If It’s Magic

method two madness

magician scan sif its magic magnetic

I did this little magician stitched collage for Rochester Contemporary Art Center’s (RoCo) 6 x 6 fundraiser.  I can’t remember where I first heard about it, but I’ve been sending them a piece of art to sell for a few years.  The opening is tonight, so if you are in the neighborhood…

magic growls liquid
breezes haunted by secrets
foolish wild wet stars

night is bleeding vast desire
day embraces naked sky

The Magnetic Oracle made me think of Stevie Wonder today.

If it’s magic
Then why can’t it be everlasting
Like the sun that always shines
Like the poets in this rhyme
Like the galaxies in time
It holds the key to every heart
Throughout the universe
It fills you up without a bite
And quenches every thirst

View original post

Refugiados LGBTQI+ sequestram obra de arte (com vídeo) – dezanove – notícias e cultura LGBT


Source: Refugiados LGBTQI+ sequestram obra de arte (com vídeo) – dezanove – notícias e cultura LGBT

LGBTQI refugees.png


“Nós roubamos a sua pedra e não a vamos devolver”. É este o slogan da performance feita pelo grupo de Refugiados LGBTQI+ na Grécia, na qual roubaram uma obra de arte do artista teatral, Roger Bernat, exibida durante a documenta 14 que está a decorrer nas cidades de Kasel, Alemanha, e Atenas, Grécia.

A obra intitulada por “O Lugar da Coisa” (em inglês: “The Place of the Thing”) é um monólito (falso) que seria suposto fazer um percurso pelas seguintes cidades: Atenas > Salónica > Skopke > Belgrado > Budapeste > Bratislava > Brno > Kassel > Avernus.
A “pedra de juramento” é uma referência ao julgamento de Sócrates realizado em 399 AC, que simboloza uma oferta diplomática, arqueológica, um monumento, o pagamento à comunidade internacional.
Assim, como é referido no vídeo, o suposto da pedra é dar voz a minorias sociais e grupos marginalizados, contudo “as pedras não podem falar, mas nós podemos”. Deste modo, o grupo ironiza acerca das possibilidades que podem ter acontecido à pedra: ter sido deportada para a Turquia, estar num voo para a Suécia com um passaporte falso de 2000 euros, ter sido levada ao suicídio no centro de detenção de Moria desesperada pela liberdade, entre outras.
O grupo, que aparece no vídeo com máscaras que cobrem os seus rostos, pretende manifestar-se contra os 37 milhões investidos na Documenta 14, enquanto grupos de refugiados permanecem em Atenas e noutras cidades em condições miseráveis.
O grupo chegou a receber 500 euros como donativo por parte do artista, mas como eles referem isso não deixa de ser um “gesto vazio”.
O artista já deixou uma declaração num tom irónico e simultaneamente agressivo, referindo que já esperava que pudessem roubar a pedra, e por isso têm mais duas cópias da mesma, desvalorizando a atitude do grupo.

A groundbreaking show to confront the gender bias in art: ‘Women of Abstract Expressionism’ – LA Times

Source: A groundbreaking show to confront the gender bias in art: ‘Women of Abstract Expressionism’ – LA Times

Grace Hartigan

Art museums in Los Angeles currently overflow with first-rate exhibitions. An unusually strong array of well-organized solo and thematic shows covering a variety of art has made the first months of 2017 a standout season.

Still, it’s not enough. Something’s missing. A two-hour drive east to the desert reveals what it is.


There one will discover “Women of Abstract Expressionism,” an important show at the Palm Springs Art Museum. On view until May 28, it’s a groundbreaking survey of a dozen artists working in San Francisco and New York from the late 1940s to the early 1960s.

They were instrumental in developing Abstract Expressionist painting, commonly regarded as the first major American art movement after World War II, and a movement dominated by names like Jackson Pollock, Clyfford Still, Mark Rothko and Willem de Kooning. The women range from such top-level artists as Jay DeFeo, Lee Krasner and Joan Mitchell to less familiar figures, including Sonia Gechtoff and Deborah Remington, who should be far better known.

It’s the kind of show that can shake up preconceptions.

The fat, brashly colored, crashing brushstrokes in the work of Elaine de Kooning (wife of Willem) seem overblown and contrived, as if they are trying too hard for impact. By contrast, “The King Is Dead” — an agitated, all-over field of red, white and blue markings studded with rainbow flickers plus dense black — puts Grace Hartigan at the leading edge (the marvelous painting dates from 1950).

And Ethel Schwabacher, an artist virtually unknown to me, starts out as an adept camp follower of Philip Guston’s misty abstractions, before quickly moving into a strikingly distinctive fusion of shapes and brushwork that seemed carved from explosive color.

Each of the 12 is represented by anywhere from three to six pictures. The catalog includes a useful chronology of the period and several good essays.

As a bonus, it also features short illustrated biographies of 30 additional artists. Denver Art Museum curator Gwen F. Chanzit and Rutgers University art historian Joan Marter considered more than 100 painters for their exhibition, which gives an indication of the breadth of the Ab Ex movement. (Twenty years ago, Marter organized the only other survey of this kind for the City University of New York, featuring just seven women.) Reproductions can mislead, but several of the unexhibited artists would appear to be worth another look.

Meanwhile, here’s the cream of what is on view now in L.A.

The Museum of Contemporary Art has history paintings by Kerry James Marshall and Minimalist sculptures by Carl Andre. The UCLA Hammer Museum is showing Jean Dubuffet’s drawings inspired by outsider art, plus a rare survey of assemblage sculpture by Indian activist Jimmie Durham, an American expatriate.

The Los Angeles County Museum of Art has geometric abstractions by painter John McLaughlin; varied work by the eclectic and multidisciplinary Bauhaus master László Moholy-Nagy; paintings by Diego Rivera and Pablo Picasso, friendly rivals in Paris (and beyond); a modest selection of meditative abstract paintings and collages by Iranian artist Y.Z. Kami; and, “Los Angeles to New York: Dwan Gallery, 1959-1971,” a sizable overview of the influential avant-garde gallery that began in Westwood and ended in New York, putting Land artists Robert Smithson and Michael Heizer (among others) on the map.

At the Getty, the first survey of sculptures and drawings by the extravagantly talented but nearly forgotten Edme Bouchardon, 18th century court sculptor to Louis XV, just closed. But, if you get my drift, what we have here in L.A. and Palm Springs is a tale of two cities: The gentlemen are ensconced in the megalopolis, occupying prime museum real estate in one of the world’s leading art capitals, while the ladies are visiting a lovely little getaway resort nearby.

"Women of Abstract Expressionism," installation view

Perhaps inevitably, the focus soon narrowed to a relatively modest number of men working on the island of Manhattan, center of financial markets and publishing. There’s a sense in the show, astutely commented upon in the catalog, that female artists working in San Francisco faced less of a hurdle than those in New York. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that they faced hurdles, but the obstacles were shared by their male counterparts who also worked in California.

“Women of Abstract Expressionism” is important the way shows of postwar geometric abstraction are. It “de-masculinizes” the practice of painting, much the way the Japanese influence on John McLaughlin, French influence on Ellsworth Kelly and Carmen Herrera and efflorescence of geometric painting in Latin America in the 1950s “de-Americanizes” it. The so-called New York School looks very different as a result of the expanded context.

Essay of the Month: “The Decay of Essay Writing” | Common Reader

Source: Essay of the Month: “The Decay of Essay Writing” | Common Reader

Editor’s Preface: Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) was not only an incomparable novelist but an essayist of the first rank.  Indeed, her series of published essays, The Common Reader, served as the inspiration for the title of this journal. In “The Decay of the Essay,” published in 1905, Woolf discusses the personal essay, a contrivance that has arisen in a world besotted with education, drowning in printed matter, and privileged with the tools of writing so readily and cheaply available. We indulge our egos by displaying our “personal peculiarities,” our opinions, for the entertainment or enlightenment of others.  It is a nifty and clever personal essay about the limitations and ironical charms of the personal essay. I wonder what Woolf would have thought of Facebook and our age of the electronic word, where no opinion or peculiarity goes unexpressed, no matter how crudely.
—Gerald Early


The spread of education and the necessity which haunts us to impart what we have acquired have led, and will lead still further, to some startling results.

We read of the over-burdened British Museum—how even its appetite for printed matter flags, and the monster pleads that it can swallow no more. This public crisis has long been familiar in private houses. One member of the household is almost officially deputed to stand at the hall door with flaming sword and do battle with the invading armies. Tracts, pamphlets, advertisements, gratuitous copies of magazines, and the literary productions of friends come by post, by van, by messenger—come at all hours of the day and fall in the night, so that the morning breakfast table is fairly snowed up with them.

This age has painted itself more faithfully than any other in a myriad of clever and conscientious though not supremely great works of fiction; it has tried seriously to liven the faded colours of bygone ages; it has delved industriously with spade and axe in the rubbish-heaps and ruins; and, so far, we can only applaud our use of pen and ink.

But if you have a monster like the British public to feed, you will try to tickle its stale palate in new ways; fresh and amusing shapes must be given to the old commodities—for we really have nothing so new to say that it will not fit into one of the familiar forms. So we confine ourselves to no one literary medium; we try to be new by being old; we revive mystery-plays and affect an archaic accent; we deck ourselves in the fine raiment of an embroidered style; we cast off all clothing and disport ourselves nakedly.

In short, there is no end to our devices, and at this very moment probably some ingenious youth is concocting a fresh one which, be it ever so new, will grow stale in its turn. If there are thus an infinite variety of fashions in the external shapes of our wares, there are a certain number—naturally not so many—of wares that are new in substance and in form which we have either invented or very much developed. Perhaps the most significant of these literary inventions is the invention of the personal essay. It is true that it is at least as old as Montaigne, but we may count him the first of the moderns. It has been used with considerable frequency since his day, but its popularity with us is so immense and so peculiar that we are justified in looking upon it as something of our own—typical, characteristic, a sign of the times which will strike the eye of our great-great-grandchildren. Its significance, indeed, lies not so much in the fact that we have attained any brilliant success in essay-writing—no one has approached the essays of Elia—but in the undoubted facility with which we write essays as though this were beyond all others our natural way of speaking. The peculiar form of an essay implies a peculiar substance; you can say in this shape what you cannot with equal fitness say in any other. A very wide definition obviously must be that which will include all the varieties of thought which are suitably enshrined in essays; but perhaps if you say that an essay is essentially egoistical you will not exclude many essays and you will certainly include a portentous number. Almost all essays begin with a capital I—“I think,” “I feel”—and when you have said that, it is clear that you are not writing history or philosophy or biography or anything but an essay, which may be brilliant or profound, which may deal with the immortality of the soul, or the rheumatism in your left shoulder, but is primarily an expression of personal opinion.

The very great of old—Homer and Aeschylus—could dispense with a pen; they were not inspired by sheets of paper and gallons of ink; no fear that their harmonies, passed from lip to lip, should lose their cadence and die. But our essayists write because the gift of writing has been bestowed on them. Had they lacked writing-masters we should have lacked essayists.

We are not—there is, alas! no need to prove it—more subject to ideas than our ancestors; we are not, I hope, in the main more egoistical; but there is one thing in which we are more highly skilled than they are; and that is in manual dexterity with a pen. There can be no doubt that it is to the art of penmanship that we owe our present literature of essays. The very great of old—Homer and Aeschylus—could dispense with a pen; they were not inspired by sheets of paper and gallons of ink; no fear that their harmonies, passed from lip to lip, should lose their cadence and die. But our essayists write because the gift of writing has been bestowed on them. Had they lacked writing-masters we should have lacked essayists. There are, of course, certain distinguished people who use this medium from genuine inspiration because it best embodies the soul of their thought. But, on the other hand, there is a very large number who make the fatal pause, and the mechanical act of writing is allowed to set the brain in motion which should only be accessible to a higher inspiration.

The essay, then, owes its popularity to the fact that its proper use is to express one’s personal peculiarities, so that under the decent veil of print one can indulge one’s egoism to the full. You need know nothing of music, art, or literature to have a certain interest in their productions, and the great burden of modern criticism is simply the expression of such individual likes and dislikes—the amiable garrulity of the tea-table—cast into the form of essays.

If men and women must write, let them leave the great mysteries of art and literature unassailed; if they told us frankly not of the books that we can all read and the pictures which hang for us all to see, but of that single book to which they alone have the key and of that solitary picture whose face is shrouded to all but one gaze—if they would write of themselves—such writing would have its own permanent value.

Of the multitude of autobiographies that are written, one or two alone are what they pretend to be. Confronted with the terrible spectre of themselves, the bravest are inclined to run away or shade their eyes. And thus, instead of the honest truth which we should all respect, we are given timid side-glances in the shape of essays, which, for the most part, fail in the cardinal virtue of sincerity.

The simple words “I was born” have somehow a charm beside which all the splendours of romance and fairy-tale turn to moonshine and tinsel. But though it seems thus easy enough to write of one’s self, it is, as we know, a feat but seldom accomplished. Of the multitude of autobiographies that are written, one or two alone are what they pretend to be. Confronted with the terrible spectre of themselves, the bravest are inclined to run away or shade their eyes. And thus, instead of the honest truth which we should all respect, we are given timid side-glances in the shape of essays, which, for the most part, fail in the cardinal virtue of sincerity. And those who do not sacrifice their beliefs to the turn of a phrase or the glitter of paradox think it beneath the dignity of the printed word to say simply what it means; in print they must pretend to an oracular and infallible nature.

To say simply “I have a garden, and I will tell you what plants do best in my garden” possibly justifies its egoism; but to say “I have no sons, though I have six daughters, all unmarried, but I will tell you how I should have brought up my sons had I had any” is not interesting, cannot be useful, and is a specimen of the amazing and unclothed egoism for which first the art of penmanship and then the invention of essay-writing are responsible.

Self Portrait #20 (after Klee)

very good and very inspiring

method two madness

sp #20 comp

enclosing one
imperfectly caught life–
between thinking and acting out–
completed inside the border, this face,
this arrangement of edges on intersections
intersections on edges of arrangement–this
face, this border, the inside completed
out—acting and thinking between
life caught imperfectly–
one enclosing

Instead of painting this one, I used Neocolors, which worked well through layering to give the irregularity of each color Klee produced with paint.  It was a real challenge–trying to get the geometry while maintaining at least a little resemblance.  I think I want to try this one in collage as well.  It would be like assembling a puzzle.

The circle shape of the head inspired the poem, which was also a challenge.  It uses the palindrome form, where the second half reverses the word order of the first half with one word as connector.  Finding words that work in both directions is also like solving…

View original post 27 more words