Ocular Torture

I'm doing a lot of things lately that I've always wanted to do since moving to Boston, but never got around to until now. Like going ice skating on the Frog Pond, seeing a Red Sox-Yankees game at Fenway (April 13th, baby!), and going for a run on the Esplanade. Boston is a beautiful place, and living here makes me happy.

But for a moment, I'd like to celebrate my city's ugliness. The Museum of Bad Art is dedicated to the "collection, preservation, exhibition, and celebration of bad art in all its forms." I visited those august halls on Wednesday last. And wow, that art is bad.

So what earns a work of art the label "bad?" It's not just lack of training, as one might assume. Some of the works on view at the MOBA are actually not that horrific in terms of the artist's skill. (Though of course, many of them are.) Some of the artists would certainly be capable of producing "good" art if they tried. What makes a work of art bad is when the artist attempts to create something meaningful, and fails in the execution. Case in point, The Picnic, an unattributed recent acquisition:

On first glance, it's stylistically reminiscent of Frida Kahlo. Kind of. She wasn't necessarily a master of form either, and her paintings don't always make sense unless you look at them within the context of her personal life. But what's the deal with the face-tree, and why does it have an Afro? Is the artist trying to say that the lovers are being watched? And what is the significance of the two boats set adrift on the other side of the channel, one of which looks to be sinking? It is symbolic of their relationship? There's also the question of white and yellow circles around the subjects' heads: halo, or pillow? The wall labels can significantly up a painting's bizarre factor: "Aware that inter-office dating was frowned upon by upper management, the young lovers decided to take an extended lunch break on a private island where they would surely not be seen."

But at least this painting was acquired in a respectable place, the Treasure Chest Thrift Store in Roslindale, rather than from the trash, like so many in the MOBA collection. My buddies and I bestowed upon this painting, untitled and unattributed, the honor of "object we would gladly pay money to avoid hanging on our wall":


If you'd like to visit the MOBA yourself, it's located (appropriately enough) just outside the men's room in the basement of the Dedham Community Theatre, about eight miles south of downtown Boston. For extra credit, try re-enacting the paintings (as below) and send me the pictures.

Frank Lloyd Wright would be so pissed

Chinese-born artist Cai Guo-Qiang is having a mid-career retrospective, entitled "I Want To Believe," at the Guggenheim this month. I'll be honest, I've never actually heard of him before. But I have to say that his installation in the Frank Lloyd Wright rotunda is pretty much the coolest thing ever. It's a bunch of cars tumbling (well, suspended) down seven stories, stop motion photography-style, erupting with sprays of neon sparks. Though I've been thinking, anything resembling a car bomb is probably not a good idea for an art installation in Manhattan, am I right? Nevertheless, this exhibition might even give me the motivation to actually go to New York for a few days over break. Anyone have a couch I can crash on? Pun intended.

The Gates: Tonight on HBO

If you're one of those very lucky people who has HBO, you should strongly consider turning on your TV tonight at 10pm and watching the TV premiere of The Gates. It follows artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude in their 26-year campaign to convince the City of New York to allow them to create a massive installation in Central Park, from their first request in 1979 to the realization of The Gates in 2005. I saw the documentary back in October at the Coolidge Corner Theatre, and I can't fathom why it wasn't nominated for a Best Documentary Oscar.

The first half of the film documents the artists' extremely long and frustrating quest to gain approval for this project, which arguably became the most successful piece of installation art in modern times. It's truly unbelievable how many art-hating, curmudgeon-y New Yorkers tried to stand in their way for no good reason, and generated a controversy out of nothing. The second half is pure aesthetic joy. I imagine it approximates the feeling of visiting The Gates in person. Don't let yourself be bored just because there's no dialog. The simple beauty of the sunlight filtering though the saffron-colored nylon, or the wind whipping through the fabric's pleats, will be more than enough for Christo and Jeanne-Claude to win you over. I recommend that you watch it in your pajamas with a glass of wine or a mug of hot chocolate, and you'll go to bed relaxed and with a smile on your face.

Here's a little preview:

Oscars Redux

Having TiVo-ed through the Oscars 24 hours after it aired (the only way to do it, in my opinion), I can only say this of the results: everything is as it should be. Jon Stewart was funny enough to earn himself another hosting gig next year. The Coen Brothers have taken up their rightful place in cinematic history (and are, appropriately, off to the races on another couple of comedies). Javier Bardem and Marion Cotillard are the hottest new commodities in Hollywood. Daniel Day-Lewis will probably give us another Oscar-worthy performance in another decade or so. Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova beat out Enchanted's three stupid nominations, and eventually, the Academy even let both of them speak. (Despite a lovely performance from the always wonderful Kristin Chenowith, it isn't even fair to call that category a competition. Where did all the good musicals go?) And Diablo Cody won without being generic. And without wearing the "pimp shooz." I think her billowy, tattoo-baring, slit-up-to-there, leopard-print dress was the best "f you" to Joan Rivers since Diane Keaton's suit.

I have to say, though, that my opinion of the Oscars is still decidedly Woody Allen-esque: they're too showy, mainly driven by market forces, and decidedly irrelevant. I mean, Miley Cyrus? She's cute and all, but come on. And Jessica Alba, despite being really pretty, shouldn't be allowed within 500 yards of a statuette until Good Luck Chuck has been erased from public consciousness. Oscar's taken out a restraining order, honey. You've been served.

The image of Diablo Cody saying "ghrgerggr" in her hotel room post-Oscars is lifted from her very entertaining MySpace blog.

"Criminal Masterminds"

Two instances of bizarre breakings and enterings caught my attention recently. Apparently Whitey Bulger is the only person who can pull of a decent art theft these days.

On Feb. 9th, three masked men walked into the E. G. Bührle Collection in Zurich and walked out with a Cézanne, a Degas, a van Gogh, and a Monet. That's it: they walked in, grabbed, the paintings, walked out, and sped off in a van. So much for an elaborate heist plan. And to make things extra weird, police found two of the paintings nine days later in a car parked outside a psychiatric facility. Perhaps they were stolen by some intrepid inmates?

And back in November, news surfaced that a group of "cultural guerillas" had broken into the Panthéon in Paris and set up a secret lair in the dome. They didn't steal anything, but they restored a rusty old 1850 clock over the course of a year. Nobody noticed what they were doing until one of them walked into the Panthéon administrator's office and said, "hey guys, we made this clock work again." In true bureaucratic fashion, the French Centre for National Monuments responded by suing the clock fixers, but a jury cleared them of all charges within 20 minutes. This brought to you by Untergunther, the same organization that built a cinema with a bar and restaurant under the Seine. Thanks to Isaac for the news story.

WGA Victorious; AMPTP Still Kind Of Weasely

I've been so busy reading old issues of Playboy magazine these past few days (for research, seriously!) that I completely forgot to celebrate the fact that the writer's strike is officially over, as of Tuesday night. While I'm not totally convinced the AMPTP aren't still a bunch of ugly fascist weasels, I'm going to allow myself to be optimistic about the future of screenwriting. So here are the top ten things I'm looking forward to now that the strike is officially over:

10. And now, for tonight's word. Also, The Daily Show (as opposed to A Daily Show).
9. Not having to watch my fellow Americans embarrass and pimp themselves nightly on the latest insipid reality show. NBC recently purchased the rights to a new series entitled, I shit you not, Rockstar Curling. While Canadians are no doubt in a whirl of excitement over this, I think it's safe to say that this show will not resemble quality programming. They're courting either Jon Bon Jovi or Bruce Springsteen to host. Hopefully by the time it airs we'll have some marginally acceptable scripted shows to turn to instead. I'd even take another season of Big Shots over this.
8. Jurassic Park IV. Just messin' with ya there. I'm most definitely not looking forward to it. Though it actually might happen. But hopefully not.
7. The next two slaps, whenever they may come. April Slaps Day? Slapsoween? Slapsmas? Doesn't matter; I'll be there.
6. The return of Tina Fey and 30 Rock to television, because Cleveland hasn't taken nearly enough abuse yet.
5. Aaron Sorkin and Stephen Spielberg's The Trial of the Chicago Seven. Most every Sorkin product I see ends with me thumping my fist to my heart in passionate liberal pride.
4. The possibility of an Arrested Development movie, which should be extra exciting now that Michael Cera is all grown up and Jason Bateman is still really hot.
3. The Coen Brothers' A Serious Man. It sounds quirky enough to be the heir to The Big Lebowski. Joel and Ethan, if you will consider giving Jesus Quintana a cameo in this one, I promise I'll eat my own foot.
2. Joss Whedon's Dollhouse. See previous gushy post for more. Also, two of my favorite things, Joss and dance, are about to collide: he's is in the process of writing and producing some sort of ballet short with Summer Glau, who has already kicked ass with grace and style in both Serenity and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. It'll be filmed in late Spring or early Summer. Count me giddy with anticipation!
1. Any new words that come from the pen of Diablo Cody. Apologies to Joss. I wanted to give him the number one spot, but that's reserved for witty former Minneapolis strippers with blogs called The Pussy Ranch. Diablo, I'll follow you anywhere: Movies, TV, YouTube, the cage of a hungry lion, The United States of Tara, Jennifer's Body, Girly Style, and Juno II, III, and IV. Ever since I saw Juno three times, Cody's dialogue has been subconsciously showing up in my everyday conversation with a frequency I haven't experienced since the days of Buffy. I swear, when the day comes (far, far in the future) that I become pregnant myself, I'm going to reveal this fact to everyone by proclaiming I'm "fo' shizz, up the spout."

p.s. The picture above is of Joss Whedon (wearing a Red Sox hat, natch) and Ron Moore (of Battlestar Galactica) delivering half a million fan-purchased pencils to various studios during the strike back in December. My dozen pencils are in there somewhere.

More kisses! Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?

In my (relatively) new single life, I'm enjoying each day's exciting new possibilities and learning to love meeting new people and putting myself in unfamiliar social situations. And lately, I'm obsessed with this poem by Robert Browning, about the opera composer Baldassarre Galuppi and parties in eighteenth century Venice. So on Valentine's Day (or thereabouts), I'd like to post this poem as a reminder that single life can be fun, glamorous, and fulfilling if that's what we choose to make of it. Even if your ambition is to settle down someday, there's no reason you can't stay out until three in the morning in the meantime.

Also on my List of Things that are Awesome this week is Kris Delmhorst's song "Galuppi Baldassare," which takes lines from the poem. Her album "Strange Conversation" sets poems to music by the likes of Edna St. Vincent Millay, James Weldon Johnson, and e.e. cummings. What a unique idea for a concept album, don't you think?

-----

"A Toccata of Galuppi's" (1855)

I

Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;
But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!

II

Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.
What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,
Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?

III

Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by . . . what you call
. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival:
I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it all.

IV

Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

V

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, —
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,
O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?

VI

Well, and it was graceful of them — they'd break talk off and afford
— She, to bite her mask's black velvet — he, to finger on his sword,
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?

VII

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions — "Must we die?"
Those commiserating sevenths — "Life might last! we can but try!

VIII

"Were you happy?" — "Yes." — "And are you still as happy?" — "Yes. And you?"
— "Then, more kisses!" — "Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?"
Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!

IX

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!
"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!
"I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"

X

Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.

XI

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,
While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,
In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every nerve.

XII

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:
"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.
"The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be discerned.

XIII

"Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology,
"Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;
"Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it cannot be!

XIV

"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,
"Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:
"What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

XV

"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.

Please don't laugh

Road song without a tune

Come ride with me, my darling
Come and watch the sun go down
We will leave this ghostly city
We will leave this sorry town

We'll roll past this endless winter
Over asphalt, under snow
We will flee the rest and ride out west
Along the Morse code of the road

You're riding shotgun right beside me
And that's just fine with me for now
But I might take off next time we stop
So find yourself another ride somehow

For the moment, we're still singing
And we're still joyful through and through
But come spring I'll still be steering
Towards another splendid view

And the fields fly by so swiftly
And the weather's oh so clear
But my love, I can't ride on like this
I've got to drop you here

So my darling, don't be angry
Don't be lonesome when I'm gone
'Cause you know that I was meant to fly
On this open road alone


Just a draft--comments welcome.

[Photo: Lee Friedlander, Akron, Ohio, 1980. Plate 13 from Factory Valleys.]

Amazing. Simply amazing.

I'm about to tip the topical balance of this blog decidedly in favor of the dance genre. But I'm ahead of my game for once, so I wanted to post that if you live in the Boston area, you ought to consider seeing Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater this weekend at the Wang. Tickets are a little bit pricey, but students can score $20 rush tickets (cash only) at the box office an hour and a half before each show. In my opinion, there is no better way to celebrate Black History Month.

Firebird, the opening act, was weird, as Maurice Béjart's choreography often is. Honestly, I wasn't a fan. The dancers, as always, were spectacular; they did what they could with what they were given. The corps de ballet costumes amount to lumpy grey pajamas. Sometimes they weren't exactly in unison, but they can't be blamed for that either. The New York Times review of the Ailey company's performance referenced an old quote by critic Clement Crisp: "Béjart and Stravinsky is one of those fabled partnerships, like Romeo and Goneril, or bacon and strawberries." (Yeah, I've been waiting to bust that one out for a while.) Crisp is right. Béjart, rest his soul, got a lot of things right with this ballet, especially the staccato, bird-like movements of the title character. But he was not a master of musicality.

The second act, which included Camille A. Brown's new work Groove to Nobody's Business, made me smile. It's a little vignette about people on public transit, set to music by Ray Charles and Brandon McCune. Here I must mention the incomparable Renée Robinson, whose staggering old-lady character holding her aching back was both a spot-on impression and a hilarious reference to her own 26-year career with the Ailey company. And in Robert Battle's Unfold, Linda Celeste Sims--whose back must surely be made out of rubber--was lithe and elegant without being delicate or pretentious.

Which brings me to Revelations. Whenever I see it listed on the program, I sigh a little bit. Going in, I always feel like it's overdone. I've seen it before, and I'd rather see something new for a change. Then when it starts, and I see the emotion that the dancers pour into every little movement, I change my mind. It has aged a bit since its premiere in 1960, but it never gets old. It's still touching, still relevant, and still awe-inspiring. And I know this is maybe a little melodramatic, but it makes me proud to be an American. Proud that my country has produced a work of art this unique, time-tested, and inspirational. Proud that Ailey was able express our nation's history of racial and cultural oppression in a way that can make us smile without trivializing the experience of racism. And whenever I see it, I know I'm watching a living part of American history. This is the one piece of American dance that everyone should see at least once in their lives.

A reality show I'd actually watch

Sarah Jessica Parker is developing a new reality show where a dozen artists compete with one another in a series of creative challenges, Project Runway-style. Each week would require the contestants to create within a different medium: painting, sculpture, industrial art, interior design, etc. They would be judged by "the world's top art critics" (no word yet on who that includes). The winner gets their own gallery show, a cash prize, and a national tour.

As always, I expect there will be both positive and negative facets to this project. Most obviously, it will make art more accessible to general audiences and provide opportunities for struggling artists to achieve recognition. And don't artists deserve the celebrity (and financial success) of rock stars? In the best case scenario, art becomes the new haute couture, and everyone wants a piece. Attendance at museums skyrockets, galleries spring up on every corner like The Gap, and magazines run features on the newest trends in what to hang on your wall. Ordinary Americans can no longer imagine their lives without art, leading to greater emphasis on art education in public schools, more public and private funding for artistic projects, and overall a richer American cultural fabric. Of course, that's not likely to happen as the result of just one reality show.

On the negative side, I wish there was a way to bring contemporary art to television without turning it into a competition. There's enough competition in the art world already. The emphasis ought to be on collaborative creativity and the betterment of the artistic community. And there's also the question of selling out. While the idea of corporate sponsorship of art makes me all tingly with excitement, the prospect of "art, brought to you by Toyota" makes me want to barf. Exhibits like the MFA's show of Ralph Lauren's car collection in 2005, or the numerous museums around the country showing haute couture alongside painting and sculpture, are immensely effective revenue-gatherers. But they blur the line between art for culture and art for sale. Art that is created or exhibited specifically with the goal of commercial success (for the artist or for the museum) behind it is tainted; that is, it ceases to be an artist's expression of his or her worldview and becomes a mere advertisement, or even a commercial product in itself. Which in turn brings up the topic of censorship. What happens when a contestant chooses to create a work of art that is judged too controversial or indecent for television? Will it be cut from the show? Will the contestant be permitted to compete? Are we going to depend upon advertisers, or (gulp) Broadcast Standards and Practices, to decide what is "decent" in terms of art?

I'm excited for this show because if it's a success, it could truly change the landscape of the contemporary art world, for better or for worse. The challenge will be for artists (as well as art critics) to maintain their integrity along the way.