Hop On. Hop Off.

A man leaps onto a tourist bus . . . Hey. There's a bushel and a bucket of new posts over on my Creative Time blog. Hop on the bus, Gus. Seriously. How lucky was I to get this shot. Totally an accident.

Hiram Bullock, R.I.P.

Bullock with his good friend, Will Lee.

Damn. This made me sad. Hiram Bullock and his bare feet were a solid presence on Letterman back in the early NBC days. Dude could play anything. And I mean, like, anything. Imagine Buckethead without the bucket . . . or the shoes. I raise my Toast-On-A-Stick to you, Mr. Bullock.

The Light Around The Bodies.

Photo: Zoriah Miller

It is obscured, to say the least. This alarming, but not at all surprising, article in the Times tells us so. Hide the bodies. Hide the war. Feed the Beast.
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Susan C. Dessel's, Our Backyard: A Cautionary Tale buried behind a curtain:



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Robert Bly from his 1966 book, The Light Around the Body:

COUNTING THE SMALL-BONED BODIES

Let’s count the bodies over again.

If we could only make the bodies smaller,
The size of skulls,
We could make a whole plain white with skulls in the moonlight!

If we could only make the bodies smaller,
Maybe we could get
A whole year’s kill in front of us on a desk!

If we could only make the bodies smaller,
We could fit
A body into a finger-ring, for a keepsake forever.
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Slayer, Eyes of the Insane, 2006:


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And this, in case you didn't arrive here via Tyler. Jesus.
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And even though I recently posted this image for something else, I'm also adding this canvas from René Smith entitled The Secret History.

The Nurse Is In. Dead, But In.

Hospital is back up and running with scissors again. The new space looks great. And I mean GREAT. Highlights: a 10 foot tape wall, the counter case, shocking amounts of new Black Metal stock, the color red. This is going to hurt.

Duck Rock.

Malcolm McLaren's Shallow for Creative Time @ 44 1/2.

Don't really need to say anything here.

This One's For Nico.

Packer is about to get its closeup.

Emerge.

Clare Grill, Mountain Museum

If I hadn't already scheduled a studio visit with the wondrous Rosanna Bruno I'd be totally high-tailing it to Newark on Saturday afternoon for the opening of Aljira's annual group show, Emerge. This year it's been curated by PS1's Christopher Y. Lew. And honestly, I'd make the trip just to see what René Smith and Clare Grill have been up to.


René Smith, The Secret History

The Mancunian Can Of Dates.

Da-amn. Tonight I had an opportunity to listen to a promo copy of one of the new Muslimgauze archive CDs, Jah-Mearab, and it is fucking massive. The design of the packaging is tight, and the beats are wicked. (Staalplaat, it's good to have you back.) The late Bryn Jones was often compared to Merzbow in regards to his prolific ways. While Merzbow always won the contest in numbers Muslimgauze whipped--and still whips--his ass in consistency and quality. Seriously. You'll want this. The DIY, the collage, the pulling together, the absolute purity of the endeavor. Totally the shit. If you're wondering what the hell I'm talking about, here's a posthumous release that is only available via free download. Dig.

Big ups to Playing By Ear, as ever.

np: Iranair Inflight Magazine

Wednesday, Again.

Galleries shouldn't have their openings on Wednesdays. Mostly because it's almost always impossible for me to make it on that night of the week. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't check out these openings tonight and NEXT Wednesday night.

This . . .


At Freight + Volume, Accident Blackspot curated by Jim Lee and Rob Nadeau. Dudes. Rob Nadeau curating! This should be interesting.

Next . . .


November, Again at Harris Lieberman. Urgent, again. Still. We're a mess. See how it comes out on the walls and floors of the gallery.

Cover Art.

Hell, yeah. Here it comes. It's odd. It almost looks old school tape-trading era cassette cover but when you look closer it's obviously a more refined image. But that Metallica logo. There's something corrosive about it. All indications point to a return to form. If anybody can bury the body of Bob Rock it'll be Rick Rubin. Fingers crossed. Horns ready.

Felt.

So. OK. I saw this piece by Carolyn Salas on the 31 Grand site before I went to see the show on Saturday. The materials didn't register at all.


Carolyn Salas, Phoenix Rising, 2007

When I went into the back room of the show I was shocked when I saw that it was made out of felt and other fabrics. Cool. Plus, it's all kinds of stunning. The more I looked at it the more involving it became. Really, really beautiful. And much more fun than a Bible storyboard.

Swing.

East Village, 2:30 pm, Sunday.

Courting Forgetfulness.

Fuck the cover. There's a new Robert Bly poem in this endlessly-discussed issue of the New Yorker. Maybe we should be paying attention to that.

The first stanza goes like this . . .

It’s hard to know what sort of rough music
Could send our forgetfulness back into the ground,
From which the gravediggers pulled it years ago.

if.then.else.

If I was in LA today I'd undoubtedly be checking out the joint Creative Time/LACE production of Mark Tribe's Port Huron Project 4: We Are Also Responsible. Hat tip: art.blogging.la.


If I was in Philly this evening, I'd be attending the screening of Victor Mignatti's documentary This Time at the 14th Annual International Gay & Lesbian Film Festival. What do you do if you've been given the throat of an angel and the dreams that go along with it? And what if most of those dreams never come to fruition? You keep pluggin' away and you keep dreaming. That's what you do. Here's the YouTube link.


Holly Coulis, Boy and Eagle, 2008, oil on linen, 28 x 28”

But I'm here. So I'm totally checking out the Maureen Cavanaugh-curated Admirer at 31 Grand. I've a good feeling about this. She has a bit of a golden eye. But you already know that. Even if you don't know that you know that.

This Is How I Feel.

Hey. Sorry 'bout the lightness of posting lately. 1. It's summer which means more drinking and picnics. 2. I've been working on something. Not to go all Winkleman on you, but I'll share the details when things are more firmed up. And no, I'm not doing what we're all betting Ed is doing.

Plus, this is the part of the summer when I finally go to see the summer shows in Chelsea only to be reminded--as I am every single year--that a boatload of the galleries are closed on Saturdays for the hot months. Which is what happened on Saturday. Sorry kids, I don't have that much jam.

So, enjoy the the Ryan Adams vid. The song is derivative as hell, but it's fucking great. It's a balance. Be the fulcrum. Whatever. To see Doug Aitken's take on the song click here. (Nice Christian Marclay reference, by the way, Mr. Aitken). You knew this was coming back around to art, right? So, not whatever. Not whatever at all.

Evil Genius.

No. This isn't another Dr. Horrible post. The smart and rocking artist Meg Cranston will be reading from her new books, Good Morning Evil Genius and Hot pants in a Cold Cold World Thursday night at 192 in Chelsea. I went bonkers for her show at Venetia Kapernekas Gallery back in 2006. I'm pretty sure that this will rock.

Strangers When We Meet.

OMG. Joss Whedon is back with a vengeance. A very funny musical vengeance. If you want to see the best television show of the summer, you'll be watching it on the web. And here it is . . . Act I of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. Seriously. More heartfelt overblown campy goodness. I think I hurt something I was laughing so hard by the end. Plus there's an Evil Moisture reference!!! Evil Moisture, I say. Heh-heh. Yeah. Evil Moisture.

This counts as an art-related post because I remembered that Paige West posted a picture of Dr. Horrible himself, Neil Patrick Harris, at the 2006 Armory Show. Jesus. How did that stay in my head?

UPDATE: Hell, yeah. Dr. Horrible is so good the LA Times just called it a site-crashing success! Unfortunately, it's because, well, it's site-crashing. I'm so glad I watched it three times before it went down.

Roundabout.

I know I'm more than a little biased when it comes to Creative Time, but whatevs. I just came across this on their site and it's effin' cool so I'm going to pass it on to you. You're welcome very much. It's Drink The New Wine, a round robin conversation with this season's artists. It goes like this . . . Malcolm McLaren/David Byrne, David Byrne/Matthew Buckingham, Matthew Buckingham/Sharon Hayes, Sharon Hayes/Mark Tribe, Mark Tribe/Susanne Oberbeck, Susanne Oberbeck/Genesis P-Orridge, Genesis P-Orridge/Mika Rottenberg, Mika Rottenberg/Malcolm McLaren. Bottoms up!

I Want You To Want Me.

Yeah. Not so fast, Takashi. Wow. I was shocked at how utterly unmoved I was by the Murakami show at the BMA. I liked a couple paintings and that was about it. And the Louis Vuitton store? My only thought was, "It's dinky." No meditation on commercialism or culture or anything really. I wish I had at least been offended by it or something. But nope. Just, "It's dinky." Then I moved on to the next joyless room, and then the one after that and so on and so on. And yeah. I said, "joyless." I think that that was the most shocking thing about the exhibit. No joy.

Booooooooooooooo. This show sucked. I used to like Murakami. Now I think he's jive.

Here's a reminder of something good from Japan.

Pull.

Kathryn Andrews, Sugarman's Coleman, 2008

I couldn't stop looking at this work by Kathryn Andrews in the group show that's up at Rivington Arms. There were a number of pieces that knocked me out in this show, but this one acted like some kind of yearning magnet on me. At the opening I kept getting pulled back into its field when I had been away from it too long. I would get almost hungry for it. Feeling gravity's pull, for sure. Seriously. I'm not gonna shut up about this show until it goes away, until There is no there there. really isn't there. Benjamin Provo is officially a curator-to-watch. Impeccable flow.

Jodi Cave.

Photo: Lorenzo Pusterla

Jodi Cave.

Jodi Cave.

Jodi Cave.

12k @ ipr

No term limits.

Poking around the 12k site the other night I discovered that the sublabel, TERM., is still active. Excellent news for both you and me. 0's and 1's need only apply. The label exists solely online and seems to be an outlet for, well, whatever the hell strikes label head Taylor Deupree's fancy. Of special interest to the the art crowd reading this will be term.17 (Steve Roden's Amnesia) and term.18 (Sawako.Richard Chartier.Shinjiro Yamaguchi). Roden and Chartier are both gallery and museum vets at this point in the game. If you're not familiar with their work, I recommend that you change that. Plus, both pieces are a nice introduction to the label. If you're like me you'll end up enjoying every single 0 and 1 that you find there. Also, all releases are free. Generous music given in a generous spirit. Nice.

Origin Of Love.

We've been here before, but nevertheless . . . Enjoy the song. Dig the wondrous animation of Emily Hubley. Be confused by the added translation. Then, go read Alice Miller.

Maria Bartiromo

Dudes. It was 9:15 AM. And did I mention that he was alternately singing opera to the traders and blowing bubbles? Yeah. That was how he rolled.

Take note.

Take note. Bend it. Maybe even kill it. See what happens. Follow the lines that fade.

The ever-excellent 12k label will be hosting a special evening at the the Issue Project Room on Thursday night. I pretty much guarantee a killer show. Label head Taylor Deupree is a third of the roster. Who knows where he'll go. Micro? Macro? Doesn't matter. His work always ends up in an interesting place. I've been waiting to see him play live for about 10 years, so anticipation is high. Been diggin' Kenneth Kirschner's work since it first appeared on 12k and SubRosa in 2003. Total piano fuckery and electronic loopage galore, it mainly just manipulates my heart. More than all the other artists I'm looking forward to seeing how his resonance fills the IPR space. (The other thing I dig about Kirschner is his "Here. It's yours." approach to the music biz. Feel free to download all his work here.) Last and probably not least is Jodi Cave. I'm completely unfamiliar with his work, BUT the fact that he's on 12K tells me everything I need to know. Deupree has consummate taste, and people don't land on his label by accident. They usually exploit accidents once their there, but that's another story.

Finally, the other reason I'm so looking forward to the evening is that David Hodgson of Playing By Ear fame will be tweaking the sound of the room with high-high-HIGH end cables and interconnects. These three artists who push their work to the edges of sound and back will have the benefit of Hodgson's tweaking mastery. Trust me on this one. It's something to behold. He's made my own system sound $10,000 dollars better with the simplest of $100 interconnects. He has some sweet sauce, that guy. That sounded dirty. Well, whatever. Full-on slammin' sound is HOT. For real. Seriously, kids. This is gonna be great.

Shallow.

Up now on my Creative Time blog! I just posted my pics and thoughts about Malcolm McLaren's Shallow, the first installment of Creative Time's newest art assault on Times Square 44 1/2. Hell yeah, baby. Back in the belly of the beast are we.

Take Back. Eddie Murphy.

Oh, those wacky tourists. They're jammin' me.

Public Art On Public Television.

DO NOT MISS tonight's 9PM rebroadcast of WNET's excellent documentary, The Waterfalls: Making Public Art on WLIW 21. The title is a little misleading in that it's scope is way wider than it implies. While the Public Art Fund's NYC Waterfalls is the centerpiece of the doc, my beloved Creative Time's Playing the Building also takes a prominent role. Better yet, the show's secondary focus is on the twin histories of both public art organizations. If you miss the rebroadcast here's the link to watch it online.

Leftover.

Treated.

Jeremy Everett, Untitled (Porn Mag #2), 2008.

I have a one sentence review for Jeremy Everett's pieces in the new and fabulous show at Rivington Arms. Ready? Here it comes . . . Now Richard Prince is sooooooooooo boring.

This is the closest I've come to touching art that I know I shouldn't touch. I mean, I didn't break down but I was this close.

Happy 4th! Jesse Helms Is Dead.

Here.

Luke Whitlatch, The Key to a Cigarette is a Man Named Narch

I've been waiting for the show opening tonight at Rivington Arms, There is no there there, for almost two years. And for one reason: Luke Whitlatch. His work knocked me out two summers ago when I saw it in a group show of drawings at Daniel Weinberg Gallery in LA. I've been waiting for someone to show it here in NYC ever since. Kudos to Rivington Arms for rocking it by including Whitlatch in what looks like a pretty promising group show. Here's my initial reaction to his work. Weinberg also had some of his paintings at the LA Art Fair in 2007, and I went off all over again. Trust me on this one, kids.

Books, books, books, books, books, books, and books.

It was a kick and a half to see Brian Bellot's work at MoMA recently. I LOVE this guy's work. I haven't seen a single thing by him that I've not liked. I went off on the wonder awhile back on Fallon & Rosof's Artblog and more recently on ArtCal Zine. Bellot's emotional, beautiful, and giddy work makes me emotional, beautiful, and giddy.