Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Nest
A boy visits his father's nest.
They are estranged, but he is young, so there is still time, both think, to remedy the situation.
Though it is a horror like a boner at a funeral.
The nest of the father is is a conical, whitewashed structure. It is a helix like certain other shells that wash up on the beach, with an open lip at the end of the volute that turns, originally like a spiral staircase without stairs. But this has been altered. It stands vertically on its narrower end and it is high in space, as it is an aerie.
There is a staircase etched into an interior wall, a turn in the volute, that goes straight up. It is a staircase built to fit the body of the boy. He alone can ascend this staircase in the wall, cut to his form, although he bumps his head. His father adjusts the size of the etched staircase to his growth, at regular intervals, and he is behind. His winged peregrinations are at fault.
Sometimes his father flies out the hole at the top, at the center of the shell-like dwelling. This happens suddenly, violently. This lets the boy know his father is a wild thing; he is fauna. A body flies straight up the air, and it is his father, winged, dripping a sort of honey or colostrum as he goes. His feathers are messy and fluid. His feathers are liquid fire. They are like two wet fires beating against each other, the father's wings. The boy tries to understand.
The shell house is a cold, conical dwelling with, nonetheless, a white shine of interiority to it. If you look carefully, you can see your face in the shine of walls, or rather, wall, since this is a singular fold of some smooth mineral concretion which feels both marmoreal and calcareous, at once, to the boy's senses. You see your face reflected in that white wall, or think you do, but it looks like a breath that has caught there, a momentary illusion of your reflection. You aren't quite sure whether either pole of the illusion is real.
The boy is shown how to climb the inset staircase and ring the tiny bells that wait on the ancient table in the small chamber at the top of the shell in which his father lives when he has not yet taken flight. He learns to ring the bells in the proper, ancient order. They must move as the stars move in the heavens, those charred notes of the tamed, toy bells.
The tiny bells are chased silver which is sooted like the teeth of dead enemies. The boy enjoys handling the bells, but he is terrible at playing the required melodies. There is a horn book that looks like old hide, dead flesh. The notes are braised on its surface. This is a room of vellum and faded ivory yellowed to nicotine addiction. You have thoughts like dead elephant's teeth here.
At the top of the shell, there is a more or less circle of cerulean, blue sky and wind, directly above one's head. It tousles and ruffles one's hair as a father would. In absentia, this wayward blue. The boy enjoys the sensation.
Sometimes spirits descend through this hole and whisper promises of other dwellings, while the boy practices his bells, while his spirit wanders and he dreams of the father's death as yet another song.
But it is only a breeze from the sea the boy will never see. For he has been blinded in a sort of kindness by the father whose wings are liqud, false fire. The hopeless sect of the family is all the boy has ever known. And his own hatred, which he is polishing now like a stone into its fatal dream point.
One day the boy will melt the father's nest. That cold, crucial dwelling. There is a temperature at which even shell melts.
But for now he is its servant and the puppet of its bells.
Also, he is thousands of years old but childish.
They are estranged, but he is young, so there is still time, both think, to remedy the situation.
Though it is a horror like a boner at a funeral.
The nest of the father is is a conical, whitewashed structure. It is a helix like certain other shells that wash up on the beach, with an open lip at the end of the volute that turns, originally like a spiral staircase without stairs. But this has been altered. It stands vertically on its narrower end and it is high in space, as it is an aerie.
There is a staircase etched into an interior wall, a turn in the volute, that goes straight up. It is a staircase built to fit the body of the boy. He alone can ascend this staircase in the wall, cut to his form, although he bumps his head. His father adjusts the size of the etched staircase to his growth, at regular intervals, and he is behind. His winged peregrinations are at fault.
Sometimes his father flies out the hole at the top, at the center of the shell-like dwelling. This happens suddenly, violently. This lets the boy know his father is a wild thing; he is fauna. A body flies straight up the air, and it is his father, winged, dripping a sort of honey or colostrum as he goes. His feathers are messy and fluid. His feathers are liquid fire. They are like two wet fires beating against each other, the father's wings. The boy tries to understand.
The shell house is a cold, conical dwelling with, nonetheless, a white shine of interiority to it. If you look carefully, you can see your face in the shine of walls, or rather, wall, since this is a singular fold of some smooth mineral concretion which feels both marmoreal and calcareous, at once, to the boy's senses. You see your face reflected in that white wall, or think you do, but it looks like a breath that has caught there, a momentary illusion of your reflection. You aren't quite sure whether either pole of the illusion is real.
The boy is shown how to climb the inset staircase and ring the tiny bells that wait on the ancient table in the small chamber at the top of the shell in which his father lives when he has not yet taken flight. He learns to ring the bells in the proper, ancient order. They must move as the stars move in the heavens, those charred notes of the tamed, toy bells.
The tiny bells are chased silver which is sooted like the teeth of dead enemies. The boy enjoys handling the bells, but he is terrible at playing the required melodies. There is a horn book that looks like old hide, dead flesh. The notes are braised on its surface. This is a room of vellum and faded ivory yellowed to nicotine addiction. You have thoughts like dead elephant's teeth here.
At the top of the shell, there is a more or less circle of cerulean, blue sky and wind, directly above one's head. It tousles and ruffles one's hair as a father would. In absentia, this wayward blue. The boy enjoys the sensation.
Sometimes spirits descend through this hole and whisper promises of other dwellings, while the boy practices his bells, while his spirit wanders and he dreams of the father's death as yet another song.
But it is only a breeze from the sea the boy will never see. For he has been blinded in a sort of kindness by the father whose wings are liqud, false fire. The hopeless sect of the family is all the boy has ever known. And his own hatred, which he is polishing now like a stone into its fatal dream point.
One day the boy will melt the father's nest. That cold, crucial dwelling. There is a temperature at which even shell melts.
But for now he is its servant and the puppet of its bells.
Also, he is thousands of years old but childish.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
[COVER] Yukihiro Takahashi - FLASHBACK 高橋幸宏 回想
I love covers that adapt songs so they sound like something that would fit into the Mario Brothers or Yoshi universe.
Time travel to the nineties is possible.
Here's the original.
And this is different, for sure. I like this one muchly too. What do you call this genre? Techno-primitive?
And the original.
Time travel to the nineties is possible.
Here's the original.
And this is different, for sure. I like this one muchly too. What do you call this genre? Techno-primitive?
And the original.
Are You Watching Viceland?
I find myself really smitten with the Vice network's latest enterprise, their new television channel Viceland.
If you haven't seen it, check it out.
The programming is exactly what you have come to expect from Vice: journalism with a sharp edge and a sharp eye. Also, helpin' heapfuls of young people doing dangerous, photogenic things. And, of course, lots of open talk about the gamut of human sexuality. Oh yes. It is Vice transposed to a new medium.
Oh and about that "sharp eye": the photography on these shows is gorgeous. Again, that's something you'd expect if you're familiar with Vice magazine and its commitment to breaking some of the best contemporary photographers.
I'm already a big fan of Thomas Morton and his show Balls Deep. You can actually see most (all?) of the episodes of Season 1 here.
The first episode I watched was the one on orgasmic meditation and I sort of had a negative vibe off Mr. Morton in that one. He admitted up front he was approaching this New Age, West Coast, quasi-religion that has sprung up around clitoris-worship with a healthy dose of East Coast skepticism. I felt he was being a little smart-alecky even as he was (at least) superficially giving himself over fully to an unusual experience in an attempt to learn about one of the sometimes drastically different ways of life of others in American culture, which is the premise of the show. I think the idea is that Morton is going to go "balls deep" into each subculture or cultural phenomenon he investigates. I guess I should give him points for doing things that might not be exactly easy for him. I don't think he ever hurt anyone's feelings in the process of making the documentary and he did respectfully worship a stranger's clitoris (without the emolument of sex). So there's that. He claims to have reached a sort of spiritual enlightenment about women by the end of filming. I wasn't sure how sincere this eleventh hour epiphany really was, since there were so many little snaps and not-so-subtle digs he got off throughout the show in his exchanges with others who belong or subscribe to this movement.
I give him bigger ups for going to Bear Week in Provincetown and hanging with the furriest gays and not snapping on anyone once. But then you don't really want to start a snapping contest around gay men, do you? It wasn't that type of deal though. Morton gave himself fully to the experience and was usually seen around P-Town riding on the bitch seat of gay bear rapper Big Dipper's bike. And I do mean bike, as in bicycle with a cute little bell you can ring. It was priceless. He really did go balls deep into Bear Week and even ventured under "Dick Dock" in the heat of the night when it was in full swing with a bunch of men acting out the gay Kama Sutra (the video camera was left at a safe distance). He interviewed Mr. A. Maupin, went to a gay party, learned about the "Truvada (barebacking) movement" (don't get me started) and got gay-ducated in all other sorts of ways. He came away with a real respect for gay culture and its ability to embrace and elevate elements of physicality that other segments of culture might vilify. Oh, he even got naked with some guys in a body affirmation ceremony that involved a gay man handling and praising his junk. And then he returned the favor. He did the same for a very large gay bear. Viceland, this straight man has earned his paycheck! Give the guy a raise already!
I've come to the conclusion that Thomas Morton is indeed worthy of being called adorable and a very good investigative journalist who makes investigative journalism seem like a hell of a lot of fun. Check him out. I think this is just a starting place for this guy. Expect to see him on a major network soon.
If you haven't seen it, check it out.
The programming is exactly what you have come to expect from Vice: journalism with a sharp edge and a sharp eye. Also, helpin' heapfuls of young people doing dangerous, photogenic things. And, of course, lots of open talk about the gamut of human sexuality. Oh yes. It is Vice transposed to a new medium.
Oh and about that "sharp eye": the photography on these shows is gorgeous. Again, that's something you'd expect if you're familiar with Vice magazine and its commitment to breaking some of the best contemporary photographers.
I'm already a big fan of Thomas Morton and his show Balls Deep. You can actually see most (all?) of the episodes of Season 1 here.
The first episode I watched was the one on orgasmic meditation and I sort of had a negative vibe off Mr. Morton in that one. He admitted up front he was approaching this New Age, West Coast, quasi-religion that has sprung up around clitoris-worship with a healthy dose of East Coast skepticism. I felt he was being a little smart-alecky even as he was (at least) superficially giving himself over fully to an unusual experience in an attempt to learn about one of the sometimes drastically different ways of life of others in American culture, which is the premise of the show. I think the idea is that Morton is going to go "balls deep" into each subculture or cultural phenomenon he investigates. I guess I should give him points for doing things that might not be exactly easy for him. I don't think he ever hurt anyone's feelings in the process of making the documentary and he did respectfully worship a stranger's clitoris (without the emolument of sex). So there's that. He claims to have reached a sort of spiritual enlightenment about women by the end of filming. I wasn't sure how sincere this eleventh hour epiphany really was, since there were so many little snaps and not-so-subtle digs he got off throughout the show in his exchanges with others who belong or subscribe to this movement.
I give him bigger ups for going to Bear Week in Provincetown and hanging with the furriest gays and not snapping on anyone once. But then you don't really want to start a snapping contest around gay men, do you? It wasn't that type of deal though. Morton gave himself fully to the experience and was usually seen around P-Town riding on the bitch seat of gay bear rapper Big Dipper's bike. And I do mean bike, as in bicycle with a cute little bell you can ring. It was priceless. He really did go balls deep into Bear Week and even ventured under "Dick Dock" in the heat of the night when it was in full swing with a bunch of men acting out the gay Kama Sutra (the video camera was left at a safe distance). He interviewed Mr. A. Maupin, went to a gay party, learned about the "Truvada (barebacking) movement" (don't get me started) and got gay-ducated in all other sorts of ways. He came away with a real respect for gay culture and its ability to embrace and elevate elements of physicality that other segments of culture might vilify. Oh, he even got naked with some guys in a body affirmation ceremony that involved a gay man handling and praising his junk. And then he returned the favor. He did the same for a very large gay bear. Viceland, this straight man has earned his paycheck! Give the guy a raise already!
I've come to the conclusion that Thomas Morton is indeed worthy of being called adorable and a very good investigative journalist who makes investigative journalism seem like a hell of a lot of fun. Check him out. I think this is just a starting place for this guy. Expect to see him on a major network soon.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Blood Art
I did a Google search just now for paintings in blood and everything was unbelievably ugly and amateurish.
I'm sure someone has done a decent painting in blood.
I don't think the idea is impressive or particularly interesting. It seems to appeal mostly to the juvenile mind. It's become one of those horrible cliches in art.
And then you'll have idiots hurting or killing animals to get blood for something like this. Or hurting themselves.
I remember liking Marc Quinn's head in supercooled blood back in the early days of Saatchi.
I'm more impressed when artists can evoke blood than when they garishly incorporate it in their work.
I suppose there are some cases where artists work with their own menstrual blood and it doesn't feel exploitive or anything. I think that's almost a "blood exception," because there blood is being taken from one's body without one's consent. So it almost feels like a "taking back" of something that could even be seen as "stolen." Granted, this is part of the cycles of fertility which allow us to bring forth new life. So it gets complicated. To what degree is this "taking" a "giving" by nature? This sort of blood art broaches the usual taboos concerning menstruation. I think instantly of the heightened fear this can cause, particularly in males. It probably scalds the male gaze. This recoiling is sort of funny but also illuminating. To what degree is this recoiling a form of control of the female? By stigmatizing this process, the male is able to "put the female in her place." We think of the isolation of menstruating women in so many cultures. Is it true fear on the part of the male? Is it rooted in the power of fertility, its mojo? Or is it about males not wanting to be discommoded? In "modern" cultures, it seems to be more of a primal fear of blood. This is not a uniquely male fear. But I have to wonder whether post-pubescent women generally have less fear of bleeding as a result of their cycle? Probably studies have been done. Yet I have known women who get faint when they see bleeding, just as I have known men who have this reaction.
I realize there are probably countless works of art in which human (or animal) blood figures prominently. I'm not so interested in this that I want to read in depth about it. It was just a passing thought, wondering if a search would bring up anything of (problematic?) visual beauty.
Sometimes blood in art is just there as part of nature. I saw a pretty powerful photograph tonight of a dead deer where the last few moments of its life had been written in blood on a country highway. It had obviously been hit by a car and staggered to the other side of the road and fallen there. Its suffering was almost certainly mercifully brief. Would that it had been instantaneous, but this outcome was still so much better than those cases where struck animals wander off in horrible pain that lasts on and on. That photograph was like a painting but there was no manipulation, no animal abuse by humans, no human-laden guilt for us to process because of some ridiculous wile laid out by a manipulative and unethical artist. It was just horrible nature drawing an ideogram with her finger on the earth. It was just that force, that voice saying, "Look on my works."
I'm sure someone has done a decent painting in blood.
I don't think the idea is impressive or particularly interesting. It seems to appeal mostly to the juvenile mind. It's become one of those horrible cliches in art.
And then you'll have idiots hurting or killing animals to get blood for something like this. Or hurting themselves.
I remember liking Marc Quinn's head in supercooled blood back in the early days of Saatchi.
I'm more impressed when artists can evoke blood than when they garishly incorporate it in their work.
I suppose there are some cases where artists work with their own menstrual blood and it doesn't feel exploitive or anything. I think that's almost a "blood exception," because there blood is being taken from one's body without one's consent. So it almost feels like a "taking back" of something that could even be seen as "stolen." Granted, this is part of the cycles of fertility which allow us to bring forth new life. So it gets complicated. To what degree is this "taking" a "giving" by nature? This sort of blood art broaches the usual taboos concerning menstruation. I think instantly of the heightened fear this can cause, particularly in males. It probably scalds the male gaze. This recoiling is sort of funny but also illuminating. To what degree is this recoiling a form of control of the female? By stigmatizing this process, the male is able to "put the female in her place." We think of the isolation of menstruating women in so many cultures. Is it true fear on the part of the male? Is it rooted in the power of fertility, its mojo? Or is it about males not wanting to be discommoded? In "modern" cultures, it seems to be more of a primal fear of blood. This is not a uniquely male fear. But I have to wonder whether post-pubescent women generally have less fear of bleeding as a result of their cycle? Probably studies have been done. Yet I have known women who get faint when they see bleeding, just as I have known men who have this reaction.
I realize there are probably countless works of art in which human (or animal) blood figures prominently. I'm not so interested in this that I want to read in depth about it. It was just a passing thought, wondering if a search would bring up anything of (problematic?) visual beauty.
Sometimes blood in art is just there as part of nature. I saw a pretty powerful photograph tonight of a dead deer where the last few moments of its life had been written in blood on a country highway. It had obviously been hit by a car and staggered to the other side of the road and fallen there. Its suffering was almost certainly mercifully brief. Would that it had been instantaneous, but this outcome was still so much better than those cases where struck animals wander off in horrible pain that lasts on and on. That photograph was like a painting but there was no manipulation, no animal abuse by humans, no human-laden guilt for us to process because of some ridiculous wile laid out by a manipulative and unethical artist. It was just horrible nature drawing an ideogram with her finger on the earth. It was just that force, that voice saying, "Look on my works."
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Shaker Art
I am fascinated by Shaker art (and bygone Shaker life).
I think what really intrigues me is how the Shakers were open to revelation from the spiritual world, on principle, as a daily occurrence. I think this is what so often gives their art a cosmic beauty. And then I think the Shaker tradition of "gift drawings" is a very beautiful one. If you read the text on the somewhat Blakean drawing of roses below, you will see these were spiritual communications. For people who didn't have congress with other bodies, this was probably as intense as sex, this form of heightened exchange. I like that art was elevated as a form of divine communication in this religion.
Did you know the Shakers (who were celibate) believed that God was bisexual? This was because we are told in the Bible that God made both man and woman "in His own image."
I think what really intrigues me is how the Shakers were open to revelation from the spiritual world, on principle, as a daily occurrence. I think this is what so often gives their art a cosmic beauty. And then I think the Shaker tradition of "gift drawings" is a very beautiful one. If you read the text on the somewhat Blakean drawing of roses below, you will see these were spiritual communications. For people who didn't have congress with other bodies, this was probably as intense as sex, this form of heightened exchange. I like that art was elevated as a form of divine communication in this religion.
Did you know the Shakers (who were celibate) believed that God was bisexual? This was because we are told in the Bible that God made both man and woman "in His own image."
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