Category: Art

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People Move in a Hole in the Ground

“New York, New York, it’s a fabulous town, the Bronx is up and..” all the restaurants have that offputting “choking victim” poster that scares me into suspiciously chewing my food very carefully whenever I’m in town. Apologies to all the swell New Yorkers we didn’t get to see, but this visit was for but a few days to see the new MoMA, Dia Beacon, the Christo/Jeanne Claude gates, and the Fra Carnevale show at the Met. I tend to fall victim to Stendhal’s Syndrome (Dizziness, panic, paranoia, or madness caused by viewing certain artistic or historical artifacts or by trying to see too many such artifacts in too short a time) when traveling in major cities. We did get to hang at the new MoMA with Joey, who is about as charming as they come, plus he has this totally adorable wisp of back hair creeping over his collar that provided pleasant aesthetic counterpoint to the cold modernist surfaces. We took a walk around the park and through the gates and met up with fellow SFite, Philip.  The gates are quite successful as social art, and even aesthetically, too. The curtain of fabric creates an illusion of a low orange ceiling, and walking among them feels like a very regal or pomp-filled activity. And everybody’s smiling. The color and movement of the fabric stood out brightly against the dull gray of the landscape, and then even more so a few days later against the snow. After flying over Michael Heizer’s “City” on the way into town, we were treated to seeing the orange gates from the plane as we flew in on a very sunny day.

On our last night, walking into one of my east village fave’s, Veselka’s, we were seated smack next to one of the many of Bob’s exes currently residing in the area. Of all the eastern european stuffed cabbage joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine. Actually it was nice to see him without Bob–and as the newest member of the post-Bob club.

The Dia Beacon is one heck of a museum. We took the train up from Manhattan, about an hour though the snow, snaking along the river through the beautiful and surprisingly rural countryside. The galleries are the size of football fields, with theme-park installations by Richard Serra, Dan Flavin, Louise Bourgeois, Andy Warhol, Michael Heizer, etc… We did get to see the White: Whiteness and Race in Contemporary Art show at ICP, which Nayland was in, drawing from his bi-racial background and folk stories/storytelling. His work and William Kentridge’s animated films, well, and Cindy Sherman’s early self-portraits as bus-riders, bring narrative and experience together for me like the gothic novel. They were also showing Bellocq’s Storyville Prostitutes at ICP, which had a profound effect on me in college. The negative plates were found by Lee Friedlander in an antique store in the 60’s, and he printed up these amazing images of relaxed sexuality in the red-light district of early 20th century New Orleans. The Fra Carnevale show at the Met was super–with little Renaissance gems from Piero della Francesca and Fillipo Lippi. Then up to visit the Rembrandts and the Vermeers and my Italian faves.

On the first night in the city, I got a call from a Chelsea dealer who wants to show my work there. What is going on with my horoscope? He’s young, very young, 25, and cute, a fast talker, and has a super location. Plus he’s interested in installation! So I’ve been sending slides (unsuccessfully) to New York for like 100 years, and this guy stumbles across my site while probably looking for pornography. I seem to have no control over my fate. It blows around like a plastic sandwich bag in a tropical storm.

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Glug

Slurr bluzz fingle schmutz… Dean kept buying me drink after dirnk… The Bear Walk was quite fun–thanks for coming and making life great, I love everybody. Emily told me that I’m a happy drunk. In a few hours I’ll be in New York, with BC, Christo and Jeanne Claude, and weather. Hickup. Davide, you’re so cute, and oh my gosh, Federico, no Francesco is going to arrange to show my work in Rome when I’m there in November. Somebody, come to the show. There were so many Italians. I’m sure I’ll speak fluent Italian then. The hickups re to mcuh, I have to go. G’night everybody, I lve you, please. Make a donation.

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Mary’s Laurel Lamp, and Lou, My Patron

So Mary and Phyllis were discussing the books necessary for Mary to read to babysit Bess when suddenly their bodies parted and it snapped into focus–sitting on the Saarinen-esque side-table near Mary’s window was the Laurel lamp that will make my home decorating scheme and life complete. In deference to and contrast with the soft warm colors and textures permeating my office, I will depart slightly from Mary’s sensibility and seek a polished silver version with a mushroom-shaped shade. Thank you, Mary.

Today D and I went to see the Bruyas collection at the Legion of Honor. Aside from the thrill of seeing in person the historically significant centerpiece of the show, the Courbet painting, The Meeting, or Bonjour, Monsieur Courbet, I was thrilled also by a small self-portrait by Courbet–made when he was in his 20’s–as a defiant, cheeky, confident denouncer of convention, and a totally adorable one, to boot. His relationship with Bruyas and their “solution” to the problem of French culture lying in the wedding of fortune and genius got me thinking of Lou Grant, and how much I need a patron like him. He and Mary were such a great couple, even though they only went out once, and that really didn’t work, but the affectionate sparring and the congenial, productive work environment resulting from their affection and the sexual tension that I projected onto them has been the idealized model for the solution to the problem of my own productivity. Although, of course, Lou would have to put out for me.

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(Real) Live Nude Action

So the opening tonight was really fun. Many LiveJournalers; xbearxrx, bigreddee, cadwallin, rootbeer1, theotherdon, yi_dian_dian, xenohomo, kitchenbeard, nextsaturday, deaconcub, sfgarry, lindyboi… and many others, all poking their fingers into Dean’s piece, clearly marked “PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH,” and not touching Nayland’s, which I had to encourage people to stroke. No one found the hole, but Chris and I were photographed by Kevin and Dodie poking various digits through it. All in all, I am very happy with the show. I’m hoping that more bear-y people show up, as the show repositions the bear body in quite a different light, not the usual pornographic space, but from the perspective of a formal appreciation of the form. BC’s piece was the biggest crowd pleaser, and he’s not even an artist. He’s just so smart. He should ditch this IT crap and become a conceptual artist.

At the last minute a naked woman showed up at the show and hung out near Dean’s piece. She was too late to get any real attention, at least a half hour after the show officially closed, but we all stood around her anyway, taking pictures. Live nudity scares and fascinates me, all that flesh that’s usually hidden suddenly so vulnerable and exposed, yet totally out of reach and subject to a completely different set of dynamics and rules for interaction–live theater that you’re suddenly confusedly a part of as both performer and spectator.

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Nervous and Giggling

Hairy Bodies report: So Nick still hasn’t installed his work. The tension is driving me nuts–will the show be installed by opening time tonight? Will any of you show up? Is someone going to walk on Su-Chen’s piece? Did I install Nayland’s piece properly? Is Dean going to flip when he sees that I moved his sculptures? Will the Iraq elections steal the spotlight? I tend to be a very nervous person. I’ll be in New York on the 19th, and I’ve already bought my ticket for MoMA. I’m going to Italy in November, and I’m taking an Italian class with BC. I like to be prepared–although I’ll change my mind at the last minute. It drives my companions crazy, but I try to maintain a balance of structure and spontaneity. I can’t handle it in other people, though, and actually lashed out at one of the artists last night with “We’ve been here all week waiting for you and this is where you asked to hang your work but if you want me to rearrange the whole show to accommodate you I will…” Speaking of hairy bodies and Italian, there’s this guy in our Italian class, Eric, who is just the cutest little dude imaginable. He mispronounces everything and just smiles, unlike me and BC, who turn beet red and mumble whenever we’re called on. So Eric has this habit of yawning in such a way that his shirt is lifted nearly up to his chest, arms wide over his head, his cute furry belly revealed several times a night. BC nudges me every time, and we divert our attention from il professore and collectively sigh at the sight of his lovely trail. BC, ever the stalker, even followed him to the rest room last week. He scrawled in my notebook, “C-U-T.” We are total school girls. Andiamo pazzo per Eric!

Come to the opening tonight!

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Emily, Memory

Last night I and BC and Léonie went to hear Emily speak about her work in Oakland, at the gallery where she’s showing with 3 other artists. I was intrigued by the surreal drawings of one other artist in the show, but had to forget everything she said during her talk, as she seemed to have no insight into what her work was doing or saying. Emily, however, was great, not telling people how to read her work, but guiding them into it, and giving details about her process, which is not only interesting, but key to understanding what she’s up to. She’s one of the most inventive and imaginative artists around. Her work is fragile, ephemeral and hard to display, and the show closes tomorrow, so if you’re looking for something to do this afternoon or tomorrow, get on over to The Oakland Art Gallery, 199 Kahn’s Alley, in Oakland.

Afterwards we had dinner at Bucci’s, which I think was in Emeryville. Those cities all run together over there. BC brought up an interesting question, about memory, that has had me bothered and excited since. He asked what is the oldest memory? If we think of memory solely in biological terms, that is, experiences contained in living beings, there is a limit to our access to direct experience. Time passes, people die, memories are lost. Memories are passed into books, photos, art, etc… but somewhere out there is someone who remembers something that he or she experienced, and there’s no one else on earth with access to the experience of that time. This thought is gnawing at me the way the idea of space being infinite bugged me in third grade.

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Glamour

Sunday I went to SFMoMA with Philip, a very nice day with an utterly likeable fellow, the Lichtenstein show surprisingly enjoyable, but the Glamour show a bomb, with totally not enough dresses and stupid architecture that had nothing remotely to do with glamour.

I did get cruised by this totally hot daddy bear–not in the way that I’ve ever been cruised by a totally hot daddy bear, either. Wait–was this the first time that I’ve ever been cruised by a totally hot daddy bear? Maybe it had to do with my own different relation to my newly middle-aged self. Typically, if a dude of this dude’s grandeur and pheromones directs any kind of desire my way, I assume it’s because I’m this young thing and he’s this tired old guy, and I hop to it and make it my mission to remind him of what it was like to be young and admired and virile. Well, sad but true, I’m no longer this hot young thing, but with a gray beard and in bed by 11. This time I felt a tension of familiarity, not of imbalance, like we were just two guys sniffing each other’s butts. I’m still anxious from the encounter, and of this new relation to desire and intimacy. It really is just chemicals, right? Perhaps my high blood pressure and challenged waistline are indicators of this new chemical reaction, too. What’s next? Cancer and love?

BC, my big bunny warmer, is snoring away on the kitchen banquette, speaking of age and glamor. Yes, he’s still sick, and yes, I’m still in dire need of the horizontal mambo. Won’t someone rid me of this meddlesome libido?

Having Les here is at least intellectually stimulating. This morning we talked of Marlon Riggs, Genet, socialized health care, gay representation, stereotypes, North Korean hair propaganda, Soap, the new California Garden, umlauts, and the objective “I.” He’s a treasure.

Alicia, my dear old Brazilian college buddy is in town, and will take over Les’ place on my office sofa when he departs on Sunday. Alicia is this truly glamorous mix of beauty and irresponsibility. We met in China in 1987–the rest of my group (we were students for the summer at the Zheziang Academy of Fine Arts) would be grumbling and sweating over our rice gruel at breakfast, and Alicia would burst into the room in a lovely flowing dress and sandals, scoop up some gruel, and exclaim, “I LOVE this delicious rice pudding, and how moist and ALIVE my skin feels here…” We’d all smile and forget our rashes and dysentery, and toss more peanuts and pickles into our savory breakfast mush. She just spent a month in Bali with her new lover, leaving her 7 year-old with the jealous father of the child, while she explored “being free.” I love Alicia only because I embrace her disdain for restraint. Like, I’d never ever meet her somewhere. Time is only a suggestion to her. As are traffic signals and recipes.

Well, it’s getting past 11….

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Translated

Today I came across a statement I made about my work on a Portugese site on the internet. It was translated into Portugese, so I went to FreeTranslation.com to find out what I said:

In the last years, I have photographed hairy male bodies in abstract details, that afterwards unite in an alone image. I have a lot state interested in a segment of the community gay called community bear that enaltece the physical characteristics of bears – immense by the corporal one and big bellies. The movement presents an ideal of enough beauty outside of the conventional one.

Exploiting to mine own will, I invite the spectator to partilhar of the my fascination and it subvert with me, even that by a moment, ideias preconceived of beauty.

I interest myself not by portraits honored but in the creation of experiences sensoriais from mine you fear.

The body fragmentado is to my matter cousin. The body is caleidoscópico – each standard offers a kind of approach. But what is revealed? Ace times does not itself obtain defined – is alone skin and by the, a little abandoned, arrepiantes to. For times the body becomes-itself so formal as a French garden. And other times is the obsessive intimacy of a lover that is transported in the work. After all, will have more someone that look of so nearby?

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Plan 1

I’ve decided on a tentative plan: For my 40th birthday (November, 2005), I’m going to start off with a few weeks in Rome. My last few trips there were about Caravaggio and Bellini, so I’d like to visit my old friends, but this time I’m thinking of following the della Francesca and Perugino trails, which will take me to Urbino, Arezzo, Perugia, Monterchi, Sansepolcro, Citta del Pieve, Spello and Panicale. Caravaggio and Bellini were big inspirations to me in my 30’s: Bellini with his exquisitely painted depictions of other-worldliness, and Caravaggio for his images so rooted in reality. The artists shocked me into an awareness of how art can structure experience and spirituality in such completely different ways. I’m drawn to Perugino and della Francesca for their serenity and simplicity. This is how I want to enter my 40’s–I want tranquility. There’s also a painting in a tiny convent in Florence that I’d love to revisit, by Perugino. It’s a crucifiction scene, but almost conceptual art. The cross is positioned in the center of 3 arches, with saints depicted under the flanking arches. The beams of the cross touch the edge of the arch, both on the sides and on the bottom, bringing the crucifix into our world, touching the frame of our space, but having nothing to do with where it should be accurately positioned visually. So perhaps a few weeks in Rome, and then spend a week working my way up to Florence and Arrezo, and then back to Rome for the final bacchanalia.

40 is a big deal for me. So excuse my ruminating on the subject of what to do for it so much and so far in advance.