This is another shot from Clarion Alley in the Mission. I took it because I like birds and because pink against red is my number one top favorite color combination, even though it makes many people shudder. I also like that the bird looks like it’s going to peck on the bits of broken bottle on the ground. I’d like to see an exhibit of two-dimensional art in some sort of context, where it seems to interact with the three-dimensional world in which it’s hung; or rather, where the world relates itself back to the art, a bit like this. I’m sure there’s a word for that, but I’m still missing most of my words. Maybe if I’m very quiet and get plenty of rest, they’ll come back soon.

Can you think of any other examples of art colliding with reality? Do you have a good word for that, because I could use all the good words you’ve got.

Keep yr. cool: Be badass with a wink.

mcqueen peace sign, taped sister, patti on the tracks, long shadows, monkey bargains, riding the tortoise, hold tight

This David Bowie chess-travaganza from 1973 reminds me of back in college when I ran with a bunch of artposers and we tried to start a movement. Basically, this consisted of a little scribbling, some late-night collages and body painting, and many black and white photoshoots (B&W is the ARTIER medium; full color is so tediously commercial) of us looking self-consciously artistique. I mean, these things were heavily art-directed: tortured artists at work, bold-thinkers at play, avant-sophists in passionate argument; you get the picture. We spent more time discussing how the shots would look in future compendiums of our movement than we did doing any actual moving.

One of our group had two things going for him: a british accent and the lease on a downtown storefront “art space,” which is where we held our readings, salons, and happenings. This was not a going concern, of course (or perhaps it really was, because both he and it were gone pretty quickly from the local scene.) He was an actual grownup (around thirty, which is older than Santa Claus to those who cannot legally drink) with a credit card, a failing marriage, and the other paraphernalia of adulthood. Me? I just had my dad’s account at Family Drug, where I charged mountains of art supplies to feed our creative jones. We had to go old skool with the artmaking, of course, with construction paper and crayolas and those cheap watercolors in the plastic tray where the paints bleed into each other, turning everything you make purple-brown.

Another of our gang—the one with the talent—actually made a name for himself as a composer. We’d talk on the phone years later, in my early days in San Francisco, and he’d tell me about his life in New York. Mostly, it was about the famous people he’d met. “I play golf with Iggy Pop,” he’d tell me, which is as close as I’ll get to either golf or the most famous Stooge. Now that friend’s in Berlin, and we’re both on FaceBook. I don’t know if he still golfs with Iggy.

But mostly we all got over it, moved on to our own credit cards and failing marriages. To my knowledge, no evidence exists of our nascent art movement, and I can’t for the life of me think of its name or credo, although I’m sure we put a lot of thought into all of that. Although it’s all forgotten, we were self-branding pioneers. If only we’d existed in the age of the internet, youtube, and webcams, the evidence of our heartfelt do-nothingism—our desire for recognition without much effort—would be searchable, living on forever in embarrassing Facebook taggings and long-abandoned MySpace outposts.

Instead, it’s all just stubbornly undigitized memories existing in muddy purple-brown, here to make me cringe again. We wanted to be the Thin White Duke with his Red Queen hair, but we were all just pawns in unitards, posing and capering on the chessboard.

My dogs are cooling their paws over at the folks’ place, while (not nearly enough) potential buyers (do not) tromp through my house. Although it’s easier to keep things pristine without the exuberant attentions of claw and tongue, I really miss the little mutts. Luckily, the interwebs have thrown up some intriguing examples of caninity lately.

Check out this flounder-like hound from Eric Yahnker:

Or this brilliant Calgary Zoo ad, found by my pal Andy:

And doesn’t this fucker just steal your heart?:

Here’s another bandito with his posse:

Goyaesque proof that puppies are edible:

This fine fellow’s not worried about being nommed, though:

Finally, here’s a little bliss, for a hot, hot summer day:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

-Mary Oliver

“Sluice” is by the amazing Kate MccGwire; check out her stuff.

It’s been days since my last post, and I’m sure you’re all wondering…

HAS SHE LOST THE MAGIC???

Nah, I say, the magic’s just resting. It’s in a sleepy heap, right next to my mojo, with its head resting on that THANG.

Here’s how I spent my nearly laptop-less weekend…

(more…)

Oh, Andy. I will always love your patient pursuit of impermanence. You must be a man with a million macintoshes and a whole herd of wellies, for all the hours you spend outside, shaping the landscape (and letting it shape itself around you).

Via

Fridays can sometimes be a day for teh cute on TSR, but today we’re on a crushing deadline, so it’s teh fish-out-of-water animals of Mikel Uribetxeberria instead. Not so much cute as haunting, no? Apparently, this artist has never had an exhibit of these works, and I would like to volunteer my living room. (The fox would live in my bedroom, however, to remind me to jump on the bed sometimes.)

(Note that there’s a ratio of 3:1 with the shots I selected: three lanky-slinkys, all elbows and angles, to one thick lug in a motel. Kinda like my life, in some way that will bug me for the rest of the day.)

I’m already writing too much (and not well) on my other project today, so I will just say this: Amazing.

I’m sure some very smart machines assisted the director of this Fujiya & Miyagi Ankle Injuries video, but check out all those pixelated dominoes. It’s got a very krautrock Lego kingdom feel that meshes works perfectly with the music (and no, these guys aren’t German or Japanese):

Fujiya & Miyagi- Ankle Injuries from Insound on Vimeo.

I first heard this song on a flight out to San Francisco and it had such a lovely sense of loping quirk, I didn’t get much past it on the album. Basically, I only made it through the next song, the slybird hipshimmy chant Collarbone. I love this video, although it gets dark in a way that’s all the more gruesome given the animation style. Check out the animal footy action, though:

That can be a problem for me; I fall in love with the first or second song, and never make it through an entire album. But then, with everything on endless shuffle, it’s getting harder and harder to have a relationship with an album. It’s all one-song stands these days.

So what’s your latest song crush? And which album have you gotten serially monogamous with lately?

Ankle Injuries via Monster Munch, the rest via the google.

“Nature’s voice is written in dirt, like it would be written in blood.”

Paul “Moose” Curtis is an artist of reduction, of making less into more. And grime is his medium. Fantastic.

For me, this film is as much about sound as his reverse graffiti visuals, from the slinky-threat soundtrack to the artist’s voice; what he says and how he says it. (But then, I’m a sucker for an accent.)

Via the always intriguing Dear Ada.