Archive for December, 2010


Saturday, December 18th, 2010

This post is in the hope that the dead finally have decent internet access.

FOR WALTER HOPPS, who taught me so much.


Walter said upon seeing this, “It looks like I am trying to hold myself together”.

John Gossage was born in New York City, in 1946. He is an artist who makes history present in photographs. He photographs places and sites that tell an everyday story: paths worn through abandoned tracts of land, corners where debris collects, markings on a wall, a table after a meal. Gossage photographs that which has just occurred to remind us that we may have already forgotten it happened or that we were there. By asking us look at what we have misplaced or abandoned he brings us face to face with the present as it becomes history. Throughout the 1980s Berlin became Gossage’s overriding focus. The art from this period is arguable his most important and has unquestionable influenced all his subsequent work.


Saturday, December 18th, 2010

— Born in Norway in 1814, and having graduated from the art academies of Copenhagen and Düsseldorf, Adolph Tidemand became one of the central figures of Norwegian National Romanticism. A sub-genre of Romanticism, National Romanticism was instumental in crafting an identity of “Norwegian-ness” as tied to the specific nature of the country, thus setting it apart from Denmark and Sweden. The only painting I ever bought, Woodland Interior is a minor work for sure but to me a reminder not only of the pliable nature of national identity but of the political nature of any aesthetics.

Adolph Tidemand,

Gardar Eide Einarsson was born in Oslo, Norway, in 1976. He lives and works in New York. Einarsson’s installations often contain text-based works and props that investigate social transgression and political subversion through their juxtaposition.


Saturday, December 18th, 2010


— I was scheduled to go to a dance festival in Japan. Mother seemed on the verge of dying but there had already been some false alarms. Years earlier, on my way to that same festival, I had gotten sick and had canceled at the last minute. I didn’t want to do it again.

Before leaving Los Angeles, standing at Mother’s bedside I told her, “I’m going away for a few days. I’m going to Paris.” I said Paris because I often worked there and she had once lived in Paris and could envision it. In fact when she heard “Paris,” she broke into a smile. Briefly. But mainly that look of blankness, some recognition that I was going away, her voice low, just raspy sound. Eyes imploring to connect.

I arrive Tokyo. Humid, hot, big wind. Many buses with big writing, yellow and white on black and red rising sun. Loudspeakers blaring, almost bring-fingers-into-ears loudness.

At hotel desk:

I ask: “What are they saying?”

Young woman: “Black cars? Election coming.”

Me: “Oh. Vote this one.”


From my seventh-floor window I see treetops wild moving. Imagine steamy hotness whipping fragrance from the leaves. My room hermetic and gently air-conditioned, I placed phone calls. “Yes, I’m trying to call from Tokyo to Los Angeles. Your system isn’t accepting my account number.” And finally, “Hello Mommy! Hello Mommy! Hello Mommy!”

Then going out to change money, stopping again by front desk.

I say: “I see park from window. Where is park?”

She looks questioning.

Me: “Trees. Many trees. Park.”


She pulls out map.

“Hotel here. Park here. But typhoon coming.”

In street some rain, big wind but all have open umbrellas. Department store, fourth-floor exchange booth, fifty dollars for five hundred eighty yen. Coming out again I feel the power of the wind; a little afraid, I move fast. Some still have umbrellas open.

Back in hotel, at front desk to get room key.

Young woman: “Not elections. Memorial Day. Those people support emperor. Today is anniversary Nagasaki. The black cars saying ‘Remember.’”

Me: “Oh. Thank you.”

Young woman: “I don’t want you have wrong information.”

“Oh, thank you. I appreciate.”

We linger, full of wanting to tell more, to hear more. She is young, sweet and clear behind desk. Thoughts bouncing around in both our minds as in a few seconds we micro-signal: “…there’s more to say, no, yes, no…” slight bows shared, “Thank you.” Again, “Thank you.” I go to elevator, my eyes leaving hers a little too quickly. Memorial Nagasaki.

Again wild moving trees seen from above. Waves of biomass crashing, running light and shadow. Finally I go down to the park. Working umbrella like kite, now with soaked shoes and pants legs. Through the locked gate I see the park’s dark floor. Take in its stillness. Breathe rich typhoon breath. A crow stands there, quiet. Earlier, a crow-call urgent, loud, and some hollow reedy sounds, first just hearing sound, then realizing it’s a call.

Mother loved languages and she gave me that love. I love to try, from one language to another, a word that is similar in French and Spanish and Italian, but in English different. Like “pioggia,” “lluvia,” “il pleut.” And then, “Rain.” “Speak” is sharp. “Parola,” “parlare,” “parlance” rolls from the tongue. “Tongue” taps at the root of the teeth and finishes back in the root of itself. “Tongue.” “Teeth” is very to the teeth. In Mother’s earlier old age she would slip from language to language to language and I would slip around with her. When she was still walking we sometimes would go to the Japanese Pavilion at the Los Angeles County Museum and walk down the spiral ramp looking at the prints, or the calligraphy. Ink that strokes the subject, and can, for a moment, change your breathing.

When I got back to Los Angeles and entered her room, Mother dug her face toward the pillow, looking away. Then I read to her in English, brief poems by Japanese women, soft and rhythmic, for her to have the activity of sound-listening, activity being so scarce in her last days. We fall silent, a peaceful moment, the brittle edge gone, we linger. I resume reading, Mother long beyond following meaning but sensing the meaning of being read to. And the grace of the sound.

Simone Forti is a dancer, choreographer and writer. Based in Los Angeles, she directs the ensemble, Sleeves, with whom she has just performed CONVERSATION PIECE at Highways Performance Space. She is interested in conversation as an important element of civic life and in the juxtaposition of, or space between, different people’s different ways of doing and seeing.


Saturday, December 18th, 2010



“Seven years, they say, and my organism exchanges most of its cells; therefore and ahead, forgetting begins; seven years and love unrequited is a blank to be refilled, a wormhole between bliss and loss; seven short years and you go from that darling fetus position to crouching as a child among beasts; seven years later and life still seems so very long, possibilities manifold; seven more years and the congregation, community, tribe, republic, empire, village or island nominate you Adultly Master Of Your Own Failures, sacrificial lamb to the procreation of the species, ripe genitals, seven times seventy-seven as often as you shall remain unforgiven, seven lovers, that´s what it takes for post-breakup oblivion and calmness of being numb, seven, perfection, the number of suspects in all my crimes, the number of all my deadly sins, fourth prime number, factorial prime, lucky prime, safe prime, happy number, all my cycles of seven, vulgar fraction, may the weather and the forthcoming erosion make me a seven-sided shape, like a succession of semicolons is this job of breathing, had I only seven lives and enough mistakes with which to grace you, or only a few sevenly seconds with myselves, so I could finally bow unto you until my body assumed the shape of a 7.”
Ricardo Domeneck

Heinz Peter Knes was born in Gemünden am Main, Germany, in 1969. His work has been exhibited in New York, Oslo, Paris, Los Angeles, Amsterdam, Berlin and Cologne. He has also been published in various magazines including 032c, Iann, Spex, Dutch, Readymade, Freier, i-D, Art Review, Butt and Purple.


Saturday, December 18th, 2010

— I took these photos during various journeys through Europe for the shoot of a documentary. I am working on this project with two companions since two years and we will finish it next year. The documentary is about people who are able to sense nature spirits and live in close contact with them. It´s been an amazing experience so far and we met the most inspiring people.

Till Gerhard was born in Hamburg, Germany, in 1971. Gerhard paints large-scale canvases of rural communities, but with an unsettling atmosphere. He uses delicate spills of colour and heavy brushwork, as well as drips, splashes and smears. He has exhibited in shows including MAN SON 1969 at Hamburger Kunsthalle; ALTERED STATES OF PAINT at DCA, Dundee and UNHOLY TRUTHS at Initial Access, Wolverhampton. Gerhard has also shown at the PORTUGAL ARTE 10 in Lisbon, Galleri LOYAL in Stockholm and Stellan Holm Gallery in New York.