Friday, March 25, 2011

Sugar, Mr. Poon?

Last week there were television shows being filmed at the end of the block at both my house and my studio.

Catering trucks seemed to be everywhere I went.

I must live a very cinematic life.

Or my life is very made for TV.

Whoever thought of putting rye and fernet branca together had vision.

Indeed, this post is going to be completely muddled

much like my brain.

Who can stay focused in the spring?

I haven't seen as much art lately as I have been hearing people talk about it.

Listened to John Yau who said when he was starting out he moved to new york to be a poet and for money he planned to either "be an art critic or an x-ray technician" depending.

He said he didn't want to go into academia because he didn't know what a poem was.

Similarly, when it comes to art he likes to "be in a situation where I don't know what I am looking at."

I like that as well.

Like Yau said, "you have to get beyond what's happening in your own thinking." I think maybe I'll just start quoting him from now on when people ask me questions.

Saw Jizzle De Jizz

Those guys I enjoy every time.

Speaking of, I went to the Goat Farm

and shot a video.

Attractive fellows coming soon to a computer screen near you.

Yau is also working on some poems that are a play on words

"more true bull ahead"

"disguise the limit"

"believe it alone"

Am I allowed to post those online?

What are the rules for posting someone's poetry? I don't know. I don't ask.

William was back in town for a visit.

This tends to involve shoe shopping

and sparkly things

we're planning something for May that has great potential for being hilarious and if it goes well then you too will be wondering what you are looking at.

Mike Germon, "Our Lady of the TriForce."

Saw these Germon's at Aurora.

Mike Germon, "Nudes."


It's not William, it's six foot five inch Zoey now. This woman came up to Zoey and asked "so were do you dance?"

You could call that moment the Ecstasy of Saint Zoey

Garden update: strawberries survived the winter

Weeded and seeded

and spinach has starting popping up (rather late but here nonetheless!)

tender little babes

trying a hand at zucchini.

And this is my new favorite thing. Riverview Farms has gone mobile and roams neighborhoods selling the best grassfed beef and spicy sausage and eggs you will ever eat. I follow them around on my bike like it's an ice cream truck.

You can get their weekly schedule here.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Poke in the Eye

Schutz show coming to a close.

Heard poet Paul Guest give a reading amongst all those drawings.

Schutz, "Untitled," 2005, Gouache and Ink on Paper, 14"x20"

His poems start with a particular question or thought. If you could interview Godzilla what would you ask?

Schutz, "How We Would Talk," 2007, Ink on Paper, 22"x23"

A drawing by Schutz starts with a question too.

Schutz, "Swim, Smoke, Cry," Detail, 2010, Gouache and Ink on Paper, 38"x50"

How do you depict someone swimming, crying, and smoking?

Schutz, "Untitled," 2008, Ink on Paper, 19"x25"

by Paul Guest

The plot hole by which you must enter in
to the story is a doozy, a real humdinger,
if you will, and it is all made of fire,
the way the stars are made of fire,
though we dream them to be utterly cold
and prickly with a sad light. Nothing
ever stops in my world to hear me
singing to you. I have always loved you,
sweet twin, beloved doppelgänger,
alien lump of word in my mouth,
language I spent three years learning
only to forget when it grew too hard
the phrases that meant something:
Dear, I am your long lost butter cookie;
and, I am sorry, it was accidental,
but I have dipped the poodle in laudanum.
Let us do away with digression
for the night, though to me
it has always seemed the heart’s core,
and think on our motivation
for the lines to follow:
the suddenness of our sorrow is shocking
and the day is hollowed out
and here at this moment,
this crucial hinge of the breaking heart,
I think of the day years ago
when I was a boy and came upon my uncle,
a fish’s tail clamped in his teeth,
tearing the skin from the fish with such force
I could hear it —
and I felt so strange and empty
I have never spoken of it
to anyone, or let myself on a day
whole with sun think of it.
What he was doing, and why,
I never asked; there is never
an answer large enough for a world
so huge with meanness.
And I was pulled from myself
but couldn’t feel a thing,
and this is your motivation,
mirrored self, speaking back
the words I make wrongly,
lifting the heavy, crude lot of anything
I can’t. You must know me
exactly, apart from yourself,
to give back to the world what I can’t.
You must know the angles
of light so well the shadows
will accept you like a brother.
You must not choke back my breath
when the ashes on the wind
blind even the birds in the trees.

Schutz, "Poke," Detail, 2010, Ink on Paper, 20"x18"

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

He Was Not Foxing

What constitutes an Atlanta Artist anyway?

As opposed to an artist in, I don't know, Little Rock?

Collective consciousness heeding man-made geographical lines?

Who's the mover and who's the shaker? ITP or OTP? Under or over?

Pink Ladies, a current contender for summer drink.

New treasure found on the street.

It takes two baby to carry that loveseat.

Jizzle De Hearts played SoundTable

my face watched precariously close to Mr. Day's guitar.

A lone Brussel

everyone is hungry for a bit of attention.

Everyone is looking to be the best somewhere.

Saw this band

"fun" may or may not be a complementary description to say to a band.

fun light show

it was not fun, it was immensely engaging.

You may as well invent your own country for the declarations. Actually I saw a show about that once at the Palais De Tokyo.

This post was veering decidedly towards no art until

this! Who made this? It was fantastic sitting there

sort of entombed like, festering, felt like a real presence, all sure of itself

atlanta art or art in atlanta? It pays a tribute to night, solidarity, warehouses, echoes, living, no, better: memory of having lived once.

not art devised in a city for a city. That is what parks are for; little windows reminding what the land looked like before it was all hustle and bustle

little islands

peeping up through the cracks.