Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts

2/25/12

A.H.R.E.A. (23.02-29.02.2012)

Tras abandonar el bachillerato a la edad de dieciséis, paso los siguientes años en ociosa introspección indefinida. Su indulgente y paciente madre le exhortaba a aprender algún oficio o encontrar un trabajo. Sin embargo, para el joven la idea de un empleo rutinario bajo el yugo de una autoridad resultaba repulsiva.

Fallecido su padre, no había nadie a su alrededor que le dictara qué hacer, así que se ocupó en lo que le apetecía. Pasó algún tiempo deambulando por la ciudad de Linz, visitando museos, asistiendo a la ópera y contemplando el río Danubio, soñando en convertirse en un gran artista. Gustaba de acostarse en la madrugada y salir por las tardes vestido como un flaneur, portando un vistoso bastón de marfil. De regreso a casa solía desvelarse leyendo y dibujando. Más tarde él mismo describiría esos años de adolescencia libre de responsabilidad como la época más feliz de su vida.

Su único amigo fue otro joven soñador, llamado Augusto, quien quería ser músico. Se conocieron en la ópera en Linz. Augusto era un buen escucha, un gran interlocutor fascinado por él, que solía pasar horas hablando solo sobre sus aspiraciones y sueños de reconocimiento. Más tarde Augusto describió la personalidad de su amigo como “violenta y tensa”, puesto que solo admitía juicios aprobatorios y no toleraba ser corregido.

A lo largo de su juventud no tuvo pareja sentimental alguna. Sin embargo cultivó el interés obsesivo por una chica rubia llamada Deborah. Solía contemplarla al caminar e incluso la seguía en sus recorridos. También le escribió varios poemas, mas nunca se los entregó ni se armó de valor para presentarse, por lo que prefirió resguardarla en sus fantasías. Él le aseguraba a su amigo Augusto que podía comunicarse con ella telepáticamente, incluso que profesaban admiración recíproca. Mientras tanto, mostraba terribles celos de la cercanía que ella pudiese tener con otros hombres. La realidad es que Deborah nunca se enteró del interés que le despertaba. Años más tarde cuando se enteró del (entonces reconocido) admirador, expresó una gran sorpresa, incluso recordó haber recibido una extraña carta anónima en aquella época.

Su peculiar forma de ver el mundo, nutrida de fantasía, comenzó a definirse gradualmente. Visitó con frecuencia bibliotecas para tomar en préstamo numerosos libros de mitología nórdica e historia alemana. También estuvo profundamente inspirado por las piezas de ópera de Wagner, así como de sus míticas fábulas paganas traspasadas de luchas contra odiados enemigos. Su amigo recordaba que tras haber presenciado la emotiva “Rienzi”, se transformó como si estuviese poseído. En esa ocasión ambos subieron a la cima de una colina donde comenzó a hablarle a Augusto adoptando una extraña tonalidad de voz sobre una supuesta misión que dirigiría para llevar al pueblo hacia la libertad; narración similar a la que constituye dicha ópera de Wagner.

A la edad de diecisiete hizo su primer viaje a Viena, capital del imperio y centro del arte, la música, y la cultura tradicional Europea. Con algo de dinero de su madre, durante esa primavera planeaba visitar la opera y estudiar las obras en la famosa galería del Museo de la Corte. Sin embargo, se sintió subyugado por lo magnificente de la arquitectura local. En él afloraba un gran interés por diversas construcciones, al grado que podía dibujar imágenes detalladas de edificios que solo había contemplado en alguna ocasión. También gustaba de imaginar el potencial de ciertos edificios que podían ser mejorados, así como posibles modificaciones de paisajes citadinos. Así permanecía horas observando inmuebles como la ópera y el parlamento, a la par del famoso Anillo de Viena.

El talento natural para el dibujo había estado manifiesto desde su niñez. Éste incluso había sido reconocido por los instructores del bachillerato. Sin embargo, en aquellos años no estuvo en una situación favorable para desarrollarlo pues su desinterés académico y falta de cooperación lo hacían desistir de cualquier estudio. Años más tarde, para escapar del efecto real de ese fracaso y evitar el caer en la monotonía asfixiante de un oficio ordinario, concentró su esperanza en el anhelo de realizarse como un artista trascendente. Entonces optó por inscribirse en la prestigiosa Academia de Bellas Artes de Viena. A la edad de dieciocho, dispuso del dinero de su herencia y se mudo a Viena para estudiar arte. Para entonces su madre sufría de cáncer de mama y había sido operada sin éxito el mismo año. Sin embargo, la ambición por ser artista fue mayor que la consideración de quedarse a su lado.

Asentado en Viena, asistió al examen de admisión de dos días para la escuela de pintura en la Academia. Con seguridad de sobra y confiando en el resultado positivo esperó la aceptación, sin embargo, el revés del rechazo lo golpeó como un relámpago. Sus pruebas de dibujo fueron desaprobadas y no fue admitido, hecho que lo cimbró significativamente. Entonces acudió a la Academia en busca de una explicación. La institución alegó que sus dibujos mostraban una falta de talento para la pintura artística y una deficiente apreciación de la forma humana. Aún así, le comunicaron que tenía cierta habilidad para la arquitectura.

Probar suerte en la escuela de arquitectura sin el título de bachillerato requerido le pareció una opción poco probable. Entonces decidió volver al examen de pintura el siguiente año. Pero antes de su segundo intento fue abatido por una depresión que lo hizo abandonar Viena y regresar a casa, donde para su infortunio, su madre moría de cáncer.


7/19/11

how to make anything signify anything


Courtesy of the George C. Marshall Research Library. Lexington, Virginia

7/5/11

cement cake

Mix equal parts cement and flour. Place a pan of this powder out next to a pan of water. The rats eat the cement, then they drink the water, and by the next morning their bowels have turned to concrete.

6/16/10



Art is making something out of nothing and selling it. -Frank Zappa

3/29/10

29/03/2010 (NY Times)



As long as there have been homeless people sleeping in Times Square, there have been social workers and city officials trying to persuade them to leave.

In the past, the homeless were offered a free ride to one of the city’s warehouse-like shelters. These days, workers for nonprofit groups help people move into apartments, keeping track as the number of the chronically homeless in Times Square goes down.

According to their records, by 2005, there were only 55. Last summer, it was down to 7.

Now there is one.

His name is Heavy, and he has lived on the streets of Times Square for decades. Day after day, he has politely declined offers of housing, explaining that he is a protector of the neighborhood and cannot possibly leave, said the workers who visit him every day.

Yet they are determined to get through to Heavy, the last homeless holdout in Times Square.

“I just have this dream that all of a sudden something will snap, and he’ll say, I’d love to have housing,” said Amie Pospisil, an associate director at Common Ground Community, a nonprofit that conducts street outreach. “I don’t rule out that it could happen.”

Little is known about Heavy, even his full name. Heavy is a nickname, part of his last name, a fact he surrendered after more than a year of daily visits from workers. He declined to be interviewed.

According to neighbors and social workers, he is a gentle presence, possibly delusional and mentally ill, a quiet man who does not harass passers-by or panhandle aggressively. An employee in a deli on Eighth Avenue said that he usually gave Heavy a few pieces of bread at lunchtime. Neighbors bring him hot coffee, loose change and warm clothing in the winter.

“He is a sweetheart,” said an 82-year-old woman who gave her name as Nanny and stopped to talk near her home on 48th Street, where she has lived for 44 years. “He sees me coming and says, ‘Hi, Mommy,’ and I say, ‘Hi, honey.’ And I give him his quarter, and I go on with my business.”

The most recent annual estimate of the number of homeless people sleeping on the streets of New York showed an increase, but Times Square has been an exception. Heavy is the last member of what social workers called the Times Square Seven, the only homeless people remaining last summer out of the dozens they had been placing in housing for years.

Of the seven, three men were regularly sleeping on the steps of churches. All of them had been homeless for a long time — on average, 17 years. One man, a middle-aged Southerner, had been homeless for 40 years.

One by one, from last September to January, the men were convinced to accept housing.

Except Heavy.

“I think it’s fair to say that we gave all seven people the same attention and effort,” Ms. Pospisil said. “Heavy is still there.”

The outreach teams had long since memorized his location and his habits. For a long stretch, he had been camped out on Seventh Avenue, until a city sanitation crew disposed of his belongings, which had become an eyesore on the sidewalk. Then he found a new spot nearby, under the fire escape of a theater. Now he is usually seen around the corner of 48th Street and Seventh Avenue, a block or two from the heart of Times Square.

During the day, Heavy is typically seen wearing a red knit cap, sipping coffee and smoking a cigarette, sitting on a makeshift chair near his black-and-red suitcase. At night, outreach workers often find him nestled within a thin cardboard box, near the scaffolding of a building under construction.

Heavy was far from alone on the streets of Times Square in the 1990s, when he began sleeping there frequently in the midst of a roiling mess of drug dealing, prostitution and crime.

“Times Square has always been this signpost for whatever’s going on in New York City, for good or ill, and when there was a very heavy homeless population, it all contributed to a larger perception that New York City had lost control of the public realm,” said Tim Tompkins, the president of the Times Square Alliance. “I think there was a time at the very beginning of the homelessness issue when it was like, let’s squeeze the balloon and get them out of the way.”

But tactics changed. Nonprofit groups began sharing information about the homeless people who were anchored in Times Square, gathering names, ages, medical conditions and the personal issues that might be keeping them homeless.

The street outreach teams from Common Ground and the Goddard Riverside Community Center, both nonprofit groups that hold contracts with the city, began maintaining close ties with the Times Square Alliance and the Police Department. More units of supportive housing and specialized shelter beds were opened up to the chronically homeless, as an alternative to the sometimes-unruly and intimidating general shelter system. And the more commercial, safer and more tourist-friendly Times Square slowly became less comfortable for the street homeless.

“Whether by accident or not, certainly over the last 10 or 15 years, the cleaning up of Times Square and the street traffic in Times Square may have been an issue,” said Stephan Russo, the executive director of Goddard Riverside. “It can be a little daunting for them.”

The area still attracts its share of panhandlers, especially during the day, and a few emotionally disturbed people who occasionally draw the attention of security employees of the Times Square Alliance. This month, for example, they intervened when a man began tearing flowers out of a planter.

The social workers at Common Ground said they have no intention of pressuring Heavy to leave the streets. But Tim Marx, the executive director, said neighbors might not be helping in the long term by giving Heavy food and clothing. Directors at Common Ground are considering posting one of their outreach workers to stay with Heavy all day, study his habits and movements, and talk to neighbors about what is best for him.

“We’re devising a strategy to encourage people not to support him in his homelessness,” Mr. Marx said.

Rosanne Haggerty, the president of Common Ground, says she has known Heavy since at least 1990, early in the days when she was working to end homelessness in Times Square. In those days, there were more than 70 people sleeping in the area on a typical night.

“He’s kind of iconic,” Ms. Haggerty said. “He would leave for periods and then return, and some days we would actually succeed in getting him inside. But he has this fascination with the life in Times Square.”

She added, “We are continuing to plug away to find the right housing solution for Heavy.”

9/28/09

let the seasons begin


Engraving from Ferrante Imperato, Dell'Historia Naturale (Naples 1599)

9/22/09

It's good that I was not Lady Di


(Thomas Demand. Tunnel, 1999)


No obstante, la historia de la filosofía está dada, y nos muestra el conflicto entre sistemas, la imposibilidad de meter de forma satisfactoria lo real en las prendas readymade de nuestros conceptos readymade, la necesidad de lo hecho a la medida. -Bergson

7/29/09

so what you what you what you want



FOUND by Dan Miller in Chicago, Illinois, 2002

2/19/09

Charles Mingus Decides to Wait

Charles Mingus || 1935: Watts

At thirteen, my boy Charles arrived at the conclusion that there was more to life than people have time for. Important things came in such rapid succession that he’d hardly begun to solve a problem before another arose and each day burning questions were crowded out by new ones and disappeared into the past unanswered.

He began to realize he had some sort of mystic powers. He felt he was able to touch people, to contact certain souls in the next room or miles away or even those who had died. In later years he had this special kind of empathy with Farwell Taylor, an artist friend of his in Mill Valley, and they often experienced a mysterious awareness of each other while in different parts of the world.

Ever since Elsinore and the afternoon at Mr. Rodia’s Charles had felt a telepathic communication with Lee-Marie. He was sure they were having the same dreams and thoughts and feelings at the same moments in time. So he wasn’t at all surprised when he boldly asked for her number and she answered herself and said immediately, “Oh, Charles, I knew it was you!”

As if it were the most natural thing in the world and they saw each other all the time, he invited her to go to the show at the Largo in Watts on Saturday afternoon. He knew she’d say yes and she did. The rest of my boy’s week was full of anxious calculations. He’d already spent a nickel of his twenty-five-cent weekly allowance and he knew better than to ask for an advance. Admission price, a dime apiece. Ice cream sodas, fifteen each. He rummaged in Daddy’s vest pocket, stuffed with Chinese lottery tickets and poker chips, found an extra quarter and copped it without a qualm. Total, forty-five cents. Five cents short can be as big a problem as five hundred dollars short, depending on circumstances. He knew he had to cut-rate his way in somehow. The kids told him Stewart Harrington, the Largo Theatre doorman and ticket taker, was beyond bribery, but you could get an usher to sneak you in the back door for a nickel. Then you’d go out front, ask for a return pass, meet your girl at the candy store, pay for the sodas, take her back to the theater and buy her a real ticket and you’re both safe inside. Total, forty-five cents.
All goes well. In the dark theater they sit side by side, full of the love they’ve saved so long, dying to kiss and touch and hold each other but scared of being noticed by Lee-Marie’s sister Patricia sitting close by with their little brother. They think she must be aware of their wandering hands and uncontrollable deep breathing and fraudulent concentration on the movie screen they’re staring at but neither of them really sees. Charles’ hand, loving carefully, perfectly, slips into her sleeve to touch her naked little breast. Timid fingers feel around her nipple’s areola as it swells, hardens and throbs. His hand slides down and tugs and finally her blouse is pulled free of her skirt. She covers her lap and naked stomach with her coat as her slip is pulled away. His fingers crawl down the edge of her elastic panty band and press pleadingly. Her skin tightens to his touch, she bites her lips together with her teeth. Her stockinged foot caresses his leg. She spreads her thighs. Pains of delight crawl and squirm. Beads of warm perspiration seep into his palm as his fingers smooth the soft, fine little fuzz that grows from her navel down to her damp, hot pubis where a few scattered long hairs roll and twist around his fingers. This child, this woman, this wife! He holds her wrist as it slides inside his unbuttoned fly and his jacket covers her innocent, kneading hand. At last in a single thought together with little or no movement both reach a climax and turn to look into each other’s eyes, slowly nodding their heads as the gradual letdown comes. Their moist fingers untangle. They rise. Lee-Marie leans toward her sister and whispers, “Stay here. I’ll be back.” Together they go out to the unromantic theater parking lot. Without a word they open their mouths to each other, drink each other’s love taste, swallow, and in their magic oneness say at the same time, “I was you!”

“Is that what love is—being one, Charles?”

“I don’t know. But I felt your thoughts. I read your mind.”

“I did too!”

“We’ve always been like this, Lee-Marie.” Charles takes her little hands. “But we can’t do this again until we’re grown and old enough to be married. We’re going to wait.” And she cries, “But I love you, I love you! I’m yours and you’re mine now, tomorrow, forever!”

He buttons her blouse beneath the coat draped over her shoulders and they look deep into each other’s eyes, living for a brief moment on an isle of thought that exists until this very day.

Funny thing about love. My boy was thirteen years old and he understood that in the eyes of the world they were only two small children and their passion was against every rule of God and man. “Man” was the powerful and dangerous adults surrounding them.

He stayed away from her for five long years after this happened. Sometimes he’d ring her on the phone, listen to her voice and hang up quickly, or go all the way to Southgate to walk past her house hoping to see her moving about inside the imprisoning walls. Sometimes she waved from a window and he could see her smile and he wondered if there were tears in her eyes, for there sometimes were in his. But he felt she knew his love and it was only a question of time before her family would consent to their courting.

mingus

From Beneath the Underdog. In elementary school Mingus played in the Los Angeles Junior Philharmonic, but listening to Duke Ellington on the radio shifted his focus from Claude Debussy to jazz. His improvisation on the double bass made him the forerunner of the modern jazz movement; he regarded his music as a form of self-liberation, "the only place I can be free."

Source: Lapham's Quarterly, Volume II, No.I. Eros. Winter 2009

1/13/09

Relational Gunpowder



How was Baudelaire defining the modern artist for example? He was defining (the artist) as an idle man. An idle person, idleness must be eliminated, excluded from the working process. It has really to be excluded from people's daily life and it is something that deserves the least salary. For Henry Ford, every gesture that is done by a worker during his daily life, should produce something, in order words, it has to be equivalent of salary. The history of modern art is really a quarrel between the idleness and virtues of freedom and the rationalization, evaluation of time lived. The artist is always the person who struggles against this separation in work time. For this reason, many works of art have concentrated on idleness starting with the beginning of 20th century. Artists like Langert, Jack Lang and conceptual artists like Stanley Brown. Their works of art consist of idleness. For example, in 50's, 60's Thiery Moens was a member of the realists; he was also talking about a big idleness between signs. And we see how these two worlds are opposite to each other. Both of these two worlds are big and the quarrel between these two worlds will also constitute the history of modern art in 21st century.

On one hand there is an inclination for the realization of the gestures that should be done in the factory, the rationalization of mass production and the creation of consumption objects, and on the other hand, in spite this, we see the trends that try to decrease the importance of the objects against the gesture. In other words, on one hand gesture disappears in the name of object, on the other hand the object disappears in the name of gesture. At the same time, after the evaluation of this gesture, the prevention of any kind of waste, for example the prevention of energy and time waste, which is really a basic waste. In this case we can say this: There was a period in history, where those two worlds were not opposite to each other and the art was mostly included in the society. The society also was not in opposition , the producers were not contrary to their society. However that is not the case any more. In this regard, there are more interesting activities, applications and works in the shared area between these two parts.

From NICOLAS BOURRIAUD's lecture 'TODAY'S ART PRACTICE' - 21.09.2001

12/4/08

Deleuze sobre Herzog en Fitzcarraldo o "¿qué tanto es tantito?"

“En cuanto Ideas, lo Pequeño y lo Grande designan a la vez dos formas y dos concepciones distintas pero capaces también de pasar la una a la otra. (…) Y aunque esto sea aplicable a todos los autores que estamos estudiando, querríamos considerar el cine de acción de Herzog como un caso extremo. Porque esta obra se distribuye según dos temas obsesivos que constituyen una suerte de motivos visuales y musicales. En uno, el hombre de la desmesura frecuenta un medio también desmesurado, y concibe una acción tan grande como el medio. Es una forma SAS’, pero muy particular: en efecto, la acción no es requerida por la situación, es una empresa alocada, nacida en la cabeza de un iluminado y que parece ser la única que puede igualar al medio entero. O más bien la acción se desdobla: está la acción sublime, siempre más allá, pero ella misma engendra una acción diferente, una acción heroica, que por su cuenta se enfrenta con el medio, penetrando lo impenetrable, franqueando lo infranqueable. Hay, por tanto, a la vez una dimensión hipnótica alucinatoria en que el espíritu actuante se eleva hasta lo ilimitado en la Naturaleza, y una dimensión hipnótica en que el espíritu afronta los límites que la Naturaleza le opone. Y las dos son diferentes, tienen una relación figural. (…) en Fitzcarraldo, lo heroico (la travesía de la montaña por el pesado barco) es aún más directamente el medio de lo sublime: que la selva virgen entera se convierta en el templo de la Opera de Verdi y de la voz de Caruso” (Deleuze, La imagen movimiento: 259)

12/2/08

(Dziga Lovechild on Tim Davis)

Some day, the press releases of art exhibitions will be giggled over by stoned archaeology grad students as if they were myths about hippo-headed deities. The idea that Davis might connect this enormous crucifixless Piss Christ with our various gulf wars is as outlandish as much of the Book of Mormon. I feel safe saying that referentiality is the new good. Part of our successful adaptation to the information overload we were once so worried about is the flattening out of the value of information. For artists, if it references something, from politics to popular culture (and ideally Art History) it has value.

Excerpt from Cabinet Magazine, Issue 26, “Magic.” (Summer 2007)
http://www.davistim.com/writing/olive.html

11/14/08

""

An irony.... which is that although the world that glitters inside the gates is mostly a sham, you can lose your soul trying to get there. Something real is at stake in pursuit of an illusion.
(Lionel Trilling on "The Liberal Imagination"/ The New Yorker Magazine 09/08)

11/3/08

C is for culture/ culture-as-encounter

I don't believe in culture, to some extent, but rather I believe in encounters. But these encounters don't occur with people. People always think that it's with people that encounters occur, which is why it's awful... Now, in this, that belongs to the domain of culture, intellectuals meeting one another, this disgusting practice of conferences, this infamy. So encounters, it's not between people that they happen, but with things... So I encounter a... painting, yes, or a piece of music, that's how I understand an encounter. When people want to connect encounters to themselves, with people, well, that doesn't work at all... That's not an encounter, and that's why encounters with people are so utterly, utterly disappointing. Encounters with people are always catastrophic.

(Gilles Deleuze interviewed by Claire Parnet, 1988)