Genres of Art: Tim Burton’s Goth Pop to Bob Dylan’s Folk Rock
Rohin Guha
January 26, 2010
It always seems like art is dying doesn't it? Some snooty patron is always in the wings, clucking, "Oh! The Death of Art! It's weighing down my heart!" And if she were to amend her furious clucks with an anecdote about that person who hilariously lost her footing and fell headlong into a multimillion-dollar Picasso, tearing a gash through the painting's center, she'd be right. But we all know these patrons: Always in the wings snacking on crudites and never quite combing the galleries as you'd expect. They exist solely to hate. And even admonish the endeavors of would-be artists who've crossed over from other careers. We can only hope that the twin visual art forces of Tim Burton and Bob Dylan inspire them to shut up.
When Andy Warhol Was Young
Jamie Peck
January 22, 2010
The blog Letters of Note contains just that--interesting bits of correspondence, obtained and scanned, from letter writers, telegrammers and faxers throughout history. The variation is crazy; it's got everyone from anonymous complaining comic book fans to Hunter S. Thompson, with the caveat "fakes will be sneered at" hovering on the left side to assure us they're all real. Today they've got a note from Andy Warhol, and it's, well, Warholian. Back in 1949, lil' Andy had just recently moved to New York and was already finding success as an illustrator. When asked to submit some biographical information to accompany his drawings in Harper's Magazine, he sent the following:
Latest Shepard Fairey Piece Slams Healthcare Debacle
January 21, 2010
Shepard Fairey, the graffiti artist and illustrator famous for his Barack Obama “HOPE” poster and “Obey Giant” graffiti campaign, recently unveiled his latest piece. Titled “Eye Alert,” the print offers a pretty damn striking yet ambiguous critique of America’s healthcare situation: an angular faced woman stares at the viewer, the irises of her eyes a pair of skulls, while she cries tears filled with caducei.
Photographer Steven Sebring on His Patti Smith Documentary
January 08, 2010
January 6th marked the opening of Objects of Life, a collaborative multimedia installation between legendary artist, singer/songwriter Patti Smith, and renowned filmmaker/photographer Steven Sebring, at the Robert Miller Gallery. The gallery’s opening partying attracted the likes of Michael Stipe, Terry Richardson, Zac Posen, Calvin Klein, Jessica Lange and Sam Shepard. The exhibition focuses on the “experience, process of discovery and revelation in uncovering artifacts of existence,” using objects, photographs and video from Sebring’s acclaimed documentary Patti Smith: Dream of Life, an immensely intimate portrait of Smith. The documentary, which was recently televised on the PBS series P.O.V, traces 11 years of Smith’s private life, experiences on the road, performances, creative ventures and passions. BlackBook spoke with Sebring about his career, his muse, the decade-long process of filming Dream of Life and this exciting new exhibit.
Meet Rosie O’Donnell’s New Woman: She Paints ‘Anus’
Nick Haramis
December 31, 2009
Back in November, former Queen of Nice Rosie O'Donnell announced that her partner Kelli Carpenter had moved out of their home two years earlier. This past Tuesday, O'Donnell was photographed canoodling with a women in Miami Beach, who has now been identified as Tracy Kachtick-Anders, a Texas-based artist with six kids, five of whom are adopted. According to the Huffington Post, the Dina Lohan lookalike is "an activist for LBGT adoptive rights, and she founded the non-profit Open Arms Campaign, which helps recruit foster and adoptive families." Meanwhile, over at Rosie.com's Ask Ro column, filled with reader questions and O'Donnell ciphers, Maggie writes, "so u screwed Kel and got all u wanted. This one will also walk, once she gets what she wants. LOOK in the mirror, u r UGLY!!! She only wantts money, maybe u should find someone ugly who will like u" Rosie's response: "r u available maggie?" But not so fast, potential Rosie paramours, because The View's former firestarter has her sights set on Tracy for the time being. In an attempt to get to know Ro's new gal pal, let's examine a few of her scary paintings, on view here, after the jump ("Anus" is to the left).
The New Starving Artist: Aaron Bobrow
December 28, 2009
Motor oil. A plastic tarp. Self tanning lotion. These are just a few of the materials artist Aaron Bobrow uses to invest his clean, graphic paintings with deeper meanings. “My work has a lot to do with transportation,” he says to explain the motor oil. “Industrialized society runs on oil. Gasoline, too, but oil is the real lubricant.”
Legendary Magazine Designer George Lois’s Last Round
John Capone
December 07, 2009
George Lois talks with the cadence and manner of a guy who's spent years around boxing gyms and maybe the track. Though, most of his fights have been in editorial bullpens and most of his bets have been on creative long shots. And they've paid off. He's a recognized legend in the design and ad worlds, and 38 of his iconic Esquire covers reside in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art. He has, of course, little love for the standard magazine design by committee, which he calls a "group-fucking-grope" in his typical fashion, and his speech comes out in sputters and stops when he's worked up, which is often. We had the chance to witness this firsthand, on this, the occasion of the umpteenth homage to his Muhammad Ali as Saint Sebastian cover (above; this time it was Ricky Gervais as Ali as Saint Sebastian on the cover of British Esquire) and at the end of a year where magazines appear to be on the ropes. It makes sense that some of his most well-known images are of boxers, because for all the accolades and decades of success, George Lois sounds every bit the old ringside corner man, vigorously pep talking his over-the-hill fighter (in this case, print) into pulling off one last astounding late-round K.O, as told to John Capone.
Long Lines & Few Surprises: Tim Burton at MoMA
November 20, 2009
I’ll admit straightaway that my take on Tim Burton’s show at MoMa is biased for two reasons. One was the crowd. I’ve been regularly attending the museum’s openings a couple years now, but have never seen the rank-and-file turn out like they did on Wednesday night. There were 20 times as many people as there were for say, Monet’s Water Lilies, and the long wait in a blue-lit corridor (which doubled as some hideous fiend’s esophagus) eventually lulled me into thinking I was waiting for something far more Space Mountain than museum exhibition. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing -- I like Space Mountain -- but after all the jostling with strangers, I expected an exhilarating ride.
Rebel Rebel, Your Place Is a Mess
Steve Lewis
November 20, 2009
Today's title paraphrases the Thin White Duke as word comes from a strange source that Rebel nightclub may be changing hands. I was asked to be involved with the renovation, so it just might be true. If so it will mark the end of an error and quite possibly the beginning of a new one. As a rock mecca back in the day, the space had a mediocre run as Downtime. I went to a few goth nights there cause they're always great fun for 15 or 20 minutes. I might have caught a long-forgotten band fronted by one of my waitrons as well. Downtime/Rebel was/is located on a "seam" block smack dab in the middle of the city at 30th Street and 8th Avenue. Although not far from anything and real easy to get to, the location was just never sexy. It always felt like I was in Jersey -- or worse, Philadelphia.
Boch to the Future: The Mudd Club’s Doorman as Artist Today
Steve Lewis
November 19, 2009
Any trip down the memory lane of nightclubs must pass by the Mudd Club. It opened in October 1978 and was the best joint in town -- some say the best ever. When it closed in 1983, it had morphed from the chicest of places to a punk/hipster haven. Any visit to the Mudd, even as a memory, must go through a door manned by Richard Boch. Mudd was located below Canal at the end of an alley at 77 White Street. At the time it was unimaginable that people could live down there, as it was a domain of rats and bag people with frequent visits from the new culture of graffiti artists. The music was rock and roll, and the crowds were punks and rock stars and rock stars who were punks, plus an uptown crowd slumming for flesh or drugs. Movie stars came through with their apricot scarves and that rarest of commodities: cash. It was a time before we thought of AIDS, and only Betty Ford went to rehab. Orgies and drugs in tenement squats were a common end to an evening on the town. There were few designer labels, save for Trash & Vaudeville or Natasha or Levi’s. But everybody wanted to get into the Mudd Club.
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