Happy Belated Holidays

Looking for a Safe Investment?

(Here's the, um, money shot; your reward for slogging through these posts.)

We knew it was imminent. All those motorized dildos, but no . . . ?

(Thanks -- of course -- Ben.)

Rebecca Carter

Just got these photos of her work in the (anti) Formula show at 500X. If I understand correctly, Carter sews this work on cellulose paper which she subsequently dissolves; the remaining thread is then installed on the wall with pins. The shadows cast create a disconcerting, eyeball-jiggling jitter. I thought her Bed L.E.M. was especially wonderful. Carter also works in video.

Komfort Thru Kool-Aid

Dunno know 'bout you, but I'm keeping a close watch on Obama; and so far, his picks aren't totally reassuring.

When I was 10, I was best friends with Donna Drvaric, who, like me, liked to read.

My parents did a good thing when they chose to buy a tract home on a lot that backed onto Whitnall Park. The park is still there, in a suburb of Milwaukee, which had had a socialist government for many years and thus had stellar infrastructure (many socialists were, far as I can tell, and still are, about serving people – they created a great public school system {my highschool had everything from auto shop to 4th-year Latin, plus a calculus course that made my subsequent East Coast college calculus seem aimed at retards}, the best-designed freeway and other infrastructure in any city I've ever lived in, plus great public parks, among other things {I wish they'd taken a shot at health care}).

So anyway, on the border of my parents' yard and this really great park, I and my sis had located/enhanced what we called a fort but what I also thought of as a refuge. Boulders, trees, and a flat spot.

So during this one summer, Donna Drvaric and I regularly mixed up whatever combination of available Kool-Aid flavors we imagined might be most ambrosial (we had to complicate things); assembled selected fruit (we'd gotten the idea that fruit amp'd the luxury factor); gathered up our current reads and some comfy quilts; spread out in the leafy half-shade of our fort; and spent a decent number of summer days there, reading, eating fruit, and drinking Kool-Aid.

It was Donna's slightly older bro who intro'd me, in one afternoon, to both Love Potion No. 9 and Do Wah Diddy:



Check that drummer. Sorry, they f'd up the end; here are more versions, all enjoyable; but mysteriously, they all kinda f' the endings up:









Four decades later, when my mom was on her last cancer, I shot the pic below as she walked through our "fort" into the park.

Re- the Current Economic Crisis,

good summary of where we are, how we got here, and how to fix it, here (6:50 min.)

Photo-Mosaic Sculptures

Rusty Scruby's new show, which opened last nite at The M.A.C., is his most wonderful yet. (Rusty is rep'd by Pan American Projects.)

Made me want to track down images of work by a couple of other artists whose work involves cutting up photos. The second work shown (on the left below) is by Oliver Herring; the last two are by by Osang Gwon.

Update on CentralTrak Schedule

The Wim Wenders screenings and the two Art+Tech talks have been deleted (I wondered how they were going to do everything). There's still lots to do; see the official calendar here, and my updated post here.

Something from Nothing.

That's the job description for gods and us as creators. Here, John Cage plays 4'33" by David Tudor.



"I have nothing to say, and I am saying it."

I agree with many of the comments on this video; also, for me, this piece evokes the ultimate inadequacy of all attempts at expression(/articulation) (although those attempts may be our salvation); the longing for space in which to hear one's self (as well as the need to narrow one's focus enough to hear the all-important background noise); the relief of a release from the burden of all of the foregoing, if only for a set time. All of that is too specific, but, I hope, suggestive.

The piece is very existential, I think; and I relate to it because I believe meaning is something we have to manufacture for ourselves, and we can do it out of almost anything, or nothing -- and that we must try to hold ourselves responsible for what we make.

Reminds me of a poem by Wallace Stevens (excerpt):

One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail.

One beats and beats for that which one believes.

That’s what one wants to get near. Could it after all

Be merely oneself, as superior as the ear

To a crow’s voice?