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Ann Arbor

2009-03-30T09:48:00.000-07:00

Here are a few things I learned on my trip to the 47th Annual Ann Arbor Film Festival. If you're ever in Ann Arbor you might want to remember these handy tidbits:

-Balconies are better.
-Women with dice for bracelets can be mean.
-Free drinks are better than balconies.
-Don Hertzfeldt is a dick.
-When up north in "springtime", bring socks.
-Drinks from a backpack on a balcony are the best.
-Hot dog stands sell lobster bisque.
-Mark Hosler is not a dick.
-If your projector breaks mid-Festival, rent a new one.
-Don't eat the lobster bisque.

Here's the real review:

This past week a group of us set out to take part in the Ann Arbor Film Festival, an aptly titled fest that focuses on experimental works from around the world. Highlights of the festival in order of appearance:

-Western Spaghetti by PES
-Clear Glasses by Sam Green
-P.R. by Bryan Leister
-Adventures In Illegal Art presentation by Mark Hosler
-Operated By Invisible Hands by Nicole Brending
-Steeling Magnolias by Juan Carlos Saizarbioria & Patrick Hasson
-The Bond by Michael T. Connell
-La Battue by Guy Edion
-I Live In The Woods by Max Winston
-Permutation by Viktoriya Gruzdyn & Katerina Friday
-Love Child by Daniel Wirtberg
-My Happy End by Milen Vitanov
-Automorphosis by Harrod Blank
-Marilyn Times Five by Bruce Conner with Arline Hunter
-RiP: A Remix Manifesto by Brett Gaylor
-O'er the Land by Deborah Stratman

If you get a chance to see any of these I highly recommend you seize the opportunity, you won't regret it. Overall it was an insane week full of great films, technical difficulties, parties, yelling in the theater, and parties. One thing that bothered me all week long was the unbelievably bad programming. Placing things in order by color and shape works with geometric, colored blocks meant for children, but it shouldn't be applied to organizing works of art for public viewing. By putting films that were stylistically similar in the same program, the festival directors ensured that audience members could not give the necessary respect and attention to each piece. This was especially true in screenings dedicated to the abstract or meditative. Griping aside, I had an amazing trip. The "student summit" gave us a chance to see what is going on in some more film based programs and it also reiterated the huge lack of real arts funding we have here at UTSA. GO RUNNERS! So, go to Ann Arbor next year if you have to chance, and don't go to UTSA if you have the chance.

2009-03-21T18:42:00.000-07:00

2009-03-20T17:20:00.001-07:00

Luminaria

2009-03-15T20:19:00.001-07:00

Taking Over

2009-03-05T18:33:00.000-08:00

The Birthday Party brought to you by Kat Skrilla!

Fish Heads

2009-03-04T15:11:00.000-08:00

Project #2

2009-02-25T13:21:00.000-08:00

In conjunction with the Delumination's second installment, I will be offering handmade goods to people for no cost. VHS tape mash-ups with limited edition covers, buttons, stickers, posters, drawings etc. Some of these items will be made by me and others.

Bearded Child

2009-02-22T19:00:00.000-08:00

Billed as a program full of "films other festivals wouldn't touch with a ten foot poll", the Best of the Bearded Child Film Festival as presented by Dan Anderson was a delightful evening of non-traditional films. Upon arriving I was handed a hot pink program listing, I took a seat and read over the titles. Immediately one name spoke to me and said, "I AM GOING TO BE AWESOME!" A film that combined an existential French playwright and a public television talk show host, "Charlie Rose by Samuel Beckett" was without a doubt the best of handful of shorts shown Friday night. There were actually only two that received less than stellar marks in my brain and even those were enjoyable.

DIY and the Avant Garde

2009-02-22T09:00:00.000-08:00

The panel discussion held at the UTSA downtown campus last Thursday featured four "self-starting" artists/musicians that have developed their own methods for navagating the oft-times frustrating culutral machine. Some starting a record label as a means to produce and distribute their own music, others running an alternative arts space as a appendage of their own work. Each of the panel members had something unique to contribute. Although the subjects of DIY and the Avant Garde where not exactly featured, hearing about their motivations for doing what they've done was extremely interesting. For the most part people who do these types of things do them because they want to, not because of some supernatural confidence or motivation.

Dirt

2009-02-12T10:28:00.000-08:00

A man hangs above a pit of spikes that he presumably dug himself. Will he fall to his death? Is he even in danger? Why did he do it?

Self Portraits

2009-02-01T06:46:00.000-08:00

Kate Gilmore With Open Arms, 2005 (video still)

The idea of self or the absence there of, is referenced in any work of art. Whether it is directly commented upon or not, the selves of the viewer, the artist, and the subject are always present. Kate Gilmore's work is no different. While not explicitly self- portraiture, nearly all her videos feature her physical self and some facsimile of her emotional self. While it can not be said that the character in the videos isn't her, it is also true that the person being spattered with tomatoes in the photo above is most definitely Kate Gilmore. She uses this contradiction as a way to talk about our other self, the universal human self. Her ideas are emotional ones that speak to the center of human experience and seek to find a connective thread between all types.

Project #1

2009-01-26T13:40:00.000-08:00

4 channel loop.

A man appears to be hanging over a set of punji sticks or some kind of booby trap spikes, alla Hollywood action flicks. At times the man appears to be staging the dangerous feat, relaxing his grip, scratching his face, and at others he displays a genuine fear of falling to his demise.

Blume

2009-01-21T08:38:00.001-08:00

PEEP THE FUTURIST NOISE MAKERS!

LOOK OUT!

2009-01-20T20:53:00.000-08:00

A series of perilous events.

All Ladies Video Review

2009-01-20T17:09:00.000-08:00

UTSA Satellite Space
1/1/09-1/25/09

Joey Fauerso's Ian [Be Still] 2008 and Karen Mahaffy's Untitled [Look Up] 2008 have more similarities than just parenthetical subtitles, both works focus on our placement in a beautiful world and the contemplative nature of humanity. In Ian, Fauerso uses found drawings of doves, tree branches, flowers as an animated back drop for a stagnant portrait. In some cases the cliche, posterish drawings seem to emanate from the photo realist painting of a shirtless boy. Fauerso suggests that by remaining still "Ian" is serving as a conduit for the ever changing world around him. The boy serves as a symbol of humanness and Fauerso wants us to follow his lead by being still.

Not unlike Ian, Mahaffy's work hopes to redirect our attention towards the oft forgotten spaces surrounding. [Look Up] draws our focus to the circle created by the armature of a parking garage entrance ramp. Projected on the wall, the shot takes on the quality of a port hole, the sky, clouds, and birds sliding past. By taking the vertical perspective and turning it horizontal, Mahaffy forces the viewer to recognize the powerful combination of two commonalities, the sky and the framing of the parking garage. Both Fauerso's and Mahaffy's works seem to encourage simple, slow observation of the world and the discovery of the sublime. Be still and look up.

Biography

2009-01-18T17:41:00.000-08:00

Born Magnus ver Magnusson, the man you now know as Utah Snyder was destined to dominate all others in feats of strength. His years of intense training began when he was only a boy, at the ripe age of 3 Magnus began dead lifting with his father Sven. The miniature Swedish strong man soon became the talk of Ostersund. After years of training and several World's Strongest Man titles, Magnus left the International Meathead Alliance amidst scandal. Accusations of rampant steroid use and fraudulent travel papers forced ver Magnusson into exile in an isolated Northern Swedish province near the Lulealven river. It was there that Magnus discovered video art. Over the next year an amazing transformation took place leading Magnus to change his name and move to Texas. Thus the story of the man before you has unfolded, from strong man to artist, quite possibly the greatest testament to the power of the American dream.

Been Sleepin'

2008-12-03T10:09:00.000-08:00

I rose from the grave this semester to find that, despite my lack of motivation and my trepidation towards another semester of school I still love making things.

Under construction

2008-11-21T10:22:00.000-08:00

Bubblegutzz

GGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL...s

2008-11-10T14:18:00.000-08:00

Right now the idea of me making art as a profession twenty years from now is far-fetched to say the least. I don't think my personality lends itself to doing anything for such an extended period of time and my frustration with the mechanisms and traditions of the museum/gallery system can reach such overwhelming proportions that I often find myself discouraged. That being said, I can't for see a time when the need to express myself will diminish. For me, making something has a lot to do with distilling my personal experience into broader and less specific terms in hopes to communicate with other humans about the emotional and corporeal aspects of our daily co-existence and interaction. In other, less pretentious words, I'm trying to make something that people can relate to and, at the same time rid myself of some emotional backlog. Which usually leads me to the same place, how do I get people to see this stuff without falling victim to that great leech known only as the art world? So I guess that's my goal. Over the next 5, 10, 20 years I want to drastically rearrange the way people, not exclusively artists, engage the community and each other. Lofty enough for you?

Pink DOTS

2008-11-10T13:45:00.000-08:00

This past Saturday I went up to Austin to see the Legendary Pink Dots and was surprised to see their show had a live image component. They had two 8mm projectors and two slide reels being operated by what I assumed to be the wives/girlfriends and cohorts of the band members. Educational films from the 60's and still images of countless esoteric objects and scenes collided on the sheets behind the band to form a psychedelic and sometimes syncopated visual counterpart to the music. Despite the jankness of the presentation (something I actually enjoyed), both aspects of the performance blended very nicely. Apparently, Ed Ka-Spel, the Sliverman, and the rest of the Pink Dots haven't lost a step since their beginnings almost three decades ago. Big ups to Anglo-Dutch neo-psychedelia!

El Busto

2008-11-10T13:07:00.000-08:00

I realized in making Cake that brevity and simplicity are crucial to my work. This is not to say I consider Cake to be a work of extremely high production value, all I mean is that it deviated greatly in terms of prep than most of my other videos. Economy has always been a hallmark of mine, whether in moving image or more traditional works, yet for some reason this time I chose to do something different. The result of which was something entirely unsatisfying and frustrating. For the most part I'd say experimentation is a good thing, but without readiness for disappointment your foray into the unknown can be aggravating. And simultaneously illuminating. I understand better why my videos work the way they do and how the intuitive structure I set up for myself influences the final product. As a way to get the bad taste of Cake out of my mouth, I made Corner. A single shot recording of me attempting to violently force my way out of a rather bleak and oppressing corner. The metaphor was appropriate. What's the knock on being too literal again? God forbid someone understand what it is I'm trying to express.

THIEF!

2008-11-03T11:40:00.000-08:00

This article's header seems familar.... I smell a rat.

McCain's Blood Lust For Young Children?

2008-11-03T10:03:00.000-08:00

TOTALLY PLAUSIBLE.

We Must Avoid a BRAIN GAP!

2008-10-29T12:40:00.000-07:00

This is a link to article about how technology is changing the way our brains work.

20 Minutes of Hatred

2008-10-27T11:28:00.000-07:00

I went to the mall. And as per my instructions I hated it. Maybe it's the recycled air, or the overzealous employees, or seeing people in brand new fits with arm loads of bags filled with even newer digs, or maybe, just maybe, it's the ridiculousness of those over-sized cookies with greetings piped in icing on them. Whatever it is, the mall is a strange place. Don't get me wrong, I like new stuff as much as the next consumer, but there comes a point where its ridiculous. I know a handful of people that make some of their clothes by hand, and that shit is way cooler than anything you'll find at the mall. 300 dollars worth of ed hardy gear seems like a waste of money to me, especially when you're already rocking at least that much in other designer ish. For the video portion of this assignment I'm going to invent absurd caricatures of some of the people I saw while I was there. Then these mall rats (played by me) will have some equally absurd conversation. Should be fun.

Cycles

2008-10-27T11:18:00.000-07:00

There has always been this repetitive nature to the way I live my life. Things go up, then come down, then they go up again, something that a lot of people identify with, I'm sure. Over the past few years I've really tried to focus on the nature of these cycles and what, if any are the means for manipulating them. How does one stay up? Or make down portion of cycle shorter? Or are both parts equally necessary? The piece I'm working on for the upcoming screening is about this kind of stuff. Sort of a carnival ride. Exhilarating and at the same time potentially capable of inducing vomit. It really is fascinating to watch yourself go through one of these cycles and to remain aware of what is coming next. Either you're going up, or you're on your way back down. But going up is just what happens before you go down, and being down means you're on the way back up. So whats the difference?

Leonard's Party

2008-10-21T13:31:00.000-07:00

The house was a two story Victorian, which had been separated by floor into a duplex. What could have been an extremely attractive and marketable property in an increasingly pricey neighborhood was a below-average house verging on the uninhabitable, due to Leonard's negligence. He had bought the home several years ago, before the neighborhood had been scrubbed and spit-shined to accommodate the influx of ladder-climbing hipsters that searched the city's ghettos for a gentrified version of slum life. Over time, the run down homes and abandoned buildings were transformed into trendy domiciles and hot spots where fashionistas and intellectual snobs would congregate. An almost identical reconstitution of the very neighborhoods they had fled to avoid getting caught in a passing fad.

The facade of Leonard's home was painted in a combination of greens that peeled in great chunks and gave the appearance of a derelict halfway house. The windows were either covered with rust laden screens or had been blacked out completely by former residents with cans of spray paint. An overgrown mess of tangled bushes, that had no right growing next to one another, battled for territory on the front lawn, each vying for sunlight by choking the life from a neighboring plant. Dead leaves covered the front walkway and piled higher each fall. The surrounding homes had been remodeled and refurbished, glistening with fresh color that covered the slats and curves of wooden siding. The neighborhood society, an institution of the new residents, had tried repeatedly to reason with Leonard, explaining that he had a duty to his neighbors to keep his home looking respectable and perhaps, if it wasn't too much trouble, updated. He listened to their pleading, nodding softly, but then slowly and without malice, closed the door.

The bottom floor had remained empty since Leonard bought the home, but not for lack of interest. Almost daily some bright-eyed jittery social flip-flopper would come knocking, asking if Leonard had room to let. He would tell them no and bid them farewell. Maybe if the right person arrived at his door, Leonard would change his mind, but these people who sought to live in his vacant apartment were too self-involved, trying too hard to attach themselves to the latest and greatest. And Leonard had no intention of succumbing to a nagging tenant complaining about the faded and out-dated outward appearance of his living space.

Leonard occupied the upstairs portion of the house by himself. His living room, expansive and octagonal-shaped, contained a set of French doors that led to a dilapidated wrap-around porch that seemed to swell when the winds were strong. His bedroom was small and housed little more than dirt and a slab of eight-inch thick foam. The majority of Leonard's time was spent on the far corner of the balcony, staring at the street and sitting on a set of rusted bedsprings left by the previous owner.

People jaunted below him at various speeds and with various gaits. Many carried on at a furious pace and their bodies seemed like stretched taffy, leaving only long streaks of their forms that gave no sense of humanity. Lifeless blurs with expensive habits and important business to handle. The ones who moved more deliberately gave Leonard a chance to see their faces and wonder about their lives. There, a geriatric whose son has just dies, a twist of yellowed broken teeth slicing across his crinkled face and tears soaking his cheeks. There, a man wearing a medic's uniform and the apprehension of bad news creeping through his features, a horrible accident. And there, a woman of severe and serious reputation, a look of distance and pain in her sturdy grey eyes. These were the people Leonard felt an affection for, a profound sense of love for these slow moving folks that emanated something quintessentially human.

For sometime now, Leonard had envisioned a bizarre gathering in his home where the down trodden and slow people he watched wander past his porch would be in attendance. All of them moved just as they did on the street, only now their world was his living room; their faces exuded an air of remorse and a forced, business-like detachment. The world of trendsetters and go-getting socialites stopped abruptly and the only movement came from Leonard's living room. The falling sun sent streaks of golden light crashing through the windows and set the room ablaze. The room itself was like Leonard had never seen it, immaculately clean, the floors a smooth glittering mass of milk chocolate planks. As the people moved around him, Leonard lay on the floor with a sly grin curled about half of his mouth. He wore his only suit, a dark brown affair with a light checkered pattern that he had bought years ago. His shirt was the standard pressed, starched, and stark white. Around his neck hung a plain knit yellow tie that matched the handkerchief in his front pocket. He absorbed every flinch, every slight change in expression in the faces of his guests, despite his eyes remaining transfixed on the ceiling. It was as if Leonard was everywhere at once, as if he had internal access to every pair of eyes in the room. Chunks of emerald green glass was crunched into smaller and smaller shards as the attendees moved about the room, all of them acting with even hands, attending some unknown task. Sunlight reflected off the jagged edges and shot dots of refracted light across the walls. The world bled intense color as it only can in the unhinged realm of the imagination. The vividness of Leonard's party often sent him into an uncontrollable fit of crazed laughter, his body doubling up on itself as the images flooded his brain.

He spent many hours of everyday dwelling on this odd fantasy, as his life was by all accounts uninteresting, a stark contrast to fast paced and ever changing lifestyles of a large number of people surrounding him. A tremendous relief of pain and loneliness would wash over Leonard's heart whenever he retreated to the imaginary gathering, although it was obviously an unhappy event for everyone else involved. It was the only thing he seemed to have, the only truly possessed and controllable aspect to his life, that and his home. The world changed so dramatically in every conceivable manner and without relevance that almost nothing made sense to Leonard. He knew his imagination, he knew his mind, and he knew his home, but little else seemed to rest congruously with him. The world was too strange now, too far beyond Leonard's sensibilities to ever return to him.

The world continued to move past his porch, and he persisted in watching it. Alternately pleased with the inching past of people and disgusted with the rapidly increasing number of blurry outlines moving too fast to be seen, to fast to be absorbed into the fantasy. Recently, he had gone full weeks without seeing one person clearly, which maddened him to the point of public outbursts. One day in a bout of rage, he screamed off his porch at the faceless streaks that went slicing across the sidewalk. They moved faster and faster, even as his voice reached a fever pitch. Tears streamed down Leonard's face and the taste of salt filled his mouth. He wondered why these people never listened to him, why they never heard him begging for them to stop, to slow the world down and make things easier. As he sobbed Leonard thought of his party. The broken glass, the golden light, his brown suit, the gray-toned people from the street, it was all there, except this time he noticed something new. An invitation with smooth black curves. Leonard slept soundly that night, a sleep that had eluded him for years.

He awoke early the following day and went about preparing his apartment in anticipation of his guests. The task of cleaning was long and arduous; his house was covered in a thick filth and cobwebs formed in every angled nook possible. As he swept, clouds of gray came billowing in dense plumes from the floors and collected in Leonard's nostrils leaving the stench of dust pulsing through his head. The bathroom was laden with rust stains and soap scum, a disgusting brown tinge that tainted white porcelain. Loose hairs and shreds of tissue that congregated around the base of the toilet vanished. He filled bag upon bag with bits of trash that lay strewn about the apartment. Each step leading from his front door to the main hall was swept, vacuumed, and mopped. He scrubbed the walls until his sponge was black with soot. He worked ceaselessly for hours on end until everything smelled of bleach and Pine Sol.

With the cleaning complete, Leonard set to dressing himself. The fresh underwear and socks came first. Then the pressed and starched shirt, with its stiff sleeves and crisp collar. One leg at a time the pants arrived at Leonard's waist. Two-tone tan and taupe wingtips slid onto Leonard's feet and a yellow knit noose slipped around his neck. Lastly, the jacket crept up his shoulders and took its place. His body dressed and the party soon at hand, Leonard left to buy the champagne. He floated down the street between the buzzing pedestrians that had once drawn his rage. He smiled broadly and without pretense, a joy of unparalleled dimension burbled from his soul and out his face. He drifted in and out of the liquor store, and before he knew what had happened, Leonard was standing at his doorstep holding the bottle of champagne staring at his reflection in the glass paned door. He unlocked the door, turned the handle, and entered his pristine apartment. Up the stairs and to the left, the living room. Leonard set the champagne on the floor, the curve of its side rocking back and forth looking for a place to rest. He drove the heel of his shoe into the bulk of the bottle, sending emerald glass and bubbling liquid spilling across the floor.

It was now time for Leonard to take his place. He reached inside his coat and pulled from its breast pocket the glistening black solicitation, the calling card that would bring the world into Leonard’s living room; waiting to burst and break all it touched. An invitation to the world, a party with misery and all her friends. Leonard placed it to his temple and eased his finger back, sending a hunk of metal careening through his skull, shredding bone, then exploding out into the room taking with it bits of bloody pink and the torment of a fractured, lonely life. The body dropped to the floor, its back against pine, and its eyes staring upwards. Half of its mouth curved in the grin of satisfaction. As the sun began to set, bars of golden light stacked themselves throughout the room, their edges reflected about the walls by the broken glass that lay around the body. Soon the world would be in that living room, crunching green glass under its feet, wearing expressions of regret and purpose. Soon people with badges and bags would be in that living room, people who’ve seen this a hundred times before and never adjusted. People with low-slung heads and hearts, weighed down by the world’s truth, would be in that living room, people who’ve seen the face of death and recognized it as their own. Hoping they can do this one more time without falling to pieces, without filling their hands with tears. Soon the party would begin.

Oldness

2008-10-21T13:09:00.000-07:00

From out the ether comes a generation more preoccupied with the past than any other before. Fanny packs, RGB, the Golden Age, Gibauds, nylon, all seeping from the collective fetal subconscious of twenty-something knuckleheads to confundity of their elder counterparts. Dissatisfied with the present state of culture and heavily influenced by the immediacy of information via the Internet, this new generation seems to be progressively reaching backwards, cross-pollinating the sensory overload of 16-bit video games with the non-aesthetics of punk.

Blog Assignment

2008-10-19T11:31:00.000-07:00

Draw a diagram of how your dreams are made. Post it to your blog.

FFFing Art Guys

2008-09-23T12:48:00.001-07:00

This one took me awhile to really figure out how I felt about it: vomit. These guys are supposed to be the great includers, the ones who challenge the way the art world functions, and they acted like typical art snobs. Rubbing their metaphysical bullshit in everybody's face. "I mean, this podium. What the hell is that?" Spewing anecdotal self-promotion and narcissism, these two came of as a pair fledgling potheads that broke the stereotype and rose from the couch to tell the world some benign, exclusionary insight into how easy the art world is to manipulate. Pointless. Like Nilsson.

2008-09-15T09:35:00.000-07:00

Click Image For Synopsis of McCain's Domestic Policy.

Proposal

2008-09-02T16:01:00.000-07:00

I intend to make a cohesive body of work through out all my classes. If not in concepts, in the quality and consitency of the work. What exactly this means is yet to be determined.

M.I.A.

2008-05-02T07:48:00.000-07:00

The lights go down. Three huge t.v. screens illuminate to show what appears to be found footage of a chinese TV broadcast. A bald man sits behind a podium speaking into a microphone. "My countrymen! I have nothing but contempt for you. This worthless country and this system are supported by no one but you. To be more precise, the majority of you are my enemy...if you think an election will change anything you are very wrong. In the end, elections are just a festival for the majority. There is no chance, but to destroy this worthless country that they control. No ammount of reforms will help us." The lights go down again. BASS, and then...Maya. Speakers blast and images, altered in classic M.I.A. fashion flash across the screens. Overhead lights of alternating blue, purple, red, green point out, almost blinding the auidence. Three shilouettes, one DJ, and smoke fill the stage. More bass. Gunshots. Hot fire...

Arguement

2008-04-23T07:37:00.000-07:00

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. I will be first up today, and as they say, “He who goes first…wins.” I have no doubt that the “wise” and “virtuous” man who sits to the left of me has a sound mind of reason and a pure heart of…well…purity, that will guide him in the selection process. Why, I know not of another man with such an eye for the beautiful, as Lorenzo Medici. Lorenzo’s tastes in art rest their weary bones, and they are weary from so much patronizing…is that the right word? Well, I mean to say he is a patron, and his taste rests next to that of the dogs…I mean gods. This divine knack for seizing beauty by its throat and choking the life INTO commissioned artworks will no doubt lead old Lorenzo well in selecting the perfect artwork for his collection. What is the perfect artwork you may ask? A vision of mathematical perspective perfection. A piece whose orthogonals do not meander in strange, unconvincing ways, but rather stay steady and true to course. (Kind of like Iraq) The great Medici needs a work conceived and executed by a master. Symbolism, humanism, Platonism, and any other ism have only secondary importance to the pointedly prestigious and profound practice of perspective. If one has figures masterfully rendered, down to the most insignificant detail, but no sensible ground to place the figure, what does one have? Garbage. Or in more amiable terms, an artwork where the realism of the figure is lost in empty or imaginary space, where figures float, un-anchored as if nothing else is important. (SCOFF!) Why, my dear friends, my fellow art lovers, I contend that such a work does not exists as art, at least not as the noble art we know, art whose wings have been clipped by classical dogma and whose legs almost crippled by good Christian morals. A work without exact perspective is like breakfast without wine. PREPOSTUORUS! The work I have here, to offer up to the art god Lorenzo, exemplifies mathematical deconstruction of the mystical operations of the eye. The viewer is tricked into seeing depth, taken advantage of, and appropriately so, for he is a lesser being. Who wants a work of art that makes no claims to mimic reality? That doesn’t presume grandeur in its appropriation of the work of the universe? That doesn’t deify the artist? Or make the audience feel inferior for not knowing how he did it? I certainly don’t. And neither did Piero della Francesca. Unfortunately, Piero couldn’t be here today. You see, the universe has since…er…uh, how do I say… re-claimed its handy work, despite Francesca’s “godly” perspective ability. I shall grant only one concession, and that is this: all of the artists being represented here today have attempted to mimic a god. All have sought to separate themselves from the commoner through the means of trickery and deception, and all exist as testaments to the unflinching and offensive gall of humanity. But none does it quite like Piero. The man wrote the book on perspective, literally, its called De prospectiva pingendi. His works highlight the great importance of rendering images through cold and serious mathematics, as opposed to silly intangibles like intuition, emotion, or creative dissent. In fact, I put it to you, comrades, that Piero was not an artist at all, but a mathematician moonlighting as an artist. And, my dear Lorenzo, you of all people should realize that the making of art, with all it’s complexities and demands for rigorous organization, should never be left to an artist! That, my friend, would be like allowing a professor to profess, or permitting a concubine to conk your bine. Utterly ridiculous. Thus, great Lorenzo Medici, whose third eye shines brightest when the lights are off, I leave you to ponder these facts in hopes you’ll see things from my perspective.

Lynchian.

2008-04-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

The amalgamation of every plane of reality available. A huge question. Memory, dreams, contrived or actual, daily actions mixed with snaps and cracks. An examination of those dark pools that fester in human consciousness. The re-telling of the oldest story. Pain. Joy. Paranoia. Ectasty. The out pouring of human confusion with an incongruous reality. Death amplified and deified. Mysticism mixed with masochism. Signal scrambling.

PIRATE BOOTY!

2008-04-06T09:41:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what kind of treasure people left for me in my folder, but I imagine its pretty good stuff. The idea of trading things is always appealing to me. Bring back the barter system!! The things we traded can be easily manipulated without destroying the original. Freaking cool! Sick, tight bro! I wish I would've stuck around longer.

I've now seen what I got. FUCKING AWESOME! Justin's piece is really cool. I think everyone should give title credits to someone else next time. Make a piece and trade it. Then that piece becomes theirs and theirs becomes yours. Whoa.

The Garden

2008-04-05T14:38:00.000-07:00

Look at the link to your right.

Einsturzende Neubauten
The Garden

Luminaria

2008-03-27T17:58:00.001-07:00

After weeks of prep and several moments of strong self-doubt, Luminaria seemed to be a success. I was occupied for most of the night, but the work I did get to see was enjoyable. Things that specifically caught my eye: all the projections on buildings around the block, the massive Tina Turner painting, and, of course, the array of new media work that us students shucked out there. I've heard several people praise the event and then qualify the praise with petulant whines about the caliber of work that was presented. I agree to a certain extent, that most of the work I saw wouldn't be found in the pages of Art in America, but who cares? What I found interesting and, ultimately positive about the event was that the work ran the gamut and that the small circle that regularly attend openings here in San Antonio had been diluted into a seething mass of "regular" people. Familiar faces few and far between. I can state flatly that I had a good time.

As for my own work, I felt that the "point" of Stoltz and I's piece was somewhat misunderstood. I say this because I didn't even realize what the piece was about myself until the entire process was over. The piece for me was about making something with your hands and giving it to someone else, free of charge. As well as the more conceptual, Dadaist elements of standing opposite a society that lacks reverence for humanity (if this illuminated, I want to be deluminated). Artworks are always about ownership, in some shape or form, and this was no different. We owned the ribbons we gave out, we own the spray paint we used to paint them, but now the entire thing belongs to a complete stranger who may have no desire to know what deluminated means and literally gained from the experience. Wonderful. The public was entirely unabashed. They walked directly up to us and asked point blank if they "...could please have one, a white one." No prior knowledge of the project necessary. No critical inclination towards modern society or artistic predisposition warranted. Granted the vehicle for this simple act of giving was elaborate and contrived, but I'm positive that's what attracted strangers, compelled them to laugh and point, or smile as the camera snapped a photo. It made me happy to interact with people I'd never met in such a way. Joyful, nonsense. Intentionless. Un-art. And thus misunderstood by what I found to be the minority at Luminaria, the San Antonio "artworld".

Paramony

2008-03-12T17:56:00.000-07:00

The idea of parallel harmony was first introduced to me by my subconscious. I needed a word for something I was writing and this popped into my head. Now, I can't take credit for coining the word, as an author used the word for his book's title (information I found after researching on whether the word already existed), but I can extrapolate on what it means to me.

As applied to art, the term can be used to describe two seemingly parallel bodies of work that rest in some harmonious middle ground, i.e. the works of Ray Johnson and Andy Warhol. Warhol seemed obsessed with fame while Johnson maintained a desire to exist in "artworld" anonymity. Warhol's paintings and films all speak to the monumentality of America. Filming static objects for an entire roll of film (as in Empire) or turning the camera on the people he literally manufactured at the Factory, Warhol's film work seems to be less about the deconstruction of narrative in traditional movies and more about the sheer massiveness of American "objects" (people, ideas, physical things) as well as the fluid properties of personality. Both artists dealt specifically with public persona as a contrived device for navigating the social implications of being an artist, but as Warhol focused his attention on fame, Johnson seemed bent on achieving a kind of infamy.

Johnson mingled with artists, attended openings, produced art, and was regarded by his peers as a formidable talent, yet none of his works are mention in any general contemporary art text. His simple and formulaic style often strikes artists as possessing some kind of purity seldom seen in today's "artworld". Like Warhol, Johnson manufactured personality as an artistic statement. This idea of fluid personality seems to grease the wheels of America, something that both Johnson and Warhol recognized. While their intentions were somewhat different, each artist straddled a similar idea and created harmony between parallel trains of thought that travel in opposite directions. Thus paramony.

2008-03-04T09:31:00.000-08:00

Shimmering black on black. Come back to us. Come back. DE-LUM-I-NA-TION. Holding back the light, or hiding back behind it. Beyond light. Or before it. DE-LUM-I-NA-TION. A grand stage, grandeur staged, CONGRATULATIONS! Given and received like birthday gifts. Happy day, kalu kalay. A Light Bright spelling out the times. Read the signs and deny luminous lethargy. Move back. Backwards movement along the tracks, leads to crash and burn maybe. But burning and crashing is better than stacking up and out. Get up to get down. And vice versa. Deluminate your mind, craig.

Hustle. Hustle. Hustle.

2008-02-27T12:33:00.000-08:00

An Attempt

2008-02-18T19:37:00.001-08:00

My proposal is as follows:

I plan on making a single channel loop, minimal audio of me laughing, image of a bomb dropping that loops to give the appearance that its always falling and never hitting the ground. I'll then project this on a wall and sit directly under the bomb with arms outstretched, upwards, and laugh uncontrollably, this will be filmed and then looped and that will be my project. I will need a monitor and headphones for the actual show.

Don't Blame Your Boots (A.T.L.L.S.R.)

2008-02-17T14:49:00.000-08:00

American wrapped in bacon.
Tasting like death and cigarettes.
Left hand justified and correct.
Liberal posture, disrespect.
Shoulders slumped and drooling.
Re-spooling threads like Ms. Ross.

And leaving bodies on the cross.
They deal in cold hard carcass.
Loving deep and darkest.
Leaders of the paratus.
Standing face to face, all back.
Raw and stacked up thirteen high.

As I see it, bye-bye.
Today and tomorrow running side by side.
Life of Reilly takes a nose dive.
Looking for the patsy.
Shouts and points at the boots.
Rungs and chutes.

How To Make A Kick Box

2008-02-05T09:02:00.000-08:00

Contents of Kick Box:

75 Metal Brads

$0.86 in Assorted Change

8 Phillips Head Screws

1 Cellular Phone Charger

1 Tall Drinking Glass

Construction Instructions:

Place Items in a 4 x 4 x 6 Cardboard Box.

Tape Top and Bottom Securely.

Wrap in Brown Paper.

Place on Ground Approximately 2 1/2' From a Wall.

Kick Box Against Wall.

Licking the Soles of Your Feet: Backpackers in Texas

2008-01-25T07:53:00.000-08:00

I spent last night sucking down beers watching some potbellied man flail his arms about and spew garbage from his mouth. MC Hammer (after he dropped the MC and was puffing his chest out calling himself a gansta) would have been a better show. I should have known better than to think underground hip-hop out of the west had changed. Are those guys even underground any more? It seems like I saw Aesop Rock had done some Nike commercial.

"I mean everything sounds the same. Nobody tries to make their own sound. Why aren't more cats rhyming about corporate greed and American corruption, preaching to misinformed heads about the evils of the music biz, or trying to change something, you know. I'm doing something different, something special, something thats never been done before. Hang on a second my phones ringing....MY SONG'S GOING TO BE IN A NIKE COMMERCIAL!!! FUCK YESSSS!!!!!" (Direct quote from Emcee Douche Bag Mcgee #2,483,071)

What a crock. All the "indie" shows I've been to feature some really bad sound to boot. Most of the time the vocals are cranked and the dude's spitting so fast its like an amplified stomach grumble. Its almost guaranteed if you asked one of these guys who their influences were they'd feed you some bull about how they're not trying to repeat the past and they want to break new ground. Well, news flash, you're not. Your sound is a blatant and poorly crafted rip off of one of the illest west coast collectives, Project Blowed. You lack the rhythm necessary to be a rapper so you string together the longest words you can think of in hopes that someone will take it as intelligent word play and buy the CD you burned in your jammies while you were watching reruns of Who's the Boss?. When you get home and lick the soles of your feet to figure out where you've been, make sure you remember to keep your backpacking ass out of Texas. And give me my ten bucks back.

2008-01-18T07:37:00.000-08:00

American System
The land of milk and honey, that’s how they get you. A quick sneak peek at what you can have, here in the land of gold streets and crisp clean cotton sheets. Sleeping under orange groves with red, white, and blue reflecting off your eyeballs. Fulfilled and full of joy, you inhale pine essence. Dropping to the earth, licking the dirt, and thanking god for this beautiful country. Fresh squeezed and on your knees, they come to you with contracts. Dazzled, you take the silver pen and scrawl your name on the dotted line. The suits slink back and let the lights go up. And then the show stops. The crowd goes silent and the stage rises from the soil. Leaving you alone, wondering what that smell is, and why your stomach hurts. Answers abound, the bodies lay in organized piles across the hard, lifeless and lacquered wood. A performance, a signature, and a death; a simple system.

MJ, but not Michael.

2008-01-15T16:02:00.000-08:00

Me and You and Everyone We Know
Strange connections. The immediacy and necessity of human to human contact manifests itself in bizarre fashion. Miranda July kind of relies on this inherent oddball characteristic in order to prove her point, or at least satisfy some urge to highlight our need to know one another. By conjuring up fictional tales of overtly sexual human perversion and our desire to love and be loved, July is able to draw attention to the connections between people, de-emphasizing the absence of commonality and exalting the connection itself. Residing in a realm devoid of binary "morality" July forces the question of whether anything is important other than the fact that we are here, right now, on this planet.