s got the money for the fizz, who for the guy driving this mess?

Art Notes: Fuzzy Math and Dirty Notations

2009-07-06T18:53:00.000-07:00

First Published on Neo Images, 2007. A site for Artists and their works. www.neoimages.com

The work addresses the multiplex which is the self. Seeking the appropriate language for a particular idea the work varies greatly in appearance from photo based painting to neo-geo abstraction and collage, narrative hybrid images, and sculpture. Several major thematic origins in my work give way to the inadequacy for a single visual mode. My interest in manifold ideas can be traced to many artists and other intellectuals as well as from the every day experience, which really stems further back to the notion that any individual needs variation in experience in order to remain stimulated. The notion of variation and an exploratative process can also be traced back to material nature in that one element A can have useful properties vs. another B which also has useful properties but both AB may not be usefull all of the time or in tandem. The works in their various forms have each in a small way been a piece to the larger whole which is the autobiography.

1.30.09.

2009-06-14T12:22:00.000-07:00

N. A.M. NYC

Today you hark back to a time when you remember headphones being less popular, wait, when was that? You're too young to be imagining these things. You begin to regret their existence. A middle aged mother of two with raw yellow hide boots with a pink ipod sits before you jamming hard in the morning hour. Many people find it as necessary as caffeine to blast themselves and the innocent passerby's with sophisticated tastes in Euro-trash drum and bass madness. Electrical acrobatics. Theory: If one is to listen to 'young' people's party music then one must feel young. Life is a party. Your morning commute well spent. A conscious effort to hold on to youthfulness in contemporary life turned into bad habit. Thumping away into oblivion behind oversized shades of the fashionable variety.

A red bag in your peripheral vision is echoed by another site of a red wool coat and red clad ipod. I begin to sense a theme. A light blue eyed brunette with rain boots on a sunny day? Clearly an optimist. Purple leather Kors bag can go. Leather is not allowed to be purple, you say to yourself. If so, then McDonald's would have never existed because all the peoples of the the world would have joined our Hindu brethren in worshipping the holly cows. Luckily Micky D's exists, but what do you care? You haven't been to that Irish restaurant since their colors were green and gold. The Manhattan Bridge.

The misty morning city basking in the glow of the rising sun. Question: Are large rings a symbol of deep insecurities? Two women side by side, one with a large rock that could take your face off, the other, a modest band. Whom is happier? Roughly both these women are the same age possibly batting on different teams, but really. Rock lady is done up to cover, the other seems confident and natural. My attention is diverted to a sudden realization that large bags are 'in'. Hmmm. Also, are ironed and creased blue jeans a symbol of organization, care, neglect, or indifference to norms? It's too much to ponder. 8:45 A.M. Almost there.

1-29-09-

2009-06-14T09:11:00.000-07:00

1.29.09. N. A.M. NYC.

New York City. Say it again slower. New York City. Never gets old. Or does it? Helicopter flying high over Midtown observing traffic developments on the West Side Highway and FDR drive. Police sirens, fire-trucks, cabs, trains, buses, people, cellphones. It's 5:02, time to roll on out of here. Make your way down the street to your train. Swipe it. Transfer at 34th St. Herald Sq. to somewhere. It doesn't really matter because your train line is unattractive no matter what time you ride. Once in a while a gem surfaces, makes bold headlines across your short attention span and fades back into obscurity faster then whence they came. The tragedy of a glimpse. A diamond in a passing train breaks your feeble reality and it's only 5:09. Women read a gold jewelry catalogue fully illustrated lusting over the gaudy lumps of yellow metal. Good, they leave. Off to spend. But what you ask am I left with? Alone in a packed train car of tired people after a long day's struggle. It's only Thursday. At least it's the same day for everybody. So then again you're not that lonely. A college student pours over her text book. The oppressive weight of an object of distant memory with their low budget design, awkward layouts and outdated graphics filled to the brim with stock photography and jaded illustrations from artists who used to have dreams and aspirations to attain much more. She hauls book and all away. Why? You ask yourself do all Chinese markets seem to use the red plastic bags exclusively. 5:51, you've reached your Brooklyn time zone. You notice Avocado green velvet track pants, you suddenly remember this is why you moved here. New York City, New York City. Living in the land of Kings.

__________________

Holding the train door open he stepped into the car laughing. His cousin followed. They chose a place to stand. Though choice is used sparingly, after all it is rush hour. He took off his fur-lined hood revealing an enormously large scar and pronounced veins in his forehead. As he smiled they bulged as if he was lifting strenuously. He wore an aquiline nose and a sinister smile. Proud machismo. His hair glossed with whatever gel suited him, tied back into a small tail. He glances about the car looking for what cannot be discerned. Chewing gum he rests against the do not lean on door. A large bag in hand, black and red with a shoulder strap. It’s been a long day.

1-29-09: Sushi and Brooklyn Car Vandals

2009-06-14T09:03:00.000-07:00

1.29.09.N.NYC.AM

I took Katya out for Sushi last night. We hit our local spot and ordered a beautiful meal. Three ultra fancy rolls and one old stand by that’s our favorite. I ordered Edamame, Hot Sake and all. Our dish was served in a triangular format over the large white porcelain plate. Each roll was set in slight arcs making the arrangement appear as a negative space between three packed circles, or women’s underwear depending on your state of mind. We enjoyed ourselves very much. It was a D.I.Y. gift from my mother. I still needed to cash the check. Money is tight but I was not allowed to use it on anything other than enjoyment.

Sunday past, the car was smashed into. Ugly. The Driver side mirror, front window, and whole side panels were damaged. Luckily the car was drivable. It ran about 300$ for glass and a mirror, no note. Do people leave notes? “Hey man, sorry, here’s my info.” No. This is Brooklyn, Fuggedaboudit! Needless to say my mood was in the depths that made things wear down thin between K and I. She is such a great partner and I am thankful to her for all that she does. More so than I may express or that she may realize. A pure at heart champion if you were to ask me. I regret lacking finesse at times of which her sensitivity and romantic heart demand.

The past few days and weeks have been taxing emotionally, financially and otherwise yet we are healthy. The past two evenings were very fun and romantic and we enjoyed our selves. This is addicting. I think we both remembered some of the important things. Love and tenderness.

Birthday Blues

2009-06-14T07:38:00.000-07:00

1.23.09 N. A.M. NYC.

Reflections on Yesterday

It was a relatively normal working day for me. I don't take days off for these sorts of things. Back track. Katya woke up early and prepared an enjoyable meal of biscuits and sausage gravy, OJ and fresh coffee. It was so nice to spend the morning hour with her. We even took the train together. The workday as mentioned was fine. A photography deadline for our March catalogue and lots of incoming property to sort through set a brisk pace for the day. I let out to a few here and there and the word spread. People invest a great deal of energy and excitement into these anniversaries.

Emails between mom and myself contained wonderful moments of truth and reality. By the time she was my age now, she’d already mothered three of us, and undergone knee surgery, endured my brother and his condition, a relatively fresh marriage and so much more. I was thinking of her and a tremendous amount of things that I began sensing were far beyond what I would be capable of dealing with as effectively as she had. She wrote to me that there was no need to compare the two of us in any way. We all are different and confront our challenges in the best ways we can. She expressed a desire to regain some of the strength of her youth but she reminded me and reconfirmed what I’ve been doing here, whom I’m with and how far I’d come. This was not without the emotional charge you could only expect from one’s mother. This dialogue left me with more to reflect on and I was able to slightly enjoy the day more.

For me the birthday is that of being more a mile marker of one’s mortality, the ever-fleeting nature of life and change as we age toward the inevitable truth that waits in the corner of the room patiently. It sometimes or mostly feels like this.

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, reminds one of the delicacy and precious precariousness of life which is at its base level borrowed time. A reality that let me enjoy myself last evening at the Blind Tiger Ale House in the West Village. Note: A blind pig, or tiger or any number of other names is an old speak easy code name for a bar.

6:30 P.M. was the marked time for arrival. My friend Aaron from work and I rolled down to the spot arriving real early to a bustling crowd of middle age men. The slow but fun realization of which settled in that this was not just a typical after work bar with a male majority on a weeknight. This became clear with several glances I caught from other patrons. (Train Note: Young woman in cerulean blue tights with red knit leggings knee high, black miniskirt and navy style sailor’s coat with knit beige solid hand mittens Union Sq.)

In short many friends arrived and we proceeded to have a grand evening filled to the brim with beer and then pizza near the Vanguard and further on to Reggio’s cafe which I was less moved by than it’s history. I picked up that tab from our party as a way to thank the crew for coming out in the cold night to play. (Train Note: Black suede boots with grey fur lining fringe. Same woman as before off to class according to her dialogue with her over charged class mate presumably.)

A first encounter with Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds

2009-06-14T07:34:00.000-07:00

1-7-09 F. A.M. NYC.

It’s cold and rainy this morning and very hard to get up. Last night I was out with Katya and Alexis. An old Okie friend of A's from their High School days lives here too. A decent bass man as it turns out who sent along an invitation to hear his band. A real cool guy named Aidan. We set up with some drinks in the dark room at the back of old Parkside Lounge in New York's L.E.S. The band played super well. An 8piece crew with one chap out they still hit it hard with strong roots in Funk, Soul, Blues and Rock. The lead singer was a brown hair, light build, easy on the eyes beauty in a purple pleated dress with an open back halter-top. Arleigh's got chops for sure and if you don't believe it, she even had some moves that made the women’s heads turn. Red lights set a mood on stage and the grooves they were laying down were fit for a good time. I had a feeling while watching that I had finally found some people of my own generation that played music, at least the kind that I subscribe listening to.

When the band was setting up it took only a second to realize they were not a bunch of trust fund hipsters. These cats were authentic musicians that came howling from the great halls of Jazz, Blues, Reggae & Rock. You could tell all this by the way they blew a few notes, tuning away some colorful riffs into the room. The longhaired harmonica man looked like my father 30 years removed. He's the brother of the singer and cousins to the drummer man, Katya’s favorite. We had a grand time and I had a strong feeling we’d be seeing more of this group in the future.

Note: We had dinner near by at local place that ripped us off by $10 or so. A New York momment, you cannot charge $7 for bad chips and a readymade wholesale salty thimble of guacamole. This poor experience needed some remedy, which was found in a Japanese student run French style dessert place around the way. We enjoyed macaroons, coffee and a hot coco to boot. The macs, they were all good though maybe a half day old, chocolate, green tea, cherry rose and lemon dill. Interesting. After all the happenings and breaking out $50 to settle the score, we took the train back home to Brooklyn in the cold wee hours of our anniversary.

New Years Eve 2008

2009-06-06T08:59:00.000-07:00

12-31-08

New Years Eve 6:03 p.m. I had spent most of the day laid up in bed with a mild fever of 100.8 or 101 tops. Just another day. Called in sick, it happened to be a half-day anyway. Most people were off on their vacations living fun interesting lives. Peaches & cream. A beautiful thing. Been listening to music and watched a documentary on ol’ Kerouac. He first smoked tea with Lester Young at a club uptown, who the hell else gets to say that? I dig. I feel so close to him in so many ways more so than my own brothers, father or friends. He could lay it down & with style & beauty – cool. Cool like when cool was still new. When cool was jazz blowing with smoke out of a saxophone in a dark club on 53^rd St. or a nightspot way out in Frisco, back in a time when Bird was on the radio. What did it sound like then? Did they know they had it that good? K & M are here cooking for tonight’s dinner party at their mother’s. Looks like we might roll out of here at nine to her place. We grabbed some sushi at our local place at 3 p.m. for lunch. Always hits the spot. Always about $20 bucks give or take a few Washingtons. What I ask myself are my resolutions for the year? Well, I am loosing weight at the club, gotta get into shape. Keep painting and apply to publications, but the real deal. Be happier with it all. The girl I kissed to start off this decade/millennium is getting married in two weeks. I’m happy for her. Life, love, it’s funny that way. I say yes. Yes to it all. It’s cold outside, going to have to keep warm feeling almost sorry for all those Times Square bums in the windy bitter cold tonight partying it up. Red noses, ears pink as valentines, noses running, and cheeks rosy. White people’s faces show the real temperature or what they’ve been drinking. It’s a fitting way to end a rough year for us all, our blood rushing around in a hustle to keep us from freezing in the bitter cold of the midnight hour.

TV? Fuggedaboudit!

2009-06-06T08:30:00.000-07:00

6-6-09

Today the Times reports that according to the latest research polls, approximately 10% of the American population is unprepared for the nation wide switch from analog broadcasting to digital on the 12^th of June. The government has spent 2 Billion on aiding Americans with the transition and has employed AmeriCorps, firefighters, and other public services to aid people in converter box installations. They have delayed the switch over four months to aid in the transition but declare there will be no more delay. Pictured in the Times as the cover image for this story they present three Baltimore women hugging inside their home after one of them, a worker, has installed the device as if it saved their lives.

TV comes up in casual conversation with people the same way books once did in our culture. When I tell people I don’t own a TV many often are shocked with such a notion as to not be able to imagine life without it. An old friend used to refer to it as “the mother box”. This poignantly tells the truth because as an object and lifestyle, it has been deeply imbedded into our collective consciousness raising us for over 60 years.

Now while TV in its various forms has existed since 1927, it wasn’t until 1947 that Americans could begin purchasing ‘affordable’ sets. It was the postwar boom in manufacturing and disposable income and increase in leisure time that allowed this to happen. In 1962 as much as 90% of American households had a TV set.

You see where this is going. Am I in the loony bin? Are TV’s this important? Can we stop and really examine our lives a minute? I suppose I am one of ‘those’ people who had given up on TV a long time ago for things like life or the occasional public radio show. Sure I’ve enjoyed the occasional endless channel surfing at my girlfriend’s mother’s home but it is a passing interest. The economics of the television are too powerful to contend with unless you flip the switch or toss it out the window.

In fact, I invite my fellow Americans to take their precious TVs and toss the things out their windows on June 12^th and go ride bikes this summer. Maybe even talk to your loved ones or walk your dog. Walk a neighbor’s dog, garden, cook, start a social club, brew beer, read, knit, make art, make love, make pancakes. Do anything but sit on your duff and take in the endless stream of commerce. Paddle your way down a river and take in that stream. Just remember your sunscreen.

7-16-08 : Art Notes

2009-04-19T14:05:00.000-07:00

I am pressed to believe in two incongruous notions. One in being a younger artist the work must take all the time it needs in order to develop unaffected by market pressures or recognition. This wisdom comes heart felt from many artists who have first hand experience with the vicissitudes of the creative life. I too agree that proper nutrition should be supplied to the work through time and struggle, a sort of ripeness. However, this 'maturation' approach increasingly appears counter intuitive to an ever changing contemporary existence, one which is filled to the brim with haste and expediency and thus is ever so difficult to contend with. We struggle with a glimmer of hope through our toil we work to survive until our mythological recognition becomes reality or until what we seek comes to fruition. * This is where I Remind myself of the journey as compared to a young sapling which knows it is a tree. It in time will grow broad and strong, tall and full. The sapling in age old wisdom is not in a particular hurry because it always seems to find time to dance in the sunny breeze. That is to say, life as a full experience, the wholeness of it. All tasks in a day through out a lifetime, though some seem banal, do in fact contribute to a larger repertoire- that is the self.

11-4-08

2009-04-12T15:33:00.000-07:00

West Village NYC. -I am sitting in a crowded Manhattan bar with Katya, Vera, Aden. Drinking beers & wines we are discussing our voting experiences this morning. CNN news election coverage is blaring throughout the bar on all TVs. We are among the youthful robust crowd of college graduates, M.A.'s and others excited together over what we are witnessing. What we are sharing. History. Pennsylvania is leaning our way to crowd applause. Good lead with senate majority. Tide has finally turned. Grant Park Chicago looks so beautiful on the screen. The miracle mile never was miracle until today. Optimism is thicker than butter in this humid warm air. Smiles are abundant and hugs are passed along with the drinks. T-shirts, buttons, homemade and those from the campaigns. We remain somewhat cautiously optimistic however I think we are all ready. Then it happens, state by state- swingers are swinging. Tight races, we see projections, the lead seems unreal. Growing more by the minute as each state is cheered by us with thunderous applause. Our country is changing. PA., OH., FL., CA., - OBAMA WINS. A flash of type on the screen, all I can see is blue. We erupt. We hug and dance and kiss with strangers. We scream, we cry, New Yorkers are running through the streets. We are all running throughout America. We celebrate & we announce our time, our place in history. 'Yes We Can'. People smile at strangers in the streets and in the subways, I hear cheers on every corner, every bar and at every stop. In all the places we congregate we celebrate. The belief in our ideals our republic and our next president. Barack Obama. -- It's still hard to imagine this thing that happened today. Yet it happened. I happened to all of us. We all are in it. The air, the energy, it all seems different, familiar but far from it. I tell all my friends and family 'I love you all and welcome to the right side of history.' via text. Then I receive a full list of joyous responses. It happened & it's time to believe.

Art Notes: 11-2-08

2009-04-12T09:20:00.000-07:00

Abstractions- Intuitive and non-narrative, they maintain a slight degree of motion not like animation. The vocabulary of elements that have been used are thought of as parts like those found in erector sets, legos or machines. These parts are tinkered with into the various apparatus constructions you see. I have a tremendous interest in engineers and their ability to take parts, tools and knowledge to develop and create functional things of value. The film projector is an item I find to be as interesting as the film or the art form. This sadly is true in many instances though the projector has fallen to the wayside as an antiquated piece of technology. For sake of point, the projector if it were to cease it's harmonious operation you would not have the film. I think of machines, engines, stock material, distribution, warehousing, manufacturing, production, not always in this order. The ideas they generate help in translating my experiences into a painting language.
I am interested in living a kind of pre-industrial revolution life style of the singular artist in the studio. Then again I like Andy's factory. How does does human experience of time and space change through the machine and info-tech ages into 21st century culture? There are indeed numerous connections that can be traced back into history many strong comparisons but what for the mutations of both individual and cultural value systems? Our sense of time, space and data is drastically altered from those of old, and this is what shapes our reality today. We are different people with the same internal hardware but with different external pressures. If we were cars, we'd be scrapped for better models by now. So much for intelligent designers tinkering the universe into harmony. Someone somewhere along the way through a fatty wrench into the machine if there ever was one to throw.

9-26-08

2009-04-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

Rain all night into morning results in slow start today. Late trains wet weather synonymous, lack of clarity in judgement results in fatal mistake of stepping onto car with fat loud obscene youths full of morning attention deficit disorder and whatnot. Perhaps lack of love and affection at home. Gains pleasure in public performances unsolicited and of lesser quality than worth mentioning. Is humored by abrasive style and friends support her efforts in youthful reckless stupidity. Lack of discipline and structure, respect and otherwise. A sad case of contemporary degradation in this urban habitat. Emphasis on habitat. Animals- just animals.

9-11-08

2009-04-12T08:48:00.000-07:00

9-10-08. Wine in copious amounts result in a night of goofy rambling and doodles in pages prior. Burgers and shakes in Madison Sq. Park. A dinner following an AIGA show. 9-11-08. A.M. Train late this morning platform is full. Woman doing yoga or just stretching. The car is already full. No seat. Is this Thursday? I foresee more wine this evening in Chelsea. One of those days. 9-11-08. P.M. B-Train- No A.C. and delays as it crawls its lowly broken self on down to 34th. MTA. Eventually catch the N where several homeless men in army fatigues cause a ruckus and aromatic bliss necessitating a full out abandon ship at Union Sq. A light walk in fresh air should to you good. Much needed. This diversion in the commute results in a call from K. Jury duty is done, but wait, we must go to aunt and uncle's tonight. No Chelsea, no studio, no wine. "But wait, are we driving?" K. "Well I have to find the car." Visions of thievery dance through my head. The car apparently towed for a parking on a street under repaving orders. "It may be a few blocks away." (possibly). Still not sure if we're driving. I hope she finds it. Woman gives child loud obnoxious toy and encourages button pushing. Clearly by coincidence of outfit, perhaps no 9-5 allows for such fun and luxury. *Note: No noisy toys, O.K.? This has gone on way too long. Everyone around me agrees. Exchanging looks of mutual disgust. Wow. She is proud of herself. With a look of enjoyment. She likes it. Spiteful don't you think?

9-1-08

2009-04-12T07:46:00.000-07:00

Q.P.M.NYC- Where do we place our ideals? Mine float on a 15 degree slope about 12 inches up from my nose. The genius is in the green hand bag. Black leather, the staple diet among American foot wear & fetishism. (periwinkle, herring) Will Century 21 have to change it's name in a few years? How many misses were made before they came up with a name like Target? Was the dart board really full or was it a cop out? The guy next to me has nails longer than Tina Turner's hair in Mad Max. People should want Alexander Calder sculptures for there children. They'll call it Calders for Kids, copies will be made, that way yuppies could collect them all. Train door leaning is O.K. Just stop before you enter the station and before they open. Pink shirt, red back pack, sneaks on to train.

Art Notes: Rectangles 8.08

2009-04-12T07:24:00.000-07:00

The floating rectangles. They seem to be very much like projections on a screen. Projectors and images of that sort are large light and sometimes heavy, they have interested me as objects and ideas since childhood. People project themselves in every act of looking, it is a way to prepare putting your body out into the world. As in James Elkin's The Object Stares Back, what is seen is not what it seems. Vision as it turns out to be is not a passive sense completely within our control. This is comforting. It means we can question, reason and question again. Even question the question. If we have an idea we project that idea out before it can be realized. These projections can take many forms both material and cerebral. My interest is in the aperture. The framed image of the view finder. A prerequisite to the moving image, we experience the world this way. Framed in a generous field of vision yet we have a narrow focal field. If I look at one building closely in Manhattan off the bridges I cant count the windows in another especially the closer I get. This I suppose is a built in editing mechanism that is engaging. It is revealing, in image making it can act as an obvious demarkation like the yellow National Geographic box. It can be made as a subtle hint of blocked out paint rolled over graffiti pieces on brink walls that is a shade too light or dark, but always slightly off.

Spatial Reasoning

2009-04-12T07:16:00.000-07:00

If I stand here and want to walk there do I not in some capacity imagine myself moving there? I project my point of view, my sense of body and effort needed to travel to that point. Only then do I arrive. Yet vision and sight are not entirely reliable. You need good feet.

7-10-08

2009-04-12T06:52:00.000-07:00

Had a splendid evening gallery hoping with Jessica in Chelsea. Saw but one really good show that caught my attention in a crowd of others busy and not so. We, I guided our traveling direction through the crowd and out toward Nathan's place as we were our plans. Nathan, an Englishman who had a raging love affair for banter as he said, "Is the sport of kings". Conveniently this furniture dealers place was located in the proximity of the gallery hood, we walked over to his flat near the village. Nathan buzzed us both up for some conversation and cool beer. Much needed in the July heat. After one round and brief chat Jessica left for Willyburg. We're both fans. *Note: Nathan makes great noodles and has a fine English taste for the choicest rum. Guatemalan is the way to go apparently. Yum rum. Indeed. He is leaving work... I congratulated him on his new quest. And his girlfriend's new show in Philadelphia who was there at the time. Some certainly seem destined for better and bigger things. To quote another Brit buddy, "Onwards and upwards". It's N.Y. The cream of America, the culmination of the U.S.A. milieu. I like oranges, noodles, I.P.A. & ice cream is good too. If life has direction its good to know he's going. A means to an better end.

Art Notes: 6.08

2009-04-12T06:32:00.000-07:00

Centralizing the figure on the ground plane in medieval art and works prior i.e. neolithic imagery including later Celtic design, we see a pattern of vision repeat itself. One of isolation and centrality in image production we may use a phrase such as central point of focus. These organizations support a view of the world which holds up the hierarchical concepts of their authors. Vision and thought are at a separation and reunion of ideas & objects. The mechanical nature of vision gives us only an object and it must be in our focal point before we fully can interpret the information. In art this seems to feed the origin of the icon. It's centrality and separateness from otherness. As bilaterally symmetrical beings we are drawn to symmetry as we are drawn to balance. Most of the worlds languages are written parallel to our horizontal vision or in the very least follow a grid system that utilizes horizon and verticality in tandem. The ground plane and horizon being that which is aligned with our eyes. One could suppose we are laterally inclined, parallel to the earth visually while we stand simultaneously perpendicular to it. We build vertical doors so that we may enter through the middle. We build round man holes in our streets so we can exit the earth through their centers. We make theaters so that we can watch the stage. The conductor orchestrates from the compass point of the arc of his musicians. We enter the world through the center of our mothers wombs. Our eyes lie at the center of our universe.

Game-Papa

2009-04-12T05:42:00.000-07:00

A father slowly realizes that he is out of touch with his young son who as a small boy may have smiled and laughed at his rich sound effects and back rubs in the past but now only seems emotionless. Without response barely aware of anything at all he sits hunched over completely absorbed by the 3 inch video game screen. I think the father is sitting there wondering and even perhaps regretting the purchase he had made to please his son. He is left alone to think of his own father and the conversations he had with him so many years ago. He now sits humming old Chinese harmonies to himself while the boy adjusts his glasses while both thumbs are caught in the button traps of the small device. This thing separates this father and alienates him from the very son beside him. The father appears to be beside himself lost perhaps contemplating the words to his music or what life was like as a boy back in China. He may be hoping things will soon change for the better. He desperately seeks this son's love and affection and feels lost while he stares blankly at the small screen. Any conversation ends its meaning at what subway stop is next. "We're held here momentarily by train supervision- next stop 36th St." Game closes, boredom must have set in instantly, the world doesn't glow like it did before. Now is the time for father's jokes. They both laugh. Silence again. "Stand clear of the closing doors Please."

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