Thymotic

Thymotic

We currently have a best seller on our hands. Someone who says the days that were a source of melancholy for the pomos exploring a new ironic sensibility were an anomaly of history. An anomaly reaping off an economic structure undone with the cool rationalization that a return to a set of values would stem their decay – a chance for counter, tragedy for busted up polemics, barriers came down to mosh in atomic charged fields.

We are the new neutron. We don't get involved.
We are the new neutron. We don’t get involved.

Promised sunrise and some lost helicopters in a desert, a course got charted that brought one tremendous innovation to the wider world, irking those keeping track and personifying the amorphous – capital flight tilting the axis.

The unleashed vessel...
The unleashed vessel…
... once in rebellion, once in jest.
… once in rebellion, once in jest.

On Chelsea walls the cramped basement and bone littered back garden of ABCNoRio turns warehouse, the broken psyches of Wardance now cinemascope as homoerotic prole rubbings, oozing pointillist acrylics.

In that decay we rearranged.
In that decay we rearranged.

Armed American iconography. No trucks.
Armed American iconography. No trucks.
Native New Yorker moniker. To dye for.
Native New Yorker moniker. To dye for.
A Voice photographer, now based in Jersey City, counting herself lucky having spent a semester abroad in London, snapped the guests. Dutifully asking permission each time, desperate to move back to the city, when detecting an accent inquiring the heritage and pressing the case for providence, punishing the coy ones in the edit. The gallery offers the pleasure of taking Rivington to Prince – distilled mosh pit to militarized street art – arming iconography for proper measure nostalgia trippin’, packaging like fine Tetra Pak wine on boards with no trucks. The Native New Yorker moniker now sweeping such polite inquiry, germinating from formerly derided Bridge-and-Tunnel culture no longer relegated to the outer boroughs. Much talk of hipsterism invading these conclaves of Juicy. Irony is landlords are much more attuned to the long form trade winds blowing stretch limo bottle culture that distilled clubs of broken beats for the gambit of incessant speculation turned gleeful corruption.

The empty nest. Toss the money in the air!
The empty nest. Toss the money in the air!

The city is empty nest now – an exclusive destination for inhabitants of elite bubbles maintained by legions of servants back home in last third of the world conclaves. Some technoutopic apps can pick up the slack, fostering just the right amount of distance from the rabble, the taxi driver, the short order cook, the culture provider, stepping on the regulation fray of bought off inspectors and handed down medallions. No bulwark to stand in the they-ok-now-OTB repatriating capital, broken window theories as cartoonish sheen guarding the rental bubble, DNA labs in the petty art crime business, reiterating the parroted fact that there is no message, simply breach.
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Gloria Virtutis Umbra.
Gloria Virtutis Umbra.

Overheard banter in a Chelsea elevator –

Sorry I don’t speak French.
Cuban. We’re Cuban.
Close. Related.

[ romance ]

Cuban first off the boat.
Raise finger.
First off the plane.

[ entitlement ]
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Entitlement correction...
Entitlement correction…

You wouldn’t go back then?

[ affirmation ]

Such a shame.
Such a beautiful place.
Even if he were gone.

[ mourning ]

It’s starting again.

[ glance ]

... unsure...
… unsure…
... of what.
… of what.
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Triumph of the Like.
Triumph of the Like.

The sack of Rome, after all, isn’t due to the churning import of a warrior class. Instead a sweet combination Moët Hennessy heart flush comeuppance and a periphery bathed by a little molecule stilling critical barbarian faculties. Meanwhile years of relentless pat downs and good will compensation represents the double rainbow triumph of Like over grit.
Superhero Crunch.
Superhero Crunch.
We ask who do we do.
We ask who do we do.
Marking this triumph, the very same day, not very far removed, managed chaos breaks out in the newly renovated rotunda. The assembled super nest crunch. We ask who do we do. We do who we did. Marvel at the bed spread. Cotton candy at the banquet. Cages for the zones of elemental chaos, now bathed in sunshine. Sweeping the stuffing past the shuffling ministers in blue.
Do who we did.
Do who we did.
Elemental forces at work.
Elemental forces at work.
Managed chaos in the rotunda.
Managed chaos in the rotunda.
Cotton candy at the banquet.
Cotton candy at the banquet.
Sweeping the stuffing past the shuffling ministers in blue.
Sweeping the stuffing past the shuffling ministers in blue.

Symbiote

Symbiote

As the year begins to unwind to new life in a new season there are those keeping a close eye on the awakening from winter slumber since great change is already primed for motion. A new mayor is learning to spar with an upstate governor to go to alternate bat for the less well to do. A president may be open to making a few more new friends after a five year hiatus filled with frustration or at least a few new enemies. And so tentative partnerships form in thought and crime “By Leaves or play of sunlight” to still the #heartbleed.

To still the #heartbleed.
To still the #heartbleed.

That last bit being the title of a new show at the Horticultural Institute of John Cage’s Mushroom Book, tagged as “artist and naturalist” where philosopher springs to mind.

By leaves or play of light | John Cage: Artist and Naturalist
By leaves or play of light | John Cage: Artist and Naturalist
John Cage collecting mushrooms, Grenoble, France, 1972.
John Cage collecting mushrooms, Grenoble, France, 1972.

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Artist...
Artist…
... Naturalist
… Naturalist

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It turns out the Mushroom Book is the fruit of a group effort of three individuals. The mycologist Alexander H. Smith provided botanical descriptions and the artist Lois Long created beautiful illustrations which together with an eclectic bricolage by John Cage “created a literary and visual representation of mushroom foraging.” The creative efforts are displayed at the Horticultural Institute in such a way so as to illustrate different possible configurations in which these materials may interact. The exhibition curated by Chris Murtha of The Horticultural Society of New York, largely comprised of material courtesy of the John Cage Trust at Bard College and presented by the New York Mycological Society, also includes black and white photographs by James Klosty, a score and a drawing by John Cage.

Lois Long and John Cage inspect a print with the publisher.
Lois Long and John Cage inspect a print with the publisher.
See the material interact.
See the material interact.
Lois Long and John Cage at work.
Lois Long and John Cage at work.

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Floored by the illustrations contributed by Lois Long they exude a magick pull with forms that evoke fine lines and plump form. They communicate the fruitiness of what “edible” mushrooms are thought to be. Why the season of Morchella for instance might turn buddhist wanderers into manic foragers, yet at the same time secretive individuals religiously discriminative about their current immediate associates.

Color Lithographs by Lois Long.
Color Lithographs by Lois Long.

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The context for this book is obviously quite unique, extending beyond the deep collaboration among this professional trio. There is art and composition featured from outside the orbit of this trio as well as experiments in perhaps creating an “edible book” with several fungal pages. Cage also sought to layer his found bits of contextual knowledge in ink on the map of the United States.

Shadows cast into the interpretative sphere...
Shadows cast into the interpretative sphere…
... seeking to remain.
… seeking to remain.
Scores remain unsettling on the page...
Scores remain unsettling on the page…
... obscure crops in Peace and War...
… obscure crops in Peace and War…
... littering the map pervasive encounter.
… littering the map pervasive encounter.

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Mushroom...
Mushroom…
... a view to live by.
… a view to live by.
... mushroom.
… mushroom.
Feelings evoked...
Feeling evoked…
The scientific reasoning courtesy of the mycologist Alexander H. Smith on why the season now inches closer towards madness.
The scientific reasoning courtesy of the mycologist Alexander H. Smith on why the season now inches closer towards madness.

A day of foraging in Inwood Hill Park turns up those few species that winter and grow slow. Bark like.


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Two weeks later spring begins to awaken in Prospect Park. With a riot of color and a lazy sheen the debate on invasive species meets consensus – “if it can survive in Brooklyn, it’s Brooklynite.”





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As we leave we see even a queen bumblebee find her way to introspection – assuming the position for temporary poverty under glass.

Assuming the position - temporary poverty under glass.
Assuming the position – temporary poverty under glass.

Tekne

Tekne

Meet a sweets in the Manhattan lower mids to jet to an opening that promises the oportunity to demolish some preconceptions with bits of red foam. Failing miserably, the click BOOM click of a prescriptive haze of cards washes over like attending the school of no chances. It stills the heart to peer into the endless plexiglass vortex.

Click BOOM Click.
Click BOOM Click.

Around the corner, frack in full effect a demo of upstaters takes the block between Avenue fundraiser and then, fully realized, we scamper for some temperate Brooklyn climate.

Don't frack this Guv'nor: full monty pirate booty care in a prescriptive haze of cards.
Don’t frack this Guv’nor: full monty pirate booty care in a prescriptive haze of cards.

We find with Plato views of the artist mind elucidating the first inklings of intolerance. Basis theory for all ejections from the Polis subsequent. A Nebraskan transplant who muscled himself into the starkly minimal composer scene was beamed back to Brooklyn via Skype. After having bounced across the pond for bouts of looped elegance an artistic reality of being expat not for former love of country but for demonstrable lack of financials. Yet Skype seems the perfect medium for push-button loops and subtle glitchy deconstructs, upgrading the tragic hungry artist to the untethered aloof.

Untethered aloof as new normal.
Untethered aloof as new normal.
Listening in: manic stage signals.
Listening in: manic stage signals.

Straddle in the jumble.
Straddle in the jumble.
A composer in a boxed transmission.
A composer in a boxed transmission.

Desperate measure...
Desperate measures…
... for desperate times...
… for desperate times…

... impart pensive reassurances to the avant-garde of staged conflict unravelling just due east of over there.
… impart pensive reassurances to the avant-garde of staged conflict unravelling just due east of over there.

Stubborn refusal of dry ice to take on liquid form cracks against the eardrum.
Stubborn refusal of dry ice to take on liquid form cracks against the eardrum.
Further down the road to ruin, now in NASA bona fide form, the glacial pace of impending doom is met with the sounds of stubborn refusal for dry ice to take on liquid form. On metal mic-ed for effect.

Monotonic Surfaces.
Monotonic Surfaces.
The sweet change of success.
The sweet change of success.
Triangles as the last vestige criticizing for free.
Triangles as the last vestige criticizing for free.
Then freestyling the subaltern blues...
Then freestyling the subaltern blues…
... to comment on the list of itemized deductions for cultural ambassadors taking the last exit to pedigree.
… to comment on the list of itemized deductions for cultural ambassadors taking the last exit to pedigree.

Morbit

Morbit

The waning days of winter have a peculiar effect on the restless art stragglers who just manage to flee the stuffiness of their lofts for the kick off of open studio season. Like a support group in the bitter cold, eye spy what joe and jane have been up to cooped up during this desolate Bushwick winter.

The Bushwick open studios started with a lonesome untapped cities tweet –

“Is this controversial art exhibit by @FuchsProjects too much too soon after the murder of a Hasidic landlord?”

— Untapped Cities (@untappedcities) February 28, 2014

Too much too soon? All spite for money, all love lost.
Too much too soon? All spite for money, all love lost.

In spite of everyone’s worsening mood and depressed circumstance, the ironic shill “too much too soon” didn’t make it into the list of 150 journalist cliches –

“150 journalism cliches–if you are a writer or editor, you will laugh til you cry: http://t.co/A7ipNslFfT via @WashingtonPost

— Federated Media (@FMP) February 28, 2014

Wax...
Wax…
... skulls.
… skulls.

Passive-aggressive as a means at an end.
Passive-aggressive as a means at an end.

And so the attendees launch themselves into a morbid orbit of grizzly wax, bits of bone, uncanny juxtapositions,

Bits of bone with a hallucinatory sheen.
Bits of bone with a hallucinatory sheen.
oil paintings on strips of cardboard whose chemicals will eventually rot them off the walls.
Cardboard: the medium is the pedestal.
Cardboard: the medium is the pedestal.
They congregate on what looks to be the porch from a particularly depressing Faulkner novel and mill about cartoonsie interpretations of the Nagasaki bombing.

All neon palm dream now.
All neon palm dream now.
Dual focus out of compensation.
Dual focus out of compensation.
Fat Boy made a splash.
Fat Boy made a splash.
Insights on the cusp.
Insights on the cusp.
Can-do islands in-a-box.
Can-do islands in-a-box.

A splash of color. Fish.
A splash of color. Fish.
Whittled thumb.
Whittled thumb.

Rickety.
Rickety.
Carpets twice removed in molded form.
Carpets twice removed in molded form.

And yet, from a whittled thumb and east asian motif carpets etched in warped plywood to a set of colorful splashes even among the most morbid shapes, subtle juxtapositions do launch much needed relevance and yearning into an arts dialog largely catering to collectors and the overtly ambitious. This assembly encountered in the February dark calls attention to the tacked-on existence underpinning these rickety installations.

Pinned-on existence.
Tacked-on existence.
A bit of self-conscious morbidity can’t hurt when the week saw attempts to resuscitate a notion of blackness from the tragically hip put-to-Bed-Stuy.
One and one makes three.
One and one makes three.
Naturally for that discussion everyone came out swinging, including the landed gentri-(purely as prefix, we understand), slinging their Brooklyn growing up stories – “when I used to run around the way…” until some nasties found a way to end it with spray paint.

All cuts, no transplants.
All cuts, no transplants.

Solitarity

Solitarity

The pendulum always swings back in the other direction” remains the faith based initiative for the banal hope of a reactionary tendency. “It’s our turn now” reimagines creative tendencies of yore in tome form. Such is the poetic justice of today as we progress five quarters past the inconceivable notion for those that cling. As the world of allies and alliences shatters into less and less recognizable form, distant revelations expose the notion of governing as the most paranoid actor on the block, paralyzed by inescapable representation. Can the arts project a less static notion of reality to the intractable indifference of the disillusioned? Who has not lost everything yet?

Don't Tread On We

The exhibitionist notion of the city as a quiet stage has reduced all hustle and bustle to a smeared blur. More messy than in styles past, we are left with a certain solitary experience of urban space when we finally succeed in tuning it all out. Dropping into an introspective void of structure and form the commons is not quite yet uninhabited.

Drink your champagne and laugh while you still can... Soon we'll gather in number that will make the ground beneath us rumble.
Drink your champagne and laugh while you still can… Soon we’ll gather in number that will make the ground beneath us rumble.

Moving on from a dearth of the neutral in the not quite objectified form, we escape the present political conundrums of climate and environment with the slow, deliberate meditation on the cyclical. Progress creeps in stark contrast to continued reclamation of the wild. Weeds and brambles track the seasons better than our derailed notion of progress.

Seemingly derailed notion of progress lives on in the macro.
Seemingly derailed notion of progress lives on in the macro.
Weeds and brambles track dreams deferred.
Weeds and brambles track dreams deferred.
Everything went green.
Everything went green.

How green can we be?

The new new grapes of wrath.
The new new grapes of wrath.
Action and answered...
Action and answered…
... at the help click.
… at the help click.
Shoot to buy.
Shoot to buy.

Is there salvation at the end of the tunnel?

Tunnel lovestance.
Tunnel lovestance.
Spectator mode sardine action.
Spectator mode sardine action.
A yarn of brash consequence - beauty absolute.
A yarn of brash consequence – beauty absolute.

To gather an overview with a positive notion it might be fun to pivot to the everyday creative. Leaving spectator mode let’s spin a yarn of sly circumstance.

The wrappings as the main event.
The wrappings as the main event.
Have a photo and a pedestal.
Have a photo and a pedestal.
In up cycled fashion...
In up cycled fashion…
... art mingles.
… art mingles.
Ambrosia...
Ambrosia…
... and tunes.
… and tunes.
Faraway sights...
Faraway sights…
... inspire caress.
… inspire caress.

Space extends beyond the pale – you may try the goods!

Space extends beyond the pale...
Space extends beyond the pale…
... work here, play there.
… work here, play there.
Faraday cage for semblance.
Faraday cage for semblance.
A different kind of...
A different kind of…
... sensory deprecation.
… sensory deprecation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One final stop for future thought reborn: Detroit gathers a state of…

Emergency Nothing.
Emergency Nothing.
Perpetual fall photo wall.
Perpetual fall photo wall.
Crowds abound.
Crowds abound.
Wolf on wolf clothing.
Wolf on wolf clothing.
Circle makes a square.
Circle makes a square.
The art engages in light banter...
The art engages in light banter…
... while the artist stands by.
… while the artist stands by.

The Bishop

The Bishop

The Bed Stuy – Bushwick metroplex area is fast becoming the bike mecca for gallery hopping doted on by roving scenes of loose artist collectives. One crew kicking off the fourteen with a massive set of interventions is Brooklyn Wild. The place they selected to inflict their damage is a spot called The Bishop, like the chess piece. The spot straddles an area of Bed Stuy sporting roving Hasidics in immense furry hats in winter and massive homebrew sound systems dotting the blocks in summer.

At The Bishop Brooklyn historic looks out on current developments.
At The Bishop Brooklyn historic looks out on current developments.

The Bishop, firmly on the black side of the checkerboard, not waiting to do a move though, is run by a crew up from DC. Formerly Pratt affiliated, the space now does gentle recounting in supreme artistic effort, an approach heralding from the DC African American fine arts, especially print making, still very much non-described, non-researched as already supplanted by more rootless, more etsy manifestations.

Issues speak from the walls of The Bishop.
Issues speak from the walls of The Bishop.

Somehow I got myself in the 12 day group show on Brooklyn with a piece I’d been meaning to get back to the party from which it sprang. On the New Year for twelve, as it happened, I was chasing some tail at off-the-hook Rubulad three spaces party. I bumped into an acquaintance at the first spot who had been comped a wristband. We ripped the band in half while on the party bus and stuck it on our wrists with spittle.

Comped in Brooklyn.
Comped in Brooklyn.

Once in, I roved the second spot, like I was promoting, making snaps, but when I got back to the door knew it would be sketchy trying to go in and out with the half band spittle stuck to my wrist. In my moment of hesitancy I started to notice all the people trying to show the bouncer with their raised wrists that they were legit.

Water near amusement structure give poetic license at The Bishop.
Water near amusement structure give poetic license at The Bishop.

I started to photograph that moment tween out and in as there was a never-ending stream of people. Nine of these photographs is what I wheeled to The Bishop in the guise of Comped in Brooklyn.

Arrived a bit fashionably but didn’t feel too much out of place as this seemed more legit than the university connected pop ups dotting much of the calendar in Brooklyn now, where art is but a temporary deviance on the road to either ruin of hard drugs or the blissful arrival at settled down feeling with the two kid garage, alleviating anxiety with the, still in some sense, American dream. Above all, those spots though are placeholders for the next next wave of realtor speculation making the seeming choice above profitable.

Flood line with silt simulate.
Flood line with silt simulate.
Boobies in the zone spell grit.
Boobies in the zone spell grit.

The last spot available was on a windowsill, so once I balanced the blocks I caught sight of the piece next door where a few photographs framed and hung kept close watch on a bunch more strewn on the floor just in front.

Box truck re-ruin.
Box truck re-ruin.

This installation was by Alan Rules, and the photos were all covered in grime and looked like they were of the tragic destruction from Hurricane Sandy – if it weren’t for boobies in all the shots.

Jonnie Flatbush posting spectacles with the Glue Gun.
Jonnie Flatbush posting spectacles with the Glue Gun.

I asked the chicken egg question on how the Sandy grime had gotten on the photos clearly shot in the devastation and Mr. Rules showed me on his phone how he had ruined a box truck to get that flood line on each photo post-disaster. Next door Jonnie Flatbush whipped out a glue gun to add a final spectacle to his cartoon inspired masks. A light heart reprieve to the Sandy devastation on either side of his.

Aside of Sandy.
Aside of Sandy.

Mr. BK Wild curating the assemblage is of course renaissance man Chris Carr. Someone to watch as he brings massive outlays of fun to events simply to post rent.

Assemblage off-the-rack experience.
Assemblage off-the-rack experience.

There are few that can bootstrap art these days outside of institutional bubble. Mr. Carr can and does, showing a massive print with dozens of photos from gatherings genuinely off-the-hook. The art he assembled by simply being openly inclusive accurately linked the semblance of Brooklyn being the diverse nexus, pined for around the world, in what remains this.

Brooklyn - the diverse nexus.
Brooklyn – the diverse nexus.