Impossibly Reliable Remarks

Offering Ten to the New Museum

2011-04-05T12:40:00.000-04:00

     As the rain clouds roll in over Jersey City now, eventually, those bluish-gray clouds will pass. Perhaps it will sympolize something for someone, somewhere, but, remember, they will pass, and the sun will once again appear, shedding its light on the immediate communites around us. So let us move forward, working together and working apart, but always doing what we can to sustain individuality and community in this long, ongoing, sometimes very challenging and difficult process.
     At Princeton University, one very wise and knowledgeable professor, a Mr. Cornel West, who's lecture I regretfully missed when he spoke not too long ago at Hudson County Community College here in Jersey City, frequently talks about such matters. And he is so right when he suggests that democracy does matter.
     What might matters of democracy suggest in art? Sometimes it's extremely difficult to say, though the results are always diverse, to be sure, yet, if anyone were to ask me, I'd suggest we'd have to wait calmly and see how the New Museum may respond to the January 5 suggestion by the collaborative list devised by Paddy Johnson and Jerry Saltz, two brilliant critics who devoted time and thought in offering up their own list of 10 upcoming artists to be exhibited for solo shows in that building on the Bowery.
     The New Museum, we can only hope, will be flexible enough to honor the writers' collaborative efforts. Unless others know something I do not (and they do because I surely do not know everything), then, for now, we can only wait and see how that Manhattan museum responds. May that cultural institution listen to their words.

A Tee Shirt & Soup

2011-03-20T14:09:00.000-04:00

     This morning, through the window from this apartment in Jersey City, where one's sight may notice a wedge of a shape from conjoining rooftops of buildings across the street, a bright and creamy yellow light begins to reveal itself. Hints of a rising sun, a radiant, golden orb in the arcing sky.  Some days, it looks brighter and closer than others; other days, more distant, though, it should be mentioned here, one should never look directly into it for it will damage the eyes, burn the retina.
     For artists in the tri-state area, this rising sun (without question a strange source of energy one astronomical unit away from this earth) ought to be at least one of several things we should always acknowledge, not only because it provides us with warmth during the summer months, a sense of it during the winter months, but, just as importantly, it allows us to see with our eyes by providing us with shape, color and form to the eye.
     Once one steps out into the immediate surroundings, the shapes, colors, forms, smells begin to change, alter, transform, re-shape, re-form the way we respond to certain things our own liking. We may think we're able to see more clearly with the sun's presence, and, perhaps we can, but this may not always be the case. So the sun is not everything we must pay attention to.
     Then, there is the moon, just as it appeared last night, circular, big and bright, in the night sky, like a beautifully pockmarked porcelain dish. Tom Waits once poetically and musically sang about it as a "grapefruit moon." My first thought on seeing last night's moon in the March night sky was through a recollection of a reproduction of a painted picture by Albert Pinkham Ryder, yet, aside from my recollection of seeing a reproduced painting in a book, there was no better example I can now recall than the very thing itself which I saw last night -- sublime, glowing, eerie, mysterious, high and low, in the night sky. Yes, the night scares me, too.
     But as it has always been, and just as it is now, and as it will be in the future, my pencil will be in hand, just like it was on Friday afternoon, when, faced with the thought of having to file for unemployment for the first time in my working history, I made a point to return to a gallery at 620 Greenwich in lower Manhattan, enjoy some hot soup, and purchase a tee shirt displaying a very provocative slogan in black letters on white cloth, a material suggested by the tag inside the neck to be made of "100% Combed Cotton."
     "Gotta dry it first before you can wear it," I was politely told. Then, later on, I introduced myself by name, and, probably awkwardly, I left it at that. The soup? Two bowls of spicey pumpkin. Delicious, flavorful, and, most importantly, filling, despite what I was told was a full stable.  The tee shirt? Screen-printed, and ready-made though it was when I purchased it, now, after having followed instructions, it is ready to wear.
     Yes, the spring weather on Friday was grand and magnificent. And moving about in the spring weather as I was able to do Friday afternoon had been a long lost rite for me, as I had done from '93 through '03 when I worked nights for an advertising research firm and had my days free. The problem for me then was that I didn't have any works of art that satisfied me enough to offer anyone else.  So I never said anything about it.  So on Friday, as I strolled around the city, it felt very refreshing to ease my way into trying to reclaim something I felt I lost.

The Swimmer & Crafty Witch

2011-03-05T11:19:00.005-05:00

     Yesterday, during that time of day when one can either say "late afternoon" or "early evening"; that period of time in the day we refer to as dusk, and it briefly settles in on a city and it dispenses with the sunlight only to quickly surrender to the night, this author moved quietly along 11th Avenue and entered the Waterfront New York Tunnel pinned with an address of 269 where a Mr. E. Winkleman's Moving Image Art Fair was set up for public examination.
     Having entered that building, and having passed many strangers seated in chairs, milling about, some reading quietly, others talking, etcetera; once inside that enormous, spacious building, there appeared a series of video screens arranged for strolling visitors to view. And although this author felt tired, out of breath, exhausted, sleepy, ha! -- downright fatigued from a day of expression-less activity -- this author did manage to view three videos presented for public viewing and scrutiny. Note taking was not on this author's list of activities, however, three videos were viewed, one of which I shall mention shortly.
     Interestingly enough, the randomly selected videos, situated not far from a coffee shop that could go by an alternative name like, for example, crafty witch, were quite compelling, odd, fantastic, surreal and graceful. Specifically, one video, according to the wall-mounted label, by Janet Biggs, featured the preparation and gestures of a female swimmer set to cello music.
     The swimmer's movements were gracefully magical and strange, and the video camera was quite obviously recording her movements underwater from an upside-down orientation. Oriented, as it was in this way, deliberately made the swimmer appear as if she had no legs, or, thought of in another way, somehow had her legs anchored by some weird block of gelatin. Jello to cello.
     Should any readers get an opportunity to visit the Moving Image Art Fair today or tomorrow, then by all means do so. You will be enthralled.

The Approaching Change of Season

2011-02-16T21:47:00.000-05:00

This evening, as sirens whine in the background like some strange unseen canine in the darkness of Jersey City, one makes the appropriate preparations for the next sunrise. The weather, we've been told, is getting milder; if accurate, a welcome change from what has felt like a very long winter. Indeed, it is still February, but at least we can begin to get a feel for the approaching change of season.
Readers of this blog will recognize that there are more significant stories circulating elsewhere throughout the maintstream media. Such political, socio-economic, scientific, literary and art stories ought to be followed closely. They hold lots of significance, whether we may like them or not. Readers must know too that this author also has lots of hoppy, dop-creamy, and steamy prose that remains to be written. Prose you can nearly dip your finger in to just so you can lick it off. Literature for adult readers only. Tres bien. In the meantime, continue reading your regularly scheduled texts. This author will do the same.

The Pride in Taste of Mustard-Covered Future

2011-02-14T22:11:00.003-05:00

If, as some news accounts have it, employment opportunities continue to remain absent, and, if, it is true, that cuts in domestic programs and domestic spending are going to be aggressively sought after, what, given the well publicized ambitions of some of our politicians, and, that, commodity prices will be rising, as a recent report by Stephanie Clifford, Motoko Rich and William Neuman present it in a recently published article in The New York Times under "Business Day", then many working-class Americans -- if they at all thought they were in trouble now -- will most assuredly be in deeper trouble if the last two things come to fruition while employment opportunities remain steadily absent. These are not things, it should be noted, other writers have ignored. Nevertheless, with all of this, this author will do what has been suggested elsewhere: eat the word FUTURE.

Having written down on a piece of paper the word FUTURE using a 4B pencil, the artist then isolated each letter by using an exacto knife to cut and separate the letters, one from the other. Once these letters were isolated, the artist then fetched some mustard, squirted each letter with this spicey condiment, and placed each letter on a generic salted cracker, slowly eating, mounching each delectable morsel, thus consuming, over a short span of time, the word FUTURE. Once the artist had completed his task, he went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and smiled widely, quietly sharing with his own reflection a certain kind of pride in knowing that the future had been consumed. Now, as weird as all of this may sound, this meager exercise took place in the heart of New Jersey's second largest city.

A Chance to See Birds in a Park

2011-01-15T11:20:00.001-05:00

     Yesterday, as Jersey City and its many splendid citizens moved through its unique routine, over a game of backgammon, a dear friend of mine and I entertained a compelling conversation, which blossomed like a flower from a comment I made about winning and losing in any game we may decide to play. As we played, and rolled the die, midway through it, I had established an early advantage.
     But then, suddenly, my luck had changed, and this change took me back to my days at Indiana State University in 1979, one year after Larry Bird had left his mark on its college basketball program. Mr. Bird had become legendary, and, of course, as some of us may recall, he went on to make his mark in the NBA. Now, this change in my advantage of the game over my friend took me back to Indiana State University because I had spent many hours in my dorm room playing the game of backgammon where advantages shifted with the roll of the die.
     "So," my friend started, "you thought you'd beat me, right?"
     "Of course. I'm sometimes lucky this way."
     "Lucky? Really? Seems you don't know how to place your chips, Smock. Where did you learn to play? In Indiana?"
     "Yeah, but what's that gotta do with anything?"
     "It's the midwest," he asserted. "Everyone I've ever met there is stupid."
     "Stupid?! That characterization seems a pretty offensive thing to say to me! But if this is what you think, then, well, okay. So you think I'm stupid. Perhaps you'll find Kurt Vonnegut stupid."
     A long stretch of silence separated us. I lit a cigarette, thought, and quietly wondered to myself how I might paint a self-portrait depicting myself as stupid. And, as I thought, I watched the smoke from my cigarette curl and twist upward toward the ceiling.
     "Yeah, stupid," he reitterated, completely dismissing the mention of Vonnegut's name, just before picking up his glass of water and putting it to his lips.
     "Well, I don't agree with you but if this what you think then you're entitled to think it; not much I can do about that. Seems to me it is a lot of trash-talking on your part, but we all engage in this form of expression from time to time. Clearly, it exists on the basketball courts during the hot, steamy summer months at Lincoln Park just off Kennedy Boulevard, not too far from here. Although birds will sing from the tree branches, some of the verbal exchanges I've heard are very brutal, and in a sense, quite violent, but each summer I continue to go there and play. Admittedly, I'm a terrible basketball player -- no Larry Bird at all -- but I do derive some enjoyment from it; it's competitive, fun."
     My friend, looking at me with a sort of disbelief, squinted his eye, and asked, "Why?"
     "Well, as I said, it's fun," I told him, adding, "of course, now, I cannot quite play basketball the way I used to because I'm getting older. But, of course, as Ramachandran, a neuroscientist who has written several books on brain function, once pointed out, we can still use our brains well into old age."

The Core of Mister Zupendoggobitten

2010-12-28T22:43:00.001-05:00

Mister Zupendoggobitten's Apple, Ink on Paper, 2010

This evening, long after American newspapers and magazines had been read by an information-mongering public, Mister Zupendoggobitten visited this writer for a discussion about an e-mail sent out early this morning.

Arriving with a Granny Smith apple in his hand, and proudly nibbling on it, Mister Zupendoggobitten seemed toward the end of his enjoyment with that pomaceous fruit, a tart and tasty symbol readily found in any common bible. A little more than a half a dozen strides into the apartment, and he was just about to toss it away in a garbage reseptacle. As he raised up his arm, while clutching the consumed apple, he had jokingly suggested that this author could not paint it. Halting him before he released it into the trash can, I demanded he surrender the apple core to me. Dozens of minutes later, after the appropriate preparation for such an exercise, the core's essence was captured in ink on paper as seen in the above digital photograph, though, I must confess, for a digital photograph, it is of an inferior quality.

Still, as I drew the picture, Mister Zupendoggobitten calmly, stoically, sipped away on a cup of hot Earl Grey tea despite earlier today receiving news from me over the phone that he had made four additional mistakes on some paperwork which warranted the additional change in his name from Mister Zupendoggobi to Mister Zupendoggobitten (pronounced zoo-pen-dog-oh-BIT-in). As I lay down some green ink, his eyes followed the thin hairs of a sable brush pushing the ink over the paper into distinctive shapes mimicking the apple meat round the seeds.

Once the picture was completed, I propped it up against a book, and we both looked at it, almost watching it as if we might be waiting for the paper to levitate on its own initiative from where it had been placed.

"So, Mr. Smock," began Mister Zupendoggobitten, his small eyes fixed on the hand-painted apple core, "read the e-mail you sent out this morning to Mr. Jerry Saltz and Mr. Tyler Green."

"Yeah, and what did you think?"

"I don't know, really. Think maybe you said too much. Especially in the paragraph about 'thinking independently.' No one thinks independently anymore. No one. Can't be done. We're all influenced by someone or some thing, whether we like it or not. We don't function in a vacuum."

Pausing long enough to have listened to three popular songs on the radio after he spoke, I replied, "yes, I suppose, in a way, you are right. We are, after all, brought up where we're brought up through no fault of our own. And when we're born, we're brought in to certain social and political conditions that are filtered through our parents, guardians; we're brought in to social and political conditions we did not construct; and we are raised and taught how to make our way through these sometimes subtly, sometimes drastically changing conditions."

"Yes, we are," he said, his eyes still fixed on the small ink drawing on paper. "So," he added, "why then did you introduce such an idea in an e-mail to two writers?"

"Because it, too, really, is nothing less than a myth."

Mister Zupendoggobitten was silent. Then scratching his thumb before the drawing he said, "I see."

The Snowy Reminder

2010-12-27T14:29:00.002-05:00

The Night Contains One Thing, 2007-2008

     As a reminder, the above digital photograph represents the four volume spread, titled, "The Night Contains One Thing", from The Book of Numbers (photograph by Sabrina Grande.)
     Now, as soon as the calm readers of IRR finish digging out from all the snow that was dumped on the Tri-State area overnight, be sure to toss a little money AFC's way so Ms. Paddy Johnson can continue operating well beyond the turn of the new year. Just remember: do it only if it fits within your personal financial budget. (Note: As highlighted here in an earlier posting, AFC needs just $5,000 in order continue beyond the new year.  AFC was able to raise more than $10,000 for "Sound of Art" with the covert help of readers from this site, so this new plea is only half of that.  Readers, make it happen.)

YEG to AFC

2010-12-24T09:02:00.003-05:00

     As the new year, 2011, rapidly approaches, the health of the economy here in the United States remains questionable, even though some news outlets have recently suggested there may be signs of some improvement in sight. We can only hope this be the case rather than some empty journalistic mechanism to generate more spending for the sake of inflating holiday retail sales.
     In the meantime, Art Fag City, a website that focuses on contemporary art, and claims an equivalent relevancy to that of the American painter, Eric Fischl, along with recently being cited by The Village Voice as one of New York City's most substantive blogs, seeks additional funding between now and January 1, 2011. AFC's goal: to generate $5,000 between now and New Year's day in order to continue operating.
     So since that curious spirit of giving is upon us, this author encourages readers to engage in some year-end giving to AFC's cause. But remember: donate only if you think it can fit within your personal financial budget. Who knows? If you donate enough money to AFC's cause, aside from making some dildo grow longer, if you're a painter yourself, AFC just might decide to give you a free smock to wear when you paint your pictures instead of artwork to hang on your wall.
     Here at IRR, and within the grass roots literary movement, OLA, the combined mission here is to encourage the promotion of American art, whether good, bad, cosmetic or profound.  And for some of our more highly visible segments of contemporary American culture and thought, more money automatically means more political power and influence, regardless of talent.

The Four-Book Sample

2010-12-21T19:29:00.003-05:00

Currently outside the ongoing public discourse of free speech and censorship in the United States, for curious readers here at IRR, the above digital photograph represents the four volume spread, titled, "The Night Contains One Thing", found in The Book of Numbers (photograph by Sabrina Grande.) What a supplement.

Critical Articles Read Daily (CARD)

2010-12-20T08:12:00.000-05:00

     As the morning sun rises in the East, this author wishes to re-direct the attention of his readers to other, more significant material that manifests itself in a form of text we are all quite familiar with in our daily American lives: art criticism.
     Indeed, my dearest of readers, please arrange the necessary time out of your difficult routines to read Mr. Tyler Green, Mr. Holland Cotter, Ms. Roberta Smith, Mr. Randy Kennedy, Mr. Ken Johnson, Mr. Jerry Saltz and Mr. Michael Kimmelman, among other, equally prominent names that can just as easily be found within the pages of many of our newspapers and magazines, or if you prefer, online.
     Please, please, this ought not be construed as a suggestion which springs up from a care-free form of jocularity here. Yes, it is true, I say these things with all the corniest, maize-like jokes aside. Read what prose they write.
     Why must I do this, you may quietly, pensively, meditatively ask your self, during a quaint fit of plebian pondering? They have many wonderful things to say!
     Really, by all means, read what they write and give their words, their sentences, their prose, their phrases, the distinguished weight of serious consideration. No, this is not a plug, nor ploy on this author's part to generate more sales! Joke here do I not! These instructions are nothing more than a mere suggestion to you so you may better educate yourself on all things literary, delightful, insightful, and artful.

OLA to Cultural History & Ignorance

2010-12-16T08:17:00.001-05:00

     As we all seek warmth and comfort from the unseasonably cold weather here on the East Coast in the United States, for any readers of IRR who may find themselves fascinated with cultural history in the United States, along with issues of censorship and free speech, please be mindful to take into consideration that all viewpoints comprising a cultural history must be thoroughly researched and considered, regardless of political leanings.
     For example, if you wish to read about emerging art movements in the United States, you should be freely able to read about OLA, or Operation Litter Aure (pronounced oh-Ray.)
     Founded by this author within the last year, OLA (as an acronym, the word is pronounced like the Spanish word, hola) should be easily referenced by The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, Modern Art Notes, The Huffington Post, The Wall Street Journal, Art Fag City, Bob Cesca, and other news outlets around the nation.
     Specifically, as it relates to AFC, since Ms. Paddy Johnson claims to be 1) a chirpy proponent of free speech, and 2) a fierce foe of censorship, as a journalist, she should not overlook statements and stories featured on IRR, or repeated elsewhere. And although it has not happened yet, Ms. Johnson and the supporting cast of so-called writers at AFC, should take corrective measures to be inclusive, fair, far-reaching; demonstrate a willingness to suspend belief in order to get beyond customs and traditions. Doing so will allow them to appear as the journalists they claim they are.
     Additionally, an exclusive history, as suggested by Ms. Johnson's current journalistic habits, given her documented penchant for free speech and censored language, results in exaggerated, distorted accounts of art and politics. As it stands, such continued habits by AFC and Ms. Johnson may suggest that that group of writers wear blindfolds. And, just as the journalist, Randy Kennedy, reports, in a fresh story featured at the online version of The New York Times, when writing about the blindfold 'round Lady Justice's eyes, such a blindfold could be "used as a handy prop by political cartoonists and a symbol of dysfunction by others."
     OLA, journalists. OLA.  Any failure to return the greeting is rude and, more significantly, promotes ignorance, like the politicians, Cantor and Boehner.

The Shadowy Presence of Albert Camus

2010-12-14T16:48:00.000-05:00

     Albert Camus wrote a short story about such a person once. A painter, a picture painter. A man who holds in his calloused hand a paintbrush. Sable, perhaps, but never Basel. A basel brush? No. Someone could invent one, we may suppose, but as for now, that remains to be seen.
     Still, there he was, hair neatly brushed, eyeglasses perched on his nose just right, standing before a canvas, white, pure, blank, or full, depending on how you looked at the problem. Small colorful dabs of paint grouped together by one thin wooden palette.  The man, to some a hero, to others a radical, paused in thought and, after some gesticulating, armed his hand with brush and painted a picture.
     Hours later, this man went missing, his canvas the only evidence of his presence, smeared with yellows, reds and blacks. Experts were called in weeks later, especially after it was determined that the artist would never return.
     These experts, the newspapers reported, had stood around in lab coats, and suits, and dresses and ties and high heels. It was also reported that these same experts speculated, even wildly, at times. It was, some asserted, the sort of wild speculation that easily resulted in altercations, one of which concluded with two "best" friends becoming bitter rivals.
     One of the experts, a woman, married to a very influential politician, insisted that the artist's painting expressed the disgust, suffering, and hatred of the act itself. Another expert said no no, that was not it at all, rather the painting expressed a glorification of friendship and love by the way the artist smeared the reds and yellows together when describing the clutching hands. Although arguments were made, and insisted upon, which, as we noted previously, featured at least one conflict, other conflicts did emerge months later over the content depicted by the very same painting.
     Meanwhile, the artist, many aknowledged, was nowhere around.  They couldn't find him, but he was there: a shadowy presence contained within an academic conflict not described in the painted picture.

The Elder Eliot

2010-12-13T20:19:00.001-05:00

Amid social, economic, scientific, and political events and developments reported on today in the news, The New York Time's art critic who reports from Europe, Mr. Michael Kimmelman, employs, in his article about a found Pieter Bruegel the Elder painting, a clever reference from a poem by a writer who once observed how some women come and go, speaking of Michelangelo: T.S.E.

The Whispered Speech of Instructions

2010-12-11T13:48:00.000-05:00

     Many years ago, in 1974, I remember, as I sat next to a much older woman, whom I did not know, in a pew at church in a small suburb on the outskirts of Indianapolis, the reverend spoke. And as he spoke to the congregation, his words slipped out of his mouth with a weight and wisdom said to be laced with a strange kind of divine intervention. Hearing the reverend's voice as I did, I glanced up at the older woman, her eyes marked with the wrinkles of age and hard work. The sequins on her dress sparkled bright green like a traffic light under the lights inside the church. At the moment when the reverend spoke about some sort of "sanctity of life", the old woman raised her naked finger on her left hand and picked the gaping nostril at the base of her long thin nose. Disgusted and surprised by this act, I tugged on my mother's dress to alert her to this repulsive phenomenon during the sermon. My mother, deeply annoyed by my perceived childish-ness, slapped the top of my hand and, through a whisper into my young ear, instructed me to listen closely to the sermon.  After the sermon was delivered, the congregation was invited to sip on grape juice and eat a small square of bread. Blood and body, the reverend said. Some weeks later, I recall, I would read an article by a sports journalist who wrote about, among other things, a "ritual" involved in a big-time boxer's preparation for a fight.

     As discussion continues in many galleries and museums across this nation from the controversial knee-jerk removal of the video, "Fire in My Belly", by David Wojnarowicz, at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C, some younger critics and writers, like, for example, Art Fag City, are calling to "dedicate venues for the display" of "transformative", "moving" and "transfixing" works of art such as the one featured in this video.
     And while right-wing politicians remain ridiculously unflexible, staunch, as though stuck in time, with their own positions on contemporary American social issues which are expressed and presented in our longstanding American cultural institutions, disregarding and trashing along the way "free speech" rights in our shared democratic process, the writers at Art Fag City should be commended for making reference to the second video mentioned above. Forward, readers. Forward.

An Open Letter to James Panero

2010-12-07T21:01:00.002-05:00

Dear Mr. Panero,

     Recently read your post at The New Criterion about your so-called Jerry Saltz problem.
     Although it read more like a rant, similar in ways to a rant by William Powhida, I still found it amusingly cranky, almost whiny, but revealing (yes, I know, you may think I'm a "chum", or some "graphomanic-insomniac, egomaniacal" whacko, but that is okay. You are entitled to think whatever you like. Just watch out for those right-wing conservative politicians down in Washington D.C. because they just might try to censor you like they recently did with the Smithsonian. Pure posturing, I think. But don't worry, Gropnik, Green, and Knight, along with The New York Times, are doing all they can to fight the good fight and, it seems, with some moderate success.)
     There are however several problems with some of the observations you take time to reveal in "My Jerry Saltz Problem."
     First of all, in journalism, philosophically speaking, no story ever really ends. The story, to be sure, always continues, and we're surrounded by the highlights from these stories everywhere we look. Censorship, a practice that involves regulating speech and muffling expression has a long history here in the United States. And, guess what, it still occurs. Same story, though some thought it had ended.  But, obviously, this story continues. Now, if by chance it seems to you that it does not continue, it may be because fewer journalists nowdays no longer take the time to follow through after the initial article appears.
     Secondly, in your description about those elements which comprise a work of art, you mention "beauty", "energy" and "expression." You go on to suggest that a work of art ought to "emerge on its own schedule", and that it requires a certain type of deep, intimate examination. "Close looking and personal interaction" is, I think, precisely how you presented your case to your readers. Perhaps, in your precise expression about art, you were speaking about this: The Book of Numbers.
     Oh, now, I know you expressed quite clearly your disdain for new media, fluffbook, the Huffington Post, and all of that other Hieronymus Cock-cockery (not to be confused here with Hieronymus Bosch-botchery), but new media can sometimes be where it is at. And because new media is sometimes where it is at, seems to me that Mr. Jerry Saltz does just fine tossing his prose about so his flat, thin, delicate readers can mull over what he writes ("Pancakes", I believe, is actually how he addresses his readers.)
     At any rate, hope this literary treat finds you in wonderful spirits. Smoke a cigarette. Relax. Or chew some gum and blow a bubble, that sort of thing.
     As for now, the dictionary containing my personal supply of bumpy bumper crappy crop of words is steaming away on the old stove. Soon, I will eat every word inside of that damned thing, even if I have to choke on it and die. And that is okay because once upon a time I used to eat Indiana corn, maize, and this is why they sometimes call me a Hoosier. You know, Mr. Panero, the land of Vonnegut.
     So, Mr. Panero, welcome to Operation Litter Aure (pronounced oh-ray).

Best wishes,
J.S.

Editor's Note: In the spirit of transparency, please note that Mr. Saltz paid this writer 1.9 trillion dollars worth of Granada clams to demonstrate support for his ideology, whatever that is.

A Recording (circa 2007)

2010-11-27T16:19:00.000-05:00

Image still to be selected.

Satlz 'N Pancakes

2010-11-27T13:22:00.002-05:00

     As mainstream press and media outlets (Huffington Post, New York magazine, The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, The Wall Street Journal, Bob Cesca, MAN on Artinfo, Art Fag City and the major networks) in the United States continue with its fast-paced, data-jamming coverage of all things absurd and pertinent from different fields of academic study, over at New York magazine, the sage writer and senior art critic, Mr. Jerry Saltz, has at least once referred to his readers as "Pancakes."
     Though it has been covered elsewhere, perhaps Mr. Saltz's characterization of readers as pancakes is somehow accurate. If so, then what does it mean? Does it mean his readers are, say, flat, thin, shallow; soft and delicate, like a cake? Or is the word pancakes an acronym for something else? If it is a characterization about his readers as being "flat", "thin", "shallow", then one may just be required to continue reading Mr. Saltz in order to, metaphorically speaking, gain some weight. But readers may not be able know what Mr. Saltz ultimately means until he says something about it. Until then, the meaning will remain a mystery.
     Now, even though there are some who may who may think that the IRR writer falls under "flat", "thin" or "shallow", the IRR writer really likes pancakes, especially the homemade kind. The pancake batter, once made from scratch, is poured in a skillet and cooked until the surface and edges get brown, not burnt. Served on the plate and sufficiently soggy, when smothered with butter and thick maple syrup, once in the mouth by fork, homemade pancakes become distinctly flavorful and warm on one's tongue. The mouth expands with delight. Soon enough, one discovers he or she cannot resist uttering, "Yummy!"
     And although this confession has nothing to do with broader cultural issues in the United States, when this writer is ready to do so, a painting of pancakes in a skillet might just be in order. A sketch of the intriguing idea has already been completed and, currently, this writer cannot decide if he likes it, or he doesn't. But, for now, while this writer tries to decide on the sketch, you can either go to your nearest newstand and, if you're tight budget allows you to do so, buy New York magazine and read Mr. Saltz. Or you can opt to read him online. Naturally enough, this will be your choice.

Note:  To avoid further confusion, as one reader wryly observed, "pancake batter", as used here, does not mean it is made from human beings. The conventional ingredients, such as milk, eggs, flour, yaw-yaw-yaw, are those ingredients which constitute "pancake batter", as it is used above. Perhaps Mr. Saltz may think of pancakes in this way, but that, again, is unclear.

AU, KV and a Puzzle

2010-11-20T19:23:00.000-05:00

     After a long, relaxing walk along Kennedy Boulevard this afternoon here in Jersey City, New Jersey, many miles away from Indianapolis, Indiana, the sun, appearing as though one could reach up and pluck it out of the sky, just to hold it, to touch it, like a god, I realized that such a feat was impossible. I say impossible because, according to a few astronomy textbooks, that star is said to be about 150,000,000 kilometers away. And when they say about it is because they round the number up from 149 million something-something, cheating us out of a lot of kilometers somewhere. Still, looking at the sun the way we can, and do, one discovers that it is difficult to comprehend this distance because it looks closer with the naked eye than the approximate measurement may suggest.  It may be, in short, a magnificent illusion.
     Now, according to astronomers, because that number is so large, they reduce its estimated value to something called an astronomical unit (or 1 AU) so they can better manage such large numbers when making their calculations. Such a practice sounds very curious to me because that means it conceals a lot of information, data. And when I think about this, I start to feel very little, insignificant, pedestrian. James Joyce expressed it well early on his book "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man." And much like Dadelus in Joyce's novel, my head shrinks from such thoughts. And when my head shrinks, I have to see the shrink because the feeling of insignificance says this: Your existence means nothing. You are one among many, and your prose, statements, presence, does not really matter; what you say has no weight in this expansive universe regardless of who you are or what you do. Yes, you're just a dot somewhere on a floating rock that is much different and much larger than any floating rock Rene Magritte ever painted.
     So, just a little while ago, finding myself feeling very strange, little, insignificant, pedestrian, I decided I'd draw my own version of a beaver in pencil to alleviate the nagging feeling.  Drawing a beaver is not new.  Someone else did it, and you may have even read about the other person on page A10 in this morning's hard-copy edition of The New York Times. But, so we're clear here, I am not him. Oh, I can type. I can fart. And I can spit on the ground like any highly paid baseball player in an American game where time clocks do not exist. And I can wash my smelly socks with detergent. And I believed my mother when she told me an education was so important. But I've never been to Dresden. And, luckily, I've never been in a war (frankly, I can't imagine what that whole experience must have been like for him. Surely, it must have been terrifyingly insane.)
     So I've got near me a ceramic cup o' joe, the cup of which features a kitschy rendition of a snowman, and a cigarette. Here's to your new museum in Indianapolis, KV. You may be gone, but you are ever so present and the proof for this is that some of us still talk about you. Yes, you're once again featured in the newspaper. At least you didn't attend a high school with a sparkplug as a mascot.

Now, for any interested readers, a cryptogram: Lion Kills Bomyr

CNN, Fasstrikasstrikasstrik & Sing Sing

2010-11-19T18:58:00.000-05:00

     Early this morning, this writer posted a brief about an American work of art featuring a word that is often used by a lot of individuals on our streets, in theaters, and in concert, yet, one that is also forbidden visibility on television by at least one news organization. Some legendary comedians have long addressed the matter, but, oddly enough, the issue seems to persist like a chronic illness.
     But before going on, this writer did make a mistake in relaying the actual code used in the news item by CNN. The actual code used by that news organization was "f**k". And, obviously, most readers, it is true, will be able to fill in the blanks in a most pedestrian and predictable way.
     Regardless of the ongoing and perplexing nature of the broader issue (yes, Mr. Powhida ought to be able to say, censure, draw, or paint what ever he likes and, no, CNN is not reporting news when it camouflages details), this writer has created the new word for the hymn we should all sing in unison: fasstrikasstrikasstrik (pronounced phaw-tree-kass-tree-kasst-reek). So the next time you hear a recording by this writer, you might just hear this word in the song. And maybe the six-syllable word will be made to last for 8 measures. Enjoy the upcoming holiday, dear reader. These lips shall now be sealed. Sing. Rest. Sing.

A Hymn for Powhida & CNN

2010-11-19T06:42:00.002-05:00

     Yesterday, it was reported on CNN.com that an employee for a Burger King restaurant in Sacramento, California, was terminated for punching in "F*** You" on a customer's receipt. Although it was not clear why the employee resorted to such measures, CNN.com chose to blur the expletive so as not to offend viewers, even though, as a news outlet, that organization is supposed to report facts.
     Such a practice by CNN.com suggests it does not want to alienate its viewers by coming across as offensive, so it dilutes oral accounts, deliberately distorts what viewers can see which go a long way to aid in describing events. Such a reported practice by any employee of a fast food franchise suggests the individual doesn't care about developing a professional approach to working or remaining employed. But employers do not have standard policies and how they handle such matters is usually left up to the employer. Yet, aside from these possible reasons behind individual and corporate acts, it is also possible that the customer (consumer) may have been looking for some claim to "15-minutes" of fame through an appearance on television.
     Yet, there is still another possibility: Perhaps the employee had secretly been fawning a little bit too much over a work of art, titled, "You" by William Powhida. And maybe the now terminated employee read way too much into Mr. Powhida's philosophical meanderings related to why he does what he does when he does it, especially as it relates to something Mr. Powhida says is code-switching. Ultimately, of course, as it is with most things, it would be difficult to say precisely what transpired.
     So, I have an idea: The next time one feels the need to utter a four-letter expletive for whatever reason, resort to the use of cryptograms.  Cryptograms are a great way to say anything you want without getting in trouble. So, for example, instead of saying f*** you (yes, I'm still trying to figure out how this word, as reported on by CNN.com, is actually pronounced) substitute, say, an h for the f; a y for the u; an m for the c and n for the k. The resulting achievement here will be that when you say hymn, you will actually be telling someone off and they won't even have a clue you're doing it. Otherwise, where is George Carlin or Lenny Bruce when you need them?

Gauguin & Bush Stadium in Indianapolis

2010-11-16T06:53:00.203-05:00

     Even though there may exist more important national and regional socio-political issues to think about and consider for a lot of people, for the residents of Indianapolis, one way to escape the intense socio-political dialogue would be to visit the Indianapolis Museum of Art and check out Paul Gauguin's luscious 1875 landscape painting titled, "Landscape with Poplars."
     As an art student and writer back in 1983, that modestly-sized landscape painting was one object selected as the subject of a paper for an art history class. And that painting remains a well-remembered object, what with its lush and scumbled brush marks, adherence of naturally occurring colors (local colors), along with the suggestion of a plein air execution. It was, one remembers, equally notable for its absence of exaggerated colors.   And although the painting was displayed on an IMA wall back then, it is now unclear if it is still on display, or in storage. Perhaps, with some luck, it will still be on display (though likely in a different gallery since, as one understands it, the IMA has grown and matured as a museum over the years.)
     Still, staying in line with thoughts about landscapes, apparently Indianapolis' old Bush Stadium along 16th Street, which once served as the home to the Indianapolis Indians and shared its lot with a small, greasy restaurant called Mr. Dan's (oh, those Mr. Dan hotdog-stand jingles that could be heard on the radio during the drive to the old art school location), now has a dubious function and may end up being demolished. The demolition of Bush Stadium would surely be a sad loss for many residents who have fond memories of attending the baseball games there.
     Though these are simplified recollections, perhaps the most fascinating aspect about the aforementioned painting and stadium are their respective lifespans, and our tolerance (or lack of tolerance) for the preference, preservation, conservation and celebration of one thing over another.

Mister Zupendoggobi & Madison Square Garden

2010-10-03T21:09:00.000-04:00

     As the gray and dull-blue clouds moved in from the west late this afternoon, Mister Zupendoggobi (pronounced zoo-pen-dog-oh-BYE) scratched his head and said, "I don't like it at all." His voice, sounding stressed, trailed off, and it was soon replaced by the gurgling sound of a Japanese automobile barrelling north through a series of synchronized green traffic lights and past Madison Square Garden, along Eighth Avenue. Crowds of people moved along the nearby sidewalk. The post office across the street from Madison Square Garden looked magnificent though its steps were cordoned off from pedestrians.
     "You don't like what?" I asked.
     "I don't like the fact that I can't go back."
     "Go back where?"
     "To the beginning."
     "To the beginning of what?"
     "Back to Mister Z," he replied.
     "Look, Zupendoggobi, I can't help that. You screwed up eleven times!  Eleven times! Get over it! There is no going back to the person you once were. So you made mistakes; you learned from them, and now you're a different person."
     "Ah, that's bullshit. It's just too damned absurd! Too surreal! It doesn't happen to anyone else that way! And, frankly, I really don't like it! It means I'm scarred for life!" Mister Zupendoggobi protested, rapidly raising his hands up in the air in such a way that his dirty thumbs aimed at one another high over his the hair on his head.
     The traffic lights changed to yellow, then red. And the automobiles passing up Eighth Avenue all came to a stop. A cool autumn breeze slightly lifted the collar on Mister Zupendoggobi's shirt.

Give in Four to the AFC Choir

2010-10-02T11:11:00.001-04:00

As autumn begins to assert its presence with its seasonal temperatures in and around Jersey City and Manhattan, remember, readers, there remain just 4 days, yes, just 4 days, to donate some money to Art Fag City's project, "Sound of Art." Thus far, AFC and her chorus of sponsors have managed to raise $7,379 toward their stated goal of $10,000. So give, and give generously! Give to their sounds and music of art so you can hear what they have to say! Give! As AFC says, it is "just as relevant as Eric Fischel!"

Editorial note: As of the above writing, according to the information displayed at AFC, it has raised the above stated amount with the above stated days remaining.

Correction on C. Lickapheathertip's Background Information

2010-09-29T06:57:00.000-04:00

     Yesterday morning, some time after 8 AM, but a handful of minutes before 9 AM, in an e-mail message received by the editor of IRR from a one Mr. Charlie Lickapheathertip, Mr. Lickapheathertip indicated that an earlier report incorrectly identified his "uncle" as being the relative who died while trying to cross railroad tracks in Kentucky.
     Although his brief biographical information (also known as a psychosocial in the mental health profession) originally appeared transcribed here from a submitted double-spaced report back on Thursday, March 4, 2010, Mr. Lickapheathertip indicated that he wanted to set the record straight by highlighting the misleading detail. In yesterday morning's correspondence, he writes, "I did not lose my uncle to a train. It was, in fact, my father who so irresponsibly wandered/walked into doom/death."
     Mr. Charlie Lickapheathertip recently started his own blog, titled, "Just the Tip."
     Elsewhere, in Manhattan yesterday evening, one writer observed two individuals sauntering down a busy sidewalk near Macy's amid honking horns and muttering crowds. Both individuals were wearing what appeared to be New York Ranger hockey jerseys displaying the same name on the backs of the jerseys: Gretzky.
     Were either of these individuals the one and only Wayne Gretzky, who is also referred to in the annals of professional ice hockey history as the great one? Or was the writer seeing double? Although the writer did not have the time to stop the individuals to verify their identification, he did observe the two parsons pausing to look at some mannequins in a nearby window. One of these individuals chuckled, and looked away, as the other seemed to point at the mannequin's shoes. The Book of Numbers 8:208938.

     Note: Only 7 days remain to donate some cash to Art Fag City so Ms. Paddy Johnson can create the "Sound of Art" LP. If you, dear reader, love art, be generous to AFC.

Sounds of Art & Charlie Lickapheathertip

2010-09-26T20:14:00.001-04:00

     Just because the U.S. economy continues to drag along like a child's broken red wagon, it does not necessarily mean one has to withhold donating a little money to an aspiring artist in Ms. Paddy Johnson over at Art Fag City. Yes, dear readers, with only ten days to go, Ms. Johnson and her circuit of contemporary art theoreticians have managed to reach almost half their goal of $10,000 toward creating a "Sound of Art" LP featuring random sounds in and around New York City. So pull out those Lincoln-head pennies and toss them her way much like you would at the City Hall fountain in lower Manhattan. Surely, Ms. Johnson will welcome the gesture.
     This morning, Mister Zupendoggo (pronounced zoo-pen-DOG-oh) provided IRR with a press release announcing that another volunteer, one Mr. Charlie Lickapheathertip, has started his own blog. The press release, provided to IRR, a short time after researching his site on the world wide web, stated Mr. Lickapheathertip's blog could be found at "double you double you dot charlie lickapheathertip dot blogspot dot com." The press release went on to state that the creation of Lickapheathertip's blog "validates Operation Litter Aure, a new powerful movement of art and literature in the United States."
     As an aside to the press release for Mr. Lickapheathertip's blog, Mister Zupendoggo was observed making a mistake while in the presence of the editor here at IRR. As a result of his mistake, Mister Zupendoggo now is Mister Zupendoggobi (pronounced zoo-pen-dog-oh-BYE).

Be sure to check out jksmock videos at YouTube and Vimeo.

A Question of Distance in Momo's Manhattan Urban Trail

2010-09-21T22:18:00.000-04:00

     On Saturday, September 18, 2010, a journalist for the The New York Times by the name of Colin Moynihan wrote about a Brooklyn artist who goes by the pseudonym Momo. Momo, according to last weekend's article that appeared on the front page of TheArts section, was attributed with creating what was described as "possibly the biggest graffiti tag in the world."  According to the article, Momo's "tag" is a thin line of orange paint that stretches from the Hudson river to the East river. And Momo, readers were informed by the article, spelled out his psuedonym with that thin line of orange paint over a section of Manhattan identified in the article.
     Such a brilliant stunt by an artist is compelling in its conception, despite, cautiously enough here, the illegal aspects of it. Nevertheless, Momo's thin urban-trail of paint only describes a surface up to a point. What we do not get out of it is a sense of distance according to Momo's physical build, or proportion, which is to say, the length of the anonymous artist's stride. Otherwise, the distance, an approximation of which could be achieved by using a surveyor's tool called a transit, remains an abstraction.
     For example, the perimeter 'round the legendary Madison Square Garden in Manhattan is 707 strides. The inverted half-pipe by another young artist who was featured in a review by Ms. Roberta Smith, the day prior to Mr. Moynihan's NYT article, has a perimeter equal to 45 strides. By comparison, Rachel Whiteread's sculpture "Ghost 1990", which was in the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. when Avi and this writer visited back in December of 2009, has a perimeter of 24 strides.

AFC & Bach's Mass in B Minor

2010-09-16T21:48:00.001-04:00

     Although philanthropy can sometimes arrive in various forms, most often, it arrives in the form of money, and on occasion, as we might read about it in major newspapers, a lot of it. Philanthropic generosity is always done in good faith, but, of course, it does not always unfold in this way. Words and prose, too, can, in a sense, serve as philanthropic gestures, though our tendency to think this way about it is rare primarily because philanthropy financially benefits institutions and non-profit organizations.
     Regardless of this, and despite my repeated criticism of Art Fag City and Ms. Paddy Johnson, along with those who provide her support at her independent blog, I want to take a moment here and urge you to donate money to her site so she can produce a LP featuring sounds from New York City. Her goal is to raise $10,000. And you can read all about this Sound of Art, and her call for donations, at Art Fag City.
     Now, if this all sounds terribly insincere given my past challenging statements and articles directed toward Ms. Paddy Johnson at Art Fag City, I can assure you this is not the case.  After all, Ms. Johnson is interested in recording sounds from the magical metropolis, and since she's interested in recording sounds from the big city, why not help her advertise her efforts here on IRR, aesthetic politics aside? Sounds like a splendid idea, if you ask me, and I'd really hate to think she'd fail to meet her goals. Wouldn't want her to be disappointed, if you know what I mean.
     So without further delay, here will be the benefits from your generous donations toward her collaborative efforts: Her project will ensure that those involved will not be out on the streets committing crimes in Yankee baseball caps (read this morning's edition of The New York Times about the frequency of crimes committed by individuals wearing Yankee baseball caps); it will highlight local talent, and it may provide listeners with a wide array of aural stimuli randomly generated by huge machines, pedestrians, cops, commuter traffic, traffic lights, consumers and shoppers, strangers, fanatics of all sorts, active construction sites, et al.
     Nevertheless, please give Ms. Johnson an opportunity to reach her goal by donating a few bucks to her project so she can produce a limited edition LP featuring the urban sounds of New York City. And if she's really interested in some additional ideas, she is always welcome to enlist my services. Whatever Ms. Johnson decides to do, I'm certain she'll greatly appreciate the suggestion here, especially in this, our, dragging U.S. economy. And who knows? Although her project will unlikely rival the power and beauty found in Bach's Mass in B Minor, perhaps she'll be able to produce something that is truly avant-garde.

Be sure to check out the jksmock videos on YouTube and Vimeo. You'll be so glad you did.

Note: The above suggestion that Ms. Johnson's collaborative project "Sound of Art" will "ensure that those involved will not be out on the streets committing crimes" does not mean, nor should it imply, that anyone associated with Ms. Paddy Johnson, or Ms. Paddy Johnson herself, has ever engaged in criminal acitivities before the launch of her project "Sound of Art."

Fixed Thoughts in a Bleeding World

2010-09-04T10:48:00.000-04:00

     Under pressure from a close loved one to make a decision to participate in a local cultural event, this author, having decided to pass on what is otherwise a fascinating opportunity, decides to post this article in an effort to address some more provocative matters. It is, dear readers, the difference between speaking out and remaining silent; between taking action and writing prose; between singing lyrics and resting the voice.  And, oh, how the siren's song fills the void with sounds that, in the world of music, are never really categorized as realism, like certain movements are in the history of painting. But this is the United States where anything is possible.
     Unfortunately, there are some, like William Powhida, who think "the world is bleeding." But bleeding what? Blood?  Milk? Streams of polluted thoughts and ideas? And to emphasize Mr. Powhida's editorialized and cartoonish significance, The Brooklyn Rail, a local magazine, with deep resources, and all those carefully designed machine parts indiginous to the printing press, embrace him, declare their love for him, promote him, without truly understanding the meaning in what he might be saying. And, as a reminder, Mr. Powhida once suggested that "art is evil." But, Mr. Powhida, is not in a black metal band. He's apparently an educator.
     And although there is an element of truth in his statement, it is only when we stop to consider the duality of existence in this world. For example, the gaboon viper is incredibly beautiful. I have seen a gaboon viper. The designs on the skin of this creature are astonishing and seductive to the eye. But do not dare touch one. They are deadly and, word has it, make a wretched sound for the ear to hear just before they strike. So, too, butterflies are beautiful. And the author, Vladimir Nabokov, knew this about lepodopterans. But in the butterfly's survival, as a larvae, it will destroy the bark and leaves on trees in order to grow, spin a cocoon, or chrysalis, and emerge, eventually displaying the cleverly designed colors on its wings. The painter, Francis Bacon, was well aware of the dual nature of art, too. And, of course, Damien Hirst made the butterfly his special logo.
     Still, for Mr. Powhida, if it is true that he makes a living as an educator, then what are such implications behind his narrow statement to younger, more impressionable minds?  What if these younger minds find his statement so impressionable that they literally buy into his own words? Who can say?  Few people, it would probably turn out, for none of us can really predict the future, save what we know to be the cycle of life. Aye, but once these young students move on and out Mr. Powhida's sight, he will no longer be responsible for the way these students think about art and all its mysteries. Never mind that Ms. Paddy Johnson, while encouraging Mr. Powhida's artistic development, deeply feels that questioning the importance of what others may call art is something that, under no circumstance, ought to be done.
     So encourage everyone to play the game, Mr. Powhida. But instead of dice, try some books with numbers on them. You can make them yourself, put them in a bag, shake them up, and, say, pull out two in order to know how many squares you can advance in your game. Perhaps one player will pluck the numbers 4 and 8 from the bag. And who might win? No one will know, unless, of course, the game is fixed.

Mistakes, Sentencing, Distortion & Silence in Politics

2010-08-28T21:47:00.003-04:00

     Although the weather in Manhattan and Jersey City was filled with an abundance of sun, newspaper headlines announced the removal of New Jersey Governor Christie's state Education Commissioner, Bret Schundler, for a mistake in an education grant, and the sentencing of former Jersey City Municipal Court Chief Judge, Wanda Molina, for fixing parking tickets. Mr. Glenn Beck, according to many news outlets, was in Washington D.C. offering his peculiar take on the direction in which the United States ought to move. In an effort to perhaps divert attention away from the Beck rally in Washington D.C, it was also reported in the media that Paris Hilton, the wealthy West Coast socialite, was allegedly arrested for cocaine possession.
     Here in this region, spread out over Jersey City, Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, Staten Island, and the Bronx, seven days after an e-mailed query sent to Ms. Paddy Johnson, at Art Fag City, which requested that she clarify her statements regarding a work of art featuring a stretch limosine displaying "Eat the Rich, Kill the Poor", Ms. Johnson remains silent. Ms. Johnson, a self-described journalist and art critic at Art Fag City, often portrays herself as a staunch supporter for freedom of expression, at times criticizing arts organizations and institutions for perceived acts of censorship. Her art coverage features everything from performative action to television programs, public sculpture, paintings and computer gifs (graphic interchange format).
     The Book of Numbers 7:205791
     Sources: The New York Times, The Jersey Journal, Art Fag City and CNN

Bravo for Powhida's Cheap & Ugly

2010-08-22T15:30:00.002-04:00

     As the wind whips the rain against the houses here in Jersey City, elsewhere, online, at least, Brooklyn artist, William Powhida, has most recently expressed his alienated feelings in connection with that broadcast television program on Bravo called Work of Art on his blog. His complaints have substance.
     For Mr. Powhida, unfortunately, it seems the art world, which is to say, Paddy Johnson's art world; which, by the way, is to also say Carolina A. Miranda's art world -- their art world may have tried to clip his wings enough to ground him. Ah, but given what was described as Mr. Powhida's working class background in a NYT article some time ago, he ought not let the recent Johnson-Miranda fluff in Time Magazine discourage him.
     At the very least, Mr. Powhida can take pride in knowing he's doing something much more admirable and rewarding through his work as a teacher for young people in the New York City school system. Teaching, as some may know, is no joke. It is hard work, and though it sometimes can straddle the border between teaching and babysitting, I can certainly appreciate that for what it is. As a former substitute teacher in Indianapolis, Indiana, during the 1980's, and a former case manager for a mental health outpatient program in the South Bronx from 2004 to 2007, I clearly understand how Mr. Powhida's work as a teacher might feel challenging and difficult for weeks on end. It may feel thankless at times, but leave that to Mr. Powhida to elaborate on. Forget the art work, and forget celebrity.  All of that means nothing against efforts to educate others, except maybe to spread, in the words of Mr. Powhida himself, the "ugly, cheap." And Mr. Powhida's description of Bravo's Work of Art was oh so appropriate. As for Ms. Paddy Johnson, she's only about celebrity and politics, two components comprising the leisure class.
     Much of the problem in this region, and across the nation, is that the leisure class thinks teaching, among other things like gaining employment, is so easy to do. And if members of the American leisure class do not think this, they may pick up their pen and write a blurb complaining about how teachers do not get paid enough to teach kids. Behind the lip-service, of course, many teachers do not get paid very well compared to, say, Sarah Palin, yet, to complicate matters further, political attitudes enter into the equation and when that happens it usually wrecks everything we can see under the bright, shining sun. Mr. Bob Herbert, Op-Ed columnist for The New York Times, seems to understand this more clearly than most journalists and writers. Even then the words and prose remain simultaneously cheap and expensive, meaningful and meaningless, weak and powerful, unless one arranges the time to thoroughly understand what exactly is going on. All one needs to do is use their eyes to look around, not slap some garbage together, call it art, and see how much money they can get out of it.
     So little surprise then, when, yesterday, this writer sent an e-mail to Ms. Johnson asking her to clarify her endorsement of an Artbus she wrote about back in March of this year on AFC. That Artbus, a "stretch limo", featured a maxim in big white letters, "EAT THE RICH, KILL THE POOR." The Artbus was highlighted in the previous posting "The Poverty of American Art" here on IRR.  And, as was also pointed out in that posting, Ms. Johnson suggested that this was something she "always" says. As of this writing, Ms. Johnson has yet to respond to the e-mail query. Whether she has the courage to do so remains to be seen. Whatever the case, Mr. Powhida, and other readers, we can only wonder how many kids may wind up poor after they graduate from school. If they're lucky, they might find some form of employment. But if they don't, and can't, as seems to be the case now, one can only hope Ms. Johnson was joking back in March, otherwise they just might end up dead. And that's nothing to joke about.

Note: The first sentence of the original posting read as follows "As the wind whips the wind and rain..." and has now been changed to its current form.

The Poverty of American Art

2010-08-19T20:49:00.001-04:00

     After zig-zagging through the rush-hour crowds at the Journal Square Path train station, some stragglers loitered around the dried up water fountain located across the street not far from the glorious Loews Theater on Kennedy Boulevard here in the second largest city in the state of New Jersey. A man in a wheelchair smoked a cigarette and a woman nearby shouted profanities at him. This despite today's drop in the stock market, the continued saturnine predictions about the state of our economy, and the feverish brouhaha raging over the construction of a "mosque" in Lower Manhattan.
     On page A19 in this morning's edition of The New York Times, a story was published with the following headline: Killings of Homeless Rise to Highest Level in a Decade. The story, written by Eric Lightblau, reported on the growing disturbing trend involving the deliberate killing of homeless people in many states across this nation. The news report cited the National Coalition for the Homeless and suggested that this organization had gathered examples of homeless people being "doused with gasoline and set on fire, attacked with bottles, metal pipes and baseball bats, and sprayed with pepper spray, often," the article went to say, "for the sport of it." The NYT article went on to suggest that some states were now giving consideration to designating such attacks as hate crimes. Other states, the report suggested, were looking at ways to impose tougher measures on those people who resort to living on the streets. By contrast, FOX News provocateur Glenn Beck has recently taken to suggesting that the unemployed in this nation unnecessarily rely on government handouts, are lazy, and ought to work two jobs if one job cannot suffice to make ends meet. At the same time, Mr. Tyler Green, though obsessed with musuems, frequently highlights artists who like to focus on torture.
     Now back on March 11, 2010, Ms. Paddy Johnson of Art Fag City boasted about how she "retreated to an Artbus" in which the words "Eat the Rich, Kill the Poor" were displayed long and large in bold white letters on a "stretch limo." "Eat the rich, Kill the poor. That's what I always say," she gleefully wrote just five months ago. Eat the rich what, Ms. Johnson? Food? And kill the poor people? Ms. Johnson made no effort to clarify for her easily misled readers what she likes to "always say."
     Then, earlier this month -- again five months after her endorsement of the maxim "Eat the rich, Kill the poor", the same Ms. Johnson, along with the ever knowledgeable art critic for New York Magazine, Jerry Saltz, and Tyler Green, of Modern Art Notes, were conveniently quoted by Ms. Carolina A. Miranda in an August 4, 2010, article appearing in Time Magazine. As some readers may already know, the critics, interviewed by Carolina A. Miranda, who is apparently a freelance writer, were offered an opportunity to comment about a recent television program on Bravo called Work of Art: The Next Great Artist. The Time Magazine article sought to focus on the significance behind a realtiy television program in which contestants competed for a prize of $100,000 and a solo show at Brooklyn Museum of Art. The exposure seemed less about good art and more about spreading notions of bad art while satisfying a craving of celebrity for the four writers. The Miranda article, appearing in the widely published magazine as it did, surely must have inserted into the American psyche the notion that all four writers are, in their individual ways, very knowledgeable about all things art, good or bad.
     One wonders what the Louise Blouin Foundation, a foundation which boasts employing "more than three hundred writers worldwide" on its website, has to say about all of this. The neo-classical Statue of Liberty surely must be weeping as she stands on her enormous pedestal.

Corrections: The journalist's name, who wrote the article on the killing of the homeless, was misspelled.  The correct spelling of his name is Eric Lichtblau. Museum, used in reference to Tyler Green, was misspelled.

Oh Canada

2010-08-14T10:48:00.000-04:00

     As American news outlets continue to print and broadcast gloomy outlooks over our troubled economy, one just may develop the perception that the leaders in other nations are looking at us and laughing at how inept we are at managing our own resources, and conducting business. "Ha! Look at those foolish, silly Americans! Why, they cannot even manage their own wealth and resources! They cannot figure out a reasonable way to work efficiently!" they may say.  "Why should we," such outsiders may go on to say, "look to those bumbling Americans for any advice when they cannot manage their own business dealings and resources?!"
     And while such imaginary conversations may be more plausible the worse it gets here, what, then, does it mean when we get art critics who wish to take up an issue with an outside entity, like, for example, Ms. Paddy Johnson of Art Fag City?
     Just yesterday, she devoted space to Canada's National Gallery Director, Mr. Marc Mayer, for making what she suggested were rambling statements related to art in Ottawa, Canada's capitol. Such statements, she suggested, were making her anxious, nervous. Okay, so what? And who here really cares besides Ms. Johnson?
     Now, do not misconstrue my words here. There is nothing at all wrong with Canada. Great nation, I'm sure. You know, luscious landscapes, desolate tundras, ferocious bears stalking rivers and lakes, highly attractive cities, towns, villages, different languages to hear and learn, gorgeous women and men, delicious food, corrupt and not-so-corrupt politicians, a great sport in ice hockey and Canadian football, but if their economy is operating better than ours, then chances are they will not give the fur of a prairie dog a cleaning just to know what is going on here except, maybe, only when it is to acknowledge that things are very messy for the Americans, and that we have some huge problems that have spiraled out of control.
     Now, all things being equal, if the economy and art is as bad as we're led to believe it is here, then it only seems to make sense that we avoid paying attention to what is going on elsewhere until we make things better here. And, again, if things are that bad here, then why on this revolving earth would Mr. Marc Mayer even think Ms. Johnson has anything smart to say about his own statements? "Besides," he probably thought to himself after reading her piece, "Pajo moved out of Canada, so she needs to shut up and do so more work."
     Oh, but such clever suggestions here on my part are based on appearances only. Hard to say what sort of arrangements have been made behind the prose and images associated with old and new media.

The 99 Cent Store

2010-08-10T19:03:00.000-04:00

In the summer's humidity the pedestrians moved along the street in the opposite direction of passing automobiles along 33rd Street in Manhattan. The air was thick with exhaust, primarily from idle buses. Shoppers passed in and out of a nearby ninety-nine cent store. Clouds blocked the sun's bright rays. One man, wearing a torn tee-shirt, broke into a sprint, apparently chasing after another man. Two police officers soon dashed by, shouting a series of commands, dodging the strangers who moved in the opposite direction as if nothing seemed amiss. Yes, yes, a few of the strangers turned around to view the commotion but, it seemed, they'd unlikely be able to glean nothing from such a brief examination of the spontaneous interruption in the daily routine. The work day had ended, but leisure time for the working classes had begun. And it all unfolded black and blue before my eyes. My forearms were damp with perspiration and, eventually, the train had waited for me.

Philosophical Aspects of Lost Work

2010-08-09T21:46:00.000-04:00

     "Well, Mister Zupendoggo," I began, calmly lifting my coffee cup to my lips as the sunlight filtered in through the small kitchen window, adding, at length, "I don't really know how long the IRR will last here, what with the recent announcement, by at least one journalist's account, Craig Aaron of the Huffington Post, that Google and Verizon have reached a proposal to create a tiered internet. It just goes to show you that the corporate leisure class has control over just about everything we do. The working classes, a class Paddy Johnson of Art Fag City knows nothing about, is obviously endorsed in some way by Art Agenda. Art Agenda, according to its website, feeds many galleries with announcents about artists and works of art affiliated with those galleries.  And while she seems to function more as a puppet, the galleries -- and there are quite a few of them in New York City, fewer in Jersey City -- seek to capitalize on the work by artists through lofty commissions when, really, the artists ought to ignore them but cannot because of their need for money. So what we're dealing with here is a slick and subtle form of economic coercion. Galleries in effect say that if you want to show your work, you must submit samples of it, then, if we like the work, we'll tag on, say, a thirty to fifty percent commission if we decide to show your stuff. For working class artists with little money, such practices amount to an intensified assault on all they do. Therefore, Mister Zupendoggo, it is not what skills you know or have that matter, but who you know. And, frankly, that's just the way it is in this nation. I've watched it all unfold to this day for the last thirty years. Forget about an education. Forget about working hard. None of that matters; it seems it gets you nowhere. Everything involves pure politics and spectacle, wrong or right, regardless of the language utilized to communicate one's ideas."
     Mister Zupendoggo grew silent, and, in his silence, his expression changed into one of befuddlement. I placed the coffee cup gently on the table. The morning edition of The New York Times was opened to Paul Krugman's Op-Ed article on page A19, titled, 'America Goes Dark.' My forearm itched and, most quietly, I rubbed it away.
     "So, Mr. Smock, then, with such a bleak outlook, what do you plan to do?"
     "Do what I've been doing for the last thirty years: work, and learn something new.  Working and learning something new is what I've been doing for the last thirty years, Mister Zupendoggo. Should no one express interest in the books, then eventually they will be destroyed and serve as one more example of lost work just like the book, The Eljo Spell of Dewey Spa, 1969 - 1991, and the movie, A Milestone in the Hidden Method, 1998.
     "You cannot do that, Mr. Smock! Are you out of your mind!? You cannot destroy those books! You cannot burn The Book of Numbers! They've been created to share with the world!" protested Mister Zupendoggo.
     "Sure, Mister Zupendoggo, that is one stance you can take, but, listen, I can destroy those books if I choose to do so. Whether I've wanted to or not, I've lost work before; I've been fired, I've been laid off; I've even destroyed my own work before, and it is nothing new to me; nothing precious. This is sometimes what art is about: losing work. And the working classes, Mister Zupendoggo, are always at risk of losing work whether they want to lose work or not. Sometimes, too, losing work can be deliberate. And although a lot more can be written about lost work, the current state of our national economy reflects the essence of these very ideas."

Cicadas Sound in Brooklyn & Jersey City

2010-08-07T12:20:00.000-04:00

     Pausing then as he did, the distinct sound of cicadas filling the summertime air on Monticello Avenue in Jersey City, Mister Zupendoggo raised his eyebrow and said, "But, Mr. Smock, you do not understand, a few well-backed artists in Brooklyn are blaming you for some of their problems; blaming you for the construction of different ideas that challenge and disrupt their own aesthetic ideology. Powhida, Vartanian, Johnson, Moody. They've got it in for you."
     "So what? Such is the nature of the avant-garde," I said, slipping my hand into the front pocket of my jeans and fondling the edges of a few warm coins with my fingertips. "Let them say what they like; they can say whatever they like, as there is no restriction in this region or nation on opinions related to art. Besides, they're members of a leisure class that is out of touch with reality and it is highly unlikely they have very little understanding of the working world. In fact, William Powhida, when prompted to comment about The Brooklyn Museum of Art in an article written by Robin Pogrebin in The New York Times, admitted through Pogrebin's report that there were some things about The Brooklyn Museum of Art that might be 'beyond' his 'experience as an artist.' So what does that mean? He's too young and lacks experience? That he doesn't have an answer except when suggesting that that museum must somehow restructure its brand?"
     Mister Zupendoggo grew pensive, and that magical sound from the cicadas grew louder as we passed under a desiduous tree near an empty lot with tall weeds along the lengthy stretch of Monticello Avenue in Jersey City. Soon, the sunlight dimmed from a passing cloud high in the vast sky, and we moved quietly along the sidewalk, discussing further plans aimed at challenging the prevailing aesthetic ideology.

The Johnson & Moody Art World

2010-08-02T21:14:00.001-04:00

     Although this writer didn't get an opportunity to fully enjoy the weather today in Manhattan, what little this writer did experience was quite pleasant, and it extended itself out into the Jersey City area through the rush hour pedestrians long after work.
     That said, it is always a great joy when The New York Times occasionally publishes several revealing articles under its distinctive masthead that carry over into its inner pages. And even though the topic of art may not be mentioned here, what follows seems symptomatic of some of the coverage presented by Paddy Johnson's and Tom Moody's so-called art world. But leave it to those leisure-class neophytes to complain about frames around pictures, or clamor for a better production of a crass television program, as this morning's edition of The New York Times revealed far more serious issues that will affect the working world.
     For example, on the front page in this morning's edition of The New York Times one headline read, "For Students in Internet Age, No Shame in Copy and Paste." The article, written by Trip Gabriel, sheds light on the increasingly lost knoweldge of citing sources and authorship in research papers by college students.  And although the article was primarily addressing the way in which students thought about text, one of the more revealing aspects about the article could be found in a statement by, according to the article, University of Notre Dame anthropologist, Susan D. Blum. Ms. Blum, according to the article, suggested that the prevailing attitude among younger students is that "...it's OK if you write papers you couldn't care less about because they accomplish the task, which is turning something in and getting a grade." Preceding this reportedly widespread bad academic habit, another article, published on the front page of The New York Times way back on June 22, 2010, and written by Catherine Rampell, reported on the practice by law schools to inflate their students' grades in an effort to "make its students look more attractive in a competitive job market."
     And then, as if this morning's article on the bad habits of college students was not enough, the economist Mr. Paul Krugman confessed, in his Op-Ed piece on page A17, of worrying about how our political leaders "will soon declare that high unemployment is 'structural', a permanent part of the economic landscape", thus, according to Mr. Krugman, turning unemployment from an "excuse" into a "dismal reality."
     So, dear reader, what's worse? A bad frame around a picture and a silly broadcast television program? Or underskilled college students groomed by law schools to "look good" so they can enter and compete in a rapidly shrinking labor market that our political leaders seem to care less and less about?

Note: In the article on law schools inflating their students' grades, "look good" was not the original wording. The original wording for that article by Ms. Rampell was as follows: "...its students look more attractive in a competitive job market."

A Number between Leisure and Working Classes

2010-07-31T10:57:00.002-04:00

     As patches of clouds patiently slide across the arcing morning sky on this last day of the seventh month here in Jersey City, many American journalists and writers for a wide range of periodicals, newspapers and blogs continue to pen their thoughts about the state of the economy and the loss or creation of jobs, oil spills and the long and short term failures and successes of our local and national politicians.  Adding to such national leisure-class musings, American art critics like Jerry Saltz, Paddy Johnson, Tyler Green, and The New York Times fleet of aesthetes play their own peculiar part in promoting works of art on display in museums and galleries both at the local level and on the national stage. The crazy chase for money, fame, glory, and the quest for the ultimate technological advancement and artistic expression, moves forward at a feverish, rabid pace.
     Meanwhile, for working-class Americans, such mass-produced prose may not make much of a difference except, perhaps, when it pertains to advice related to looking for a better job, better health-care coverage, a fatter paycheck to help pay the bills and, in theory, a tangible improvement in one's own lifestyle. And, to the working-class American, if that feels like it is failing or has failed, then the daily ejaculation and orgasm of mass-produced prose off the presses and across the internet goes by unnoticed, ignored or sounding wildly absurd, ultimately serving a much smaller, more exclusive audience than overtly or covertly intended. For those tactile forms of communication that go by unnoticed or ignored, they likely end up in a pile of objects designated for the recycling receptacle.
     Still for the working-class American, there is one journalist who has managed to follow the decline of working-class Americans fairly regularly: Mr. Bob Herbert. And just this morning, under the delightful sight of the morning clouds, The New York Times published his Op-Ed piece aptly titled "A Sin and A Shame", 31 days after an editorial in the same newspaper rhetorically asked "Who Will Fight for the Unemployed?"
     In his article, Mr. Herbert rightly points out and highlights how American corporations have treated American workers over the last several years. And Mr. Herbert's observations are on point, though I'd be quick to add that such corporate practices have been going on for a much longer time than most might think. My own experience says that one can risk devoting 10.5 years to a company only to realize that the annual salary will be a whopping $30,000. And this salary after being promoted to supervisor about two years in to the assignment.
     Under such social circumstances, one quickly realizes one must look for work elsewhere. But the competition in the working world and art world of the United States is fierce and intense. Resumes get sent out. Noise and work is made. Maybe someone will respond, maybe they won't. If they don't respond, what's that mean? Not marketable enough, one supposes.  Acquire more skills through the enrollment in appropriate classes at a local university, many journalists will advise its readers. Good idea, but then it's expensive to take classes. Then, suddenly, one realizes that time has slipped away. And, eventually, the endurance of 10.5 years under such little returns makes, one imagines, Ms. Abramovic's performance of sitting in a chair at MOMA for some 700 hours seem like sitting through a mainstream Hollywood movie replete with high tech visual effects and fast pace action.
     So what's the leisure-class really suggesting to the working-class? Come, spend your hard-earned money, and read my daily writings even if it may seem like I write for the sake of writing? Or look at my works of art? Or sit on the couch, watch TV, and forget all about your misery through a Bravo television program where you can learn about art-making? No wonder then that Thomas Kinkade's own work became so popular:  it's pretty, simple, kitsch, cheap, inexpensive, and possibly meaningless, unless, of course, you're a member of the working-class where you're really just another number.

Note: Ironically enough, Mr. Herbert's July 31 Op-Ed piece features a reference to an economist by the name of Mr. Sum.

Correction: 31 days is the correct number of days, not 61 as was originally indicated in the above article when it was published.

A Bullet and A Cut

2010-07-24T08:40:00.000-04:00

     As the morning sun lights up the soft edges of sparse clouds across a July sky here on a quiet, car-lined street in the second largest city in the state of New Jersey, a headline in this morning's Jersey Journal reads: OUT FOR BLOOD. The newspaper story reveals how one Jersey City teen made two attempts to shoot another boy, and, how, in the second attempt, shot a 5-year old girl in the arm instead. The girl, according to the news report, remains in a Newark hospital, recovering from surgery to remove the bullet. The girl, again according to the newspaper account, is said to be "partially paralyzed" and it was unclear in the article if the bullet was successfully removed.
     Meanwhile, one artist remains inside an "igloo" on Indianapolis Island, which can be located in the middle of a lake on the grounds of the Indianapolis Museum of Art in Indianapolis, Indiana.  Elsewhere, Ms. Paddy Johnson of Art Fag City has recently decided to refer to herself as "asshole" on occasion when posting her writings about works of art, and Mr. Bob Cesca continues to rail against the likes of Sarah Palin and Newt Gingrich.
     For the artist on Indianapolis Island, Jessica Dunn blogs about a cut on her hand and solitude. Perhaps the most fascinating aspect about Dunn's writings is the constant reference to residing on the island as an "experiment." In doing this, she assumes the role of a scientist, and scientists base their knowledge on empiricism, seeing, looking, analyzing, categorizing, writing about and publishing their findings.

A Proposal & Bravo Television

2010-07-20T21:17:00.001-04:00

      The AbEx AdGo stamp. Upper right. (TBON 7:204894)  Slipped in the mailbox Sunday, July 18, 2010. One proposal is that volumes 1 - 7 would be displayed on a table with specific pages exposed to the viewers. The pages in each volume exposed to viewers during an exhibit would be as follows: Volume 1: pp 76-77; Volume 2: pp 82-83; Volume 3: pp 76-77; Volume 4: pp 82-83; Volume 5: pp 78-79; Volume 6: pp 82-83 and Volume 7: pp 76-77. This open configuration of The Book of Numbers, aptly titled, "Meditations on Random Reproduction in the United States", would be featured as part of a travelling group exhibit involving three museums or major galleries. This is, of course, just one idea. More ideas are available, and they will be revealed at the appropriate time.
     Meanwhile, Bravo's Work of Art: The Next Great Artist sounds like it continues to be nothing more than child's play. Not even silly suggestions by Ms. Paddy Johnson and Ms. Carolina A. Miranda, apparently a newly created political duo in the realm of aesthetic ideology, can improve what sounds like a very weak, uninspiring television program aimed to prevent television viewers from experiencing bouts of sheer boredom. Good luck to those two journalists in trying to persuade the "Bravo team" to make that program more intriguing. Jesting, as Johnson and Miranda may have been doing with their suggested emendations, or not, any contrived situations and specially selected materials will do little to help such a crass television program. One imagines that the television commercials broadcast during that program are probably much more fascinating. Hopefully, the program will be put to rest sooner rather than later. The space it occupies in reactionary text is terribly wasteful.
     Several hours after rush hour, the Jersey City streets are now quiet. A silent longing for something more exciting presses upon a restless mind.  A cigarette smoulders in an ashtray by the window.  Her accent is in my head but she is not here.

The Summer Heat

2010-07-18T19:02:00.000-04:00

The heat bears down on the residents of Jersey City. For some, it has taken place before and after attending church. For others, it might have been after a walk along the promenade near the Exchange Place pier. For others still, it might have been after breakfast, or lunch. No matter, one still will have felt the summer heat. Letters are mailed out while children cry out to their parents for ice cream, shoppers load into their automobiles, and the twenty-four news channel on cable television slides along, non-stop. News reports suggest that United States politicians squabble endlessly over economic policy. The summer heat, however, will only abate as it gradually sinks beyond and below the horizon in our approach toward evening, 418 years after the "first chronicler of the Indies." Sweltering heat; the perspiration on one's forehead. Sweating. Wipe away the salty fluid with the back of the wrist. Seek out a glass of water. Drink.

George Steinbrenner, Contemporary Art & Failure

2010-07-17T09:02:00.002-04:00

     As the heat bears down on all of us here in Jersey City and New York City through what we're told by the weather experts will be a "heat advisory" until 6 pm today, within the last week, it was pretty big news when George Steinbrenner died at the age of 80. Mr. Steinbrenner, for those readers who may be unfamiliar with the sport of professional baseball -- a game often referred to as an "the American pastime" for its spectators -- was the owner of the New York Yankees. Whether one knew what impact he had on the game, loved him, or hated him, Mr. Steinbrenner had his own approach to managing that team.
     Although I had, as a child growing up in a small suburb just outside of Indianapolis, given little attention to that sport and its subtle nuances, over the years, I've learned to appreciate it more and more as a spectator. Unlike other sports, it is a game with no time clock and it is replete with statistical information by which team managers will make their game-day decisions. Television baseball analysts frequently focus on these decisions and debate their significance during televised games. Rarely, however, will I watch the game on television, except, say, when the playoffs roll around and the competition intensifies.  Then, I might be inclined to do so, despite my feeling that watching a game on television in no way really compares to actually attending a game, which, by the way, I've not done in a long time.
     Nevertheless, when Mr. Steinbrenner died Tuesday morning, one journalist, Richard Goldstein, wrote an informative article about Mr. Steinbrenner's acquisition of the Yankees and his occasionally questionable accomplishments with that team over the years in Wednesday's hard copy edition of The New York Times. It is unlikely that many contemporary artists and some of its critics will have given such sad news the proper attention it deserved, but one cannot be too certain about this. If contemporary artists and critics have not, then so much for really looking, seeing, using one's eyes.
     Had some of these comtemporary artists and critics used their eyes like they should have, then surely they would have quickly discovered that the front page obituary for Mr. Steinbrenner featured an editing error in the first paragraph when, through The New York Times, Mr. Goldstein reported that, among other things, Mr. Steinbrenner had "...a sporting world powerhouse valued at perhaps $1.6 billion, died Tuesday morning died Tuesday morning at a hospital in Tampa, Fla., where he lived."[sic] The headline in the hard copy edition of The New York Times read as follows: "A Legacy of Championships From the Man Who Hated to Lose."
     Even for the most casual reader, the newstand article in The New York Times, when compared to its online version, should raise a lot of questions about the art of writing, reporting, editing, corrections, errors and images in our society. On the other hand, for painted pictures and films, the observation is different, more subjective. We either like what we see or we do not, and we attempt to explain the reason for our acceptance or rejection of it. And sometimes, we're really not sure why, except, perhaps, in knowing that we'll at least not be thought of as a failure. Baseball, some experts of that game will tell us, is a game of failure. RIP, Mr. Steinbrenner.

Note: As it relates to my suggestion that baseball is the only game with no time clock, I was mistaken. Tennis, golf, and bowling come to mind, tennis and golf, of course, being almost as popular as baseball.

Paddy Johnson, Rejections and Magic

2010-07-14T07:03:00.000-04:00

     As gray skies blanket the Jersey City early this morning, and rain falls to the earth, yesterday, over at Art Fag City, Ms. Paddy Johnson whined about the way "the Guggenheim never invites the right artists to participate in its shows" and she sought to support this assertion by suggesting that L-Magazine co-founder Daniel Stedman ought to have been included in the Guggenheim's Contemplating The Void exhibit with this video, presumably produced by Mr. Stedman himself, with illustrations by Andrew Bryant.
     The Guggenheim was right to have rejected Mr. Stedman's video because there's nothing about the video that is noteworthy or interesting, despite Ms. Johnson's own suggestion at the end of her write-up that it is "f------ amazing." Mr. Stedman's video features diagrams that are bland mechanical drawings spliced together with still images of the museum itself, and text explaining the manner in which its pendulum operates.  An unidentified symphonic composition plays along with the moving images. The video borrows a trick from an old Clairol Herbal Essence shampoo commercial that had aired many years ago on the television networks by its inclusion of flashing clips of a moaning woman in the suggested midst of a climax.
     Meanwhile, local, regional and national newspapers will roll out from the printing presses, offering its readers more news announcing a wide range of new and old civic and social developments. Nothing, one can be certain, will seem written in stone, save the laws we all must abide by. Regarding museum contests for exhibits, rejections take place all the time, and it is part of the curious process for art in our society. For those who may feel slighted by such rejections, it will simply mean one has a lot more work to do. During one's break from more work, take a nourishing bite out of this apple.

Full Disclosure and Storefronts

2010-07-07T07:42:00.000-04:00

As we all brace for another day of scorching temperatures here in the tri-state area, be sure to read all about art at Art Fag City. Ms. Johnson and her circle of shareholders will no doubt provide her readers with shallow insight into bad frames, curious curatorial skill, and ultimately guide readers into how to watch some late night television programs. And in the event she proclaims she's offering full disclosure over one of her connections, that will not necessarily mean full disclosure. Full disclosure suggests providing legal documents, notes, memos and the such for public scrutiny and examination. Anything less is merely an appearance, a front, an image, surface.
In the meantime, should any reader here step out into the hot summertime temperatures, be sure to drink plenty of water. Bergen Avenue in Jersey City will probably be bustling with rush-hour commuters passing by some closed doors of storefronts.

Six Minutes ahead of Paddy Johnson

2010-07-05T17:18:00.001-04:00

     The heat and humidity, increasing in intensity here in Jersey City, will apparently not abate for awhile, according to some of our more seasoned weather experts. In response to such unremarkable news for a summer day in Jersey City, a cold shower, followed by air-drying, sounds like a good way to temporarily escape it and punctuating the cool with an ice cold glass of water.
     Meanwhile, Ms. Paddy Johnson announces on Art Fag City how she'll write about some works of art originating out of Canada. If her projected coverage means anything at all, it will mean (to rely on an overused expression) politics as usual. Nevertheless, leave it to her to devote a lot of hyperbole to her unbiased notions. Though this writer does not claim to be a journalist, her methods of working do not represent good journalism. Transparency is absent. For a little insight on transparency, read David Carr's piece on the front page of the Business Day section in The New York Times.
     As for Ms. Johnson, her method of working seems to function more as a form of blind cronyism that revolves around an aesthetic ideology. If readers do not understand what is meant here, then please read the AFC blog for a little while and observe the exchanges, taking all the time you need to digest the meaning. Then, hopefully, you'll understand. Once you feel like you really understand, then watch The Mystery of an Eyewitness. Talk about cool.

New York City and Indianapolis

2010-06-22T08:03:00.000-04:00

7:203133 Several hours from now; many minutes and seconds from the time of this post, this author will glide over the busy, congested streets in a bus out of Manhattan to a New York City airport. There he will board an airplane destined for Indianapolis, Indiana. During the trip, a vast amount of space in between these two points will be shielded from the author. What will be overlooked? What fascinating aspects about our world will the author fail to see? Such are the perplexing luxuries of time travel and communication. Indeed, more can be written about this but that shall wait for now.

Video Four

2010-06-13T22:25:00.014-04:00

The Art of Television and a Taste of Myth

2010-06-06T17:35:00.001-04:00

     As the sun begins to peek through the drifting storm clouds here in Jersey City, the previous post here on IRR mentioned Bravo's upcoming new reality TV program Work of Art: The Next Great Artist. That program will begin this Wednesday on June 9.  If any reader is interested in watching it, then by all means watch it. This author, however, will probably pass, although, admittedly, it might be more interesting to watch it -- not for the content of the program itself -- rather, for the television commercials which air during that program.
     Will Windsor & Newton air a 30-second spot advertising their new line of specially manufactured tubes of artists' oil paints? Will Utrecth or Pearl Paints feature a 2-minute commercial pitching their own brandname gesso? Will Max Factor run a 30-second spot featuring their new line of makeup? Will BP air their apologetic 30-second television commercial that aired this morning during CBS's Face the Nation? Maybe, maybe not.
     Even then, one highly doubts it will rival the sensational aspects associated with, say, Geraldo Rivera breaking his nose during the taping of one of his own television programs back in 1988, the same year this author graduated from art school. A few of Bravo's younger contestants will unlikely be able to recall that. In any event, tune in to Bravo on June 9, if you wish. If you pass on the opportunity to view the program, one could hardly blame you.  Nothing wrong with ignoring manufactured tastes perpetuated by myths from some art history classes.

Correction: Winsor & Newton is the correct spelling for the artists' materials company.

Bravo, Rich Winner!

2010-06-04T16:53:00.000-04:00

     As focus remains on Bravo's Work of Art: The Next Great Atist by a cluster of myopic New York City art critics, a news article published in this morning's edition of The New York Times and originating out of Schaumburg, Illinois, by the journalist Motoko Rich suggests that the search for work by the unemployed as a reaction to postive news reports "may prove dispiriting, since so many people are already chasing too few jobs."
     The front page news story provided to The New York Times by Mr. Rich carries over onto page B6 in the business section of the same newspaper, which is sold at newstands for $2.00 a copy. On page B5, however, astute readers of that same newspaper will find another news article suggesting that in Beijing, China, the minimum wage offered the labor force will be increased by 20 percent, or $140 a month (according to the article, $140 a month is equivalent to 960 renminbi.)
     The winner of the Bravo competition broadcast on telelvision here in the United States will receive $100,000 and an exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.

Two Missing Videos and Noisy Birds

2010-05-23T15:21:00.000-04:00

For any viewers interested in seeing the briefly posted, provocative videos, you may now continue to view The American Candidate and A Milestone in the Hidden Method, 1998 at YouTube. You will not want to miss out on them, as they will be up for a limited period of time.
In the meantime, there are a lot of things going on in the areas of American art and politics and we must always be mindful of the involved details, just like we are when we hear several birds singing and chirping behind the leaves on the branches in the treetops above our heads when we walk the sidewalks in the big city.

The Pajo-Powhida Cultural War

2010-05-12T20:56:00.005-04:00

     Gloomy, gray clouds shrouded the tops of the tall buildings along 33rd Street in Manhattan. There was a mild chill in the air. Mister Zupendog (pronounced zoo-pen-DOG) and I had occupied a small section of sidewalk in front of the Associated Press building on 33rd Street when he began wrestling with his cheap, flimsy and slightly tattered umbrella. After I had explained to Mister Zupendog that he was now Mister Zupendoggo (pronounced zoo-pen-DOG-oh) because of two more mistakes he recently made in my presence, he went on to reveal some very fascinating developments.
     "-- Mr. Smock," he started, "both MOM and MEL have provided me with information that suggests Ms. Paddy Johnson, of Art Fag City, and William Powhida both are considering your sharp, critical words the beginning of a cultural war in this area." As Mister Zupendoggo carefully withdrew his slightly tattered umbrella, a woman began shouting and cussing severely and wildly after she dropped her book-bag on the damp sidewalk three parked cars away from us.
     "A cultural war, Mister Zupendoggo? Are you kidding me?!"
     "Yes, and no, Mr. Smock: yes, to a cultural war, and, no, I'm not kidding you."
     "Oh, crunchy, hand-painted beetles! Mister Zupendoggo, they're taking all this talk far too personally. Sounds to me like they're simply trying to justify the expense of their education, if you ask me. Really, if you think about it, who can blame them? Acquiring a MFA is not cheap. And because it is expensive, then, of course, they will want to defend what they make and how they think what they make. In short, they will seek to be exclusive and profit from pumping out a bunch of questionable works of art. Yet, more imporantly, because they recognize this, then it only follows that what they make can only be art. So, too, new media will be where it's at for them because it is too easy."
     "Well, I think you're right, Mr. Smock.  This certainly makes a lot of sense. Besides, who on this ugly and beautiful earth wants to feel like they wasted a lot of money on a very questionable body of knowledge since the grand display of Duchamp's porcelin urinal? Chrissakes, forget thinking; just slap some junk together, sit at the dais endorsed and sponsored by significant cultural institutions and talk, talk, talk about it until one is cobalt-blue in the face!"
     We grew silent. The cold, damp wind blew into my face, causing me to secretly wish I had worn a watch knit cap. Mister Zupendoggo reached for his back pocket with his right hand, and the cussing woman had nearly reached the far corner of the street.
     "So, Mister Zupendoggo, we'll meet again, very soon."
     "Very well, Mr. Smock. Oh, and, uh, by the way, your postings are very provocative. I enjoy reading them very much."
     "Thanks, a lot, Mister Zupendoggo. Some of them are okay, mediocre; some of them are complete failures, but it is not like I cannot go back and revise them. Clearly, I can. You know, revise and refine them. Eventually, I will get around to this. Right now, I have more important things to do."

Pajo's Display of Moxie over Urine

2010-05-10T22:59:00.003-04:00

     7:201833 Endless amusement these days is pretty easy to find, what with all the suggested shenanigans taking place around Manhattan, Jersey City, and other places we know and love or know and loathe. And for American art, it seems, it has never really enjoyed such exquisite tomfoolery outside a curly veil of mystery.
     The website of Art Fag City, for example, which is a virtual place and not a real place, one can stumble upon Ms. Paddy Johnson clamoring in a manner reminiscent of a teeny-bopper over the prospect of being able to see someone else's urine on display in an art museum, or, at least, openly question with William Powhida how it was invisibly discharged and invisibly contained throughout a performance at the Museum of Modern Art. Just like an illusionist does when he or she turns a dramatic trick, a gimmick was used. But their knowledge of that has not prevented them from sharing their delight over the human fluid with the public.
     But again -- and this has been mentioned before -- if Ms. Johnson really finds herself getting so bubbly and enthusiastic over another person's urine, then she might really want to seriously consider becoming a case manager in a mental health outpatient program. At least then she can demand a sample of urine from a client in treatment and submit it to a laboratory for testing just to find out what type of licit or illicit substances the person has consumed in an attempt to escape their own over-powering, debilitating feeling of misery that is typically brought on by the surreal forces that likely exist in a deteriorating urban environment. Presumably, the only deterrant Ms. Johnson may encounter is that she'll have to wear latex gloves over her fleshy hands to obtain her much sought after sample. But, hey, we can only suppose Ms. Johnson can get past that prerequisite quite skillfully, especially since she seems to get so aroused by such commonplace functions of the body that she considers them a real work of art. Never mind her prior commentary about any existing similarities or differences between performances by Lady Gaga and Marina Abramovic. Frankly, Lady Gaga is just as relevant as Marina Abramovic.
     Still, what made Ms. Johnson's taste for urine even more fascinating was that it curiously coincided with Mr. Tyler Green's promulgation about how he wished he had Joe Deal's eyes in order to see what Mr. Deal apparently has seen, or sees, on occasion, through a mechanical device called a camera. The extreme act of an ocular transplant aside, perhaps Mr. Green might want to re-assess his own notions by opening up his mind to other ways of seeing. Otherwise, one can almost smell a new movement in art that involves even more body parts, but this only means we may be taking these antics far too literally.
     Then, in Sunday's edition of The New York Times Magazine, as autumn-like weather roared through this area with ferocious gusts of wind that ripped down anonymously attached awnings on at least one storefront along Montgomery Street in Jersey City, two other articles of interest were published that related to art: an interview by Ms. Deborah Solomon with Martha Stewart, curtly titled, "Questions for Martha Stewart", and, a few pages over, an article titled "Consumed" by Mr. Rob Walker.
     In the first article, the clever journalist indicated that Ms. Stewart wanted to talk about "the pleasures of making things" like "decorative pillows" out of her husband's discarded shirts. And throughout that shallow interview, Ms. Solomon prompted Ms. Stewart to admit how she considered herself "crafty," with a strong emphasis of implication on the meaning behind the word "sly." In the second article, by comparison, Mr. Walker wrote at length about a black box circulating on eBay titled "A Tool to Deceive and Slaughter." The black box, apparently, goes up for auction on eBay every so often and respresents the original maker's disappointment with the current state of modern art, along with an eye on all that is clever. The black box, suggested the write-up, is said to sell itself and claims to call into question the value of a work of art.
     So, dear reader, for now, there you have it: One black box, some decorative pillows, one writer openly wishing for a new set of eyeballs, and another writer who displays moxie over urine. Lest anyone accuse this author of over-simplifing or over-exaggerating such public findings on works of art, consider what J. K. Galbraith once wrote:  "Because economic and social phenomena are so forbidding, or at least so seem, and because they yield few hard tests of what exists and what does not, they afford to the individual a luxury not given by physical phenomenon." This author could not have made a better statement than Galbraith's. Oh, men, pen on!

Minor correction: "reminiscent" was originally misspelled and has been now corrected one day after the original posting.

Porn & Oil Spill Revealed in Conventional Wisdom

2010-05-09T23:32:00.002-04:00

     Although mention was made here on IRR yesterday about New York magazine's senior art critic Jerry Saltz's use of the phrase conventional wisdom, in this morning's hard copy edition of The New York Times, another journalist, Ms. Laura Holson, when writing about a so-called "tell-all" generation and the trappings associated with revealing everything about one's self online, used conventional wisdom three paragraphs into her front page story.
     Conventional wisdom, as has been mentioned elsewhere, was made popular by Mr. Galbraith, and it has been suggested that the phrase existed before he even made it famous. In my own copy of that book, Mr. Galbraith had quipped that he should have "patented" the phrase once he presumably realized it had become as catchy as the mindless, meaningless lyrics in some popular songs like for example, Muskrat Love.
     So what then is going on with our beloved, gritty, imaginative, and revealing American journalists and writers?  If context supplies the meaning to a word, as Ms. Paddy Johnson has suggested, then what does she mean by this? Does she mean that space determines meaning in the words we speak and write? Still, has conventional wisdom become a linguistic meme? And if it has become a meme -- the philosophical topic of wisdom aside -- then a meme for what? What does the meme of conventional wisdom mean? Are these journalists and writers under such pressure from their supervisors, editors and publishers that they have no time to think and reflect on a more refreshing, original way to turn a phrase? Are they simply being lazy? Are they automatons; literally, mechanical word processors passing cut and pasted phrases around like strange followers in some global religion?
     A further inquiry into the malicious and repetitive use of the phrase reveals that one could approach the problem in a different way. For example, words like convent, doom, mood, connive, wise, woman, cone, wit, dome, con, cane, man, condom, condone, cinema, lose, lots, stole, steal, slavic, lost, stale, tale, some, win, won, wind, ion, lie, lion, law, cow, coil, vine, wine, view, video, vast, oil, ten, one, two, tonal, soil, do and the suffix ism can be made up from the letters in the phrase conventional wisdom.
     In the end, perhpas Ms. Holson listened too much to Mr. Saltz. Or maybe she has read Galbraith's book and knows what the phrase means.  And maybe Mr. Saltz has read David Brooks, who has also used the phrase on occasion. Whatever the case, we cannot be too certain. Clearly, one could argue that pornography is an underlying theme in the words from the letters in the phrase conventional wisdom, what with the creation of women, men, condoms and video, but that just might get some people in a lot of trouble with some of our more self-righteous politicians, law-makers. On the other hand, words like oil, soil, law, and ocean might suggest an underlying theme related to the current oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. So, dear reader, take your pick: Sex or pollution?

Jerry Saltz & the Mystery of Conventional Wisdom

2010-05-08T05:46:00.004-04:00

     In this writer's slender and worn copy of The Affluent Society, the author, John Kenneth Galbraith, devoted twelve pages, yes, twelve pages, to a collection of ideas he termed "conventional wisdom."  Galbraith wrote his book in 1958, just three years before the construction of the Berlin Wall.  The last copyright of Galbraith's book occurred in 1998. And while this book continues to be available in many bookstores to this day, and remains widely influential, it can typically be found under the label of Economics, an area of study long considered "a dismal science" (given the most recent mysterious plunge of more than 1000 points in the stock market, it seems hardly a curiosity why some experts may consider current economics mad since slice.)
     Still, on April 30, 2010, Jerry Saltz, senior art critic for New York magazine, provided a review of a collection of paintings by Pablo Picasso currently on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. In Mr. Saltz's digitally reproduced text, there is no visible mention by him of the term "conventional wisdom." Yet, as a supplement to the digital text, an online video presentation is offered by New York magazine and, it, too, features Mr. Jerry Saltz providing commentary on the same group of Picasso paintings. However, at the 1:23 mark in the video, unlike the text of the accompanying review, and unlike the length of the topic about conventional wisdom found in chapter 2 of Mr. Galbraith's book about economics and society, Mr. Saltz mentions "conventional wisdom" when speaking on the general assessment by academics and scholars about Picasso's abilities (or absence of these abilities) after a certain period in Picasso's long life.
     Picasso, as some readers may know, was revered to such an extent by another author that a biography on the painter was eventually published. Although I have yet to read the book myself, the author of that Picasso biography was Norman Mailer, one of the founding members of a New York City tabloid called The Village Voice. Picasso, it has been suggested, said that "painting is a lie." Coincidentally enough, Norman Mailer, himself, claimed to treat all information as though it were fiction before he'd begin writing.
     According to an article in the Thursday, May 6, 2010, hard-copy edition of The New York Times, another Picasso painting titled, "Nude, Green Leaves and Bust", recently sold at auction for $106.5 million, a sales record. The buyer, according to the journalist responsible for the content of the article in The New York Times, remains a mystery.

Editorial revision: The second paragraph has been slightly revised for further clarity and now includes the double preposition "of the topic about conventional wisdom." Additionally, the mention about the Picasso painting sold at auction has been changed to reflect an additional paragraph.

The Alley Cat Lounge & Port Washington

2010-05-02T12:30:00.000-04:00

     A summer-like warmth fell over the city. It was late. The moon was up and the sun was down. The window in the bedroom was slightly open. The dark gray cat slipped out through the window, vanishing, but disturbing the shades, causing a moderate commotion. Soon, my thoughts drifted away to those distant evenings I had spent in the Alley Cat Lounge back in Indianapolis where I had often played pool for drinks to songs by the likes of Patsy Cline, R.E.M, and others.
     Although I was enrolled in art school at the time, for the nation it was a time when Ollie North was being grilled by politicians in Washington D.C. for his involvement in the Iran-Contra affair, MTV was making its mark as an influential cultural force, and Jimmy Swaggart was spreading his word about God through television. Mobile phones were nowhere in sight, and computers were becoming more significant and popular; typewriters, like the IBM Selectric, were still around and widely in use. Today, it's Afghanistan, Iraq, the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, and the immigration issue swirling out of control in Arizona. Mobile phones are now ubiquitous, and computers have become common office equipment. Yes, I know, forgive me; I grossly over-simplify the cultural forces that influence our lives.
     Suddenly a series of pops rang out. Gunshots? Firecrackers? Two-by-fours against the metal body of a parked car? Jumping up from bed, I lunged at the window, pushed the blinds apart with two fingers, and looked out. Not long after the burst of noise, a rush of black and white cop cars moved through the street three floors beneath the window. Quite easily, I spotted flashing, pulsating red lights through a small clearing of tree limbs somewhere, I estimated, along Ocean Avenue, just beyond the unremarkable architecture of a church on Bramhall Avenue in Jersey City. A voice rose up from the bed; she asked me if the kids were inside. I told her they were. She believed me, and went back to sleep.
     Later, I returned to bed, and reflected on a delightfully whimsical, tender and dreamy etching titled Life Tree by Aida Whedon. I also recalled the cheese-smothered potato sticks and cold water we consumed on the train out of Manhattan's Penn Station to Long Island's Port Washington. And then I remembered seeing Ivi's Club through the window on the car of the train somewhere between the station and the port.

The Rough Cop & Sohan Qadri

2010-04-24T22:39:00.003-04:00

     The Book of Numbers currently spans 1001 pages in length.  Henry Darger apparently relied mainly on words, illustrations and one elongated, fantastic story. Roman Opalka's own work is restricted to painted numbers. Jonathon Borofsky was very close. Though what follows is unrelated to the aforementioned artists, Mister Zupendog's nickname, code name, will change and expand with each mistake he makes while, by contrast, Charlie Lickapheathertip's name will remain the same even though he, too, will make mistakes.
     In Manhattan, currently on view at the Sundaram Tagore Gallery on 27th Street are works on paper by Indian artist, Sohan Qadri. Qadri, born, we're told, in 1932, 48 years after the invention of time zones, presents work that is very pretty and colorful; delicate eye candy. The collection of work is made more to serve as decoration rather than images made and intended for spiritual enlightenment, or worship. It is easy to think that Rothko is given a slight nod.
     The press release suggests that Qadri relies on a "language of orifices and elongated paths or lines..." It goes on to say that he "abandons representation in search of transcendence." Now, when I closely inspected those works on paper, I walked away feeling like they resembled captured miniature flying carpets displayed on walls. Language of orifices, I thought, could also mean a language of holes. The press release went on to say that the works were "intended to arrest the viewer's thinking process and invite him or her to enter a metaphysical realm." Unfortunately, they did not do this for me unless by metaphysical the author of the press release meant unrelated images spawned by words. In fact, when I read the word "arrest", I envisioned a rough, overweight cop snapping handcuffs around someone who was caught breaking the law. Such an image is confined to our notion of the secular, not metaphysical, sphere of existence. And although the function of handcuffs is not restricted just to a use by law enforcement, fastened handcuffs, ironically enough, form orifices that are filled in by someone's wrists. Other images circulate in the mind, but I will not mention those here.
     Now, on the front page in this morning's hard copy edition of The Jersey Journal, one headline reads, "Ho No! Bayonne woman pleads guilty to helping her pimp son." The thirtieth clue under the Across section in the crossword puzzle of the same newspaper is Ancient games site.

Please note that second paragraph has been revised to read as it does now. The revision was made one day after the original posting.

The Dirty Woman & Mister Zupendog

2010-04-22T22:14:00.002-04:00

     Earlier today, around 7 PM, Mister Zupendog (pronounced zoo-pen-DOG) and I met under cloudy skies at the busy corner of 9th Street and 6 Avenue in Manhattan for a brief discussion about Charlie Lickapheathertip's earlier assessment of the Marlene Dumas exhibit at the David Zwirner gallery on 19th Street.  (Charlie Lickapheathertip, you will recall, was recruited by Mister Zupendog, my trusty lead-volunteer.  Now as absurd as all of this may sound to IRR readers, this coalition of volunteers within Operation Litter Aure has been formed to reflect the bureaucratic nature of our nation.) As we stood there, stangers were moving about, walking here, walking there; some frantically, some casually. Some of these strangers seemed to express an urgent need to go to restaurants, while others just seemed to want to get to a place they felt was home. In fact, one elderly woman spoke into her mobile phone, saying, "...me to pick up some salad and salmon for..." As Mister Zupendog adjusted his hair, the woman's voice faded into the urban noise of gurgling cars, honking horns, belching buses, and passersby.
     Now, as Mister Zupendog and I have mutually recognized, Mr. Lickapheathertip's assessment posted April 3 on this blog failed to highlight any specific aspects about Ms. Dumas' work other than a general but sharp disapproval of them. Still, when I had asked Mister Zupendog what, precisely, Mr. Lickapheathertip disliked about her paintings, Mister Zupendog said that it was the minimally rough application of paint onto the canvas that Lickapheathertip felt was blatantly disingenuous, insincere. Mister Zupendog went on to inform me that he had recently read Jerry Saltz's own assessment about the same paintings, and although he also disliked them, Mr. Saltz did politely make room to find insight in Ms. Dumas' statement that she is a picture painter because she admits she is a dirty woman. Mister Zupendog went on to suggest that Lickapheathertip admitted becoming aroused upon reading those words at the time of his visit to the gallery. How normal it is when such a confession that one is dirty breeds not delightful pictures hanging on walls but dirty thoughts!
     Here is the weather forecast:  Tonight, partly cloudy with a chance of showers this evening. Then mostly clear after midnight; lows in the mid 40s. Northwest winds around 10 miles an hour. Chance of rain, 30%.

Mister Zupendo, Mister Zupendog & Jerry Saltz

2010-04-20T23:17:00.000-04:00

     "-- Elephino," replied Mister Zupendo, after I had asked him what it meant to read and understand that a work of fiction was something that could not be interpreted literally, despite our widespread habit to rely on examples from fiction as reflective of those found in reality.
     "The problem," I carefully began, "was not in reading itself, but in the meaning behind the reading. Obviously, in a work of fiction we cannot interpret it literally; it is not literally imaginary. One goes in a bookstore and scans through the spines of books on the shelves in the literature section, and one can see the titles; one can see the names of the authors; one can open the book and flip through the pages with one's fingers. One can hold the book in one's hands. These products of imagination are, ironically enough, real, tactile; therefore when we read any work of fiction we must interpret it metaphorically, allegorically, hence the repeated caveats in all works of fiction that no characters, products, or events necessarily represent real characters, products or events. So, again, Mister Zupendo, the work of fiction then is strictly an allegory, a metaphor. Now, Mister Zupendo, your nickname, your code name, as it is presented here becomes a real substitute for your actual name not only to conceal your true identity but to also serve as a fictitious example of what happens to your name when you make a mistake.  Adding a letter at the end of your name after every mistake you make reveals the extent of them; makes them transparent; it makes you human. It's the progressive letter of discipline, Mister Zupendo. Charlie Lickapheathertip's nickname, code name, on the other hand, does not change when he makes a mistake; his mistakes therefore remain concealed, hidden from our view. His name, in a manner of speaking, remains perfect and unless he confesses openly about his mistakes, no one will ever think that he has made a mistake because his name will remain the same as long as he is alive. And as I have indicated in earlier posts here, when we make mistakes, it is often thought that we learn from those mistakes. And in learning from those mistakes, we in essence become a different person. Any failure to learn from our mistakes results in repeating the same mistakes over and over again. If it helps you to do so then think of this as a modified version of Nathaniel Hawthorne's book, The Scarlet Letter."
     Mister Zupendo became silent. Soon, he appeared perplexed, confused, uncertain about how he ought to think about the matter; the wrinkles on his forehead became pronounced, the lines undulating nearly worm-like above his eyebrows. The earth moved. His lips were momentarily still. Then he offered up a protestation containing an alternative approach: "But why do you discriminate against me, Mr. Smock? Why not discriminate against Charlie Lickapheathertip?"
     "Mister Zupendo, I had to begin somewhere in creating a reasonable model for the way our society inconsistantly functions, so through a coin toss, you were selected in this process."
     At the base of some tall buildings basking in the sunlight, I could see over Mister Zupendo's shoulder several shuffling huddles of black suits passing over the sidewalk on the other side of the street. A young boy zipped by on his bicycle. Cars and taxis came to a stop at the traffic light. Chrome bumpers twinkled with anticipation. The tiny island of Manhattan was alive.
     "So, Mister Zupendo, did you do as I instructed you to do yesterday after you returned from Cuntlycurly?"
     "Oh, no, Mr. Smock, uh, er, sorry, but I forgot. I can do it tomorrow."
     "Okay. That's okay. Tomorrow will be fine, Mister Zupendog."
     "Mister Zupendog?!"
     After some back and forth between Mister Zupendog (pronounced zoo-pen-DOG) and myself over this recent development regarding his new name, we parted ways. And although Mister Zupendog made some statements which disturbed me, I had reminded him that he was to read Jerry Saltz's most recent art review and provide me with his own assessment about it.

Barry Schwabsky & Former President Bill Clinton

2010-04-18T12:51:00.003-04:00

     The study of history is fascinating and compelling. And in preserving a specific history, there are plenty of artifacts to be inspected, stories to be read, and images to be looked at and thought about. Myths, legends, rituals, ceremonies, beliefs, authors, historians, participants -- actors -- all play their role in the creation of a specific history we can somehow hope to observe, celebrate, protest, honor, and learn from. Regarding common spoken and written expressions related to history, one expression says that the winners are the ones who write history, suggesting in some strange sort of way that living in and through time is nothing more than a game.
    For some people, it may be that living is nothing more than a game. For others, such a pedestrian notion may seem either blatantly profane or sacred. Although it would be interesting to hear what Mircea Eliade may think, Norman Mailer once suggested that the historian and author both deal with fiction, his reason being that there was simply too much information missing, or missed, by either professionals to effectively capture an accurate picture of the reality sought out, somehow accurately constructed, as it were, from the thorough examination of primary and secondary documents and sources, and first-hand information culled from interviews with private and public individuals. Newspapers, television programs and, now, online news sources, all contribute to our perceived sense of history (The Book of Numbers 7: 198101.)
     Back in November of 2008, Barry Schwabsky, apparently a poet who resides in the United Kingdom, wrote an article for The Nation, titled, "The Agony and Ecstacy: The Art World Explained."  In that article, Mr. Schwabsky wrote at length about the complex relationship between gallerists, collectors and artists. At one point in that article, Mr. Schwabsky inserted his own observation, stating, "But they don't know whether their passion is noble or base..." Mr. Schwabsky went on to suggest that one collector had compared it to a "religion and an addiction." This characterization was quickly followed up with a quote from an opaque gallerist who said, "Our business is to sell symptoms articulated as objects."  And although this article appeared in a publication designed to encourage discourse on culture in the United States, the author of that article resided in the United Kingdom.
     Eighteen months after that article appeared in The Nation, just yesterday, in an online Associated Press news report at My Way, former President Bill Clinton, after citing the Oklahoma City tragedy, was quoted as saying, "...we should reduce our passion for the positions we hold - but that the words we use really do matter."  In speaking about those words, the former president added, "...there's this vast echo chamber, and they go across space and they fall on the serious and the delirious alike. They fall on the connected and the unhinged alike." Needless to say, a prominent radio talk show personality went on to take the former president to task on his remarks, suggesting the former president would somehow be responsible for any erupting violence. The former president wisely dismissed the suggestion as senseless, absurd.
     Although I do not feel comfortable in writing about events that comprise a reasonable history because doing so suggests that I was somehow present, R. Crumb has illustrated The Book of Genesis. As a child, I remember, I always found myself puzzled by the The Fourth Book of Moses Commonly Called Numbers as a book not mainly containing numbers, as I thought it would by the title, but it mainly contained words. Stranger then is that, in word games, when we rearrange the letters in the word sword we get words, too.

Editorial note: The last paragraph in the above article has been revised to read differently than it does currently. The revision will be released at a later date.

A Comment Community Built by Johnson

2010-04-15T23:08:00.000-04:00

It is amazing how pretentious and stuffy some art journalists are about commentors, commentators, responding readers -- however one wishes to characterize them. For example, today, apparently at 3:28 PM, Ms. Paddy Johnson of Art Fag City, after calling out reading responders who sign off anonymously under Comment Notice at Art Fag City, concluded, "This is unacceptable", as though she she thinks of herself as a sort of Human Resource supervisor in a privately run business. Seems that Ms. Johnson would greatly benefit publicly if she lightened up. Anonymous comments, while clearly annoying, are plainly innocuous, cowardly and ultimately meaningless. But some individuals prefer the anonymity. And as anonymous individuals, they're no different than when we walk on the sidewalk along the congested, busy city street in between the shadows cast by the towering buildings and structures and recognize we cannot help but hear the uninvited chatter from groups of anonymous pedestrians who walk and shop, gawk and shop, saunter, jaunt, sometimes suddenly stopping; sometimes turning to the left, or turning to the right, without warning. And even if it were a problem, then what? One would go mad.
So, too, what's with Ms. Johnson's implied desire to build a "comment community"? If she's really interested in building a community, she ought to become a social worker or case manager in a treatment program somewhere. Certainly, plenty of those around Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx and Staten Island. Doing so just might give her written prose a more refreshing voice.

IRR Thursday Morning Brief

2010-04-15T07:59:00.001-04:00

     Ms. Paddy Johnson posts a digital photograph on Art Fag City of, one presumes, Mr. Gavin Brown, a gallerist in Manhattan.  Ms. Johnson bitterly complains about an article in a magazine that suggests he's the next Jeffery Deitch despite the photograph's mediocre rendition of a still from a great spaghetti western (if only Ms. Johnson had been creative enough to feature some music along with it. Then she complains about quality? Go figure.) Ms. Johnson and her followers would expand their wisdom to read a small book titled On Bullshit, by Harry G. Frankfurt.
     Mister Zupendo, this writer's primary but sometimes reluctant evangelical messenger, is out on assignment in the area before he goes home to visit "some old friends" in Cuntlycurly, New York. In addition to recently pointing out that he couldn't see Manhattan or Jersey City on his 16" globe of the world, he recently also said he could not locate Cuntlycurly on his globe.
     Read and or listen to both Bob Cesca and Glenn Beck.
     Mr. Tyler Green of Modern Art Notes will more than likely highlight a story in a major newspaper about a museum in his current city. Eyebrows have been raised, the online newspaper article says.
     This writer incurred some severe criticism from his readers over the last several weeks for failing to follow through with a claim that he'd post a recording of the transcribed voice over from a commercial earlier this year.  That recording was accidentally deleted. It will have to be re-recorded.
     The Irene Stories will eventually resume. Please be patient.

Glenn Beck & Bob Cesca Fighting Dolls

2010-04-13T01:15:00.003-04:00

     "So, Mister Zupendo, what kind of information do you have for me on this delightful spring day?"
     Slipping his mobile phone into his pocket, Mister Zupendo brushed his arm, removed some lint from the front of his shirt and said, "First of all, Mr. Smock, I have to tell you that I'm pretty pissed off about my name having been changed from Mister Z to Mister Zu (pronounced zoo) to Mister Zup (pronounced zoop) to Mister Zupe (pronounced zoo-pee) and, more recently -- through the expansion of three added letters -- to Mister Zupendo (pronounced zoo-pen-doe). Frankly, I find your reason for doing it stupid -- "
     "Mister Zupendo, again, may I remind you: if you don't like it, you can leave, and I will find another volunteer. You do not have to tolerate my rules; you can go somewhere else.  I need loyal individuals to spread the message about the books, especially if someone in Hollywood is interested in using them as a prop for a movie. Still, regardless of that, I have explained the rules to you, and you have made some mistakes that have warranted such alterations in your name. You've even acknowledged most of the mistakes yourself, like, for example, using the word worm when you should have used the word mole, so, please, discontinue complaining about the stipulations. Besides, this is, after all, a fact of life: we make mistakes; we learn from them; we change our methods of operation and, thus, our personality slightly or dramatically changes; our inner being and mentality changes."
     "Uh, I guess, if you say so. But if this is true, then why doesn't Charlie Lickapheathertip's name ever change? I mean, after all, he makes mistakes, too."
     "I don't want to change his name. I want his name to remain the same. Besides, this is a direct reflection of the inconsistency that exists in the way our society handles certain mistakes. In other words, some people get away with little punishment for their mistakes, while others seem unjustly punished for the smallest infractions."
     The cluster of dandelions under the sign that said Drive Thru were a beautiful yellow from the sunlight. Mister Zupendo grew pensive and appeared expression-less. A sleek car with shiny rims drove past us. A dog barked behind our backs. A bird hiding in the branches of one of several nearby trees sang a song, sounding as though it was attempting to attract a mate. My thoughts quickly drifted off to an earlier story Mister Zupendo relayed to me about MOM seducing another man just two nights ago, one hour before the man was to meet his wife. MOM was to have traveled to Brooklyn to meet with someone claiming to know Ms. Paddy Johnson.
     Suddenly, perking up, as we walked past the sign and cluster of dandelions, Mister Zupendo forcefully asked, "So how do you propose to paint my portrait as I wear a silver mask over my face and simultaneously convey this idea?"
     "I will paint the same number of portraits, with the silver mask, reflecting each mistake you've made. The portraits will be titled accordingly."
     "What if I make a mistake intentionally?"
     "Then you will be assigned the most absurd, offensive, nasty, mean-spirited name I can come up with."
     "How dare you!"
     "You know the rules, Mister Zupendo. You are not obligated to devote your time to me."
     "Well, I'll have to think about all of this --. Know this, Mr. Smock, I do not like it. It stinks. I'm only human."
     "Yes, I see. Now then, tell me, what did you say about Ms. Pauline in Los Angeles? Did you say she has a friend out there who wants to create Glenn Beck and Bob Cesca dolls that fight each other to the death in a stop-motion animation feature film?"
     "Yes, at least, that's what she said. I don't know how true it is, but that's what she told me."
     "I see. That, to me, Mister Zupendo, sounds a lot like Celebrity Death Match, and it is not very original."
     "Mr. Smock, I'm simply telling you what she told me."

Zupendo, Johnson, Smith & Beck

2010-04-10T18:34:00.000-04:00

     "After thinking about it," Mister Zupendo said, "Cinderella Shop appeared small on a pink awning under the enormous billboard that stated Everyone else brought wine. Perfect. Now, that Silver Patron advertisement was either painted on or adhered to the uppermost part of the south wall of a tall building on 34th Street and Eighth Avenue in Manhattan. Manhattan, curiously enough, could not be seen on my 16 inch diameter globe of the world in my apartment. In fact, if one looks at it, examines it, one can only assume it is somewhere hidden beneath the small, black, bold type that spells out New York. And the words New York jut out far like a pier into the Atlantic Ocean on my globe."
     Listening closely to Mister Zupendo (pronounced zoo-pen-doe), I nodded in agreement with him. Soon, as we slowly sauntered past 1 Penn Plaza, we mutually agreed how this building, too, made us feel very small, insignificant. The Book of Numbers 7:197815.
     After we acknowledged the design of 1 Penn Plaza, Mister Zupendo returned to the Silver Patron advertisement. He said that while a bottle of that alcoholic beverage could easily be held in one's hand, the message in the advertisement was much more clear: buy some, drink it, and be glad everyone else was drinking something else. How perfect, he rhetorically asked. An entire bottle of it all for myself, he exclaimed. Be careful taking that message too literally, I cautioned.
     Then without a pause in his speech Mister Zupendo went on to tell me about Charlie Lickapheathertip's visit to the Cavin-Morris Gallery earlier today on 11th Avenue in Manhattan. Mister Zupendo explained to me that Mr. Lickapheathertip carefully and closely inspected the drawings by David Chaim Smith in a show called "Blood of Space." Mister Zupendo said Lickapheathertip was prompted to see the exhibit after reading a review of it by art critic Ken Johnson in yesterday's edition of The New York Times. Mister Zupendo indicated that Lickapheathertip found the photographic reproductions in the newspaper so intriguing that he wanted to see them in person. Mister Zupendo went on to say Lickapheathertip was disappointed because, although the drawings were larger than they were in the newspaper, they were not as compelling as they were in the newspaper because they were much fainter, lighter, than the mechanical reproductions on newsprint. After telling Mister Zupendo how intrigued I was by the Lickapheathertip's report, Mister Zupendo went on to inform me that Lickapheathertip found the most fascinating aspect about his visit to be the fact that the stairwell was only open on Saturdays.
     As we passed 1 Penn Plaza, we started admiring the Empire State Building, which towered high over everything else around us. Mister Zupendo began speaking about books by Glenn Beck and how Mr. Beck has been boasting about his ability to publish seven books in three years.  Glenn Beck, I uttered.  Isn't he the guy on television who uses a chalkboard like Joseph Beuys?
    "He does," said Mister Zupendo.
    "How funny," I chortled.  "I think that makes Mr. Beck an artist, does it not?"
    Mister Zupendo smiled long. The sunlight was bright but the air was cool. A city bus lumbered along 34th Street and a young man, his ears covered by headphones, shouted the following words, "Yo, bitch, da cops day here, and weez spliffed up wittout our underwearz."
    Suddenly, Mister Zupendo became intensely curious. Soon, he wanted to know why I added three more letters to his name, having changed it from Mister Z to Mister Zup to Zupe to Zupendo.
    "Well, Mister Zupendo, you made three more mistakes so I added n, d, and o. You know the rules here. You make a mistake, and I change your name. Furthermore, when we make mistakes, you must remember, we learn from them. And when we learn from them, we become a different person."

Charlie Lickapheathertip & R. Crumb

2010-04-03T19:19:00.002-04:00

     "So, Mister Zupe, did you see that photograph on the front page of The New York Times, yesterday? You know, the one attributed to Ahmad Massod of Reuters?" I said, pointing to the newspaper on the desk near the lamp clamp.
     "You mean this one representing President Hamid Karzai of Afghanistan?" Mister Zupe pointed to the photograph with his finger. The hands on the face of his wristwatch revealed the time of day.
     "Yes, this is the one I'm talking about here," I assured him, before picking up a tissue with my hand to blow the excess snot out of my nostrils.
     "Yes, yes, I did see it, and it was very interesting, I thought. The photographer, Ahmad Masood, surely has a keen eye and it left me wondering how much of that photograph was influenced by that bust of Queen Nefertiti that is so prominently featured in many art history books. Very intriguing -- "
     " -- Indeed, it is."
     Mister Zupe (pronounced zoo-pee) picked up the newspaper and looked at it, again. He had looked at it earlier, before we had discussed Charlie Lickapheathertip's recent trip to the David Zwirner galleries on 19th Street in Manhattan where, Mister Zupe informed me, Charlie apparently inspected the recent Marlene Dumas and R. Crumb exhibits. Mister Zupe said Lickapheathertip's report about the exhibits was mixed.  For example, he indicated that Charlie felt as though the Dumas paintings were really not paintings at all, rather they were feeble attempts at painting, mere sketches, as though Dumas was perhaps a little too lazy to apply any serious layer of paint. Mister Zupe went on to suggest that Charlie did not like them at all, and said he even invoked all sorts of vile words to express his displeasure with the absence of technical skill. Still, Mister Zupe told me that Charlie said the content of the paintings seemed somehow related to the title of the show, "Up Against the Wall", and indicated the exhibit was more about some sort of political statement than it was anything else. Mister Zupe said Charlie Lickapheathertip signed his name in the guestbook for the Dumas exhibit. Apparently, in contrast to the negative review about the Marlene Dumas paintings, Mister Zupe reported that Charlie was enthusiastic and delighted by the R. Crumb exhibit. Mister Zupe said Charlie found that that exhibit displayed R. Crumb's technical skill and ability of highlighting the more interesting elements of a story, visualizing these elements, drafting them, and inking in the images in such a way so as to bring the story to life through a different voice. Mister Zupe said Charlie could even see the application of white-out or white acrylic paint over those areas that were either mistakes, or changes in how the artist wanted the drawing to look. Mister Zupe said Charlie felt that such additional marks gave some aspects of the drawing more significance, whether intended or not. Mister Zupe also said Charlie Lickapheathertip was most intrigued by chapter 47.
     After asking Mister Zupe why Charlie Lickapheathertip was most intrigued by this chapter, Mister Zupe replied, "Because Mr. Crumb apparently depicted the pharoah as speaking in strange symbols, hieroglyphics."
     "I see."
     "So, Mr. Smock, let me try on that silver mask you want me to wear when you paint my portrait."
     "Oh, yes, certainly, Mister Zupe."
     Walking into a small room with many books, I went to the wall where the silver mask hung, and took it down. I went back into the drawing room and gave it to Mister Zupe. Holding the silver mask with both hands at waist level like a plate of food, Mister Zupe slowly, carefully, raised it up to his face until it hid his chin, mouth, cheeks and nose. Soon, it hid his entire face from my view. Seeking my opinion as to his concealed appearance, he asked, "How do I look?"
     "Like a real stranger, Mister Zupe.  Like a real stranger."

Editorial note: As a result of a breakdown in communication, the name of R. Crumb's project was inadvertantly omitted in the original posting. The name of the project by R. Crumb is "Book of Genesis."

Opium, Wheat, Newspapers and Weather

2010-03-23T05:21:00.003-04:00

     Throughout the 1980's, Nancy Reagan, the wife of then President Ronald Reagan, conducted a sweeping campaign called "Just Say No", in conjunction with a war on drugs, a war that many politicians publicly said was necessary to wage in order to diminish illicit drug use in this nation.
     Now, thirty years after the Reagans occupied the White House in 1980, on the front page of Sunday's March 21 edition of The New York Times, appearing on the left side of a photograph depicting President Obama gesturing during a speech before the recently passed healthcare bill, a headline read, "Fearful of Alienating Afghans, U.S. Turns Blind Eye to Opium." According to this article submitted by Rod Nordland, American and NATO military leaders were reported to have found themselves in a dispute with Afghan officials over "opium eradication."  The news story went on to provide further details about the dispute between military and government officials in that region of the world over destroying poppy farms. One detail provided in the story suggested that a "few years ago", Afghan "farmers could earn 37 times as much from opium as from wheat."
     The following day, in the Monday edition of The Jersey Journal, appearing over an advertisement publicly wondering if any reader needed "cash for gold", a single headline read, "Police Chase leads to unrelated drug bust." This news story, submitted by Michaelangelo Conte, appeared on page 12. The story suggested that after a "motor vehicle stop", later supplementary reports indicated police had "found bags containing a .22 caliber revolver and 100 bags of suspected heroin, as well as seven vials of suspected cocaine" in an unrelated incident.
     One medical historian, Robert M. Julien, suggests the hypodermic needle was invented in 1856. Another historian, Martin Booth, suggests that, although the concept of the syringe was long advanced by Hero of Alexandria, Sir Christopher Wren injected dogs with opium utilizing a "hollow quill attached to a bulb" in 1656.
     As of 5 AM at Central Park, light rain was falling, and the temperature was 52 degrees. The dewpoint was 50, and the relative humidity was 93 percent. Across Long Island, the temperature was 48 degrees, and rain was falling at ISLIP and Farmingdale. In New Jersey, temperatures were between 51 and 53 degrees. At Teterboro, rain and fog were reported.

New Media, Kakutani & Hard Copy

2010-03-21T22:06:00.000-04:00

In alignment with the previous article, The Newspaper as a Work of Art, as further support of this statement, this morning's edition of The New York Times featured a compelling article written by Michiko Kakutani, titled, "Texts Without Context," which began on page 1, of the Arts & Leisure section, and guided us along to page 22. A thorough examination of the hard copy edition by everyone will surely silence all of those dizzy proponents in the crowd who herald new media as the more radical trend. Indeed, the digital fascimile, along with the fragmented illustration by Harry Campbell, does not even come close to competing with Sunday's hard copy edition of The New York Times. This hard copy spread is a handsome and playful display of carefully selected colors and a design that combines image with text inside a specific format. Should this traditional form of communication ever disappear against the growing foolish notion that New Media is where it's at, then we will only have ourselves to blame. That would certainly be a shame.

The Times Square Alliance Mural & Mister Zupe

2010-03-21T20:23:00.000-04:00

     "Why did you change my name again, Mr. Smock? Why?" objected Mister Zupe (pronounced zoo-pee). "This is the third time you've changed my name and I'm only volunteering my time and energy for you here! It's not like you're paying me to work for you!" he protested.
     The day was gorgeous, Spring was here, and the sun was brightly shining down upon every disgruntled, harmonious, patriotic, callous, flippant, boisterous, silent, and apathetic member of the community in Jersey City.
     "Mister Zupe, look, you've made a few mistakes, and I dislike mistakes, though I am well aware we all make them. Still, every time you make a serious mistake, I will change your name. These are the rules. It's very simple. I told you this at the very beginning of Operation Litter Aure, and you indicated that you understood what I meant when I explained this to you," I told him, after watching the shadow of my arm pass over the surface of the sidewalk along Montgomery Street, not far from where it intersects with Bergen Avenue in Jersey City. "Furthermore," I continued, "despite the mistakes, this is my OLA and I will run it according to my highest standards. And although it is true that you, and those you have recruited as volunteers for me, sacrifice your time and efforts on my behalf, I deeply appreciate such devotion. Yet, because the economy is so sluggish, there is no other way to do any of this. You know this. Now, if you do not like these stipulations, then, clearly, you are free to go elsewhere. I am not forcing you to do anything you do not want to do, nor would I force you to do anything you did not want to do."
     Mister Zupe looked away from me. He seemed, from my perspective, to glance at the traffic light as it changed colors from green to yellow to red. Money, bananas, lips. Cars passed through the intersection like clockwork. People crossed the streets under the bright sun. It was, any reader would have easily agreed, a splendid Spring day. In fact, one young man was shouting out loudly to music he listened to from the wires connecting his ears to his common handheld device. An older man, wearing a Pittsburgh Pirate baseball cap, walked a very muscular and stout pit bull, snarling as it pulled the leash taut, into a straight line. The breeze was cool. A young woman and her child sauntered out of a popular donut shop.
     Mister Zupe turned to me, and said, "Okay, okay. You're right, Mr. Smock. I am free to go elsewhere, but I won't because working for you will eventually look good on my resume and could help me obtain paying work somewhere else. But, until you tell me otherwise, you've instructed me to deny any connection to you at all."
     "Very good," I replied. "I'm so delighted you understand."
     "Now," Mister Zupe started, "where did you get that previous information on the CIA?"
     "Oh, well, funny you should ask. I got that information from a book by author Hugh Wilford titled The Mighty Wurlitzer. It's very fascinating, and I would suggest you read it when you get a chance to do so -- so have you heard from Mrs. Pauline and Steve out in Los Angeles?"
     "No, although the last time I spoke to Mrs. Pauline, she said she was close to securing a dinner date with a close associate to Christopher Knight. If she succeeds in doing this, that will be a major development, I think."
     "Yes, I agree."
     "Otherwise, it's been pretty quiet. In Manhattan, however, Charlie Lickapheathertip, MOM and MEL have managed to infiltrate a few circles and, apparently, the word on the street about you is not a very good one. There's talk about blacklisting you. More specifically, your tactics seem to have made some people confused and angry -- "
     "-- Mister Zupe, let them blacklist me, and let them be confused and angry. That, in my opinion, is their problem and such reactions just tell me that I am doing my work as a true artist. And because of this, many will resist it and deny it, even at the risk of looking very stupid. First of all, through suggestion, it is widely encouraged by a lot of curators, directors, critics, educators, and journalists that artists ought to write about their own work.  Secondly, the gallery scene is terribly ridiculous and parasitic because of the political process associated with becoming an active participant, artist, or to use the more common language, becoming a member of some said stable, as though artists are horses, or somehow equestrian by nature. I mean, think about this Mister Zupe: At a time when many galleries attach a 30% - 60% commission on works submitted by artists, it is little wonder prices become so jacked up, so high, and for what reason? Because someone thinks that just because they have precious, sacred space, this automatically creates the prestige of being a gallerist, or director, at which point they instantaneously decide it's such a cool thing to display objects of their liking, regardless of quality; that this gives them the right to easily make more money and purchase their way into the art market? Hell, half the time, they don't sell anything anyway because what they feature is a collection of paltry objets d'art rather than a collection of fine works of art. The stuff then hangs on the wall, or occupies a lot of space that, when it doesn't get sold, quickly wastes space. Then there is the whole matter of storage. Christ, no wonder we have so many landfills in this nation. We all manufacture a lot of useless junk in this consumer-driven nation! Not only this, but how many objects are featured in galleries that were, in some instances, made by the hands of artists who are now dead? One can easily infer that gallerists wait for a significant artist to die just so they can swoop into his or her studio, gather up the work, and turn around and sell it at a huge profit! Marina Abramovic knows it because she was quoted as saying, "they will do it anyway when you’re dead behind your back." So, Mister Zupe, such practices highlight the predatory aspect of some museums and galleries. Perhaps more significantly, what this tells me is that capitalism is not about the exploitation of one's own abilities and skills, rather it is about other people capitalizing from exploitating someone else's abilities and skills. For example, let's say you paint, Mister Zupe. And because you think you paint well, and your assessments about your talents are reinforced by others who think you paint well, you try to make a living off of your own efforts. So, hoping to make a living off your work, you approach me, say, a hot shot dealer. Now, because I'm some hot shot dealer, and I have better connections than you, and therefore more implicit power than you do, I can easily look at your work and say, 'oh, no, this is not good. It's worthless. It won't sell, at least not right now.' Hearing this, as you might, you turn away, disappear. But then, one day, you decide to kill yourself because you had become so frustrated with the illusion created by the myth of contemporary art, a myth of which states that it is possible you can make a living off of your own work. Still, because you were denied the ability to display your work, not only with me, but with other dealers whom I had formed alliances with and influenced, you kill yourself, leaving behind your body of work. Soon after you had killed yourself, dealers swoop in on your work and viola! Suddenly, like the predatory creatures dealers can be, they gather up all of your work, and decide to make lots of money off of it by forming an exhibit that features everything you've created. A cash cow for them. For you, dirt and earthworms, assuming you're buried in a casket. If your remains might be cremated, then you'd probably be sprinkled on the ground, or over water somewhere just like Norman Mailer's Gary Gilmore."
     "Mr. Smock, you're right. You make sense, to me. I understand you clearly here."
     The traffic lights continued changing at specific intervals. People continued moving to and fro on the sidewalks. A small child threw a candy wrapper on the ground as he passed by Mister Zupe and myself. We said nothing to the child. The wrapper came to rest near an empty beer bottle.
     "Mister Zupe, one question before we part ways until our next clandestine meeting."
     "Yes, what is that, Mr. Smock -- wait, it's not about MEL applying for the unpaid curatorial intern position with Ms. Paddy Johnson of Art Fag City, is it?"
     "No. My question here is, what is Wio jost meta y bydder all about? Why did you leave that with me?"
     Mister Zupe laughed. "That cryptogram," he began, "though I imagine you've deciphered it, was given to me by MOM after she succeeded in seducing me several weeks ago. Last time I visited you, I had pulled it out and accidentally left it behind. Anyhow, MOM seduced me again the other night before the day when she travelled to Times Square just to participate in the protests over a mural; a protest carried out in front of that large mural of cartoonish women commissioned by the Times Square Alliance; and a protest covered by CNN." I returned the slip of paper to Mister Zupe. He stuck his left hand in his pocket.
     "Mister Zupe, yes, I did decipher it and it was funny. Hopefully, the two of you are being careful, if you know what I mean."
     "We are," he assured me.
     "I see. Well, it is time to go, Mister Zupe. We'll meet again soon. In between now and then, I will continue working on some hand-written letters in my modest atelier. These letters will eventually be mailed out. So you know, I have a specific mailing list of people I write to. And as far as I can tell, they derive a lot of enjoyment from my hand-written correspondences. Now, don't forget, I want you to pose for that portrait. And, also, remember, you'll be wearing that silver mask."
     Nodding as he does through his unique, sophisticated manner which tells me he is eager to cooperate, we parted ways under the sunshine.

The CIA, NYT and the Left Message

2010-03-17T23:53:00.002-04:00

     "Well, Mr. Smock, this is rather astonishing information, I must say," acknowledged Mr. Zup (pronounced zoop), after I explained to him that I had recently read from a book by another author -- not me -- how, in 1977, Carl Bernstein had once estimated that some four hundred American journalists had worked for the Central Intelligence Agency since 1952. Such information, I went on to explain to Mr. Zup, also suggested that the once publisher of The New York Times, Mr. Arthur Hays Sulzberger, was a congenial associate of Mr. Allen Dulles, and had even gone so far as to strike a clandestine agreement allowing some agents to operate as journalists while simultaneously providing Mr. Sulzberger with the ability to deny such an arrangement. After listening to me, Mr. Zup said he thought this was "profoundly clever", and I agreed with him.
     As this green and Irish evening unfolded, Mr. Zup went on to discuss his continued volunteer work for me. He went on to tell me that he had interviewed a few individuals who seemed like good candidates to replace Norman, and indicated Mrs. Pauline, Steve, Charlie Lickapheathertip, Monster Over Men and Masquerading Egregious Lesbian continued to work the gallery scenes.  Mr. Zup indicated they were moving rather slowly, but also suggested that they were not thrilled with the idea of volunteer work, given the state of the economy. I firmly told him there was little I could do about the economy.  As a matter of emphasis, I assured Mr. Zup that if they did not want to volunteer any longer, they were free to go. There were others who expressed interest in assisting me, I told him.  Mr. Zup soon assured me they believed enough in my work to continue with their efforts.
     Mr. Zup recognized how late it was, and said he would have to go. As he grabbed his coat, he asked me when I might paint his portrait depicting him wearing a silver mask. "As soon as I can make some time for that," I told him. "Right now," I added, "I have more important matters to address."
     "Very well," he said, scratching his pointed chin gently with his healed finger (remember, Mr. Zup had cut his finger on a bench in an earlier account.) Pausing momentarily, he went on, saying, "I'm looking forward to sitting for you as soon as you're ready to paint that portrait." Remember, I reminded him, you're wearing a silver mask.
     The engine of a car sounded through the window. Mr. Zup carefully buttoned up his coat, and left, urging me to write about Jerry Saltz, Pajo, Cotter, Green, and as many other critics as I could because, he said, they love reading about themselves in print, digital or otherwise. His voice trailed off into the realm of silence. After Mr. Zup disappeared into the March evening's veil of darkness and cool temperatures, though it took me awhile to see it, I soon noticed he had left behind a scrap piece of paper bearing the following message, penned in ink: Wio jost meta y bydder.

Marina Abramovic, Performance Art & Snuff Films

2010-03-14T17:08:00.003-04:00

     As nature's windswept rains have taken a break to give pedestrians here in Jersey City and Manhattan a little time to walk around and run some personal errands in either city, a lot of newsprint and digital space has recently been devoted to performance art at the Museum of Modern Art and P.S. 1. So much has been made of this genre recently that on March 10, 2010, one journalist, Carol Kino, in writing for The New York Times, featured a lengthy article on a series of performance workshops at the Museum of Modern Art. Ms. Kino's article, titled, "A Rebel Form Gains Favor. Fights Ensue," seeks to shed some light on the nature of this art form.
     Although the conclusion of the article left itself open to broad interpretation, this author suggests that such an art form is not all that radical, not all that extreme, if it is done within the safety and security of an institution such as the Museum of Modern Art, or the Guggenheim. Such acts carried out within the walls of these institutions make them quite safe and innocuous, really, even though, as Ms. Marina Abramovic was reported to suggest, through Ms. Kino's writings as part quote and part paraphrase, "It’s never been mainstream art and there’s no rules.” Finding this unjust, she decided to set them herself, by recreating the works in consultation with the relevant artists and estates. Better she should do it now, she said, because “they will do it anyway when you’re dead behind your back.” Such statements suggest the museum is a void where rules and laws are somehow magically suspended for the sake of expression.
     Though the ability to create rules ourselves, while deeply compelling, raises lots of questions from a legal and social standpoint, such focus placed on these performances by our influential cultural institutions serves to suggest that somehow snuff films could enter into play here, an idea put forth in a film by David Cronenberg, titled, "Videodrome", back in the early 1980's.
     Nevertheless, exhaustive cultural references aside, such performances might garner a lot more attention if they were conducted at specific sites in public places and spaces. Doing so, might engage many more members of our society like, for example, New York City police officers, a protective segment of our society currently under fire for its stop and frisk policies, small business owners, consumers of all types, tourists, all kinds of government employees, etcetera, thus disseminating the discussion about performance art to a much broader audience than the limiting ones like curators, directors, artists and museum-goers.
     But conducting such performances in public places and spaces is only a suggestion here, and is not one to be taken literally. A literal interpretation might result in some legal and social problems for those eager to act on the suggestion. And although this author is not responsible for the actions of others, this writer has certainly seen the consequences of those who performed by their own set of rules, winding up, ironically, not in a museum, but in something called the criminal justice system.

Editorial note:  For primarily cosmetic reasons, "and" in the above title was changed to "&"; Ms. Kino's writings attributed to Ms. Abramovic in the second paragraph were italicized for ease of reading, and "a" was insterted before "...much broader audience than..." in the fourth paragraph.

The Olympian and Mr. Kimmelman's Caravaggio

2010-03-11T18:40:00.000-05:00

     Our olympian had trained many years for his selected sport, an international event featuring athletes from many nations.  The event, a swim across a body of water between two neighboring land masses, required great endurance and stamina. Throughout the popular press, it was widely asserted he was the best swimmer in the world, despite occasionally publicized personal disputes between his closest family members. On the day of the event, he drank a glass of water as part of his mental preparation for the spectacle. Looking at him, examining his body like a physician would do before such an important sporting event, one would see how fit, determined he was to be competitive, win. When the event began, he surged ahead in the choppy waters, leading the way over his competitors, their arms fiercely splashing about over its surface.  Then about midway tragedy struck. He went under and never returned to the surface. His body was never found.

     Yesterday, late in the afternoon, seated near Mister Zu on a stainless steel bench 10 strides away from the pedestrian crosswalk at the northeast corner of West Broadway and Thomas Street in lower Manhattan, the two of us took in the muted, graying colors of the surrounding buildings as the sun set.  Across the street, just south of where we sat during our clandestine meeting, people were passing in and out of The Odeon Cafeteria before and after their personal dinners (I remember, too, briefly, daydreaming about several delicious dishes from Trinidad.)
     As I carefully watched these anonymous individuals come and go, I softly told Mister Zu that I had read his recent report about some of the art fairs like, for example, The Armory Show, the Independent, and Volta. After I told him he had provided me with carefully selected and excellent information, I then inquired about Charlie Lickapheathertip, MOM, MEL, Mrs. Pauline, Steve and Norman. Talk about Norman, however, was most problematic because it easily facilitated an extended discussion into areas we know and understand as politics, literature, philosophy, law, medicine and education.
     My comprehension about the situation was assisted by a series of quick, specific hand signals from my partner, Mister Zu, his eyebrows slightly shifting as he spoke, and he indicated to me that Norman was probably lying when he had told him he had been hit over the head with a glass of beer by a woman in the Billy Goat Tavern & Grill in Washington D.C. Providing me with a specific location to support his remaining statement, Mister Zu confessed to me that he phoned several local D.C. hospitals to verify if anyone had been admitted with the visible distinguishing features consisting of a gash to the head, and a lacerated eyelid around the time when the incident was said to have taken place. According to Mister Zu, no admittance to any hospital with such distinct features, such unique details, had taken place. After further deliberation on the matter, we then discussed the best way to handle Norman's case and explored our options for a highly skilled, reliable, and loyal replacement.
     Once we settled on a reasonable resolution, we discussed the other previously named individuals who remain currently involved in spreading word around about our subtle movement. Mrs. Pauline and Monster Over Man had made significant progress, according to the report. Then taking in some fresh air as we had done, we chatted about the front page article on Caravaggio by Michael Kimmelman in yesterday morning's edition of The New York Times (The headline in the hard copy purchased at the newsstand read Caravaggio in Ascendance: An Italian Antihero's Time to Shine.)
     Mister Zu, posturing as he sometimes loves to do, said, I recall, that he found the article very informative. And although I agreed with Mister Zu in a most general sense, I nevertheless sought to provide him with supplemental observations in order to give us more to think about because the newspaper did not offer enough. For example, I revealed to Mister Zu how peculiar it was that Mr. Kimmelman had, speculating as he did about Michelangelo's decreasing popularity against Caravaggio's increasing popularity early on, made a sly, slick allusion to the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland by writing, "...doesn't exactly mean Michelangelo has dropped down the memory hole." Oh, dear reader, how Mister Zu and I had some laugh over this on that stainless steel bench as the sun set! And dare I say here that, throughout our most raucous chortles, people continued passing in and out of the Odeon as though we did not exist! Passing pedestrians more near to us, however, stared and glared at us as though we were drunken, lost, hopeless, and tormented souls pushed into a world of madness and insanity by the perpetually churning gears of a giant machine.
     Still, our laughter having subsided, I again recall, how, swiftly, I redirected Mister Zu's attention to an even earlier statement in that same article by highlighting how compelling it was for Mr. Kimmelman, when referring to a University of Toronto art historian by the name of Philip Sohm, to write, "He has charts to prove it." Mister Zu, appearing confused by my observation, asked, "Mr. Smock, what do you mean by that -- what's so terribly unusual about his choice of such a phrase?"
     Turning away from my view of the cafeteria, I said, "Not phrase, rather charts. Charts. Charts, when you ask me, were once binders we maintained on our clients in the mental health outpatient program up in the South Bronx. Such charts contained psychosocials, psychiatric evaluations, progress notes, treatment plans, admitting information, discharge plans, etcetera, etcetera. And even though I understand what Mr. Kimmelman meant by his usage of the word charts in his article, it seems to me he was being grossly vague, just as performance review is when an art critic covers some absurd, unorthodox theatrical skit involving various props and wild acts in such a way as to suggest that murder could even be an acceptable form of expression in our society. Performance review, Mister Zu, in case you were wondering, can also mean a corporate supervisor's assessment about an employee's productivity, and that employee's degree of cooperation. And even though context may help us to understand what is meant through the construct of the language used, the absence of a broader body of knowledge diminishes the precise meaning of the prose found in a document, pamphlet, article, magazine, memo, message, or book."
     Mister Zu grew silent and very thoughtful. Clasping his hands, Mister Zu closed his eyelids. Sitting near him, as I did, I could see tiny, dark hairs twisting out from his ear canal and peeking at me over the pinna. A strange feeling of repulsion and despair overcame me.
     Moments later, I said, "Mister Zu, let's forget our previous discussion. Instead, I have a marvelous request of you."
     "A request of me? What is it?"
     "You shall pose for me; I will paint your portrait. And I will paint your portrait because some of our devoted readers have expressed interest in knowing what you look like. Some readers insist you're, er, uh, some sort of professional wrestler."
     Pausing momentarily, the sunlight very dim, barely noticeable, and the surrounding buildings engulfed by shadows, Mister Zu said, "A professional wrestler!? What? Are they crazy? I know exactly who I am; they do not! And I am no professional wrestler! They're wrong!" Calming down a bit after I assured him that they were simply projecting their own perceptions onto him, he added, "anyhow, alright, posing for a portrait painted by you sounds fascinating, actually. Sounds cool, I guess."
     One stipulation exists in this banal request. Curious, he asked me to elaborate. Holding my hands out, palms facing the altered sky, I told him it would be mandatory that he wear a silver mask over his face as a way to conceal his actual appearance -- hence, real identity -- from the curious viewer. Objecting, vehemently so I felt, he sought an explanation from me, but I blatantly ignored him.
     All of a sudden, cautionary signs and symbols vanished from our sight. As Mister Zu turned away from me on the bench, he cut his finger, and it started bleeding. Putting blame for the cut on the design of the bench, I excitedly pointed and wagged my finger at a nearby hot dog vendor and suggested he could gather some napkins there, to use as a bandage for his finger until he got home. Although Mister Zu was not aware of it while he dabbed the blood from his fingertip with the napkin, my plan was to avoid telling him that I was going to have to change his title a third time as punishment in recruiting the deceptive Norman for our cause. Mister Zu, I felt, had made a serious mistake in judgement, and his impression of Norman, therefore, was a questionable one. Immediately, as quick as the snap of the middle finger and thumb, I found myself staring at the face of Disbelief. So Mister Zu is now Mister Zup (pronounced zoop).

The Newspaper as a Work of Art

2010-03-05T20:56:00.000-05:00

     As a hint of Spring settles down on us here in both Jersey City and Manhattan, and this writer prepares for a repose, you ought to be left with something to consider:  Sometimes, the simplest thing, such as a newspaper, is a work of art. As some of you will know, I make frequent references to The New York Times.  Though it is not the only newspaper, it is a convenient newspaper to purchase and read. The newspaper is an intriguing mixture of commerce and art. The many messages inside of it are mixed and confusing; pointed and specific; clear and defined; demanding and apologetic; smart and stupid; arrogant and informative; repugnant and moral; sound and frail; humorous and sad; terrifying and uplifting. Perhaps a microcosm of democracy.
     Now, there are instances when I derive great delight from reading it; there are instances when reading just one word in a headline aggravates me to no end; there are instances when I agree with the editors, and instances when I disagree with them; and there are times when I am simply puzzled by it (and I mean not the crossword puzzle or KenKen. BarbieBarbie?) And although I could go on and on about the many things such a large dirty pad of newsprint brings to me as a reader -- besides the almost predictable need to wash my hands with soap and water after I thumb through it with a burning curiosity -- if I read something that offends me, it is my own goddamn fault for getting offended, because, frankly, I do not have to read it in the first place. Sometimes, though such a reaction is contradictory for a reader by nature, getting offended can be a good motivator for thinking.
     Years ago, this writer had grown familiar with Mike Royko and his alter-ego, Slats Grobnik, of the Chicago Tribune by way of The Indianapolis News (incidentally, I once had a large painting featured in an April 1987 edition of The Indianapolis News, titled, "An Absurd Dance." But the painting no longer exists. It was too big; I had no place to store it, and ultimately had to trash it. Lost work.)  Aside from this, that was in the '80's, but since then our nation seems to have changed greatly.  Some will argue it's gotten worse.  Some will argue it's gotten better (though no one I know would admit this.) Some will argue it's gotten worse for certain reasons that oppose those reasons why others say it's gotten worse.
     In any event, this morning's edition of The New York Times features a front page photograph that is more of a work of art than photographs taken for the deliberate purpose of pretending to be a work of art. The photograph I speak of features a caption beneath it that says, "Voting Begins in Iraq." The photo was taken, we're told, by Joao Silva for The New York Times. This photograph, we're also told, depicts four "Iraqi soldiers lined up on Thursday in Baghdad to cast their ballots..." Although the accompanying text aims to fix the meaning of the subject by providing added substance to the image (the antithetical idea of which was at least once, I recall, advanced by an occasionally brilliant professor named Mr. Steve Mannheimer in a painting class at Herron School of Art in Indianapolis), the four soldiers appear against a wall decorated with a seahorse, fish, heart and flowers floating just above their helmeted heads, as if, one might imagine, these battle-trained individuals are in some way dreaming of being on a beach somewhere, or simply dreaming, unattentive to their declared civic duty. Look for yourself.
     Now, time for this author to rest, much like the rest in music. Listen.

Monster Over Men at The 2010 Armory Show

2010-03-04T21:50:00.000-05:00

     After reading through several stories published in this morning's edition of The New York Times, like, for example, "House Votes to Protect Pupils Against Abusive Discipline" and "Investigating Tiny Voices At Air Tower", this author decided it was time to read the recently submitted report by Mister Z. Readers slightly familiar with Mister Z will recognize his importance to this author as he is presented to you here on this blog. A little mysterious, I know, but this is how things go when a lot of prestigious activities are said to be taking place in Jersey City, New York City and Los Angeles (Chicago, of course, too, but more on that later.) Clearly, we all know the meaning behind the words prestigious and prestige.  Such a meaning somehow, almost magically, elevates social status. But this author digresses into discourse found more naturally in the classroom of a reputable academy or university.
     Presently, Mister Z has departed for an assignment out in the field. As he goes about his work, he has kindly provided me with a recent report on a performance at P.S.1 last Saturday, along with an itinerary for the rest of the week, which includes events beginning today.  Mister Z's name has been changed to Mister Zu (pronounced zoo) for a more unique identification. And Mister Zu has succeeded in persuading other individuals to join what will soon be the most culturally significant movement the American art scene has witnessed in recent years.
     Nevertheless, let us get on with the contents of the neatly typed, double-spaced report. Briefly, Mister Zu has informed this author that Monster Over Men, Charlie Lickapheathertip (not too pleased with the selection of this person, I must say, the reasons of which ought to be clear in the below report) and Masquerading Egregious Lesbian have entered into the fray and have expressed their delight in having an opportunity to infiltrate the crowds at MOMA and P.S.1's 2010 Armory Show art fair which will run through Sunday of this week. The preliminary details on Mister Zu's typed report are as follows:

     March 4, 2010, Dear Mr. Smock, I have recruited several other people for our movement. The first new member (she actually started last Saturday) of our expanding circle is a 39-year old female from Brooklyn, New York. Code name Monster Over Men, this woman is a fierce seductress when the situation calls for it! She knows how to make men collapse to the floor with a minimal amount of effort, even men who claim to be of the highest moral standards! She can also bring about instability through the creation of temptation in our most zealous heterosexual women (such women, of course, only when she finds them to be sexy, curvy, articulate and innocent.) MOM has seen Jerry Saltz parading around here and there two or three times and knows a thing or two about schmoozing, untying ties, and unbuttoning the pressed shirts worn by many such men of culture. She says that when Mr. Saltz once spoke to her, he was a real gentleman -- "smooth as the flesh-colored casing on a long dildo," is how she put it. She indicates she attended the performance at P.S. 1 last Saturday, February 27, and thought the institution was right to turn the lights out. That performance by Ann Liv Young was, MOM indicated in her hand-written notes, obnoxious and pathetic. She said she could have just as easily watched a homeless individual urinate on a building in the street somewhere if this is really what she wanted to see, and therefore didn't understand the need for such acts to be on display at P.S. 1. She also did not understand why a crowd of people would want to see anger on display. She rhetorically asked, "don't we get enough of that from television and our newspapers already?" The second new member, a 47-year old male from the Bronx, goes by the code name Charlie Lickapheathertip. He can be pretty tough, but always presents himself as a hipster who clings to youth out of a fear from getting old and useless.  He claims he has lots of money. Says he inherited it from his uncle who died at the age of 32 while crossing railroad tracks in northern Kentucky. Though I know you, Mr. Smock, dislike alcoholic beverages, Charlie loves to drink rum. I told him we'd see how he does because we know how having such a habit can sometimes be quite beneficial in art fairs, gallery openings, etc, but I made it very clear to him you much prefer sober representatives only. Finally, the third new member, code name Masquerading Egregious Lesbian (MEL for short) is 33-years old and has a Masters in Art History from a small university in upstate New York. She may well be our best, most efficient, worm here because she spoke to a few exhibitors at the armory show just today already, and says she even winked at Giovanni Garcia-Fenech. Some of the art from Berlin was okay, she thought. Still, as it relates to art, she knows her shit. She loves Delacroix and Caravaggio. Delacroix because of his dismissal for details in or around 1863 when he painted "Arabs Skirmishing in the Mountains"; Caravaggio because of the paradox found in his obvious sensibility for describing the human figure through oil paint on canvas despite the fact that he murdered someone. All three of these new representatives I've briefed you on will be attending the 2010 Armory Show at various times today through Sunday. They have been instructed to use their real names or maintain an air of anonymity when attending these events, and to deny having any connection to you whatsoever at all times. They have also been instructed to simplify or exaggerate at their discretion their personal experiences and backgrounds. Mr. Smock, they know and understand your rules of engagement, and recognize the importance in strictly abiding by all rules and laws established and enforced by every participating member in our society and our cultural institutions. They recognize that they must conduct themselves in ways that are considered appropriate and professional. They also recognize that if they get in trouble anywhere, at anytime, they are solely responsible for their own actions and any consequences that may follow. End of report. Off to work for you, sir.  Sincerely, Mister Zu.

Here is the weather forecast: Tonight, cloudy with a chance of light rain, and light snow. Lows in the mid 30's. North winds 10 to 15 miles an hour. Chance of precipitation, 40%. Friday, mostly cloudy, high in the lower 40's.

Mister Z, Influence and Deception

2010-02-28T19:11:00.000-05:00

     This afternoon, as I sat at my trusty desk inside this modest Jersey City apartment, working away, in the middle of hand-writing another possible article, my dear associate, Mister Z, contacted me, insisting he come over because, he said, he had something incredible to show me. Somewhat befuddled by the excessive enthusiasm in his voice, I permitted my harmless informant to stop by, to visit me, to distract me, as it were, from the prose awaiting to be revealed by my own hand on a simple piece of paper. Why not, I quietly thought to myself, I had been working diligently all day and, besides, the sun has been in and out all day, and soaking up some rays through the epidermis on my big nose and sagging cheeks will be most welcome. Curious by his excitement, I calmly awaited his impromptu arrival.
     "JoKe, it is so good to see you! Why, I have great news! Look! Look! You will not believe this!"  he proclaimed.
     "Come in, come in! What is it?! What is it?! Do tell!" I said.
     Removing a rolled up magazine from his armpit, and unfurling it in a hurried manner, he flipped through some pages and revealed to me commentary from a major newspaper pertaining to a most fascinating subject.
     "JoKe, you're beginning to influence a lot of people, and this article proves it because you had earlier written that article titled, Winkie's, Maps, Sherman and Finley. Why, this article mentions Finley just as you had back on February 13 and it talks about violence, also!" Mister Z exclaimed.
     "Oh, please," I began, with an objecting tone, "I'm influencing nobody. And if I am influencing anyone at all, then it only proves we have lots of creative thieves in this world who are mentally lazy and would just as soon rip off somone's idea without attribution rather than come up with their own original idea, or commence with a drastic, significant improvement on a previous one and attribute the source. Still, regardless of this, and regardless of the possibility that readers will equate you with Dr. Watson in Sherlock Holmes, I deal with prose, words, and words, you'll quickly recognize, have no power whatsoever. Such a form of communication," I was careful to assert, "is utterly useless. This article you've brought to me is about women committing acts of violence and that growing social trend in our nation. It has little to do with the prevalence of acceptable and unacceptable deceptive practices in our society, which is what I was essentially commenting on in my own article. I am fascinated by the latter because I already know women can be just as violent as men, and I've seen it myself, especially when I worked as a case manager in a mental health outpatient program in the South Bronx. Humans can be violent, but the reasons for it vary greatly."
     Mister Z, his affect becoming moderately crestfallen, simply uttered, "Oh." My shoe lace was untied.
     "On the opposing hand, however," I resumed, after encouraging Mister Z to cheer up, "humans are very inventive. We are inventive with the stories we tell, the alliances we create and destroy, the things we make, the things we sell, the things we see, the things we do, the things we think, etcetera, etcetera. In short, we think we own the world and that nothing can stop us. Why, just look at the earthquake in Chile. This earthquake comes to us after the earthquake in Haiti. Then there is the whole matter with tornadoes in the midwest. And although I'd relish the opportunity to chase some tornadoes, such disasters strip all humans of any explicit and or implicit power and, as a result of my own observation about this curious fact -- nothing new of course -- I recognize I have no power over nature, and therefore no influence over it."
     Mister Z nodded slowly in agreement.
     "Now, don't you have some intelligence to gather for me about art scenes across the country?" I asked.
     "Yes, JoKe, I do."
     "Very well, get moving. We have little time to waste. And be certain to tell Mrs. Pauline and Steve to go to that gallery in downtown Los Angeles and spread the word among their connections."
     "Okay, Mr. Smock, I will."
     "What about Norman in Washington D.C? Have you succeeded in contacting him yet?"
     Grinning widely, Mister Z said, "Yes. Apparently, the woman he was messing around with down there in D.C. hit him over the head with a glass of beer after she found out he lied to her. According to Norman, while he was away in the bathroom of a bar, she covertly surveyed the information stored on his cell phone and consequently discovered a few things about him in it that she deeply disliked. He reported that he received three stitches in his head and a cut eyelid."
     "I see."

Mister Z, Holland Cotter and No Joke

2010-02-26T22:46:00.002-05:00

     "Listen, JoKe, I've been out in the field for several weeks now and it seems the arts types are pretty snobby; have very little to say to me," he said, holding his hands out from his sides, palms facing the ceiling. The radio blurted out news regarding New York's Governor Paterson ending his campaign in 308 days.  My office was in disarray, papers were spread out on the desk, and the trash receptacle was full of wadded up sketching paper with drafts and outllines of various ideas and methods of approach to a broader problem.  Jersey City had just received a lot of snow, just as Manhattan had today, and I was grouchy and tired of hearing excuses from anyone.
     "Look, Mister Z," I began, "there's a very specific protocol I want you to follow here, and at no time are you to suggest to anyone they should resort to violence, or encourage the slightest disruption of any existing systems. We must always respect established systems in this nation. For example, if you ever see Pajo, you are to always address her as Ms. Johnson, or Paddy Johnson, that way she will never know you're working on my behalf. The days of bashing her are past and we must speak to her in her language. Jerry Saltz? The same way. The critics from The New York Times? Treat them in an identical manner, too, as well as Mr. Tyler Green of Modern Art Notes. Should you ever go to a museum, or gallery, pay the suggested admission fee, or buy a catalog, and walk around the galleries and admire the artwork like everyone else does. Act like you love photography and performance art. That is, after all, what they do, and because that is what they do, that is what you do. Do you understand?"
     "Yes, JoKe, I do."
     "You must always look, act and speak like them. And when you attend the auctions, if you have to fork out some money to buy an expensive piece of work, do it. If you do it by phone, identify yourself as anonymous. If you don't say anything about your connection to me, they'll never know the difference. There's just one thing I do not want you to do," I said, emphasizing my point by tapping my finger on the desktop.
     Mister Z looked at me, puzzled. "What's the one exception?"
     "You cannot drink more than two glasses, or bottles, of an alcoholic beverage, otherwise, you risk getting drunk enough that you put yourself at risk of spilling your guts, revealing the plan, and disrupting the entire operation," I warned him, adding, "and always rely on keywords like art world, awesome, art star, celebrity, and any other fancy, elaborate word you can think of when looking at paintings, drawings, videos and the such while speaking to anyone attending these events. We're interested in the most subtle form of subversion, just like the same form of subversion we occasionally engage in with Bob Cesca and his Camp Chaos, and Arianna Huffington and her Huffington Post. And, again, most importantly, always abide by the law and never reveal our secret. Do you understand here what I am telling you?"
     Mister Z paused, and said, "Yes, I do."
     "Okay. Good. Remember, if you say a word to anyone, I will quickly relieve you of your duties. Now, have you heard from Mrs. Pauline?"
     "No. She said she'd call me tonight with her her report from the Los Angeles art scene. She said she was hoping to speak with Christopher Knight."
     "What about E.G?"
     "What's his code name again in L.A?"
     "Steve," I retorted.
     "Oh, yeah, that's right. No, I have not heard from him either. He said he'd contact me from Los Angeles tomorrow, too."
     "And what about Norman in Washington D.C?"
     "He told me he was going to contact me yesterday about you-know-who, but he didn't.  I must have called him four times yesterday but his cell phone was off all day. I think he's smitten by a woman down there and she's showing him a real good time, if you know what I mean." Mister Z gestured crudely with his hands.
     "Well, just get in touch with him somehow, some way. I really don't care how you do it, I just want it done."
     "Alright."
     "We're on the verge of an amazing thing here, and few mistakes can be allowed. We must always be sharp, very professional, and all about education," I said. "Now, I have some reading to do because Mr. Cotter gave the signal for it by writing no joke at the end of his review on the The Brucennial 2010 in this morning's edition of The New York Times."
     The snow had stopped falling and night spread itself out over the entire Jersey City area. Mister Z grinned, scratched his head, and told me he'd be going to a movie with his gal. He deserved it, I thought, as he was doing some excellent work. As he left the office, he warned me that no one in Indianapolis would understand any of this. Eventually, I told him, they will; they will because this comes from one JoKe. One day, when they see those books that are currently stored in a safe place in Brooklyn, it will all be very clear. Those books are beautiful and there's nothing like them in the world.

Heavy Snowfall, Myths and a Wary Eye

2010-02-25T19:44:00.002-05:00

     Today, under the heavy snow in Manhattan and Jersey City, someone phoned this author from a small rural town outside of Indianapolis, Indiana.  The person, who declined to be identified, told this author about a man who showed up on the porch of his house late one night last weekend, stinkin' drunk, armed with a knife and handgun, and so aggressive, violent and destructive that the cops were eventually alerted about the situation.
     According to the unidentified source, he incurred some minor property damage, like, for example, a broken window. Although the encounter involved some tense moments where shots could have been fired, he said the suspect eventually fled on a bicycle and was later apprehended that same night by the cops. Judging by the source's spoken account -- a life-changing one, he admitted -- it is little wonder no gunshots were exchanged and someone was hurt or killed. Such an incident is connected to our notions of art through its invisible power in the unpredictable nature of men and women alike.  For both, under such ordinary circumstances, feelings of love and hate then are really fleeting feelings with death always near, ready at a moment's notice to kiss the mortal's soft lips, whisking away the contacted individual. Aside from the myths, legends, and gossip that remain after someone dies, objects, items and possessions help us to approximately determine the person's character, beliefs, interests and social status.
     Presently, not far from Montgomery Street in Jersey City, the sound of snow-shovels scrape the surface of the sidewalks, as the wintery stuff continues falling from the sky. In this morning's edition of The New York Times, one of the headlines on the front page reads, "C.I.A. Bolsters Pakistan Spies With Wary Eye." That story, according to the black ink on the newsprint, originates out of Islamabad, Pakistan and "continues on page A10" later in that major newspaper. For interested readers who may reside in the New York City area, snow will continue, heavy, at times, into Friday morning.

Update: At New York Harbor, winds are west at 29 knots.

AFC, CFA, ART and GOD

2010-02-24T04:49:00.001-05:00

During those long, dull days, when I become severely bored, regardless of season, I will easily steal the booming sound of thunder that rolls through the clouds beneath my smelly, boney, aging feet. Art Fag City or The Hudson River and the CFA Doll?

Answer (posted here beneath the above stunning statement 60 minutes later): The Book of Numbers 7:196333 - 196349

The Hudson River and the CFA Doll

2010-02-22T20:05:00.005-05:00

     Just before midnight on Sunday, February 21, 12 hours after I had written David Brooks, Manifestos and Writing, I found myself suddenly enduring the darkest moments of my boredom. To alleviate my mind of this chronic mental scourge, I summoned up the thoughts of Saul Steinberg regarding an amusement that always has to be newer and on a higher level. I had remembered he had written such amusements were a result of boredom, and to this end, I must confess, I concur with the meaning found in his words. My silent assistant registered her agreement with my spoken statements.
     Having applied my mind in a practical way to his thoughts so I could escape boredom's darkness, I fashioned a small doll out of cotton balls pressed together and stuffed, jammed, into sewn, shredded cloth that featured one of the more beautiful patterns I've seen in awhile (it reminded me of some designs by Sol LeWitt, really.)  Relying on acrylic paint and a small sable brush, with my silent assistant looking on, I gave this doll purple hair and painted hands on its members, which functioned as fingerless arms.  Then, in bright green paint, I applied the initials CFA on its chest to reflect my profound delight in reversing the sequence of acronyms. A feeling of playing the role of God overcame me but it quickly subsided once I recognized the need to carry out my plan.
     Once I had completed the careful yet slipshod construction of this doll, I placed it on the table top and examined it very carefully with my eyes so I could admire the nappy application of purple paint representing the hair, and secure this sight in my memory.  The doll looked hideous, if you really want to know the goddam truth. Utterly hideous, very ugly; a wretched construction if ever one existed.  Why, a child could have been the artist, really, and my charismatic assistant agreed.
     Still, soon enough, my charismatic but silent assistant provided me with a small burlap bag, passing it into my hand.  I fondled the bag with my dirty fingers and said some insignificant things to her in order to allow the paint on the doll to dry. Once dry, I grabbed the doll with my other hand and stuffed it into the open mouth of the burlap bag, dropped a rock inside of it, and closed its gaping mouth, securely tying it up.  My assistant and I agreed it was time to move about in the night through the streets of Jersey City toward the magnificent Hudson river.
     On our way to that river with a storied history, in a span of 21 strides, we passed a small group of young men standing on a corner smoking cigarettes, rapping loudly, spitting on the sidewalk, and catcalling several passing younger women. They stared at us as we passed them. Jersey Avenue. The night sky continued to present itself beautifully during the silence in our elaborate journey. Greene Street.
     Soon, there it was at the end of Montgomery Street: the promenade with the twinkling lights that give shape to lower Manhattan's nighttime appearance across the way. The waters lapped against the enormous cement tide barriers, and we passed over the wooden pier, which jutted out further into the river.  The air was cold, and we only saw one other person on the pier. We said nothing. We listened to the thud against the wood from our footsteps. I held the burlap bag tight in my hand. Looking away from me, my assistant said I was strange. When we reached the railing on the pier, I tightened my grip on the burlap bag. In one swift, heroic motion, I swung my arm back and catapulted the burlap bag high into the cold air. Once hurled, the bag arced away from us, and over into the glimmering waters, where we heard what was a muffled splash in those great moving waters. The CFA doll, the rock and burlap bag were gone; a sunken work of art.

Note:  The above story was originally published with the word "acronyms" spelled as "anacronyms."

David Brooks, Manifestoes and Writing

2010-02-21T09:05:00.001-05:00

One of the more significant aspects about contemporary American society is the plethora of mixed messages. Such messages are everywhere. They exist in our newspapers when we read the articles; they exist on television when we watch it, they exist on the computers when we boot them up, and they exist on the radio when we listen to it. Such messages emanating from these devices are sometimes sad, funny, puzzling, stupid, dumb, delightful, frightening, entertaining, smart, informative, true, false and even true and false. Certainly, such limited vocabulary here on my part does not fully encapsulate the breadth of that description this writer enumerates so as to capture the essence of the problem. The previous article, "The Tarantino Connection", serves as a good example, and it could easily fall under the category of that area of literature known as creative non-fiction. Furthermore, another article, "Winkie's, Maps, Sherman & Finley" goes much farther to underscore this dilemma, a dilemma which emerges repeatedly in contemporary American society, our society.

Not surprisingly then, the Associated Press published an article yesterday at 6:15 pm, according to the online source, with the following headline "Plane attack prompts debate over terrorism label." That article, by, we're told, Jay Root, calls into question the label of "terrorism" and a "criminal act." Although violence is violence regardless of the way it is described, the dead pilot, apparently, left behind what was characterized as a manifesto by quoted sources in that article. Such a characterization, even among our more seasoned journalists, seems to me an absurd one simply because it serves as an effort to discredit one individual's inability to deal with his anger while simultaneously justifying the dead pilot's actions in an attempt to pacify the public. Coincidentally, the online arts magazine, The L Magazine, encourages commentators to provide a manifesto/bio when reigistering as a commentator (ironically, this writer did not fill in that information, and because I chose not to, it suggests that I am boring. So what? I am boring. I know this, and I cannot help it. Now, I do not point this out to get them to change it, frankly, I thought it was interesting, but such an example still serves as a mixed message when viewed against the backdrop of the Associated Press report.) Still, when one browses through just about any bookstore, one can purchase The Surrealist Manifesto by Andre Breton, The Communist Manifesto by Marx and Engels, and even a copy of The Declaration of Independence.

Although many readers will undoubtedly have their own ideas on how to think of this puzzling aspect of contemporary American society, speaking for myself, it seems to only support the point that we are all in many ways still very under-educated about many topics. In fact, in an Op-Ed piece for The New York Times, the journalist, David Brooks, recently suggested that "One of the great achievements of modern times is that we have made society more fair." Maybe he's right, maybe he's not. Some of my experiences and observations do not support his argument. The Bernard Madoff case is one. Still, back to the Associated Press report, one source dismissed the Austin incident as "more of a personal issue than a large movement." Perhaps the source, Ami Pedahzur, according to the article, was right. Still, the article clearly raises some significant questions, and in the process, unveils the complexities associated with any great work of art, much like we do any great work of art we present to the public.

But just to clear the air here a bit, my background says I graduated from an art school. Yet, to survive in our society, I have worked as a substitute teacher, an adjunct professor, a fire protection sprinkler designer, an advertising supervisor, and a case manager in a mental health outpatient program. Most of these forms of employment required extensive writing and offered me much to learn, and think about. I have a passion for writing, much like I do a passion for painting, drawing and reading, mathematics, astronomy, religion. Our politicians, on the other hand, could benefit greatly from expanding their minds and reading a lot more than they often seem to do. Blame that on the great white rat race, a phenomenon implied by Mr. Brooks himself, when he wrote, "To leave a mark in a fast competitive world, leaders seek to hit grandiose home runs." Nevertheless, my suggestion here, for starters, is to look up some books by John Dewey. If you do not find this interesting, then try "Random Family" by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, or Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle." In doing so they just might learn something from the examples in the characters of Boy George Rivera and Jurgis. We know about Holden Caufield. The New York Times recently extensively wrote about that character when Salinger died. Fancy that.

The Tarantino Connection

2010-02-20T23:50:00.001-05:00

     Here in Jersey City, early into the night, not far from Journal Square, that nearby transportation hub, the occassional buses can be faintly heard gurgling along just beyond the Catholic church that is seen through the kitchen window of this apartment building situated on one of the more quiet avenues. The brown plastic digital radio in a nearby room mutters away with sound bites of news, sports, weather and traffic. "Now for the weather..." says a male voice, and then I shut out the voice. I choose to ignore it. I am not hungry, but I am thirsty. My boots are on my feet, and a few newspapers are scattered about on the floor underneath a couple of thin books with fancy words printed on their spines. I'm such the quintessential intellectual. My shirt is untucked, but my belt is buckled, and my blue jeans have a few stains of paint on the knees. I fancy myself a painter, but, goddamn, I'm a lousy one.
     I have not spoken to my mother, my step-father, or my brothers, in many days. No particular reason, really, I just haven't. I suppose this candid remark could function to partly portray me as a bastard, but, as I have said, it would only partly portray me in this way. Honestly, though, it would not matter how many remarks I made about myself, one still could not portray me in a fixed way because I think that in the end we're all quite unable to get a complete, thorough grip on who we are. Each day reveals something new to us about our inner self. This is even truer when we are at times faced with unexpected, unforeseen challenges. Such challenges go far into redefining who we are. At least, this is what I think. I could be wrong, but I always try to be flexible about the whole philosophical matter. Oh, I know, it sounds so fucking new age. It's not really.
     Oh, is that so. You think some people are just incapable of change. Clearly, there are plenty of examples in the newspapers to support your statement. Yes, I agree.  Heaven forbid they get struck by some catastrophic event because they'd never be able to recover from the impact imposed upon their unique lives. You see this kind of thing on television all of the time. What? Yes, yes, I saw that movie. You did, too?  Crazy, wasn't it? Oh, the way he grabbed her hand and broke her fingers after they got out of bed. Then all of a sudden, as he had his back turned to her, she killed him with that small knife she grabbed out of the dirty dishwater in his kitchen sink. Tarantino himself could not have come up with anything better than that, there is no way! And he has produced some brilliant movies! He was recently the focus of a newspaper article that suggested he only went to the movies to see dead bodies. If I remember correctly he was quoted as saying the more dead bodies the better. Oh, you missed that article? Well, you should check it out online when you get home --
     -- what the hell are you talking about? See what? Where? There!? On that red shag rug? I don't see it. Where!? Right there!? Uh, no, I'm sorry, I don't see it -- I think you're imagining things. What!? Honestly, I don't see it.  Describe it to me. What!? It's green, violet and yellow with lady bug designs on it!? What!? I'm crazy because I cannot see it!? I'm not crazy, you're crazy. You're the one seeing things that really are not there, not me! Are you kidding!? You think my eyes fail to see the same things you do!? I can see reality; I don't know what you see; and that's outside our realm of a shared experience.  Look, before we get into a fight over something stupid, do you want a glass of water? Okay. Go get it. The glasses are in the cupboard above the kitchen sink. Watch out for the leaky faucet. If you want milk, it's in the refrigerator.

An Autopsy of Art Fag City

2010-02-17T20:19:00.001-05:00

In this morning's edition of The New York Times, former New York City commissioner and Los Angeles police chief, William Bratton, provided an Op-Ed article, titled "Crime by the Numbers", which takes issue with a recent survey conducted by retired New York City Police Department personnel about downplaying specific crime statistics on CompStat so the NYPD could present a better image to the public. Mr. Bratton cited three points to support the suggestion that no downplaying ("downgrading" as he referred to it) of statistical information ever took place or, if it did, then it was not substantial. And altough statistical information has the ability to illuminate any given issue beneficially or detrimentally when it is inserted into an argument, Mr. Bratton, after stating that New York City was indeed safer, concluded his article by writing, You can't manipulate that reality.

In my most recent autopsy of Art Fag City, Pajo (Paddy Johnson for those of you who may not know her by name) provides her readers at that website with a questionable video that could possibly pass for an authentic television commercial. The commercial, one minute in length, and posted on February 16, 2010, makes it difficult to determine if the product featured is real, or if it is a spoof done in the style of a thirty-something-year old Saturday Night Live television commercial that mocks an imaginary product pitched by some familiar legendary names. For purposes allowing readers to use their imaginations, a transcription of the commercial is featured in the following paragraph, stripped bare of its distracting visual content.

A sexy female narrator, invisible to the viewer and goading the listener, says, "Millions of women like yourself suffer from a poor night's rest. Sleeping on your side without proper breast support can be a major culprit. Introducing Kush, the comfortable night time companion. Anatomically contoured to gently support and cushion the weight of a woman's breasts, Kush maintains a more natural shape while resting on your side. No straps, no underwires, no constraints, no adhesives, and no garments needed. The slip-resistant surface helps keep Kush in place even as you roll from side to side. Kush offers comfort and proper spine alignment for side-sleepers, pregnant women, nursing mothers, and post-operative recovery. Call one eight eight eight own Kush. Or shop online at Kush support dot com. To order your Kush starting at fifty-five dollars, plus shipping and handling. Order now."

The purpose in providing you, the reader, with this text is to highlight the fact that the one minute commercial represents 1/10,080 of time in a seven day period. Or, stated another way, 1/1440 of time in a day. Fractions, ladies and gentlemen. Fractions. Pajo even indicated in a previous comment on February 10 that "curating a show, and running a blog professionally take more time than you've accounted for. I'd love to post more reviews than I do on AFC, but I only have so many hours in the day. And while I don't mind throwing up a youtube video or some quick post about art related news, I think it's a mistake to do the same of a review."  Additionally, given the fact that her site suggests she's currently in Sacramento, California, we have no way of knowing how she reached Sacramento, and even then, if she did make it to Sacramento, a lot of space, time and significant cultural events have been ignored along her way. Consider the following example: if we measure, say, the distance between Sacramento and New York City on a globe, that distance is a short 13.2 centimeters drawn according to a scale of 1:38,680,000 units, or, still, yet, for those of you not all familiar with the metric system, about 5 3/16", on a tailor's measuring tape. Now, if you question my tactics here, by comparison, a jewel case for a compact disc is only 5 1/2" in width by 4 7/8" in length.

So just how honest, sincere is Pajo being about the lack of time she has available to cover art in an even slightly insightful, noteworthy, thorough and truly exploratory way?  The data cited here suggests she's making an attempt to fool her readers into thinking she's doing something incredible when she's hardly doing a thing.  Such an approach to art journalism can only be concerned with wildly inflating the value of work that may otherwise be worthless. If so, then this is a severe manipulation of reality by Paddy Johnson, and art journalism suffers terribly for it. Now how did she reach Sacramento, California? We can only guess.

Please note: In March of this year, a recording of the transcribed female voice in the above Kush spot will be posted at this site. That recording will feature a different voice. No visual information will accompany the recording. Please note also that the above transcription from the Kush commercial was provided under fair use and commentary purposes only as it relates to the power of moving pictures accompanying voice overs and what voice overs say in commercials. The featured product is in no way a condemnation by this author of the said product and the effectiveness of its design. Said product may be the most effective product on the market but those answers can only be answered by any consumer who may purchase and use said product.

Winkie's, Maps, Sherman & Finley

2010-02-13T16:33:00.002-05:00

     "All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street-corner or in a restaurant's revolving door," once wrote Albert Camus, assuming the authentic meaning behind those translated words is even close. That said, Winkie's, a pivotal restaurant in David Lynch's movie, "Mulholland Dr," featured some inchoate conversations that served to support a broader story line.
     During the Spring in the year 2005, under the natural lucid presentation of a blue sky arcing over the indecipherable rhythm of short and tall brick buildings flanking my left and right sides, near my shined Johnston Murphy dress shoes, the sunlight brought to life the colors in a brown and black candy wrapper, a pink shape on a crushed paper cup from a popular donut shop, and the gold lines on several cigarette butts, where I stood on the dirty, well travelled cement of the sidewalk on Melrose Avenue in the South Bronx.  On that particular day, a Saturday, commonly thought of as a weekend day, and not too far from the 139th Street and Third Avenue train station, I remember, I had been smoking a cigarette during a break in the process found in catching up on paperwork required of case managers in a mental health outpatient program. One client -- some experts said consumer; others said participant, though oral tradition and earlier medical practice had once defined such individuals as patients -- a recovering heroin addict, who, by her own account, was in the program because she had been deceived by an undercover cop one night when she sought to purchase a fix out of the desperation resulting from a broken nose her boyfriend gave her during a fight in the close quarters of a bathroom, approached me, saying, her lips curling over and under her gums and interferring with her ability to speak clearly, "iss a gorshuss day, isn'n iht?"
     "Indeed it is," I said, calmly, adding with a trace of surprise, "where are your teeth, Nora?!"
     "Oh!" she began, "shay are adda dentiss oppice; dey need to get fixed."
     "Okay," I replied, understanding what she meant.
     Growing silent, the darks of her eyes seemingly searching for something on the ground after meeting mine, she indicated to me through her special street expressions that she had to go to a nearby bodega and pick up some items that had been baked, cleverly packaged, distributed and cheaply sold widely throughout the region for, depending upon whom one asked, the benefit or detriment of human consumption.  Her feet, protected from well worn, stained shoes missing the laces, shuffled along the sidewalk, and she soon disappeared out of sight under that cloudless sky.
     Later, after I had returned to my dingy office, where I continued my daily practice of scrawling notes on a clean piece of white paper related to another client -- one of twenty on my caseload at the time -- who was in treatment for an armed robbery of an elderly woman while under the influence of cocaine and alcohol, Nora, I'd recognize soon enough, returned. Near the closed office door, a cockroach darted along the line where the wall met the floor. I heard a gentle series of hollow raps on my door and, raising my voice, told the visitor to come in. Slowly, the knob turned, and the hollow door smoothly swung open.
     "Nora! Now, didn't I just see you?"
     "Yeah. Wherssh Tommy?" she asked, as I put my pen to rest on top of the white paper to look up at her.
     "I don't know."
     Silence. On the office wall, obliquely related to her location in the office, were maps of the Bronx, New York State, the United States, and the world.   All four maps were drawn according to specific but different scales.
     "Oh." She paused, the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes changing their appearance. "He wash s'posed to tawk to me. Can you?"
     "Nora, I wish I could, but I just don't have the time. My paperwork is due on Monday; I've fallen behind, and if I don't get it finished, I could get in trouble with the agency. Maybe he'll be in tomorrow."
     "Awhlrite," she said. Suddenly, silence again inserted its presence. She turned around and walked away, leaving the door open behind her, feet sliding along the floor. A fire extinguisher hung on the wall in the hall just outside my office door. I looked at the pen, picked it up, and resumed writing down additional notes in black ink which revealed the following: Client states he could not stop having nightmares last night about stealing money from someone at gunpoint. Client states he dreamt he robbed his younger brother and shot him in the leg. Case manager encourages client to meet with his psychiatrist on Monday about increasing his dosage of Ambien.
     Art, it has been suggested by one under-educated source, deserves better than that.  But for Cindy Sherman and Karen Finley, they surely know how to wear costumes and play different parts. One day, perhaps, someone will change their appearance by putting on a costume or uniform.  Such an act of deception will facilitate ease of infiltrating the muttering crowds that attend some big-time gallery openings in Manhattan where everyone is an active participant.

Correction:  For purposes of geographical accuracy, 139th street, which was referenced in the above story, is actually 149th Street and 3rd Avenue in the South Bronx.

Pajo, Jenny Holzer and George Orwell

2010-02-12T07:01:00.001-05:00

While many commuters may presumably be in the process of reaching long with their arms to turn off their cheaply made, mass produced digital alarm clocks from the coziness of their beds, I want to take a moment here and address a few more issues related to Pajo's comment two posts earlier. Although I recognize I risk sounding obsessed by said writer, I assure you here that I am not. And although our contemporary culture may be full of books which attempt to tell us how to read, say, for example, a painting, I simply love the act of reading. And aside from my love of reading, my reason to focus on her statements here is simple: She had made some claims which, after further evaluation, simply do not add up. In the words of George Orwell, "The worst thing we can say about a work of art is that it is insincere. And this is even truer of criticism than of creative literature, in which a certain amount of posing and mannerism and even a certain amount of downright humbug, doesn't matter so long as the writer has a certain fundamental sincerity. Modern literature," he went on, according to the typescript of a broadcast on May 21, 1941, under the title Literature and Totalitarianism, "is essentially an individual thing,. It is either truthful expression of what one man thinks and feels, or it is nothing."

Now, in Pajo's earlier comment, she excused her remarks about "slagging those lesser than" her on a MySpace website by suggesting such remarks were "written almost five years old [sic] and the bag of money I was seeking was a response that I made $8,000 that year total." Still, despite her attempt to dismiss such a remark, there it was, clear as that beautiful golden orb is when we see it in the sky on a cloud-less day, advertising for her on AFC just above a Facebook graphic. And after this writer had dutifully shed light on her remarks by writing about them here on Impossibly Reliable Remarks, she changed them promptly and properly to read: Note: Up until February 10th 2010, this profile had not been updated since 2005. Please visit Art Fag City or Facebook to see what I'm up to. So, dear reader, cheer up, as change sometimes can take place within so-called established organizations. This, I am pleased to announce, includes the realm of aesthetics and art where ideological nonsense seems to reign quite frequently and seeks to be repressive.

Now, at the end of Pajo's comment, she had taken to employing a rather empty slogan, much like Jenny Holzer does in her work, by writing, "Art deserves better than that." Pajo, of course, is not Jenny Holzer, and the slogan art deserves better than that ought to mean absolutely nothing to anyone who reads it (of course, I cannot tell any reader here when something ought to mean some thing to you, but, like Chris Burden, I can suggest very specific, certain things. You may agree, disagree, or think nothing of it.) Still, as Orwell went on to state in his broadcast about totalitarianism's impact upon literature, he said, "...it is important to realise that its control of thought is not only negative, but positive. It not only forbids you to express -- even to think -- certain thoughts but it dictates what you shall think, it creates an ideology for you, it tries to govern your emotional life as well as setting up a code of conduct. And as far as possible it isolates you from the outside world, it shuts you up in an artificial universe in which you have no standards of comparison." Funny coincidence, then, that Pajo, at the end of her earlier comment, quite openly admits to how her curatorial activities may not be visible from the outside.

Editorial note: The third paragraph would have been better if this writer had started it by saying, "And finally..." instead of repeating "Now..." just as paragraph two had begun.

Pajo, the Brain and the Alien

2010-02-11T23:38:00.000-05:00

How distressing it is for this writer to find himself feeling so lazy this evening here in Jersey City where Baldini was earlier found guilty of bribery! Perhaps it is the resulting combination of the returning colder temperatures, and the thought that my friend, Avi, is perturbed with me because I did not trudge through the bitterly cold winds to taste her delicious curried chicken. For now, I cannot decide what I want to do, nor do I want to decide to do anything. Yes, yes, I guess I really do just wish to remain lazy this cold evening, and continue letting my smelly socks outrage the nostrils of my big nose! Phew! Oh, I dare not express to you just how glad I am that you, dear reader, are not here by my side, watching me, observing me, as I compose this new article! Why, you, too, would be so disgusted by the smell from my socks because you'd soon realize just how much they rankled your own discerning nostrils! How smelly, how pungent to the olefactory system!

Now, although I am feeling lazy today, such laziness has not prevented me from taking on the role as an inventor. In assuming this role as an inventor, earlier, I had created a new name for Paddy Johnson (who, by the way, is Art Fag City) so I would never again have to type so many letters: Pajo. Pajo (pronounced Pay-joe), I think, is perfect for my purposes here, which are not at all endorsed by anyone else, and represents the creative outcome from my chronic bouts with severe boredom. How my spectacular invention here compares to the front page headline in this morning's newsstand edition of The New York Times announcing that there is "not one full-time psychiatrist" for 800 young people incarcerated by New York State renders what I've created, what I've invented, here in this new IRR article, silly, meaningless and pointless.

Ah, but before I employ the new name in this posting, I want to be very clear about a suggestion in Paddy Johnson's comment attached to my earlier February 9 article. Pajo, you may have read for yourself, and sounding like an objecting student over a difficult exercise presented to her from a professor, had put forth the suggestion that she did not think it was "particularly useful to run a blog needlessly squashing other people's dreams." Now, if her aim was to suggest that destroying dreams was something I intended to do, then she was making an absurd, unnecessary, exaggerated claim about the degree of power contained in my own writing ability. Furthermore, it may be assumed that, since we all reside in the United States of America, this is the nation where dreams are what our national politicians encourage U.S. citizens to do on a daily basis. For some of our national politicians, dreams are the cinder blocks in the foundation supporting the beautiful architecture of this country, this nation.

Additionally, at no time have I ever suggested I've been interested in "squashing" anyone's dreams! In fact, dream on, everyone, I say! and know that Pajo is trying to place blame on someone else for her weak explanations that constitute a prevalent contemporary form of psuedo American art criticism! Finally, but most importantly, squashing dreams is quite impossible anyway, unless, of course, one were to resort to an act of murder. Murder, it is thought, kills the brain; and the brain, you'll be quick to point out, is the organ in the human body that ultimately creates the dream. And this writer is not at all interested in destroying anyone's brain. Although there may be those individuals who may claim I might be an alien, the fact of the matter is, I'm just an ordinary humanist, and humorist, who weekly struggles like everyone else. Presently, I'm just very lazy.

The 12-Year Old Girl, Paddy Johnson & Bernard Madoff

2010-02-09T23:03:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, here in Jersey City and Manhattan, more snow has been forecast by our chattering weather experts over the radio in the last day or two and, frankly, I'm tired of snow, winter, cold air, and that seasonal depressing feeling I get when I see rows of deciduous trees during these sometimes long, chilly winter months. More importantly, from a social standpoint, I loathe pretentious art writers who love to pose important questions in their articles, especially when, in reality, their personal feelings seem to reflect sentiments that suggest they really do not care about the society in which they reside, participate in, and pretend to devote attention to. Case in point: Paddy Johnson of Art Fag City. She sounds as though she's after a lot of money and will do almost anything to obtain it.

Now, if you have arranged time to read her posts at Art Fag City, then you may recall that, back on January 22, she posed a very important question which went as follows: What is the role of the Artist? And although, at the time, her blog covered a lecture by Boris Groys, since then she has not at all revisited the question because, apparently, she feels "these questions are becoming increasingly difficult to answer." Furthermore, one day later, as a segue to some X-Initiative Exhibit in Manhattan, she followed up her confession with a suggestion about time by stating, "...we don't merely have the impression that there is no time -- it's a condition of our social being." Aside from arranging time to do important things in our personal schedules, and the skill of managing time, an important aspect in any business, such a confession by any serious art critic, or, if you prefer, any serious art journalist, directly reveals a lot about the quality of the substance in their coverage. And it sure doesn't look good if the same writer gushes at another site by saying, "Currently seeking a giant bag of money. Professional goals include slagging those lesser than me for more than a couple of hours a day, and taking cable access Brooklyn by storm." How interesting: The feeling of having no time, combined with "seeking a giant bag of money", and "slagging those lesser than" her "for a couple of hours a day." No wonder she wants to help Mr. Chris Weingarten make money by selling music reviews consisting of 140 characters or less. Such a scheme sounds like it requires little thought, minimal effort, and is easy work during our shared recession.

Although Bernard Madoff desperately sought social status by creating one of the biggest Ponzi schemes in U.S. history and swindling a lot of people for their life savings, eventually it, and the authorities, caught up to him, only after he reaped its benefits well into his later years. For Bernard Madoff, his art was that of deception even though, according to many published reports, much of his paperwork looked authentic and seemed official. His goal was to acquire lots of money, literally, at the expense of others. Several journalists rightly labelled Madoff as a con-artist. Of course, for Ms. Johnson we might be able to safely assume she is not Mr. Madoff. Still, for Ms. Johnson, she avoids providing an answer to an artist's role. Instead of criticizing, say, the consequences behind an Associated Press report about a New York City school system which allowed the arrest of a 12-year girl because this potentially aspiring artist "doodled on her desk with a marker" (a well publicized aspect of graffiti artists often glorified in our newspapers,) Ms. Johnson has since gone on to post articles related to simple exercises that have little or nothing at all to do with our society. And, yet, when it may seem that her topics have something to do with our society, it is then done so in a most superficial way (and, yes, digital "works of art" and videos do less to improve our society, but more to distract society's members.)

So, dear reader, there are artists and there are con-artists. And the next time you may think Ms. Paddy Johnson of Art Fag City has something important to say when it comes to art, just make sure you carefully read in between the lines. Trusting her implicit authority about art, trusting her guidance, may be a lot trickier than you thought. As for now, she's advertising an exhibition curated by -- you guessed it -- Art Fag City. According to the press release, that exhibit, which claims to "...build upon a period, 300 years past, in which emotion is seen as an authentic source of aesthetic experience," is in Sacramento, California, where no one here on the East Coast can see it.