Long, long ago in an art studio far, far away...

Bummm.. Bumm....
bump... bump... bump... bahm bum.
bump... bump... bump... bahm bum.
Bump Bump Bump PAAAAA.

Un parte Trois, Tres, Tri... get ready, everyone... It's the premiere of The Musings' first ever...TRILOGY!!

Mind you, this comes very late in the game, but let's just say things have been shifting around quite a bit as of late, and I'm trying to hold onto some footing.

Either way, at the end of July I had a fabulous visit again with Johnny LeValley (at right in legendary Keith Richards mode) at his majestic 75 Greene Street studio space in Soho.

I watched him hard at work on some interesting new creations, and got the opportunity to once again look at some of my own personal faves of his that I had previously overlooked.

LeValley is also taking on an even greater role in not holding back on cultural and political commentary.

Much of his current work highlights how our nation-building destructive tendencies have overtaken the globe, with the onslaught of the good old U.S.of A. bringing globalization to each and every front door, whether invited or not.


There is no part of the studio space that is untouched by art-- even the toy soldiers take on a different meaning, given their placement on the mantelpiece to protect and destroy anything that crosses their path.

Also, this time around I took a really good hard look at Ksenia Hovden's paintings, and I must say her work is truly beautiful in its mastery of light, shadow, and in-your-face "fuck off" message.

Giving the finger never looked so good than at right.

Her hues of cold blues and purples here bring to mind a Bram Stoker nightmare, perhaps with some extra Eduardian cuffs-- that is, until you see the background of a LeValley work in the back.

It's a nice inclusion of a "piece within a piece," and highlights how Hovden and LeValley have such an ease and respect for one another in their working relationship as well as private.

Congratulations are in order for the couple, as they shortly will return to New York from their Norwegian nuptuals.

Also accompanied everywhere by Luna, the small grey gallery cat, the hour whizzed by as we discussed the meaning of art "scenes," the inspiration for his work, and his future plans for the reviving of Le Jungle.

If my mind moved literally 10% as much as LeValley's, I might have taken over the world by now, but alas, it woefully does not.

For Christ's sake-- check this pic out-- even the freakin' cat is an art lover!

(of course, canvas does hold heat in pretty well, I'm certain, so she's fairly comfy)

After this visit, I must state that the best quality about Mr. LeValley is his wide-eyed enthusiasm for art, and I keep looking, but can find no pessimism or bitter taste taking root, even if he has had some previous unfortunate experiences.

There is some serious positivity going here with him, and this is part of my fascination with him, his work, and the artists he surrounds himself with.

During our visit, this darling young lady-- Dory Disaster is her name-- came by and serenaded us with her ukelele and stunningly beautiful singing voice.

Where else in New York City, or this planet, can you go for a gallery/studio visit and also experience an impromptu concert?

10 stars for her, by far, (I loved her and her music) and am anxiously awaiting my next run-in with the young star in the making.

Sorry for the aside here, but that's what you can expect when you get to know LeValley and his traveling troupe of troubadours, court jesters, and art types of all backgrounds.

It truly is like Warhol's Factory has been recreated-- except this time the leader's not gay, far better looking and surrounds himself with down to earth beautiful people who take far less drugs.

But let's get back to the art.

Once again, as in this previous work from the past above, LeValley's strength is in layering and framework.


Take for instance, his interesting new series of works that utilizes a peacock symbol against a sunny, day-glo background with pinks and golds that seem to be a commentary on how our society trivializes serious subjects, such as war, famine, and death.

I love how LeValley frames the work with the crisscrossing lines.

It's a nice way to emphasize how there's many different viewpoints from whatever way you look at a subject-- whether it be a piece of art, or an issue of our culture at hand.

For instance, though our goverment continually says it wants peace, our actions speak much louder.

Again, the peacock shows itself as a facade for something much darker underneath the brilliant colors.

Nice job by LeValley with this series.

He's fast becoming an expert at storytelling with his pieces-- showing how pop culture takes over, and glosses over the ugly underbelly of corruption and hypocrisy with a candy-coated sheen.

Though the peacock may be a bird of visual beauty, it has a fairly violent temperament.

A Goddess of War, perhaps, as she seemingly floats over the desert, preparing for her next battle.



Next, let's look at my favorite work of Ksenia's.

I'm unsure of the titles of these works-- I'm hoping LeValley will provide them for future editing purposes.

In this piece, Hovden excels at transmitting the sheer visual power of two lovers locked in sensual embrace.

But though their bodies seem to coalesce as one, they are behind bars; a nice take on no matter how intimate our lives can seem, there's always something caging us in, whether it's self-inflicted or imposed through other means.

There's also quite a voyeuristic aspect to this work as well-- especially living in New York, where many of our bedrooms have these mechanisms to "protect" us and our belongings, or more accurately, "fence us in."

I also like to look at this piece and view it as a commentary on the beauty between two people in love.

Is modern city living making us view closeness as "trapping us in," or love as a "prison of the heart?"

Hovden is an expert at giving a nice flow to line of the bodies, totally at peace with one another, and grasping hands tightly in a moment of sheer passion.

Another nice piece of Hovden's is this little kitty work at left.

For some reason, with the exclusion of the head of the female homosapien variety, it is truly comical.

The expression on the cat's face is truly priceless as well-- "Get me out of here! Let me down!"

The only sexualizing here truly depends on your point of view.

The body here is quite muscular, and the athletic build of the thighs gives the viewer a bit of a surprise for such a suggestive image.

The shifting of the body to one side is also an aggressive stance.

Cat-calling, "Here, kitty, kitty," just might get the living crap beat out of you by this female.

Great piece.

LeValley and crew recently launched their new website for LeJungle and all the artists they have exhibited.

Check out the new site fun at http://www.loveisoriginal.com/

To view the previous trilogy posts...

http://lamgelinaoly.blogspot.com/2007/05/sex-cells-at-49-grove.html
(I like to call this the 'Sequel')

http://lamgelinaoly.blogspot.com/2007/02/intriguing-new-gallery-in-soho.html
(The original)

Brooklyn Kaboom

It's been an admittedly slow end of August here at Da Muusings.

I apologize to anyone here for new reviews.

I certainly can promise that by September we'll be up and running as per usual.


In the meantime, I leave you with....

DESTRUCTION!!!!

KAPLOWEE!

DING!

Last week we had the tornado move through my beautiful 'hood of Ditmas Park.

Thought I'd share with you guys some of the better photos I took.

As amazing as art installations can be, nothing can match the destructive power of Mother Nature.

Enjoy, and watch those branches overhead!

Upcoming reviews next week include Part III of my Johnny LeValley trilogy, and my take on performance artist Robert Appleton's "Midnight at the Oasis" one-man show at Dixon Place.

Talk soon!

Dirty Deeders Dash Snow and Dan Colen Not So Snow White at Deitch

Back in 2004, on a fairly regular basis, Ms. Lamgelina took part in something called the "Antagonist Art Movement," a collection of East Village neerdowells supposedly committed to "art at all costs."

At least that's what they put in their press release and "mission statement."

Needless to say, I found them in the end to be more committed to basement/bathroom/kitchen hijinks with the NY gliterrati rock scene and a certain snow white substance than to "art" by any means.

Each and every Sunday, I would take part in open mic readings, and a shadowy figure would appear in the rafters, taking up residence for the rest of the night in the kitchen.

Sometimes he would put on puppet shows through the plate pick-up window, or shout out a "Cray-zee" one-liner that would leave me in stitches.

He could always sing a good Beatles tune along with the drunken crew, and pick out some notes on the guitar.

This person was Jack Walls, (pictured above in his artist studio by Erik Foss, courtesy http://www.supertouchblog.com/) former Robert Mapplethorpe lover/model, and a true NYC institution.

Eventually I became so comfortable with my status in this boys club as to be the only female allowed in the kitchen to share a certain type of wacky tobaccy with Mr. Walls and friends.

Days later, my namby-pamby ass ended up in the e.r., losing 13 pounds in 6 days, and pretty much retired from that "art scene."

Keeping up with the Joneses is never advisable to a small town goody-goody, especially if the Joneses happen to be the Dash Snows of the world.

It was on that last trip when I remembered a certain long-blond haired scary looking young man tagging along with Mr. Walls, as well as a fellow-lanky pretty boy shaggy-haired trust funder.

Of course, what do you do when the top of the art world also suddenly starts elevating this "scene," and calls it "art."

Fast-forward 3.5 years, and I find that this trio is 2007's newest art world sensations-- Ryan McGinley, Dan Colen and Dash Snow-- who cite Walls as a "muse," or "cultural influence."
Sorry... excuse me for a second as I hold in my laughter.

Mind you, I love Jack-- He's truly awesome in every sense of the word "awesome."
Funny as all get out, intelligent, and gives it as good as it gets.

His demeanor apparently has even been spoofed through Tracy Morgan's legendary skit, "Brian Fellows' Safari Planet" on SNL. (see above stolen image, courtesy of Broadway Video, NBC)

But "artistic muse?" I don't think so.

Debauchery, treachery, and catty-comment brilliance, yes, but modern contemporary art laid claim to him?

Hmm.

Out of the holy trinity of artists listed above, only one of them can truly lay claim to TALENT, let alone superiority (that being the amazing photography of McGinley).

The other two are embarassingly sub-par artists of the variety of "Entourage's" Eric and Turtle.

So upon hearing of the "artistic influence" that Jack has supposedly had on Dash and Dan, I became highly suspicious.

Second bananas to McGinley no more, this week finds reviewers in a tizzy over Snow and Colen's coh... cool... KOH... COLA-BORE-NATION... (sorry, frog in my throat)... I meant "COLLABORATION."

What exactly is this "collaboration?"

Deitch Projects' "Nest" exhibition of Snow and Colen's infamous habit of "nesting," in various hotel rooms from their jet setting across the globe to high-end galleries and art fairs.

It's a fantastic concept when you think about it.

Binge drink in competition with your best buddy, do as many drugs as humanly possible, f*&* as many orifices as possible, piss all over yourself and each other, have other bodily fluids coalesce into a nasty paste, rip up phone books, bibles, or whatever paper you can get your hands on, use a magic marker to tag and trash your hotel room like the S.O.B.s you are, and become so freakin' out of it that you envision you're a "hamster."

Wow.

Deep.

You know what else can be deep?

Frat boys.

Because truth be told, I can find absolutely no separation between the culture Colen and Snow embody than your average University of Michigan hazing ceremony.

One of the historic separations between artists and the "regular population," (i.e., the sorority girls, the frat boys, the establishment), has been the loner, outsider quality of artists; or perhaps, sensitivity of deep thought and commitment to higher values of what art can accomplish.

This exhibit is not only debasing the value of what art is and can be, but through their coat-tailing of McGinley, eventually dragging down the value of his work as well.

Whereas McGinley shows heart and passion for his subjects, and places so much of his work in documenting those closest to him, Colen and Snow appear to be the ones who simply won the lottery in the networking department.

Since when does being the "best friends and roommates" of someone equate with being worthy of top gallery roster addition, let alone solo show?

Mr. Deitch, this is probably your worst show yet.

And I do worship Deitch-- and have long held it high in my regard, even though I know his two spaces go whichever way the youthful wind blows.

But in this case, it's a sad state of affairs.

The only thing it accomplishes is a coronation for these children of wealth and prestige, and gives them more wealth and prestige for doing the least possible work.

Mind you, it wasn't Snow or Colen who shredded 30,000 phone books-- no, it was those "30 volunteers."

The "artists" came late one night, spent their hard-earned drug money, pissed in the corner, laughed, and left.

Then they returned for a second night with more beers, more drugs, and more "creation," because of course they must have been "over budget."

Then they had top djs come in for the celebratory opening, along with a newborn baby girl arrive to Snow's cover girl model girlfriend, whose tiny belly at right on the invite at almost 8 months along says a lot about who these people really are.

This is probably the first exhibit that's really made me angry, but maybe that's what they're hoping to accomplish.

"Let's see just how much we can get away with before they put a stop to it."

Mind you, this is something truly lacking in these boys' lives, because this, after all, is what they are--permanent pre-pubescents who have never been required to grow up, and are being offered a silver platter for debasing space that could be used for much greater good.

Peter Pans out of control, and those in charge are reaping in the benefits of the collective destruction.

In closing, the final summation for these top gallery owners who keep up this charade... seriously, go to a rock show. Go see a real band. No, really.

Because you and I both know what natural milquetoasters most gallery owners, dealers and collectors truly are.

When faced with newbies such as a Snow, or Colen, or whoever, they immediately spring to mind, "This is so cutting-edge. So fashion-obsessed. So new. So ROCK and ROLL."

Spend a night with Rob Pollard of Guided By Voices, or Lee Ranaldo, or perhaps even play some soccer with James circa 1994, or share a beer with Marty Wilson Piper of The Church.

You will understand what rock and roll is really about, and understand a phenomenon called "Poseurs."

Colen and Snow are truly the Fall Out Boys of the art world.

Sadly disappointing, but definitely expected.

For more "cutting-edge" debauchery, go to http://www.deitch.com/

(All images here courtesy of Deitch Projects website, "Nest" exhibition, Dan Colen and Dash Snow, all rights reserved.)

(The opinions expressed above are those of Lamgelinaoly, and Lamgelinaoly alone.)

Banks Violette at Barbara Gladstone

"No, seriously... How do you really feel about the exhibit?"

Okay, here it is-- my long-awaited Banks Violette review.

I've been tempted to post a photo of a steaming pile of oil-laden excrement juxtaposed on a snow white background backlit in halogen to express my feelings as to this show, but unfortunately, I could not get a shade of shit nearly dark enough to go with the porcelain bowl contrast--Ahem.

So instead, I leave you with the image at left randomly stolen from the internet to voice my displeasure.

Mental anguish + disaffected Scandinavian youth + black and white combinations do not an "art" exhibit make.

Shockingly saturated pigmentation + blinding light+ pseudo-Gregorian chant a-la lo-fi white noise from a fairly poorly executed U.S.-Based via L.A. and NYC drone metal band that specializes in the music of neer-do-well Norwegian youths...add a quarter teaspsoon of crystal meth addiction, call it "cultural documentation" or "artistic IMMERSION"...add a smidgeon of classic good looks with nice tats, a Columbia MFA, mix it all up, and you gots da Violette.

This is not to say that I find the work of Banks (Banks? Really? That's your name? More like Bonds... a la such legendary media manipulators as Barry) Violette-- the current art world sensation because of his back story, and fairly smart as shit business decisions-- personally offensive. He actually is an immensely talented artist, although a bit uninspired to put his OWN heart into his work to add a personal touch.

Instead he copies "things"-- ideas, massive stage sets, Stave church frames, auras, and backgrounds. So, no, in this case, my problem is not with the artist--It's more the fact that the rest of the art world has basically swallowed (not spit,) bent over, and said with no arrow needed-- "Insert here."

I, too, stepped into this exhibit excited for what I was about to experience.

And it's true, Violette has an uncanny ability to definitively set moods and give gallerygoers the opportunity to experience a subculture that it normally would not partake in (i.e., drone metalheads on suicide/murder watch.)

I felt curiously at peace with the low hum throughout the gallery. At the same time, I also felt perplexed and discombobulated-- almost like a sonic boom was pulsing through my veins, and I felt underwater, trapped in a submarine-like vessel, with no cabin pressure.

Is that a body in the corner, or is just dry ice for the fog machine in load dock?

Images of Marshalls and Peaveys dance in my head-- but where are the roadies?

The sound guy must have left his audio board in the case by accident.

Alas, did they miss the van?

At any moment I'm awaiting the exploding drummer, or a dwarf Stonehenge descending from the rafters with Nigel executing a fingertip bleeding riff.

ROCK.

There's a Manson-like obsession with death in the Northern lands, with alcoholism rampant and rates of depression quite unheard of in the West.

24 hours of sunlight in the summer, or 18 hours of darkness for months on end in the winter-- I might be able to understand Darkthrone now.
(see http://www.darkthrone.no to understand)

The music scene of these youths is a chance for them to take part in a collective something; anything, to make connections with the outside-- whether it be the love of ear-splitting levels of high-frequency treble with low-bass modulations or grunts and groans that take on "meaning."

Yes, meaning.

I'd like to know one thing from Mr. Violette... Just what exactly IS the meaning of this exhibit? Where does HIS story fit in with his work? What is it about this subculture that intrigues him?

My main problem with his storytelling is his lack of an ability to critically comment as an insider.

There is no part of the artist given to this work. It is plain observation-mixed with shock value, and at this point, it's troubling to me that so many artists can spoon so easily within each other's work to being indistinguishable from the next.

Steven Parrino, Violette, Gardar Eide Einnnarson-- they really do all look the same.

Also, since when did Team's roster dictate what Barbara Gladstone shows?

I think it's more than okay to be influenced by Dan Flavin, Franz Kline and Ad Reinhardt, but where does the artist deviate from the image in these collective works?

Where is the quote/unquote "individuality," not to harp on this blog's title, but seriously-- where is it?


The recent Flash Art International May '07 edition had Violette and Terrence Koh discussing their work's similarities and raison d'etres.

Whereas Koh seems to know exactly where he's going-- and deviously takes comfort in sharing his blatant whoredom, making no qualms about his motivations-- Violette takes the shy guy routine. He seems to be going about things in a more disconnected manner, letting the pieces "create themselves," for instance.

I'm not buying it. Knowing Violette's personal story of drug addiction (specifically meth, the hardest of all drugs to quit) and conquering the demons he encountered along its dreary path-- whereupon did the substance abuse fall off, and suddenly fluorescent lights, black oozy oils and shiny floors with the purest forms of snow white sea salt converge?

Let's see more in ten years. I'm interested to see where he breaks off from pack mentality and the real artist emerges.

The "show of the summer" can be seen at Barbara Gladstone Gallery on 24th Street until August 17th. This is the one with the SunnO))) "music." I can only describe Mr. SunnO))), Stephen O'Malley, as someone who desperately needs to take a load off and maybe go swimming in the Caribbean.... either that or take a laxative.

If your druthers are of the non-sound variety, you can check out Team's version as well.

http://www.gladstonegallery.com/

http://www.teamgallery.com/

Danielle Lamberti and the resurgence of '80s innocence

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York-- It certainly doesn't bring the term "artist" much to mind, nor does it bring much of anything to mind other than the best pizza you can find in the tri-state area, the wildest World Cup celebrations, and all the grottos you could ever find in a 1 block radius (I had a friend in college inappropriately term them "Virgin Marys in a bathtub.")

But out of this backdrop emerges a talented artist truly obsessed and quite knowledgeable of 1980s Saturday morning cartoon culture, Danielle Lamberti

(see montage of work at left, including "Shy Me" (in Velma-worthy eyewear).

Danielle's paintings are irreverent reworkings of sentimental faves that us early 30-somethings grew up with, such as Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, and the Care Bears.

But there is nothing cute about this imagery, except for the colors and fashion-influenced backdrops.

There is a strangely dark quality beneath her candy-coated pop-culture surface.

Take, for example, the suffocating affection shown by this polar bear, in her work, "Beastiality."

With only one eye visible, the bear is attacking the pretty young thing from behind, and with a title such as this, she is no innocent little lamb, but perhaps a cunning young thing who just happened to get in over her head.

But there's something about the way Lamberti paints the eyes of her characters.

In this case, they seem to have a pleading quality to them-- "Help me," uttered in baby voice or a soft feminity that's far from a shout, but a hoping someone will hear her.

Besides the overt sexuality at play here, there's something else afoot-- specifically a tongue-in-cheek nod to global warming, and perhaps the bikini-clad girl represents humanity enjoying its' fun effects ("Woohoo! Let's go to the beach!"), while the polar bear is literallly swimming for its very survival.

Interesting take on a serious subject, blending a comedic setting with a dramatic flair.

Next, let's try being buried alive with "Dig Me Deeper," below.

Certainly the aspect of that is no "day at the beach."

We all loved taking our pails and shovels to the beach as children and started digging a moat, in hopes of protecting our castle or finding buried treasure.

Our friends are there along with us for the ride-- but every once in a while, we have to give up control, and let the Alphas of the group take over.

In this scenario, it certainly looks like the burial victims are having second-thoughts-- the "digger," in this case, also seems a bit confused as to her next step.

It almost has a sorority-initiation feel to it, or a hazing ritual.

Disturbing-- and those turned-up noses remind me of Miss Piggy mixed with Nancy and Sluggo (always scary cartoon characters).

Here, again, is Mr. Polar Bear with his BFF, in "Shrug if Off."

Truly he's Bella Karolyi, egging his young protege onwards, ever onwards.

(Now everybody, in your best Eastern European accent, "You can do it, Kerri!")

But again, I'm not sure about how the girl feels about his over-obsessive tendencies.

He's like the jealous boyfriend who keeps calling to check in on your whereabouts and will kick any guys' ass who looks at you.

Truly creepy polar bear!

I'm including a few more images, just for their sheer beauty of color and depth.

I like how Lamberti has made these works with such high gloss, giving them an oil-based quality, but each of the works displayed here are all acrylic.

She has an unusual style, and utilizes texture and depth much more effectively than the standard Superflats of Murakami and his Anime/Manga disciples.

The show, entitled "The Rainbow Room," is up through August 4th at Merge Gallery, an adorable little gallery space located in the heart of Chelsea.

Owner Cass Zielinski has a great enthusiasm for his artists and his space and definitely stopping in was a highlight of my afternoon.

Merge makes it a priority to highlight the work of some very interesting emerging artists.

Definitely check them out, and while you're at it, have a coffee at the equally fantastic Cafe Grumpy across the street-- it's a definite afternoon of enjoyment and fun.

http://www.mergegallery.com/

205 West 20th Street New York.

Hours: Tuesday through Saturday 11-6pm.

More sad polar bears and fun below... Enjoy!

"The Color Line" at Jack Shainman Gallery

Listen closely...

What do you hear?

That sound you hear is the crackling of cash; of bank accounts getting fatter and fatter with the sales of young, white 20-30 somethings with fine pedigrees, some prodigies, and so few sans master degrees in today's global art market.

Besides the financial benefits globalization has provided, it also has provided the side-effect of giving a voice to those who previously have been rarely heard.

A fine example of art's power as cultural statement is currently on display at Jack Shainman Gallery.

Curated by Nigerian-born artist Odili Donald Odita, this is truly one of the most heart-wrenching exhibits I could ever imagine.

("Soundsuit" at left by artist Nick Cave with Mario Cravo Neto's photography in background)

And given the fact that so much of the art world is too busy over the summer vacationing in the Hamptons, or checking out the corpulent mess that is the European biennials, here is a show that may go unnoticed.

But in no uncertain terms should it be overlooked or missed-- this is the strongest work I have seen to date in 2007.

Capitalism's reign over modern society has taken a chokehold, and left many by the wayside, especially the population of the African continent.

With the timetable of Western colonization now going back through several centuries, our attention spans seem to be held for only so long; After all, there are only so many tales of starvation, of famine, genocide, female mutilation, cultural obliteration and religious manipulation that we can handle, right? Wrong.

While the art world's own corporate profits continue their upward track, how many faces of color will be able to break through the color barrier to share in the profits?

Not only is there a glass ceiling, but the current art collector or gallerist is far from color-blind.

Just looking at the rosters of each of the top galleries, it's rare to see a face that looks physically different from the rest.

Of course not only do top galleries ignore the work of artists of color, but there are few opportunities in many of these countries for those with artistic bents to be able to develop their talents, given the daily struggle for mere survival being a top priority.


Taking this into account is an astonishingly harsh dose of reality by Dutch artist Christiaan Bastiaans, "Korper Zur Beobachtungsstation II," from 2004.

As the conflict in Darfur continues to rage, we're faced with the doomsday scenario of an entire nation, as our leaders continually turn their backs to focus on more important issues-- 2008 campaign fundraising, or Paris Hilton's lack of underpants, for instance.

This work by Bastiaans shows us that these victims are anonymous to us here in the west; a shroud covering them up-- the dirty, the unclean; they are modern lepers, if you will.

It certainly is a difficult image to look at for too long, but this is reality at its most powerful.

A society whose only guilt has been to find themselves in the wrong country at the wrong time in history-- a time of the Janjaweed running rampant, with a world willing to turn its back as the genocide continues to rage on.

Brilliant piece.

Another great work is at left by Surianmese-Dutch artist Remy Jungerman, "Nobody is Protected," from 2000.

It focuses directly on world media, and individual cultures' interpretation of the message.

Currently all the world is a stage-- here the setting is a press conference-- with a multitude of microphones awaiting a leader who perhaps is late, or unwilling to speak.

The shoddy makeup of the wooden platform emphasizes our own questioning of society at hand.

Will we continue to accept what images are thrown to us-- given the nature of pr's influence on our nightly news?

I like how the wires just lay in a pile at the front-- awaiting to be sorted out one by one.

It's definitely speaking to methods of communication-- are they effective, and how does each society interpret their own "sources"?

At right, "Stay Black and Die," from the series "Things I Need to do."

Artist Rashid Johnson is posing quite an intense question-- Is being born black a death sentence?

As AIDS continues to ravage a cash-strapped continent in desperate need of salvation, can identity of color literally mean a choice between life and death?

Assimilate, and you will survive.

Stay "black," and in this case, you will perish.

Issues of race identity boil to the surface here.

Is being what we commonly perceive as black merely a skin color, or a choice?

Is Johnson commenting on the phenomenon of the Uncle Toms and Condoleezas of the world, if you will-- who become part of the white man's world, and achieve quote/unquote "success."

Stay in the ghetto, and you shall die by the sword?

A tough question, with no easy answers.

http://www.jackshainman.com/

The exhibit runs until August 3rd at 513 West 20th Street.

Empty stomachs in the ghost town that is Chelsea

Since the entire art world has pretty much abandoned their weekend hours for the next month and a half, I thought I'd show a fairly often visited location in the Chelsea art scene.

It's value is far under-appreciated.

Yes, I'm talking about the Kwik Farms gas station/convenience store.

Since the city of New York and the developers who have overtaken Chelsea have decided that we continuously need more galleries and more living space, but apparently do not need FOOD, this is where we buy our iced teas, our sodas, our emergency gallery toilet paper supply and snacks.

After all, Prada doesn't make a size 12--Who needs to eat?

In all actuality, we really only have Bottino's as an actual take-out lunch option.

Everywhere else is sit-down.

For every "commercial space available" advertisement I see on the cross streets, I cross my fingers with anticipation-- maybe... just maybe... a coffee shop???

How about a bagel place?

I mean... crap... even a STARBUCK'S?????

Do I ask too much?

Of course the same holds true for many other areas-- Long Island City, for example.

Realtors and developers clamor for space-- then the new residents move in, but there's nowhere to shop, to eat, to LIVE.

District zoning is fine-- but why is it that NYC has to cluster everything in one area-- i.e., galleries must be in Chelsea, Indian food can only be found from Park-Lexington, 26th-29th streets, retail clothing stores must be on 5th Avenue?

Barry Hoggard and James Wagner were mentioning the other day on their blogs regarding an added benefit to an opening in the Lower East Side... "at least there's places for us to eat."

Wouldn't that be nice?

All they have to do is build one take-out eatery and I promise you us gallery workers and artsy types will patronize your establishment.

Oh, and need I say how convenient it could be for those with art blogs to have a location other than the cave that is Chelsea Market to write in? I promise I'll buy a coffee to usurp your bandwidth.

And don't forget your wasted 27th Street club hoppers-- they need food to absorb the alcohol STAT.

But please hurry-- I'm starting to feel like Britney Spears with all her gas station visits (but of course I wear shoes).

Oh, and here's the 100% abandoned 24th Street yesterday.

Banks Violette exhibit, I guess I will have to wait for thee....

Probably no greater tribute to the artistic spirit...

A lot of times artists are thought of as innovative, fearless, or just plain crazy.

Well, in this case, I think plain batshit crazy is the word for it.

Perhaps including commentary on an armchair ballooning afficionado is a bit outside of my usual Chelsea/New York art blog realm, but I can't resist reposting this story from ABC News.

This has to be my favorite story in years a la Darwin Awards Hall of Fame material.

Below is the story, but here's a link from Cluster Balooners for "If you want to try this at home."

Fly high at your own risk!

http://www.clusterballoon.org/



From ABC News...

July 11, 2007

When the mischievous children's book monkey Curious George wanted a lift, he simply grabbed onto a bunch of brightly colored balloons and sailed away.In real life, an Oregon man has followed his lead — and added a lawn chair.

Kent Couch traveled nearly 200 miles and more than nine hours in such a contraption Saturday, with little more than a pair of sunglasses, a radio and a parachute at his side.

He attached more than 100 helium-filled balloons to his lawn chair and took off from his gas station in Bend, Ore."

It was serene, just like you're on top of a cloud laying there," Couch said on "Good Morning America" today. "

It was just like being on ice, nice and smooth."

Couch traveled as high as 13,000 feet as he floated eastward toward his intended destination of Idaho.

He said he heard cattle and children as he drifted among the clouds, using water jugs to control his altitude.

This fanciful odyssey had an inspiration: Couch had once seen a television show about how such a feat could be accomplished.

The episode was inspired by Larry "Lawn Chair" Walters, who floated over Los Angeles using weather balloons in 1982.

Couch and his supplies weighed about 310 pounds, and each balloon weighed about 5 pounds.
He used approximately 200 pounds of ballast to keep him anchored at the appropriate altitude.

Couch's wife, Susan, and friends helped him build the flying lawn chair."

I was terrified, but I was being supportive," Susan said.
"I know once something gets in his mind he's not going to forget it."

But it wasn't all smooth sailing.

The 47-year-old said just when he began to question what he was doing, the makeshift aircraft ran into turbulence.

Couch touched down in a field near Union, Ore., not quite making it to his Idaho target.

The father of five said he would love to take his lawn chair for another flight, this time ending in Idaho.

But, he said he is unsure whether his wife would allow him to do so — helium-filled balloons, in turns out, are very expensive.

Mike Erickson and Jason Coates

Currently on view at Denise Bibro Fine Art, Virginia Commonwealth University's MFA program, "So Inclined."

I'm including the work of my 2 favorites-- Mike Erickson's "Angry Little Watering Can," and Jason Coates', "Corn."

The little tyrant is certainly shaking his fist in the air with all his might-- rebelling at the world around him, along with his masked guerilla face.

(I'm including another "little tyrant" of history below in same pose...)

He's a gardener of domestic bliss, perhaps a Martha Stewart after prison... mad as hell and he's not going to take it anymore!!!

It's certainly without a doubt that these two artists share a unique sense of humor and perspective.

It's also even better to find that both of their studios were directly across from each other.


I must say that it's very interesting when you see how schools of thought influence each other-- in this case, a sarcasm and wit unlike many-- How often do you see an exhibit that makes you break out in laughter?

Not very often.

Coates' Corn Amry of pissed off kernels jumps out at you right away-- though I have to say they might be under the influence a tad-- based on their blurry eyes and angled husks reaching out almost as if they were bayonettes.

Perhaps its all the farm subsidies that they're getting mad at, or the pesticides used on them-- "Give us organic or death!"

These two are destined for greatness in the future.

The exhibit is up until July 14th.

http://www.denisebibrofineart.com/

529 West 20th Street, 4th Floor.

Just two days left-- hurry for Tobias Putrih exhibit

Been a hugely busy past couple of weeks.

The six-day, dual career work week has been lulling me into complacency as of late for reviewing time, but soon I will be having some nice new imagery/reviews up in the next coming weeks.

Summer always gives us a nice opportunity to check out that field known as "emerging" artists, or the new guard, or youth troops; group shows; tributes; and the dreaded "group show," a.k.a., "Filler."

But before we delve into the depths of summer, summer, summertime... let's reflect on master wood draftsman Tobias Putrih.

Much in the way of an Ikea do-it-yourself project gone horribly awry, or the classic link-in-log sets you used to play with as a child, Putrih has taken over the window of Max Protetch Gallery.

Even though previously I discussed the Yue Minjun exhibit, the Putrih piece is NOT to be overlooked in the Project Space.

I love how the formation takes on a life of its own-- kind of a living being, a Burning Man for indoors, a plywood behemoth brought to life.

Minimalism at a crossroads with the power of mathematical combinations.

Which shapes or forms can you construct?

Too inumerable to count!

I also find that it's also a nice take on consumerism-- because once you buy one piece, you'll need more to complete the project, the quote/unquote "vision."

Just be careful-- you know how cheaply made those prefab furniture sets are.

This is only up until Friday the 29th-- HURRY!

www.maxprotetch.com