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After 17 years, it will be The Day of the Locust once again. The summer of 1987 was completely revolting. More grotesque than Nathaniel West could have imagined. Carcasses, molting everywhere, like a million car alarms going off continuiously, children ripping them apart and performing evil experiements, dogs and the homeless eating them...
It’s a balmy Spring day in DC, Skunkeye welcomes the blooms but wishes the throngs of touristas would go away. Stole away from the office to catch the Jim Dine exhibit at the National Gallery of Art. Realized halfway across the Mall that I might run into those awful NGA girls from that unfortunate party I went to last weekend but figured, what the hell…
Jim Dine was never one of my favorite Pop Artists – dunno why – and I’ve seen and enjoyed quite a few of his later drawings and prints in shows and art magazines. Somehow his work never made any lasting impact on me, or I failed to associate the work I really liked with Jim Dine. I know I’ve clipped quite of few reproductions of his work and put them in my notebooks – in fact, some of these works are in this exhibition. At any rate, the current exhibit, though I wish it could be larger, is a real revelation and a enjoyable glimpse into the mind of Jim Dine and what makes him tick and turns him on.
The work in this exhibit was all created after 1971, after Dine’s Pop prime. There’s something really subversive about a Pop artist diving into more traditional drawing, and I’m sure Dine knew that. So basically since 1971, he was teaching himself how to draw, using the traditional art school methods of charcoal, pastels, life drawing, and learning from the old masters. He’s always questioning, exploring “what exactly is a drawing?” – as I was, and countless others were, in school. Dine draws on a variety of materials - printing press felt, acetate, and porcelain. And when he draws on paper it never just a flat sheet – it is ripped, scrubbed, distressed and folded. While employing traditional drawing tools such as charcoal and pastel, he Dine also uses industrial enamel and other non-orthodox mediums. And many of Dines drawings actually look like prints rather than drawings. He challenges the notion of what a drawing should be and is defined. For example, if you use charcoal on stretched canvas is it a drawing or painting?
The large “Name Painting #1” – charcoal on canvas – is the piece that greets visitors when they enter the exhibit. On it Dine has written hundreds of names of the individuals who have influenced him in his life and as an artist – the charcoal lines blur and run into each other, names comes forward and recede, history blending and erasing and the mark making as a primal as cave drawing. Bit like an absinthe-soaked cousin of the more refined Cy Twombly (who has a similar fascination with the ancient world)
It’s kind of a sexy show – Dine’s trademark images – tools - drills, hammers, and clamps become shadowy pubis and ghostly phalluses. Well, at least that's what Skunkeye saw - its open to interpretation. Several life drawings of nudes, faces ripped off, red glove attached, some with De Koonig-like wild women eyes. And in his later work highly charged drawings of classical nude statues are plentiful, including a rather dynamic triple-study of a hermaphrodite torso. Dunno, kinda lurid.
In his self-portraits, Dine looks like a sage. Large drawings of owls abound. In fact, the last room in the exhibit contain his "Glyptothek" series, which are luminescent monoprint-like drawing of the antiquities held at Munich’s Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek – you can see Dine in his rendering of bust of famous greek philosophers. The show seems to explore the theme as the artist as creator or alchemist. Perhaps a modern day Geppetto would be an apt description of Dine.
Skunkeye really digs his Pinnochio series. Almost as if Dr. Frankenstein pieced together Pinnochio out of sugar and spice and a whole lotta nasty - the puppet boy even appears to have a boner in some of the drawings. Skunkeye has a hard-on for Jim Dine. Rock on National Gallery!
Skunkeye isn’t the type of blogger that posts baby photos – or pictures of kittens, knitting projects, or snowfalls for that matter – but I couldn’t resist! (The photos were too large at first, now too small... oh well, still getting the hang of this) I’m just so damn proud and happy for her. Marit delivered her third child, Luis, the other day. Three boys – Daniel, 3, and Andre, 1, and now Luis – in a little over three years. And to think I introduced her to husband – my, am I auspicious… wish I could use some of that luck on myself but Skunkeye’s superpowers don’t work that way.
I’m sooo homesick for Manila right now – to think that in the time I’ve been away, Marit has had three kids and I’m still at this stinky gig, stuck in DC. Really need the time and money to travel right now.
Today I’m feeling muy guilty because I really bitched Bumblefuck out last night. Need to get him a plant or something on the way home I feel so bad. He wasn’t even being that annoying – I guess the anger and resentment has built up. And I was hungry and trying to cook dinner. It started with my once again asking him not to do the laundry late at night (its very loud), then I got all pissy about the loud cell phone and the slamming and the banging and the guitar playing and the messes and the breaking and ended up asking him, “Have you ever, even once, cleaned a fucking toilet in this house!?!!”
Bumblefuck replied, “Um, no.”
Skunkeye received this note from my uncle, who is from the Icelandic side of the family, about artist Olafur Eliasson’s current show at the Tate Modern:
Did you see the article by Michael Kimmelman on Olafur Eliasson in the Times Sunday Arts and Leisure, "The Sun Sets at the Tate Modern: A London Hot Spot Closes, and Its Creator Is Happy to Move On" Datelined Berlin, where Olafur lives, it says: "The Tate Modern in London recently suggested extending the wildly successful six-month run of Olafur Eliasson's installation in the museum's vast Turbine Hall. An instant cult site of mood-altering atmospherics, both gloomy and eye-popping, "the Weather Project" consists of a fake sun (yellow lights behind a huge semicircular screen, below a mirrored ceiling) and pumped-in mist."Olafur was the featured artist in the Reykjavik Art Gallery, over by the harbor. There was a large, mirror-ceilinged room there too, like Escher, with reflected tile floor.
There is a stunning, photo of the large gallery, looking like a steamy savannah baking under the late
afternoon sun.
It seems apparent that Olafur is quite hot.
Skunkeye is particularly sensitive to seasonal changes, this installation seems truly sublime.
Here is the Tate site which has some interesting dialogue. Also the Guardian review. Incidentally, Olafur Eliasson was one of the artists included in the Icelandic group show, Confronting Nature, at the Corcoran several years back. I enjoyed the exhibit several times, and my uncle, his wife, and my grandmother were able to see it. I really need to visit Iceland soon – I’m probably the only one in my family who has not yet been. Certainly time for a vacation….
Skunkeye saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind with MJ on Saturday – she’s one of the few people I actually can stand to see a movie with. Kept of on drifting in and out of consciousness – which, I suppose is kind of an appropriate way to see the film. MJ kept on having to wake me. Found it quite poignant even though I missed pieces of it – all the performers were at the top of their game. I could even take Jim Carrey. I was grateful that the Elijah Wood subplot seemed to be largely ignored because I really can’t stand him – he freaks me out.
I realized later in the evening that I was probably getting sick – I had been running all over town in the rain earlier in the week trying to find a book – which seemed to be out of stock everywhere and I was told we needed it - and two copies - ASAP for The Man for one of our shows. Which actually we didn’t. But whatever. The ladies told me The Man was trying to punish me for being late that day.
So I spent Sunday and Monday and part of Tuesday feverish, chills, sweating it out in bed. Had all sorts of visitations from people and things from my past and other strange dreams– my dog who passed away a few years ago came back to me as a sort of gorilla. Also a family of macaques at a hot dog vendor- similar to ones I used to have except different markings.
Meanwhile at the casa, while Skunkeye was dying:
D did go that party but apparently no one is supposed to know about it. Whatever. D came back Monday afternoon all disoreinted and coming down from something tweakey and stayed out again all Monday night. He is still sleeping it off. So much for his job.
Bumblefuck had some of his smelly band camp friends staying over unannounced, ripping apart the sala, as usual. When they left Sunday morning Bumblefuck was feeling plaintive, abandoned, lonely and emotional and wanted to share with the world:
Skunkeye Productions Presents:
****Live Sunday, March 21****
******10 AM******
BUMBLEFUCK
Solo, With Guitar, Premiering his new composition
“You Don’t Know How It Feels Like To Be Me”
****free OUTDOOR concert****
Seaton Place Alley, Between 17th and 18thLord, if there was ever a good time for the crackheads next door to use their firearms…
Also daytime TV sucks – except for The Bold and the Beautiful, of course - why is it that every time I’m home sick Brad Paisley and his wife are appearing on some show? They really are the whores of the daytime circuit.
You're David Bowie...and every guy wants to be you,
every girls wants to be in your pants. Or vice
versa, or both! You are innovative, always
weird, and aesthetically pleasing. Your lyrics
are literate, and your music is unlike any
other. You are always unique, no matter what
situation you are in. Everyone tries to bite
off your style, but no one can be you because
you are funky fresh. Be careful to keep your
mental health in check, because you have a
tendency to flip out. But hey, being borderline
crazy makes you even more alluring! You are
skilled at manipulating everyone: the press,
your fans, and even your closest friends. You
are beautiful and strange, and you allow
yourself to change and grow.
Which rad old school 70's glam icon are you? (with pics)
brought to you by Quizilla
My god-brother Luke was mates with son Zowie in reform boarding school in Australia.
And I recieved the new Bowie/Iman Tommy Hilfiger H promotional publication (unsolicited) in the mail yesterday. They look well-preserved. Skunkeye is so not Tommy Boy.
The question is: which Bowie am I?
ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...
Skunkeye needed some cinema therapy so he caught Monsieur Ibrahim last night at E Street cinema. Let me just say once again that although the theater is much welcomed and needed, it has got to be the most poorly designed venue. I’m not just talking about the small, boxy theatres, the mile-long trek to the banyo, lack of security, and the crowd unfriendly box office – but the design scheme overall. Surely they could have done a better job with the marquee- especially if they want to spruce up the area. And the design elements in the theater remind me of a late-eighties can of cherry coke.
So I was prepared for the film to be sentimental and “cute,” and thus somewhat annoying. The experience was aggravated by the fact that all the middle age “titterers” in DC decided to see that particular show. You know, the kind, the nervous types, that just have to make some kind of noise – a chortle, guffaw, or squeal – after every bit of dialogue or action remotely amusing. Or after a sad moment go “awww.” Silencio, please, shut the fuck up.
That said, the movie wasn’t that bad. Monsieur Ibrahim, directed by Francois Dupeyron, is based on a book and play by Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt. I’ve seen too many of these young boy/old guy friendship movies – no, not L.I.E. – so much Monsieur Ibrahim borders on cliché. Omar Sharif does what he can with some really barfy dialogue - "You have only one pair of feet - take care of them," "When you want to learn, you don't pick up a book, you talk to somebody," and "A man's heart is like a caged bird - when you dance, your heart sings." Apparently he made the film because he has both Muslim and Jewish grand children (it is no secret that Shariff has gotten around). Suppose he’s paying for his gambling debts with Disney’s Hidlago. Sharif plays the title character. Although Ibrahim is actually a Sufi from Golden Crescent area of Turkey, his store is known in Parisian argot as "the Arab's store," and he is called “the Arab,” because only Arabs will keep their stores open at night and on Sundays. Kinda like of our Korean stores.
Pierre Boulanger plays Moses, re-(christianed?) “Momo,”a lonely, street-smart Jewish kid who is left on his own by distant parents, and seeks amusement and inspiration in the streets. Momo reminds me a bit of young Antoine Doinel, who first appears in Francois Truffaut’s The 400 Blows. Newcomer Boulanger is charming and open and wise beyond his years – certainly one young actor to watch.
Shot with hand-held camera, director Dupreyron really brings to life his Rue Bleue, a bustling working-class Jewish neighborhood in Paris and, apparently, the city's prostitution district. Set in the 1960’s, costume and especially music color the mood but its not too cartroony or stagey.
Sex kitten Brigit Bardot, looking very Les Mepris, with striped top (the look Kylie is going for now) and red convertable, even makes a brief appearance to add to the celebration of the period. She’s played by Isabelle Adjani, who, in her late forties at least, is looking more and more like a blow-up doll these days.
Skunkeye especially appreciated the sweet stylish putaines. Meow. Always had a thing for Irma La Douce. For a kid with some hard knocks, Momo sure has it lucky with these dames.
In the mid-1960's, more than half of all French teens listened to an after-school radio program (and read the teen magazine), Salut Les Copains, digging American and English rock 'n' roll and its French counterpart "le yeye." Period hits, such Johnny Hallyday’s “Excusez-moi Partenaire (Cuttin' In)” and Frank Alamo’s Allo… Maillot 38-37” are used to wonderful effect and symbolize the wave of changes happening to Momo and the neighborhood. Skunkeye especially enjoyed hearing Richard Anthony’s classic “Nouvelle Vague.” Timmy Thomas's "Why Can't We Live Together" opens the film, a great song, granted, but not one Momo would be listening to on Salut Les Copains. It came out in 1972, and is used at the predictable closing of the film more appropriately. With lyrics like "All we want is some peace in this world" and "No matter what color, you are still my brother", gives overkill to the film’s theme of universal love and brotherhood and ebony and ivory and all that.
Without going into the story, Ibrahim and Momo leave Paris and end up trekking to Turkey, Koran in tow, on a Religion 101 sensory walking tour, stopping by Orthodox Churches and Mosques and checking out Dervishes. This footage is quite beautiful and fascinating as well. Skunkeye knows what its like to mobbed by village children wanting their picture taken. And there’s a bittersweet ending. Nice but a bit cringey this film.
Speaking of Salut Les Copains… it is also the name of my Typelist where I list friends and other bloggers I read or have linked me. I’ve been bad about updating. Today Skunkeye received a lovely note from sweet hip Sarah whose bursting-at-the-seams blog chronicles her wild life playing with the bright young rock things in NYC. Such wit and stamina – check it out.