The past couple of days I've been thinking a lot about the conversation my ceramics teacher and I had about "tunnel vision." During my final critique he asked me to tell him a bit about how each pot was different and branching out in the sense that he could tell I was "taking a risk to see what the clay could do." I know "tunnel vision" drives him absolutely crazy because a student's reluctance to try new forms means that student gets stuck making the same pot over and over. That same student gets pissy about making any other form than the form he or she has appropriated as a comfort zone, which makes his life more difficult since the student becomes reluctant to being taught anything new.
The same happens to writing students. I imagine that "tunnel vision" is a problem of all artists in any genre in any part of the world. I did go through my little diddy of tunnel vision, though I remained teachable because I'm an idea thief. This means I listen, I read, I scratch my head and then take whatever I've observed and try to make it my own. I'm sort of a sponge that way. But, my first year of graduate school I wrote only from the perspective of a submarine. When I felt the submarine poems going stale, however, I ditched them. I didn't really have much of an emotion about ditching the submarine sequence. I just knew it had to happen. At first, the submarine poems were liberating, but as they grew stale I realized I was trapping myself.
My teacher is a firm believer that students rob themselves of spontenaiety and the pleasure of learning what clay can do--the ultimate chameleon as he calls it--because they get wrapped-up in the idea of grades and praise and the word "good." Yeah, I've gotten wrapped into those things before, but not for all that long because it's not worth the energy. I went through my "is it good?" phase until I realized I had no fucking clue what "good" really means. The only thing I know about what "Good" means is that the definition of "good" depends on who you are talking to. Personally, I'd rather explore the bounds of what can happen in generating and revising and tinkering than taking on the burden of effectively commenting on the nature of "good." People have been discussing what "good" means since people have been able to speak and we still don't know what exactly it means because the term is always in flux. And the idea of "good" will always be in flux because human beings are creatures of contradiction and change.
I told my teacher it was more effective not to have an opinion about my pots while making them because I was more interested in learning how to react to accidents while working. I think there are two ways to create art: 1. excercising control over the work; 2.) reacting to accidents. You're doing a favor to yourself if you manage to do both while creating the work. I agree that writing and making art, as Diana Jospeh puts it, is a series of choices and each choice has an effect. From my practice I have found that to be not only an effective route but a responsible one because that line of thought requires integrity from the artist. I'd like to feed off of that expression by saying that making art is also a series of accidents and your response to each accident will have an overall effect on your acceptance or resistance to tunnel vision.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Hunt for the Mysterious Bad Smell
Yes, it's a little like Hunt for the Red October; I just cannot locate either the origins or breeding ground of the pungent funk haunting my abode. This smells has wicked-good ninja skills. I have emptied trash, hurled trash, cleaned the trash cans, cleaned the bathroom, looked under the couch, looked in corners, peeped around in closets. All dirty dishes are clean. Nada. Something somewhere is producing an industry of smell.
It's a smart smell. I can't figure out exactly what the cause is like with spoiled meat or rice or laundry. Some smells are sneaky in the way they lay dormant but you can locate them by distrubing the funk. This smell is not dormant. It's omniscient. It's an all seeing, all knowing smell. This can mean only one thing: a drain smell.
I suspect that my kitchen sink drain has accumulated some serious jazz in its throat.
Okay... just a second...
It's not the drain, well, there's probably some problematic jazz in that drain, but I just now located where the empire of funk is. Not all dishes have been done.
Recently I made some yummy soup. I thought I cleaned out the stock pot. Not so much, I guess. I must have slid it into my oven while cleaning a couple of days ago. Bad, bad move.
I just pulled the stock pot out and said, "This can't be it. This is clean."
This was it.
I barely lifted the lid and the empire of funk attacked with its smell akin to biological weaponry. There was just a bit of the soup including chickpeas, black beans, sweet potato, grilled ham, and tomato left inside. It does not help that my oven is always slightly heated AKA incubator for accelerated production of NASTY.
Time to battle against the stock pot. The goal is to have this place of mine pretty spotless by this evening. It shouldn't be that hard especially considering the phrase "pretty spotless." Spotless, but please please please do not open THAT door. THAT door is not where the evil monkey lives. THAT door is not the portal to Narnia. THAT door holds back all quarantined nasty.
It's a smart smell. I can't figure out exactly what the cause is like with spoiled meat or rice or laundry. Some smells are sneaky in the way they lay dormant but you can locate them by distrubing the funk. This smell is not dormant. It's omniscient. It's an all seeing, all knowing smell. This can mean only one thing: a drain smell.
I suspect that my kitchen sink drain has accumulated some serious jazz in its throat.
Okay... just a second...
It's not the drain, well, there's probably some problematic jazz in that drain, but I just now located where the empire of funk is. Not all dishes have been done.
Recently I made some yummy soup. I thought I cleaned out the stock pot. Not so much, I guess. I must have slid it into my oven while cleaning a couple of days ago. Bad, bad move.
I just pulled the stock pot out and said, "This can't be it. This is clean."
This was it.
I barely lifted the lid and the empire of funk attacked with its smell akin to biological weaponry. There was just a bit of the soup including chickpeas, black beans, sweet potato, grilled ham, and tomato left inside. It does not help that my oven is always slightly heated AKA incubator for accelerated production of NASTY.
Time to battle against the stock pot. The goal is to have this place of mine pretty spotless by this evening. It shouldn't be that hard especially considering the phrase "pretty spotless." Spotless, but please please please do not open THAT door. THAT door is not where the evil monkey lives. THAT door is not the portal to Narnia. THAT door holds back all quarantined nasty.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
In Praise of Fusion: Kanye West and 1950s Visual Art Influence (Warhol & Pollock)
I love what Kanye West is doing in his music videos for Good Life and Heartless:
Both of these videos are excellent examples of how to borrow from previous artistic movements in a different art form and contributing to those already established forms as a way to create something fresh.
These videos are visual sugar, sonic joy, and flat-out enjoyable, smart narrative and rhyme. The next time I teach poetry, I'm pretty sure I'll do a couple units on Rap. I just love love love how much there is to learn about spontaneous turn and humor and earning intentionaly subtly and intentionaly raw emotion.
I could go on and on intellectualizing why these videos represent so much about what I believe art should do, but that would ruin the visual and musical integrity of these works. I would rather sit back, enjoy, and appreciate that this work is in the world.
Good Life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=su_zrW9WBVk
Heartless:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWzlD7Lc6w8
Both of these videos are excellent examples of how to borrow from previous artistic movements in a different art form and contributing to those already established forms as a way to create something fresh.
These videos are visual sugar, sonic joy, and flat-out enjoyable, smart narrative and rhyme. The next time I teach poetry, I'm pretty sure I'll do a couple units on Rap. I just love love love how much there is to learn about spontaneous turn and humor and earning intentionaly subtly and intentionaly raw emotion.
I could go on and on intellectualizing why these videos represent so much about what I believe art should do, but that would ruin the visual and musical integrity of these works. I would rather sit back, enjoy, and appreciate that this work is in the world.
Good Life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=su_zrW9WBVk
Heartless:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWzlD7Lc6w8
Sunday, May 3, 2009
MSU-Mankato Surplus Sale
It is a miracle I walked out of there empty handed, a matter of self control, a matter of, well, I had a GOT TO PEE BAD and PEE NOW situation on my hands.
The word on the street is that FIVE randal pottery wheels are getting surplused and sold. Some thought they would go for dirty dirt cheap this semester. Some said September. Either which way I got my ass to the sale at 7:15 a.m.
I'd heard that people will line up for the surplus sale starting at 4:00 a.m. I'd heard some camp out all night. For the most part, this is entirely true and entirely wrapped around the idea of buy computers and other electronics for next to nothing--all computers go for $35, the majority of monitors go for $25. You can buy a baby grand piano for $75. You can buy a nice office desk for $20. You can put in a bid on a fishing boat and trailer included. You can buy anything that the university is getting rid of because of upgrades.
At 7:15 a.m. there must have been 150 people in line already. Even if there were a pottery wheel available, which I doubted due to the fact I saw them in the cermaics studio on Friday, my chances were pretty shot.
At the front of the line was an army of twenty to thirty absolute nerdy, gawky, gangly computer types who looked liked maybe they played and extended session of Dungeons and Dragons in the parking lot all night. A small sacrifice for cheap computers.
I stood in line drinking coffee thinking this would be complete chaos as soon as the massive garage door to the sale goods inside the surplus garage opened. Parents were telling their children DON'T WALK OFF, STAY WITH US, STAY IN SIGHT. One guy said, Why don't they just open the goddamn doors already. I sipped my coffee while preparing to elbow and be elbowed. I sharpened my ninja skills, my ballet moves to gracefully slide around people in a panic driven crowd.
As I was bullshitting with some African guys the doors opened. The African dude had been going down the list of sale items with a pink pen in hand listing the items he wanted to go for first. I said, "Good luck, dude. Hang on to that pen or someone will pick it up. I have the feeling nothing is safe here unless it is in your hand."
That warning was a little like Hunter S. Thompson's in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas "We're in Bat Country. Poor bastard is on his own."
Either which way, the crowd was moving, the game was on. I was ready.
You know how hoards of fish surface and roll around when people pay 25 cents to feed them, how there is a frenzy of rolling and eating and some fish fight with each other? That's pretty much how the surplus sale went.
By the time I got inside the surplus garage, all good laptops and flat screen monitors and classroom projectors had vanished into the hands of the nerdy, the not so nerdy, and the homeless looking. It took me under five minutes to get into the garage, too.
People were scattering like ants, rifling through computers, tools, office supplies and all the whatnot. Electronic guys were on their cell phones already selling the laptops and nice Apple computers and flat screens. Electronic guys were saying, Hey, I'll buy that computer from you right now for fifty cash.
In about forty mintues all the good stuff was claimed, lines were drawn, territory was claimed. I picked up a nice looking backpacking backpack and a man said, PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THAT. IT'S MINE while he was looking at microscopes. I thought, What dipshit puts down his bag at a fucking frenzy sale like this?
My favorite moment was the mother who was standing beside the baby grand piano marked $75. She held her son by the hand. He was having an absolute fit and crying and shouting and she was trying to keep him quiet. The look on her face and body language said, You touch this fuckin' piano and I'll break your face. I thought it was a kind of a beautiful and complex emotional moment. How the son, probably seven, might remember his fit, his crying infront of all of these strangers panicing like ants swarming in an ant mound. How the mom will remember his fit and how she just wanted this piano for herself, for her kids, for her family. That the way we bring art into our homes requires some emotional sacrifice sometimes. That no kid or adult can get a $75 baby grand piano without giving up a little something first. I like to think that that little boy might be the next Chopin or Motzart. I like to think that people will gather in concert halls to see him play and even if he messes up in his performance, even if he tanks, even if he screws the pooch more than anyone thought the pooch could be screwed, it wouldn't be as bad as his first experience with the piano. That from this day on, his relationship with the piano is complex.
If I had gone into the surplus sale with buy buy buy on my mind I probably would have forgetten all about that as soon as I saw the people reacting to this situation. I couldn't keep myself from looking at this man and woman debating on if they should buy an old card catalogue cabinet. The man said, I could keep my paints in here. I thought, That's a lot of fucking paints. The woman said, Where will we put it? The man said, We could put it in the garage or the shed. The woman rolled her eyes.
That's exactly how I am. I buy shit and collect shit and keep shit that I think I'll use someday or invent a purpose for. Once, I kept a bunch of old wooden futon frames in my apartment with the idea that I could use the wood to make a little boat. Once, I riffled through a dumpster just for some five inch think binders. I've been trying to thwart my bullshit collecting, getting a grip on what I need and what is needed right now. It's pretty hard for me. But I'm working on it.
In all of of my debating on what to buy and not buy--I looked at an outboard motor, some computers, thought about putting a bid on a fishing boat, thought about carting off a desk I don't need, shelves I don't need, tools I could live without right now--the PEE BAD GODS said we must leave. We must leave right now. I could hold it no longer. Pissing on a tree in the parking lot was considered. Too many people. I could piss in a cup in the car. No cups.
I drove 45 mph straight to Nelson Hall (the art building). I slammed on the breaks, hopped out, keyed into the building. I made a full out sprint, Maurce Green eat your heart out, to the bathroom next to the wheel cermaics studio. Inside the bathroom I did the PEE PEE DANCE while fiddling with my zipper before the pure pleasure of urine vacating a maxed out bladder.
In the midst of patting my own pack for not pissing myself and not buying anything at the surplus sale I looked inside the ceramics studio. The wheels are still there. September, I told myself. And, yes, I do plan to drive back up here for one of those wheels. I might even stay up in the parking lot all night with the nerds playing D & D. Maybe my character will be a wizard or a mage. Someone who casts spells would be nice.
The word on the street is that FIVE randal pottery wheels are getting surplused and sold. Some thought they would go for dirty dirt cheap this semester. Some said September. Either which way I got my ass to the sale at 7:15 a.m.
I'd heard that people will line up for the surplus sale starting at 4:00 a.m. I'd heard some camp out all night. For the most part, this is entirely true and entirely wrapped around the idea of buy computers and other electronics for next to nothing--all computers go for $35, the majority of monitors go for $25. You can buy a baby grand piano for $75. You can buy a nice office desk for $20. You can put in a bid on a fishing boat and trailer included. You can buy anything that the university is getting rid of because of upgrades.
At 7:15 a.m. there must have been 150 people in line already. Even if there were a pottery wheel available, which I doubted due to the fact I saw them in the cermaics studio on Friday, my chances were pretty shot.
At the front of the line was an army of twenty to thirty absolute nerdy, gawky, gangly computer types who looked liked maybe they played and extended session of Dungeons and Dragons in the parking lot all night. A small sacrifice for cheap computers.
I stood in line drinking coffee thinking this would be complete chaos as soon as the massive garage door to the sale goods inside the surplus garage opened. Parents were telling their children DON'T WALK OFF, STAY WITH US, STAY IN SIGHT. One guy said, Why don't they just open the goddamn doors already. I sipped my coffee while preparing to elbow and be elbowed. I sharpened my ninja skills, my ballet moves to gracefully slide around people in a panic driven crowd.
As I was bullshitting with some African guys the doors opened. The African dude had been going down the list of sale items with a pink pen in hand listing the items he wanted to go for first. I said, "Good luck, dude. Hang on to that pen or someone will pick it up. I have the feeling nothing is safe here unless it is in your hand."
That warning was a little like Hunter S. Thompson's in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas "We're in Bat Country. Poor bastard is on his own."
Either which way, the crowd was moving, the game was on. I was ready.
You know how hoards of fish surface and roll around when people pay 25 cents to feed them, how there is a frenzy of rolling and eating and some fish fight with each other? That's pretty much how the surplus sale went.
By the time I got inside the surplus garage, all good laptops and flat screen monitors and classroom projectors had vanished into the hands of the nerdy, the not so nerdy, and the homeless looking. It took me under five minutes to get into the garage, too.
People were scattering like ants, rifling through computers, tools, office supplies and all the whatnot. Electronic guys were on their cell phones already selling the laptops and nice Apple computers and flat screens. Electronic guys were saying, Hey, I'll buy that computer from you right now for fifty cash.
In about forty mintues all the good stuff was claimed, lines were drawn, territory was claimed. I picked up a nice looking backpacking backpack and a man said, PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THAT. IT'S MINE while he was looking at microscopes. I thought, What dipshit puts down his bag at a fucking frenzy sale like this?
My favorite moment was the mother who was standing beside the baby grand piano marked $75. She held her son by the hand. He was having an absolute fit and crying and shouting and she was trying to keep him quiet. The look on her face and body language said, You touch this fuckin' piano and I'll break your face. I thought it was a kind of a beautiful and complex emotional moment. How the son, probably seven, might remember his fit, his crying infront of all of these strangers panicing like ants swarming in an ant mound. How the mom will remember his fit and how she just wanted this piano for herself, for her kids, for her family. That the way we bring art into our homes requires some emotional sacrifice sometimes. That no kid or adult can get a $75 baby grand piano without giving up a little something first. I like to think that that little boy might be the next Chopin or Motzart. I like to think that people will gather in concert halls to see him play and even if he messes up in his performance, even if he tanks, even if he screws the pooch more than anyone thought the pooch could be screwed, it wouldn't be as bad as his first experience with the piano. That from this day on, his relationship with the piano is complex.
If I had gone into the surplus sale with buy buy buy on my mind I probably would have forgetten all about that as soon as I saw the people reacting to this situation. I couldn't keep myself from looking at this man and woman debating on if they should buy an old card catalogue cabinet. The man said, I could keep my paints in here. I thought, That's a lot of fucking paints. The woman said, Where will we put it? The man said, We could put it in the garage or the shed. The woman rolled her eyes.
That's exactly how I am. I buy shit and collect shit and keep shit that I think I'll use someday or invent a purpose for. Once, I kept a bunch of old wooden futon frames in my apartment with the idea that I could use the wood to make a little boat. Once, I riffled through a dumpster just for some five inch think binders. I've been trying to thwart my bullshit collecting, getting a grip on what I need and what is needed right now. It's pretty hard for me. But I'm working on it.
In all of of my debating on what to buy and not buy--I looked at an outboard motor, some computers, thought about putting a bid on a fishing boat, thought about carting off a desk I don't need, shelves I don't need, tools I could live without right now--the PEE BAD GODS said we must leave. We must leave right now. I could hold it no longer. Pissing on a tree in the parking lot was considered. Too many people. I could piss in a cup in the car. No cups.
I drove 45 mph straight to Nelson Hall (the art building). I slammed on the breaks, hopped out, keyed into the building. I made a full out sprint, Maurce Green eat your heart out, to the bathroom next to the wheel cermaics studio. Inside the bathroom I did the PEE PEE DANCE while fiddling with my zipper before the pure pleasure of urine vacating a maxed out bladder.
In the midst of patting my own pack for not pissing myself and not buying anything at the surplus sale I looked inside the ceramics studio. The wheels are still there. September, I told myself. And, yes, I do plan to drive back up here for one of those wheels. I might even stay up in the parking lot all night with the nerds playing D & D. Maybe my character will be a wizard or a mage. Someone who casts spells would be nice.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Peter Voulkos, Cermaic Abstract Expressionist
PETER VOULKOS 1924-2002
This is the ceramic artist I'm writing on for my lil' diddy due on Monday for Ceramics 250: Beginning Wheel.
Not only do I think Pete Voulkos' heavy, fractured/rough work is visually interesting, but I love his name. Not only do I love his popular name: Pete Voulkos, but I ABSOLUTELY LOVE his birth name given to him by his parents who immigrated to the US from Greece:
Panagiotis Harry Voulkopoulos
At first it looks like a tongue twister. Then there is sort of this strange music to it that in no way could I say the name three times fast. Just looking at this name makes me think this is the way to teach beginning writers about assonance and consonance. His parents must have either consciously or subconsciously been in love with the assonance of the A sounds working with and against the O sounds with the repetition of the consonant P. The name makes absolute sonic sense while making me go, Huh? No wonder the boy with such a name became an Abstract Expressionist.
Here's some nuts and bolts on Pete:
Voulkos' sculptures are famous for their visual weight, their freely-formed construction, and their aggressive and energetic decoration. He would vigorously tear, pound, and gouge the surfaces of his pieces. At some points in his career, he cast his sculptures in bronze; in other periods his ceramic works were glazed or painted, and he finished them with painted brushstrokes. He bought some of his metal from Sidney Levinson. In 1979 he was introduced to the use of wood kilns by Peter Callas; much of his late work is wood-fired. Peter Voulkos loved working with an audience. He died of an apparent heart attack in February 16, 2002 after conducting a college ceramics workshop at Bowling Green State University, Ohio, demonstrating his skill to live audience. He was 78.
Some of my favorite pieces by him:
Friday, May 1, 2009
Dale Chihuly
I've been a big fan of anything Dale Chihuly for some time now. I think any American artist in any genre, medium or whatever should know who he is.
Chihuly practices in multiple forms but it mostly a glass installation artist. Some glass is blown. Some is pulled with tongs. Some is just flat out Chihuly and there's no other way to put it than that.
Chihuly became famous for his chandeliers like this one currently on display at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, AZ:
Chiostro di Sant'Appolonia Chandelier, 1995:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden013.html
Yes, that is glass. Sometimes HOLY SHIT is the only response we can have when looking at a piece of art this intense yet delicate and soft. The technical term for this piece is HOLY SHIT.
For more HOLY SHIT visual experiences, check out some of the other pieces on display linked below.
Current Chihuly exhibit at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix:
The Sun, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden003.html
Scorpion Tails and Bamboo, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden004.html
Ruby Fiddleheads, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden006.html
Blue Reeds, Marlins and Floats, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden009.html
Blue and Purple Boat, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden010.html
How are these pieces not inspiring?
In my poems, I try to bring together fierce intensity and vulnerabilty. Chihuly does that for me every time...with glass. I look at these installations and think they look so, so violent, but they are also so breakable and vulnerable at the same time. Jesus Christ I cannot get over this exhibit and it is almost over. I can't get over how Chihuly responded to the desert setting, how he is reacting to the local floral and fauna and overall landscape. He's owning the landscape and letting the landscape own his work at the same time. His art isn't competing with the landscape. It's contributing to it. Both the art and the natural setting mingle so well.
Like I said, I've been a long time fan, but this show, this exhibit is just out of this world. This is a pure, pure example of a hard, well practiced artist in the prime of his prime. I think any contemporary artist in any form of art should know Chihuly's work.
Chihuly practices in multiple forms but it mostly a glass installation artist. Some glass is blown. Some is pulled with tongs. Some is just flat out Chihuly and there's no other way to put it than that.
Chihuly became famous for his chandeliers like this one currently on display at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, AZ:
Chiostro di Sant'Appolonia Chandelier, 1995:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden013.html
Yes, that is glass. Sometimes HOLY SHIT is the only response we can have when looking at a piece of art this intense yet delicate and soft. The technical term for this piece is HOLY SHIT.
For more HOLY SHIT visual experiences, check out some of the other pieces on display linked below.
Current Chihuly exhibit at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix:
The Sun, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden003.html
Scorpion Tails and Bamboo, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden004.html
Ruby Fiddleheads, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden006.html
Blue Reeds, Marlins and Floats, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden009.html
Blue and Purple Boat, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden010.html
How are these pieces not inspiring?
In my poems, I try to bring together fierce intensity and vulnerabilty. Chihuly does that for me every time...with glass. I look at these installations and think they look so, so violent, but they are also so breakable and vulnerable at the same time. Jesus Christ I cannot get over this exhibit and it is almost over. I can't get over how Chihuly responded to the desert setting, how he is reacting to the local floral and fauna and overall landscape. He's owning the landscape and letting the landscape own his work at the same time. His art isn't competing with the landscape. It's contributing to it. Both the art and the natural setting mingle so well.
Like I said, I've been a long time fan, but this show, this exhibit is just out of this world. This is a pure, pure example of a hard, well practiced artist in the prime of his prime. I think any contemporary artist in any form of art should know Chihuly's work.
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