Sunday 31 May 2009

THE Tired Monster by eggtooth


Twice down and off by spaces,a crazed mathematician named Zeroy built a maze out of sheets of coroplast. The thick white stuff. He spent several months burrowing out the pre-designed grid in a large field. Grooves 6 inches deep and 10mm wide,just right for the plastic stuff to slide into place. He did this by night with dead catfish hanging over his shoulders,so as to keep the Hairy Sneakers at bay. By day, he studied the sun. His special glasses had perfect scratches-scratches that echoed the pattern of his maze. The mathmetician was going to finish the maze tonight and then tomorrow he would be able to let his Pink Fuzzies free to romp in the maze.
The sun was beginnning to appear as he worked late to finish,so he picked up the pace. Excitement coursed through his veins as he made his way over to his company paid for F-150,retrieving the last 4x8 sheet of coroplast. It locked into place and he sighed and planted his fists on his hips. A smile covered his face and he swatted his hands together.
"Answer me" screamed a memory of his wife in a sheet of light. It came over the tree line in the distance with the peeking sun. He fumbled for his glasses and found them on the bridge of his nose soon enough. His wife's voice beckoned again,a guilty nag from a not so distant past. He sat down in the driver's seat of his truck and looked at the Queen Pink Fuzzy he had on a leash in the passenger's seat.It looked back at him and burped.
"I need some more of those chalices for the equinox, Zeroy" said the Queen Pink Fuzzy. She had grown to about twice the size of a basketball,not including the 8 inches of fuzz that covered her entire globular body. She turned and stared ahead,now waiting for him to turn over the engine and go. "Can I have some air conditioning,please? I wasn't really expecting to be here when the sun came up."
Zeroy fumbled for the keys and slumped forward into turning the truck over. He took a long look over his shoulder at the maze and then pulled his door shut.
"I'm going to let your children go in the maze tomorrow,you know?
She was quiet for about a twenty seconds. "Yep. I kinda figured that was what was about time for." The Queen Pink Fuzzy scratched herself with a greenish sponge-like paw.
As they drove,the truck kicked up dust on the dirt road. This was South Georgia and quiet only got even more quiet out here. Maybe a bird would holler to another at this hour,but it was doubtful. Most were in their labs studying Spanish and Italian for the Kaber Toss Festival. Generations ago they were designed to emulate the birds in Disney's Cinderella,long since having evolved from those habits to larger responsibilities. Zeroy heard the work force at Lockheed Martin was now 80% bird. It didn't surprise him.
"I'm gonna need you to break the news to them for me,if you don't mind" Said Zeroy quietly,not turning his head from the road. The Queen only grunted to acknowledge she had heard him. She had a can of Crisco she was licking from. Zeroy grunted back in the exact same manner,only adding an upward lilt to it to turn it into a reiteration of his request,a question that pushed the acknowledgment.
"Im gonna,I'm gonna" She answered with impatience.
Zeroy sat in silence for a moment. "This aint gonna be a problem with Little Zee,is it?" Little Zee had been put in a pen with the pigs for 6 months because of insubordination.A heavy sentence for anyoneor any living creature. That had been many moons ago,and he'd since been tested by other changes and arduous requests.But this one was going to be a doozy. Many of the Pink Fuzzies would probably die several times over adjusting to their new home in the maze. Not that dying was permanent for them,they reginerated. But evidently it was still painful. Each time one came back,it seemed to come back a bit dimmer and great deal more hostile. Curiously,the Queen herself had not yet died and Zeroy feared the day she did. She was a moody Pink Fuzzy as she was. Zeroy feared she might go Evil in one turn. He knew a death turn of hers had to be due. She'd been around a suspiciously long time. He thought maybe she was into magic,but had seen no signs. Usually their hair became coarse and white from use of spells.
The Queen looked up from her Crisco. "You don't have to worry about Little Zee. I have him under wraps. I got him obsessed on Art History and he's medicated so that's all he can think about.other than his main duties,of course."
Zeroy tried to hide that his being suddenly lit up."Was that his copy of the Eggtooth's "Squirrel" I saw out in the barn?" He swelled with pride a bit as he asked the question. Little Zee may have developed a bad side now,but he was still blood. Zeroy had seen the painting and had even stopped and studied it for accuracy. The image was a classic. He had written papers on it back in college. He recalled the copy was coming along well.
"That's just stuff he does to keep himself busy. You should see his own work. He hides it. He works on it when you are out here building the maze."
They pulled into the ranch and turned a sharp perfect right into the parking space. Zeroy adjusted his shades to a darker tint and looked towards the barn. He never paid enough attention to anything concerning attachments,to caring for others. Zeroy told himself from experiences long ago to be mindful of taking others for granted,but he knew he had not changed. Even now the sun beckoned him. Its light carried Her voice and he wanted nothing more than to go to its haven. He glanced into the barn and saw Little Zee himself,his shadow was distinctive. Zee was reading a book and sitting on a large pile of ice. The Queen shuffled off towards the barn and the others,not looking back,knowing that Zeroy would go the other direction.
When she entered the barn,Zee looked up and hissed at her. It was his way of simply indicating a general mood. It was directed towards nobody in particular.
"Did you get me some more hair color today?" The Queen asked. Little Zee cut his eyes to the wooden dresser that two other Pink Fuzzies were sleeping on. They were tiny,the size of softballs. Between them was the aerosol can she needed and she immediately began to coat herself pink.
"Queen..." Said a voice behind her. "I have some strange news."
It was Reporter Fuzzy. He had the black stripe of the Journalistic Division running down his middle. Reporter looked between Queen & Little Zee to make sure he did not interrupt.
"Go ahead." She sighed.
"There have been reports of a Tired Monster in Albany. It was sighted today eating trees by the Tastee Freeze "
The Queen stopped still at the words. Little Zee had heard earlier and watched her reaction over the top of his book. She went back to spraying herself. "Thank you,Reporter." She set down the can and walked over to Little Zee.
"You and I need to talk." She marched towards the exit to the barn,kicking ice cubes a she went.
Little Zee felt his heart jump. It was about time he was given a mission. This was his chance for redemption. Leading a crew,taking long range recon,and perhaps even executing maneuvers. Giving orders. This could reinstate him.
He followed her out into the morning sun,practically jumping up and down. They had no choice but to go after this Tired Monster and he knew it. The tree eater was the one that had killed the Queen's lover last season. Little Zee knew this was what he was,even though it was supposed to be a secret. He knew The Queen would not be able to resist letting him pass through. This Monster was as good as dead. He shuddered and pink hairs shot from his body,his little purple paws stuck nubby spikes out from within his dense hair.
The Queen Pink Fuzzy looked at Little Zee with a flat cold stare.
"Zeroy has finished the Maze,Zee" She simply said it to him,no frills and no emotion.
They stared at each other in silence.

Like Hamburgers for Breakfast



Stupid Poets. I had a dream about you. And I ran sink water through my hair. With lubricated fingers from this morning. We are frozen in the kitchen of a Fast Food restaurant. I woke up from the dream and realized the pillow was burned with memory.
I grab a novel with bold print and sense the sunshine in my spine. Candy.
Stupid city. I love you, I guess.

Saturday 30 May 2009

Yukari Umekawa's Itodenwa @ White Spec


Contained within the intimate environment that is White Spec, Yukari Umekawa's photographs hang,taking the viewer into their mood,requesting a moment to receive and adjust to their slowing hazy thought. In her statement, Umekawa expresses a desire to recreate the feelings and longings she has for home. The desire in the work is to evoke the sensations she is feeling,the drawn-out anxiety or emptiness that comes from questioning and adjusting to entirely foreign environments. The truth that makes stabilty realized as something only as concrete as ones own affirmations. The memories she has and sensation of being transplanted come through in these simple but powerful images.
They are moments we can all relate to. The use of the pinhole camera comes into play perfectly,in that they do render a sort of bleary signifance that is only realized in retrospect. We make memories when we are least aware that we are,and those mental images burn the strangest most insignificant moments into our lives from now until the end of time.
Soldifying herself and her confidence becomes something through the photographs. A natural questioning persists,belaboring and clouding a clarity that wishes to make firm her own reason. Each photograph individually is a blurry-edged dream. The frame containing them is as solid as the reality that she is living and existing where she now is. It is as if the swinging of her instability is transferred into the glances that she catches. Snap-shots are highly pigmented thoughts. The emptiness that is a pure thing,as much as it is a beautiful thing billows.Alone time comes to mind. The sensation one imagines or feels when experiencing something that we'd love to share,but know truly possesses a heightened appreciablity because of the isolation of it.
The captured glances are somehow appropriate in that they are often of telephone wires and telephone poles. The imagery that is obviously symbolic of the desire to communicate. The title of the show,Itodenwa, refers to what is usually thought of as a child's toy,a homemade device that helps reinforce a pure memory-driven feeling to the show. The photographs are individual moments trapped within their scale and reduced to a frozen image, a picture of her floating world.

Scott Silvey @ Whitespace


There is a temptation to address what these works are not,rather than what they are. This is somehow appropriate in a manner that gives the work yet another layer of perspective. What is not there any longer is human presence. Or is it?
A driving curiousity of Silvey's is the relationship that human thought and its engineered manifestations has with naturally occuring growth. His paintings represent a silent and emptied version of the classic battle of man versus nature. The unbridled organic in nature,as of course exists in plants and all life,quietly maintains.It is a comparison in ways of logic and emotion. Emotion is found straddling or sharing qualites between man and nature.It is in its unregimented persistance to be. It assists in acknowledging a viable or conceivable spirit that humankind leaves behind. Human's mark as a solid thing unto itself seems to reach so far. It is an angular or logical footprint. It is something very tangible and very subject to decay and eventual disappearance. But there is an after image,one that echoes the endless cycle of life that vegetative growth goes through. A certainty that lingers in our aging bodies and minds is that our cycle will,regardless of however long, eventually succumb. While architectural designs are ridged and static things,the solemn stillness they maintain reverberates for now and into unspecified ages to come. When contrasted with the the "aloneness" of fertile movement of plant life,it reveals this awaremness even more. A sentient presence wants to whisper around the corners. It laughs in the paintings by showing us strange useless machines of specific purpose,now somehow ironically even more silent than the empty buildings.
Silvey's paintings are done on the wood grain of half inch thick panel. He makes skillfull use of their porous nature. Washes of color pull out delicate drawings. Upon close examination,there seems to be a purposeful remainder of the draftsman's presence. The technically rendered indications of buildings have a clinical perfection that specifies their mood,giving them a distance that is appealing on a logical and organized level. Their flatness is perhaps wanting to be reminiscent of the quality of a blueprint,reinforcing the logical and planned nature to humankind's structures.
They are vibrant and gentle and emanate a stillness. A silence seems to recur,one that is warm and inviting. It coaxes the atmosphere,reinforcing this with a very rusty tone that seems to sit beneath many of the pieces.
Ultimately,the paintings are attractive and engaging on an aesthetic level.They serve this purpose well. In saying something, seem to not be able to resist leaving one with a vague haunted sensation. The comfort of pleasant living imagery prevails,though. The foremost thought is of green living growth,inspite of the abandoned background and its wires draped through strange alien hues of possibly polluted but beautiful skylines.

Twoday's mirror (tratnalta)

Tratnalta's downtown parks felt the sun coming up over the trees this morning. The concrete plaza quiet as it could be,slowly came to life. Inground fountains anticipating the pitter patter of children's feet bubbled up and gained pressure. The coolness in the air and the deep shadows of pavilion steps grew shorter and human breath entered the scene. The sun had officially burned a hole in the early crisp haze. Blue sky appeared.
A day for creativity tingled inside the brain of Blank Rosenthal. It shot through his occipital lobes with a treasure of textures. Sandals looked like handmade leathers extending over his smooth moving ankles. Paint spattered his fingers,collected in the knuckle wrinkles and under fingernails. He set up his tent and stood beneath it,watching the others show up to do the same. For the millionth time,he did this in the millionth city. He'd been to Tratnalta before and,felt basically the same as the emotion expressed the bumber sticker : "I guess i LOVE Tratnalta."
Blank had painted toothpicks. Each one with a daily affirmation scrawled delicately up its length.Some toothpicks went futher,depending on his mood and inclanation.Glued & constructed into the resemblance quasi-functional household items. People loved them. The ability to manufacture these, as if on auto-pilot, caused a never ending dilemma with Blank. He was either gifted- or was no longer trying. In any event,it kept him on the road and afforded him the all star breakfast special whenever he pleased.
The fountains behind him were refracting the full power of the day's sun now. Voices murmuured heavily across the courtyard.Various vendors sharing various energies,nervous energy of anticipation mixed with seasoned machine-like cold automatic neutrality. Anything could happen. This concrete environment was going to turn into a scorcher by 1 or 2. And one or 2 would come soon enough.
Blank had a 70's style lawn chair. It was great for conversation. People were so easy. He was reclining in it when Jeff & Mike walked up and nosed around at his work. Mike,the skinny long haired one showed an earnest interest. Jeff was more looking at Blank.
"How's the day treating you?" Asked Blank. He didn't really like how Jeff was looking at him. He had that empty gaze about him that was all too common. It seemed ever-present in Tratnalta. Especially today.
Jeff shrugged and walked closer to Blank,examining the table his elbow rested on. It had business cards,his credit card machine, sales receipts,and a record of the days sales.
"Okay I suppose." Jeff's gaze drifted away and around and skimmed across a toilet paper dispenser with Lacan quotes all over it.
"So this is made out of toothpicks,huh?" Mike asked.
"Yessir...Offered up Blank. Made em' by hand wih meticulous love. I do it with a sort of slow love. Sometimes on the road, sometimes in the comfort of my home."
Mike shrugged and nodded,continuing to examine each and every item in his booth,it was almost like he was an insurance agent,only without pad and pen and calculator.
"You guys seen anything interesting today?" Jeff was standing at th edge of the booth watching people walk by. He spoke without turning around.
"We saw a lady climb a telephone pole and just sit there about 15 feet in the air and stare at people."
Blank sat back down in his lawn chair and lit a cigarette. This made Mike reach for one of his own. "Did the police come and arrest her?"
MIke laughed and answered. "Nope...it was performance art. She's actually supposed to come out here today."
"Really..well too bad I gotta watch my booth" Blank pretended to organize papers and perfectly stack his business cards.
Jeff came back into the shade of the booth and looked over the toothpick art more. "We'll watch your booth for you...she's gonna be doing it just over that way in about 30 minutes.It doesnt take long to size it up,but its sorta amusing to watch other folks go by that dont expect it."
"Thats mighty nice of you to offer. My name's Blank Rosenthal."He extended a hand to Jeff.
"Im Jeff"
"And I'm Mike". Mike switched his cigarette grip and shook Blank's hand.
They found themselves staring at one another politely. Blank passed a quick glance at other folks strolling by,glancing in his tent and moving on. Sometimes the appearance of being involved with other "customers" caused people to simple stray away.
The moment in the day grew on long and tedious with a sort of sudden sensation that passed between the three of them. Bar-b-que smell entered the tent mingled with a band playing traditional blues music,smothering conversation.
"Well guys..I will have ot see about geting over there to see that tree climber lady. let me know if you have any questions about anything you see."
Mike & Jeff left Blank Rosenthal's tent and found themselves walking towards where the telephone pole climbing lady was supposed to be doing her thing again. As they approached the general vicinity, they noticed some commotion. A crowd had formed. people gawked and murmured. They stared and pointed. Only they weren't looking up. They were looking down. In the mddle of the web of people muttering and grumbling,somebody suddenly screamed. Mike caught a glimpse of something on the ground shaped like a purple mess of tentacles. Flowers and pink t-shirts attached to a gyrating mass.it splattered a fluid in heavy clumps on the ground.It made a weird high-pitched sound.
"What the hell..." Jeff leaned in and saw the mass. At first he thought it was a strange piece of art and then he saw what others saw. It caused the crowd to quickly disperse and another person screamed. People grabbed children. Mike & Jeff looked on. The ground beneath the thing was sizzling where glowing orange flower petals dropped. It appeared to have a mouth at something like a center,filled with silver slivers. Sheets of paper and every fingernail that Jeff had ever chewed off fell from its face. The mouth paper had letters in deep black that tattoed the ground. The word Tranalta began to spell on the ground. A stench filled the air comingoff the acidic sizzle in the concrete.
"Fuck this." Said Mike and tossed his cig on the ground and walked away quickly. Jeff looked ot the thing and to Mike and then back at the thing. it was now shaped like a coffee-maker made of rubbery skin. it manufactured a setting around itself, a miniature blue sky filled with storm clouds. The black letters on the ground grew bigger,becoming legitimate holes in the ground. They began to crack on the edges and the thing grew wings.
Mike called Jeff's name and he walked after him. Briefly,jeff considered starting smoking again.
"I really kinda thought coming outo this would be pretty lame." Said Mike. I mean to say, I know it wasnt gonna be about art or anything.I just wanted ot see if I could find inspiration for ideas."
"Well have you?"
Not really." Mike realized he was more hungry than anything. He suspected he could ask jeff at any time of the day if he was hungry and he would be,so that was good.
"Hey,Jeff...are you hungry?"
"I could eat something." Jeff pulled a brochure for the event out of his pocket ,looking ot see if there was anything init about shape-shifting telepathic ground burning art projects.But there wasn't.
"Mike,that thing back there." Jeff realized Mike's pace was rather quick.
"I dont wanna talk about it." Mike cut him off.
"But..it was spitting up fingernails. And the thing was-i somehow knew that they were... my fingernails." Mike nodded and pulle don a cigarette.
"Yeah..." He paused in a grave sort of silence,almost seeming pissed off. "I saw something kinda freaky myself..I dont think i wanna share it really. Let's just keep moving."
They could not sense any specific sense of panic or direction as they moved towards the food pavilions. Some people seemed as casual as the day was long,pushing a baby ina stroller,while others inthe distance would be seen running. Some directly towards each other. Jeff briefly considered the notion that they were experiencing an alien invasion and there were several of these things everywhere.
"You'd think there'd be police and sirens and stuff" Jeff looked around and found himself consciously picking up his pace to match Mike's. When he turned around he had to stop suddenly or else run directly into someone. It was a skinny lady in a green sweaty t-shirt.Well defined feminine arms were outstretched to prevent a potential clonking of bodies and skulls. He looked in her face and realized it was the telephone pole lady.

Wednesday 27 May 2009

Art & Blogs & Atlanta & art


So I know it has only just begun,but I'm already keeping tabs on the new new art blog that Cathy Fox and cronies have corralled themselves in order to create-out of some strange sense of what? I suppose to them it's benevolence or kindness. They are doing us a favor,and in a way, they are. If you simply judge it based on the fact that somebody who can write is putting forth the effort.

It's the thought that counts....right?
Well,in this case there's definitely many sides to that.
Yes,it is true a blog is often a thankless act-and in many cases it is simply one of self-absorption,a place for varying degrees of respect to be brought to. Art itself is like this. It is also a gift to others. I must accept that this is what Cathy is doing...but so far it has only reaffirmed certain sensations.
Their blog is trying to come out of the gate showing a rounded sense of the word "cultured". It does this by focusing on a broader sense of the arts. Thus far,its posts already seem prepared to establish a sort of audience that I must confess-insinuates what I consider an enemy to the breath that art in Atlanta needs. The idea of painting an image of highly educated successful architects working abroad and dining in silly expensive museum restaurants...and nice coverage of how various symphony violinists are tuning their instruments oh so playfully. I understand this needs and deserves coverage. It exists-but then again-so does The Decatur Arts Festival. I simply hope the crew at this blog warm up and it gets some variety humming-and that it gets its mittens a bit dirty in our Georgia red clay. I hope they realize the freedom to explore and be brutally honest,to not be afraid to show an exposed path of learning- a blog represents this reality. I see the comment section on their blog is already attracting individuals whose only thoughts are of themselves-insipid requests about getting Cathy to do press releases and "look at my blog"rot-but no comments on the art written about.
A delusion that various Atlanta art pockets share as a bond is this idea that there is an art scene of respect here. There is not and this a constructive observation. Please do not fool yourself into thinking there is a system to incorporate yourself into if you are an artist. If you are an artist that wishes to participate,I'd say your first duty is to realize that we need to fertilize the soil before planting our---ART. What has always happened here has been perpetuation of Illusions. Someone establishes a title of critic or art writer or gallery owner and they have an opening and everyone attends and plays pretend. I know, one could argue all art is play pretend,and to a certain extent value increases in this manner-but that's another aspect we haven't even reached yet- because most of the art we stand around and play pretend with is still not entirely there yet. It slaps itself on the back for decades upon decades...we sight the successes of our Todd Murphy's and Steve Penleys, and our Kara Walkers and Radcliffe Baileys and Angela Wests and Sarah Hobbs and so on and so forth..in some cases these are amazing artists...but they often find dull teeth in our environment. I find myself forced to blame them and to look closer at why.There is a duty to reacting to our environment,not to some idea that you can become a messenger to other cities because you operate here. The work has to be local.and be local.
In some sick cycle, Atlanta has always found itself with sudden tourniquets in place. Partitioned into areas of delusion. They mean well,they really do. All of them do. All of our separate pockets.I've ventured across them and even published my own writing in and from deliberately different art pockets.
Look at the comments sections of various art blogs-true,you will find my silliness in a few of them-but what i more realize in this is the individuals associating,the individuals that- as an example "do know where eyedrum is"-are on a same team. Do they realize this? I think maybe not-but ultimately i think in some odd way it does not matter.I sense a large disparity in intellectual taste and respect,which is actually great.it is being put in the open. A felt push is happening. They are observing themselves and being honest. I also sense a unity forming,one that people like Cathy Fox must realize. Many of the bigger figured galleries in Buckhead & Midtown wear this on their sleeves,a prime example being Tew-whose interest in interior design is no secret. This sensation exists in any scene,but In Atlanta,this sensation is what is praised. No attention to relevant meaning has ever been written about with critical individuated thought. It is most often safe descriptive "play for today" rubbish words.
The strength of work that I consider "Bridges" the scene, in places like Whitespace, are a blessing. I am also thankful for Saltworks- and even Solomon. Places like Beep Beep,Mint,Young Blood, and Alcove-represent a sort of staple. I find these sources to generate an energy,and beneath all of this is Eyedrum...it lays a foundation and represents a principle.I am curious to see where Wonderroot's energy goes...

A curiously timed post on another Atl art blog I visit brings up a topic concerning ,albeit loosely, the topic of artists and how uninhabitable the environment created by festivals tends to be. This was the observation anyways.
I think there is some confusion taking place here. Let's us just pretend for a second-and i don't think this is too much of a stretch-that those in attendance of festivals by and large have essentially the same mentality that is utilized by the casual observer of what used to be the arts section of the AJC. Festivals are primarily for the event of it all,the sunny day,the funnel cakes and the stroller, and fulfilling of the desperate desire to do SOMETHING. It is not about the art.And i will go you one further. The jurors of the art being accepted into these shows,well,they make certain that the art is..how was it described by JC- "innocuous"..yes,innocuous. Nobody likes to think when they're scarfing down a ten dollar ten inch sausage and a co-cola. Was their some talent out there? Sure..there were some pretty things,but this builds towards something..I was not wearing my critical expectations of art in this environment,so it was not judged on those terms. I would almost go so far as to say that-for the purposes that would best serve Atlanta-what one sees at the Decatur Arts Festival-is not art. Anymore than what connotation Buckhead & Midtown galleries have irreversibly smeared over themselves. They have made themselves a static and necessary symbol to stand opposed to. Avant movements have always been ugly and launched from deeper needs. When the gap between life and art has closed in on itself.

I say the pressure is on those operating in and out of places like Eyedrum,wonderroot? to really gaze deep down that navel. To think locally and lets develop a closure with ourselves before trying to engage the world. Before thinking of ...uuugh..Money. in order to make money.

(above image credit to andy em-scattered work in process shamble sneaky snapshot)

Sunday 17 May 2009

ABSTRACT FUN( young blood- kibbee,mattress factor, eyedrum)





I think the way to approach my previous evening of art travel is to tell it in some sense of reverse order. Even in this case it will not be so much LACIGOLONORHC<---as I myself am not exactly logical,nor was the night one that was monochromatic. Except for perhaps after being filtered through the weight of the evening.
I hit the Majestic at the end- for some orange juice and pancakes. I've always heard this place is "at your own risk" and thus far have been basically satisfied. Man, food is expensive. But orange juice after an evening of art on top of art on top of art is a good thing.
I know I didn't try to conquer the Louvre or anything,but I was reminded of how one is supposed to remember to pace the patience on the eyes and mind. One can only see so much before a certain space is filled. It's an odd feeling I feel in my whole body,I've noticed. I can tell when I suddenly realize I'm just looking at the surface of things. Some nights or days I start off this way. I wonder if it is because I see everything as potential art? Maybe that's a problem. Somewhere along the way I forgot to live and now everything is trying to be a reaction to something I'm not even experiencing? Hmmm.
But art! In Atlanta! I visited Mattress Factory Lofts last. And in there, I visited David Huff last,prior to that was Tony Hernandez.(I have a back pocket full of names I picked up to remember somewhere on the floor in this house I write to you from). I noticed David Huff when I was coming up the metal stairwell,saw him through the spaces of the rusty steps, he was hanging with a crew of guys. They were bent over and drunkin' crooning on an old piano in the factory's foyer.
His studio was one of many abstractions I ran across this evening. His language handling of it was one of the more pure from the tube seeming, Vibrance throughout, I was reminded of what would happen if one took one of Hockney's swimming pool paintings and swirled it up and stretched it out,slapping remnants about. One piece carried a hint of influence from Maxwell Sebastian,or it seemed to me anyways. Of all the paintings,this one had what looked like a deliberately unfinished feel and possessed figurative elements in a staged environment. Not that this alone is a Sebastian flavor, I simply sensed something. Perhaps it was just me projecting my knowledge of their friendship.
Maxwell Sebastian is one of the more intriguing studios to visit in Mattress Factory...ya know, I'm going to save all I could write on Maxwell for another post. I just decided this. This deserves a post on its own. I have known Maxwell for going on 6,maybe 7 years now-and he has shown me what it means to retain a sense of self, a rawness of feet n flesh to the ground, and still develop artistic skills in both technical and conceptual ways. I know he's been clawing at it,he's stood like an oak through some barebones days. And he's always kept art important throughout. His work does not sugar coat,it celebrates delicate when necessary and skillfully controls a sort of deterioration and crudeness,an honesty that is perfectly ugly. All of this shares space and travels across sometimes massive canvases,resulting in his own abstraction,composed of various solid forms. It seems to be a process of truth revealing itself through culling and patching,both visually on the outside,as well as being in touch with the self. I'm happy to hear Max has changed a number of things about his lifestyle,so as to increase lifespan and the quality of it, I guess! Why would he want to do that?(heh)hmmm.
So i went ahead and wrote a bit about him,okay. Hey-I like his will to be gritty,and how in his work his present environment is sometimes-no-ALWAYS-evident. Portraits of friends,not done to be flattering even remotely, everyday objects become iconic atlanta structures looming over everything. We sense the artist deliberately showing us his hand in the making of them,in various ways...one way being the aforementioned will to show his technical skill for beauty,purposefully set next to elements that have a tendency to seem to some(or so he says)-incomplete. I can personally tell they are not.
Okay, okay....where was I before Maxwell's studio? I did see some body's work who made me wonder what the heck was up with that. It is not often I see someone who shows so much work so conspicuously and so prematurely to the public,rare is the moment that makes me realize that there is not a single aspect to the creative process that I have not managed to develop some sense of self awareness that this artist has yet to attain. That may be a rude thing to declare,but by golly-some stuff I saw was just bad-and i don't mean bad as in,it was ...oh jeez. Here we go on subjectivity. Lookit, somebody showing in Mattress is bad news. I don't even recall their name,and that's good for them.
Hell,to be honest-on another end of the spectrum,I find Tony Hernandez's work to be bad news. The space in his massive studio echoes the space he leaves in his work. It seemed like a tomb in there.Silence had become a machine for the wrist,like a sense of self and safety had long sense consumed his process of manufacturing beautiful work. He knows himself,so that's good,but I was rather bored by what I saw. And have always been kind of bored by them. They reek of a need for a big wall space in a big home,one that some wealthy man gets the help from some ADAC type interior designer's mind-he's hardly ever there to see-because his mind and body are usually elsewhere anyways.But they are art. And all the right accouterments are in place. So bing bing!

I noticed microcosms of the larger microcosm of Atlanta's pockets as I moved through the building. Distinct clothing styles and other surface level stuff. People clinging in their environments,their experience sought,they found what they were looking for. Something different did not find them.and everyone knew their place.Including me, i have to suppose....

I did go to Kibbee Gallery. This time it was for Laura Ann Meyers viewing.Hmmmm.That sounds kind of like a funeral,actually. This was more the opposite. But turned inside out and solidified in the form of various little vignettes and structural installations- from view finders of stop motion fun to red streamers flanking a short stairwell rattling color. And a strange wreath of snowy antique shadowy soft texture-which as it turns out was made of deflated balloons. A happy portion of a tree almost going to the ceiling in the entrance corner. Perhaps a paper mache tree or something of that sort of material. It was a happy tree,tho. even though it had no limbs or leaves as I recall.I think it slightly glittered. The gallery felt like moments of a childhood dream, a child's birthday party-but suddenly mixed with a wedding celebration. There was def. a strange air of southern religion creeping beneath it all. Maybe that's just me,or maybe it was the thin oddly legible lit wiring scrawling the words, "swing low sweet chariots" high on the wall. In another room(Kibbee gallery is a house converted into a gallery,guys-it works very well)-one wall had the will to light up,cover up, utilize the entire wall space to illuminate, with evenly space light bulbs,the number Twenty Five. A gyrating transparent plastic amorphic globular wrapping of black balloons hung from the ceiling,and- as I write this I make some sort of vague connection between birth and death and cell division, bringing me back to the white balloons making the wreath in the other room,lacking air, while this ever spinning giant sack of black bubbles, seemed to have something to say about... age? The number on the wall now speaks to me of an age. I did not read anything about this show, I confess now. So I'm sure I miss its finer points. I did enjoy the little Tootsie roll pop movie. It told a strange little story of sorts. As one peered into a little screen mounted on the wall,it framed its visuals with happy yellow colors of tissue. A loosely recreated version of a tootsie roll pop wrapper sat within its opening on the lip. I liked the reference to the indian shooting his arrow on the wrapper-but in the movie it was given a jittering life,it gave it motion. We got to see the indian's arrow fly. I recall childhood lore,- was it oral tradition how was it passed,but the finding of the indian and his arrow shooting the star all on one wrapper was supposed to be good luck.

I also went to Young Blood to check out the skateboard show. Skateboard decks seemed to be irrelevant in terms of what they were originally used for. In some cases it still seemed like the underside of the ol' powell peralta decor,just cool imagery to scuff up by grinding on concrete angles-but those days are long gone, buddy. It's just a surface to carve up into unrecognizable shapes, something to create with now. I think in some cases it is perhaps a bit too removed. To me,if it's a skateboard,it'd be neat to somehow retain that..i mean..it's a skateboard. Not just any other random piece of board. I think it was Stephanie Dowda that made hers look like a brown bagged alcoholic seeming disguised bottle. Pretty cool,pretty funny. Lots of skill on theses walls,for goodness sake. Many people chose to lean in for some detail. Fantastical imagery often drew the eyes in and around. Some were moody,some were creepy,all had fun. Lots of technical skill illustrated. And a large number of boards to experience,too. It was fun stuff.

What's interestingi s i am realizing just now that I edited out Eyedrum from my walk thru of its open studios...dang it all. Woody Cornwell mostly prevailed,in terms of used space as well as quality.(well there was a guy named Jeff Lange,i think was his name-he had a really fascinating piece with...uuum-ducks in the foreground. But Woody, he's a surprising weirdo.(a darn good writer,too). Some strong abstractions he does, playful and often showing a really great eye for subtlety in color. Really ripping on some Stella and other ab-ex gods,but doing it well and making it somehow really odd sometimes. A hint of a bad dream Don Johnson might have had in the 80's vibrates on some of them. Gooey reverb pulses.Perhaps i will go into more detail about what I saw some other time. Like getting a sneak preview of some of Andy Em's abstract fun.
Gosh. Abstract fun....almost an overload of it, I tell ya
I gotta go now.

Friday 15 May 2009

TIME FOR SOME BEE-LOGGIN AGAIN.

Howdy everybody, my name is eggtooth and i am here now. I exist in this space,confined if you will. I will claw and viddie well your world,your atlanta through this vignette,this here hole ive scratched to peek at you through.
Tmorrow i will go see Kibbee Gallery & Mattress Factory and i will make some silly attempt at being a blank positive slate. A potentisl energy board,prepared to happily register passion in the for mof words upon my return.
But tonight...it is silliness while I listen to the various clouds roll over the top of this building. Today's sky was indeed a nice one. I liked watching the phases it went through.
I cannot decide if the new materials to pain twith(i acquired some medium density overlay and have a bunch of damar melted up) will go towards a pathetic manufacturers desire for money,or will they sit while i begin to sketch?
Tmorrow night, i am curious to see what Maxwell Sebastian has to show. I have known him for a long time now. i met him when we were trading wall space at Apache in, i think it was .....god...was it 2002?
anyways i must go now. it is friday night.

WHAT WILL YOU DO?

If you think you think you should heed the warning of your mother and sister and not risk uncertain sorcery,turn to page 25

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