Where are the art works that are a product of here and now?
Where are the art works that are a product of someone who lives and know this world?
Wheer are the art works that represent life here and now?
The art work of the canon are beautiful. Stunning. They have achieved this timeless for a reason...
But...
Museums are graveyards and the canoncial works of art are tombstones.
Monday, June 12, 2006
The European Experience # 52
"To get to know someone who is ______________ well, and intimately, and as a true friend, you must speak _____________.", he tells me. He has lived here for sometime, but was not born here. He should know.
The European Experience # 51
At home, I am a participant of culture. Here, I am a consumer of culture.
The European Experience # 50
It has been an awful day. Maybe the worst day of my life (but I am always wary of such grand over-arcing statements)
I call my mother.
I cry.
A mother's love is universal.
I call my mother.
I cry.
A mother's love is universal.
The European Experience # 49
The idiot box. The boob tube.
"It rots your brain"
Many people spend countless hours with their eyes aglaze when they could be in the theatre, at the museum, or reading a book.
If you are an addict or not...
If you are a surfer or not...
If you have it on just for the noise...
Television is a definate representation of a nations cultural landscape.
Television is universal...
(At least in the places I have been)
"It rots your brain"
Many people spend countless hours with their eyes aglaze when they could be in the theatre, at the museum, or reading a book.
If you are an addict or not...
If you are a surfer or not...
If you have it on just for the noise...
Television is a definate representation of a nations cultural landscape.
Television is universal...
(At least in the places I have been)
The European Experience # 48
I am sweaty. I have spent the day wandering the streets in the hot hot hot sun. Still...
He is wearing a suit. He has long hair which is very popular with young men here in Europe.
His eyes pierce me with the razor of desire. I have seen that look before.
The look of love is universal.
He is wearing a suit. He has long hair which is very popular with young men here in Europe.
His eyes pierce me with the razor of desire. I have seen that look before.
The look of love is universal.
Friday, June 09, 2006
The European Experience # 47
'' I didn't see the Mona Lisa. You can't even take pictures of it, so what's the point?'', says the fat American.
Photos capture experience in a form that is possessable. It is true that we 'have experiences', but in today's world of consumerism and capitalism, to have an experience that is relegated to the depths of memory once its temporal existence has terminated is not enough. It is popular as a tourist to record every moment of an experience away from home by capturing in photography. These efforts transform an experience into an object- something that can be held and displayed. It is not enough to 'have' an experience, we must 'possess' an experience, we must 'own' an experience, by transforming that experience into a photo that we can frame and put on our mantle piece.
Such an examination of the purpose of photography in tourism calls into question the connection between livng (the accumulation of experience over time) and society's current paradigm of consumer culture. Are we at an age in which living is only valid or valuable if it can be reduced into an object? Consider all the junk that they sell at the mega-musicals? Is not the art enough? Why do we need a 'thing' in order to validate our experiences?
Over the past three and a half weeks I have taken 555 photos in Europe. I do not think that I am in anyway attempting to capture my experience here. I feel that my experience, here in Europe, and at home, is not able to be reduced into a mere photo, at least a photo taken by such a layman as myself (maybe a true artist could manage to capture a moment of my experience in a photo, but not me). My photos are often a mere exercise in my own attempt to make art out of what I see - not connected to my experience, but rather connected to the geometry of my surroundings. Often my photos provide evidence for a particular scenario or story I wish to share with friends and family on my return home. But these stories exist outside of my own personal experience, and are stories that belong to the places and people I come across on my journey.
Unlike my fat American acquaintance, the Mona Lisa was a part of my journey here, despite the fact they will not like me take a picture.
Photos capture experience in a form that is possessable. It is true that we 'have experiences', but in today's world of consumerism and capitalism, to have an experience that is relegated to the depths of memory once its temporal existence has terminated is not enough. It is popular as a tourist to record every moment of an experience away from home by capturing in photography. These efforts transform an experience into an object- something that can be held and displayed. It is not enough to 'have' an experience, we must 'possess' an experience, we must 'own' an experience, by transforming that experience into a photo that we can frame and put on our mantle piece.
Such an examination of the purpose of photography in tourism calls into question the connection between livng (the accumulation of experience over time) and society's current paradigm of consumer culture. Are we at an age in which living is only valid or valuable if it can be reduced into an object? Consider all the junk that they sell at the mega-musicals? Is not the art enough? Why do we need a 'thing' in order to validate our experiences?
Over the past three and a half weeks I have taken 555 photos in Europe. I do not think that I am in anyway attempting to capture my experience here. I feel that my experience, here in Europe, and at home, is not able to be reduced into a mere photo, at least a photo taken by such a layman as myself (maybe a true artist could manage to capture a moment of my experience in a photo, but not me). My photos are often a mere exercise in my own attempt to make art out of what I see - not connected to my experience, but rather connected to the geometry of my surroundings. Often my photos provide evidence for a particular scenario or story I wish to share with friends and family on my return home. But these stories exist outside of my own personal experience, and are stories that belong to the places and people I come across on my journey.
Unlike my fat American acquaintance, the Mona Lisa was a part of my journey here, despite the fact they will not like me take a picture.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
The European Experience # 46
I buy groceries. I sleep in a room with five other people. I spent most of my time alone. I do not speak the national language. I rarely eat fast food. I am unshaven. I go to Tourist destinations. I have no place to be at any particular time.
I will not attempt to capture what is foreign about this place in mere words. I do not believe I am entitled to reduce a whole nation of people and their culture into a mere blog post. Nor will I bore you with the inane little details that are slightly different here than where I come from.
What I can tell you is that here,
my life is foreign.
It is not like my life at home.
I will not attempt to capture what is foreign about this place in mere words. I do not believe I am entitled to reduce a whole nation of people and their culture into a mere blog post. Nor will I bore you with the inane little details that are slightly different here than where I come from.
What I can tell you is that here,
my life is foreign.
It is not like my life at home.
The European Experience # 44
"Picasso is like a cover band" the girl says to her fried as a crowd examines one of his 'Masterpieces'.
Nothing is Original.
Is that universal?
Nothing is Original.
Is that universal?
Sunday, June 04, 2006
The European Experience #44
It is Saturday night. I don´t know where to go or what to do.
´Hello´
I did´t see him sneak up behind me. He is older, far too tanned, and wears his hair slicked back. He is wearing a poshblazer so I figure he might be interested/capable in/of buying me drinks all night like that British bloke who entertained me two nights ago (who begrudingly, but respectfully, left me on my own toward the end of the night so I could find other more suitable company). I am foreign and I suspect he is not.
´Hello,´ I respond. I am saved.
He takes me around the corner to a busy bar.
His name is Juan and he is from Argentina.
The more time I spend with him, the more I think I was better off alone and lost. He is cheap. He buys beer from a corner store, hides them in his pockets, and sneaks them into the bar. His tactic to appeal to things we have in commonis too aggressive (he actually says Ít´s perfect we have so much in common). Even though he apparently has great appreciation of theatre (he has seen Judi Dench in Hay Fever, Kathleen Turner in Who´s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, and Alan Cumming in Cabaret), using theatre as a pick up tactic doesn´t interest me when employed insincerely. He was apparently on a reality tv show called Í m a Celebrity Get me Out of Here. I am not surprised he was the first one voted off. And he gets far too close to me whenever he leans in to talk.
Two attractive boys have noticed Juan leeching the enjoyment of my Saturday night out of me. I roll my eyes at them. I excuse myself from Juan, pretend to go to the toilet, and on my way back, stop to talk to the two attractive boys. I have escaped. I am saved.
They tell me they were hatching a plan to swoop in and rescue me from the Argentinian. I am flattered.
At first glance (when rolling my eyes to them whilst in Juans evil clutches). I figured Roberto (the Italian version of my father's name) was the pretty one. Yes, Robert has an incredible body, a great jaw line, and blonde hair, but Stephano (the Italian version of my name) who oozes personality and sexuality.
Robert and Stephano invite me to a club called Salvation.
After spending time walking with Roberto and Stephano to the club, and especially on the dance floor, I become completely smitten with Stephano. I can not keep my eyes off him. Masculinity (but not misogyny or chauvinism), confidence (but not arrogance), sex (but not sleaze), style (but not effort), fun (but not hedonism), seep from his mere being. He wears a white linen shirt that hangs from his torso, the cuffs are undone, and it is unbuttoned to reveal a tantalizing fraction of his smooth chest. He has been able to achieve the miraculous feat of being both manly and boyish. His dancing is energetic (but not wild or out of control), masculine (but refined), and sexy (but not erotic). I can´t stop watching him. He takes off his shirt to reveal a lean muscled torso. Young. Masculine. Sexy. I can´t keep my eyes off him.
He swoons as a butch muscle mary walks by. He is into bigger men. Exactly who I am not.
My desire is painful.
Ít´s late, I tell them. I have to go. And I do.
I´m saved.
Sartre was right ¨Hell is Other People´. In more ways than one.
Strangers, lovers, friends (some times it is difficult to tell the three apart) are both solutions to some problems and the cause of others. Salvation isn´t just a club. People are both my salvation and my hell.
Humanity is and is not my salvation.
´Hello´
I did´t see him sneak up behind me. He is older, far too tanned, and wears his hair slicked back. He is wearing a poshblazer so I figure he might be interested/capable in/of buying me drinks all night like that British bloke who entertained me two nights ago (who begrudingly, but respectfully, left me on my own toward the end of the night so I could find other more suitable company). I am foreign and I suspect he is not.
´Hello,´ I respond. I am saved.
He takes me around the corner to a busy bar.
His name is Juan and he is from Argentina.
The more time I spend with him, the more I think I was better off alone and lost. He is cheap. He buys beer from a corner store, hides them in his pockets, and sneaks them into the bar. His tactic to appeal to things we have in commonis too aggressive (he actually says Ít´s perfect we have so much in common). Even though he apparently has great appreciation of theatre (he has seen Judi Dench in Hay Fever, Kathleen Turner in Who´s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, and Alan Cumming in Cabaret), using theatre as a pick up tactic doesn´t interest me when employed insincerely. He was apparently on a reality tv show called Í m a Celebrity Get me Out of Here. I am not surprised he was the first one voted off. And he gets far too close to me whenever he leans in to talk.
Two attractive boys have noticed Juan leeching the enjoyment of my Saturday night out of me. I roll my eyes at them. I excuse myself from Juan, pretend to go to the toilet, and on my way back, stop to talk to the two attractive boys. I have escaped. I am saved.
They tell me they were hatching a plan to swoop in and rescue me from the Argentinian. I am flattered.
At first glance (when rolling my eyes to them whilst in Juans evil clutches). I figured Roberto (the Italian version of my father's name) was the pretty one. Yes, Robert has an incredible body, a great jaw line, and blonde hair, but Stephano (the Italian version of my name) who oozes personality and sexuality.
Robert and Stephano invite me to a club called Salvation.
After spending time walking with Roberto and Stephano to the club, and especially on the dance floor, I become completely smitten with Stephano. I can not keep my eyes off him. Masculinity (but not misogyny or chauvinism), confidence (but not arrogance), sex (but not sleaze), style (but not effort), fun (but not hedonism), seep from his mere being. He wears a white linen shirt that hangs from his torso, the cuffs are undone, and it is unbuttoned to reveal a tantalizing fraction of his smooth chest. He has been able to achieve the miraculous feat of being both manly and boyish. His dancing is energetic (but not wild or out of control), masculine (but refined), and sexy (but not erotic). I can´t stop watching him. He takes off his shirt to reveal a lean muscled torso. Young. Masculine. Sexy. I can´t keep my eyes off him.
He swoons as a butch muscle mary walks by. He is into bigger men. Exactly who I am not.
My desire is painful.
Ít´s late, I tell them. I have to go. And I do.
I´m saved.
Sartre was right ¨Hell is Other People´. In more ways than one.
Strangers, lovers, friends (some times it is difficult to tell the three apart) are both solutions to some problems and the cause of others. Salvation isn´t just a club. People are both my salvation and my hell.
Humanity is and is not my salvation.
The European Experience #42
I never believed that I ´had it all right´, but what if I actually have it all wrong.
The European Experience # 40
´´ I didn´t go to the Louvre. You can´t even take a picture of the Mona Lisa! What´s the point?´´, says the Fat American.
Good question.
What is the point?
Good question.
What is the point?
Friday, June 02, 2006
The European Experience # 39
´´ Nothing unknown is knowable.´´ from Angels in America by Tony Kushnir
That which is foreign is not the same as that which is unknown.
That which is foreign is what exists within ourselves, our realm of knowledge and experience, but that which we have not yet reached an adequate understanding of.
Think of a foreign language. We know it is language to begin with, we know that the sounds have a meaning a group of people have an agreed meaning upon, what is unclear is the content. That which is foreign is that which has a familiar form, but unclear content and meaning.
Love is ultimately foreign.
That which is foreign is not the same as that which is unknown.
That which is foreign is what exists within ourselves, our realm of knowledge and experience, but that which we have not yet reached an adequate understanding of.
Think of a foreign language. We know it is language to begin with, we know that the sounds have a meaning a group of people have an agreed meaning upon, what is unclear is the content. That which is foreign is that which has a familiar form, but unclear content and meaning.
Love is ultimately foreign.
The European Experience # 38
I think I am experiencing something that most people commonly call a HOLIDAY.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The European Experience
I want a foreign lover who speaks only a foreign language and so I will not be able to understand his lies.
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