Art Roulette: Cleveland

I can't find a whole lot that's interesting from my usual sources this week, so I'm trying something new: Art Roulette! I'll pick an random city, Google its name next to the word "art," and choose something interesting from the results.

This week, Cleveland! The Cleve; the Forest City; the butt of so many 30 Rock jokes. According to the Cleveland Plain Dealer (best newspaper name ever, by the way), a local gallery is shaking things up by questioning what art has to do with objects. Spaces gallery (an apt name if there ever was one) wants to bring art beyond the gallery space. Their most recent exhibit, "...in a most dangerous manner"--which unfortunately ended today--confronts economics, class, and power in texts, off-site installations, and events.

In my job at the MFA Boston, I field ever so many complaints from crusty longtime visitors about how so many things have Changed, capital C, and what a shame it is that things can't stay exactly the same as they were when they visited in [insert your favorite year here; I've heard everything from 1948 to 2006]. As for Spaces Gallery, I hope this experiment in boundary-pushing works out for them, because it's going to be difficult--even for fans of contemporary art--to walk into a favorite gallery and find that it doesn't include objects anymore (or at least not the sorts of objects they're used to).

That being said, though "art without objects" is a high concept to grasp, Spaces is making room (haha) for participation and hopefully increased accessibility. Not confident in your ability to talk about contemporary art? The gallery sponsors outings ("Space Invasions") to area museums for group discussion and critique. Always aspired to be an artist yourself, but not sure where to start? Join Corrie Slawson's Work Party as she transforms vacant midtown industrial spaces and assembles found objects from the lots back in the gallery. It sounds like so much fun, it almost makes me want to move to Cleveland! Cool roundup of the project here.

But the only downside to art without images is that I couldn't find a relevant image to put on this here blog post. So I'm all bland and black-and-white today. Blame Spaces--or fist-bump them? Hmm.

Child's Play

My trusty Vulture feed informed me today that there is a three-year-old named Ruby Ellenby with her own gallery show in San Francisco (profiled here in the San Francisco Chronicle; above photo by Ms. Ellenby herself). And I screamed (internally, of course): Where is my frickin' gallery show? I'm 28! And my photos are so much better than hers!

Also, my assessment is that these pictures could have been taken by practically anyone with a medium quality digital camera. Come on, Ruby Ellenby, weak sauce. If you're going to have a retrospective at the age of eleven, you've gotta step up your game.

In all seriousness though, more children should be exposed to art-making at home, because goodness knows they aren't always going to have the opportunity at school. And thanks to her photographer parents, this little gal has a heck of a head start.

But again, where is my frickin' gallery show? Because taking pictures makes me feel like a princess, too.

How many Elvises can dance on the head of a pin?

The CBS Sunday Morning show: not just for old people anymore! This past Sunday, Mark Strassman profiled British "micro-sculptor" Willard Wigan, who makes art so tiny he once accidentally inhaled it. You can't see most of his art without a microscope. His pedestals are the eye of a needle or the head of a pin; his paintbrush is hair of a dead fly. Behold: Tiny Elvis! YES!!!

Reverse trompe l'oeil is cool; creeps me out

Alexa Meade doesn't paint canvases. She paints real, live people to look like canvases. And while I think this is amazing and sooo unique, I gotta say that seeing this in person would scare the bejeezus out of me, especially if I just happened to run into this guy on the subway on my way to work:

New Post! Wooo!

Hello, 2010! After skipping a year of life, I have officially quit grad school, and thus I am resuscitating my blog. (Now with less inane commentary! More posts that way!)

With March comes Spring rain, pretty flowers, and potholes. And some British dude named Pete Dungey (who clearly needs to pay the Bay State roadways a visit) has been prettying up potholes with tiny guerilla gardens. Which, while beautiful, make last summer's basil plant failure that much more depressing to yours truly. Check them out!

On a dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets...

It's time to come clean: I'm an NPR junkie. I download "This American Life" podcasts and sing the Be-Bop-A-Re-Bop Rhubarb Pie song whenever I'm feeling out of sorts. My mornings begin with "The Writer's Almanac," and my work days often end with "All Things Considered." I own a tote bag. Okay, I own several.

So this past Saturday, when "A Prairie Home Companion" was broadcast live from the Bangor Auditorium, I was in heaven indeed. And yes, I was there. Allow me to geek out for a moment. There was Garrison Keillor. Sound Effects Man. David Mallett. Maxine Kumin. Garrison Keillor. Four talented fiddlers from around the state. A bunch of great jokes at Stephen King's expense. Also, did I mention Garrison Keillor was there?

Some observations:
-I consider GK to be America's greatest living storyteller. He's a joy to listen to on the radio. In person, with no script, he's even more so. My favorite part of the performance was before the show went on the air, when he meandered through the audience and greeted latecomers with handshakes and kisses on the cheeks as they found their seats. It actually kind of makes you want to be a little late for the next local broadcast, doesn't it?
-According to my insiders at the Maine Center for the Arts, the APHC people arrived in Bangor on Wednesday, spent some time getting to know the area, and wrote the show in three days before Friday night's rehearsal. And they even got the Maine accents right! Very impressive.
-Maine alums: I promise, you've never heard the Stein Song played this way before. It took me a moment to even realize what I was listening to. Squee!
-Random discovery of the week: David Mallett and my dad were fraternity brothers. I'm sitting there completely engrossed in his beautiful songs, and Dad turns to Mom and says, "remember in college when Dave used to try to get us drive up to Big Squaw Mountain with him every Friday to play? No matter what the weather. He was pretty crazy back then." So my dad is friends with a folk music legend. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, seeing as my dad is friends with pretty much everyone in the state of Maine.
-If you ever find yourself faced with a choice between a career in investment banking and a career as a voice actor, do what Sound Effects Man Fred Newman did and choose the latter. Clearly, he made the correct decision.

The archived show in its entirety can be found here. Photo of the performance by Bridget Brown for the Bangor Daily News.

Hip-Hop + Baseball ÷ Fat Guys = Awesome

As far as I can tell, Kanye has blogged about this just yet, so here goes:

Something very exciting is happening in the world of dance. No, it's not Big Boi's collaboration with the Atlanta Ballet (though it definitely deserves an honorable mention). The Florida Marlins, whose stripped-down lineup (besides Hanley Ramirez) surely needs some cheerleading this year, have assembled a troupe of all-male, all-plus-sized dancers to perform at weekend home games. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the Florida Marlins Manatees. Count me excited.

My official review: it's good for baseball, and good for dance. The Marlins have been struggling with attendance since they gave up Beckett (who am I kidding, since forever), and they had to do something soon. Truly, they're not half bad for a bunch of guys who have never danced before. But I don't think the choreographed routines show off their skills enough; they're actually at their best when they freestyle. Check it out:



My only complaint: where are the female plus-sized dancers? From the words of John McGraw and the Sistahs: "One percent of ballplayers are leaders of men. The other 99 percent are followers of women."

Excuses, excuses

I've been trying to think of a good explanation for letting my blog lapse for the entire month of April. I was going to go with the requisite, "I'm a grad student. Blerrghh." But I use that excuse for everything. And the real reason (which I'll refer to simply as "personal issues") is too confessional for a blog about art. I could conveniently claim that I've been doing a bunch of academic work and just haven't thought about blogging, but, well, that just wouldn't be true.

But lo and behold, I've found the perfect reason to let myself off the hook: Kanye West has rendered me irrelevant.

For serious. Stop reading this blog right now (well, after this post) and head on over to Kanye's blog instead. Dude's got everything covered: contemporary art and design, architecture, music, and a smattering of liberal politics every now and then. New York Magazine has already beat me to it and dubbed him the World's Greatest Blogger, so obviously you're wasting your time here. The posts are delightfully to-the-point (if a bit consumerist) and written by Kanye himself, who attended art school briefly and actually knows what he's talking about. And if that's not enough, you can even e-mail Kanye some photos of yourself in Stronger glasses, Kanye's own contribution to avant-garde fashion design:

You're out of excuses. Now git.

Good, Clean Fun

And just like that, it's springtime in Boston. And yesterday was the perfect day for a pillow fight.

March 22nd was International Pillow Fight Day, and thanks to urban playground group Banditos Misteriosos, an estimated 500 Bostonians gathered in Copley Square at 2pm and whacked each other with pillows. The rules were as follows: Before the fight begins, act natural. Bring a soft pillow. Don't wear glasses. Don't hit the folks with cameras. Go all out.

After getting walloped a bunch of times by some overenthusiastic college boys, I got out alive (and with only a slight headache) after 7 straight minutes of earnest pillow-fighting. (The fight went on about 20 minutes.) I have to say, this was one of the best (and geekiest) times I've had in Boston so far. (It's a tie with the Buffy Sing-Along, which sadly is no more.) Hopefully it was the first of many experiences with the Banditos and with Boston's Improv Everywhere spinoff, the Boston Society of Spontaneity. It was such pure, simple fun. Every single participant, no matter what age, was laughing, smiling, and playing. With total strangers. How often does this happen in Boston, the city where we stare off into space on the subway and celebrate important sports victories with full-on riots? A modest proposal: the next time the Sox win the series, free pillows all around!

If you're wondering what it was like to be there, someone in the center of the action posted this great video on YouTube. Hope to see you at the next pillow fight!

Dim Sum

This week's roundup of art news I happen to find interesting:

-The Boston Ballet has announced that it is cutting nearly 20% of the dancers in its company. Times are tough, sure. I get that. But, boo. Just, boo.
-Isaac thinks redneck sports in Maine are kind of like Dadaism. I think he has a point, but a true redneck would probably call him an "overeducated owta-stateah" and send him down the river in one of those giant pumpkins.
-As promised, here are some images from Mikhail Baryshnikov's current photography show, Merce My Way, at 401 Projects. They're not as groundbreaking as everyone's making them out to be (they show movement, while dance photography has traditionally stuck to showing form), but I admit they've grown on me. Even though I think they ought to have been done in film, not digital. What can I say; film is just better.
-Joss Whedon has co-written, and is currently filming, a limited Internet musical series called "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog," starring a couple of my favorite actors, presumably in tights. Joss is clearly very good at writing musicals, and I can't wait for his next go. And look, Mom! No producers!
-Zach took me to Northeastern University last weekend to see Anthony Rapp sing and speak, and it was my favorite thing I did during Spring Break. Rapp sang some some of his own songs, some songs from Rent, some songs from other musicals, and some unexpected covers, of which my favorite by far was Courtney Love's "Miss World." And check out this bit of exciting news. Two original cast members? Hells yeah.

"Eye-Ass Coordination"

Neke Carson painted this portrait of his friend Andy Warhol in 1972, and "Page Six" reports that it's soon going on exhibit at the Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh, its first public showing in 28 years. It looks pretty common, right? Kind of lopsided and cartoonish, but a pretty accurate likeness nonetheless. Not especially subversive material for that particular moment in artistic culture. So why is this a big deal?

"Page Six" left out an important detail, which New York Magazine's Vulture immediately set right. It seems that Carson, um, painted the portrait with his butt. Which is gross; but you have to admit, it makes the painting so much more impressive, doesn't it? So why did he choose to paint it this way? Apparently the idea came from several sources: kung fu movies, the new popularity of body art, and an off-color comment his wife made (and probably regretted immediately). And also because painting with your hand is so yesterday. Carson is quoted as saying: "My idea was, your hand is way too sophisticated to make art. This had much less baggage, to get this eye-ass coordination going. You had to rewire your brain, go from your eyes to your butt instead of your arms."

Portrait of Andy Warhol will be shown alongside Carson's video of Warhol's portrait sitting starting March 14th. I'm intrigued, but definitely not enough to subject my poor eyeballs to a naked Neke Carson trying to maneuver with a paintbrush between his cheeks while Andy Warhol attempts to keep a straight face. I apologize for that mental image. But for the record, Warhol thought the finished product looked great.

The house needs new siding; pass me another!

A Man's 6-Pack Can Serve as His Castle (NY Times)

Besides being environmentally friendly, the Beer Can House in Houston, Texas may or may not be the coolest thing ever to result from one man's love of cheap beer. (Hint: it is.) The folk art monument, which opens to the public today, was the twenty-year-long project of late furniture upholsterer John Milkovisch. The house underwent a seven-year, $400,000 restoration, which is surely every architectural preservationist's dream job. ("Hmm, that wall looks like it needs some more work. BEER RUN!!!!") The house costs $1 to tour. I can only assume that the dollar includes a complimentary PBR, and that the resulting cans go directly toward building maintenance.

Two questions remain: First of all...his wife actually let him get away with this? And also, how can I get myself one of these? (To answer my own question: perhaps by simply continuing to do what I'm already doing. Between all the alcohol and the books about architecture, a house made out of beer cans is exactly where my graduate education is likely to lead me.)

In all seriousness, though, there are worse things that one can do with empty beer cans. And I'm oddly reminded of Frank Gehry's bungalow in Santa Monica (below). Am I right, people?

George W. Bush, "Art Critic"

George W. Bush has a favorite painting, W.H.D. Koerner's A Charge to Keep (1916), and it hangs prominently in the Oval Office. He claims to have acquired it after becoming a born-again Christian. But the painting doesn't depict what he thinks it does. I try not to be overtly political on these here pages out of respect for my Conservative readers (I think there are two of you?), but I just can't let this delicious irony pass me by. Because W does what he always does when he has no clue: he pulls something out of his ass and presents it as fact, and even becomes so convinced of its veracity that he completely disregards all evidence to the contrary.

The ending is too funny to give away, so I'll let Jacob Weisberg deliver the punchline in the video below. Check out this article in Harper's for more. Thanks to Isaac for the heads up.

Mikhail Baryshnikov is taking over the art world...but being nice about it.

This recent article in the New York Observer officially begs the question: Great Muppity Odin, is there any kind of art Mikhail Baryshnikov doesn't do? Dancing, of course...then acting, and now guitar and photography? Apparently once he masters one art form, he simply moves on to another, all the while acting pleasantly self-deprecating about his abilities. As if he could fool us into thinking he's somehow no good.

His photography show, which features images of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company, opens March 15th at 401 Projects in the West Village. I'll try to get some images up when they become available.

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.