The Brooklyn File

Blogging in the UK

2007-04-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

I want to propose a law banning all commercial air travel. Not because my flight today was particularly painful. Indeed, it was simplicity itself, a clockwork of efficient transportation such that I wake up groggy in Manchester and am now taking tea in Brooklyn some eight hours later. This total efficiency is what I am complaining about, as it tends to “do one’s head in”, as they might say in Manchester.

I feel very much as though I have just woken from a mysterious dream, and am trying desperately to cling to the threads of sleeping life before reality pulls me back into its stresses and habituation. Tenaciously I fight against the emails from interns, the bathroom tiles that need fixing, the untidy apartment to which I have so seamlessly returned, trying to linger in a world already going fuzzy around the edges. Something about a Mona…, a Nick… and was it Paul?

And so this document appears – writing as an aid to memory – a perhaps futile attempt to hold on to water dribbling between my fingers. So many things to “report” for posterity, though so… fuzzy. What did I do in the UK? Something about trying to catch a ping pong ball in a shot glass over and over, and finding it uproariously hilarious? A hazy recollection of busting out a backspin in Cardiff’s only tolerable drinking establishment? Walking in the mist on the Pennine way and chasing baby lambs. Endless pints, proper pints of all varieties in unending supply. Jaffa cakes. A Nick bringing me tea when I awoke and offering to cook eggs and eat them with toast cut up into what he called “soldiers”. A postmodern playground with a very bouncy teeter-totter torture device. Chess. Fantastic eating. A village made of stone and a coffee-maker that was predictably “oot uv ouda”. Endless labyrinthine conversations about the nature of: performance, games, play, feline facial expression, PHDS, Belgian beer, Irish pronunciation, and the nexus of praxis in post-practice transdisciplinarity. For some reason I utterly forgot how to speak American and for the whole time insisted in either talking with a thick Danish/German fashion-police accent, a pathetic Irish brogue, a slightly Sussex inspired poot, or the accent of a drunken Buddy Whasisname (a famous Newfoundlander).

Good Lord. What a mess.

Well, it all made sense at the time. I suppose I went to Manchester with a somewhat reactionary “don’t give me anything I don’t already understand” attitude, or perhaps more accurately a “don’t give me anything I already think I understand” attitude. Whatever it was, there was a sense on both my part and that of They Break in Pieces that to some extent we represented somewhat opposed positions on the great continuum of Knowledge, and this feature was something to be exploited and explored. In the end I became a total convert, a new member in the cult of performativity, as I cannot recall an eight-day period in my life during which I have had that much fun. Ever.

I realize I am not telling this story very well. Perhaps it is the lasting influence of Performance and Improvisation that resists linear descriptions. But, for the curious, I shall try to obey narrative for at least a paragraph: Some time on the flight over (during which I sat next to a fat Scot who enjoyed snoring in my ear and drooling on my shoulder) I had the brilliant (if rather patronizing) idea that it might be rather fun to teach performance artists Formal Logic to see how they might react. This lead me to my old proof demonstrating that the only meaningful activities in life involve the playing of games, an argument derived from Bernard Suits’ excellent book “the Grasshopper”. This seemed somehow appropriate, a mix of philosophy, logic, and games might well serve as a background for improvised response. To cut a long story short, in the end we developed a 20-minute work in which I give a lecture outlining the central argument of “The Grasshopper”, and then proceed to test its validity using the “truth tree” method of formal logic, writing the convoluted calculations on a board behind me. Nick, Mona and Paul simultaneously improvised performance, competing with me for attention, improvising games, obfuscating and occasionally immobilizing my attempts at clarity and rigor. While the piece was definitely humorous (and injecting a certain amount of laughter and playfulness into an academic conference partly about playfulness seemed well to the point), to me the work also suggested the absurdity and “performativity” of reductionist, formal “explanations” and “proof”. While I talked about play and tried to SAY something about it, TBIP ignored the idea of explanation and tried to SHOW something about it.

Well, I could say loads of more serious things about that, but that too would be somewhat self defeating as I think one of the main things we all took away from the encounter was the importance of having fun and not being afraid to show it AS important. Even though my role in the actual performance was that of the straight man, in our many hours in the practice spaces I found myself rediscovering how much fun it is to move around and use my body again. I even did lame-o “movement exercises” and thought it was really cool, such that I didn’t much care about the actual performance so much as I did about getting back into the space and learning new stretches and playing new stupid games and doing more somersaults. And did I ever teach those pathetic Welsh kids how to cut a rug after that!

Nope, this isn’t working. I’m in Brooklyn again, and the vaguely prison-like brick of Manchester has been replaced by the vaguely ghetto-like dirt of New York City. Well, at least I’m not in Wales being taught to throw a stick at someone while an overconfident Australian performance-academic (?) attempts to encourage me by whispering that the instructor is “coming from a different plane”. Ha ha. Clearly some of my negative stereotypes persist. But I do think this experience as shown me myself as a stereotype now too, that of the crusty fuss-pot who hides behind words (preferably big ones), too scared to get out and shake some serious boo-tay in anything other than a carefully crafted, socially sanctioned space. Today Brooklyn appears before me a playground, and no longer shall its trees go unclimbed, its fire-hydrants un-hopped-over, or its handrails un-slid-down. I might still hold some thin claim to the life of the intellect, but by God I shall no longer be a brain in a vat! Beware, Brooklyn, be very on guard, for I am Ben Evans, performance artist, and I HAVE A BODY!!!

And I think I have gotten a little more dramatic too.

Break us, Lydia, for good friends, and for new friends, and for very good new friends.

Stop Clear Cut Blogging!

2006-08-15T11:41:00.000-07:00

As some of you have learned or even experienced, I was recently in Calgary for a very short visit. For those of you whom I graced with my presence, you should feel bestowed with an unsurpassable honor. For those of you whom I did not manage to connect with, you have my deepest apologies. Unfortunately, even my beloved and beleaguered parents whom I stayed with barely saw me. It turned out to be a sort of working holiday, and the industrious Sarah Thomas had many exciting activities planned, including canoeing on Emerald Lake, folk festing, and fine dining at the Ranch Restaurant which very pleasantly took up several days.

My trip proved quite successful at least on one particular front. I’ve been boasting for some time about my alliance with Deborah Herringer Kiss, and that boast was not a lie, but it was a fairly tenuous alliance at best. However, as a result of our recent conversation, our relationship has solidified somewhat, and you can all go and see my work at her website and so forth. I will update you should there be any specific shows in which my work is included so you can all go down and say “How much are the Evans paintings – ooh I just love them so much!”, which you should do daily from now on if possible.

Since returning home I have been even more busy than when I was away! I have no idea how the last two weeks have been so busy, but they have been. Unbelievably so. Lets see here.

I have a new job. I suppose that cuts into my loafing a good deal. I now am a Development Associate for Heart of Brooklyn, an umbrella organization comprising the Brooklyn Museum, the Brooklyn Children’s Museum, Prospect Park, the Botanic Garden, the Brooklyn Public Library and the Prospect Park Zoo. I think it will be a good chance for me to do some work in a non-gallery setting, paving the way for future moves into even more remote development areas…

Also keeping me a little busy was a nice visit from the ubiquitous Merry Chellas. I managed to get up to the Catskills and explore her ancient cabin in the woods, literally a cabin deep in fern-carpeted forest. We had a very enjoyable evening drinking beer and eating massive burritos, myself, Merry, and her brother and sister. The following day, Merry, her sister and I went driving along the Hudson with the goal of going to the Dia Beacon and the Storm King sculpture center, but due the maniac whims of cultural institutions, both happened to refuse to open their doors on Tuesdays. So instead we meandered all over the place, banging into bio-ethics centers, Parisian ice-creameries and funky coffee shops. Later on, I suppose on Friday, we managed to get together again here in the city for a browse through the Wal-mart of the Chelsea art world. I enjoyed Merry and her sister much more than the art – Merry performing spontaneous interviews with almost anyone she could corner, and Jill chortling quietly to herself at the most pompous of exhibitions. The work was a mixed bag, as usual, though the stars of the day turned out to be the old-timers, the famous names who still seemed to have something worth looking at (Alex Katz, Rauschenberg, bloody Richard Serra, etc.). We dined on “po’ boy” crab sandwiches and buttermilk red-onion rings, which definitely put us in a mellow, if not sleepy, mood for the day.

Also of some note: I have finally managed to get down to the Down Town Boat House to volunteer with kayaking in the Hudson River. The DTBH is an amazing institution. Totally run by volunteers on apparently no money, they offer free (totally free, no strings) kayaks to the public for little half-hour jaunts around between the jetties at pier 96. They also offer lessons, and, for volunteers, different longer trips, classes and programs. Tonight, for example, I took my BCU Star One class in anticipation of an exam on Aug. 27th. I thought I knew how to kayak – I’ve been horsing around for 6 years or so with the things, but I got schooled tonight. What a cool activity. Anyway, the first day I went there turned out to be the annual regatta and barbeque – around 80 boats in the water and total pandemonium. I didn’t even get a chance to find the veggie dogs, I was just getting people to sign waivers and putting kids into lifejackets and generally helping out. I’m so stoked on how do-it-yourself and see-what-can-happen-when-a-cool-buncha-people-put-their-heads-together it all is.

Final reason for the remarkably busy time (other than a heavy workload at work which I won’t bore you with): Home Reno. Inspired by the great décor of Calgary homes, I endeavored to go from slum-hole to emergent hovel. Gotta take small steps. So I’ve gutted the works, applied a coat of paint, put up shelves, built a closet, all that sort of thing. Then, to top off my new accommodations, I went to Ikea with a hand-cart dolly thing I borrowed from Ken, and managed to bring a sofa-bed home on the subway. Now I was anticipating a great story in all that effort, that somehow this impossible sounding task would gain me the respect and admiration of my peers I have so longed for. Unfortunately, nothing remarkable happened. I just strapped it to the dolly and wheeled it home. I didn’t even get stared at. Whaddya gonna do? Next week I’m going to try carting drywall on a bus.

So I guess that is about all I have to report. As you can probably tell I am not returning to Calgary in the fall. Which means all you who have talked about coming for a visit, you now have a longer window of opportunity. But you never know when it will close. I recommend getting down here before the ice flows into the Hudson so you don’t get quite so cold when I take you kayaking, but it is up to you.

All best to you all,
Ben
PS: I also post here an image of Buddy, clearly the happiest dog alive:

Finally, a little bit of blog.

2006-06-02T11:21:00.000-07:00

For those who still care:

Ok, so I’m going to keep the apologies brief. I’m sorry for being totally out of touch. I have no real excuse other than the fear of writing this apology, which is now over.

So here’s my life at the moment:

Hmm. Lots of heat. It is very hot here. I now own an air conditioner to help keep my blood at more Canadian temperatures. And I have discovered the joys of Grape Kool-Aid, which obviously helps keep me Kool. And Grape.

I still work at Momenta, the Williamsburg artist-run gallery. There I write and research grants and sort of poop about. But I only work for 12 hours a week there, and don’t get much money. Otherwise I am slowly working on draining away a small grant from the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, which has been nice. I guess I am very lucky to be in NYC with so much free time, though I am also finding it a bit of a curse as whenever I have time I lack motivation and whenever I have motivation I lack time. Is this a genetic thing? A secret self-sabotaging instinct?

I am now also a student again, taking night classes at NYU on Human Rights and the Politics of International Economic Relations. They are both quite interesting and it feels good to be in a classroom again. The history of the development of HR is actually quite interesting, and the notion of what HR deals with is vast. I suppose we are presented in the media with the idea that HR is a single issue, on par with other issues like AIDS, malnutrition, poverty, etc. In fact, HR is all of those things and so much more – it is essentially the same issues raised in Greek philosophy through Locke and Hobbes and so on – what are the rights and responsibilities of citizens and states? Here, however, the question tends to turn to matters of states’ autonomy and when other nations can enforce international standards of behavior. Interesting too that current “human rights abusers” (like China) were in the early days far louder advocates of HR than most of the Allied powers, and that every nation involved had something to lose in the issue (the Brits were colonialists, the Americans terrible racists, the Russians non-democratics, the Indians caste-users, etc.). Anyway, an interesting tale.

Sorry to say that politics and economics tends to dominate my thinking these days, rather than art and aesthetics (Merry – don’t kill me!). I’m reading a great book by Fawaz Gerges called “Journey of the Jihadist”, all about Muslim Militancy. I heard him talk and think he is a good source of info on this fascinating topic. I want to do some research on Sayyid Qutb, one of the first philosophers of the modern jihadist movement. He was basically just pissed off by the absurd materialism of 1950’s America and its obsession with lawn care and cars, and wanted to prevent his beloved Egypt from slipping into an equally shallow materialism. The story of how anti-materialism moved through generations of radicals to result in Bush-Bin Laden war is nutty to say the least. And pretty darn important too, if we are to have any sort of sustainable peace in the middle east and everywhere else for that matter. I’d say more about it all but I’m already likely on some CIA watchlist for using the word “Jihad”.

Another good book for those in the mood is Stieglitz’s “Globalization and its Discontents”. Essentially a long rant against the IMF from a former big-wig of the World Bank, he shows how pig-headed insistence on certain economic theories have really hurt developing, and in some cases developed economies. It is not so much that the IMF is Evil (a tool of “American Imperialism”), it is just that it is stupid, run by a buncha guys with their noses in books instead of looking at what actually happens in the field. He does point to much better models of economic development that modify the general theories, but a lot of his time is spent showing major mistakes of the IMF. Now, apparently, he has started making big criticisms of the World Bank too! But it is very interesting stuff, very interesting to learn about how and why these organizations emerged, and all of the goodwill that does linger behind them. It is not all greed!

What else? I run every other day or so, not sure quite how far, but a decent run. A friend of mine is doing a marathon on Sunday and I think I want to train for one next year. Also, I am a violin player now. Cello was great (I was a cello player for a while), though less portable and too easy. Violin is tricky and versatile. Tania sometimes busts out the accordion and we massacre old Newfie folk songs once in a while. Other times Eric joins in and we play Yiddish nonsense. Additionally I am becoming a fine gardener and bird-tender. Not sure of quite how else to spend my days, I have taken up the impossible task of transforming our gravel wasteland of a backyard into a flourishing tropical paradise. I have started with some pansies.

So basically life is pretty slow in the city that never sleeps. I tend to sleep a lot here. My hammock is working just fine, skeptics. Too well, in fact. My biggest problem is likely loneliness, but that is always my biggest problem no matter where I am! I am making a few pals here and there, but my particular brand of nerdy arsty-guy isn’t proving overwhelmingly popular. Such bad taste these New Yorkers have! And I am doing pretty well on my own for the most part. We have a pretty regular barbeque and poker game, which is about all the socialization one really needs. Lord help me if I ever consume another Budweiser.

Big plans for the future involve surfing my fool head off. I went to Rockaway just once and, though I’m told it was exceptional, there was a steady offshore wind and sweet peeling 6-8 footers rolling in. I have a board to use and my wetsuit on the way, so I’m thinking that weekly surfing will become part of my routine. Some surfing, some politics classes, some work, and some painting. Maybe a little running, a little gardening. Not a bad little summer I have coming up, I hope.

Desperately require extensive email from all of you. Book club: are your brains full yet? Hye-seung – are you going to TO for a residency or something? Merry – thanks again for all the event postings and again my apologies for being such a bad correspondent. Also, are you heading this way for any reason over the summer – to your other house I mean? Pete – how is the little, er, large woman? How are you? Any surfing plans? Angie – still kickin? Jess – still goo-goo eyed? Dan? Still…Dan? What about the world cup? Ooh, that reminds me – a big part of my life these days has revolved around the hockey. I’ve become a regular at an east village sports bar which has a poutine store around the corner. Somehow it has become a center for Canadian hockey fans, and I have made some interesting artist friends there. Anyway, who else – Chris – are you hiking yet? Mercedes – I still don’t speak Argentinian so you’ll have to send me a translation of your latest triumph. Anyway, everybody write to me as I would love to have news from my various homes.

Much love,
Ben

Week oh heck who is counting?

2006-03-12T21:01:00.000-08:00

Blog, Week I don’t know anymore

Hmm, this appears to be a bi-weekly blog now. Since my life has settled down to a dull roar now, this seems appropriate, but I hope it won’t keep some of you in unbearable suspense for too long (Dan). I have to read my own blog to see what happened last time. Lessee here….

Oh yes, the indominatable Christine Parsons. What a lovely woman she is. In spite of her being very busy with her many friends here, and in spite of my ridiculously long-lasting cold (I still wake with a sore throat), I felt that we had a good chance to re-connect. She took me to parts of the city and little coolio restauranty places that I would never have found on my own, and very generously allowed me to accompany her to mountain climbing stores where she purchased a great deal of what is sure to be the newest fashion trend in Jerusalem when she gets there – if she isn’t there already. (Chris – get in touch, darl!)

The jobs continue to go reasonably well – lots of somewhat tedious work, but it is nice as I can work hard and then leave it alone. Momenta is an interesting space, and I am learning a fair bit about how the various systems work here.

I have decided to take up the Cello. My friend Jessica has generously offered lessons in exchange for painting lessons (which she probably won’t have time for me to get to do), so it looks like I’ll have a new arena in which to vent my bassy sorrows. I’m already competent at G, C, and D major scales, and can read some of the notes on the Bass clef. I’m hoping to be good enough to give Sarah a recital when she comes…though at this stage I think every time I make a sound it is amazing, so likely I have a lot to learn.

Also, had a fun time at the Brooklyn Museum’s famed First Saturday event, where there was a Brazilian Samba band complete with free Samba lessons, free movie screenings, presentations, talks, and about a zillion people of all sorts milling around soaking up the Culture. I love how everyone here goes out to all that sort of thing here.

What else? More recently: a humorous brush with fame. (Sensitive readers skip the politically incorrect paragraph which follows.) So I’m having lunch with a couple of friends at the Half King in Chelsea, chatting away and doing whatnot. Behind me sits a big table of well heeled so and so’s, whatever, none of my business, right? So I decide the time is right for some critical fashion discussion, so I says to my friends “I’m not sure about these new glasses of mine. I dunno, I think they’re a little fete somehow”. My interlocutor looks at me funny: “Fete? What do you mean, fete?” “Well,” I says, “you know, like maybe they’re a little on the twee side”. Nope, still no good, not understanding the concept of twee, so I lean in real close not only to my friends ear, but coincidentally to the ear of the bald man with the thin mustache who is one of the well-heeled gaggle and, with a suitably hushed whisper, say “Faggy!”. To this rather shameful utterance, I see the head of the thin-mustached man turning to me and find myself face to face with John Waters! Who proceeds to look at me with, well, what can I say, Disdain, perhaps? Oh lairdy. (For those of you who don't recal Mr. Water's comely visage you should be reminded that he is nothing if not exceedingly twee...). So there goes my chance to be a cult movie star, down the tubes. You have to be careful what you say in this town, especially when you whisper.

So, on to what for many of you is the most important part: The Art Report:

Today I went to the Armory show, and now I am very, very tired. For those of you who don’t know, the Armory is a four day art-fair in which the biggest commercial art galleries from all over the world (mostly Berlin, Paris, Milan, NYC, London and Tokyo) set up work by the artists they represent in TWO gigantic enormous massive gigunda bigger-than-aircraft-hanger sized warehouse things on two Manhattan Piers. This absolutely exhausting display of contemporary art should be seen, as I have learned, when you are Nothungover. I decided to go in a state of Hungover, but I can see now that it was a mistake. So perhaps the following comments are partly motivated by the dreariness of my soggy brain. But that aside: dreadful.

Or perhaps that is a bit strong. Try again: Disappointing. Repetitive. Selfish. Insider. Colorful. Poorly executed. Still with the bloody Dzama. Why is bad painting so good? And for those of who secretly think my paintings are bad – I’m Caravaggio next to these guys. Is this the sincere but sloppy response to the grossly hard edge irony of yesteryear? That makes no sense. The wallowing in technical ignorance is totally loaded with irony (except when I do it. I’m sincere in my ignorant wallowing, and besides, my flatness is in important conversation with the trompe-loile image underneath it, not ironic at all. Well, ok, maybe a bit.). Moral of story: I’m cool, they’re not. Also moral of story: you don’t have to leave Calgary to see good art. Wait, revise that: You don’t need to leave Calgary to see art that looks like art at the Armory show of 2006. Not a lot of Mark Mullin abstraction around – most of the abstract stuff is very hard edge or pastel derivations from nature, but a fair amount of Chris Cran cleverness and heaps of those suburb house guys (Scott, John, etc. sorry I cannot remember the name of the school!). Still some odd return-to-drawing stuff, like nice b&w inky drawings of grassy landscapes. What is strange is that any of these watercolory things that are even partly well done really stand out in the context of so much loud mushy oil smearings. And also just heaps of boring, banal images which are only interesting when you learn of the process in which they were created or the actual contents of the work (i.e. that isn’t just a boring house it is the house destroyed by bombers the next day, etc.). Which is either subversive or stupid. And, I might add, is rather a lot like my TV paintings, so I’m hoping it’s subversive but secretly realize is stupid. So all in all not an exciting year for the dealers of the world. Highlights, however, included Sophie Calle’s return to being followed by a private eye and this time not even being remotely interested in it (cheery!), the entire booth of Peirogi Gallery (here in Williamsburg!) – featuring two beer bottles which had been identically smashed into a thousand fragments and all the twin fragments cleanly presented in a sterile vitrine, a feat of amazing quantum probability! And it wasn’t made by Tim Hawkinson, (who is increasingly the coolest, supercoolest, most underrated and underknown artist, by the way), um, and a guy named Charles Sandison, who at least Palmer should check out, as he did a really nice LCD language thing.

And it was nice because as I was wandering around I ran into two friends, and invited them to dinner with me. It is nice to be in a huge place like New York, or an even huger place like the Armory Show, and be able to run into people you know. And then eat Pad Thai.

Yoikes, way too much information, Ben. Report over and out. Oh, but just so you know too, apparently I’m in another show at Image 54, the same paintings as last time, but in case you missed your chance…

Once again, I hope you are all well. Peter Ross has emailed me, so it is possible that Hell has frozen over and Calgary has been wiped off the face of the earth. Pete, I owe you an email of sincere joy. Seriously. On my current list of people I’m curious about: Mel, Emma, Holly, Jess, Jane and Hye-seung. What are you guys at?

Ooh, that reminds me: I’ve just started a new book – likely quite the opposite of the Foster/Kraus/October people some of you guys are focusing on. It is by Joanna Drucker and it is brand new and called: Sweet Dreams, Contemporary Art and Complicity. Look it up, check it out – I think I think it is good, and very Art driven.

Ok, I’m shutting up now! Love to you all especially my crazy folks in Spain and England!

Weeks five and six

2006-02-25T18:01:00.000-08:00

So I guess I missed a week. This terrible betrayal on my part probably went largely unnoticed by most of you, but I did have several complaints. Several complaints, but only one complainer. So Dan, this Blog’s for you. Thanks for reading. And already I don’t know what move to make.

A large part of the reason for this blog’s lateness is due to the fact that last weekend I was anticipating results from my job interviews, and I wanted to fill everyone in on my good news simultaneously. Unfortunately, it seemed to be taking forever for them to get back to me, and so I kept delaying. Then, even more unfortunately, I got sick. And not just a few sniffles, but the whole delirious fever thing. So sick that I couldn’t even go to my own show opening on Thursday night. So I’m still pounding back the Neo-Citron even as I sit here trying to compose my thoughts amidst the swirl of psuedophedrines.

Ok, so lessee: On the job front: it looks like tomorrow I start my new job. I’m going to be a grantwriter for Momenta, an established not-for-profit gallery here in Williamsburg, though they’re contemplating a move to the city in the summer. You can check them out at

http://www.momentaart.org

They’re into mostly into politically active work, so it seems, and seem to be a fairly laid back organization. I think just got the job by the skin of my teeth, but hopefully I’ll be able to contribute as much as I learn.

I also managed to get a contract with a small dance company to do some grantwriting for them. My visit there on Saturday was fantastic, all these absolutely ADORABLE little black girls just barely able to contain their energy. Squirming around and bouncing – this is the future of the auto industry: not hydrogen, but little tiny dancer girls. So now I’m hooked and will totally do anything for those kids, which is probably why Kashani brought me there. I hope I do a good job for him.

So I’m now officially a grantwriter. The trouble is, even combined these jobs don’t give me a hell of a lot of hours. But I think they might cover rent, and give me some time to wander around aimlessly and plot my future. Which is very uncertain. Many of you have heard my ongoing art v politics debate, but that is a debate which is intensifying and decisions are going to have to be made pretty soon here. But now is neither the time nor the place for all that. Though that time and place are going to have to get here pretty soon.

So other than pacing around waiting for the phone to ring, I have become addicted to Strong Bad emails, and to the tv show Alias. Which I’m beginning to see is regrettable. I especially apologize to Holly, who I suspect is either the biggest Alias hater, or possibly a secret Alias lover. I was in need of vegetation, and my roommate own every season, every show. I’m on season three. My only excuse: temperature of 100.3.

What else have I been up to? Well, painting a fair bit last week, actually. I made three quite time-consuming studies of the CYMK process in various ways, none particularly successful, but they gave me the technology to compose the fourth, which is what went in the Square foot show. However, I had forgotten that the process I’m using requires at least six hours of drying between coats, and the final resin needs even more. So, professional that I am, three o clock on the day the thing is due finds me cranking up the oven, pulling out fans and hairdryers, and clamping light bulbs to furniture, all in an attempt to get the damn thing dry in time. Which it wasn’t. So I took it in and tried to hand it to the gallery owner and found the sides literally glued to my hands. She was impressed with my dedication, needless to say.

But alls well that ends well, and the work is on the wall and is, if I don’t say so myself, very shiny. As mentioned, I wasn’t even able to go to the opening, and today’s attempt to go to the “brunch reception” was a bit of a fiasco as the stupid L wasn’t running again and it all seemed to be over by the time I got there. The show looks really good though. A whole bunch of good work and a fair bunch of crummy work and one or two real gems. There is even one painting I think I must buy. Broke, starving artist that I am. But I think it is pretty hot. I think I should get it. And it isn’t that much money in the scheme of things.

This way madness lies. So, the report on the cliffhangers of last week: Got the jobs, got into the little art show thing. This week promises to be more exciting still, as I have the indomitable Christine Parsons in town for a visit. She has already taken me out to the Brooklyn Academy of Music and introduced me to her high-flying NGO world-altering friends (one of whom is opening the new office of human rights watch in Beirut), and gone for a NYC marathon qualifying race in central park. It sucks to be sick when a friend is in town, especially as I haven’t had too many friends here, but at the same time it saves me the embarrassment of not being able to keep up! I’m going to try to get her to come to some of my more low-key activities (checking email, watching internet cartoons) like tomorrow night’s poker game. Most of you will be very pleased to hear that I have already, and seemingly without much effort, established a fairly happening game. Many of the players are suck – er, I mean new players, so I have fun giving them my advice, and that way don’t feel bad when I take their greenbacks. Ah, the sound of a freshly folded greenback patted onto the soft felt of a well-used table. Nothing like it.

Ok, wish me luck in my first day on the job tomorrow! And this one-way communication just isn’t working at all! This week public kudos go to Dan and Sarah for their near constant flood of emails (and devious opening chess maneuvers), but shame and retribution to all of you who are leaving me utterly in the dark concerning your joy-filled existences.

Week Four? Already a month?

2006-02-12T11:23:00.000-08:00

It seems a month has gone by. Let me review: I have landed safely, acquired modest but comparatively inexpensive lodgings, survived numerous social encounters, maintained a stiff upper lip through some intense loneliness, endured the grueling rigors of the job hunt, witnessed a lifetimes supply of artwork, and, today, am experiencing New York in a snowstorm. Go to your mantelpiece, get the NYC snow globe that some acquaintance gave you long ago, give it a shake, and look inside: You should be able to see me buried in the drift on the left. So while you all bask in the warmth of the latest Chinook, you will pause to think of NYC shut down by a foot or two of real snow.

Based on the paucity of exciting events reported in my recent blogging, I made a concerted effort to get out and do a little more this week. Wednesday found me strolling pleasantly enough in Central Park, largely out of a sense of duty to do something “new yorky” as it was pretty cold that day. I also began work on a video project involving a small spitfire flying all over the city, with some success. By a great coincidence, that night I once again encountered Paul Auster reading a bit of poetry and talking with some New School muckity-muck. So that was pretty cool. It was a much smaller, more intimate and supposedly hush-hush event mostly for the benefit of New School grad students, but I found my way in, and then managed to videotape my spitfire flying around in New School with Mr. Auster in the background! So a bit of hijinx to start the week.

Then I went to the MET. Now this was an interesting day for me. Generally not a big fan of looking at a bunch of paintings of old dead white guys glowering down at me from their isolated lofts (which I believed was what a large part of the MET’s painting collection was all about), I was attracted by a big show of Rauschenberg’s combine works. For those of you who don’t know my artistic lineage it goes something like this: Basquiatà Warhol à Rauschenberg in order of introduction and importance to my early practice. Rauschenberg is huge! So it was quite surprising to me that I found the work fairly obvious and sorta “seen one seen ‘em all”. I guess his combines were never his most exciting pieces for me, but in still I found they looked just like what a lot of the better first year painting students get to by the end of their first year at ACAD. And this then led to other work of a similar era, all the modernist abstractions and minimalist oddities, and I was struck by one thing: All this work is only interesting in a historical context. The Rauschenberg combine was a crucial “invention”, an “important” extension of Duchamp and a pretty good gouge at the conventions of the time. I can appreciate them, as well as some damn neon tubes of some sort, as work interesting and important to the idea of the unfolding story of art, and that is no small thing. However, it is only one thing, one way to access this work, and ultimately I find it not enough. I understand what Malevich or whoever was up to with their clever white on white canvas, but I sure as hell don’t need to stand there looking at it. I understood it before I got there, and spending time with it gave me nothing extra. It is like an old bit of fossilized pottery, telling us that once upon a time a civilization made bowls (or art) that looked like this.

Compare with the paintings I was so dismissive of a paragraph ago, the big glowering white guys. Some of this work too can claim to be interesting from an art historical context, advancing the cause and so forth. We love to hear stories about how “radical” Gaugin or VVG was in their day, how they were ejected from the salon or whatever. So, like Rauschenberg, much of this work derives its value from its historical context. But unlike Rauschenberg, it also has this amazing legibility outside of any art context whatsoever. Much of the work is religious allegory, mythical illustration, memento-mori, aristocratic portraiture and the like, but here the context is not nearly so crucial. I am looking at a painting of a woman holding a sword in one hand and a man’s detached head in the other. What the hell is that all about? Hearing something about a Judith and Holfernes might change my ideas about the work, or give me a richer appreciation of some sort, but even without any EXTRA contextual work, I’m looking at a woman and a head! And she has this crazy expression on her face, a sort of smug smile, or almost a cheeky giggling smile, like she just pulled off a silly practical joke! What sort of joke is this? Ha Ha, Holofernes, got your head! Some sort of game of tag gone hopelessly wrong! The painting is marvelous, rich and fantastic even if (especially if) the IMAGE is divorced from its historical context.

Another example: a woman on her knees on a rock in the desert. In front of her is a prostrate child. The space around them is massive – tiny helpless creatures alone in a barren wilderness. In the sky some sort of angelic creature appears to be flying rapidly toward them. The painting is wonderful, crazy, melodramatic, totally over the top. But it is also rich, suggestive, and confusing in its arrangement of narrative elements. If one reads the text panel, one learns a little of the story of Hagar, the servant of Sarah, Abraham’s wife. The boy is Ishmael (am I getting this right?), and they’ve been kicked out into the desert to die when Sarah managed to give birth to Isaac. The totally un-ironic portrayal of an egregious injustice now appears mired in complication, the contemporary eye ill equipped to handle such straightforwardness, and thus suspects lurking ironies. Paintings of this sort abound: have a look at some the illustrations below.

Much contemporary painting, especially the kind I like right now, stuff like Neo Rausch (on left), gets us to look at similar paintings but without the text panels. So we look at a Rausch and see a fallen man in front of what might be a fire, while a generic laborer adds fuel. In the foreground a complicit woman ignores his plight. Or here we see a man with two buckets in an ambiguous space while others engage in what? Fish scaling? And so on. In the absence of an explanatory text panel which tells us simply that this is the story of so-and-so, we find this very strange image compelling and instinctively, intuitively develop narrative structures to accommodate what we see, like one does with images of the Tarot. This sort of interpretive work, the kind that contemporary viewers of some postmodern painting are used to, is then easily turned to work of the past. They seem every bit as strange, ridiculous, beguiling and clever as anything painted today.

The conclusions: 1) Carravagio is much more contemporary than Malevich. 2) I love looking at old paintings much more than I like looking at “modern” paintings. 3) The MET, far from being a monolithic yawn-factory, is a hell of a cool place to while away the day. 4) I must be getting older.

See What I mean? Pretty weird images, methinks.

Ok, so that’s pretty much the scoop on the Met. The next day I went to the MOMA, but it left me severely unsatisfied. Now that I have seen enough of this stuff it no longer has the same impact of “wow, I’m standing in front of a real Whoever!”. It doesn’t grab me in the same way, the magic of the aura. And given my recent feelings about the relatively meager value of modernist work I didn’t really get too taken with any of that. The “contemporary” stuff was weak, a showcase of the hip, but not very strong works. The only decent stuff I saw was an interesting drawing exhibition and a single huge Rausch painting which really blew me out. So mostly I nosed around in the bookstore trying in vain to persuade myself to spend money on an overpriced MOMA trinket.

The following day I went back to Chelsea (which was filled with photographs – Canadian photographers are very popular here) again, mostly to pick up a blank canvas for Art Gotham’s annual Square Foot Show. So I’m in my first New York Art Show after all. The show opens on February 23, so you can think of me being all famous on that day. Actually, the whole thing is pretty cheesy, but better than nothing. You can evaluate the cheese factor for yourself at http://www.artgotham.com/.

Ok, that’s pretty much enough out of me for the week. The only other things to report: Attendance at a Brooklyn amateur broomball league, last nights poker night (I lost), and, rather more excitingly, some job interviews. As I was writing this I just got an email asking about a telephone interview for this afternoon. So I guess I better have lunch and then have an interview! And I have another one at a cool W’burg art center, and these couple of nibbles are encouraging.

So life after one month ain’t feeling too bad. Please keep in touch with me too – I like to hear about what y’all are up to as well. More chat in a week.

Week Three

2006-02-07T09:10:00.000-08:00

So another week has passed and already I’m behind on my Blogging. My excuse for not getting something done by yesterday’s deadline likely has something to do with Superbowl Sunday. So all you sitting by your computers checking to see what I have been up to – my deepest apologies.

My week began with some failure, which was nice for a change. I had decided to surprise you all with news of my first big art show in the city, but that news will have to wait. I had decided to participate in this silly gallery show that occurs at the same time as the armory. The deal is the gallery sells these little square canvases that artists paint on and then put in the show. So totally unjuried and silly, but I thought it might be a lark. Unfortunately, circumstances prevented my being at the gallery at 12 noon. Apparently they were sold out in the first fifteen minutes. I had suspected that it might be a popular event, that there might be a line up, and I intended to be there early. Unfortunately, I was prevented from doing so by love. My Hammock, it seems, has fallen in love with me, and insists on cradling me and wooing me into slumber WAY past whatever alarms I set. I’m endeavoring to sleep in increasingly complex positions to compensate for this design malfunction, but my Hammock seems to adapt to my every move, snuggling me and holding me tender and resisting every effort at consciousness. That, and the fact that the L was delayed by some sort of police investigation resulted in my arrival at the gallery closer to three, just the time for snooty owners to mock my laziness. I tried explaining about the whole hammock cuddling thing, but she seemed surprisingly unsympathetic.

Lessee, what else has been going on? I went to the gallery which is now responsible for the Henry Darger estate, hoping to see some of the mad genius’ original work. The very kind owner was very helpful and took me round back to see some of the work, though he didn’t have much on display. What he did have was pretty spectacular though. What an amazing mind that guy had. We got into a complicated conversation about contextualizing Darger in the high-art world, rather than just the folk art world where he is regularly celebrated. I’m always into all that context stuff, especially as it relates to thrift store paintings, of course. It also raised some questions about Dzama and other drawing based practices which seem to draw on or even appropriate Darger’s radical ontology. I think Darger is much richer. Dzama et al (myself included) develop these “private mythologies” in order to continue an art practice, or perhaps even to explore some sort of inner whatnot, but Darger did it out of necessity. In fact, I suppose one could argue – and this could be interesting – that Darger embodies Adorno’s vision of an artistic practice as a form of hibernation from the world grown cold. Surely that is not too melodramatic a way of describing the life of the lonely janitor? Ha ha. Adorno would roll over in his grave if he knew I was using Darger as his exemplar, rather than some avant-garde atonal musician.

So that was good. That same day I also managed to meet up with the dazzling Sisters of Mercedes. Many of you will remember Mercedes as the mad Argentinean who spent a summer or so painting at Untitled and then came back for a Banff center residency (and who is at this moment taking the Buenos Aires art world by storm). So apparently she has a sister (named, yes, Macarena), and a sister’s best friend named Sophia. They are both around 20 years old, absolutely full of energy, and seem to be in love with New York. So in spite of feeling very old, slow, and kind of fuddy-duddy we had a good time wandering the aisles of the Strand Bookstore before going to see MWard, an important musical prodigy, at a Polish community hall. This was my introduction to MWard, and through the whole show I kept thinking of Simon and Garfunkle, and the current ilk of chunky scruffy men with guitars all sensitive and poignant. So there was lots of sorrow, mellow strumming, and women all over the place falling madly in love with what they can never never possess. This held true for the “Argentinean princesses”, especially poor Sophia. Oh well, she’s young and will recover.

This week I also had my first guest at Chez Moi. Leah decided to come over and explore Williamsburg, and we managed to finally find a really good grocery store that sells the MOST ZESTY PICKLES I have ever had. ZESTY! I should keep them by my bed so in the morning I can smell them and spring from my Hammock full of perkiness. So anyhoo she came over for a meal and we watched a movie: The Five Obstructions. I tell you all this banal detail both because I have nothing else to report, but also because this is an interesting film, and has inspired the amateur filmmaker in me. The movie is about these two Danish filmmakers (very European, very Vidal Sassoon). One forces the other to remake the same movie under all sorts of difficult conditions, and I find it interesting to see the sort of proceduralist motivations underlying the film and Jorn’s responses to the challenge. So now I’m going to make all sorts of obstructed movies I think. One will be called “blogging boy” and be as interesting as it sounds.

I have been creative in other ways too – two painting experiments complete. See picture to consider results – TV painting with no dots. I’m really digging it, if only I can get a handle on the finishing process. More on that later.

So I’m sorry to disappoint you all with little excitement from the big city. I’m sure if you were here you’d be doing much more exciting stuff than me, but you’d be surprised at how much effort is required in just applying for jobs everyday and conquering computer solitaire. It is much harder than you think.

So before I go, I’ll do a short movie review. I was going to write an entire blog about Contemporary American Foreign Policy, at least as presented in some key recent documentaries, but in keeping with the stultifying level of political debate that exisits here I’ll keep my mouth shut. I will, however, recommend to all and sundry three movies: 1) Why we fight (in theatres now). 2) The Fog of War and 3) The Trials of Henry Kissinger. So why we (Americans) fight is not because of Satan. There is no evil demon possessing warmongering ne’er do wells. We fight largely because it is good business. A closed circuit is created between government contractors, think tanks, arms manufacturers, and the public. The movie, while a little less than pristinely objective, is nothing like a Michael Moore hate-fest. It explains the key players and the roles they have, showing that US Policy has always been, no matter what party is in charge, and will continue to be, one that goes to war all the damn time (especially with the likes of Kissinger behind the scenes!). The tricky think about this is that it offers no way out. Or rather, it offers the same message all such movies do: until we stand up and do something, this sort of thing is going to keep happening. The trouble is that standing up doesn’t seem to help much either. Sure getting rid of W might help some, but it doesn’t help much in the long term. If I’m a responsible daddy I want to make money to put my kid through college, then that means doing well at work and making shareholders happy. What is wrong with that? Nothing! No evil, right? But if Daddy works at a major American arms producer which is responsible for a good chunk of the economy and has a production plant in EVERY state in the country – hmmm. I’ll let the movie make the argument better than I will. Another movie is The Fog of War, which is mostly Mr. Macnamara talking though all the various conflicts and things he was involved with in his life. WHAT an amazing movie. What an interesting man. Imagine being the man who made the decision to firebomb Japan, killing a hundred thousand people in one night. What would he have to say for himself? He talks about that, about the 68 Vietnam peace talks, economic policy, JFK – Just this old very smart man reflecting on his life and trying to pass on some of the things he’s learned. These are both just amazing movies that anyone who cares about history and the future should have a look at. The trials of Kissenger is also pretty good, but not of the same mind-blowing status. I’m not old enough nor American enough to know of Kissinger the beloved statesman, so the movie doesn’t change my mind in any way. It just shows a good Machiavellian at work getting and keeping as much power as possible, which seems de rigueur. But you old fogies out there may have your opinions swayed.

But enough of that. I promise not to sit around playing solitaire and watching the first season of Alias on DVD this week. Rather I will go to PS1, the Met, the cloisters, Brooklyn bridge, maybe do some skydiving and bungie king-kong wrestling. Definitely going to get more exciting real soon. Ok, over and outtie.

Week 2: Another day, another Blogger.

2006-01-29T12:17:00.000-08:00

So I’m sorry to stress you all out with the anticipation of another week’s Blog entry, but patience is a virtue, after all. This week has been, as one might expect, a mix of things.

I suppose I should begin with the much anticipated Apres-Ski/Eurotrash party, an excellent theme if there was one. God decided to show his disapproval of the whole proceedings by whipping up a series of relentless tornadoes in the backyard, making construction of cardboard hottubs all but impossible. But after considerable effort and much high drama (and several roles of packing tape), the thing was done and we eagerly anticipated the joy of our future clients. Now for those of who don’t know this side of me, I’m not much good at parties. Sure, you quite correctly think me sociable, witty, charming and debonair, but secretly I’m very shy and find it difficult to chatter in the way that such events expect one to. I end up asking boring questions and getting bored responses and then getting bored myself. I don’t know what it is that people who have fun at parties find to talk about, or rather shout about. Talking was all but impossible in the din of Jackson’s turntabling and the crush of likely 100 people in a small kitchen. I escaped upstairs to “my” kitchen where I hid out and demonstrated the correct way to sleep in a hammock to all those who would listen, and by and by found myself with an interesting group of people engaged in surprisingly frank conversation about the trombone. Mike (I think it is Mike) was a trombone player, and Jessica was a cello player, and some very passionate hipster was insisting that we see how similar the two instruments are. Something about them both being guttural and passionate, the soul of the streets or something. Anyway, all this erudite conversation was interrupted when Tania, fully dressed in Eurotrash costume (including blonde wig, etc.), jumped into the hot tub (which by this time was overflowing with a bottle of bubblebath which had been dumped in). She was soon joined by Birthday Boy Jackson, and some aging lady keen to show off her new bikini in January. The details, alas, are a blur now, but the photos should speak for themselves. I went to bed with the beats still pumping around 430 or so.

The rest of the week was much less enchanting. I had forgotten how onerous job-hunting can be. It is very difficult to maintain a balance between enjoying my time in NYC, scrambling to find a job, and do all the million other things I feel obliged to do. In fact, there is a considerable amount of pressure all around – whatever one is doing there is a sense of guilt, or a sense that I really ought to be doing something else, either enjoying myself more or working harder or something. The job hunt goes poorly, I think. I find several positions which I think might be interesting, and then find the don’t pay very well, and then reluctantly apply anyway and then don’t get a call for an interview. I suspect it is all about who you know in this city, and though my networking skills are up on bust, I don’t think the people at Tony’s Pizza are likely to get me work any time soon. And money just burns out of one’s wallet here, in spite of my sound investment in little tupperwares to transport tuna bagelwiches everywhere and thus reduce my dependency on $2 pizza slices.

So that part of life really sucks right now. As does being stuck in this kitchen waiting for the plumber to arrive. I spent 48 hours in this house, upstairs in the kitchen with the door closed to avoid intimate encounters with Buddy, who is overwhelmingly affectionate and causes small white boils to emerge on every part of me he touches. So I was definitely getting a little depressed, a little crazy on a few of these days.

But I also managed to get out in the evenings with some success and take in some very good free lecturing. On Monday I went with Leah (a woman from Calgary on a sort of ACAD program to spend a term in NYC) to a panel discussion of Whitney Biennale curators. (Thanks to my social coordinator Merry Chellas, continuing to provide me with all the best things to do in the city – it is easier than having to look in the Village Voice all the time). I knew the WB was a political event, but I didn’t realize quite how fierce it could be, and the discussion provoked some good thinking about what an “American” show should be, who the audience is for a show of that kind, and the nature of the show in an age of endless Biennials and festivals all over the world. No longer the art-world, but now the age of the art-industry.

Tuesday night I had to choose between Mike Kelly and Barbara Kruger talking about Rucha’s Course of Empire paintings (the American submission to the Venice this year – UG, what first-year crapola, but at least it is painting again), a talk about the JFK assassination at the New York Society for Ethical Culture, and a reading by Michael Winter and Joel Hynes, two members of the St. John’s literary scene. Well, the Ruscha talk was cancelled, and JFK somehow took precedence over Newfie ranting (sorry, b’ys), and I learned, as you might expect, that the CIA did it. Which is nothing new at all. Obviously. But it was nice to hear again. Just for the record, I think the assassination of JFK is the single most important event outside of the World Wars to occur in the twentieth century. It marked the point at which the United States formally lost its democratic status, as all countries do when they experience a military coup. And I love how we have managed to alienate anyone who takes an interest in this key political moment, and talk about the JFK assassination in the same context as “conspiracy theories”, alien abductions, and the X files, as if taking an interest in presidential assassination puts you in the same league as Bigfoot watchers. Whoo boy.

Wednesday I went nuts, but was sufficiently recovered by Thursday to attend a talk by an artist and a philosopher on the subject of forgiveness, political art, and Adorno. The philosopher was one of the world’s leading Adorno scholars, a real superstar, and he gave an absolutely stunning performance, twisting commonplace assumptions into ideological critiques. Of course we have Unforgiving Art, and an Unforgivable Country, not because our artists are harsh or our country evil, but because art is not the sort of thing which can forgive, and countries not the sorts of things which can be forgiven. Art, in its attempts to become politically involved, circumvents its possibility of involvement by entering into the “exchange relation”. The power of art is in its autonomy, of being the single arena in which non-coercive human activity is at least possible. By trying to become overtly “political”, art cedes its greatest asset, concedes that the exchange relation is the only game in town, and effectively closes, rather than opens, the bounds of political debate. Thus spake Adorno in a nutshell. The artist, on the other hand, spoke intelligently but also annoyingly intelligibly, and seemed to only get about half of what was at stake in Adorno, reinforcing all my worst stereotypes. But all in all an interesting discussion, and though I left feeling lonely and cold, it seemed rather appropriate.

Friday I met up with an old NSCAD friend of Renato’s (thanks Renato!). After two weeks of email tag, we finally connected and had a talk about life in the big city. She seems to be doing very well here, extremely busy with a million projects all at once. She’s a genuine New Media artist – not video projections but robotics, interactive robotic whatnots. It was a bit hard to keep up with her and all her projects, something about robotic purses, small-pox paintings, mechanical latex paintings based on Amish quilt designs – you get the idea. Overwhelming, but another Williamsburg Character to add to my growing pantheon.

I’m sure this is all sounding like I’ve been having a marvelous time – the magic of the written synopsis which obliterates hours and hours of staring out of windows, waking up too late, answering endless phone-solicitations and playing solitaire. In fact, I have been spending so much time alone, and so much time reading “Oracle Night” by Paul Auster that I felt for a moment that I became a character in one of his novels. His writing is a bit like that. I found myself seeing my actions as events, bits of narrative leading to coincidental occurrences, like it all fit together in some sort of sensible manner. I found myself wanting to write (and judging by the length of this entry, this desire is still present!). Learning solitude is tricky, like learning French. You can’t just sit there and do it, you have to practice it every damn day, go a bit crazy with it, and hopefully come out the other side a new, more fully separated person. Perhaps a strange ambition. But somehow doing a re-write of Cocaine Cowboys seems to me an easier project than figuring out these bloody paintings of mine.

But I did have a good time yesterday, my first real stereotypical New York sort of day. I met up with Leah around lunchtime and went into Chelsea to see some galleries. No longer feeling the pressure of being a tourist, we were able to find the right balance between looking at places and pausing to rest, not having to worry about fitting it all in. We had a fine little lunch of Clam Chowder (with bacon – very brave for two veggies) and buttermilk battered red onion rings. Mmmmm. No work really knocked my socks off, except perhaps some rather clever animations involving hands clapping, and some paintings by Nicky Nodjoumi (like Neo Rausch). Also, yes, an exhibition of Jim Shaw’s thrift store paintings. I’m so ahead of my time its not even funny.

Chelsea is an interesting place. In a way, it turns the art into a wal-mart. A single massive area where you can window shop, finding eventually exactly what you hoped to find. In Calgary, where there are four or five important galleries, you go into each of them, and tend to give the art inside at least fifteen minutes of fame, thinking about them and giving them the benefit of the doubt. Here, a glance is sufficient to see that a particular gallery is not worth attending, and the work often gets very short shrift. At the same time, on a typical Saturday afternoon in January, there were many more people in any single gallery in Chelsea than ever attend a typical opening in Calgary. These people are not friends and family, they are people! Admittedly often rich people, studenty people, white people, but still and all people who go out and look at art for the hell of it. This is quite an amazing thing to find. Additionally, Chelsea does strange things to one’s head. Often enough, there is a TONNE of schlocky, poorly executed, bland and uninteresting, flat out bad work. This is encouraging. This says to me, “look at how big and broad Art is. Surely I can find a place in here. I mean, if THIS crud is in a Chelsea gallery, than surely I can be too!”. On the other hand, an hour spent in the Dia’s bookstore looking at Ed Templeton, Neo Rausch, Henry Darger, etc. and I am totally bamboozled – what is my interest in Art? Why am I doing this? Why am I doing what I am doing? What am I really interested in? What is good? What matters? Oi. At that point I think I should try to find a job as a plumber.

So much for Chelsea. Hopefully you will get some more Chelsea dispatches in the future. But speaking of plumbers, they are here today. We have no shower, no sinks. But they are here. And so I will shall go and supervise, greatly anticipating some better oral hygiene in the next couple of days. Stay tuned for next week’s post which should include many exciting things – perhaps PS1, the Brooklyn Bridge, a conclusive reading of Zizek, job updates, and a report on the local birds. Yes, the excitement never ends around Williamsburg.

For the photo Library: photos from my unmentioned second sojurn to Elizabeth,New Jersey and its simply fabulous Ikea, and my new abode. Also, to see more of Tania and Jackson (and Ken) in action, check out: www.ehteam.ca

Week One

2006-01-20T21:35:00.000-08:00

Note: This is likely really boring, and is intended only for my most enthusiastic fans, and mostly for me so I can keep track of time a bit better. I thought a blog would be better than group email because I have no idea who wants to read any of this and this way I won't inflict anything more than an update notification on anyone. I appreciate your patience. Also, any and all comments will have to be emailed directly to me, as I think that if I open the commentary channel then all sorts of creepy advertisers start posting their junk on here.

So about this time last week I arrived in the big apple, or the big apple’s neighbour, the big crabapple, Brooklyn. After a long flight wondering why I was leaving such good people behind (you all made me feel nice at my various goodbye events), and generally doing my usual existential moping, I was dumped very unceremoniously in front of my new home by an anglophobic cabby (see picture (of home, not cabby)). Hard to understand that a week, only a week, has past. My welcome wasn’t quite as assuring as my departure. The weather was crap, the people were friendly but totally forgetful of how discombolulated a new arrival might be, the house was very smoke filled, the room was very tiny, the phone was in a box somewhere (everyone else was sort of moving in too), etc. etc. I went out prowling my hood, finding it filled with vocal arguing Italians and rain-drenched cranky people in deep hoods, all of whom seemed occupied with shopping at the plethora of dollar stores which seems to be the business of choice for the local merchants. In spite of my reassurances that I was extremely lucky to be living in such a good neighborhood, I remained somewhat unconvinced…

But the next few days quickly turned me into one of those rain-soaked deep-hooders skulking in tacky doorways, as I collected kettles and salt-shakers and cheap shampoos. I quickly began my crime spree, jaywalking, spitting on sidewalks, and yes, garbage rifling where I found this very serviceable office chair on which I now sit. This, apparently, is the easiest way of furnishing one’s apartment. Brooklyners, it seems, have no patience with the idea of a garage sale, and prefer to just dump stuff on the sidewalk where people can haul stuff away for free. However, you can only find so many milk-crates, and so I quickly found the free shuttle bus to the massive IKEA in New Jersey. I used to rail about the parking-lot culture of the huge suburban box store mentality, but stick me for a few days in a place where you cannot buy chick peas or udon noodles (or an inexpensive lighting system called “bobli”) at the local grocery store and I’m on a bus for the burbs. New Jersey is exactly as you imagine it, and so is IKEA. I’m going again tomorrow for a nice rug called “Melby”. So at least I now have something to cook with. I had forgotten how much a pain it is to have to re-stock a kitchen. Apparently my roommates don’t do a whole lot of cooking.

So lessee. I spent my week setting up my living quarters as best I could. I explored Williamsburg, which continues to be the up-and-coming hotspot for all the cool new artists. However, I get the impression that it has been “up-and-coming” since the eighties, so perhaps this label is a little misleading. I did, at least, find a couple good galleries, bookstores, and at least one EXCELLENT place to drink very good tea. I also managed to get out into Manhattan (here referred to as “the city”), where I found extremely elegant “thrift stores”. One of them was selling a baby grand piano. Sarah, Mel, and Palmer: this is nothing like what the Mennonites do.

Entertainment Highlights: 1) Watching a two dollar DVD of Andy Warhol in “Cocaine Cowboys” from the comfort of my hammock in my wee room. 2) Going with Tania and Eric to some ludicrous bands in a funny bar in Greenpoint. There was a raving 18 year old on stage who could just yell his guts out, a mad merging of old Smashing Pumkins with new-wave Interpol all hepped up on some serious latte. Dude sure was angry about something. Then Eric’s friends came on and played 70’s church-organs while wearing space suits. I felt kinda old. But then, I am kinda old. Much more my style was going to see Paul Auster read. He’s a really cool story teller, and it was a great experience to sit there and have him tell a story. He read from “Brooklyn Follies”, which might well be a very suitable book for me to read at the moment. Much less impressive was tonight’s expedition to the Guggenheim (installing a new show, not much to see) and the Whitney. The Gugg promised some “socialist realism”, and while it did have a dozen or so works in a small hallway in the basement, it was just barely worth the subway ride. However, I was intrigued with what I saw. Apparently that stuff is dismissed as propaganda kitsch by the Greenbergian wing who criticized it at the time. But in a few of the paintings, I found something very akin to the American Realist stuff at the Whitney, especially the Hoppers. Hopper’s work is all about absence, the spaces that separate us. The SR stuff I saw also seemed to get at a similar alienation, but this time through a metaphysics of presence, not unlike the creepy presence of the figures in (guess who) Eric Fischl. I expect I’m nuts to find interesting parallels between the two realisms, but. What is the difference between Soviet propaganda and American nostalgia if they make they same pictures? I digress.

So I suppose that is more than anyone wants to read in one sitting. Stay tuned. This week promises great things: A Lars Von Trier film festival, a visit to the NY society for ethical culture, where I will learn what really happened to JFK, a large “apres ski” birthday and housewarming featuring a fully functional cardboard hot tub, more criminal acts (which I am not foolish enough to discuss here), and quite possibly some more serious wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. My special thanks this week to Palmer and Jessica, whose scotch and chocolate have helped me through the darkest hours…

Much love yall. PS: More photos: Buddy, the dog and fifth member of the household, Tony's Pizza, my second home, and the street on which I live.