tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-145101232024-03-08T06:58:55.879-05:00Being BoringA space for errant ideas about and around film and art kept by Bradford Nordeen, a New York based writer and film programmer.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger284125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-19705234928679548542011-07-29T13:37:00.000-04:002011-07-29T13:38:35.501-04:00Dirty Looks Kickstarter!<iframe frameborder="0" height="410px" src="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1116516170/dirty-looks-a-queer-screening-series/widget/video.html" width="480px"></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-15629724166478046732011-05-16T21:25:00.012-04:002011-05-16T23:11:52.590-04:00This weekend on Technicolor Island (and adjacent burrough)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_JID0yXVfbN8sxbt2AY2Kj6IUYyKsQ4Cua2D0lAhMefbGE4eQJhiCSGhaA_ufPn2pxtBJ27M9Nat-Q-Pc0G1w922PJ3KmbCQZGkoRODtRscg79G-R6tS2_vw4qpDB3Q_L_X6TCg/s1600/IMG_0798+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_JID0yXVfbN8sxbt2AY2Kj6IUYyKsQ4Cua2D0lAhMefbGE4eQJhiCSGhaA_ufPn2pxtBJ27M9Nat-Q-Pc0G1w922PJ3KmbCQZGkoRODtRscg79G-R6tS2_vw4qpDB3Q_L_X6TCg/s320/IMG_0798+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607511251474763954" border="0" /></a>
<p>It was a week of open studios in New York, starting with ISCP and rolling over to LMCC. I wasn't that attentive at ISCP, I must admit, other than a video that D joked that I just liked because it looked like<a href="http://www.narcissister.com/videos/every-woman.html"> the fabulous Narcissister video</a> I'll be screening at the next<span style="font-style: italic;"> Dirty Looks, </span><span>I wasn't taken to too much of what I saw, but there was very little moving image-based work </span>. After a mull around the studios, I headed over to my pal Mark Golamco's studio to drink some beers and watch Vaginal Davis' <span style="font-style: italic;">Fertile La Toya Jackson</span> "Akshunist Video Magazine." Which left the two of us in tears - to say the least. I will be including her Barbi Twins skit in the next <span style="font-style: italic;">DL</span> also, though it pains me to leave out the wonderful opening sequence in which Vag plays a t.v. host, over-emphasizing every line, every feminine gesture, with a painfully wide white smile. Then Mark gave me this fab striped Diane Von Furstenberg jumpsuit that he's had for years and I felt very lucky, indeed, to have such good friends.</p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GGkdj9bIffysCyDq1Aa9KMGFSllhuq1PC0pRr8KRXr9zIyqjwr2VQWfJ8RlQuTdKhpQZcEQJU8CCl84UjF_0OzAcNaRq1cbrsF6-n_bODNK8BTfdjMrzDyIpwtcptsxlDC916g/s1600/Picture+29.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GGkdj9bIffysCyDq1Aa9KMGFSllhuq1PC0pRr8KRXr9zIyqjwr2VQWfJ8RlQuTdKhpQZcEQJU8CCl84UjF_0OzAcNaRq1cbrsF6-n_bODNK8BTfdjMrzDyIpwtcptsxlDC916g/s320/Picture+29.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607508662599356514" border="0" /></a>Shana (L) and Rachel
</div><p></p><p>The next evening we headed over to the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council for their open studios as my friend, Rachel Mason was performing with the fabulous video artist Shana Moulton. We got there <span style="font-style: italic;">en retard</span>, as they say, and Rachel was knee deep in her song, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArPxqKpss0s">'Mrs. Eyes'</a> - and people! I had to crane my head through the door just to get a peep. Not a very gracious thing to do, I suppose when you're prone to wearing hats. Once Rachel finished her song, some people cleared out so I made my way in to view the remaining performance. Moulton, whose imagery is culled from more California hippy sects, launched into a great projection based piece in which she is instructed to gaze deep into one of those horrible posters from the early 90s - Magic Eye, google informs, which I could never even see with young eyes. Anyway, Moulton slits the projection scrim and dives into the poster itself where she's joined by animated animals who wave at her and in the grand tradition of Southern California artists (a segment to which I marginally include myself - I always wave at dogs) she waves back. After the performance we made our way around the other studios where we ran into Molly Dillworth, Lillian Gerson and Roddy Schrock. I ran into a certain gallerist who maintains a gallery upstate and he started to extend an invitation to go up there but then... kind of changed his mind mid sentence. I smirked at the awkward moment and talked full-stop as I'm apt to do. I was feeling anti-social so I made my way home, only diverted by the intoxicating odors from Goodburger.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxncZ2UIxLshIJtSyR_nAa1ePPWcc0swyZZYypVbQ76HngC8m9TQu5irB2neh2blTJxvnE-2x-L8wnRscWXjLigq8PrYtOtYBpPnPjvVvAvOZ9roVXn7FgxRKCzccdTndjBbChA/s1600/IMG_0801+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxncZ2UIxLshIJtSyR_nAa1ePPWcc0swyZZYypVbQ76HngC8m9TQu5irB2neh2blTJxvnE-2x-L8wnRscWXjLigq8PrYtOtYBpPnPjvVvAvOZ9roVXn7FgxRKCzccdTndjBbChA/s320/IMG_0801+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607510992903560466" border="0" /></a>
<p>The following day I played host to a Eurovision party! But, in rare form, I had to dash to Gladstone to see the rare program of Jack Smith films that Penny Arcade was presenting. It was great to see all of these wonderful children gathered to take in Jack's work (but enough with the fucking iphone snaps mid-film, thanks). Penny was very good and humble in her Jack tirades (the best of which involved Jack's complete devotion to ice cream and an upstate jaunt on which he regaled a confounded truckstop creamery staff by granting them the perfect recipe for a malted). The first film, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Yellow Sequence </span>(1963) was obviously shot during the filming of <span style="font-style: italic;">Normal Love</span> featuring the mongol child who dashes all of the cake creatures in the latter film, cavorting with yellow flowers and a particularly made-up creature perched in and atop a car. Befittingly the predominant color pallet was... yellow. The film gave you such a rich understanding of what a specific and meticulous compositionalist Smith was, with layer after layer of bead, glitter, lace, parasol, flower upon flower. Only 3 or four people might occupy the outdoor garbage heap, closely cropped in Smith's camera, but it feels like the world. Film number two was <span style="font-style: italic;">Jungle Island</span> AKA <span style="font-style: italic;">Reefers of Technicolor Island </span>(1967), which Penny informed is footage used for performance backings. God knows why. This was the standout of the program by miles, though it doesn't appear in Hoberman's book on Smith's cinema for some reason. For me, with Jungle Island Jack achieved his dream to make a Maria Montez movie without the petty confines of narrative. Clutter, fountains and muck makes up the exotic island of the films title, again in closely cropped, carefully studied shots - sometimes double exposed in a less aesthetic level than Rice's <span style="font-style: italic;">Chumlum</span>. Mario Montez is on on the tropical revelry, of course, looking majestic and statuesque. And she's got a love interest of sorts who wears about as many pearls and scarves as she. But the real pleasure to be had is just the investment in the flowing imagery, which builds as densely and gorgeously as any Universal flic. In the final sequence Mario and mate are roofside, cropped in so close you can feign for a moment some tropical fantasia until you catch glimpse of a water tower behind them. Then an airplane careens above head. It's a truly exceptional film, ripe for rediscovery. Two more treat included <span style="font-style: italic;">I Was a Male Yvonne DeCarlo for the Lucky Landlord Underground</span> (1967-70s), a self-mythologizing film where Smith cavorts and autographs a midget/small child's glossy of that most famous photo of him with the dagger. Before this, however, we see some of this most lusciously shot, smokey images of creatues, sprawling in a kitchen, decorated with headdresses so big I thought to myself, "now this is what <span style="font-style: italic;">Where The Wild Things Are</span> should have been." <span style="font-style: italic;">Hot Air Specialists </span>was a document of a kind of drag performance that Jack enacted in his huge red wig.</p>
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUC2Mr9hCoLusYPT0ViYNiXTm_LpfJd5gJDZkT3C3MpVgyDV4ixMYc14kYO_zcohfVcO-cDBw1xorf_d1ufpbw3s9SVZxoFvQfsXt3XV_MqHDHPUTcNolxi0oq21dXaNJjZ9RYw/s1600/JACKSMITH1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUC2Mr9hCoLusYPT0ViYNiXTm_LpfJd5gJDZkT3C3MpVgyDV4ixMYc14kYO_zcohfVcO-cDBw1xorf_d1ufpbw3s9SVZxoFvQfsXt3XV_MqHDHPUTcNolxi0oq21dXaNJjZ9RYw/s320/JACKSMITH1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607509929319420882" border="0" /></a>
<p>Then I had my Eurovision party where we really didn't watch all that much of Eurovision due to Brooklyn internet blackouts. But we made due and thanks in large part to the wonderful creatures that spilled into every corner of the not-all-that-large apartment (without spilling their drinks, bless!) the night was a blast.</p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQBrf2P9LAJva8Bm5XcJoZnKI-nTTA2-8qw7pM5jh5VXuPauyM8GE63e4FiNL_v5-2hKLFUpQIEiHoZ-x1vsGJv9Di3aWmrRjJYtf_uoleb_mSqXM2bBX-1LyTEMB_E8uJamoqVA/s1600/242209_162747987122469_100001618065966_434574_1580103_o.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQBrf2P9LAJva8Bm5XcJoZnKI-nTTA2-8qw7pM5jh5VXuPauyM8GE63e4FiNL_v5-2hKLFUpQIEiHoZ-x1vsGJv9Di3aWmrRjJYtf_uoleb_mSqXM2bBX-1LyTEMB_E8uJamoqVA/s320/242209_162747987122469_100001618065966_434574_1580103_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607511448106774274" border="0" /></a>(Sunglasses as morning-after armor, particularly during a poetry reading)
</div><p>However, the day after.... I nursed on a <span style="font-style: italic;">Mildred Pierce</span> screener (Meh-ldred, it shoulda been called) and eventually made my way to the launch party for the newest issue of Adam Shecter's print project <span style="font-style: italic;">2Up</span> at SilverShed (where DL will take up residence July and August) where Adam (who just curated a show about the apocalypse at Eleven Rivington gallery with a sure to-be-fab show that will open on the day the world is meant to end) bared his bicep for me and showed off his AMAZE photorealist David Niven tattoo. Swoon. Joe Winter was one of the artists contributing to the poster and he liked my new Red Sonja bracelette, which is nice of him. I had a nice long sit down with Glen Fogel where we talked about karaoke and phallices. Then I made it over to Eyebeam for this Design Week Moleskin event with D and his friends Roddy and fellow curator Sally Szwed where we pilfered these really overtly organic carroty things and green dipping sauces called things like goddess. At least they had prosecco that killed the final pangs of alcohol-related morning sickness. I had fish and chips for dinner at some bullshit fish place on Graham ave back in Brooklyn and turned in early from lack of sleep the night prior.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-58188530004233335942011-05-09T10:59:00.013-04:002011-05-09T13:57:53.528-04:00NYC Gallery Week vs. New Ideas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObeber7GebhFUWsBctKw8k7m0ORbDB_keWVq6nrE5jNo0MJ35Y-VISVCs4jy7mvURiyVRDhgz5_pz1iT9B5guhvWOohN6L8g2K8pFCFILDvG0rrfIi0Q5hIZk_3kUq-zJlmQaEw/s1600/jack+smith.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObeber7GebhFUWsBctKw8k7m0ORbDB_keWVq6nrE5jNo0MJ35Y-VISVCs4jy7mvURiyVRDhgz5_pz1iT9B5guhvWOohN6L8g2K8pFCFILDvG0rrfIi0Q5hIZk_3kUq-zJlmQaEw/s320/jack+smith.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604764935987637122" border="0" /></a>
It being Gallery Week in New York - and the New Museum's Festival of New Ideas (or something like that) there was a great deal of to do making this weekend in the city. It all began (as most things tend to) with Jack Smith - or rather, the opening of "Thanks for Explaining Me," a rather dubiously titled first public showing of Smith's work since his material was bought up by Barbara Gladstone gallery. Curated by Neville Wakefield, the show was a predictably scrubbed endeavor. Uniform gallery framing contained the beautiful and explosive color and black and white photography, collages and, in a darkened room, a uniform projection of two videos and two slideshows. The show brought out a crowd of Smith champions - Augusto Machado, Penny Arcade, Jerry Tartaglia, Jack Ferver, MM Serra, Josh Lubin Levy (who introduced Smith's <span style="font-style: italic;">No President</span> at the last <span style="font-style: italic;">Dirty Looks</span>), George Chauncey and his partner in queer historiography Ron Gregg (who will present <a href="http://dirtylooksnyc.org/index.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Taxi Zum Klo</span></a> at our next screening) as well as the "celebs" - I spotted Marina Abramovic. The wall of collages was strangely suspect as the assortment of works characterized Smith more as self-mythologizer - in a seeming selling tactic on the gallery's behalf, where Smith's use of his own image, pasted into fantastic landscapes and drawings here contextualizes to a vie for celebrity (rather than aesthete), a PR progeny rather than assemblage artist. But more on that later
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1kbSW5BT-x5YwQASogLB4SkVQLFoJLvHM_wpZL2Aa5ssz4EqZ_QhjWU1HQVBmdWjr4dRxoQ0-oJ9BP4461g6yJKGKh6WmXYgR0QnlkbWCYIYid4YNj77JNiG7QTIidONUCnDCw/s1600/JS0248_m.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1kbSW5BT-x5YwQASogLB4SkVQLFoJLvHM_wpZL2Aa5ssz4EqZ_QhjWU1HQVBmdWjr4dRxoQ0-oJ9BP4461g6yJKGKh6WmXYgR0QnlkbWCYIYid4YNj77JNiG7QTIidONUCnDCw/s320/JS0248_m.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604764753264093282" border="0" /></a>
After moving through the throngs at Smith's pedagogical facelift, my performer/sculpture artist friend Rahel Mason and I moseyed on to Zach Feuer gallery where her friend Frank Benson was exhibiting work alongside Ken Price and Dasha Shishkin. I had had very little to eat that day, save the two tequila grapefruit juices I'd savored at happy hour with my friend Libby, who just picked up some shifts as an "exotic" dancer at Pumps - the Bushwick hipster strip club. So, after hanging for a bit with the artist Mark Golamco, joined by my producer friend Derek Marks, I scurried off to Trailer Park for a burger, where we ran into Gabourey Sebide - who was really set up in the front booth, in full performance mode. A man in line for the toilets lamented at the Precious few roles in Hollywood for the actress. I tried to contest, but he shot me a look like <span style="font-style: italic;">who you kidding</span> and I guess he was right. We ended up being seated next to our friend Jessica Beyers for dinner. Later, the boys from Mirror Mirror poured in too.
After dinner we met back up with Mark and Rachel - much to my dismay. I had hoped to attend Night of a Thousand Stevies - the yearly Stevie Nicks impersonators convention, but again this year, it was not to be. So we joined our friends at the after party at Zach Feuer's house, which was quite pleasant enough, an intimate affair where we nibbled on tastefully arranged pesto pasta and chatted with artist Robert Melee who is about to install his SEVENTH show at Andrew Krepps gallery. After a while we headed out to the Metropolitan with sculpter Michael Queenland and sat out back in the brisk spring air.
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJ6hnFec0FfNpsrqfqWi6RVG02gVEllTWN8xffX0RzcE38NKWCZsAsNl_lJWcNl9vKt8H7auNAw7V7mtHs6lLRRZF-ckhN49wkbZclo_oJu6ppq4WIcKqJHHo_ucfNZ7UmA6b7w/s1600/IMG_0789+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJ6hnFec0FfNpsrqfqWi6RVG02gVEllTWN8xffX0RzcE38NKWCZsAsNl_lJWcNl9vKt8H7auNAw7V7mtHs6lLRRZF-ckhN49wkbZclo_oJu6ppq4WIcKqJHHo_ucfNZ7UmA6b7w/s320/IMG_0789+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604766778973071458" border="0" /></a>
Saturday saw a slew of performance events, but first I dashed over to Park Slope for film writer friends Dan Callahan and Keith Uhlich's MAYHAM. Yes, every year Keith's mother sends him a Virginia Ham, so we gorged on ham and attended as Dan put on Orson Welles' <span style="font-style: italic;">The Immortal Story</span> from 1969 where Jeanne Moreau plays a 17-year-old virgin(!) and a Jennifer Jones movie titled (alternately) <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cult of the Damned</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Angel, Angel, Down we Go</span>. Their parties are a hoot because these two film writers are basically pals with all of the other film magazine critics and bloggers in New York and many turn up for their affairs to kibitz and laud forgotten gems (like <span style="font-style: italic;">Angel, Angel</span>). We then headed over to Participant Inc. for their partnership panel with Visual AIDS timed for the Hunter Reynold's exhibition<span style="font-style: italic;"> Survival AIDS. </span>The panel, comprised of Julia Bryan-Wilson, David Deitcher, Nathan Lee and Anthony Viti was interesting, though the more seasoned panelists attested better to the cause than a more distance and conceptual attitude of the younger speakers. Sadly, Hunter's performance started immediately after the panel, which I had to dip out of during the last paper to attend Dawn Kasper's performance for Human Resources at the Collective Show's room at SCHOOL NIGHT, an evening of performances and exhibitions at OLD SCHOOL, a converted... school in NoLiTa.
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVvwg4ozTH3YpovzPDAry0NXwpLGplpbvmM0_nuSggIbNkoz17gyos6fc1R7gyhb1rKcvC1XTrB1D24rrfkoDl0_ATuC3INNCNO7n4-AiArIarz7scxX7_1eqcg-LXAM9FSu90A/s1600/IMG_0793+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVvwg4ozTH3YpovzPDAry0NXwpLGplpbvmM0_nuSggIbNkoz17gyos6fc1R7gyhb1rKcvC1XTrB1D24rrfkoDl0_ATuC3INNCNO7n4-AiArIarz7scxX7_1eqcg-LXAM9FSu90A/s320/IMG_0793+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604770485991249810" border="0" /></a>
Dawn's performance was really quite intense and layered. There was a narrative about how she hated school - even made a pact with a neighboring drug dealer who pretended to be her father on days when she couldn't face the class any longer and played sick for the nurse. Then Dawn removed her shoes, withdrew a powertool and began to assault the teacher's desk at which she was seated. This found her precariously perched atop the lopsided surface, at one point (after she had hacked off one of the legs), without shoes and dangerously bisecting the desk with her saw. No toes were lost but the threat was palpable. We ran into Scott Kiernan from Louis V E.S.P. there and Patrick Meagher - who runs SilverShed, the rooftop venue that will be hosting <span style="font-style: italic;">Dirty Looks</span> summer screenings. Also, this was the big coup for our friend Molly Dilworth, who painted the courtyard of the school with her now signature geographic shapes, designed to be viewed via Google Maps. The rest of the exhibitions were a mixed bag. PPOW had some really great work installed in their room, though director Jamie Sterns was MIA when I went looking for her. I quite enjoyed David Lynch's installation, a smoke, strobe and balloon filled room which blared 50s dance and doowop as a ghostly girl danced languidly in the center. Basically, it was a physical manifestation of that scene from<span style="font-style: italic;"> Fire Walk With Me</span> in the red-lighted bar. And there was Koolaid in the corner and candy. Everyone thought the girl was unnecessary, but I was into it.
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRVGlWNIPpsuBTrDxmUxA5DAkzDUPWihbdVLfFnbYmejbCIJdMwwna5jnY8D-VG4Y1XPQBcw6viCqTWZy81b_INt6YBRithB1FMYcz7wAnEATr7GQOriaXx986s5LQNWklLoTzQ/s1600/230201_144464168960544_129911473749147_278934_4015116_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRVGlWNIPpsuBTrDxmUxA5DAkzDUPWihbdVLfFnbYmejbCIJdMwwna5jnY8D-VG4Y1XPQBcw6viCqTWZy81b_INt6YBRithB1FMYcz7wAnEATr7GQOriaXx986s5LQNWklLoTzQ/s320/230201_144464168960544_129911473749147_278934_4015116_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604771522154911730" border="0" /></a>
We ran back to Hunter's performance only to catch the tail end. Hunter is an HIV+ gay man who enacts physically rigorous and constricting performances - typically involving mummification. Here, he was mummified and guided by a surrogate arm - as the artist's left arm is not fully functional due to an infection. The artist was then cut out of his fluorescent duct tape bindings and he enacted a ceremonial performance with the attending viewers. We hung out afterwards and visited with Ethan Shoshan and Diana Puntar. All the galleries were open late for the festival and Lia kept Participant open til midnight, so we stayed and had a drink, catching up and looking over Hunter's wonderful newspaper collages, photoweavings that feature HIV-related headlines. Then we went to the Boiler Room for a night cap.
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjMFxBIJtn2OGNlwhbCb49UQZ_6kBih4STXVK6b3rQrTPxzJOiXkwDioPlEKk9ozPt0fQXYSl69ebBt_IDYPFNVMluXXbJq-i_TEHR1OcHIrSyWFnvs9SP2FG9Cr5UYtRsTJ8w-A/s1600/Exile_BMizer_01_medium.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjMFxBIJtn2OGNlwhbCb49UQZ_6kBih4STXVK6b3rQrTPxzJOiXkwDioPlEKk9ozPt0fQXYSl69ebBt_IDYPFNVMluXXbJq-i_TEHR1OcHIrSyWFnvs9SP2FG9Cr5UYtRsTJ8w-A/s320/Exile_BMizer_01_medium.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604772363554405346" border="0" /></a>
Yesterday D and I walked through the Lower East Side, looking at galleries. I was quite fond of the expectedly Homophillic exhibition at Invisible-Exports: <span style="font-style: italic;">Notes on Notes on "Camp"</span>. The exhibition contained work by Johgn Waters, Vaginal Davis, Brent Owens and some really beguiling vintage photographs by Bob Mizer. Peering through other galleries found varying degrees of success. Noteworthy for their irritating art world attitude, CANADA's clan sat devouring smelly chinese food on porcelain plates whilst we poor plebians showed up <span style="font-style: italic;">for their opening</span>. They spoke of the gallery goers as if we couldn't hear them. Whatev.
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDLAQGpWpuI06qhGGBAo-FmfXoCzzzQiCEP1oyfN4BncfSqUGT2oPRTuG9kR8-YjXGgfaT9yYw3LUqVJXItXm8I44XK8fEm3esj1n3DZQkpvEIZxB2kVNW8U5miCmYsl4Uy57JQ/s1600/1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDLAQGpWpuI06qhGGBAo-FmfXoCzzzQiCEP1oyfN4BncfSqUGT2oPRTuG9kR8-YjXGgfaT9yYw3LUqVJXItXm8I44XK8fEm3esj1n3DZQkpvEIZxB2kVNW8U5miCmYsl4Uy57JQ/s320/1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604773184927812578" border="0" /></a>
Then I met up with some friends and attended the<span style="font-style: italic;"> Original Plumbing</span> mother's day bash <span style="font-style: italic;">Your Mom! </span>which, in truth, could have been much better attended. Outdoors at the East River Bar, it was nice to chat amongst the crew and pose for the "Dress Like Your Mom" contest. Trans men dressing like their mothers - now that's what I call layered. I chatted a bit with Amos Mac, the bewilderingly hot founder of <span style="font-style: italic;">OP</span>. Someone was walking around with a pet rodent perched on his shoulder and, at his behest, I allowed the mouse to lap at my beer. "He really likes booze," he explained. "Show him your tongue." So I did and that rat went to town on me, much like the recent Carolee Schneemann video <span style="font-style: italic;">Infinity Kisses: The Movie</span> - only with a small white rat in lieu of a cat. So, that was my weekend. From Jack Smith to rat kisses.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-91782639190340754262011-04-09T12:15:00.002-04:002011-04-09T12:16:38.519-04:00Something Special<p><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TCHlX_b-bdI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br>Out Monday with an album following suit. Oh, this is Sally Shapiro's producer. And Sally Shapiro, as you may or may not know, is my god.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-70655981813450757082011-04-08T10:15:00.008-04:002011-04-08T11:28:57.664-04:00Where Teardrops Fly<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQWJJnujpGlLaEkBGsGBmXWCdbeE1sQ-dWe6Xx7peHqpG6VbRAvsyquxpp0VZ4RpJMI2ThSwuJ1QnV5LHLnbxnVPxkSe8spLOGu2H-TVpHlwq4rzU568wxsVJFjlzgrjMy_YK_IQ/s1600/notebook-003.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQWJJnujpGlLaEkBGsGBmXWCdbeE1sQ-dWe6Xx7peHqpG6VbRAvsyquxpp0VZ4RpJMI2ThSwuJ1QnV5LHLnbxnVPxkSe8spLOGu2H-TVpHlwq4rzU568wxsVJFjlzgrjMy_YK_IQ/s400/notebook-003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593228440422262130" /></a>In my unending quest to revel in and understand the progression of the woman's picture, I watched one of the biggest hits of this century, in that regard, anyway - <em>The Notebook</em>. It had been in my Que for some time and I had flirted with the idea of torturing D with it, but last night, I found an opportunity to indulge.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9_hhu571XyImg9D4Q2ajCG4eL-L08j8XH-dHuA1tgppmI_P8QIjGZjlhaALUriX1qK2xonNHGiAxWxfVQ6QePOGExDrob6agr1aJkyFcomANpUV8-rQb2C4vhQQ-jUMQp8Akhg/s1600/Notebook-photo_10_hires.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9_hhu571XyImg9D4Q2ajCG4eL-L08j8XH-dHuA1tgppmI_P8QIjGZjlhaALUriX1qK2xonNHGiAxWxfVQ6QePOGExDrob6agr1aJkyFcomANpUV8-rQb2C4vhQQ-jUMQp8Akhg/s400/Notebook-photo_10_hires.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593228585807052002" /></a>Of course it would be moot to regale the film with its conservative trappings. It's a contemporary melodrama, and as Peter Brooks clearly states in <em>The Melodramatic Imagination</em>, melodrama is fundamentally conservative since it stages a <em>returning-to</em> of conventional or conservative values that have been marred or transgressed. It's still peculiar in certain aesthetic decisions how this conservativism is played out. The most surface qualm is the film's treatment of black figures. In the film's past (most of it takes place in the early 40s), the black maid adopts a mammy voice and countenance. There's a scene in which Ryan Gosling engages in a jig with a little poor black kid. This scene is obviously intended to indicate the abject poverty that Gosling maintains. You can placate yourself by reminding that, "this is the past and this is how they choose to represent it." But then when you flash forward to the nursing home, where our elderly couple (James Garner and Gena Rowlands) are looked after by an exclusively black staff, things become a tad less tidy.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GjmEY5K-G4v0e1AgjtfyWk7E8E-_m_jR01nHpz4Oi_pjkfOCzdlVt_qmORL8FljfG0LmAuAaUNKOLIMss7rewTpFO7-8nnmXdHrZ7JWLeNcKKAurv1CUiDzmAN5x0UOoe20qhA/s1600/notebook_2004_1024x768_67051.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GjmEY5K-G4v0e1AgjtfyWk7E8E-_m_jR01nHpz4Oi_pjkfOCzdlVt_qmORL8FljfG0LmAuAaUNKOLIMss7rewTpFO7-8nnmXdHrZ7JWLeNcKKAurv1CUiDzmAN5x0UOoe20qhA/s400/notebook_2004_1024x768_67051.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593228874225166722" /></a>Besides this blaring faux pas, there's little by way of conflict. The film struck me as decidedly post-modern in the way power roles are delineated. The adorable Ryan Gosling is cast merely to brood, a projection of some female fantasy in which boys gestate in abeyance for their lost ladies, ever hoping they'll return. He refurbishes this big, stately white mansion (see, it's ALL about reparation), to such a degree that he event claims at one point that his efforts borderline madness. And in his large white house he longs for Rachel McAdams.</p> <p>There's lots of women's picture conventions being tossed about here - summer flings, wicked parents, stolen letters, pining. But it's odd that the ultimate weight of the film is carried by our elderly couple. Really, the historical story is about as milquetoast as its actors and, when they just sort of end up together for the rest of their lives with little fuss, you're like "Where's the story there?"</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbQ3y1c52GV2g95ips8gje4ENGJtkMCKjz10buuu_AT9-a9uPeojDfiBlaXJBPjaUjU6rnUihoBdQtw1o-EEbLPjAcFsjwN-xry5j7QmgrTlFmizke9yGXyo48xREFpp4hNEEeA/s1600/notebook.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbQ3y1c52GV2g95ips8gje4ENGJtkMCKjz10buuu_AT9-a9uPeojDfiBlaXJBPjaUjU6rnUihoBdQtw1o-EEbLPjAcFsjwN-xry5j7QmgrTlFmizke9yGXyo48xREFpp4hNEEeA/s400/notebook.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593228690123817074" /></a>There isn't one. The story rests in their older incarnations who are fighting a failing heart (in the strong body of the man) and dementia (ah, the pathology of woman). She shouldn't come to at all, but every day he reads to her from this book of their life together. She wrote it before the onset so he could remind her. And, as if by miracle (a rather poorly rendered miracle by cinematic conventions, I must say), she returns to him for little stolen periods - five or so minutes at best. And let the teardrops fall.</p><P><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8kOKw7Ief2koycbQgH013Jpfweosf-tWtTtFeyprEo3caGx92aZfInr7c5i21etR6w3eIjnNz6hjan_o4PQNuoi1iNp-btT21xxHrP6o9TAKbzOCuE_S6irumAVJMtUCJRUbpg/s1600/notebook_l.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8kOKw7Ief2koycbQgH013Jpfweosf-tWtTtFeyprEo3caGx92aZfInr7c5i21etR6w3eIjnNz6hjan_o4PQNuoi1iNp-btT21xxHrP6o9TAKbzOCuE_S6irumAVJMtUCJRUbpg/s400/notebook_l.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593229014930417858" /></a>Which they did. I'd be lying if I told you I didn't cry. But as I did, I posted on facebook something I said to myself, "Me, crying: And it wasn't even a compelling story!" There's a lot of theory about there about crying at movies - most of which I've read. What struck me as really bizarre here, and inept despite my waterworks, was how death or finality as this looming phobic enterprise is the impetus for all of this sobbing. This narrative of a couple who spend <em>their entire lives together</em> moaning because they must part. It's not a big stretch to feel not sorry for them. This is no <em>Peter Ibbetson</em> in which the dreamland and, ultimately, heaven is the only space in which they can be together. No, what is really the crux of all this drama is just finality and death. All things end. Which seems really moot and unimpressive on paper, but I suppose it still works. And here, it's spiritual moment of attainment is not even plausible. There's all this talk floating around about miracles, about how, when Rowlands recalls her life-long love in her breaks from dementia, it's "a miracle." While I'm sure it's really wonderful, these <em>moments of reparation</em>, director kin de Cassavetes embellishes these scenes with no pomp or flourish, so that they read on film more banal than divine. Cause without these elements, the film's close, where the couple lay side by side and decide that their love is strong enough to lead them off this mortal coil in unison, you just don't buy it. Nothing has prepared us for this rowing finale. Except, of course, our hope that even in death we are full of life.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEHZATPqIemBWeDLyNla37mlGLMCHW1ThOfZ9V99iLPqc9fZd1tciRPJ-ve3_fmDEprOCzrn3G3yqwtk5ENmrdoOT7zGj3tf-4f1vo_Gghc1yrsM5UJKawnf6CqtIGUzkxInR9Q/s1600/IMG_0701+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEHZATPqIemBWeDLyNla37mlGLMCHW1ThOfZ9V99iLPqc9fZd1tciRPJ-ve3_fmDEprOCzrn3G3yqwtk5ENmrdoOT7zGj3tf-4f1vo_Gghc1yrsM5UJKawnf6CqtIGUzkxInR9Q/s320/IMG_0701+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593235080594237762" /></a>As I type, across the street, a funeral procession is going with two white horses, like the scene from <em>Imitation of Life</em>. Initially I cynically wondered to myself whether the funeral directors didn't have an Annie package. But then I realized that this person, dying in 2011, could possibly have <em>seen</em> Annie's funeral and that this could be an approximation. Perhaps it's not. But it's a haunting idea considering the obsession/fear with and of death that <em>The Notebook</em> parades as the romantic comedy of the decade.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-49091944733542970762011-04-03T13:51:00.009-04:002011-07-31T01:57:28.664-04:00April Fool...<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkQGbXNLEeRHOROxIGZesBKDZvwm4sTWXkGzMGRlulpJFkNXVT9zjKFB0MOUz7WTMElN_JZXijBjJ2Ue2yCswIk0TvUHiiRcmbdPpSx_OetzbtoWUKvG6wAkWlDWZwmK3U13czQ/s1600/image.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkQGbXNLEeRHOROxIGZesBKDZvwm4sTWXkGzMGRlulpJFkNXVT9zjKFB0MOUz7WTMElN_JZXijBjJ2Ue2yCswIk0TvUHiiRcmbdPpSx_OetzbtoWUKvG6wAkWlDWZwmK3U13czQ/s320/image.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591441532744693362" /></a>Well another <em>Dirty Looks</em> under the belt. This event saw an amazing turnout, with something to the tune of 80 people showing up for Ulrike Ottinger's <em>Madame X - An Absolute Ruler</em>. f.p. boué's exhibition currently up at Participant featured a black and gray ziggurat on which folks perched for the film. There to introduce, Gary Indiana shared some amazing insights in our dialogue. Gary's really a lovely individual, it was great to have him come out (and great to see him read new work the night prior at St. Mark's books). Filmmakers Larin Sullivan and Adam Keleman showed up, as did curators Buzz Slutzky, Joseph Whitt, Bryce Renninger artists Mark Golamco, Aryn Zev and writers Louis Jordan and Masha Tupitsyn, to name but a few. People seemed genuinely entranced, though at 2 1/2 hours, I fret that some attested to the Time Out blurb on the event, that <em>Madame</em> "will delight the converted and annoy the mighty fuck out of everybody else." It's tricky to program an epic lesbian pirate adventure on a school night and not have some drop off. That factor, the drop off, is understandable, especially given Dirty Looks educational focus, but it's still something vexing that I am grappling with as a curator.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDE3-Rj418hVHDBnaGkUFB-AJ3Foz5Ppi7f2F3MnDwGL_Uo5M7GQWjoRjOw7CMpODgKBpOXavje3EkmfksQlFBrhCWI6jusvhsgnq4Lhn4Vz-ODaPapT6rbttpMJ1n8TC_-SNBJw/s1600/gypsy-wildcat-leo-carillo-gale-sondergaard-nigel-bruce-maria-montez-1944.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDE3-Rj418hVHDBnaGkUFB-AJ3Foz5Ppi7f2F3MnDwGL_Uo5M7GQWjoRjOw7CMpODgKBpOXavje3EkmfksQlFBrhCWI6jusvhsgnq4Lhn4Vz-ODaPapT6rbttpMJ1n8TC_-SNBJw/s320/gypsy-wildcat-leo-carillo-gale-sondergaard-nigel-bruce-maria-montez-1944.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591442071167276978" /></a>The next night I had early evening (happy hour, I suppose they call it) drinks with a new friend, writer Louis Jordan, who is hard at work on an article surrounding Tuesday Weld. An apt subject. I sipped on Lime Rickies at Julius as Louis regaled me with the details of her life. I shared with him the sordid details of these wacky, mildly related recent finds, <em>The Mafu Cage</em> and <em>The Manitou</em>. And of course I built up the new Britney. We drifted over to the home Mr. Jordan shares with Wilson Kidde to watch a Maria Montez movie that I had never seen! For shame. In this one, <em>Gypsy Wildcat</em>, Maria's a gypsy. Black hair never suited her that well, though she does have a marvelous dance with a tamborine and turns in some very potent acting. "She moves <em>and</em> acts in this one!" I hollered. But the bootleg dvd stalled midway and I had to move on. I really couldn't get over the transition from exotic sands to gypsy caravans also, to a probably annoying tune.</p><p>I met up with friends at a Marc Jacobs party. My pal Hayley works there. We drank some free specialty cocktails that somehow all tasted like amoxicillin. But they were free. Which always gets me into trouble. Too many people remarked vaguely at my plaid baseball cap. A long and turbulent night began that found us at the Triple Canopy party at NP Contemporary Art Center then over to Urge and the Boiler Room, where I finally had to resign. On my trip back home, I slipped on the wet subway stairs and landed on my tush, a fall that's left me in great pain for these past couple days, and left an imprint of the zipper teeth to my Commes Des Garçons wallet in my ass. At first there wasn't a bruise and I complained to Lia at Participant that if I was witnessing the pain, I would prefer that there be visual proof. The next day, I got my wish.</p> <p>On Friday, I attended the benefit for Birdsong Micropress at Brooklyn Fire Proof, which featured a performance by my friend Zan's band Little Victory. It was good to see the ever ravishing Tommy Pico, who just returned from a Southern road trip. I talked about Dodie Bellamy (who was just in town reading from her fabulous new book, <em>The Buddhist</em>) and Radical Fairies with Max Steel and Daniel Sander outside, both of whom contribute to the Birdsong zines under <em>noms de plumes</em>. When I got home around 1 or so, D was watching <em>Alien 3</em>, you know, the super nihilistic one that starts with the autopsy of her surrogate child, so I went into the bedroom to watch some <em>Drop Dead Diva</em> and promptly passed out.</p><p>The weather smiled on us this New York weekend, so I took to the streets, well, galleries, with D and my curator friend, Herbert Mendoza. I actually like taking a back seat when we do these gallery hops. Both Herbert and D make little maps and I let them show me around. Never before have I been in such a place of such little investment in visual art. Maybe it's a lack of interest in the community. Cause I always have something to say.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNhcdFwrCBAOb0f0tI9j8GwcQ7zisE8KyOZc0ByjZmCN5kFjPjobPMQQ55yVXD7nh8euvmZ16iA8fy3REezsBjh_qA2EbDsL9OVWAZ9Zx4upTltxQDcsgCLaiXibiOJ6WIPPr2A/s1600/IMG_0673+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNhcdFwrCBAOb0f0tI9j8GwcQ7zisE8KyOZc0ByjZmCN5kFjPjobPMQQ55yVXD7nh8euvmZ16iA8fy3REezsBjh_qA2EbDsL9OVWAZ9Zx4upTltxQDcsgCLaiXibiOJ6WIPPr2A/s320/IMG_0673+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591443885348731234" /></a>We sipped margaritas in the tacky little Mexican place on 23rd thinking through the shows afterwards - three shows in particular that seemed to dash totemic issues consumerism and colonialism, all installed in high end gallery spaces. Does the moneyed environs of a space like Yvonne Lambert dismantle some of the charge behind Nick Van Woert's drip busts? In the pieces, Woert (an American artist despite the Euro airs of his name) drizzles colorful, plasticine materials on the backs of classical busts. The goo collects in a gratifying pool, which, when placed vertical, become somewhat glorious circular whorls. There a kind of clever material iconoclasm at work in these pieces (Woert's other sculptural objects in the main room are decidedly youthful endeavors that showcase an excitable artist in need of some editing skills) though the delicious fetishism of the shiny plastic tends to undercut the conceptual disavowal that these pieces tend to suggest. Josephine Meckseper's exhibition at The FLAG Art Foundation continues her reign of great shows, installing vitrines, mirrored pedestals and mirrored wall racks that offer sexy objects, total signifiers of 80s consumption all with a kind of hoaky Claire's Boutique quality to them. Mecksepers work just radiates sexiness, seducing the viewer into this courtship of objects. But how much is this representation of erotic consumer sensibilities destabalizes consumerism and how much of it just hitches a ride on the object's potential for fetishistic gratification? I LOVE Meckseper's shows, her aesthetic is startlingly confident, though the critical potential of these works, which are sold before they even leave her studio, lurks in a more uncertain space for me.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZLtsranugUvEss913n-kA71kaucRIE-2KmqnDVns62Or2Xefx6-aM6o5deOSMHMeSjrWHsm2blQV8qBha_DX_ppDLGmh1MXnwY739RchEDblkqwQTdViNtIl7r5lBlOIyjrOSA/s1600/IMG212.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZLtsranugUvEss913n-kA71kaucRIE-2KmqnDVns62Or2Xefx6-aM6o5deOSMHMeSjrWHsm2blQV8qBha_DX_ppDLGmh1MXnwY739RchEDblkqwQTdViNtIl7r5lBlOIyjrOSA/s320/IMG212.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591444954588808834" /></a>Surely the most heated topic over our frozen margaritas was the colonialism sent up in Folkert de Jong's installation at James Cohan Gallery. <em>Operation Harmony</em> employs Styrofoam and polyurethane to mold sleek, Disney-esque creatures, Dutchmen and monkeys. The title piece, which borrows from Mondrian and Jan de Baen’s painting “The mutilated corpses of the de Witt brothers, hanging on the Vijverberg in the Hague” from 1672, graphically pierces the black bodies of these brothers with severe, modernist pink foam. The Dutchmen in the front room brandish booty in the form of tacky blue plastic pearls. They smile grimly. How effective is expensive art aimed at making buyers feel bad about their own colonial history. That was the question at the table. It seems like many of the artists to take to task colonial history in the contemporary art world, are also some of the most blazing new big money art stars. Thinking to the 2005 piece written by A. O. Scott for the New York Times ("The Discreet Masochism of the Bourgeoisie") that observed a cinematic trend for targeting art house (bourgeois) cinemagoers with "feel bad" movies (like <em>Caché</em> or <em>Maderlay</em>) aimed at their own political involvements or histories. I argued that the representation of this colonial shadow renders that guilt in a commoditizable, which is to say, abstract form. And it stultifies the charge of the original guilt. Which may be somewhat cynical of me. They did not have very good guacamole at the restaurant.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7FRhk3orJvMOxqFZC3RhDjZLKIwVcBfZMr0AsCgLWlzZZOem37TVSgu25bLoFyp49CNyxc_V0w9P8spDh33U9vApnOda_T4Z4aeT9yusrjuc8NeABCM3z6XzTxsvTcrmm8Jr8WA/s1600/folkert.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7FRhk3orJvMOxqFZC3RhDjZLKIwVcBfZMr0AsCgLWlzZZOem37TVSgu25bLoFyp49CNyxc_V0w9P8spDh33U9vApnOda_T4Z4aeT9yusrjuc8NeABCM3z6XzTxsvTcrmm8Jr8WA/s320/folkert.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591444244214577714" /></a>We visited a fete staged by Zane Louis, who was recently included in a Whitney exhibition timed for the groundbreaking of their Meat Packing District space. Guess what it's called? "Groundbreakers." After some white wine was sipped, we dipped over to our friend, Mark Golamco's studio in the same building, where he was preparing a new woodcarving piece and got into a heated debate over, oh, you know, everything. I left somewhat early and watched Kylie Minogue videos into the early morning.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-75596675127038419012011-03-29T10:37:00.012-04:002011-03-29T11:17:55.403-04:00Fatale Attraction: Oh, the new Britney!<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg29ns3KQKqVpnJSkrHXsc-Xf8jrBXJgA0AFJRToVSUxFdLTeC99oBzysd_Ds96c38ojAW4oCd_mLn3CgV35Ulfun0cWa_aMOmbQQDhGKp-xKD6ecvabmENkPeVacqatlQCeLhvdQ/s1600/britney_femme-fatale.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg29ns3KQKqVpnJSkrHXsc-Xf8jrBXJgA0AFJRToVSUxFdLTeC99oBzysd_Ds96c38ojAW4oCd_mLn3CgV35Ulfun0cWa_aMOmbQQDhGKp-xKD6ecvabmENkPeVacqatlQCeLhvdQ/s320/britney_femme-fatale.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589514366315293122" /></a>Summer found its jamz early this year. Always a tricky proposition – the summer dance record. Of all the figures on the horizon, I find great surprise in offering that Britney Spears may have beaten any followers to the punch. Spears has turned in a new album brimming with contemporary dance floor marvels that sound more aimed at the shores of Ibiza than her older demographic, currently reigned by Nicki Minaj. <em>Femme Fatale</em> is a near flawless collection of pop-dance songs, with blinding production and a crafty redirect of Spears’ dubious public image. The new Britney’s as polished as ever, but it’s clear that in her newfound frankness there’s but one thing on her “dirty mind”: sex. Fucking, burning, hit me one more time, baby, turn me “inside out.” And for what feels like the first time, it’s all forefront. No nuance. No shame. Listen to the album’s most impressive moment, the Bloodyshy and Avant produced “How I Roll,” as Spears purrs most casually “I could be your fuck tonight.” It’s a lyric that really makes you track back in your iTunes to make sure you heard right. In part because she’s so matter of fact about the statement. Amidst the whirring digital blips and blops of the song this sex sounds excitingly banal. Where most pop starlets would deliver such a lyric like <em>wasn’t-that-very-bold-of-me?</em> Spears attitude echoes the overall agenda of the album. Which has all the fun in the world, arranging a litany of sex scenarios and drunken encounters, with no error found in such behavior but – more importantly – no real zeal in it, either. It’s, like, just good sex. Ya know? There’s no crazy Rihanna sex as metaphor / isn’t sex a mindfuck songs. Spears’ sex sounds so wonderfully pragmatic, terse in the way that only a truly great pop albums can achieve.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqpzxWnh0Ly70IpQsq5ZHoIZHQC0g7t8kmNn_knwk8DOJyzB9n1-3Eeedqev4gwVNjo-KyX_CQFFnfLIufwExfcT3KoPE4OkwozAi_Uj0EvXh1ytlo-Hs-kOL9XbTj3elDdNX17A/s1600/kylie14.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqpzxWnh0Ly70IpQsq5ZHoIZHQC0g7t8kmNn_knwk8DOJyzB9n1-3Eeedqev4gwVNjo-KyX_CQFFnfLIufwExfcT3KoPE4OkwozAi_Uj0EvXh1ytlo-Hs-kOL9XbTj3elDdNX17A/s320/kylie14.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589516264765908546" /></a>To me, the contemporary benchmark is still Kylie Minogue’s <em>Fever</em> album. Whether it was club thumper (“In Your Eyes”), trance number (“Love Affair”) or ballad-esque (“Fragile”), all the Fever songs were processed with the same tin-y tone, as though the album came out fully articulated, crafted like resin. A friend once described the sound favorably like thanksgiving cranberry sauce that, once served, still shows the ridges of its can. As the video for her smash hit “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” suggests, the <em>Fever</em> sound was post-disco pop that came from a fictional, futuristic city of filled with dancing hot robots. What’s more it was a modest album, concise. It doesn’t attempt at epic proportions, but maintains a consistency, a genericness, even. Like the CG city in what was likely Minogue’s most expensive video, it all seems a little cheap, but “cheap” like the Euro pop idiom from which the album emerged. Pitchfork Music tried to be all highfalutin when it came out and reviewed it as a new brand of adult pop music, some kind of lite contemporary fodder. Which is bull because that album was the same brand of euro dance music presented every year at Eurovision but, unlike most of those bombastic eye-rollers, these tunes showed commendable restraint or rigor. It’s generic sound was a finely tuned tone. As is the case with <em>Femme Fatale, Fever</em> came on the back of a startlingly successful comeback album, <em>Light Years</em>, in which Kylie shimmied back into the hearts of the British public in skimpy hot pants. That record was camp disco. Recorded and released over a year on the back of those pants, <em>Fever</em> was the expediently honed result of a finely-tuned market product and creative team.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_iEJYZpO4W1HePUzpdZrufpEbDs8ohXXBMh0VtoWSHLRjFkxk2of7d2Gn6KvvVP_Eo8esi0FnqT2SiY9UeVGySw-_op_mgUh9A-pwpNv6bSAm1IM2vAuNyHH6JWeuzPZ_sBERQ/s1600/britney1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_iEJYZpO4W1HePUzpdZrufpEbDs8ohXXBMh0VtoWSHLRjFkxk2of7d2Gn6KvvVP_Eo8esi0FnqT2SiY9UeVGySw-_op_mgUh9A-pwpNv6bSAm1IM2vAuNyHH6JWeuzPZ_sBERQ/s320/britney1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589515261321969666" /></a>The team behind Britney’s current endeavor is nothing new either. Longstanding heavyweight Max Martin (who fashioned Brit’s first hit, “…Baby One More Time” and recently breathed thrilling trills into Robyn’s “Time Machine”), “Toxic” hitwriters Bloodshy and Avant (who’ve worked with Spears since 2003) and relative newcomer Dr. Luke – who appeared on Spears’ prior album <em>Circus</em>. The only brand-new producer strikes out, the disappointingly ubiquitous will.i.am, whose “Big Fat Bass” continues his malodorous brand, which casts the artist as without a subject space, instead as a mechanical “MegaNigga.”</p><p>Like any convention, pop has its systems of logic and structural principles. It can be tricky to work within the idiom, since originality must also conform to certain formulae in order to produce a pleasurable listen for the consumer. What’s delightful about <em>Femme Fatale</em> is how it unpretentiously ropes in underground musical styles and theatrical arena pop to blend perfectly with its lyrics. Those lyrics which have evolved from the youthful follies of teen Britney, given the greater allowance for sexual explicitness from mainstream artists like Ke$ha and Rihanna, so that Britney now brings to the fore what was always subtextual in her music.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh16Gl5mWCqQHgVBvM_lvwNcQd-zd8eIyd-QCCVyaSl93-l2XhD28uAjdEd0F8JAYXqm2m5K3OUYDjouRfVy06clHQpfH3eW4EdyRL-hTplu7ukoc3DcNJSbvvVgm5etLRPZtWL7A/s1600/britney-spears-hold-it-against-me-screenshots-02182011-16.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh16Gl5mWCqQHgVBvM_lvwNcQd-zd8eIyd-QCCVyaSl93-l2XhD28uAjdEd0F8JAYXqm2m5K3OUYDjouRfVy06clHQpfH3eW4EdyRL-hTplu7ukoc3DcNJSbvvVgm5etLRPZtWL7A/s320/britney-spears-hold-it-against-me-screenshots-02182011-16.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589515429387554402" /></a><em>Femme Fatale</em> pack inevery relevant variety of dance music available, every de riguer sound. All of the effects and innovations that you’ve heard for months, all funneled into one taut pop gem. Bless Gaga for making the typically Euro-phobic American audiences fine with the trashier depths of this sound. And bless Spears for removing Gaga’s pretense. The most surprising ground broken here is the use of Dubstep, a South London underground club music style brought to the mainstream by La Roux and currently popping up in the sounds of Rihanna and Ke$ha. This grimey DIY genre gives an impressive edge to Spears – the round depths of dubstep’s warbling bass and the emphasis on churning treble seems to flesh out the sultry lyrics. Which is not to say that it’s a dubstep album. No, these producers spear the appealing elements of dubstep and set them loose on otherwise catchy pop tunes. With all of these genres floating about, it’s a testament to those producers that <em>Femme Fatale</em> is startlingly consistent from start to finish. It’s a seamless album that marvels at its own mass produced dexterity. My boyfriend frowned in disappointment when he saw the cover, a really stylized headshot of Britney with her blond hair spilling all over the place. “Safe” was the word he used to dismiss the image, but that’s the rule of the game, the whole reason in the Spears product. Now she can inflect her glossy tunes with hoodwinks as an imperfect diva, but the vehicle must show no signs of breaking, is so obviously beyond “her” at this point.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE75eDCidjcDrkY2qZ-h3gEz6LoPvIjQjGm5MHqFc7SFykuZelQ8oYIH_Vs_siv9Pxqc_k6z9n4AFhyeltbh-Pd9CLaxluV-dTCdOghnQ59FqYwzGRTKHeARo_UlxtYL46bkCWfQ/s1600/Britney_Spears_Jan24newsnea.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE75eDCidjcDrkY2qZ-h3gEz6LoPvIjQjGm5MHqFc7SFykuZelQ8oYIH_Vs_siv9Pxqc_k6z9n4AFhyeltbh-Pd9CLaxluV-dTCdOghnQ59FqYwzGRTKHeARo_UlxtYL46bkCWfQ/s320/Britney_Spears_Jan24newsnea.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589514671276467714" /></a>First breath of the album was breathed in a weighty teaser campaign that featured fourteen 10 second youtube clips for Britney’s lead single, “Hold It Against Me,” a song that bears so many entendres that it nearly spirals out of control, in a reverse movement from the Comet Britney that crashes to earth in its kitchen sink promo video. Of course, the song is a smart appeal to an audience that might have grown weary of this popstar’s pop music in the wake of her VERY public breakdown and marital woes. She peers into the camera, planefaced, imploring her lingering fanbase, “Would you hold it against me?” as clips from her past videos play on a <em>Matrix</em>-y column of Sony monitors. All the Britneys that have come before writhe and remind of more idyllic, devoted Britney. But that thought slips away like a lace nightie once she admits that, “you feel like paradise and I need a vacation tonight.” Brit’s obviously got more carnal thoughts in mind, “so if I said I want your body now, would you hold it against me?” Of course, a dirtier mind could also take a hint from the album’s erogenous tone and question to what she is actually referring with the song’s titular “it.”</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQaIVxNUkcgkQox3lzdf2uql06C4otsyBDvPV5b2B5YAu_EVVzeaawon7eztaE72F2SFs-Wey0C9F0NtPFcmTq38Xw1YBOMGSBelVevHpHFuN_NZEq5mX_OUVyjA01uDbi8cDJQ/s1600/britney_spears_hold_it_against_me_video.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQaIVxNUkcgkQox3lzdf2uql06C4otsyBDvPV5b2B5YAu_EVVzeaawon7eztaE72F2SFs-Wey0C9F0NtPFcmTq38Xw1YBOMGSBelVevHpHFuN_NZEq5mX_OUVyjA01uDbi8cDJQ/s320/britney_spears_hold_it_against_me_video.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589514883308736562" /></a>The video features 6 outfits and basically there’s an edit on every beat of this high-octane number. There’s a Britney that models her product placement brands in a gesture just as forefront about the consumer demands of a popstar as she is about her sexual rapaciousness. The video serves as a frank cross-promotional ad for her perfume, a cosmetics line and Sony monitors. Then she’s in a two story tall white dress, suggestively spewing neon paint from the tips of her paint-gloves. The dubstep breakdown before the surging final chorus is a moment of rupture in the song’s pulsations. Top loading the tune with remarkably gratifying dance clichés, this breakdown is not merely kitchen sink, it showcases an adept use of style and timing. In the video Britney battles with her inner demons, literally sparring in stilettos with her double. The final chorus delivers pure Brit, a concert video-esque straight-forward powerdance with a crew of ripped black-leather-clad male dancers. Smoke cannons shoot plumes skyward and confetti rains down as Britney works her body triple time in muscularly choreographed undulations.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxestdpVnwx9G-pKweQtKADNG2UbF3ETvbCNgKXTjSLZ0A9a9Dv1T_WouAQPNlZ7qX6WGa-M4PIErYUjdEoZNPGE2I4UsLB9YIhAVxZx1xfDA9oB-77uio506UNb_QpNij26AFQ/s1600/britney-spears-till-the-world-ends.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxestdpVnwx9G-pKweQtKADNG2UbF3ETvbCNgKXTjSLZ0A9a9Dv1T_WouAQPNlZ7qX6WGa-M4PIErYUjdEoZNPGE2I4UsLB9YIhAVxZx1xfDA9oB-77uio506UNb_QpNij26AFQ/s320/britney-spears-till-the-world-ends.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589514505826558802" /></a>The second single, “Till The World Ends,” which opens the album, is perhaps a tad more predictable. Ravey with a wordless chant chorus, Brit promises to “get you off with a touch dancing in the dark” and to “blow your mind tonight.” More dubstep bass lines bring thrill to the table in a song strictly about “dancing” (till the world ends, of course). The delicious “Inside Out” is about being unable to break up with your boyfriend because you keep having really good break up sex every time you meet to break it off. “Let’s just give it up and get down. Won’t you give me something to remember? Baby shut your mouth and turn me inside out.” It’s a loose, low-tempo song, obviously penned for Brit, since it features references to two of her earlier hits “Crazy” and “…Baby One More Time.” “I Wanna Go” brings the pulse back up with a buoyant chorus that confesses “I wanna go all the way taking out my freak tonight. I wanna show all the dirt I’ve got running through my mind.” While “How I Roll” features the signature barrage of varied sounds that Bloodshy and Avant pour into their productions. Champagne corks pop and an auto-tune duets with Britney’s tequila (on the rocks!) induced trip “downtown, where my posse’s at. Coz I got nine lives like a kitty cat.” It’s a youthful, breezy song that glitters perhaps more brightly than any other moment on the album.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8pCTsndoV0-wXCmMFxrnP4kGg0uHDgC3kOwpMBLt1WDEiDCrY6jrg3wyu2EWuK35kuQT2d-84tYo1S-fpENKdZhoLBc1CYnjDlH-kHkmbuQdhmvW7j3e1gn-6vjExx61OoQgLQ/s1600/Britney-Spears-Hold-It-Against-Me-music-video-fights-herself.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8pCTsndoV0-wXCmMFxrnP4kGg0uHDgC3kOwpMBLt1WDEiDCrY6jrg3wyu2EWuK35kuQT2d-84tYo1S-fpENKdZhoLBc1CYnjDlH-kHkmbuQdhmvW7j3e1gn-6vjExx61OoQgLQ/s320/Britney-Spears-Hold-It-Against-Me-music-video-fights-herself.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589515043112646690" /></a>The dubstep continues on “(Drop Dead) Beautiful,” produced by Benny Blanco and Ammo whose obligatory female rap vocal (provided by Sabi) has a welcomed 90s tinge to it. Like Monie Love’s rap on Whitney Houston’s “My Name Is Not Susan,” it kinda feels more like a box being checked than necessary, thought it doesn’t detract, none. It gives Britney a personality to play off of as the two chuckle and cat call men, “your body looks so sick I think I caught the flu.” "Trip To Your Heart" is a smartly produced album track by Bloodshy and Avant that echoes their song for Kylie Minogue from the <span style="font-style:italic;">X</span> album, “Speakerphone” in its listing of bodyparts (eyes, arms, lips, tongue). Though Britney never names the sex parts obviously on her mind here, the constant tease is fun. The low-fi sound of “Gasoline” is a nice diversion (her heart “only runs on supreme”), though the album ends on a slightly off note. The low-tempo “Criminal” is something of a grower. I’ve taken to the tune, and there’s an obviousness star textual element to the track in which Brit appeals, “Mama, I’m in love with a criminal but this kind of love isn’t rational, it’s physical.”</p><p>It’s SUCH an easy listen and a delight. <span style="font-style:italic;">Femme Fatale</span> never shoots for epic stature and because of it Brit’s produced one of her most accomplished records to date. iTunes informs me that I’ve sped through the rounds nearly 40 times now, and I’m sure there’s tons more where that came from. Beach time jams and soundtracks for my tequila on the rocks. This is the most manufactured and professional type of ribaldry I can think of. Can you hold it against me?</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-52561784523719002252011-03-23T13:14:00.008-04:002011-03-23T13:31:02.739-04:00Madame X - An Absolute Ruler<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZI0jYariWTjcN4Ex_WYEg6UG10N_wwYDh_HBxifztoIgUZwH2XjbRgrm6ZwBUyFQGL2kKzljoQQoYpBQyeT3o7ObNViY6YAUz2jA73irVYr0VKGX5DXPSmglZ1ChM8unQC-gb8g/s1600/madamexflyer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZI0jYariWTjcN4Ex_WYEg6UG10N_wwYDh_HBxifztoIgUZwH2XjbRgrm6ZwBUyFQGL2kKzljoQQoYpBQyeT3o7ObNViY6YAUz2jA73irVYr0VKGX5DXPSmglZ1ChM8unQC-gb8g/s320/madamexflyer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587326016808338834" border="0" /></a>
Notes for <span style="font-style: italic;">Madame X – An Absolute Ruler</span> Screened March 30, 2011 at <a href="http://dirtylooksnyc.org/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Dirty Looks</span></a>
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br><br>We heard you’re going to Madame X. What are your reasons?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br>The wrinkles and creases on our faces are the registration of the great passions, vices, incites that called on us but we, the masters, were not home…</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br><br>No, that’s not it.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br><br>I’m tired of the harsh light of success that rewards me with the revelation of my own mediocrity. I wish to escape from a crystallized identity, from the responsibilities of a canny maturity, which tells me to make the right moves at the right time. I wish to escape from the imperative of the next logical step in the upward mobilization of my talent and material expectations. All this in the name of a historical process that proliferates its refinements as some kind of inevitable social artistic progress. I am tired of the cycle of work, recognition, and more work imposed on me in the name of this progress. Perhaps you will say, “She has lost faith in her creative impulse.” Yes, of course that follows, for does not the product of this impulse also reflect a misguided faith in artistic progress to say nothing of the opposite side of that progressive currency – a despairing sentimentality and sense of loss. Read paragraph bottom in Sentimental Education:<br><br></span>
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABk5NaOmDxEh_sdRr3IauAxlrRRe3g_FQ_aPPFdSEgh1u77wrc8_XLElWcyNCGj2wVsdRO2nhnEuYD5WLQj848Vrko6baJIK7wMUE5WrXn49uGG9k6W6GNFkmfxE8wcomJb_QGA/s1600/madamex3.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABk5NaOmDxEh_sdRr3IauAxlrRRe3g_FQ_aPPFdSEgh1u77wrc8_XLElWcyNCGj2wVsdRO2nhnEuYD5WLQj848Vrko6baJIK7wMUE5WrXn49uGG9k6W6GNFkmfxE8wcomJb_QGA/s320/madamex3.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587326793636629682" border="0" /></a>“Having helped certain contemporary masters at the outset of their careers, the picture dealer, as a man who believed in progress, had tried to increase his profits while at the same time maintaining his artistic pretentions. His aim was the emancipation of the arts, the sublime at a popular price. All the Paris luxury trades came under his influence which was good in small matters but baneful when larger issues were involved. With his passion for pandering to the public, he led able artists astray, corrupted the strong, exhausted the weak and bestowed fame on the second-rate controlling their destinies by means of his connections and his magazine.”<br><br>
<span style="font-style: italic;">Aaa… why kick a dead horse?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br><br>
Let me go on: I can no longer accept public recognition for work that has been produced in the utmost desperation. And finally, I wish to escape from the oppression of a love that in itself has served as a distraction from the vicissitudes and discipline required of creative work. I have tried to immerse myself in erotic passion as a substitute for creative disillusionment. I had become bored and empty. I looked to passion. I LOOKED TO PASSION TO FILL ME UP AGAIN. And this time I felt a kind of recklessness. I didn’t want to think about the outcome or that my ardor might have painful consequences for all three of us. So I am fleeing from all this. From the obligations of a profession that no longer interests me, from a passion that could not consume me, and from my own emptiness. I don’t care where the ship goes. Satisfied?<br></span>
-Josephine de Collage played by Yvonne Rainer
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMVd-JuQDAwV6sQJ2TnfiNcEsG041uSalCNRNsH9zFnrAtWAI2Yk0-RzgzrDDZPGGxeqEyGNxJr3I5s-a0v7Nj4S7JbatNsSi7yOAU-Z7dzc3AdHqwMXV_Q1EZkH5xpbsGtk64A/s1600/madamex1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMVd-JuQDAwV6sQJ2TnfiNcEsG041uSalCNRNsH9zFnrAtWAI2Yk0-RzgzrDDZPGGxeqEyGNxJr3I5s-a0v7Nj4S7JbatNsSi7yOAU-Z7dzc3AdHqwMXV_Q1EZkH5xpbsGtk64A/s320/madamex1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587326426702097538" border="0" /></a><p>Ulrike Ottinger’s films are thrilling. Madcap and absurdist, they compile bizarre costumery, corny sound effects, oblique narratives and vaduvillian acting styles to create strange worlds of sexual intrigue. Surrealist histrionics might seem a peculiar platform for second-wave feminism. The crew aboard Chinese Orlando strikes a defiant tone, but the arbitrariness or impulsive nature of <span style="font-style: italic;">Madame X</span>’s narrative progression can appear at odds with the earnest reasoning that characterizes the second-wave for most. In this sprawling feature, in which performances explode and quell and scenes seem scripted on the fly, where are the staunchly organized arguments and political tracts evinced in other feminist plights of the era?</p><p>In an issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Afterall</span> dedicated to Ottinger, Hildegund Amanshauser observes how Ottinger’s films “resist linear readings” instead “interweav[ing] multiple layers of meaning.” Instead of causal storytelling – the narrative tactic of dominant cinemas – Ottinger’s movies exist on a plane where meanings intersect, where cultural rituals, social conventions, and even time itself spills from one climate, one gender onto another in an echolalic narrative zone. Characters die and then reemerge in the following scene, sets shrink before their obvious, real-life settings, outfits steal entire scenes. This fluidity of meaning and anti-hierarchal structuring is Ottinger’s most exciting political tool. Dashing normative expectations for a straight-forward story arc, <span style="font-style: italic;">Madame X</span> is a playful remedy to hegemony. And it’s all the more thrilling that Ottinger employs humor to engage her politic.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIzBCxTSVP0pBYjOrx-zqCSdZ-GHROxVLXqfLtUwl0Q_qMhrZZYmkFtulP8fpKCOKihEDPhoTB62gByDbDqyUAdH7shzbUwdi9zQPioyGZ7qJrbVA1X_3iUw18W4Bbm8iODfKZQ/s1600/madamex2.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIzBCxTSVP0pBYjOrx-zqCSdZ-GHROxVLXqfLtUwl0Q_qMhrZZYmkFtulP8fpKCOKihEDPhoTB62gByDbDqyUAdH7shzbUwdi9zQPioyGZ7qJrbVA1X_3iUw18W4Bbm8iODfKZQ/s320/madamex2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587327106575576354" border="0" /></a>Cause it’s funny; <span style="font-style: italic;">Madame X</span> is absurd. And that’s intentional. It’s something that gets lost in the translation to Ottinger’s obvious heir, Matthew Barney, where the patriarchal value systems that Ottinger so fiercely opposes, come flooding back with a vengeance. There’s a incredulous joy to be had when watching the star-headed Omega Zentauri performing a ritual dance in her silver wings and whirligig hat, as the crew prepare to slaughter a troupe of bourgeois boaters who have invited Madame X onboard for a bemusing sideshow. Zentauri bobs up and down, flapping her silver wings at the self-serious member of the leisure cruise, who turns his back on her in fatigue. Of course, the joke is on them and Madame X partakes in a murderous plundering of their luxurious means, retribution for their haughty insolence.<p>Madame X creates a new kind of sadistic dictatorship aboard the Chinese Orlando. She is the erotic enforcer, an architectural menace. An embrace could lead to sexual jouissance or dismemberment depending upon her animalistic mood. Such are the ways of power structures, Ottinger intones. But this new matriarchy is designed to ring beyond the bows of her ship. As Karsten Witte writes, “This film shows not a trace of fearfulness. On the contrary, it is calculated to evoke fear in those who put up resistance against the fascination of this ritualized and totally aestheticized power.”
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1glN3NAP9KAXO_N0LLOCJnLLunfjosackEga2SM383vWpsN5HnltydfDNJE0A6GY2fNkGYh8DaHb4jbzyc2CHupXNjZaWGfg9-W7mYTmRh-mQoHdNUJuKvi2XWGCyoF3fOAhlQ/s1600/madamex4.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1glN3NAP9KAXO_N0LLOCJnLLunfjosackEga2SM383vWpsN5HnltydfDNJE0A6GY2fNkGYh8DaHb4jbzyc2CHupXNjZaWGfg9-W7mYTmRh-mQoHdNUJuKvi2XWGCyoF3fOAhlQ/s320/madamex4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587327631287408434" border="0" /></a>Like each of these women who respond to Madame X’s printed proclamation, it’s easy to become swept up in these thrilling exploits. The impulsive behavior of actors, script and scene frees up the film, creating a cinematic space no longer ruled by normative structuring principles. The film itself becomes a vibrant throes to become lost in. It dashes most formal devices employed by narrative feature filmmaking – including, in large portions, sync sound. Without a masterful understanding of structure, the viewer becomes lost in the film’s rhythmic unfolding of scenes, as if riding the waves that crash against Chinese Orlando.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-90245531225583481362011-03-10T15:56:00.006-05:002011-03-10T17:47:50.317-05:00Rejuvinating Aesceticism<p>okay, so SO much has happened in the last week that I have paid about as much attention to this blog as <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/02/25/john-sonja-kluth-oklahoma-child-abuse_n_828562.html">that family in Oklahoma did to their kids</a>. The past week was The Armory Show week in New York, with its proliferation of off-shoot art fairs, so my ass hustled <a href="http://www.thefanzine.com/articles/art/503/fanzine_does_new_york_art_week_2011_1">a</a> <a href="http://www.thefanzine.com/articles/art/505/fanzine_does_new_york_art_week_2011_2">week</a>-<a href="http://www.thefanzine.com/articles/art/508/fanzine_does_new_york_art_week_2011_3">long</a> <a href="http://www.thefanzine.com/articles/art/509/fanzine_does_new_york_art_week_2011_day_4_finale">blog</a> for TheFanzine.com. After that, I was understandably exhausted. I made a lot of friends but the last thing I wanted to do come Monday morn' was talk to folks, and so I engaged in the kind of recharging that always helps to get me back on my feet. I watched five movies. Mostly from bed.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvE4nnfm1-CFpPUyHiKZZkQVmdfdiUgHjvddWXa-rFO4Vomq4dCA0hTRjB7Tr1nR6IofuVxN7DpafAEZuUNW25zqlwrUZn7AtFpWanw1DGABRqJMad7MU7Lo9UHrGuv8NnAIX2WA/s1600/Picture+25.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvE4nnfm1-CFpPUyHiKZZkQVmdfdiUgHjvddWXa-rFO4Vomq4dCA0hTRjB7Tr1nR6IofuVxN7DpafAEZuUNW25zqlwrUZn7AtFpWanw1DGABRqJMad7MU7Lo9UHrGuv8NnAIX2WA/s320/Picture+25.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582570246775880418" /></a>1. <em><span style="font-weight:bold;">It Came from Kuchar</span></em>. Still high off of (amongst other things) the Volta exhibition of George Kuchar's photographs - <a href="http://www.artfagcity.com/2011/03/08/announcing-the-golden-fag-award/">the booth bestowed with the Golden Fag award (aka best in show) by Art Fag City</a> - I settled into Jennifer Kroot's 2009 documentary about the fabulous brothers, George and Mike, who made loving 8mm approximations of the Hollywood pictures they encountered growing up in the Bronx. It's a very well assembled documentary that even plays up the brothers' propensity for repeating themselves; one scene intercuts between a singular story recounted nearly verbatim by either brother. It's a situation mirrored by my recent attendance at a panel discussion between George and curator Ed Halter. George told many of the stories contained in the film, with less reserve. But, at the end of the day, the film is great to just watch George work with his students at SFAI as they toil on their yearly creature feature.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuaZCEzlcdMDuUM3koFbPnZOePj1HMF0tiBBXa934ZOrH9WsHX1GgdZsAO0h3Q7OgY05xmEnK_zvb9ORIhAf4F3LZUOQ6zC5CE4Okky7in7zFEX-4h4ZyCmu3CvC7iDwOG3qa-8Q/s1600/morgans.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuaZCEzlcdMDuUM3koFbPnZOePj1HMF0tiBBXa934ZOrH9WsHX1GgdZsAO0h3Q7OgY05xmEnK_zvb9ORIhAf4F3LZUOQ6zC5CE4Okky7in7zFEX-4h4ZyCmu3CvC7iDwOG3qa-8Q/s320/morgans.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582586505957897042" /></a>2. <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Did You Hear About the Morgans?</span><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> Industrial filmmaking at its most dire. Lazy, thoughtless and chemistry-free, Hugh Grant and Sarah Jessica Parker play off their hum-drum star texts (cheating Brit and Uptown power Jewess, respectively) to produce little fizzle in this clunker. Then fairytale ending, which combines pregnancy, a thus redundant adopted Chinese baby and a palatial Central Park West apartment spins a fantasy narrative while sickening, far more honest and original than any of the preceding hour and twenty minutes.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWCtxQRgAfJlwBOY3FDmXmJn_mKbzwMaxiwlRfTtfHneHx9H1kTwfDe5hvBvAjVyAe4hIXTNR9jDGcZC4sHWvZ3nWNQy0Xo71LuH8iczfxJFXIBri1uIgeYrZCTqmOdd5nAb_FQ/s1600/Picture+28.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWCtxQRgAfJlwBOY3FDmXmJn_mKbzwMaxiwlRfTtfHneHx9H1kTwfDe5hvBvAjVyAe4hIXTNR9jDGcZC4sHWvZ3nWNQy0Xo71LuH8iczfxJFXIBri1uIgeYrZCTqmOdd5nAb_FQ/s400/Picture+28.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582579282060237522" /></a>3.<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;"> The Manitou </span><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span>THRILL OF THE NIGHT. I can't help but recount the premise of this true delight to everyone I've wandered across since my viewing. A woman discovers that the cyst on her neck is actually a fetus that contains the reincarnation of a Native American medicine man! AMAZING. And there to make it more amazing is Tony Curtis! Circe 1978 Tony Curtis playing a cassa nova. MORE AMAZING. The ending must truly be seen to be believed when, after the medicine man is born, rational white man magic is used to defeat the midget witch doctor when channeled through the palms of its topless... mother?</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKy0LRlqWm47lLx9h9_a_zEm5RtouUyab3cG62MAufL9MWXGSnW8kzYIu3cYdIh1hF1nCMpjUbJKxCP8pvIoalmHE-WmFvwVASCs7CFOQwbRirO6Trnxr1A-UtwKyUSi-txUtKpw/s1600/sonja-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKy0LRlqWm47lLx9h9_a_zEm5RtouUyab3cG62MAufL9MWXGSnW8kzYIu3cYdIh1hF1nCMpjUbJKxCP8pvIoalmHE-WmFvwVASCs7CFOQwbRirO6Trnxr1A-UtwKyUSi-txUtKpw/s320/sonja-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582579725197692546" /></a>4. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Red Sonja<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> What's there to say?</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClQKw6s8JicnDZQAkGR_OlqpAql3yvsgphpflJyu05qgAv4xL-X30S6KTaDc35-EM1k3Zw0S6ratgw1M5TcJgW9TDjhyZGRshtkBBe49ppj653v0FHnWIflXO7S7e_eVfSd3oQQ/s1600/demi-moore-disclosure.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClQKw6s8JicnDZQAkGR_OlqpAql3yvsgphpflJyu05qgAv4xL-X30S6KTaDc35-EM1k3Zw0S6ratgw1M5TcJgW9TDjhyZGRshtkBBe49ppj653v0FHnWIflXO7S7e_eVfSd3oQQ/s320/demi-moore-disclosure.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582586153640289938" /></a>5. <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Disclosure</span></span> I have to say, <em>Disclosure</em> is a really disturbing film. From it sputters the death rattle of popular feminism. When Demi Moore's disarming leads to a final victorious <em>ain't-life-grand</em> close-up of Michael Douglas, as his white face beams privilege from his corporate office, and this is the projected "happy ending," with accompanying revelry music, I was more than unsettled. But by then it was 2:30 and I just slumped off to bed.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-53764802425482953252011-02-28T17:02:00.012-05:002011-02-28T18:45:32.261-05:00Driven, angrily and otherwise...<p style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgio0d0shI0jYBO7rdE_zztQ0GFtabhY6SQSQAtrRj93xmDu8aqbNXQL_ak9JdLMOhuUfuAIqdaM5PHx6vnewKGMHbkka-Iz1QCMf53Fd7vmVt9NDApMqv9ZfvYpzYhdnW2HyhKrQ/s1600/38.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgio0d0shI0jYBO7rdE_zztQ0GFtabhY6SQSQAtrRj93xmDu8aqbNXQL_ak9JdLMOhuUfuAIqdaM5PHx6vnewKGMHbkka-Iz1QCMf53Fd7vmVt9NDApMqv9ZfvYpzYhdnW2HyhKrQ/s320/38.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578883859657287122" border="0" /></a>I can't even begin to describe the madness that was this past week. And, it being art week in NYC, there will be no rest for the wicked this week. On Tuesday I attended the QT series that Nicholas Boggs curates, where Wayne Koestenbaum was reading alongside Ronaldo V. Wilson. In truth, I have not read Koestenbaum's work. His <em>Jackie Under My Skin</em> has been sitting on my to-be-read pile since D's parents gave it to me for Christmas last year. He read a poem commissioned by the Viennese gallery Coco called 'Didactic Poem.' We were treated to a visual accompaniment, a projected slide-show of Koestenbaum's own vibrant recent efforts in painting and digital image grabs. Sal Mineo dominated most of the non-painterly textual and visual imagery. Koestenbaum invaded the Didactic format - one which he himself proclaimed no affinity for. Sliding surprising and incongruous images upon one another in unlikely couplets, the reading was a fascinating one. After that, I drifted with my fellow attendees - curator Joseph Whitt, writer Frank J Miles and artist Anthony Thorton to what would be the first of a seemingly week-long Boiler Room residency, marveling at the back to back play of extended tracks by Miss Sophie Ellis-Bextor.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXAh6BWomDSAdsqoz7P-eE77D8XxJZy-WlT9IGFcCHwu_w7wzomBtquKVaW9fvdEcpYaV4fmwm0W__oPyqSe7bvEx_gziyFqxOijArHVYA6X4l6pTP4DR09l1ayRiaBFfFgLF0A/s1600/Picture+18.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXAh6BWomDSAdsqoz7P-eE77D8XxJZy-WlT9IGFcCHwu_w7wzomBtquKVaW9fvdEcpYaV4fmwm0W__oPyqSe7bvEx_gziyFqxOijArHVYA6X4l6pTP4DR09l1ayRiaBFfFgLF0A/s320/Picture+18.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578884461898710034" border="0" /></a>Wednesday was, of course, the newest installment of my monthly screening series, <span style="font-style: italic;">Dirty Looks<a href="http://dirtylooksnyc.org/"></a></span>. There was no blizzard this time (though that hardly held them back before) and fifty or so attendees descended upon Participant Inc. for this admix of experimental cinema and pornography. Fred Halsted's <em>The Sex Garage</em> was received very warmly by the cold crowd (we only have space heaters at our disposal, in lieu of central air - an effect which Zach Cole later suggested transported these dirty lookers back to the underground film screenings of yesteryear, where these films were projected in second-run theaters and dingy basements). Well, William E. Jones' <em>Finished</em> followed. It was, in fact, the first time I'd even seen a print of the film - having always engaged with this marvelous title on video. Special thank yous to our wonderful projectionist Sarah Halpern and to MIX NYC master Stephen Kent Jusick for his generosity. I shared many great conversations afterwards with writers Masha Tupitsyn and Robert Smith, Next Film Fest director Bryce Renninger, and artists Roddy Shrock, Mark Golamco, Jake Davidson, Annie Yalon, Chad Dilley and Aryn Zev. Participant director Lia Gangitano confessed to me that <em>The Sex Garage</em> contain a first for her - she'd never seen a man fuck a motorcycle before! In truth, this was a surprise for anyone familiar with Lia's curatorial tastes. As always, I'm happy to oblige. When all was said and done, we reconvened on the Boiler Room for round two of antics - less the Bextor, sadly, who I could not find on the large smart-phone-shaped jukebox. I just could not be more pleased that people are coming out to engage with this work.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic73lpeaxyRDGIRwe5ea8KK23oCVzhDmyRYXK58Ox70TSgHjLZIaIbKwXIdXK0rVMo8XqZjnLWYCCN8WEXA9Swz0KaJNn8s35VrlsfcnskHtNCCKmYNWE8_wTefLyPLMztDvLAbA/s1600/Picture+25.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic73lpeaxyRDGIRwe5ea8KK23oCVzhDmyRYXK58Ox70TSgHjLZIaIbKwXIdXK0rVMo8XqZjnLWYCCN8WEXA9Swz0KaJNn8s35VrlsfcnskHtNCCKmYNWE8_wTefLyPLMztDvLAbA/s320/Picture+25.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578884812549493602" border="0" /></a>The following day I woke up and spent the morning in bed with Gary Indiana's new collection of early writings published by Semiotext(e), <em>Last Seen Entering the Biltmore</em>. I spent some time attempting (in vain) to secure the next title for <em>Dirty Looks</em> but then dashed out of the house. I had to clean up, return the film, do a little shopping. I had one of those charming New York afternoons just drifting about the city and stumbling into people I know. At 6pm I went over to Elizabeth Foundation for the Arts, where D was co-hosting Welcome Artists, a curatorial project with Sally Szwed. The gist is that we're all bushy-tailed when we show up to this sometimes-very-difficult city, so these curators devised a social atmosphere in which newcomers can be introduced not only to their peers, but to curators, institutional directors, writers and the like. Well I liked the delicious wine provided by BOE in Brooklyn... and a handful of artists of course. I may have gone a little overboard with the confetti - hurling it at artists and curators, alike - but really, isn't that what a fete is for?</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBIMCvm3gYXUS5_MO7Q6PbSU81UkO2c5LdV8mD3YYrnxXtjls2lFLQIULfoK6sVrK7AB6B6eWN7BYc9FbYdq5PzLWLs2c_Lp5AAyKsxK8_jHcHkpR-sXccwhug6XnSjxyLOAxTQ/s1600/photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBIMCvm3gYXUS5_MO7Q6PbSU81UkO2c5LdV8mD3YYrnxXtjls2lFLQIULfoK6sVrK7AB6B6eWN7BYc9FbYdq5PzLWLs2c_Lp5AAyKsxK8_jHcHkpR-sXccwhug6XnSjxyLOAxTQ/s320/photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578885014343316770" border="0" /></a>The following day we hit up a matinee for the UTTERLY LOVABLE NEW NICOLAS CAGE MOVIE. My god was it good. The thing was made for people to like it, for folks to reel and get swept up in the drunken swagger that is its tone. <em>Drive Angry</em> launches at you, in full 3D the tale of a daddy who busts outta hell to avenge the death of his daughter and soon-to-be sacrifice of his infant granddaughter at the hands of none-other-than the peoples' temple leader, Jim Jones. Well... it's not really Jones by name, but by image there is no denying. Amber Heard does a very sufficient job in her teensy shorts and there's a fabulous scene in which a fully clothed Cage kills and army of Satanic peoples' templers mid-fuck with a floozy blond, one finger on the trigger, the other curled around a bottle of JD. Yes. In truth, the film flags slightly in the middle, though it's brought back to life - heh - by the final death sequence in which Jones is hoisted up, á la Messiah, and... implodes into a afterlifeless void as rendered by stoned college freshmen?? It truly must be seen to be believed. In 3D.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlY4ZyjeN1XmDLXB9YL1guQCT_lNlzWOdnYPGfgo0Ew3Y6XljqaLgJkqnVGNo_4s1gCL3mERBT4x23Za4va229wIQpciVI7Ofcg8fJ3oyu-zphdtpLWazxpR9MtZKfPP7p7lncgg/s1600/moviesfeb25_11.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlY4ZyjeN1XmDLXB9YL1guQCT_lNlzWOdnYPGfgo0Ew3Y6XljqaLgJkqnVGNo_4s1gCL3mERBT4x23Za4va229wIQpciVI7Ofcg8fJ3oyu-zphdtpLWazxpR9MtZKfPP7p7lncgg/s320/moviesfeb25_11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578885402595786786" border="0" /></a>We saw the matinee because one of D and my good friends, Scott Kiernan - who runs the gallery Louis V E.S.P. at which we've both had shows (I recreated Luther Price's <em>Meat</em> installation there last May) and at which I hosted that recent television show E.S.P. TV - had a solo show, <em>Once Around the Block (Twice)</em>, at Nurtureart in Bushwick. The opening was great, even though <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dirty-Looks-NYC/184321771585890?ref=ts#%21/video/video.php?v=10150191173958747&comments">there was some last minute drama in which Scott's paintings wouldn't fit through the door.</a> Then we went to see Max Steele and Daniel Sander's band B0dy H1gh perform at Clump at Bushwick's Beauty Bar. Or am I supposed to use their performative pseudonym's Billy Cheer and Daniel Portland? One never can tell</p><p><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/10551713?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" frameborder="0" height="299" width="398"></iframe>
I really wanted to make it out to the new <em>Pin Ups</em> launch for "Seth" at Printed Matter, because Christopher Shultz who publishes the thing is such a supportive dear-heart, but a boy can only do so much. After an afternoon coffee with an exciting upcoming artist for <em>Dirty Looks</em>, I headed over to Millenium Film Workshop where my former mentor, Lewis Klahr, was screening his recent series, <em>Prolix Satori</em>, more cut and paste collage works. The screening was really great - a fortunate technical foible saw Lew screen the two films he showed at last year's Views from the Avant-Garde, in lieu of his (immaculate) <em>False Aging</em>. While that's a totally heartbreaking film, I'd only seen the others the once and settled in for this treat. He finished his night with the 20-minute narrative (ish) film <em>Lethe</em> a really stunning film (which I sometime wish he'd bring to the front of the program). This, he explained was what he had set out to make when he picked up the super8 camera some 32 years prior. <em>Lethe</em> is a very intricate film, dipping and out of narrative coherence. The plot is (literally) torn from the pages of a 40s comic with scientists in lab coats and one blond-haired vixen. Everything goes horribly wrong in their affairs, though it's never quite clear what is allegorical and what "actually" occurs. Not that mimesis is ever the point. The room was full of great filmmakers in their own rights - Peggy Awesh, MM Serra, Abigail Child, Ken and Flo Jacobs and Views curator Mark McElhatten. Lew even plugged me when Abigail asked about one film, explaining how in a studio visit I made comment about his use of the Velvet Underground's "Pale Blue Eyes" that is was too loaded, and so it drove him to create a new film with the identical imagery but a brand new soundtrack. I blushed.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidwP5R7wMtj3O8WUZ-BtJn5M2tdf3GWH-BzlAIO8lAF4fxjOwdd8xmC8u9UEzsnwaWFLfzl7AtUIBH7IGgyM6rnF_ElvGGie8swV6TPJ6jA1oXZQcijPXkmk7uVYRy-NoQXBjyMw/s1600/Picture+28.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidwP5R7wMtj3O8WUZ-BtJn5M2tdf3GWH-BzlAIO8lAF4fxjOwdd8xmC8u9UEzsnwaWFLfzl7AtUIBH7IGgyM6rnF_ElvGGie8swV6TPJ6jA1oXZQcijPXkmk7uVYRy-NoQXBjyMw/s320/Picture+28.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578886590079311154" border="0" /></a>Later that night D and I met up with our friends Herbert, Chad, Mark, Jessica and Roddy and we danced the night away at a party called Gayface. All started out alright, but the music quickly drifted. By the time they played 'Party In the USA' for a second time, it was clear that the party was, in fact, elsewhere to be had. So we bumped into some kids at Metropolitan where my tired ass did not relent until 4-ish, knowing, all-the-while that I was meant to play host to a crew of friends the following morning for my signature bearded french toast (that's french toast with crushed up cornflakes). Well, everything got made and we quickly scurried over to Dan Callahan and Keith Uhlich's Oscar party with my roommate, filmmaker Adam Keleman and friend - who also happens to be a filmmaker named Adam - Adam Baran. See, Keith and Dan are some widely published film folks so the air was thick with anticipation and ire for these awards. The whole ceremony was just appallingly boring, don't you think? And it didn't help that Dan goaded me on that I'd just missed Sharon Stone's red carpet traipse when I arrived. Not once more would that heavenly face grace the screen that evening. Instead we had Anne Hathaway. Well then... I did meet some delightful folks and ate some very yummy macaroni and cheese that I swear someone poured truffle oil into. So all was not lost, even if you're Annette Benning.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-mbWBs2CWHBD8_P1IXFn63SMtwFloOH9OZ6A3eNgK45qYWhRlwcTCO6le-ms22CIUEn9e2hAK-eE6Oys0u2J_mHO3n-zhYiZsxJJbEQfO3CDGFAuw4Pbrq7TY0kSAkHFIN3zRg/s1600/Picture+26.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-mbWBs2CWHBD8_P1IXFn63SMtwFloOH9OZ6A3eNgK45qYWhRlwcTCO6le-ms22CIUEn9e2hAK-eE6Oys0u2J_mHO3n-zhYiZsxJJbEQfO3CDGFAuw4Pbrq7TY0kSAkHFIN3zRg/s320/Picture+26.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578886103305588258" border="0" /></a>This week stay tuned to <em>The Fanzine</em> where I will be covering Art Week, NYC 2011 beginning tonight with the opening of Salon Zürcher, an alternative individual-minded approach to the whole art fair thing. More soon...</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-23691538771848841162011-02-21T10:56:00.011-05:002011-02-21T16:19:34.687-05:00Finished Symphony<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiLDXCejaI7rRloBmnf7Jg2JsUL9gU8L_AVPh9XEHLjCN-7qJmi3k0JLoDzYTN67OTj51XsX_TWxl5x6f8L3vOAhyEmEPgnMyZUOVHowNdcc4uQkTy5L4HqnesO_Cc3IYmJMdTw/s1600/finished1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiLDXCejaI7rRloBmnf7Jg2JsUL9gU8L_AVPh9XEHLjCN-7qJmi3k0JLoDzYTN67OTj51XsX_TWxl5x6f8L3vOAhyEmEPgnMyZUOVHowNdcc4uQkTy5L4HqnesO_Cc3IYmJMdTw/s320/finished1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576226798366697090" /></a>It was one of life's uncanny moments. William E. Jones' experimental documentary <em>Finished</em> was and continues to be a key movie to my aesthetic development. One of those films that is at once shockingly new but so great a fit that it comes only naturally, like, some strangely reminiscent text. I was still laboring at an art career when Jones' film was recommended to me by a friend who had curated it into a series. He told me of its premise - a first-person account from a man who becomes enamored with an ill-fated porn star's image, obsessively mulling over the details of his short life, squinting into the dots of his print matrix and at the fuzzy analogue video image in an attempt to get closer to the "real" Alan Lambert, should such a thing exist. It was probably another year before I saw the movie, itself. And I saw it on video. I kind of can't imagine it in any other format. Released for home consumption by <em>Facets</em>, the tape, which combines source 16mm footage with carefully edited clips ripped from Lambert's porn titles, reminded me of the bootleg tapes I would dupe - New Queer Cinema titles, mostly - in my teenage basement in Missouri. The cassettes would be labeled with a piece of tape, or sometimes just black marker on black plastic. As Lucas Hilderbrand has beautifully observed <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Inherent-Vice-Histories-Videotape-Copyright/dp/0822343762/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1">in his book on the medium</a>, there was feeling of "inherent vice" to the analogue format, something licentious and pirate, and Jones' <em>Finished</em> seemed to epitomize that furtive quality. Like the audio cassette, VHS felt far from finite. Not only does Jones rip Lambert's image from the films, but he takes them for a ride, building a personal narrative, a political investigation around market sex and the rhetoric of his images. Further, the VHS format, in Jones' case, made this cinematic diary feel more intimate, a direct address to the singular viewer. A confession on stolen hours.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwk89mvFllzOsgSjymuHsGr8-91Meb2Mb_oWFStVuvtgVH09bwJRMwQ1AhTNTMEMtPLe_DjckBnwVApq_XpEnos3vddKqjBsaBvbn_GEYeU_b2bnB6sfiaN6ed3K9eQHJdV4UslQ/s1600/03finisheddalanvideo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwk89mvFllzOsgSjymuHsGr8-91Meb2Mb_oWFStVuvtgVH09bwJRMwQ1AhTNTMEMtPLe_DjckBnwVApq_XpEnos3vddKqjBsaBvbn_GEYeU_b2bnB6sfiaN6ed3K9eQHJdV4UslQ/s320/03finisheddalanvideo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576226289050162930" /></a>I've since become very familiar with the whole of Jones' ouevre, but <em>Finished</em> maintains this wonderfully intimate quality, for me. <em>Finished</em> showcased how the personal essay format could open out to include a seemingly infinite number of topical issues, vital to both the filmmaker and viewer. In the film, Jones uses his obsession to address issues as diverse as a Southern ban on interracial sex sequences, theories of consumerism, the crippling physical expectations of porn actors and the power dynamics that these stagnant roles bolster. It's a touching movie, cause you can tell it was really love, but also one of loss and, ultimately, disappointment as Jones finds out that his fantasy creature is not just something of a wack job, but in a decidedly 90s dance around mediatized images, that the Alan Lambert that he fell for never really existed at all. It's the disappointment latent in pop consumerism, where that ecstatic face promises more than it could ever really yield. Lambert's eventual occult underpinnings only highlight more prolifically the divide between the figure and ideal.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXqGOFZfJXaFs1meep60QhUKMK6B_7u5QGmXMaSNp5a88n5Ku49mZcoGzCLp7eb_ldEhevKikWrzSS6bXane0fYioCVKDQaNAB4QHMkgBNZXEqaUvWpMqPZ14hAT9cX_68Y7bxg/s1600/05finishedgutter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXqGOFZfJXaFs1meep60QhUKMK6B_7u5QGmXMaSNp5a88n5Ku49mZcoGzCLp7eb_ldEhevKikWrzSS6bXane0fYioCVKDQaNAB4QHMkgBNZXEqaUvWpMqPZ14hAT9cX_68Y7bxg/s320/05finishedgutter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576226621114406258" /></a>The film was important to me as a text, since it embraces irrational obsession with an analytic mind. I was a video artist dallying in the essay format at the time and this visual approach towards information struck a chord. Jones' inquiry yields an abundance of information, presented in logical, but also haphazard ways. Jones' narrator is quick to find value in coincidence, as evinced by the counter-text of the film, <em>Meet John Doe</em>. <em>Finished</em> is a bittersweet movie totally of its time. It's unsturdy, too experimental for the indie film scene, but with a distribution pattern that distanced itself from the artworld of its period. I like to think of the film as emerging in that wonderful moment where subversive film titles were being released on home video and giving their avid consumers tastes of something thrilling, experimental and more expansive than the traditional capitalist products that were out there. It was this weird dissemination of a protest ethos, where charged titles could be picked up by isolated viewers the nation over, and transmit the thrill of their counter-narrative. As Jones did in Lambert, I found a counterpart in Jones who thought through his impulsive desires, yearning to discern the point or source of this fan frenzy. But unlike Jones' narrative, my subject has never disappointed.<br><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLcYRgJ-eLYOf0IUCxxsZ5pE9HVAqj7JwWu0WYF2f-XuSIk88rdCa3nz3QB3gKZsK3qFXNIWZCTlVgVifGP9w7T_qq64Ak9kBaoUFWbnKF9ZHmOkpkj7mBHIPaQ7vhI-d5H9KKNg/s1600/02finishedalanshoulder.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLcYRgJ-eLYOf0IUCxxsZ5pE9HVAqj7JwWu0WYF2f-XuSIk88rdCa3nz3QB3gKZsK3qFXNIWZCTlVgVifGP9w7T_qq64Ak9kBaoUFWbnKF9ZHmOkpkj7mBHIPaQ7vhI-d5H9KKNg/s320/02finishedalanshoulder.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576226441595821586" /></a></p><p><em>Finished</em> will screen with Fred Halsted's <em>The Sex Garage</em> at my screening series, <a href="http://dirtylooksnyc.org"><em>Dirty Looks</em></a> Wednesday, February 23rd at 8pm. Participant Inc. 253 E. Houston.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-50765509393738178752011-02-21T10:20:00.001-05:002011-02-21T10:22:32.670-05:00Nova, finally.<p><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1FHEn8rJ4Vw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br>watch it large.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-8455602702270098302011-02-17T17:02:00.006-05:002011-02-19T15:53:52.398-05:00"At Moments Like This He Feels Farthest Away"<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikydu8UKvcvG0Q6W_ARaLLQhbs0Id13cOkBdh8XFDm04aeC0DFCSr3LF-LzOarwL3q_rvIzWm_HuYSjRsMT3e51DCrEfUKUe6SkN1KTIZNosaLJg0BmN3q31LK5W4k7gKkWeKijQ/s1600/Picture+40.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikydu8UKvcvG0Q6W_ARaLLQhbs0Id13cOkBdh8XFDm04aeC0DFCSr3LF-LzOarwL3q_rvIzWm_HuYSjRsMT3e51DCrEfUKUe6SkN1KTIZNosaLJg0BmN3q31LK5W4k7gKkWeKijQ/s320/Picture+40.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575506023232173298" /></a>Once you get past the rather irksome security check point a wonderful treat awaits you at the Fales Library and Special Collections gallery. On display until April 29th is a wonderful realization of a window installation commissioned by NYU's Grey Gallery in 1983, then censored before its completion. At the time, Tim Dlugos was a young poet on-the-rise in the Manhattan poetry scene and Philip Monaghan was a trained painter serving as artistic director for fashion haus, Fiorucci. Beginning with Dlugos' crowd fave, "Gilligan's Island," a personal poem which mashed-up imagery from the namesake T.V. show, the Kennedy assassination, Alfred Hitchcock's <em>The Birds</em> and Dlucos own memories of angsty queer teen longing, Monaghan was to create a space that embodied and expanded Dlugos work in painting. As it turned out, the Grey deemed Dlugos' two-line mention of masturbation entirely too much for 1980s public consumption, and shuttered the whole idea, until now.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg675whcxuQCotHGkuy3gZ4hfkkYxzdBslGT4vmBvdPJXnIqS91WJ8auX_O6usV29DTPuNuaHuJgj_WbwluFyM9ZDUYw3W8u_tZXQsny_3-CMhevoelJ0fpu453rUCFXIb-cX4Jsg/s1600/Picture+42.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg675whcxuQCotHGkuy3gZ4hfkkYxzdBslGT4vmBvdPJXnIqS91WJ8auX_O6usV29DTPuNuaHuJgj_WbwluFyM9ZDUYw3W8u_tZXQsny_3-CMhevoelJ0fpu453rUCFXIb-cX4Jsg/s320/Picture+42.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575506651417541442" /></a>Entering the gallery through the narrow corridor, you're met with a rather unfortunate homage to the text. A wall-sized shiny plasticine reprint of the poem bubbles and crinkles on its matching grey wall. With light grey type on a dark grey backing, there's too little tonal distinction between the back and foreground. Impossible to read, the gesture is further troubled by an ipod shuffle deck mounted on the wall, where Dlugos (I presume) reads the piece aloud. I, for one, cannot read a text while someone else is talking at me. Perhaps a better choice would have been to privilege the audio, a more precious fragment from our recent past than some badly reproduced wallscreen.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7bVVk0dMYN0euRaxmnGFZAsl-WN12CPJ9yLjXO1yRQ0kQveOKf8Rl0d96PtQ-HN-XrVUa3Du0lsEStjjG6oUPeljU-AQkJxFx2uEso3Tk6s5FPKjsjZaostuVjfGzyPrg2ePOQg/s1600/Picture+41.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7bVVk0dMYN0euRaxmnGFZAsl-WN12CPJ9yLjXO1yRQ0kQveOKf8Rl0d96PtQ-HN-XrVUa3Du0lsEStjjG6oUPeljU-AQkJxFx2uEso3Tk6s5FPKjsjZaostuVjfGzyPrg2ePOQg/s320/Picture+41.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575506386621994706" /></a>Passing the peculiar larger-than-life photograph of a goofy Dlucos in suit and tie, you enter the gallery and suddenly everything comes into focus. Over 54 uniform panels (18" x 24") Monaghan covers all of the wild imagery that Dlugos wearves through his poem. Images where Jackie O mounts The Professor. Ginger - or is that Tippi - looks on, in total fright. The <em>Gilligan's Island</em> logo is trained in the same site as that limousine. Time has afforded an additional process to convey the assemblage nature of this narrative. Beneath the surface of Monaghan's vibrant and youthful painting strokes are inkjet prints of images mostly ripped from the T.V. show, swathed in the candy hued-paints that create this gay teen psyche.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWK04Hzaazx0DCEPaKe3om5qk5H-i4S8pL009ySYXfVP57br-s4RoGkl_pk6JXDOJZQqu0OGKNm2vo8tk0hh4r8z3rX2J2NrSEqmbpSqef6-5E6Gj5r5rCcnon_x90Ozu0lITJig/s1600/Picture+31.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWK04Hzaazx0DCEPaKe3om5qk5H-i4S8pL009ySYXfVP57br-s4RoGkl_pk6JXDOJZQqu0OGKNm2vo8tk0hh4r8z3rX2J2NrSEqmbpSqef6-5E6Gj5r5rCcnon_x90Ozu0lITJig/s320/Picture+31.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575505498102403874" /></a>The paintings are installed uniformly, positioned somewhere between comic book panels and salon-sytle hanging. Their excitable imagery thankfully shies from direct representation, more striving to evoke the ethos of Dlugos wonderful poem. I'm not so familiar with the particulars of <em>Gilligan's Island</em>, but Dlugos mines key sequences, presenting them as gospel, as if their momentous importance is etched into an entire pop subconscious. "From the water comes a thick and eerie tropical silence," near the end of the poem. "The famous conversation is about to start." There's a flippant self-reflexivity to the language that situates us in the space, but just as quickly careens us out to the loveseat, to the red velvet of the theater. Elsewhere, "Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren are totally concerned. They realize that something terrible is happening. Each has been savagely attacked by a wild songbird within the last twenty-four hours. Outside their window thousands of birds have gathered in anticipation of the famous school-yard scene."</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwdU8aAEOAV7UR9Ek6esEn6zPkurIhooOlSQH0GcP4cgNzsWNeycvSafdgSpjIQrPbLJc2PJlUS7jF7tYsPt5jKR5jhoaQhbPA824KdfXE9g64l_H0fM4GkKS5FZ3OnKEHOIAgDQ/s1600/Picture+38.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwdU8aAEOAV7UR9Ek6esEn6zPkurIhooOlSQH0GcP4cgNzsWNeycvSafdgSpjIQrPbLJc2PJlUS7jF7tYsPt5jKR5jhoaQhbPA824KdfXE9g64l_H0fM4GkKS5FZ3OnKEHOIAgDQ/s320/Picture+38.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575505675380857138" /></a>Devoid of medial mimesis in the 1960s, these queer role models and erotic icons were stolen, adopted, projections. Tippi, Jackie and Ginger <em>are</em> Dlugos, are Oedipal mothers. And The Professor is the dream lover. Is our dream lover. The trauma begotten by the assassination, stirring in the allegorical heart of <em>The Birds</em>, is a ripe one for any a teen faggot, wetting his hand and rubbing one out in daydreams of the boy two rows back in government class. It's like Michael Moon, writing about gay children from earlier generations who took delight in the gendered excesses of Maria Montez and Jayne Mansfield, only in Dlucos swirling cosmology, these figures that inspire a shared breathlessness ebb a bizarre 1960s-brand of pop normalcy. Each figure seems, to me, stoicly banal. Instead, their wildness is in these juxtapositions. Monaghan's works are the hyroglyphs for this rag-tag manner of collective dreaming. And the paintings depict the beautiful and uncanny shock at the realization of a shared gay experience. That the fantasy of one isolated faggot in Dallas, TX is gripping another thousands of miles away. "I realized that I had always had the same feelings," Monaghan writes in the sensational complimentary catalogue that accompanies the show. His paintings are raw, exciting, loving. I'm not sure I'd find them enchanting individually, outside this setting, but as an installation, Monaghan's work is dazzlingly successful. It's a glimpse into a creative space drunk on the erotics and kindred devotions of this shared subconscious fantasy. This firey island where teens of the particular moment that the poem recalls - 1964 - had to read <em>through</em> popular fictions, inserting themselves in the cracks of these sources.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgG1iHOTdvGVlvMPiEOpAoiOOP4yLuYR0b3DYi53YTLhAEpvPc1jLuxQJZ61fI-ojeAOJYqbkFDMHQR23oBd-HU1vl7oq1Vysk9BsKPoaZ-bwfbMTD-_ZhAlBO-V8Ms9UYuZN1g/s1600/Picture+39.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgG1iHOTdvGVlvMPiEOpAoiOOP4yLuYR0b3DYi53YTLhAEpvPc1jLuxQJZ61fI-ojeAOJYqbkFDMHQR23oBd-HU1vl7oq1Vysk9BsKPoaZ-bwfbMTD-_ZhAlBO-V8Ms9UYuZN1g/s320/Picture+39.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575505871234199442" /></a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-63423383668277402912011-02-13T11:56:00.001-05:002011-02-13T11:56:54.770-05:00ALL KINDS OF SUNDAY MORNING AMAZING<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dzyOntKtu0A" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-2210393964331269962011-02-12T16:09:00.005-05:002011-02-12T16:46:47.122-05:00how do you spell Queen?<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6px6LBi65EEGRJRv4P6CSrRtGznr8HyeIzwTPNTR9Mp5pZkic0hd7WDfkp-ZLMY76xgv7EXlzItSgsoYfwLSvYmlb4YnZerJKAqwoT7XP0IROgwIAVRK6MHNS1g8tsK4uBaaV3A/s1600/clean3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6px6LBi65EEGRJRv4P6CSrRtGznr8HyeIzwTPNTR9Mp5pZkic0hd7WDfkp-ZLMY76xgv7EXlzItSgsoYfwLSvYmlb4YnZerJKAqwoT7XP0IROgwIAVRK6MHNS1g8tsK4uBaaV3A/s320/clean3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572909455565515170" /></a>Tuesday. Two shows, on neighboring blocks but worlds apart. On some bed ridden week-day chatter with a friend a few days prior, I was sent a mildly pornogrpahic image of two boys occupying the same fashion-y white dress, one giving the other a blowjob. She'd (my chat friend) just come across the image and didn't know it's maker. She found it way hot. We guessed at the nationality of these boys - I guessed French or German while she was way off the mark with British. Well, it turns out the boys over at Gayletter knew - of course! - and recommended Luigi and Luca's (Italian, duh) exhibition at Leslie/Lohman Gay Art Foundation on Tuesday night. The exhibition was the sort of affair you're meant to just accept given the "Foundation's" self-designation as a venue for thriving gay culture, but I could barely keep my cool in a room flanked by lusty collectors ogling fashion photographs of a hot couple fellating each another and shelling out cash for the sake of "art". The economic arrangement of the show assured that all (most) tastes and price-ranges were accounted for, with a hot-lighted vitrine displaying more edition oriented formats as opposed to those larger works that also graced the walls. And boi was stuff selling. Everything, I know, has its place, and if the "gay community" would like to perpetuate this material being exhibited as its chosen "fine art," than so be it. I'd prefer to call the work ephemera of visual culture. This preferential treatment of commoditizable desire (aka, where desire for the subject becomes equated with the overall value of the work) was what drained the life out of queer cinema in the 90s, so I have a particular axe to grind. To me, the work on the walls was decorative accents, collectables towards the construction of A-Gay lifestyle. I'd imagine it was an art opening those boys on the Logo show <em>A-List</em> would attend. And maybe there's something way positivistic to say about the ability to establish and sustain a kind of gay capitalism for the furthering of gay image production and visual culture. As the Gayletter boys tweeted at the show, there were a great number of NYC queer art mavens on parade - my friend, <a href="http://fagcity.blogspot.com">Max Steele</a> and his counterpart Daniel Portland from band B0dy H1, Gio Black Peter, and, of course, those darling Gayletter boys themselves. Still, I felt completely at odds in this "community" affair as the foundation would have it, atomized apart from this market segment.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgCOqfNSxMeeY2f31Vp5Ql4V1KseqUqxeELL6S5Iy8ww3nNa13LbtpON3D6rNfOctahh5rs2Om8wyZYnYvkawBuqfKaE1GBA1DqefzHtdKu6Cv1dWGRkycKnT02IfX-d3e9dJ8w/s1600/img491.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgCOqfNSxMeeY2f31Vp5Ql4V1KseqUqxeELL6S5Iy8ww3nNa13LbtpON3D6rNfOctahh5rs2Om8wyZYnYvkawBuqfKaE1GBA1DqefzHtdKu6Cv1dWGRkycKnT02IfX-d3e9dJ8w/s320/img491.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572913919374231090" /></a>So, I guess I headed over to "my" show, which was a total mind-fuck. The Swiss Institute - hot off their Chris Kraus reading - was opening with photographs by Karlheinz Weinberger, a Swiss photographer who took physique pictorials in the 1950s and documented a 1950s counter-cultural trend in Switzerland - gangs who took up American iconography with a polyamorous ferocity: Little Richard, Elvis, James Dean, Hells Angels, Nazism - well, I guess that's not really American. Like the Bikers in Kenneth Anger's <em>Scorpio Rising</em>, the subjects of the exhibition, "Intimate Stranger" work with loaded visual signifiers in an echolalia of attitude. Not only do the counter-culture carnies in Weinberger's photographs tote these cultural referents, they fashion their own rag-tag regalia by pasting magazine cut-outs on 7" brass belt-buckles, self fashioning horseshoe codpieces and lacing screws through the flies of too-tight jeans. The fandom on offer here isn't a kind of fidelitous obsession, it's an immediate and beautiful kind of devotion to a mythical foreignicity, a lifestyle that in America was really only an ideal, never a possibility. When Kenneth Anger returned from an 8-year stint in Paris, he made <em>Scorpio Rising</em> because he discovered an alien America, an America driven by these new rebel images that (particularly in Anger's work) flirted like a pop-cultural Thanatos. There's a palpable mix of femme eroticism and violence in Weinberger's images, as these tough guys with swastika armbands and facial scars, pout and pose like drag contestants before a backdrop. The Institute was smart to offer cans of Budweiser for the opening and the hipster attire of various crowd members made the show feel immersive. I met filmmaker Theis Ulrik Jessen in the lobby and also wrangled a press copy of Rizzoli's accompanying catalogue: <em>Rebel Youth</em> with a forward by John Waters. Review forthcoming. THE SHOW IS A MUST-SEE.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEo2vqlIg2jOua3vy-bgI9Hs9JquGkR9Pk4qbXgyY0p8NKGWdEg_EPTXtjJ3HTmVYI67dn-QHSalYcV9c80FVGhklx2k2q9BCeSa9lACYVnsDCc8cOUti-P-AQFrpMOeFGpkaFg/s1600/IMG_0354+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEo2vqlIg2jOua3vy-bgI9Hs9JquGkR9Pk4qbXgyY0p8NKGWdEg_EPTXtjJ3HTmVYI67dn-QHSalYcV9c80FVGhklx2k2q9BCeSa9lACYVnsDCc8cOUti-P-AQFrpMOeFGpkaFg/s320/IMG_0354+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572905994618622066" /></a><p>On Wednesday I showed off my culinary skills to some lovely writers and film folk for my first formal dinner party at our E Williamsburg abode. Yes, girl, I tried my best to expand these Bachelor cooking techniques to include chicken and dumplings and pumpkin pie - and from scratch! Well, I came away with a laundry list of movie recommendations... though most mysteriously involve actresses having sex with monkeys.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZggvcL0tNDpcU2aasqrVcuylUG8TefJrV7pdMYEjWht-IfLrFluDquo5agOmLuEz3DiXPf8lC2Vmgj5ttAdFa4QLAkiBNY9cyFsQ6jambgbztPtZlpafhjT7QiPx_kBC211biow/s1600/Picture+15.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZggvcL0tNDpcU2aasqrVcuylUG8TefJrV7pdMYEjWht-IfLrFluDquo5agOmLuEz3DiXPf8lC2Vmgj5ttAdFa4QLAkiBNY9cyFsQ6jambgbztPtZlpafhjT7QiPx_kBC211biow/s320/Picture+15.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572910480619592226" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieVkWKzTubWHxZ6Ckydeh6pDz6fEnhaQPlbvskVrMvQRV2_MXVIfsxTkhUXu7J_6v4zc8m0hnre_gFKIahAG0zmH24sbL84o-puK3KjCVaxVagoyjIRtMoOprDgeNhaZxuss6VRg/s1600/Picture+16.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieVkWKzTubWHxZ6Ckydeh6pDz6fEnhaQPlbvskVrMvQRV2_MXVIfsxTkhUXu7J_6v4zc8m0hnre_gFKIahAG0zmH24sbL84o-puK3KjCVaxVagoyjIRtMoOprDgeNhaZxuss6VRg/s320/Picture+16.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572910605548010146" /></a>On Thursday I had a beautiful New York day. Just having received the flyers for the upcoming William E. Jones / Fred Halsted edition of <a href="http://dirtylooksnyc.org">Dirty Looks</a>, I went to go flyer my life away, all over town. It's very icy here, but when you're on the move, it don't feel that bad. First stop, I picked up some new black jeans that I was having altered and walked them to Participant, where Lia Gangitano was revving up for a the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston's College Art Association reception. CAA is having their mega-conference in New York right now and I'm not going. I even worked there last year, so getting in on a dime wouldn't be an issue. I'm just in a really oppositional mood to academia at the moment - which filmmaker and queer ambassador Ira Sachs chided me over later that night - but I'm getting ahead of myself. I changed into my new jeans in the Participant bathroom since the holes in my uniform black jeans were really getting dire and popped out only to run into Photi on the street, director of <a href="http://photiart.com/">Callicoon Gallery</a>. He's so nice. I dropped flyers off at the Quad, at Kim's video. I tried Anthology but they weren't open. Basically, I walked across town on a brisk but lovely sunny Thursday, stopping by Zürcher Studio, to chat up the gallery assistant about their impending art fair alternative, <a href="http://artlog.com/events/70271-salon-z-rcher">Salon Zürcher</a>, a more individual response to the Armory Art Fair week. Popping into various other institutions to drop off my cards, I finally settled into a cafe in the West Village where my friend works and we kibitzed for an hour or so until I made way to the opening of <em>I <3 Boy</em> a new book launching at The Powerhouse, in Dumbo. The opening was sufficiently mobbed and I was able to catch up with Timmy Pico, tireless harbringer of <a href="http://birdsongmag.com">Birdsong Mag</a>. Tommy's moving to Paris - lucky - for the summer, to beat the heat (and hopefully some Parisian boys while he's at it). I think tommy's micropress efforts with the zine are great - and will only improve with an international ratchet on the belt.</p> <p>Attending with my friend Herbert, he convinced me to go back to Julius cause I read an invite wrong and though that the CAA Queer Art Caucus social was Thursday night. So we went and had burgers, trying to figure out who was CAA. None were. It was Friday night. Silly me. But we were joined by my friend Chad and a present surprise found Ira Sachs and his lovely BF, artsist <a href="http://boristorres.com">Boris Torres</a>, who I've heard so much of but never met, stopping by. I had a lovely chat with Ira, who I've been quite fond of ever since I wrote a piece on his Charles Ludlam evening at <a href="http://www.queerartfilm.com/">Queer/Art/Film</a>. A truly staunch supporter of queer community politics, Ira's always a great conversationalist and very supportive. Suffice to say, what was meant as a quiet evening ended at 4 am.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTlfa4Pia7X04_9ayTwOdETKS3MMPCSS4KhW4xcOcSVvUKZdmuM2aBUlzuk6nWzDaDAgG83t5pKm00jMerE_JgSRjwvkwj88R7NOPJQe2NvF07RUd0YG0SVi3FzqgSZ92I5EyGw/s1600/IMG_0364+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTlfa4Pia7X04_9ayTwOdETKS3MMPCSS4KhW4xcOcSVvUKZdmuM2aBUlzuk6nWzDaDAgG83t5pKm00jMerE_JgSRjwvkwj88R7NOPJQe2NvF07RUd0YG0SVi3FzqgSZ92I5EyGw/s320/IMG_0364+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572906905882258786" /></a>Which left me a wreck for Friday. Though I was able to make it to my friend, Zackary Drucker's presentation with Flawless Sabrina of Zackary's new film, 'At Least You Know You Exist' and the 1968 documentary starring Flawless, <em>The Queen</em> alongside Joe Jeffrey's 'The Queen: After Party Outtakes.' The West village LGBT center, which hosted the event, was PACKED. Hundreds of people turned out for this event. Attending the screening, you're privy to a kind of kindred love affair between Zackary and Sabrina. To me, true queens are the ladies who don't shut themselves off inside a role, but are constantly changing, learning and teaching, which is something that Flawless highlighted in her conversation. Zackary's film looked immaculate shot in 16mm on a wind-up Bolex. It's more a rumination too, and the difference between Flawless' performative hijinx and Zackary's high-gloss modeling does stand out. Like many contemporary artists, Zackary's body (and body of work) has become more a platform to discuss a queer (trans) history and how that has shifted over the years. It's become decidedly more marketable as a cultural product, a trait always in evidence through Zackary's haute couture stylings. But to deride this is missing the point, which is celebratory and educational - like William E. Jones, Zackary is manning an archive and attempting to work these personal histories into his film, performance and photographic practice. A highlight of the evening came when a question emerged from the audience regarding Zackary's nude performance in the film. "That was so erotic," a female commentator asked, "is that the first time you've been nude in film?" Ever the performer, Zackary allowed a slight pause to become pregnant before extolling, "It's not the <em>first</em> time..." "And hopefully it's not the last," cooed Flawless.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VYPCRGzrEpyE1jUpjvM65FezTqTep2COJm04fZyh5W2eBTQXuhnpKqyDWlgrhmqcL3FF3AAnb69sY5E2gEWw38q8-AYPo6uzDPXbh64wH9VKBjZrSKgcqYT42wrRc3lvSaUpNA/s1600/queen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VYPCRGzrEpyE1jUpjvM65FezTqTep2COJm04fZyh5W2eBTQXuhnpKqyDWlgrhmqcL3FF3AAnb69sY5E2gEWw38q8-AYPo6uzDPXbh64wH9VKBjZrSKgcqYT42wrRc3lvSaUpNA/s320/queen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572908718086825538" /></a>The straight-forward doc couldn't help but make me think of <em>Rupaul's Drag Race</em>, which is really very good this season. I've been joking recently that I don't know how I know life without it! But <em>The Queen</em> exists as both a cultural artifact while conversely showcasing how quite a bit seems rather unchanged. Of course, the idea of pageantry is really conservative, so the almost identical format from this 1968 Town Hall performance to Ru's stage presentations is not a huge shock. There's a pretense towards agency in Ru's show, where the girls must exhibit creativity in overcoming challenges, though it's frequently thwarted, as in the case of that odious winner last year, who displayed the same kind of flaccid "realness" mimicry that <em>Queen</em> winner Harlot exhibited onstage. In street footage, Harlot was fascinating, but the kind of messy identity politics that are frequently bubbling under popular drag contests still exhibit some ugly shadows of hetero envy 40-some-odd years later.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-45840660049631747782011-02-06T10:28:00.010-05:002011-02-06T12:08:42.752-05:00Body Talks<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDRu8fKhvfw04knK008nfny4ZPbdZljJUafmmE1PESKCckixe0Nva_dvsLHVuhDXd0kzZm1Dc1hCFeq5ZJt5l4wvr-3ALnp61uFgE5OLNWEXH_myVtvQIlcQS-MYWPcwORqyVWfg/s1600/robyn-pr+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDRu8fKhvfw04knK008nfny4ZPbdZljJUafmmE1PESKCckixe0Nva_dvsLHVuhDXd0kzZm1Dc1hCFeq5ZJt5l4wvr-3ALnp61uFgE5OLNWEXH_myVtvQIlcQS-MYWPcwORqyVWfg/s320/robyn-pr+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570618774447991106" /></a>Sometimes when life hands you a wild juxtaposition, you just have to play it as it lays. On Friday night, I attended my friend Larin Sullivan's 30th birthday party - it was Love Boat, or rather Lez Boat themed. Perhaps more importantly, it was literally two blocks from home so I spent much of the evening working on projects. Then D reminded me that Netflix came. I rushed to the little red envelope, knowing its contents. Tearing it open I popped on our evening's entertainment: <em>The Twilight Saga: Eclipse</em>. Now, I'd seen the last one a while back, even wrote of it on these pages. I'm no fan to the series, really. Never read the books, but as someone deeply invested in pop cultural forms, I'm more than happy to follow Bella and her occult posse into the dimmest Pacific Northwest forest and back.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthDxt-sDBrBYMqPm-8pDvaDFU559De3D9mx12sWXqhS1RfanwoIMj7MP_jeYchtEDm5d98FZwltLbkdV0V8xn_euRIh88nUD8HmCbfF6VKPZ9hDOM0QWJ_90ZO7o2o7U4NPCJSg/s1600/Picture+10.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthDxt-sDBrBYMqPm-8pDvaDFU559De3D9mx12sWXqhS1RfanwoIMj7MP_jeYchtEDm5d98FZwltLbkdV0V8xn_euRIh88nUD8HmCbfF6VKPZ9hDOM0QWJ_90ZO7o2o7U4NPCJSg/s320/Picture+10.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570620445800778418" /></a>It seems difficult to fathom, but things have become decidedly more industrial this go-around. And it's tricky to pinpoint why, but the kids are remarkably less sexy. Orbiting in their own cosmologies, these actors don't even seem to be participating in a film, but revealing their make-up and hair perf forms for a worldwide mirror. Perhaps its because the respective frankness and pop-existentialism that characterized these poorly fleshed out male love interests have become more punchlines than signatures. Constant in-jokes riddle the script, which jibes at hottie werewolf Jake, "don't you own a shirt?" so apt is this actor to parade his lupine physique. When Bella braves frostbite, Jake cuddles up to warm her, even though she's betrothed to the vampire because, "you know I'm hotter than you."</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIqkXcexllUuF-DdbH44BsGlEjVEE4KIbrSTc2n0SCE8vkaRVVcvYuGvdKoIa3-x-ZdKRMrGftsxfi7aUWrVlpqIGVg4-THVdFiTTvIXHrO7EZyc90YAM52QkJLJhTwFpz5V9tQ/s1600/Eclipse-Movie-Still-edward-cullen-13198579-2560-1703.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIqkXcexllUuF-DdbH44BsGlEjVEE4KIbrSTc2n0SCE8vkaRVVcvYuGvdKoIa3-x-ZdKRMrGftsxfi7aUWrVlpqIGVg4-THVdFiTTvIXHrO7EZyc90YAM52QkJLJhTwFpz5V9tQ/s320/Eclipse-Movie-Still-edward-cullen-13198579-2560-1703.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570620170826682258" /></a>And he's right; R Pat has never looked so uncomfortable and pained. His Edward displays nothing but a desperate, whiny devotion to this all-important Bella (one must ask oneself why everyone goes to all this trouble for one maudlin little brunette). But these in-jokes save the day. These jokes reach beyond the bizarrely connect-the-dots script. Oh, <em>Eclipse</em> is a surprisingly enjoyable watch, it's absurd as hell, but I was riveted. It's really Soap logic - and that I adore. But these jokes, almost Shakespearean in their address to a world beyond the diegesis, hood-wink a thriving international audience of tweens to whom this conservative cosmos has become gospel. They create a metatextual layer on this series so that it becomes participatory, so that giggles can run though the audience, giggles that acknowledge space beyond of the dour perimeter of the Pacific Northwest.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5rqMaKCP0UJmSrFkEy_s53r_Mm1jFbR3DWXDbmggi9c7O-5tBZkhi_WMdaWwxO4XXJXEI1CH77fHMX7yh1ZkxbNfLGCvO3-XN6slvrIsn7jNf2ROMnPanpkYt9pIpcdd1yKF1g/s1600/IMG_0320+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5rqMaKCP0UJmSrFkEy_s53r_Mm1jFbR3DWXDbmggi9c7O-5tBZkhi_WMdaWwxO4XXJXEI1CH77fHMX7yh1ZkxbNfLGCvO3-XN6slvrIsn7jNf2ROMnPanpkYt9pIpcdd1yKF1g/s320/IMG_0320+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570622782111552994" /></a>The following evening, I engaged in a different participatory event, no less rabid or targeted in its market (way gay). She's come a long way since last summer's gig at Webster Hall, whose bill she shared with Kelis, but Swedish pop diva Robyn sold out the Radio City Music Hall, delivering to a packed homophilic house - the largest, she beamed, that she's ever drawn, by herself. Everything was bare-bones in an endearing way. Her two opening acts were solo performers, one of whom sang exclusively to a tape (the meh Natalia Kills). Two large pinwheels were Robyn's sole decoration. But she brought the crowd roaring to its feet as she entered the stage in a doctored fireman's jacket and platform Timberlands, launching into her Max Martin-produced 'Time Machine.'</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpccsxiiUXrcbfWLjUyWZimH0BcMxG61nyzci7VOkY0RSKn9wwzm6lp6Zx6A6JRfVX2y03VEEaGL4R5ioe_lO2g3WwpU9QCiCyireENjq0fux7TlkW9icawgKe0Kg-sxvV4jvWw/s1600/robyn_vma2010_stage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpccsxiiUXrcbfWLjUyWZimH0BcMxG61nyzci7VOkY0RSKn9wwzm6lp6Zx6A6JRfVX2y03VEEaGL4R5ioe_lO2g3WwpU9QCiCyireENjq0fux7TlkW9icawgKe0Kg-sxvV4jvWw/s320/robyn_vma2010_stage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570623524813276802" /></a>Of course, the thrill of the night was the stellar single, 'Dancing on my Own,' which, as in last July's performance, came very early on in the set. I imagine it's what opening night at <em>Eclipse</em> felt like. The entire crowd just swills together on the thrill of hearing this, their song. It's a loner song, so it's <em>your</em> song, which makes it feel all the more ecstatic when 5 or so thousand people tap into this with you, sharing your unmitigated delight. And Robyn works hard to make her set feel all about you. She has the rare quality of a performer who can address an audience and make it feel direct, intimate. Diana Ross has that, too. She takes every opportunity, 3 or 4 times a song, to visit with the front row, dipping her hand in or slipping down into the pit. Last night she tore up the rafters alongside the theater, all the way up to the balcony, throwing herself into the gaping arms of those fans who only made it second tier. She don't care!</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvi26MGjasBB6ezTr0q9cHv-cRnLH41zh25HrhSOazMzqiXp2Kd3b556-CgNftEj2vnYacWokCM0UOw9Z03ccqgjXuM9XL6rcQVKGnZCKVxmGV9Pe9tZ4Ln8I_s4J8084hdb9gw/s1600/robynMG_3910.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvi26MGjasBB6ezTr0q9cHv-cRnLH41zh25HrhSOazMzqiXp2Kd3b556-CgNftEj2vnYacWokCM0UOw9Z03ccqgjXuM9XL6rcQVKGnZCKVxmGV9Pe9tZ4Ln8I_s4J8084hdb9gw/s320/robynMG_3910.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570623011520523282" /></a>In truth, it was a slightly less taut show than the one that she performed with Kelis. Her performance style is nothing short of buoyant - she jumps, runs, dances like a little Swedish she-devil, all without missing a note (last night she even toppled over, falling on her butt during 'Call Your Girlfriend' - there too without a second's lag). But she's also been touring an entire year now, and there's a mild fatigue there. She's performing material, mostly culled from the <em>Body Talk</em> series, with all of Part 3 on offer. She sounds good, looks good, but, as in <em>Eclipse</em>, it's the moments where she dips outside the idiom and just revels at her accomplishments with her fans that makes the evening so memorable. Her smile cuts through the music, this dancing and joy feels like the point, the music a platform for it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiK0GHr6t0vjOSR6nWCTwRXXV8xNPj3cL8iAlstX8G0oMXeLkfcvOlr8E3iiO6bB_8w90Td69dQ-G7tR1TzE51nFR_DZYlbMGFy985DuOi8OXQpIQX7Jl6Mqb-aVMt6CIGyAlyXQ/s1600/Robyn-3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiK0GHr6t0vjOSR6nWCTwRXXV8xNPj3cL8iAlstX8G0oMXeLkfcvOlr8E3iiO6bB_8w90Td69dQ-G7tR1TzE51nFR_DZYlbMGFy985DuOi8OXQpIQX7Jl6Mqb-aVMt6CIGyAlyXQ/s320/Robyn-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570623740613335842" /></a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-594216184406401522011-02-04T12:45:00.009-05:002011-02-04T13:46:24.791-05:00Winter Doldrums<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG4gD1CEdQ5AuDll7MIsYk6PYw1G3QdCENq3e56GsNP70C2B6Qaz8Pz6RyL5iUAUQfh74q-MZC27qhLIk6nW2cObxii9g_bklhRZllHg2xN3lQ2qmw-n60xKWm7MOd7xQzu3Trg/s1600/IMG_0291+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG4gD1CEdQ5AuDll7MIsYk6PYw1G3QdCENq3e56GsNP70C2B6Qaz8Pz6RyL5iUAUQfh74q-MZC27qhLIk6nW2cObxii9g_bklhRZllHg2xN3lQ2qmw-n60xKWm7MOd7xQzu3Trg/s320/IMG_0291+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569906390993204370" /></a>A week of icy eventage. A combination of mild warmth and ice rain makes every surface here glazed in a swath of silvery white, resembling either marshmallow fluff or a Cocteau Twins album cover. It's beautiful when you're not falling on it.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fVAYmbknplYpApKMYJSTNSIR88kLRPFBwjdQ8B1WkDIWmJDhoCJgFTSbJbyiJGN0bDriHWzTzaoDxGdUpekXRaJkHQ6Wwccm5dlM5ntjia4cp8C6l03NvV3uwAIPr52oPpX_og/s1600/IMG_0266+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fVAYmbknplYpApKMYJSTNSIR88kLRPFBwjdQ8B1WkDIWmJDhoCJgFTSbJbyiJGN0bDriHWzTzaoDxGdUpekXRaJkHQ6Wwccm5dlM5ntjia4cp8C6l03NvV3uwAIPr52oPpX_og/s320/IMG_0266+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569902670727229154" border="0" /></a>On Sunday I went to the Swiss Institute where Chris Kraus read with Jeremy Sigler in celebration of her new book "Where Art Belongs." She read the last piece which had some startling connections to D - in the piece she weaves a fantasy narrative around a boy jerking off in a photograph. His name is Derek, she decides, and she's reading the same William Gibson novel that D read last summer - while we were in similarly sunnied climes. Just one of those momentary things. There were lots of people there and I FINALLY got a chance to talk to Chris face to face, afterwards. We've been emailing one another for years now. She was shocked that I had the original edition of I Love Dick, the one with her hilarious glamor shot on the back cover. We got a brief coffee and kibitzed about hating London and changes in the LA art scene.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3J6q5cVGB8sq28J2R2n19FpIr3RHH4hZC_FDK5-JHbDzm8qL2Dxg0CicTEJsEH4KLboSDZHrAdfaoomxtiM1-Gz2-MSlr1nLl7olCaN1T1NcZc9ezrQXk26CJkAHD2H7syvoJg/s1600/dick11-13-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3J6q5cVGB8sq28J2R2n19FpIr3RHH4hZC_FDK5-JHbDzm8qL2Dxg0CicTEJsEH4KLboSDZHrAdfaoomxtiM1-Gz2-MSlr1nLl7olCaN1T1NcZc9ezrQXk26CJkAHD2H7syvoJg/s320/dick11-13-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569904152364261698" border="0" /></a>A coffee followed the next day with curator Joseph Whitt (whom I adore) and we decided to collaborate with me writing a chapbook for his new micropress, T.M.I. Love it. Later that night, I went over to the Half King to listen to poetry and lust over issues of Bomb, now that we've let our subscription lapse. Justin Taylor, Dorothea Lasky, Ben Mirov and Luke Degnan read, and I was particularly taken with Lasky's work. She looked out to the crowd, for some reason isolating me when she asked "I hope you like Sylvia Plath." I do, but didn't respond to such a generally issued question. She took this as a no and delivered some stand-up comic retort. Then we scuttled over to the Annie O Music series at the Cooper Square hotel for an evening hosted by the gallery that I am curating <a href="http://dirtylooksnyc.org/">Dirty Looks</a> for, Participant Inc. Death Vessel played - a decidedly more country outfit than the name might suggest. Eileen Myles, Matthew Higgs, Gary Indiana were there and I chatted up Conrad Ventur about - what else - Warhol cinema and had a brief chat with Photi Giovanis, who runs Callicoon gallery in Callicoon New York. Participant director Lia Gangitano looked great - not wearing her fur vest and leather jacket uniform, but a strappy dress. The view up in the main sweet of the Cooper was really amazing.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDeUtHStPjeG2ngI4OKuxdehMFdyBHt7JYAai4lM0K3tObq-k217Q2ESH3mYvnD6iv5yC8k5fIMbwH8mwFfCy66gTLEU-Vo2pUx33Oe-9QwB8hiRL-m1qpIsNxBr6nGkmbQxnFw/s1600/IMG_0272+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDeUtHStPjeG2ngI4OKuxdehMFdyBHt7JYAai4lM0K3tObq-k217Q2ESH3mYvnD6iv5yC8k5fIMbwH8mwFfCy66gTLEU-Vo2pUx33Oe-9QwB8hiRL-m1qpIsNxBr6nGkmbQxnFw/s320/IMG_0272+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569903241851830098" border="0" /></a>It's ice raining here, so I didn't leave the house on Tuesday. I was meant to have plans but they fell through and I got a take-out burrito and watched Joan Crawford and Clark Gable roam the jungles in <em>Strange Cargo</em> which was kind of not that great. The next night I got sushi with a friend and set up shop at the Boiler Room, running into friends and strangers.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf5Igqwu2gg4-a3RX8NjOBbKFYpiMgADTjEmixCzjjgmU1l24VbT4qwTJIHF_BqY-BdeHoy780lCPb_KBz7bRoxOPR7WMA7Tbhh4w0aUHpgQcdU5VY4KK45_rfs-YhJAZN1Ml5bg/s1600/IMG_0281+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf5Igqwu2gg4-a3RX8NjOBbKFYpiMgADTjEmixCzjjgmU1l24VbT4qwTJIHF_BqY-BdeHoy780lCPb_KBz7bRoxOPR7WMA7Tbhh4w0aUHpgQcdU5VY4KK45_rfs-YhJAZN1Ml5bg/s320/IMG_0281+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569903816989659826" border="0" /></a>Last night I headed over to NP Contemporary Art Center to meet up with a crew of curators - Joseph and Herbert Mendoza - to check out Thomas Dozol's show. See, he's Michael Stipe's boyfriend and there was Michael, in attendance, and wearing some rather scraggly facial hair. John Giorno was also present WITH KIM CATRALL. Sadly, like that time I ate a burrito for an entire meal sitting next to Paul Rudd at El Conquistador in LA and never noticed, I totally missed Kim. But thems the ropes. We hung around long enough to find out from gallery director Wesley Stokes that my new thrift store shoes are made by Pharrell. Though here in the photo, D models them. Then we headed over to P.P.O.W. to see their new space in the Yancey Richardson/Electronic Arts Intermix building. We were promptly given the tour by director Jamie Sterns who was SO in her element, whisking us about abruptly with an energy level that was never short of amazing.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DUCLcGFx7PANxxvXYTOt0g_jkHb8o_ukhwBOjlWUFyHr5zcQyZCVMrHkFJcRUk-TinWzttcOuGaZD5MpRcCQut2G_-6e4RYI7K935XSIv3pQajBS3MjtjiCb3ccd0N03ElMpyg/s1600/IMG_0282+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DUCLcGFx7PANxxvXYTOt0g_jkHb8o_ukhwBOjlWUFyHr5zcQyZCVMrHkFJcRUk-TinWzttcOuGaZD5MpRcCQut2G_-6e4RYI7K935XSIv3pQajBS3MjtjiCb3ccd0N03ElMpyg/s320/IMG_0282+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569904380129875026" border="0" /></a>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;">Jamie and Joseph
</div><p>Grabbing a slice at the new Artichoke pizza, we cabbed it over to Julius for a new party Stache Bash where we were given surrogate staches which I modeled for the remainder of the evening. We parted ways with Herbert, since we were on a mission - see, Joseph had never been to Nowhere or Phoenix, New York gay bars that I suppose are "alternative" (whatever that means) but have always been a part of my NY landscape even on visits. So we probably drank too much and courted a visitation from a drunken mary at every bar, to the tune that I joked with Joseph this morning that our night was something like A Christmas Carrol. Jewelry designer Blue Bayer was by far the most endearing - or maybe I was just so far gone at that point. I can recall his calm loving demeanor this morning, so I guess that says something.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2xwsxGmKVYiLNmoO_0CH-zZGq3rKHUaZ8w1mX8mcqy1aw6-XkSHhZnbfnV3g5twNelwoO5sOdmcriLkTdXahrXRLAy5Ur6R4pV4gzaRhVbg9QG3dY_8ovQhowjxo8mCmrmUQfw/s1600/IMG_0288+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2xwsxGmKVYiLNmoO_0CH-zZGq3rKHUaZ8w1mX8mcqy1aw6-XkSHhZnbfnV3g5twNelwoO5sOdmcriLkTdXahrXRLAy5Ur6R4pV4gzaRhVbg9QG3dY_8ovQhowjxo8mCmrmUQfw/s320/IMG_0288+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569905024852253634" border="0" /></a>
</p><div style="text-align: center;">D, Herbert and Joseph</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-26963564284254728102011-02-01T18:13:00.000-05:002011-02-01T18:14:16.285-05:00Isn't the internet a beautiful thing?<iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jhcOWmjSBlg" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-61043796213708541142011-01-29T12:40:00.026-05:002011-01-29T16:40:34.337-05:00Hostess Updates<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNzIBj0y6jy0vhiwu8684W7cioSH20TXWeQIA6ilbGTZepOtjDJw_p_jEXOXPoLiOfoQiQjxeJsjs1-3tePGWxc-JUgjKxibJXb8Q7TYmfnxkLjVJr24bFFp0AjM4EynGbgbjGQ/s1600/mechanics.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNzIBj0y6jy0vhiwu8684W7cioSH20TXWeQIA6ilbGTZepOtjDJw_p_jEXOXPoLiOfoQiQjxeJsjs1-3tePGWxc-JUgjKxibJXb8Q7TYmfnxkLjVJr24bFFp0AjM4EynGbgbjGQ/s320/mechanics.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567693503630261570" border="0" /></a>More snow and still we trudge on. Last Tuesday, my friend Christopher, aka <a href="http://www.buttmagazine.com/blog/superlist/lonely-christopher/">Lonely Christopher</a> whose collection of short stories, "The Mechanics of Homosexual Intercourse" has just been published on Dennis Cooper's imprint on Akashic books, had a reading at St. Mark's books with none other than Genesis P Orridge. Despite feeling well under the weather, I attended on a "warmish" day with my artist friend, <a href="http://www.jakedavidson.com/">Jake Davidson</a>. Chris came in late and confusedly b-lined to my familiar face. "I don't know where to go?" "Don't worry," I hugged, "Just walk back there and tell them you're Lonely!" Christopher gave a heady reading, not from his book but from a play accounted by pre-Stonewall homos. Very semiotic based stuff. Then Genesis gave a "reading" from her "The Psychic Bible," which basically meant we were serenaded by Genesis' off-the-cuff accounts of communal living, creative insights and incitations. As is usual, she was fabulous and inspiring. I still want to join a commune! Though, I kind of did before Gen, ever since I saw<a href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/auteurs_production/stills/9403/original.jpg?1289452120"> that final scene</a> of Rosa Von Praunheim's <em>Nicht der Homosexuelle ist pervers, sondern die Situation, in der er lebt</em> (that's <em>It Is Not the Homosexual Who Is Perverse, But the Society in Which He Lives</em> to all of us non-German sprechters). So, cute agit gay-boy communes, my email is contactbeingboring@yahoo.com. I'm so there.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguS7iRlmfN4WNYkimH3j6MWDl_MqtHguNRBnFYAhqmdunFrwYWosaFX3hHTZbKnYcEhkpkPJ2H4DaTJiSmZDxwreDbPS4Vc4K7k-sYV8UhUfPkFZiSBrb3CKutX2y_tkK1i-jJrA/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguS7iRlmfN4WNYkimH3j6MWDl_MqtHguNRBnFYAhqmdunFrwYWosaFX3hHTZbKnYcEhkpkPJ2H4DaTJiSmZDxwreDbPS4Vc4K7k-sYV8UhUfPkFZiSBrb3CKutX2y_tkK1i-jJrA/s320/photo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567693990033470722" border="0" /></a>Then the snow turned to rain and Wednesday rolled around. That's right, it was the inaugural screening the monthly experimental series I am organizing, <a href="http://dirtylooksnyc.org/"><em>Dirty Looks</em></a>! Given the weather and a swarm of last minute text message regrets, I was certain that the outcome looked bleak, but out folks came and in droves. Leading the discussion after the Films of Curtis Harrington, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/brucebenderson">Bruce Benderson</a> showed up, and many friends did pop in: playwright <a href="http://perfectdisgrace.com/">Brian Bauman</a> and his beau, <a href="http://plastid.com/">Christo Allegra</a>, curators <a href="http://www.artslant.com/ew/artists/show/75939-joseph-whitt">Joseph Whitt</a>, Adam Baran and Herbert Mendoza, artist <a href="http://www.markgolamco.com/">Mark Golamco</a>, <a href="http://robinnewman.us/">Robin Newman</a> and his writer BF <a href="http://fagcity.blogspot.com/">Max Steele</a> came with Daniel Sander, journalist Suleman Anaya and the fabulous Julie VS. As a curator it's particularly rewarding to see an array of strangers in the audience - that the program you've assembled brings people out of the woodwork. And out they came. We ran out of chairs at Participant Inc. so director Lia Gangitano, Earl Dax and I had to stand for the program! Apologies to those in attendance for the frosty interior. A common complaint from the crowd of the otherwise fabulous Participant (as Lia too well knows) was its lack of heating. A real downer in January. But the films screened and everyone seemed very keen. Even the exhibition, a video installation by artist <a href="http://www.glenfogel.com/">Glen Fogel</a>, went with the <em>Dynasty</em> screening to the t. All in all, a great evening.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhArtEn6Ve3_XP8xnCfguTXkiEhty9GRvdssBiHXQ1LUk__FU0gUQNz7Kx36TZpMTUidPPNbOfK95lIX92DcSmgNKRfAAErtm9ZT-rNaeB-pvWePxhBETbRRJv1Bo-QPMxH02eC0g/s1600/DSCN5309.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhArtEn6Ve3_XP8xnCfguTXkiEhty9GRvdssBiHXQ1LUk__FU0gUQNz7Kx36TZpMTUidPPNbOfK95lIX92DcSmgNKRfAAErtm9ZT-rNaeB-pvWePxhBETbRRJv1Bo-QPMxH02eC0g/s320/DSCN5309.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567694444542381426" border="0" /></a>
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVV51jga3O187ijKtEgXLiCF6ucz26oMeeiSdL6njQrJTTFUf0pmV1HL445Gat9tnsG61-3GPyANXnp5nPwyj4XMgQkjIVMEYMPZXHmdwlUXW44MBrsRwUSiF01VHXTnWNT0Dhw/s1600/IMG_0246+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVV51jga3O187ijKtEgXLiCF6ucz26oMeeiSdL6njQrJTTFUf0pmV1HL445Gat9tnsG61-3GPyANXnp5nPwyj4XMgQkjIVMEYMPZXHmdwlUXW44MBrsRwUSiF01VHXTnWNT0Dhw/s320/IMG_0246+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567694727168130882" border="0" /></a>On Thursday, I had to return the films to Filmmaker's Co-op where I found MM Serra and her staff outfitting Video Barbie with a transexual beard which they'll premier at the Underground Superstars' closing party at the Gene Frankel theater tonight. "She needs a dick!" MM started. I named her Video Barney in lieu of her Video Bert. They agreed. Somewhere in there, I found the time to turn in my recommendation text about <em>Johnny Guitar</em> for the upcoming issue of <a href="http://www.littlejoemagazine.com/index.php?/projects/issue-2/"><em>Little Joe</em></a>, out April 5th. Later, D and I skedaddled over to BAM for the premier of the new Gregg Araki film - <a href="http://being-boring.blogspot.com/2011/01/back-in-high-life-again.html">as you no doubt have seen from the prior post</a>. <a href="http://www.ifcfilms.com/films/kaboom"><em>Kaboom</em></a> was great. Gregg was in attendance - actually he held up the screening since he was coming straight form JFK! Robin and Max were there so D and I saddled up next to them and ate some free popcorn ("Courtesy of Chase" - well, I'm already a fan of Chase, thanks, for recently depositing $125 into my new checking account!). We ran into Marc Arthur who was bummed to have missed <em>Dirty Looks</em>. But then we had to run over to <a href="http://www.louisvesp.com/?p=844">Louis V E.S.P.</a>, to meet up with my performance partner Hayley Blatte, where we did a screen test for Friday night's taping of the pilot episode of <em>E.S.P. TV</em>. I created a character based around a joke - see, they needed a host for this public access video show they were doing and that D was participating in and I quipped off-handedly, "Well, I'd do it, but only if I can be cable access sex-Queen, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPDlt7NtyFo">Robin Byrd</a>!" To which the ever-savvy director, Scott Kiernan, said "Done!" So I invented this character - Mary Boom! - a mix of Robin, Mary Boone (obv) with a little bit of Ann Liv Young's Sherry thrown in there for snarky criticality.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFruiKnIRMznhdKITzCLKm1GVvcRj3Eq8zPPiCMIidifG0hvxCxjTbm_CKZFwAlf0NiZd-8H7g9XrERTJJvKRgmsLRoTdIN9pMbNsUgOICHSnt85tXD7SK3sU5_Y4LFl7CZ1NBAw/s1600/DSCN5339.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFruiKnIRMznhdKITzCLKm1GVvcRj3Eq8zPPiCMIidifG0hvxCxjTbm_CKZFwAlf0NiZd-8H7g9XrERTJJvKRgmsLRoTdIN9pMbNsUgOICHSnt85tXD7SK3sU5_Y4LFl7CZ1NBAw/s320/DSCN5339.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567695975147942114" border="0" /></a>Apparently I was so good at that some asshole at the taping "complimented":<br>
"You're so good, you're out of your element but it seems like you mastered it!"<br>
"Excuse me?"<br>
"Well you know, it really seems like you get the art world," he talked down to Mary - like every fag in a wig is some total twit. Attending to these (primarily hetero) experimental performance pieces, this fucker couldn't get that Mary could be a critical performance, too, a sex-worker allegory for the art world. Sternface thought that I was some tranny wreck hired for hilarity.<br>
"Listen fucker," I told him from the bathroom line, "I <em>am</em> a curator!" He stammered.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFgKX3RlF_Bs_eaO-5O3eLX4iARfTrWfU2fEeaii4W0khodJ1c_vYSLY8KSsEtQIXLWksf5cEbt9zyBnKb4mewXvpDoO-DprWv52PZ1mfzsAU0xJQNKI5EMN-AxoSssy42Ewk6vQ/s1600/IMG_0265+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFgKX3RlF_Bs_eaO-5O3eLX4iARfTrWfU2fEeaii4W0khodJ1c_vYSLY8KSsEtQIXLWksf5cEbt9zyBnKb4mewXvpDoO-DprWv52PZ1mfzsAU0xJQNKI5EMN-AxoSssy42Ewk6vQ/s320/IMG_0265+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567696928879208466" border="0" /></a>Of course, Mary Boom! did not ebb art world sophistication - but that was entirely the point. The whole taping was a hot mess in the fabulous way that early public access broadcasts typically are (minor tech foibles, aside). Mary was the medium specific glue that bricolaged the diverse performances and/or videos by <a href="http://kunsole.com/">KUNSOLE</a>, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/elbisrever">Elbis Rever</a>, <a href="http://danabell.com/">Dana Bell</a>, Victoria Keddie, Sam Mickens, <a href="http://www.colbybird.com/">Colby Bird</a>, <a href="http://www.kategilmore.com/">Kate Gilmore</a>, <a href="http://www.jennifersullivan.org/">Jennifer Sullivan</a> and <a href="http://andrewsteinmetz.net/">Andrew Steinmetz</a>, Katrina Lamb, <a href="http://www.ericamagrey.com/">Erica Magrey</a>, <a href="http://www.sophiapeer.com/">Sophia Peer</a>, <a href="http://www.brianzegeer.com/">Brian Zegeer</a>, <a href="http://www.dereklarson.net/">Derek Larson</a>,<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1XXuYUmCAeg"> Ganjatronics</a>, <a href="http://www.muckrakerproductions.net/">Jonathan Phelps</a>, <a href="http://realitystudio.org/interviews/interview-with-filmmaker-andre-perkowski/">Andre Prkowski</a> and <a href="http://rachelannmason.com/">Rachel Mason</a>. Like this VIP art fair, which seems to be suffering even more technical glitches than our humble outfit, Mary opened her stable to give the Manhattan Neighborhood (!) Network a taste of what was hot, and with her resident artist, Coco (Hayley) we interviewed my roster in much the same way Byrd would, flirting with the Ganjatronics boys and dishing about enemas with Elbis Rever. Of course, the whole thing dissolved into one big dance party at the end, with even the live studio audience joining us on "stage" for Mary's theme song: "Boom Boom (Let's Go Back To My Room)" by Paul Lekakis.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCiYfyaZ7-ss2R0JhxuAHN43Dre4PoXRsNHDnA_n2pKf2R43Dr9HgPHrqh0MNzz6tyUwfq8vJ3sC08jDpM3G8y6k1hbAFYc6ckLHn2snT-_wMU_MUEVB4yha_BUcqFh3AHuThsA/s1600/IMG_0251+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCiYfyaZ7-ss2R0JhxuAHN43Dre4PoXRsNHDnA_n2pKf2R43Dr9HgPHrqh0MNzz6tyUwfq8vJ3sC08jDpM3G8y6k1hbAFYc6ckLHn2snT-_wMU_MUEVB4yha_BUcqFh3AHuThsA/s320/IMG_0251+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567697196744373090" border="0" /></a>
</p><div style="text-align: center;">In the dressing room
</div><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglkHXKQ3su0Z3K3AgeSHSgnIJ33195wjs4ZNOGS9pncV0eEbXlomjih4YDTL_rw0Pdnskxe4-Ni6na5drDxA99eiisYQ4lJgv5b1BLJ5FWvVHIp1qUDZcQ-jo_XtOzGIlpbdDpHw/s1600/IMG_0252+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglkHXKQ3su0Z3K3AgeSHSgnIJ33195wjs4ZNOGS9pncV0eEbXlomjih4YDTL_rw0Pdnskxe4-Ni6na5drDxA99eiisYQ4lJgv5b1BLJ5FWvVHIp1qUDZcQ-jo_XtOzGIlpbdDpHw/s320/IMG_0252+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567697344848516882" border="0" /></a>
</p><div style="text-align: center;">Kunsole
</div><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MtEwsw41qMLRBQYSzIoGIr3b7H1uG9a8cq81YniJHG8zoLpeGR3Pv2J6YkJ96xhuYO4l8keo06t6DehScLU8mo0pWsg2NtWJBg4-T31Fg8Z-1v898xRean425sWWFg5HewsnGQ/s1600/IMG_0254+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MtEwsw41qMLRBQYSzIoGIr3b7H1uG9a8cq81YniJHG8zoLpeGR3Pv2J6YkJ96xhuYO4l8keo06t6DehScLU8mo0pWsg2NtWJBg4-T31Fg8Z-1v898xRean425sWWFg5HewsnGQ/s320/IMG_0254+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567697528002079330" border="0" /></a>
</p><div style="text-align: center;">Dana Bell and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/profile.php?id=100000560671349">Kitten Miller</a>
</div><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwEZwVIGwLJhvzX0TJw_cpqs0wcVqtmcVnxMtXgB_SSWi52C7eKLfJxA6k9M12LahqDbLFTa77ir-UfGGxEMqKO0DIZmIAjgt67fSrHX7rRDeMef3ZxYEc-QToNiCtMre7KHVUfw/s1600/IMG_0258+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwEZwVIGwLJhvzX0TJw_cpqs0wcVqtmcVnxMtXgB_SSWi52C7eKLfJxA6k9M12LahqDbLFTa77ir-UfGGxEMqKO0DIZmIAjgt67fSrHX7rRDeMef3ZxYEc-QToNiCtMre7KHVUfw/s320/IMG_0258+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567697850844866002" border="0" /></a>
</p><div style="text-align: center;">Ganjatronics
</div><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ms0UP9MCgxrbWqXd2H_xERenf1Z2cSvLVpntJAQzDQZVDj1Q4vhvhmHbDzWpNCI2yDOgTDUPS-RhI_g_WD-y6ioYjOSa_A-IBECUTGiGTgzYOjqpH9w3oaFoOXZREHt6f4dQmA/s1600/IMG_0264+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ms0UP9MCgxrbWqXd2H_xERenf1Z2cSvLVpntJAQzDQZVDj1Q4vhvhmHbDzWpNCI2yDOgTDUPS-RhI_g_WD-y6ioYjOSa_A-IBECUTGiGTgzYOjqpH9w3oaFoOXZREHt6f4dQmA/s320/IMG_0264+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567698135325684002" border="0" /></a>
</p><div style="text-align: center;">Coco
</div><p>
After that busy week, tonight - my ass is staying in. I gotta get some rest, but believe you me, I'll be seeing you tomorrow at <a href="http://www.swissinstitute.net/events/upcoming.php?Event=156">the Chris Kraus' book launch at the Swiss Institute.</a> I'm a total slut for all things Chris Kraus and she's ever so nice to reference my book <em>Fever Pitch</em> in artschool grad crits and Australian catalogue essays. Why don't you just go buy her new book, "Where Art Belongs" <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1584350989/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d0_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-3&pf_rd_r=141NVGDY2HA80523JTVS&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=470938811&pf_rd_i=507846">now</a>!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigIj4eZHm_x24w8YTbQwS7FS6ZmTdMSvxxS9mL5-ikKbn2GAzK1eo_P4mCZZJXptURRc-V9NWqo6iuo-kB7miovQyUISZbfGd5WcSV-Z_Oawb1wVZzpv_FB9CbjwoiGeEmkTMhIw/s1600/Krausdick.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigIj4eZHm_x24w8YTbQwS7FS6ZmTdMSvxxS9mL5-ikKbn2GAzK1eo_P4mCZZJXptURRc-V9NWqo6iuo-kB7miovQyUISZbfGd5WcSV-Z_Oawb1wVZzpv_FB9CbjwoiGeEmkTMhIw/s320/Krausdick.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567699227399662562" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;">(Photo from an LA Lit Reading)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-10664829773615381432011-01-28T12:01:00.012-05:002011-01-28T16:30:58.818-05:00Back in the High life, again.<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsZIn3x6dv_mMI619xEGJMczEHTrSe488M8erUQlkbzVNiYsvwmBVTfJeEd6gl8MEslOd3YbzL9f014PQ20sNSPXngNMiLl2dUJpN6gWWTEK0ujwmmbLlTssCrP0h2jg0ellPNiQ/s1600/Kaboom-movie-image-Gregg-Araki.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsZIn3x6dv_mMI619xEGJMczEHTrSe488M8erUQlkbzVNiYsvwmBVTfJeEd6gl8MEslOd3YbzL9f014PQ20sNSPXngNMiLl2dUJpN6gWWTEK0ujwmmbLlTssCrP0h2jg0ellPNiQ/s320/Kaboom-movie-image-Gregg-Araki.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567344571428904754" /></a>I was sitting at BAM last night for the New York premier of Gregg Araki's new film <em>Kaboom</em> realizing that I was never quite the age bracket that Araki's most coveted films depict. Happening upon <em>The Doom Generation</em> in my way-early teens, I was drawn like a moth to the flame by a post-it on the vhs rental box that read: You must be 18 years or older to rent this! I knew the store crew, who had already rented <em>Pink Flamingos</em> to me out of their porn section, so I didn't and watched it at my rather impressionable age (12 or 13?). <em>Nowhere</em>, too, came out when I was in junior high, the mess that predates all of Araki's characters' college-year crises. More a hormonal soup than an identity blitzkrieg. Then he dropped out of that mission for a while with the threesome movie that coincided with his surprising affair with star, Kathleen Robertson and, after the failure of his unaired MTV pilot, <em>This Is How The World Ends</em>, nothing materialized until 2004's <em>Mysterious Skin</em>. My prime teen years faced a dearth of new teen traumas from the harbringer of the Teen Apocalypse Trilogy. Where was Gregg when I needed him?</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0IAD_OLYuf5bA2XJWDMhKkMdm5ceCVT1JIUcI1Hk-hniLfy7wxAvJ_TWz2J5QL9Gay5Fb1CR9zurf5q7codwKx2z4-78aNeRaUEIwDDP5wYGmlA3jjvFDWK5N0G9mS6zPHpDFA/s1600/kaboom-de-gregg-araki-4566155tglks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0IAD_OLYuf5bA2XJWDMhKkMdm5ceCVT1JIUcI1Hk-hniLfy7wxAvJ_TWz2J5QL9Gay5Fb1CR9zurf5q7codwKx2z4-78aNeRaUEIwDDP5wYGmlA3jjvFDWK5N0G9mS6zPHpDFA/s320/kaboom-de-gregg-araki-4566155tglks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567344697178721266" /></a>Watching <em>Kaboom</em> last night made me realize there's no teenage neo-realism, here. My teen cultural moment was never documented by Araki, but then, I don't think any really is. Even though <em>Kaboom</em> sports Lady Gaga references, his new teen dream is more like his depiction of Los Angeles: a moribund place of technicolor limitlessness and impending doom. Araki's teens are a total fantasy state, serving up the best of the best (sex) and the worst or the worst (death).</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GxMGfb54ev4G_iUFEcQku0fhX4EBZ9vHXBsAd6YkJi2UFIz9Ep0clpTg1bSKbGYaBY3kttl01ZrM9_vR3OW9Njza31H5fOVdniwsyRu5Dqx2gG61BN7PNPVXNgnFi1-K11zYkg/s1600/kaboom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GxMGfb54ev4G_iUFEcQku0fhX4EBZ9vHXBsAd6YkJi2UFIz9Ep0clpTg1bSKbGYaBY3kttl01ZrM9_vR3OW9Njza31H5fOVdniwsyRu5Dqx2gG61BN7PNPVXNgnFi1-K11zYkg/s320/kaboom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567344461036425538" /></a><em>Kaboom</em> is being heralded as a return to his roots, it's a teenage <em>Twin Peaks</em> sex fantasy that takes a lot from the format that Araki found his greatest success in - straight-to-video 90s releases. Movies with loose ended plots, sexy children, familiar scenarios and neon VHS box covers. Smith, an *ahem* 19-year-old film studies major, hops from boy bed to girl bed and in between somewhere witnesses a horrible murder by animal-masked men. Unable to recall specific details of the night before (he'd inadvertently consumed a laced star-shaped cookie), Smith searches for the red haired girl who was knifed and evades the dangerous figures who lurk behind every open door. Oh, he has loads of sex too. With <em>Kaboom</em>, Araki reminds of his reputation as an adept cinephile. It's a terrifically fun watch and completely aware of all of its generic referents and stolen formulae. It's also a terribly beautiful film, awash in the rich candy hues for which Araki is well know. Now, though, as Dennis Lim suggested in his recent NY Times article, "Young and the Restless Never Get Old", the warmer tones reflect a more optimistic sensibility, in contrast to the acidic pop tones of his nihilistic yesteryear. Of course, underneath <em>The Doom Generation</em> and <em>Nowhere</em> beat a loving and endearing pulse, clued in to more than the sardonic dismissiveness critics frequently mistook his cinema for. It's been luscious pinks and blues since <em>Mysterious Skin</em> and that suits the filmmaker.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6bNm1fMPymPMZ_hVgvrLfxPk3Hl466ImCil4M-qpok9LNGUAbEvAo3_JFvOpxlDD7j9b-JQlQnT8PMD7MwrYaMJWeT7lcj3fzG3Rt0Mae34nhRHeyhkKHsWziDIprbNelTZCNA/s1600/kaboom3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6bNm1fMPymPMZ_hVgvrLfxPk3Hl466ImCil4M-qpok9LNGUAbEvAo3_JFvOpxlDD7j9b-JQlQnT8PMD7MwrYaMJWeT7lcj3fzG3Rt0Mae34nhRHeyhkKHsWziDIprbNelTZCNA/s320/kaboom3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567344916147130786" /></a>He's always been a closet romantic. James Duvall's Dark yearns for love in <em>Nowhere</em> with a kind of fundamental innocence that can't help but infect the overstimulated spectator. Here, there are similar moments. Araki was making movies before the commercial onslaught of coming-out films of the late nineties and it was particularly heartwarming to see teen gay affections rendered on VHS. My heart warmed to find that <em>Kaboom</em> still finds room for this kind of glee. A cutie named Oliver that Smith spied at a party shoots him a flirtatious email video message and the smitten smirk that crawls across the recipient's face is totally believable. It captures the ecstatic potential of youthful flirtations, a kind of fairytale longing that is less existential than Araki's former incarnations. And on the upside he no longer feels the need to make the lover explode into a giant bug nor does he shear him of his manhood. They oggle one another and grin across the interweb, locked into this sexual current that seems to pulse through the air of Araki's campus life.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn_znlUinLyznnWmYqvhEQazJmUTvJ6RAyUcEpY1pLQPafnJEXSLRaSLCIKqSzG44NeAGfxq1hvR-tkNQkalunFbTSk8iE3gZ2Uc2LkwL7Ib-pcJGhNOGkxl5LXr_Gzd_ccARUIQ/s1600/kaboom29wom0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn_znlUinLyznnWmYqvhEQazJmUTvJ6RAyUcEpY1pLQPafnJEXSLRaSLCIKqSzG44NeAGfxq1hvR-tkNQkalunFbTSk8iE3gZ2Uc2LkwL7Ib-pcJGhNOGkxl5LXr_Gzd_ccARUIQ/s320/kaboom29wom0.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567345665704045842" /></a><em>Kaboom</em> is definitely independent and it showcases this frugality in its slim cast. But while endless cameos were his way around budgetary restraints of yore, it's nice that Araki trusts in the good dozen actors cast in lead roles. <em>Kaboom</em> came out of Araki's attempt to pen an MTV series. A pilot was shot for <em>This Is How The World Ends</em>, but it was way to reiterative of <em>Nowhere</em>, replaying jokes, scenarios and characters from that far more successful venture. So, like David Lynch with <em>Mulholland Drive</em>, Araki got a check from the French (bless 'em!) to turn this serial into <em>Kaboom</em>. That probably explains the presence of Catherine Breillat veteran Roxanne Mesquida, who plays a crazy lesbian girlfriend with occult powers. It also explains the abandon with which Araki hurls into comic book situations. He explained in a q&A after the screening that, since the French were footing the bill, he didn't conform the narrative to a appealing American product, but top-loaded the text with everything that he would want to see in a movie. There's loads of CGI on display here and wild plot turns display an assured <em>what-the-fuck</em>ness that is really awesome (prepare yourself for an exhilliratingly wooden and high-octane exchange between James Duvall, who plays a stoner RA, and the quirky lesbian best friend, Stella [Haley Bennett] in the final minutes of the film - a scene so ecstatic in its b-movie timing that I audibly convulsed with pleasure, startling cinemagoers in my adjacent seats).</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwh7MkyUKQ1rK7bNCo9B1PJ_YRaAg71G3ZcjIR0dl3wABuG1BFVnjo5uDXLfS1a-C0xo8fbXsiaIwJLo0BeznbfU2vppbkxPxusgJtewDx2wFvJuPw-SwD2FyPUwyyr6Q74gNB_A/s1600/IMG_0246+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwh7MkyUKQ1rK7bNCo9B1PJ_YRaAg71G3ZcjIR0dl3wABuG1BFVnjo5uDXLfS1a-C0xo8fbXsiaIwJLo0BeznbfU2vppbkxPxusgJtewDx2wFvJuPw-SwD2FyPUwyyr6Q74gNB_A/s320/IMG_0246+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567347638386544162" /></a>There's kind of a bad ending, but there's ultimately nowhere for the movie to really go. It's a retread, a reinvention, an explosion of Araki's past that's both dazzling and meta. Not that you need to know his prior work to enjoy it. This is what Araki's done best all along. Hopefully some ignorant tween will find this on thepiratebay (or some more egalitarian screening site) and revel in the contours of its sugary angst over stolen midnight viewings. Hopefully this blast of jouissance and outsider freedom will clue them into the alternative lifestyle options that Araki's cinema has always championed. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFm7O4e8-Rk7ikHuRs9t_i5aI5srC_1QGmeSbOUV4KLjwGnUU98YvdQlIU_QWAWD2WgKMJcZnV9KniCmvJtOBtg4VBSf6aScr_Diw76edbIDuDg3FZeluUBYiP0Mk48HO6g7zVwQ/s1600/kaboomfront.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFm7O4e8-Rk7ikHuRs9t_i5aI5srC_1QGmeSbOUV4KLjwGnUU98YvdQlIU_QWAWD2WgKMJcZnV9KniCmvJtOBtg4VBSf6aScr_Diw76edbIDuDg3FZeluUBYiP0Mk48HO6g7zVwQ/s320/kaboomfront.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567345540377962002" /></a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-57156422981912180562011-01-17T14:25:00.001-05:002011-01-17T14:27:24.320-05:00"Masquerades and Hysteria" at [2nd Floor Projects]<a href="http://projects2ndfloor.blogspot.com/2011/01/daughters-of-houdini-marco-vassi.html"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uDwhVdTAIpGKHMVdsfAjaIQmx66avvMn9OkQrPoc6SVeMuL_HuRThM1_i4CKGLkz-v_9kIsauYJ5ycFsH0fGmXtjCp1h_fu_xEHLhPcRuQC16tPe4vjq11pKtKqVXn8TAF4l8A/s1600/image.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 365px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uDwhVdTAIpGKHMVdsfAjaIQmx66avvMn9OkQrPoc6SVeMuL_HuRThM1_i4CKGLkz-v_9kIsauYJ5ycFsH0fGmXtjCp1h_fu_xEHLhPcRuQC16tPe4vjq11pKtKqVXn8TAF4l8A/s400/image.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563238580209435154" /></a>
</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-57129069959016831322011-01-17T14:00:00.008-05:002011-01-17T14:25:46.226-05:00In commemoration of Burlesque's Golden Globe...<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOftbhi2AIG91sTtLV88uECbsfPz9N31-z48hQ-w0GZom0rerB3cofCVlPuVwQatN6ui4Vur2GnFA7fE9sF6_s8uiyNgrEP_tRGNmWGa1KH8cToyJGLxDdV_TOCO1aWQzlT_FeQ/s1600/burlesque.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOftbhi2AIG91sTtLV88uECbsfPz9N31-z48hQ-w0GZom0rerB3cofCVlPuVwQatN6ui4Vur2GnFA7fE9sF6_s8uiyNgrEP_tRGNmWGa1KH8cToyJGLxDdV_TOCO1aWQzlT_FeQ/s320/burlesque.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563235764463091650" /></a>You’ve seen <span style="font-style:italic;">Burlesque</span> already. Maybe you haven’t walked down the street and saddled up to the ticket booth, announcing your guilty intent to the judgmental ticket salesperson. But you’ve seen it. Burlesque comes from a long lineage of movie/musicals like <span style="font-style:italic;">Chicago, Moulin Rouge, Chorus Line, Fame</span> and, yes, <span style="font-style:italic;">Showgirls</span>. Some were successful, others… not so much. Yet on what basis? Every sour review of <span style="font-style:italic;">Burlesque</span> (and there were many) ridiculed its unoriginal storyline, its paint-by-numbers screenplay, its recycling of familiar forms. Manohla Dargis hilariously called the film “a savvy combination of a Disney tween program and a Lifetime weepie.” But on what canon is one really supposed to judge a film like <span style="font-style:italic;">Burlesque</span>, anyway?</p>Once upon a time, dear critics, there was a long stretch of Hollywood studio system that churned out more-or-less the same genre films every year. The same character actors filled the scenes and once stars got stuck on a thematic track, they were probably there for the run of their contract. This filled viewers with a sense of expectation, nostalgia and security. In a year that, to these critical eyes, has not yielded much by way of originality, I ask you, dear critics, “why you gotta hate on a perfectly adequate movie like <span style="font-style:italic;">Burlesque</span>?” It functions on its own kind of economy, much like 2008’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Mamma Mia!</span>. That movie was ravaged by critics but went on to become the most fruitful film in England, EVER. <span style="font-style:italic;">Burlesque</span> also divides critical and audience camps. Receiving 34% from accrued reviews on Rotten Tomatoes, that same film garnered an A- approval from viewers on CinemaScore the week of its release. What’s really at issue here is the fulfillment of pleasure, so let’s get down to brass tacks.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1SnYs5GVEaMTZot8SepXeB9UGdJ4oNj4nFvNnlGNN2Ss0cw2msJAevRAvD3okBFN7675u5sRuRV0xpAORd9x4JngqAyB6vKdbe1sXKWgtdRQccDI0i08slYZO4aT6loG4HlgHw/s1600/burlesque-movie-cher-aguilera.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1SnYs5GVEaMTZot8SepXeB9UGdJ4oNj4nFvNnlGNN2Ss0cw2msJAevRAvD3okBFN7675u5sRuRV0xpAORd9x4JngqAyB6vKdbe1sXKWgtdRQccDI0i08slYZO4aT6loG4HlgHw/s320/burlesque-movie-cher-aguilera.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563235632289099714" /></a>
<span style="font-style:italic;">
Burlesque</span> sports a narrative so banal that it’s beside the point to even go into it here. Blond girl in Iowa… aspirations… Los Angeles… Cher. And it moves along quite like that, aware, and in everyone’s best interest. We know the story and it’s not what we’re here for. It’s the motions! The film replays the opening to crowd-pleaser, <span style="font-style:italic;">Chicago</span>, finding a blond shyly gazing into the limelight. The scene also proves that it is, in fact, more pleasurable to see Cher on stage than that Catherine Zeta Jones. Cher will later sing the (GOLDEN GLOBE WINNING) Diane Warren song “You Haven’t Seen the Last of Me,” á la Jennifer Hudson’s “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going.” Veronica Mars actress Kristin Bell lipsyncs like <span style="font-style:italic;">Moulin Rouge</span>’s rehash of the showgirl showstopper “Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend.” It's all familiar. You get the idea.
<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiT4YVOfr6N4BxyGlUSyBF_9HXhlxMOb8C7A0VKtpVkSM_LWDRuQX68RupWdwzCP4GqfxtX4e2dE2RqWmds9bcAOtVO5DtyE-KV85azyFKJiiXMUhbHGIIaGaXc7y8xh3L64vugQ/s1600/burlesque-movie-photo-06-1024x631.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiT4YVOfr6N4BxyGlUSyBF_9HXhlxMOb8C7A0VKtpVkSM_LWDRuQX68RupWdwzCP4GqfxtX4e2dE2RqWmds9bcAOtVO5DtyE-KV85azyFKJiiXMUhbHGIIaGaXc7y8xh3L64vugQ/s320/burlesque-movie-photo-06-1024x631.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563235704232306610" /></a>This is the much-publicized first acting effort from Christina Aguilera, who does just fine in her few dramatic moments. She’s game as hell and a cipher to the T, all baby-faced and blond. Cher and Bell are entrusted with most of the histrionics, graciously leaving Christina to belt out five remaining musical numbers from her (to quote the film) “mutant lungs.”</p><p>Many critics blasted what they felt was the film’s patchwork format, how these scenes, bolstered between so many aural eruptions, felt like mere vignettes. They’re neglecting a musical mode currently more relevant than the traditional musical. The night before I attended my screening of <span style="font-style:italic;">Burlesque</span>, I, by fortunate happenstance, watched Kylie Minogue’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Showgirl: The Homecoming Tour</span> dvd. Now, in arena spectaculars such as Kylie’s, favored hits are strung together with sensational sets and a light-handed nod at narrative sequencing. Each thematic episode lays siege on the most conventional storylines and recognizable touchstones of contemporary culture. These mammoth events, now the norm for pop divas the world over, are well-oiled machines, purely professional arrangements to inspire fits of ecstasy throughout a sea of international attendees.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXcXPobBhIPWGkea0w_5BL-HjFWLsn6y9HfJ0Ad2rrZp1i_dezxzIllMg6Fg_SRfrhVzoi6tVmS_HehwzZqiW2mN2Kbyt8rYMZB7HmEzkFLXs-HchfijVRQ7g-I-0-TNTSpVaFw/s1600/homecoming.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXcXPobBhIPWGkea0w_5BL-HjFWLsn6y9HfJ0Ad2rrZp1i_dezxzIllMg6Fg_SRfrhVzoi6tVmS_HehwzZqiW2mN2Kbyt8rYMZB7HmEzkFLXs-HchfijVRQ7g-I-0-TNTSpVaFw/s320/homecoming.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563237519552833570" /></a>Burlesque, which is directed by the man who brought the Pussycat Dolls to our small screen for the reality show <span style="font-style:italic;">Search for the Next Doll</span>, seems more akin these such Vegas-style vehicles than more traditional narrative efforts like <span style="font-style:italic;">Cabaret, Sweet Charity</span>, or <span style="font-style:italic;">Moulin Rouge</span>, even. So driven to please in the most perfunctory fashion, Burlesque is something of a fascinating symbiosis between these forms. Its drama is mild, never reaching beyond what’s required to bring us to the next showstopper. So being, it never achieves the kind of narrative prowess that makes fabulous messes in films like <span style="font-style:italic;">Striptease</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Showgirls</span>. But that’s because the film is too pop, or amenable to cause that brand of surprise. Its story doesn’t thrill, but brings a satiated grin of delight to the lips.</p><p>This expansive approach towards the musical is not that far from <span style="font-style:italic;">Mamma Mia!</span>, the play-then-film that was begotten from a handful of ABBA songs. The production leaned on its recognizable score and famous, non-singer cast, haphazardly assembling dizzying production numbers with a shimmering gaudiness that befits Greece in June. <span style="font-style:italic;">Mamma Mia!</span> made all of that British money from hen parties; ladies who love the songs of ABBA assembled to sing along to their favorite tunes; karaoke mammas who find Pierce Brosnan’s lack of singing talent a humanizing trait, as though he were taking part in their shenanigans.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFX7A38iL44USrWr61kGgJxoppJOKZMj28O_XSJHzYdOagicBDJ0mQr-NJZ5QAve3-tgSaqujQy2keLbZeJ2Cmbn52vgvZZDLz3y3zuvudVxhK8Df_UCnMHX-N08mm5OGAeOAjQ/s1600/Burlesque+movie+costumes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFX7A38iL44USrWr61kGgJxoppJOKZMj28O_XSJHzYdOagicBDJ0mQr-NJZ5QAve3-tgSaqujQy2keLbZeJ2Cmbn52vgvZZDLz3y3zuvudVxhK8Df_UCnMHX-N08mm5OGAeOAjQ/s320/Burlesque+movie+costumes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563235515470057058" /></a>I saw<span style="font-style:italic;"> Burlesque</span> in New York’s Chelsea, which turned out to be something akin to seeing <span style="font-style:italic;">Mamma Mia!</span> in London’s West End, surrounded by screaming and swooning gay men in lieu of crooning hens. It’s immersive. Like <span style="font-style:italic;">Mamma Mia!, Burlesque</span> is an event film. Released on Thanksgiving, it’s tailor-made for the kind of escapist diversions that characterize holiday entertainment. It’s flashy, fulfilling and utterly predictable.</p><p>I’m the target audience this time around, it seems. Though, I’m not sure if that’s intentional. I’m sure the studio would prefer the film as a post-turkey family destination. And yet it sports a similar sensibility to other recent mainstream offerings aimed at women and helmed by openly gay men. Just like this year’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Sex and the City 2</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Burlesque</span> doesn’t feel so much like a film for or about women as it does a kind of ecstatic gay role play; or, what Lindy West hilariously calls it, in her Stranger assault on the former film, “essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls.”</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrL95N5ulUDxvq_llAhQJwOqP403EBiv9iKhWAVYKO8_d4JTw3Ew9_f15qRPLKi_TakCmM_PhfIEaCLEU2IYaQ34AtEV3qRCeQ-aK3oMragauyWtk9feYiuwIfflbEIRJHlJL8Wg/s1600/Burlesque+movie+stills-3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrL95N5ulUDxvq_llAhQJwOqP403EBiv9iKhWAVYKO8_d4JTw3Ew9_f15qRPLKi_TakCmM_PhfIEaCLEU2IYaQ34AtEV3qRCeQ-aK3oMragauyWtk9feYiuwIfflbEIRJHlJL8Wg/s320/Burlesque+movie+stills-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563235572549357058" /></a>Burlesque parades an aesthetic that’s at once hyperbolically glitzy, like a Cher Farewell Tour, but also somehow low-budget, like West’s “home video” or Dargis’ “Lifetime weepie.” The scenes are sweet and go down easy due to their complete conventionality and the men sparkle like confections. Fortunately, Antin has set to work a crew of very competent actors in his gingerbread parlour (joining Cher, Aguilera, and Bell are Stanley Tucci, reprising his Prada role, Peter Gallagher, Eric Dane and Alan Cumming, doing his best Justin Bond imitation) and its nice to see them carry on in the well-worn grooves of the showgirl tradition.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0PjLj85hbnRF0uSUM6l6xftF8ENt50uhm4h8gR2h73eayJZOzQyf6GMFRF27Ap0mhcwCKYKXMPxJ61DBkiE7h0HHnOq28kVYzqvELq1Sb-nnWC-ML7iBSAbgij0j3xs8gjyBMg/s1600/burlesqueCHER-span-articleLarge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0PjLj85hbnRF0uSUM6l6xftF8ENt50uhm4h8gR2h73eayJZOzQyf6GMFRF27Ap0mhcwCKYKXMPxJ61DBkiE7h0HHnOq28kVYzqvELq1Sb-nnWC-ML7iBSAbgij0j3xs8gjyBMg/s320/burlesqueCHER-span-articleLarge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563238008014121410" /></a>‘Cause, let’s face it, since the apex of this universe is a danceteria on the Hollywood strip, the ambitions of the film are nothing short of modest. <span style="font-style:italic;">Burlesque</span> doesn’t invent a wholly different genre of musical. It evinces the evolution of the genre in the wake of chart-topping Beyoncé concert DVDs and retread musicals like <span style="font-style:italic;">Moulin Rouge, Mamma Mia!</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Hairspray</span>. It pastiches elements from every point in showgirl history, finessing a new blend of same-old, and achieving its goals in the most satisfying manner. It’s in this capacity that Antin’s film resembles more modest musicals from the old studio system, where ticket-buyers would pay to see their favorite stars in parts reminiscent of prior pictures (Cher) or popular singers making their film debut (Xtina). It also plays out like VH1 storytellers. Set on a sparkling, but humble stage, Cher and co. deliver the goods this holiday season by reflecting on past triumphs and redecorating them with a polite flourish of glitz and glamour. You may not be able to turn back time, but sometimes it’s awfully sweet to retread it.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-43939157732439808052011-01-17T12:18:00.000-05:002011-01-17T12:20:05.475-05:00Ryan Robles is at it again!<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HtYv2UGBgBQ?fs=1&hl=en_US&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HtYv2UGBgBQ?fs=1&hl=en_US&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br>Bless.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-39099243086716466782011-01-15T12:33:00.008-05:002011-01-15T13:50:12.643-05:00Another 48 hours<p><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wp9_RAnAjSg?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wp9_RAnAjSg?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br>CULTURE CULTURE CULTURE! In the thick of winter and all of these goddamn snow storms that Mother Nature's hurling our way, these last couple days were like a storming of the fort. Children were out on the street in droves and every event was booming! Thursday night I attended Light Asylum's premier for their first-ever video, "Dark Allies," directed by Grant Worth. Shannon Funchess, the group's masculine lead, repeated over the hordes filling that weird back bar at NP Contemporary Art Center how the video was shot for free by the Worth, a video artist. They were handing out EPs in black envelopes and raver day-glo crosses to those who came, all of which were long gone by the time my late ass made it there. Light Asylum's music is nice, dancey and well structured, though I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say "Dark Allies" is catchy. After two listens, it sort of misses the lyrical hook that could drive the tune home. I happened upon a director friend of mine Larin Sullivan and we discussed the video, which you could only barely make out over the heads of the throngs. Too much rainbow, we decided, though it's way stocked with attitude. It also takes some cues from Grace Jones' recent "Love You To Life" video; Funchess is constantly compared to Jones, a fact that's based almost exclusively on aesthetics (or, per Larin's observation, racism), since her delivery (while singing, in particular) is quite different from Jones'. Maybe Skin, the lead singer of 90s Brit sensation Skunk Anansie, is a better comparison, since, to these ears, there's a lyrical reference to their "She's my Heroine."</p><p><object width="480" height="270"><param name="movie" value="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/video/xfjkbp?width=&theme=none&foreground=%23F7FFFD&highlight=%23FFC300&background=%23171D1B&start=&animatedTitle=&iframe=0&additionalInfos=0&autoPlay=0&hideInfos=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/video/xfjkbp?width=&theme=none&foreground=%23F7FFFD&highlight=%23FFC300&background=%23171D1B&start=&animatedTitle=&iframe=0&additionalInfos=0&autoPlay=0&hideInfos=0" width="480" height="270" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object><br>Up front in the gallery space, Robert Smith hosted "The Death of Brother, My Lover." It wasn't really an end, as such, as much as an intermission. Mother Flawless Sabrina was in attendance to work her magic, reading from a new book-in-progress. After the reading, I shuffled over to Bushwick and attended the first <em>Kitty</em>, a Queer Weekly at the Wreck Room since my friend Zan aka La Rubia was DJing the thing. They had cheap plastic rings for the take and indulge I did. And how can you resist this flyer?</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgly-k1ok-w03mw6R9VdgAG5akYSLN6tF5blpJQX4GWd-XDBm78A7x2c6vfZ9jRns0eVeF4hUEJ9wNLzKDHWCYd_9om9wFAM1QsDkDrTCv8s2W8Ldnd_IUds5BJjg1qn185k_jx7g/s1600/kitty-latifonda.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgly-k1ok-w03mw6R9VdgAG5akYSLN6tF5blpJQX4GWd-XDBm78A7x2c6vfZ9jRns0eVeF4hUEJ9wNLzKDHWCYd_9om9wFAM1QsDkDrTCv8s2W8Ldnd_IUds5BJjg1qn185k_jx7g/s320/kitty-latifonda.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562474157496997810" /></a><br>Then yesterday, QuORUM inaugurated their <a href="http://quorumnyc.org/">"week and a half of FREE workshops, skillshares, screenings, performances and parties to be held in queer homes around the city"</a> with a Pop-Up Museum of Queer History. It was a wonderful project, held in a Bushwick loft (Starr, if that means anything to you). See, I had to go on the front end of the night which opened at 5pm. There was a wonderful little screening room, showcasing essential gay cinema from <em>Un Chant D'Amour</em>, to Barbara Hammer and beyond. This is in a loft bedroom, mind you, projected on a sheet (by MIX NYC executive director Stephen Kirk Jusick). It was intimate and kind of wonderful, sitting on a bed with perfect strangers and watching these films projected. Outside there was a gingerbread house replica of Stonewall, a vigil dedicated to the Sister of Perpetual Indulgence and a monitor playing pre-AIDS queer documents. As is the case with many such home-spun events, some works were quite craft-y, but an overall academic sensibility in texts orchestrated by Hugh Ryan and Buzz Slutzky gave the event real poignancy. I look forward to checking out more QuORUM events.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YJcXLSgqoZd641yzELoauX9W_vvQHDOBaTU5HsKRKgiZThtAURg6Nt0XfQuV_7uZEQR7CEyeq8uZ5UQN9AToo528vjlZs-qu63YkAqOrnKc8RNWHCRqvE9tQVRGu55Cu1tJChg/s1600/dearjeffkoons1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YJcXLSgqoZd641yzELoauX9W_vvQHDOBaTU5HsKRKgiZThtAURg6Nt0XfQuV_7uZEQR7CEyeq8uZ5UQN9AToo528vjlZs-qu63YkAqOrnKc8RNWHCRqvE9tQVRGu55Cu1tJChg/s320/dearjeffkoons1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562480049731942082" /></a>I dipped over to the opening of Ridykeulous' <em>READYKEULOUS The Hurtful Healer: The Correspondance Issue</em> at Invisible/Exports which was just absolutely PACKED! But then why wouldn't it be, with an exhibit showcasing works by Ali Liebegott, Allyson Mitchell, Bernadette Mayer, Carolee Schneeman, Catherine Lord, Chuck Nanney, Daniel Feinberg & Rhyne Piggot, David Wojnarowicz, Dr. Weeks, Eileen Myles, Gary Gissler, Genesis Breyer P-Orridge, Glen Fogel, Harmony Hammond, I.U.D. (Lizzi Bougatsos & Sadie Laska), Jack Smith, Jibz Cameron aka Dynasty Handbag, K8 Hardy, Kara Walker, Kathe Burkhart, Kathleen Hanna, Kathy Acker/Dennis Cooper, Laura Parnes, Leidy Churchman, Louise Fishman, Mike Albo, Nao Bustamente, Nicola Tyson, Simon Fujiwara, Tobi Vail, William Powhida, Zackary Drucker, Zoe Leonard …and other special selection from the patriARCHIVES?! Swarming with every amazing art world power lez imaginable (Eileen Myles, Saddie Benning, Dynasty Handbag, to name but a few), a dressed down Genesis P. Orridge rocked a most memorable beenie which read "FUCK CANCER". It took me 20 minutes to move from one end of the tiny Lower East Side gallery to the back where they were serving up refreshments. I partook but had to split to make it to my next event. On the way out I was fortunate enough to pass by Pam Tietze and Annie Rossi. Least to say, I was not able to see much of the work, though, like a bloodhound, I happened upon a wonderfully wordy letter from Jack Smith to Jonas Mekas. Another handwritten Smith artifact lingered above, a Lotusland fragment. Must return to see this fantastic looking collection of queer ephemera.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP57uynqJLicHTFAyNG7bibwoR6d5HN_-rVGLMtEx-hRbaz54v_6Belr6IYKdI-Gt1JP-72t4C4qWS1f2ou6kPobbIdCc5ikkC4Ose9SCYcDHSpFDa3kPoMaiiSQBKkyBKEIsFcQ/s1600/attaboy.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP57uynqJLicHTFAyNG7bibwoR6d5HN_-rVGLMtEx-hRbaz54v_6Belr6IYKdI-Gt1JP-72t4C4qWS1f2ou6kPobbIdCc5ikkC4Ose9SCYcDHSpFDa3kPoMaiiSQBKkyBKEIsFcQ/s320/attaboy.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562484506362433298" /></a>Instead, I made my way to Brian Christopher Bauman's play <em>ATTA BOY</em>. I have known Bauman (and his work) for some time. <em>ATTA BOY</em> culls texts from various sources: Noam Chomsky, youtube posts, blogs from the Concerned Women For America and Family Research Council, Bauman's own expansive and perverse brain. The action centers around a middle-aged Pakistani man and a not-quite legal twink who meet in a seedy motel to extract sexual fantasies from social traumas. 9/11, Columbine, homophobic attacks are the sources for this erotic psychodrama. The young Jason Zeren gives a remarkable performance as Matthew. Bauman's found an archetypal twinky body and an adept performer who can incant the vicissitudes of adolescent anguish. For the amount of times this boy strips down to his cherry-red wrestling suit (and ultimately one shy moment of blue jock-strap), the desirous body is the powerplay in these love games, and Matthew is allowed the upper hand written for him through this livid performance. There's lots of wonderfully shocking moments and surprisingly effective uses of choreography, if it does take the play a moment to gain in momentum, it does so with a vengeance. ATTA BOY runs for one more night at <a href="http://www.thewildproject.com/performances/index.shtml">The Wild Project</a>. GO SEE IT!</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510123.post-26784360418501525652011-01-11T23:44:00.007-05:002011-01-12T00:52:10.320-05:00(Irreconcilable) thoughts on Charlie St. Cloud<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGVlW7dyyvvB0M09iGBaxslLbtVE8sPAGlqSH21tyXB_tfqhIMcJT1ulHCEeD16FUFmKwG7sRrEeW-f0ogPLd2K78o3_7hjEfeo3DysvflRodetxwN3idKrfdczE_DpCvDWEB0w/s1600/charlie_st_cloud22.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGVlW7dyyvvB0M09iGBaxslLbtVE8sPAGlqSH21tyXB_tfqhIMcJT1ulHCEeD16FUFmKwG7sRrEeW-f0ogPLd2K78o3_7hjEfeo3DysvflRodetxwN3idKrfdczE_DpCvDWEB0w/s400/charlie_st_cloud22.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561171522821183586" /></a>What is <em>Charlie St. Cloud</em>? As a vehicle for the tween porn face of Zac Efron, it seems rather ill suited. Or rather, it functions, but only to the effect that it offers ample opportunity to peer at that bizarrely perfect mug for an hour and a half. The narrative is built around a 5 year passage of time, which accounts for the age that is (already?) beginning to creep up on that modern marvel. But the assumed schmaltz that might overwhelm the studio flick never quite arrives, trading instead for some head-scratching premonitions and turgid naturalism. Which is not to say that the whole thing doesn't still look like a Thomas Kincaid painting.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMpJkBZqDgWpxM2HjgkQnTFiaSry-UjGXcg2kwlkMr0cANI1PkrEU39Lx7ryUnL11T5S4K1O8DUcqA83ZV0MEW7J0ALnP69aliOI4YJt_Ssrh9fC6GEFEIzRzH_CkJRutRngOBA/s1600/Charlie+St+Cloud+9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMpJkBZqDgWpxM2HjgkQnTFiaSry-UjGXcg2kwlkMr0cANI1PkrEU39Lx7ryUnL11T5S4K1O8DUcqA83ZV0MEW7J0ALnP69aliOI4YJt_Ssrh9fC6GEFEIzRzH_CkJRutRngOBA/s400/Charlie+St+Cloud+9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561171865793897362" /></a><em>Charlie St. Cloud</em> tells the story of a high school sailing champ (Efron), who receives a Stanford scholarship only to defer and waste away 5 years of precious surf-time tending the grounds of the local cemetery. See, he was behind the wheel when a drunk driver took the life of his younger brother but a sworn oath brings said bro back to play catch with our hero, every day one hour before sunset. Charlie almost died too in that car crash but he was miraculously brought back from the dead by a divine ambulance driver named Florian (Ray Liotta). And there's a girl too, but she and Charlie's divine powers of perception come in later.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KSVGdoXmEY3jCzj7hAXNGLlfN0OUg3yGe5mNqzcErY45gkkxEpXyrxXz_yAlPoN2yZ2EWwyqubSxcn5nRqNAwF65je4gZWumCmgWMxM-6KVT0kOGpxiSl3EjMLnIy9_A2QTzPw/s1600/IMG_1715.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KSVGdoXmEY3jCzj7hAXNGLlfN0OUg3yGe5mNqzcErY45gkkxEpXyrxXz_yAlPoN2yZ2EWwyqubSxcn5nRqNAwF65je4gZWumCmgWMxM-6KVT0kOGpxiSl3EjMLnIy9_A2QTzPw/s320/IMG_1715.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561169960579259394" /></a><em>Charlie St. Cloud</em> was adapted from the best-seller called <em>The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud</em> which explains why certain things feel a tad rushed. I'll freely admit to watching this film twice. Two days in a row. I had to make sense of it. The first time, as first impressions of this article might evince, I saw nothing but the face of Zac Efron and those perfect blue whorls that he calls eyes (I'm convinced there's post-production involved, there). On the second sitting I was even more flumoxed by a narrative that was not melodramatic but paranormal - with many of those generic trappings in tow. Of course, we must remind ourselves that Efron doesn't have his hand in the <em>Twilight</em> pot, but this bid at an approximation feels too Hallmark for that reader/viewership. Charlie's death and resurrection make him prescient and he can converse with the dead, see. Play ball even, as he does with Sam for 5 years of his life, EVERY DAY. Putting in an utterly unmemorable performance as a girl who (on second viewing) is clipped into every shot of film before she is introduced (but is somehow still never familiar), Amanda Crew plays Charlie's spiritual savior, a girl with gumption who aims to sail around the world. They share a beautiful day at the cemetery (which, I'm sorry, but for Efron is both implausible and creepy) and she pushes him to pursue bigger and better things. He courts her, eventually making love. Until he realizes >SPOILER ALERT< she's actually lost at sea.</p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKumlOnG0uCAZN8jkcba3yZ_pswx7SOvouOXP_zM5t2CQSEjuDbyRmAUP8PwdH3z2TFgpNd8aFUne4DtE__c9PgGOc9IAiCpaLs9sFh8hSpWbUnEOXUI-wMQZtRZS-nd_NwJTng/s1600/charlie-st-cloud-trailer-1-7-10-kc.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKumlOnG0uCAZN8jkcba3yZ_pswx7SOvouOXP_zM5t2CQSEjuDbyRmAUP8PwdH3z2TFgpNd8aFUne4DtE__c9PgGOc9IAiCpaLs9sFh8hSpWbUnEOXUI-wMQZtRZS-nd_NwJTng/s400/charlie-st-cloud-trailer-1-7-10-kc.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561171631578208018" /></a>None of this takes on the level of paranormal head-scratching that found fleeting moments of bewildering satisfaction in <em>The Lovely Bones</em> nor is it really set up for a kind of ta-da reveal a la (of course) <em>The Sixth Sense</em>. It feels like a severely edited miniseries that's not enough <em>Hallmark Channel</em>, not kooky enough to be science fiction and not balls out enough to just be religious. It never mounts to the tacky kind of sensationalism such a loopy plot would cater to. It never really amounts to much more than... Oh, Zac Efron's face! But it's weirdly aging. Putting him next to a deliriously overblown Liotta doesn't help matters at all, particularly once the "Five Years Later" has its way with the narrative and whisks Charlie's mother, Kim Basinger, back to Malibu... er... Portland (she later phones in). I have a feeling I'll watch it again. Maybe alongside the Keanu Reeves / Sandra Bullock reunion vehicle, <em>The Lake House</em>. Could this be a new genre of cinema? But that implausible tale of time travel is frenzied by its utter inability to make sense of out its set-up. While <em>Charlie St. Cloud</em> is never quite as frantic or jazzy as all of this, you still have that archetype of a face, that mug of perfection that resembles not a boy who has died and been given a second chance. But one that's been plucked, straight out the box.</p><p>As an addendum, I would like to note that before seeing this film and even exiting my repeated sittings, I have no crushy affiliation towards Mr. Efron. Such is the power of cinema.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0