anonymity as an asethetic strategy

The Guerrilla Girls are a longstanding inspiration to me. They're an anonymous group that tries to embarrass the art world establishment into doing the right thing. Back in 1992, there was an outbreak of similar guerilla action in Indianapolis when a shadowy group called FTC2 called on a major department store chain the "Free the Cherub"--to return an Indianapolis icon that they taken away to St. Louis. The timing was perfect for a retail boycott campaign--Christmas--and it worked like a charm. The story was front page news for four straight days. (Best headline--"Hark Imperiled Angel Sings") Does everyone always have to get credit for everything? Does credit for authorship make the work better? These are political/social interactions--I know--but what about a work like this Greek dancer? Do you really need to know who made it to appreciate that person's genius?

l'il van gogh

This is one of my favorite paintings and it happens to be by Vincent van Gogh. That says a lot for the painting, because I really don't respond much to Van Gogh's work. He's not overrated--just overemphasized.

Ironically, I actually like this one because of what it says to me about Van Gogh's life. He was a very spiritual person--studied for the clergy and tried to become a religious leader, but he was a failure. (He had already failed in the family business--being an art dealer.) I think of his experience through life as that of an outcast, though thanks to his recurring mental health issues, (undiagnosed, but some experts have made a convincing argument for manic-depression/bipolar disorder) he was probably an outcast thanks to his own behaviors.

The strong diagonal line of the fence and lamp posts leads the eye into the tightly cramped center of the picture, where five people look out at the horizon, physically and forever separated from the distance that is the the object of their gaze, which in turn emphasizes the spiritual isolation that is the metaphoric subject of the picture. The viewer (or perhaps the maker?) is doubly separated, both from the distance and from those who look into it, as they turn their backs to all who would approach.

It has been some time since I've seen this small painting--Terrace and Observation Deck at the Moulin de Blute-Fin, Montmartre, 1887, from the Art Institute of Chicago--in the flesh. On my monitor it is far more blue than I recall; I remember a more neutral gray tonality. There is also more contrast; it is more sunlit (albeit a weak, hazy light); the shadows of the fence posts seems more pronounced. But the trees/vines on the left side, and the little patch of noxiously green-brown grass, pack the emotional wallop I recall. These small, sticky tortured little things stand stiff and naked against the sky. Winter has come, but it seems to be going now, evidenced by the sodden grass that waits for the sun to warm it again.

hillary--a generational and I guess genderational rant

I promised this rant to my revered son.

I DO like Barack. I'll vote for him when (maybe not if) he secures the nomination. C'mon. It's a no brainer. I do have questions about his preparedness to lead, but they are offset by the fact that he has generated so much excitement, across so many generational, racial, ethnic, and political lines--that he has the opportunity to attract the very best to his administration. Will he choose well? Don't know. But he has an unparalleled opportunity to choose from the best public servants, and Americans seem ready to stand by him.

Hillary...let me look back thought my myopic lens. I am a die-hard liberal. I have voted exactly two times for a man who won the presidency--same dude, name is Bill. In the interim 24 years I have watched my supposedly forward-thinking, youthful, liberal generation elect one A-hole after another, to my unending chagrin. And I do mean A-hole. And I do mean unending. Exactly one man--aided by his incredible, apparently singular, and utterly disrespected but f-ing brilliant partner--upset the apparent natural order of things...If you are asking me to turn my back one the one person of my gender and my generation who stands for everything I believe in--forget it. I remain loyal. I'm from Indiana, the land where electabilty has never mattered to a liberal.

AND

AND

AND

when your generation elects some A-hole demagogue--or more likely, one A-hole demagogue after another (Think it won't happen? Look at your parents, for God's sake!) who chooses to reignite a cold war, throw women in prison for declaring sovereignty over their own bodies, tax the poor and support the rich...remember Hillary. Maybe, just maybe, you missed an opportunity.

george tooker--just because

I thought quite a bit about what to post today and I decided I do not want to have to explain anything. So--it is officially George Tooker day. I plan to have another one soon.

the suit

I've been told that a certain reader "hears" the Talking Heads every time he looks at my blog. That's a profound compliment. The suit changed everything for me.

Let me begin by stating that I worked in a record store/head shop through most of my college years and even during high school. In fact, I used to show up every Wednesday afternoon after high school to get the latest issue of Rolling Stone magazine--my fave being the one with Richard Nixon on the cover with the headline "The Quitter." By the time I was in college, I was a refugee of early 1970s folk/rock. I had nowhere to go. Disco? No thank you. Earth, Wind and Fire? Nice, but I OD'd just being in the dorms. Peter Frampton? OMFG.

So...I got into jazz. And I do mean into it. I know my Coltrane, my Kenny Burrell, my Joe Pass, my Carmen McCrae. I loved Ella, Duke, Wes, Miles, McCoy Tyner, Herbie Hancock. I saw Weather Report at IU with that amazing bassist--Jaco Pastorius--before he expired in Miami. And I loved Pat Metheny. I even sat about 2 feet from him when he gave a concert in a super tiny coffee shop that is now the small portion of the Broad Ripple restaurant La Jolla.

Then one day this LP shows up in the record store bins. I did not know what to think. I am spending my Bloomington Saturday in the usual fashion--selling Dick Nixon bongs to townies--and I see this thing. Hey, I knew what a talking head was. It was a pundit. WTF? Who were these people and what exactly were they trying to say? And why should I care? At the time, I thought anything new and different in rock meant heavy metal--clearly not my thing. Truth is--the album cover totally scared me.

Fast forward to 1980. I move to Boston to pursue a career as an artist. Well, the art thing could have worked out better, but nevermind. I was in The Talking Heads home territory, and I loved it. So smart. So many sounds. Not so sure they knew what they were doing, but it did not matter. I could not get enough. And then....they broke it off, but not until they released a movie of one of their concerts. Thank goodness they did--I'm told thery didn't do many live performances. I saw that David Byrne was one of the aesthetic leaders of my generation--right up there with Jenny Holzer and Robert Longo.

really scary--fear of cloning

This is a generational thing, I think...paranoia over cloning.

To me it's all mad science--like this painting by Joseph Wright of Derby of an experiment on a bird in an air pump? Why on earth would anyone do that? Science gone crazy...

To me cloning is something that will never happen, like that cure for cancer we've been talking about as long as I've been alive. But when I was in art school--lo just those few years ago--I realized that people in their teens and twenties really think about it and worry about it. Ethical concerns, pollution of the gene pool, identity crises, corruption of the food supply...and I choose to remain blissfully unaware as if it will never affect me--though it probably already has. Cloning, in my addled, aging mind is about as purposeful and probable as that poor bird in the air pump.

OK, so you can be frustrated with my willful ignorance, but isn't this painting cool? An English artist belatedly applies a Baroque sensibility to his fear and wonder over technological and scientific innovations of his time. It was painted in 1768--before the Declaration of Independence. I just love this guy.

philip guston

head and bottle



the king of self-loathing's most important picture on the topic of self-loathing

trouble in paradise

Tomorrow I leave for Longboat Key for five days of tennis and fun with my friend Christine---------->

Christine is so much fun to be with, and we had our wild days a few years back -- we were basically nothing but trouble. I think we will be pretty tame this go round, but even trading terse emails about the trip last week had me laughing every laugh I know. (She lives Charlottesville, Virginia now, so we are meeting up there.) We may have to stir up trouble with the Carmel tennis ladies we'll be traveling with. Yeah--that's the ticket--roommate wars!

I am actually planning to read a Shambala Sun interview with the Dalai Lama on the plane. That and Stiff, the book group book assigned by Kayla Russick. The reading material should get me started out on the just right note with my Carmel travel companions. Then we'll compare forehands.

Oh, the other pic is The Colony--the tennis resort where we'll be staying.

clarification

Apparently some readers (gad, I have readers!!) interpreted my discussion of "my Republican family" as a reference to my husband, Steve. Perish the thought!

THIS MAN IS A DEMOCRAT! True, I can easily out-liberal him on many issues, but he likes that about me most of the time.

In discussing my Republican family I was referring to my family of origin--the Cunninghams: Mary Anne, Andy and Fred.

As for my children--I think my son Elliot is so radically independent that he'll start his own country one day, and it will be known for organic produce, books and good music. My daughter Abby just wants people to cut it out and get along, and she really can't stand meanness.

cool beans

I remain chained to the computer, working on that museum history. Being subject to sudden overheating, I am spending a large amount of my time with a bag of frozen lima beans on top of my head. L'il tip. Works.

disenfranchised--a (somewhat self-pitying but nonetheless true) rant

OK, I did not think I would get into politics in this blog, but I spoke to several members of my family last night about the presidential election and the primary process, and there is something that I just have to say.

I am a 50-year-old Democrat who has basically lived her whole life in what is probably the most Republican state in the nation, at least when it comes to presidential politics--Indiana (except for that brief, politically idyllic period in Massachusetts during the first Reagan administration--"Don't Blame Me"). Indiana has NEVER, in my lifetime or for years before, gone for the Democratic candidate. Last October I was in St. Louis on "fall break" with my husband, daughter, and two of her friends, when we literally stumbled onto a Barack Obama rally.

It made me furious--because in that moment I realized that I was seeing something I had never had the chance to witness--a presidential candidate stumping in person for the White House. I've never had that opportunity because Indiana's primary is so late in the process that by the time we vote, it's all wrapped up. Presidential candidates--hey, Presidents for that matter--only come to Indiana for invitation-only, $1,000 a plate fundraisers.

And, thanks to the electoral college, every vote I have ever cast for President has been discounted. Even when I voted for the guy who won (Clinton--2X), all of Indiana's electoral votes went for the Republican candidate. So when it comes to presidential politics, I have long known that my vote really does not count. This is a fact. (I do try for my candidate anyway--believe me, I campaign. I spent October of 2004 calling voters in Florida and Ohio. Should have worked harder on Ohio).

For the rest of my family, things are a little different. They are all Republicans and they all live in Republican-leaning states. So I asked them who they voted for or were planning to vote for. Fred Thompson and Mitt Romney seem to have the lead in this family straw poll. (Shudder...no comment). Interesting thing though--no one asked me whom I might vote for; I guess they know it doesn't matter.

The museum about 1906-1910

I just learned that I will be spending my weekend creating yet another version of the museum's history for a meeting on Tuesday between the director, board members, and our new mayor. Not how I planned to spend my weekend, as I would like to finish the book version of the history, but oh well.
So, here is one of my favorite pix--schoolchildren in the museum, obviously shortly after the first permanent building opened in 1906. Portrait second from right on back wall is James Whitcomb Riley by John Singer Sargent, the museum's most cherished possession in its first 35 years or so.

Bob Greenleaf

Dr. Robert Greenleaf died earlier this week. I did not really know him, but in recent months I have spent several afternoons with his wife, Anne Greenleaf, discussing the history of the art museum. I have always known her. When I was about five years old I went to their home to play with their youngest daughter, my classmate Lisa Greenleaf. Anne Greenleaf served us vegetable soup for lunch. I remember thinking "where are the alphabet letters?" I had never had homemade soup. I've been on a mission to take down Campbell's ever since.

Anne has always been one to stir the pot, and she's made more than one bigass ruckus at at the art museum in her lifetime. She has often been right--not that people always listened.

For the past few years, Anne has taken care of Bob through his failing health. She is surrounded by five daughters, and I am sure they love her very much. But I know that she will be lonely now, and that none of us can fill in that emptiness. She is always upbeat and cheery--I will call her today and see if she is ready for my visits to resume. I just like to listen to her, and watch her face as she thinks back over her life, and I like to think about how much she has experienced.