The New Me

There are a few cultural figures that early on I decided I would never like. One is Tom Waits. His bluesy wailing has always seemed an act to me, perhaps something I’ve mostly garnered from the looks of his fan-base. Bjork is another one. I just don’t buy her innocent “wackiness,” which is so loved by a fan-base I usually label “deep.” Yes, I judge a book by its cover.

And Julian Schnabel. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I don’t like him. He embodies a certain kind of know-it-all SoHo artist that shopped at Gourmet Garage before that kind of thing was the thing. I’ve never heard anyone really say anything complimentary about him. Yes, he is macho. Yes, he is full of himself. And then, all that attention he gets! What’s to like?

So it is disturbing to say the least that I – dare I say it – was moved by his most recent film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, based on the book by Jean-Dominique Bauby It’s a grim, grim story (true) about this journalist and fashion editor who, after suffering a stroke that left him trapped in a paralyzed body, dictated his story through eye blinks. I’m a real sucker for hope. And also the idea of a free mind. And I have to say, it wasn’t sentimental.

But, what to do about my fading convictions? All I can say is, I’m deeply involved in the first season of Gossip Girl.

Attachment Theory

Nothing about art today.

One thing that really makes me want crawl into a cave far, far away - and never, ever come out - is any community or group festivity that involves holding hands and moving around in a circle or a train. I'm talking about anything from the hava nagila, or the party train, to the closing ceremony for the Bejing Olympics.

The electric slide or line dancing, on the other hand, tends to make me excited.

Talk to me

I'm developing a text piece based on New York idioms for an upcoming festival. These will be interruptions again.

Anyone with any contributions, please chime in. Think in the vein of:

What am I, chopped liver?
Bagel, Schmear
I'm 'bout that
The boogie down and Shaolin
The bricks
Mudder
The Giants win the Supe
Shut the fuck up
Not for nothin',but you might want to lay off the pizza
Tell me somethin' I don't know

Art After All

The current show at the New Museum is oh so grim and, yes, satisfying. This is a world abandoned, without hope. People are lonely, maimed; materials are dirty, drippy or stark.

I’ve seen quite a few images of Maurizio Cattelan’s headless stuffed horse mounted high on the wall next and Zoe Leonard’s metal bolted tree. Nevertheless, seen live, they hit you in the gut.

It’s worth a go. Not recommended for children under the age of 10.

blah blah blah

I have no time to write or think about art right now. Too busy being a step mother (the anti-art role) and completing an assanine translation about new architecture in France. The only thing I can tell you is that salvaging, using what is already there, is what's in in that field.

And I'm tired with this blog and the fact that no one reads it.

No post, at the Delaware County Fair

7 American Interruptions

This October, I’ll be part of the Örebro International Videoart Festival in Sweden. The concept of the festival is to show contemporary videoworks by both established and emerging artists; and to give the audience a variety of video art from different regions and cultures.

My contribution will be 7 American Interruptions, text-based videos that draw on the lively idiomatic language that is American English. They offer a fleeting image of the USA through metaphors about money and time. They are each 8 seconds long and will appear in between each piece in the program.

Here’s one to give you an idea.