1. "And then some like cynical postmodern critic’ll come along and say oh my god look at this show of dog bones - what’d ya suppose it means? These dog bones are just making art the way art should be made I think, without any overarching reference. Just for fun - if you can imagine that. Art for fun, sometimes it is fun!"
     
  2. Deep South, Sally Mann

    After your works about childhood, you moved on to other subjects. What led you to take pictures of landscapes in the South of the United States?

    I wanted to explore the region’s mystery and complexity. The South has its own unique issues: Why did we behave the way we did in the Civil War? Why did the South depend so heavily on slavery? Why do we have the racial attitudes that we do? Why the sense of honor? Why the warrior spirit? Because many of the family pictures I took used Southern landscapes as the backdrop, it was a very easy shift for me to focus on photographing the South itself. I spent six years on exploring that topic. Deep South is one of my favorite bodies of work.

    You said that you have never left the South to create art, and you consider yourself a Southern artist.

    There is no denying that I have made most of my works in the South. In that respect, I could be regarded as a Southern artist. Southerners are preoccupied with the past, with myth, with family, with death. And, of course, we tend to be a little more romantic.

    Why do you think that is?

    I guess it’s because of the temperature. Also, the light in the South is so different from the North, where you have this crisp and clear light. There is no mystery in that light. Everything is revealed in the Northern light. You have to live in the South to understand the difference. In summer, the quality of the air and light are so layered, complex, and mysterious, especially in the late afternoon. I was able to catch the quality of that light in a lot of the photos.

     
  3. Rino Stefano Tagliafierro animates master paintings in Beauty

    "Over Beauty, there has always hung the cloud of destiny and all-devouring time.
    Beauty has been invoked, re-figured and described since antiquity as a fleeting moment of happiness and the inexhaustible fullness of life, doomed from the start to a redemptive yet tragic end.
    In this interpretation by Rino Stefano Tagliafierro, this beauty is brought back to the expressive force of gestures that he springs from the immobility of canvas, animating a sentiment lost to the fixedness of masterpieces.”

    - Beauty, Rino Stefano Tagliafierro

     
  4. ryanpanos:

    The Architecture Lobby

    The Architecture Lobby is a new organization of American architectural workers (architects, designers, administrators) advocating for the value of architectural design and labor.

    We seek to:

    Change attitudes toward architecture by advocating for its value among clients, media, and the general public.

    Change architectural labor by legislating for higher compensation, equitable policies, and professional networks.

    Change architectural practice by fostering alternative approaches to authorship, contracts, and architectural fees.

     
  5. The word myein is an ancient Greek verb meaning “to close the eyes or mouth.” Linked to the initiation rites enacted in medieval cults, the closing of the eyes or mouth refers to the secret status surrounding their rites. Across time, myein has come to stand for that thing which has not been, or cannot be, explained.

    Hamilton’s interest in the temple form as an idealized image projected onto civic space led her to engage the neo-classical building of the United States pavilion as both subject and object of the project. It was a meditation on aspects of American social history that, like weather, are present and pervasive in effect but which remain invisible or unspoken. Her self-given task was to make a place in which this absence could be palpably felt and to create a space simultaneously empty and full.

    Around the perimeter of the four interior rooms of the pavilion, a chaos of smokefine fuscia powder fell and accumulated over material and aural texts: Selections from Charles Reznikoff’s project: Testimony: The United States, affixed in Braille to the walls, and from the corners, recordings of Abraham Lincoln’s second Inaugural Address spoken in phonetic code. By insinuating inclusion or exclusion the whispering voice of the recordings subverted the public character of the space, and like the powder, was both pervasively present yet out of reach. Spoken in phonetic code wherein each letter is spelled out as name or thing: Alpha for A, Indigo for I , Bravo for B and so on, the text could be deciphered only by notating in writing each coded letter. Originally delivered near the close of the American Civil War, Lincoln’s address extended a healing hand toward that primary schism in American democracy - the institution of slavery.”

    - myein, Ann Hamilton, 1999.

     
  6. "For her installation ghost … a border act, sited in a closed textile factory, Hamilton created two suspended nine-foot-high organza rooms with a corridor between them. A table was positioned in each, and on each was a video projector (itself within a zoetrope-like structure) that revolved on a mount. The projectors turned, as described by Hamilton, “at the pace of a slow walk.” The visitor standing in the corridor between the two rooms understood that in one of them, the video projected a line being written (and seen circling the walls of the room beyond, and through, the organza walls, in a counterclockwise fashion). In the other room, the video was played backward so that its image was of a line unwritten (the throw of this projector circled the room in a clockwise direction).”

    - ghost…a border act, Ann Hamilton, 2000.

     

  7. In the thirty-five years I’ve been fucking, I’ve had a wealth of bad sex. There have been men who rubbed my breasts like jinn would appear. Lovers, male and female, who would slip beneath the covers, take the token lap, and pop up like whack-a-moles. Men who mistook stamina for artistry, speed for skill, and my patience for pleasure. Threesomes that were blinding in their shared solipsism. Fucking is a lot like poetry. Sometimes it’s epiphanic; sometimes it’s merely boring. Other times it’s just awful.

    I had one lover who said, more than once, “I’m not used to women who need foreplay.” I had another whose feet smelled like the scraped leavings of a cheese cave. Another lover refused to kiss me, and lay there passive as an anesthetized sand shark. One, when I was very young, very new to fucking, complained that my pussy got too wet.

    There was a man—and we were together for years—whose lips were so soft, so tender, and so pliant that I wanted to smack his face with rage. One man could come only from prolonged, gagging, intense, nose-flat-to-his-pudendum oral sex; he was a one-trick jackass. One woman lay like a princess on a pillow, inert and pretty, mouth agape and perfect petal pink cunt, like a blinking sex doll. Bad sex can sit in biology as in bad destiny; it is the simple mismatch of bodies. The one cock that’s too large, the one that’s too small, the one that’s too straight, the one that arcs wild as an errant tennis lob. The highlights of the biological blooper reel, the forgotten tampon, the anal mishap that’s best left to fecund imagination, the Rorschach splotch of jism in the eye.

    More than poorly matched bodies, bad sex is a lack of connection, the feeling that, as you insert tab A into slot B, no one is home. Bad sex is kinks that line up close, but no Freudian cigar. Bad sex is a sheer want of skills, a wanton ignorance, and a foolish fierce adherence to the tried and untrue. Bad sex can happen with someone you loved, after the love has left and all there is in its place is hollow habit. It can come from scents that repel, in parts that don’t fit, in styles that clash, in syntax that jars. Like shit, bad sex happens.

    And like shit, bad sex isn’t something people want to talk about. We might tell the tale of the fuck that went so operatically south that it came over all carnivalesque. But the long months or years of desires unfulfilled, the itches unscratched, the patience worn thin, the tubes of lube emptied—these are the tales that go untold. These are the tales that wear at the fabric of the self.

    For bad sex doesn’t just lead us to manual distraction; it also leads us to wonder if it’s us. It takes two to tangle, and sometimes you begin to wonder if the problem is not he, not she, but me. An unrelenting diet of bad sex—and even not flat-out see-you-in-the-funny-pages bad, but just sex that’s lame—is a soul killer. It will leave you in a sexistential crisis.

    A few weeks ago, I’d an assignation with this seriously fine man, a long-fingered Italian with a shock of black hair, a big broken Roman nose that called to be popped whole in my mouth like a plum, skin like an almond, and a slow, sleepy smile. I’d found him toothsome for years. Sixteen years my junior, he was all about sweet, sweet meaning-free sex. I went on this date intending to fuck this man senseless.

    But when he had me undressed, my whore’s panties off, my breasts sprung free from my bra, my stockings and garter belt and black boots still on; when he lay on his hardwood floor, his cock shiny with want, I looked at him. “Climb on,” he said. I looked down at that Italian pastry and I decided not to fuck him. I made a choice based in my own experience. No more bad sex. Just no. I gathered my clothes and my dignity and left.

    No more boring sex. No more lame sex. No more disconnected sex. No more close enough to perv for government work. No more obligatory fucking that brings shards of pleasure. Nevermore.

    Because what bad sex ultimately teaches us is what we are worth, and what we are is cosmic. We, you and I and all the glorious erotic bodies swirling in that glowing vortex of perversion are no more than the sun and no less than the stars, and our bodies coming together should clash by night with great big bangs. And fucking, in all its infinite dirty glory, in all its animal keening rutting, in all its kink and all its think and all its magnificent stink, should always tell you at its root, in its clit and cock and asshole, that life is good.

    And ultimately the lesson is this: You are not your bad sex, or your brutish lovers. You’re better than your last bad fuck. I know I am. Learn from the bad, let it go, and welcome the great.

    - Chelsea Summers

     
  8. In Feelings are facts (2010), Olafur Eliasson and Ma Yansong challenge our everyday patterns of spatial orientation. Vision functions as our primary, default sense for navigation, but this expansive installation induces initial insecurity in its visitors by radically reducing visibility, thereby suggesting the need to invent new models for perception. Basing this project on a series of previous experiments with atmospheric density, Eliasson introduces condensed banks of artificially produced fog into the gallery, whose dimensions have been further altered by substantially lowering the ceiling and constructing an inclined wooden floor. Hundreds of fluorescent lights are installed in the ceiling as a grid of red, green, and blue zones. By permeating the fog, these lights create coloured walk-through spaces that, in Eliasson’s words, function to “make the volume of the space explicit.” The coloured zones introduce a scale of measurement in the gallery, their varying size and organization referencing urban planning grids. At each colour boundary, two hues blend to create transitional slivers of cyan, magenta, and yellow. Walking through the dense, illuminated atmosphere, visitors can navigate by using this intuitive colour atlas. Another means of navigation is the floor construction. Whereas movement on a plane surface can be effortlessly accomplished, the sloping floor challenges visitors to readjust their balance, constantly having to shift their weight and body posture to counterbalance the inclination. This fact emphasizes the crucial role of the moving body in our perception of our surroundings. The further visitors venture into the space, the steeper the floor gets, until the point where it becomes a wave-like curved wall. Since the ceiling imitates this construction, a seemingly boundless space is discerned above.”

    Feelings are Facts, Olafur Eliasson and Ma Yansong, 2010.

     

  9. "in the strangest lands
    i will grasp my chest
    sing the unsung ways
    i have searched through space"
    — iamamiwhoami, hunting for pearls
     
  10. Larry Bell is most commonly known for his  Minimalist  sculptures—transparent cubes that thrive on the interplay of shape, light, and environment—that champion the ideas of the Light and Space Movementof the 1960s. Although Bell had early success with Abstract Expressionist painting, a side job at a frame shop led him to experiment with excess scraps of glass, thus beginning his fascination with the material’s interaction with light. Bell’s first series of cubes combined three-dimensional glass forms with transmitted light, creating illusions of perspective through angles, ellipses, and mirrors. His later purchase of industrial plating equipment allowed him to create sculptures with metallic-coated glass and drawings on mylar-coated paper.”

    - NYEHAUS, Larry Bell

    1.) Untitled 1964

    2.) Iceburg and its Shadow, 1975