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Archive for the ‘Bullshit Art’ Category

Shamma, Aivazovsky, Kuczyński, and the $45,000,000 “Blue Rectangle on Yellow Rectangle”

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Moonlight on the Bosphorus – Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky

 

Kuczyński

Kuczyński

Yellow Rectangle Blue Rectangle:  On May 13, 2015, Mark Rothko sold a painting, “Untitled (Yellow and Blue),” for excess of $45 million dollars. The (un)title speaks for itself, and I’ve expressed my sentiment here:  Rothko vs. Nature.

Rothko

The Aesthetic:  Exquisite craft, talent, and a unique vision. Rothko arguably had the latter. To contrast, consider Damascus born Sara Shamma, the Polish artist Pawel Kuczyński, and the Russian Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky.

Written by Caleb Powell

July 17, 2015 at 3:24 pm

Mark Rothko vs. Nature

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David Shields and Caleb Powell arguing over Rothko and nature, from the film I Think You're Totally Wrong  - photo courtesy Rabbit Bandini Productions

David Shields and Caleb Powell, at Lake Arrowhead, debate the qualities of nature and art, from the film I Think You’re Totally Wrong – photo courtesy Rabbit Bandini Productions

David Shields on Mark Rothko:  “I listened to a tour guide at the National Gallery ask his group what made Rothko great. Someone said, ‘The colors are beautiful.’ Someone else mentioned how many books and articles had been written about him. A third person pointed out how much people had paid for his paintings. The tour guide said, ‘Rothko is great because he forced artists who came after him to change how they thought about painting.’ This is the single most useful definition of artistic greatness I’ve ever encountered.” – from Reality Hunger

Rothko21 Rothkos:  Rothko may well have changed how artists think. Good thing? Take a look at the 21 Rothkos on the right, all replications of the same concept. Rothko had modest skills, above average talent, but recognized his lack. He chose the path of “Look at me! I’m different!” Variety has a place, but.

From Pollock to Frankenthaler to Eva Hess to Jeff Koons to Tracey Emin, Rothko led chunks of the art world  into both riches and a pretentious mess (See the $45,000,000 rectangle.) For every Rothko there are thousands aspiring for Egregious Difference and deadening the world. And that’s how Rothko changed art.

A Thousand Words:  Enough words, let the pictures speak.

Written by Caleb Powell

November 2, 2014 at 8:03 am

The Shirts of Beatrice Joan Wilson Powell vs. Jackson Pollock

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血洗净城 - Blood Washes the Capital

血洗京城 – Blood Washes the Capital (鄧 =Deng Xiaoping)

“WHAT makes an artist great? Brilliant composition, no doubt. Superb draughtsmanship, certainly. Originality of subject or of concept, sometimes. But surely true greatness means that the creator of a painting has brought a certain je ne sais quoi to the work as well.”The Economist

In the tradition of Chimpanzee or not Chimpanzee, I’ve assembled  Jackson Pollocks. Certainly no child, chimp, or artist could replicate them? Or could they? Pollock’s defenders often claim that his works cannot be replicated. And to the naked eye this may be so, but what about the discerning critic, specifically, the art collector willing to pay millions of dollars to own an original. Well, turns out Pollock can be copied to the extent that even the “experts” can be fooled.

Yankee Pot Roast:  If Jackson Pollock Wrote Poetry.

The Economist: “(The) art market pretends that great artists are inimitable, and that this inimitability justifies the often absurd prices their work commands. Most famous artists are good: that is not in question. But as forgers like van Meegeren and Pei-Shen Qian, the painter who turned out Ms Rosales’s Rothkos and Pollocks, show, they are very imitable indeed…Expensive pictures are primarily what economists call positional goods—things that are valuable largely because other people can’t have them…Ms Rosales’s career is thus a searing social commentary on a business which purports to celebrate humanity’s highest culture but in which names are more important than aesthetics and experts cannot tell the difference between an original and a fake. Unusual, authentic, full of meaning—her life itself is surely art, even if the paintings were not.”

Go ahead! Click and pick your Pollocks. To finish this mini-jeremiad on abstract work, I offer an abstract conclusion:  Pollocks may be more valuable or interesting than the T-shirts of Beatrice Joan Wilson Powell, but the T-shirts have gone much further on less.

Jagger

Jagger

Tom Wolfe Sticks Piet Mondrian’s Stick Art

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“All profoundly original work looks ugly at first.” – Clement Greenberg

“All ugly work looks ugly at first.” – Anonymous

“Frankly, these days, without a theory to go with it, I can’t see a painting.” – Tom Wolfe

The surrounding lines and colored quadrangles are “works” by Piet Mondrian. They speak.

“The notion that the public accepts or rejects anything in modern art … is merely romantic fiction….The game is completed and the trophies distributed long before the public knows what has happened.” – Tom Wolfe

Observe the descent or rise of art from Modernists to Abstract Expressionism to Pop Art to Op Art to Minimalism. Take Neo-Plasticism, originating 100 years ago, Mondrian, and the De Stijl art movement. Then Pollock, Rothko, Frankenthaler et al, competent but not good enough, they explored other directions. Their ilk repeats versions of the same with “individual” flourishes, moving art, supposedly, as the elite collect and promote. The debate is whether this advances society. Tom Wolfe , to paraphrase from The Painted Word, noted that 400 art critics suffice to create enough steam for an artist to become absolutely rich, but for the literary artist, no matter how beautiful the written word, without mass appreciation there is little hope for financial success.

“But nobody is visually naïve any longer. We are cluttered with images, and only abstract art can bring us to the threshold of the divine.”― Dominique De Menil, The Rothko Chapel: Writings on Art and the Threshold of the Divine

Written by Caleb Powell

March 21, 2013 at 3:15 pm

Yayoi Kusama vs. Beatrice Joan Wilson Powell

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草間 弥生 vs. 魏嵦毅

Qi Lin (1997)

Qi Lin (1997) – 魏嵦毅

Yayoi Kusama (草間 弥生) is a very strange woman. Very very strange. She may be a genius, a demented quack, or just an orange-haired Japanese woman dressed in black with gold dots enveloped in a milieu of self-mimetic art. On the positive side, she refused to conform to Japanese cultural prescriptions on art. On the negative side, she influenced Andy Warhol. On the positive, she influenced Andy Warhol. On the negative, she’s MC Escher in color sans devious geometric logic. On the positive side, well…I’m not really sure…I’m wont to obliquely taunt her admirers, as done previously regarding Paul Doran, Helen Frankenthaler, Tracey Emin, and  Clyfford Still. Their ilk produces schlock and lacks rigid attainment of perfection. Yet Kusama mesmerized and troubled. What to do about this woman, born in 1929, who diverged from Oriental traditions and influenced abstract and modern artists more associated with the West?

Butterfly Reminiscences (1980)

Butterfly Reminiscences (1980) – 魏嵦毅

Beatrice Joan Wilson Powell (魏嵦毅 aka Cove Loon) born in New Jersey five years after Ms. Kusama, learned technique during the 50s at Cooper Union, but she did not find her groove until she graduated and lived in Asia for four years. She fell in love with calligraphy and water color.

A  match for Kusama? On the positve side, my mother not only paints competently but speaks, reads, and writes Chinese, which she incorporates into her work. On the negative side, as partly explained in her battle with Breugel the Elder, she lacks discipline and commitment to perfection.

Qi Lin Error:  Take notice on the Qi Lin above, second column from the right and the fifth character down. She attempted to write 北京 (Beijing), yet muffed her brush stroke of , and thus drew a line through the mistake.

Sally's Cake House (1987)

Sally’s Cake House (1987) – 魏嵦毅

Egregious or forgivable?  Well, for a human, I would say the latter. I make typos in self-indulgent blogs. But location and timing of presentation matters. Botched calligraphy does not complement a classical Chinese creature. Friends and family may not care, and I’m not sure my father (the main curator of the works of Beatrice Joan Wilson Powell) noticed, but it just ain’t perfect. And that’s a kick in the ol’ sensorial gut.

Perfection aestetic? Ms. Kusama takes different risks, but a misplaced dot not only is undetectable, but any blemish or flaw can be said to be intentional. And that’s my concern with abstract art, perfection is taken out of the aesthetic. Conceptual art often hides lack of talent. Who is the better artist? Kusama or Powell? When I started writing this I thought Powell would clobber Kusama, whom I lumped with other Pollock-o-whackophiles. Yet I dare say it’s tough not to stare at the Kusamas. Therefore, I cannot give the nod to dear ol’ mom, and thus call it a draw.

Mom in Paris (Jan. 2013)

Mom in Paris (Jan. 2013)

Art Criticism: Vice Magazine vs. Big Other

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The mug of beer represents Manu. Now that’s art!

The fact that the latest round of proposals for the fourth plinth at Trafalgar Square included Tracey Emin’s idea for a little group of sculpted meerkats as “a symbol of unity and safety” reconfirms what everyone already knows: that it is possible to gain a reputation as a serious and important artist on the basis of work devoid of seriousness and importance.” – Geoff Dyer

This is a Tracey Emin…

              

Manu vs. Tracey Emin

The other day at 24-Hour Fitness we’re warming up shooting hoops, and my friend Manu walks in, bouncing a ball, gyrating his hips, doing his best Sir Mix-A-Lot, saying, “There’s a girl outside dribbling a ball like she’s practicing for the bedroom. Woo! Woo!” My man Jerome starts cracking up as if this is the second coming of Eddie Murphy. I tell them, “I don’t know who I’m more pissed off at, Manu for telling that turd, or Rome for laughing at it.” Now, Manu’s a cool dude, he has game, and on the humor side his delivery ain’t bad, he’s got a certain shmoo quality worth a chuckle, but he’s a long way from auditioning for comedian. But Rome or anyone laughing at such schlock only encourages more schlock and gives Manu the illusion he is funny. Don’t encourage schlock!

…and this is another. Seriously. Manu is funnier than Emin, and probably a better artist, whatever that means.

This same dynamic is at work in art such as that by Tracey Emin and her posse of overrated artists, the weird, rich, anti-talented doofs that somehow garner attention and money. It goes back years, to the befuddling success of  Warhol, Pollock (Yankee Pot Roast captures my opinion), Frankenthaler, Still,  etc.  I classify Tracey Emin as a parallel mystery.

Vice Magazine, an international site read by millions, satirized Emin: I’m Sick of Pretending: I Don’t “Get” Art. The visuals displayed didn’t need captions, and the finale cogently illuminated the difference between art and “art.” (See: I Still Don’t “Get” Art & OK, Do It: Teach Me How to “Get” Art)

Big Other, a literary “agree-fest,” questioned Vice author Glen Coco with:  “I Don’t Get Art.”  Basically, Vice Mag demolished Tracey Emin, and Big Other man James Todd Adcox volleyed with a “don’t make fun of art unless you try to understand and engage” shtick balanced with a “people take pride announcing that they don’t get art. It’s a particularly easy way of being culturally brave.” No. It’s a way of being fucking sane. Now, I enjoy the crew at Big Other, and drop in on the blog every now and then, but really bad art needs to be called out.

Sure, Vice was unsophisticated, but so? The artist needs to hone in on what should be taken seriously, what promotes culture and humanity, and what doesn’t. What Geoff Dyer said. Tracey Emin lowers the bar, her work should be execrated, desecrated, and eviscerated. Vice didn’t go far enough.  I’m angry at Big Other in the same way I’m angry at Rome. Don’t encourage schlock!

Further:  Brian Sewell’s best cutting critiques – in quotes

Art:  John Martin’s “The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah”

Written by Caleb Powell

June 5, 2012 at 3:07 pm

“Ai Weiwei Loves the Future” at The Evergreen Review

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Evergreen Review

RIP to Barney Rosset (1922-2012), founder and editor of Grove Press and The Evergreen Review.

Ai Weiwei has had a tough year. He was arrested and mistreated in detention by the Chinese government. Time Magazine nominated him for Man of the Year, and his story of promoting humanitarian causes through art continues. Last spring, shortly after his arrest, I wrote two poems about him, one published at Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, “Double Fuck the Party Central Communist.” The second is now at Evergreen Review. Thanks to managing editor Aliya Tyus-Barnwell and everyone at Evergreen for selecting my poem:

艾未未 – 中國藝術家

Ài Wèiwèi Loves the Future

艾未未

刘晓波 Liú Xiǎobō

December, 2009: The Chinese Communist Party Central Committee sentenced Liú Xiǎobō to eleven years for inciting the subversion of state power. In 2010 Mr Liú received the Nobel Peace Prize, the fourth recipient awarded the honor while in detention. Ài Wèiwèi publicly denounced the Chinese government’s treatment of Liú. April, 2011: Ài Wèiwèi is arrested.

i. ài

ài  a common surname…(continue)

FRONTLINE VIDEO: 谁在害怕艾未未 = Who’s Afraid of Ai Weiwei?

Helen Frankenthaler vs. Beatrice Joan Wilson Powell

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This post has four pictures, two of them are painted by Helen Frankenthaler, an abstract expressionist who achieved no small amount of attention. She passed away on December 27, 2011. And here are two self-explanatory examples of her art, which I’ll call “Blue” & “Yellow.” Pleasant, indeed, but worthy of greatness? The paintings above and below are the work of one of her unknown contempories, Beatrice Joan Wilson Powell, aka Cove Loon, aka Mom. Frankenthaler achieved fame and attention, yet comes from a period that I simply do not get. She counts artists such as Jackson Pollock among her influences. This is problematic, Pollock is not great. Certainly, he is among the many of her contemporaries that have changed & influenced art, but I would argue that they have not advanced art. They’ve lowered the aesthetic bar, added elements that take away from pursuits of beauty and meaning and replaced them with simplicity. Often I think the art world has gone nuts, and rewarded people not on skill or talent or aesthetic but on random chance and marketing. Pollock, Willem de Kooning, Paul Doran, Arshile Gorky, Damien Hirst, Lee Krasner, Dale Malner, Robert Motherwell, Barnett Newman, Robert Rauschenberg, Mark Rothko, Clyfford Still, Andy Warhol, et al somehow managed to replicate pop culture or fill a niche or fund bizarre projects as they spread globs of paint on canvas or as they manufactured junk into a visual display; their art is craft or promotion. Am I an unsophisticated lout who has no appreciation of art? That usually is a defense artistes wage against detractors, fair enough, but I have grown up amidst art, am familiar with the art historians, and think that for an artist to be great, one of the criteria is that they must have talent.

As far as Frankenthaler’s art, intuitively and with a further and deeper glance, I do not see why her paintings have value. Her art does not interest me, I pass it by and look for something else.

This brings me to my mother, and do not think I imply that she should be famous. Her talent is worthy of greatness, but her output, ambition, drive, complacency et al have hindered her overall body of work. She is exactly where she should be in the art world, someone who is appreciated by family and friends. Nevertheless, take a look at the art within this post. What would you rather have on your wall?

A Tribute to Fred Phelps

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The First Annual Fred Phelps Idiot Award Goes to:

Fred Phelps! The dorkball behind the Westboro Baptist Church, Mr. Phelps foments hatred of homosexuals, as shown by ridiculous protests at the funerals of US soldiers. Luckily, his evil flops to the floor relatively harmless. The homophobic fellow at the right aligns himself with Phelps. Their ignorance promotes the ugliest side of religion, and does more to turn people from Christianity than anything Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris, or Richard Dawkins could pen.

Did Fred Phelps write this headline?

Written by Caleb Powell

October 19, 2011 at 6:08 pm

Tao Lin vs. Albert Camus

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Comparing Tao Lin to Albert Camus is like comparing apples and orangutans. Not apples and oranges, my friends, as two sweet round fruits aren’t really that different. Would Camus spoof a cover of Time Magazine (or the French equivalent) and parody the article? Would Camus solicit a James Frey type boob to blurb his book? Would Camus host a contest, and then enter the contest under another name, win the contest, and pocket the money (Tao Lin Wins His Own Contest Refuses to Refund Money). No way, Albert Camus was too busy cursing human darkness, opposing the Nazi invasion of France, and trying to decipher war and horror in the twentieth century. Tao Lin is no idiot, but he gears down. Some call him an existentialist. Existentialist my ass, Tao Lin has created a new form: narcissentialism. And contrary to this JMWW reviewer’s opinion, Tao Lin ain’t no Camus.

Let’s compare two versions of The Stranger. First, the parody written by Tao Lin:

He’s not the richest or most famous. His characters don’t solve mysteries, have magical powers, or live in the future. But in his new novel, Richard Yates, Tao Lin shows us the way we live now.” “Early readers of Richard Yates have found that the book has a narcotic quality.” “(Lin) likes megamouth sharks, toy poodles and, somewhat jarringly, that ‘ocean sunfish are like hamsters but fish and a lot bigger.”

Ha ha ho ho. Now, here’s L’Étranger:

“I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I’d been happy, and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained was to hope that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.”

Albert Camus: Smokes, helped originate existentialism, and is a Nobel Prize winning author. He thought and wrote about 20th century guilt, war, capital punishment, and how to face a world without god. He compressed volumes of thought into novels such as The Fall and The Stranger.

Tao Lin and Camus both use short sentences and few words, but Tao Lin is not really a minimalist. Ten pages of thought hidden in 202 pages of Richard Yates does not qualify.The existentialist hallmark is uncertainty in context of larger ideas, not simple uncertainty. Lin’s blog, persona, publicity stunts (he offered investors a percentage of future royalties for $2,000), all spur many young authors in North America to read, and this is good.  He has an affect, as “Taolicophants” love to imitate his prose, though his books are tedious.

Let’s contrast: Albert Camus was French but grew up in Algeria, his formative childhood memory is of his father’s reaction to attending an execution. He witnessed French colonialism in Algeria and the Nazi Occupation in France, and was a contemporary of Sartre. When Camus began to question Sartre’s leftist views regarding communism their friendship began to deteriorate, but Camus’s doubts about Marxism have been validated by history.  After a time as a journalist Camus devoted himself to literary pursuits, including drama, where he sought moral solutions within an indifferent universe. His death in 1960 by car accident cut short an important life.

Tao Lin = Narcissentialist. Shoplifts, eats delicious vegan food, writes about hamsters, preoccupied with self-marketing, drops names of Nobel Prize winning authors like the vile pro-Nazi Knut Hamsun, wrote a review of himself in The Stranger.

Tao Lin, born of Taiwanese parents, grew up on the East Coast of the USA, and makes his home in New York City. He writes about the dislocated confused suburban/urban dysfunctional pseudo-suffering of today’s youth, but probably has never suffered, and I’m talking the living-in-the-Sudan-suffering orbeaten-and-violated-by-your-stepfather suffering. Though Tao Lin’s fictional alter-egos irreverently mention they may as well commit suicide…there’s no evidence that Tao will die anytime soon.

Tao Lin ain’t Camus. There’s no parallel, it’s all perpendicular. Sure, Tao Lin drops names or provides Cliffs Notes summaries of Camus and other authors such as Beckett, Bukowski, and Sartre. Though it must be pointed out, as far as I know, only Taolicophants and not Tao Lin make the comparison.

Bottom line, Richard Yates reads like two hundred pages of nothing but conjunctions, prepositions, and punctuation marks peppered with celebrity names (Tao Lin’s next book?). Tao Lin will, in the end, get what he wants, attention. Nothing wrong with that, all writers crave attention, but my taste is more grooved to a writer who displays consideration for the reader and doesn’t pander to the superficial side of his fans…in other words, a writer who is not so goringly effin’ boring.

Related:  Tao Lin: American Dork – book review at dooneyscafe.com

Tao Lin’s Richard Yates vs. the 2006 Dodge Caravan’s Owner’s Manual – at The Nervous Breakdown

Written by Caleb Powell

October 25, 2010 at 11:34 am