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More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant’s tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.
I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.
Unfortunately I don’t have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.
So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:
This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.
There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog’s logic about bones
In the late nineteenth century, burlesque performers and actresses used photographic advertisement as business cards to promote themselves. Understanding the power of photographic advertisements to promote their shows, burlesque women self-constructed their identity to make themselves visible. Being recognized not only within the theater itself but also outside challenged the conventions of women’s place and women’s potential in the public sphere.
“To understand both the complicated identity and the subversive nature of the nineteenth-century actress, one must also understand that the era’s views on women’s potential were inextricably tied to their sexuality, which in turn was tied to their level of visibility in the public sphere: regardless of race, class or background, it was generally assumed that the more public the woman, the more “public,” or available, her sexuality", according to historian Maria Elena Buszek. -Wikipedia
Sammy Slabbinck renders dynamic collage prints, combining vintage photographs with contemporary compositional styles. The images are cut up into pieces and redistributed, playing with exaggeration and proportions. Other times, the images are placed in a reverse context, juxtaposing modern ideals with traditional states of mind. (Artist Website, Sept 30)
Abelardo Morell uses a camera obscura, a large format pinhole camera. He darkens a whole room which he then paints with light from one small hole in the window. The outside scene is projected on the room and he then photographs it.
Projections and light work are becoming huge in the art world. I don't know if it's because the technology has gotten better, or if it's just the cheapest way to make really big impactful art, but I'm loving what artists are starting to do with projection and light.
You feel cold so I reach for a blanket to cover our shivering feet. A hunger comes into your body so I run to my garden and start digging potatoes. You asked for a few words of comfort and guidance and I quickly kneel by your side offering you a whole book as a gift. You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep, and I say here is a rope, tie it around me, Hafiz will be your companion for life.
Just finished reading a fair amount of literature about the flâneurs of Paris. I read through The Flâneurs in Baudelaire by Walter Benjamin, Paris and the rise of the Flâneur by Merlin Coverley, and The Art of Straying, by Carlo Salzani, among others. "The term flâneur comes from the French noun flâneur—which has the basic meanings of "stroller", "lounger", "saunterer", "loafer"—which itself comes from the French verb flâner, which means "to stroll". Flânerie refers to the act of strolling, with all of its accompanying associations.
The flâneur was, first of all, a literary type from nineteenth-century France, essential to any picture of the streets of Paris. It carried a set of rich associations: the man of leisure, the idler, the urban explorer, the connoiseur of the street." (Wikipedia, Sept 25) Essentially, the flâneurs were a bunch of guys who walked around, taking in and romanticizing the views of the city.
The flâneur had no destination, no purpose. They walked. The saw.
I often walk, although more often lately I ride my bike. I ride my bike because it's quicker to get places. Faster, smoother. But when I'm not in a hurry, when I'm not focused on my destination, I walk.
Steven Tyler once said, "It's not the destination, it's the journey," and I'm sure that could have been an ample quote for most of the flâneurs of Paris. I definitely can identify with wandering around a space, getting to know it from the outside, while never entering in.
There is such beauty when you stand back and watch. You get to notice all the special things that you otherwise wouldn't. The flâneur had the capacity to notice his environment while not being trapped in the scene. In that way his gaze could almost own whatever it touched. And yet, the environment around him, although beautiful, was also one of despair.
The city was changing, a new era had arrived. Industrial revolution, large cities, coffee shops, retail stores. Things to be gazed at for sure, but suddenly a space that no longer was hospitable to the man who walked. They no longer knew how to relate to their environment, it was too different, too new. The only way the flâneur could try and take it back, to make it into something he could understand, was to focus on the beauty and walk and walk and walk.
Of all the artists who walk, I love the work of Diane Borsato, who tried to implement a different type of connection into the walking of a city.
"I read a study that suggested that when people are subtly touched, it can affect their behaviour and well being. For a month I went out of my way to delicately bump, rub past, and tap 1000 strangers in the city. I touched commuters, shoppers, cashiers and taxi cab drivers on the street, on the metro, in shops and in museums. The exercise was like a minimalist performance. I was exploring the smallest possible gesture, and how it could create an effect in public.
The action was performed for one month in various locations in Montreal in 2001, and repeated for ten days across the city of Vancouver in 2003."
Everything Is Illuminated
Jonathan Safran Foer
Houghton Mifflin Company
2002
I just finished re-reading Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer. He is one of my all time favorite authors, and this book was definitely worth a second reading. Set in contemporary Ukraine, this book is a mixture of humor, sorrow, and poetry.
One of the reasons why I love Foer's writing, is that he deals with subject matter that is super difficult to tackle, and yet he approaches it is such a way that it makes the subject safer for the reader, without infantilizing any of the issues. In this book he deals with prejudice, propaganda, what really occurs between human beings in war, and how it affects future generations.
The storyline of this book revolved around a young man, named Jonathan Safran Foer, who goes to the Ukraine in search of a woman who saved his Jewish grandfather from murder at the hands of the Nazis. The book is broken up in three parts the whole way through. One part of the writing is done by a man named Alexander Perchov, the translator and guide for Jonathan when he arrives in the Ukraine. Alex writes about the experience of trying to help Jonathan find the town of Trachimbrod, where his father has been from. The second part of the writing is a set of letters written by Alex to Jonathan after the search has occurred, and the third part of the writing is the embellished story of Jonathan's family in Trachimbrod.
Although I find this book a little convoluted, there are certain sections that are so poetic and beautiful I can only marvel at capacity of words to elicit feeling. One of my favorite things about the book is the extremely terrible english used by Alexander, the translator. It gives the whole book a feeling of reality and also humor.
"Enough of my miniature talking. I am making you a very boring person. I will now speak about the business of the story. I perceived that you were not as appeased by the second division. I eat another slice for this. But your corrections were so easy. Thank you for informing me that it is "shit a brick" and "shitting bricks," and also "to come in handy." It is very useful for me to know the correct idioms. It is necessary. I know that you asked me not to alter the mistakes because they sound humorous, and humorous is the only truthful way to tell a sad story, but I think I will alter them. Please do not hate me." (Pg 53)
The treatment of the stories of the people in the book is so real, it makes them more human than most people I know. The feeling of the characters and the surrounding countryside remind me of the photojournalism of Mila Teshaieva.
A large part of the story was written about Jonathan's grandfather, Safran. Safran is portrayed as a womanizer, who had been sleeping with a large number of the women of the town since the age of ten. This story is almost romantic, and also full of longing and confusion.
"It's not that he was ashamed, or even that he thought he was doing something wrong, because he knew that what he was doing was right, more right than anything he saw anyone do, and he knew that doing right often means feeling wrong, and if you find yourself feeling wrong, you're probably doing right. But he also knew that there was an inflationary aspect to love, and that should his mother, or Rose, or any of those who loved him find out about each other, they would not be able to help but feel of lesser value. He knew that I love you also means I love you more than anyone loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also I love you in a way that I love no one else, and never have loved anyone else, and never will love anyone else." (Pg 170)
"They exchanged notes, like children. My grandfather made his out of newspaper clippings and dropped them into her woven baskets, into which he knew only she would dare stick a hand. Meet me under the bridge, and I will show you things you have never, ever seen. The "M" was taken form the army that would take his mother's life: GERMAN FONRT ADVANCES ON SOVIET BORDER; the "eet" from their approaching warships: NAZI FLEET DEFEATS FRENCH AT LESACS; the "me" from the peninsula they were blue-eyeing: GERMANS SURROUND CRIMEA; the "und" from too little, too late: AMERICAN WAR FUNDS REACH ENGLAND; the "er" from the dog of dogs: HITLER RENDERS NONAGGRESSION PACT INOPERATIVE... and so on, and so on, each note a collage that could never be, and a war that could.
The gypsy girl carved her letters into trees, filling the forest with notes for him. Do not forsake me, she removed from the bark of a tree in whose shade they had once fallen asleep. Honor me, she carved into the trunk of a petrified oak. She was composing a list of commandments, commandments they could share, that would govern a life together, and not apart. Do not have any loves before me in your heart. Do not take my name in vain. Do not kill me. Observe me, and keep me holy.
I'd like to be wherever you are in ten years, he wrote her, gluing clips of newspaper headlines to a piece of yellow paper. Isn't that a nice idea?
A very nice idea, he found on a tree at the edge of the forest. And why is it only an idea? Because- the print stained his hands: he read himself on himself- ten years is a long time from now. We would have to run away, carved in a circle around a maple's trunk. We would have to leave everything behind but each other. Which is possible, he composed with fragments of the news of imminent war. It's a nice idea anyway."
(Pg 233)
The book also had an overwhelming feeling of collections of things. Collections of stories, objects, people, all building on top of one another and on top of one another to finally make the whole story. You aren't really sure what's really going on until the very end, when you can look back at the whole puzzle and see and understand. Foer has such a beautiful way of drawing you in an explaining things so you have a complete understanding.
(Excerpts from the town dictionary as written in the book)
THE EXISTENCE OF GENTILES
(See God)
THE ENTIRETY OF THE WORLD AS WE DO AND DON'T KNOW IT
(See God)
THE PROBLEM OF EVIL: WHY UNCONDITIONALLY BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO UNCONDITIONALLY GOOD PEOPLE
They never do.
ART
Art is that thing having to do only with oneself- the product of a successful attempt to make a work of art. Unfortunately, there are no examples of art, nor good reasons to think it will every exist.
THE PROBLEM OF GOOD: WHY UNCONDITIONALLY GOO THINGS HAPPEN TO UNCONDITIONALLY BAD PEOPLE
I would recommend this book to anyone I could. Although I much prefer Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by this same author, his writing in general is almost unparalleled in his use of poetry and storytelling.
This morning I woke up to dreams of war. People being put into horse corrals, desperately trying to escape, and intense details. What the wood looked like, the hill that was partially glass. The details of the water, the intricacies of what it felt like to run.
It reminded me of these absolutely mind blowing sculptures of Kris Kuksi. The imagery and detail just make me shiver in the best way possible.
My dreams this morning- rooms, rooms, objects, and VERY strange forms of sexuality. A sense of desolation while still being surrounded, like these photos of Chantal Michel.
And I know I've blogged this song before, but it was in my head when I got up this morning. It made me feel like this -
The book that I just finished for my friends writing project was Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. It was a very well written fictional book that traced the life of hermaphrodite. Eugenides decided to write this book after he read the memoir of Herculine Barbin, and found it to be lacking in emotional content.
One thing that this book definitely achieves is entering into the struggle felt by a person of minority. Eugenides does an excellent job of portraying the inner workings of one who is struggling with their true identity versus the choice to assimilate into society. It think that this should be essential reading material for any person who does not understand what it is like to be outcast because of a physical anomaly, a racial prejudice or a sexual preference.
Although I do feel that this book did an excellent job of making the protagonist's struggle accessible to its audience, I actually found the book quite lacking in poetry. I was surprised because The Virgin Suicides, one of Eugenides' other books, is one of the most incredible books I have ever read. It is so full of poetic content that I can completely immerse myself in the physical sensations of his characters, whereas in Middlesex I found the storyline to be rather linear and without romanticism.
The book begins with a very interesting history lesson, which cites the family history of our protagonist, Calliope Helen Stephanides. Calliope's (or Cal's) grandparents were born in Greece, a brother and sister that fell in love. The feelings of these siblings emerge during the Greco-Turkish war of 1897, and the book describes quite a lot of what happens in Greece during that time. During a particularly bad invasion, the brother and sister flee to Smyrna where they fake being french and catch a boat to America, as the city of Smyrna burns around them.
On the boat the brother and sister decide to pretend to be strangers, then "meet", fall in love, and be married. Married on the boat, the siblings enter America with a hope of starting a new life.
Once in America the story turns to the history of Detroit. This part of the book I particularly loved- America during the height and then fall of its automobile building era. Eugenides did an incredible job of building up the feeling of the early industrial age. The rushing, the dirt, men trying to eek out a living, factories, desperation.
The happenings of the book are linked closely with the physical architecture throughout. In times of excitement and growth the buildings are strong and prominent. And as tragedies happens the buildings crumble. Most of Calliope's journey is mimicked by the house that she lives in. It is called Middlesex, and it is a place of newness and innovation as Calliope starts to grow into herself, and then a place of decay as she starts to deal with the confusion of her sexuality. It reminds me very much of these photographs by March and Meffre.
Throughout her life Calliope is always ashamed of her body, but is unsure why. Her parents are extremely conservative and so she has no idea about sex or anatomy. Their family doctor is almost blind and so never notices anything wrong with her. She is certain that she is different when she doesn't develop the way she sees other girls do, and then when she feel attraction towards other girls.
A large part of her coming of age is her relationship with a girl in her class which develops into a sexual encounter. This relationship escalates until an accident occurs. After being sent to the hospital Calliope finally finds out that there is something truly different about her body.
Sent to a special sexologist, Calliope becomes the focus of study for many doctors, who advise her that she just needs a small procedure to make her into a normal woman. When she accidentally discovers that she is absolutely genetically male, she runs away and becomes a performer in a "freak" show, trying to make a living in any way she can.
Although the true story of Herculine Barbin ends in tragedy, Middlesex ends on a positive note of moving forward and healing. In fact, I found the story to be almost entirely lacking in tragedy, which made it a little less realistic for me. Cal(liope) seemed to have a similar journey to some of my homosexual friends who grew up in middle class families. Families who, in the end, didn't really care about their sexuality as long as their child was still there. I was hoping that, in this book, Eugenides would be brave enough to truly go the distance in explaining the mental process of one who is so unaccepeted by society, that for them, the only option they want is death. I do suppose however, that by giving the book a positive ending, it allows almost any reader to connect with it. It also may give a sense of hope to anyone who might be undergoing a similar journey. At the very least, I love that this book humanises a minority group that needs to be recognized as a normal part of society.
There is something out in the dark that wants to correct us.
Each time I think “this,” it answers “that.”
Answers hard, in the heart-grammar’s strictness.
If I then say “that,” it too is taken away.
Between certainty and the real, an ancient enmity.
When the cat waits in the path-hedge,
no cell of her body is not waiting.
This is how she is able so completely to disappear.
I would like to enter the silence portion as she does.
To live amid the great vanishing as a cat must live,
one shadow fully at ease inside another.
The last but not least of my projects for Urban Outfitters. Not a shabby amount of work in just two months! These photos are the Men's section as well as some fixtures that I made to hold product throughout the store.
All of the things in the pictures below are things designed, built and decorated by Jodi Sharp unless otherwise stated beneath the picture.
Art layer on platform by Kyle.
Wood circles cut out by Didier.
Some of the circles painted by various store employees.
Whoever you may be: step into the evening. Step out of the room where everything is known. Whoever you are, your house is the last before the far-off. With your eyes, which are almost too tired to free themselves from the familiar, you slowly take one black tree and set it against the sky: slender, alone. And you have made a world. It is big and like a word, still ripening in silence. And though your mind would fabricate its meaning, your eyes tenderly let go of what they see.
More of the things that I designed and built for Urban Outfitters, this time for the women's section of the store. Once again, all of the things in the pictures below are things designed, built and decorated by Jodi Sharp unless otherwise stated beneath the picture.
One of the best pay the rent jobs I have ever had this summer was being the display artist for the retail store Urban Outfitters. I got to work all day in a little wood shop beneath the store, making sculptural objects and displays for the store above me. My job was to design, build and put art onto objects that would make people want to come into the store purely for the ambiance we created.
All of the things in the pictures below are things designed, built and decorated by Jodi Sharp unless otherwise stated beneath the picture.
This first post is for the window displays at the front of the store. Unfortunately there is a HUGE amount of glare on the windows in these pictures, but I hope you get the idea.
Initial proposal sketch for the window display.
Proposal sketch for the window art layer to be drawn on with paint markers.
Clothes waterfall hung with help of Francis.
Jean wall art layer put up by Audrey.
Merchandizing of mannequins by Audrey and Francis.
Worry dreams this morning. Lots of running, abandonment, stress.
A sword that jumped from one person to the next, turning them into killers that were hunting me, hunting me. A radio that talked so they could find me.
Making a slingshot that would project me off my high brick building, onto the tiny blue and white buildings below. I knew I would die.
