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The Marriage of Maria Braun, July 31 2005
Sometimes films can do for me what music does --- take me back to the time when I first saw or listened to it. You can go back, ever so briefly, to the person you were.
They say that is why older adults have a hard time with new music. As we age, the new music is competing with what we listened to earlier, and that older music has this unusual power to make us 16 again.
Visual art can't do that. I am not 18 again when I go see the Elgin Marbles at the British Museum, the age I was when I first saw them. But if I hear Mott the Hoople’s version of All the Young Dudes, I am briefly a junior in high school.
But I wasn't 21 again the other night, which is what I must have been when I first saw The Marriage of Maria Braun (Fassbinder). I remembered this girl who saw the film in retrospect -- she little suspected, imagined, what being a whore is all about. How much fun, an exhilarating power, to have this beauty. And also how degrading it is to market yourself this way.
At least everyone is a "survivor" in this story --- it's not like the men have it so easy. The war sort of levels the playing field.
I’ve complained that too many films cast the female as the good luck charm, the side-note and bystander, as opposed to the coveted role of Complex Maniac. That maniac is who always interests me most, whether Big Winner or Big Loser, but please not just another lucky charm.
A poet friend suggested that perhaps the world needs charm much more than thieves and maniacs. No doubt! But can't we change a bit the formula of charm = females and maniacs = males? Being charming can get damn old.
I think that is what Maria Braun gets tired of too. We see her get more and more cutthroat as the film progresses and she makes her way through postwar life in Germany; supposedly she loses her "human" qualities. But maybe what is really disturbing to us is that she loses her "female," her pleasing qualities and hey, what good is she otherwise?
And she's got mega-brains, far beyond what is around her. She's got mega-personality too and what they call "balls" in spades. But it's attached to a face anyone could love and curves in the fashionable cut of the time. Therein lies her power, always --- that wag of the tail is what she uses to get what she wants and it is what works, every single time.
As a young woman you look at that film and that woman and her power and you think oh yeah, that's me. Or that could be me. Or that yesterday, that was me. This part of the 1979 Eva, the girl who saw this film back then, I remember. But it is far from interesting to me now and I flinch when anyone assumes it on me.
They talk a lot about the "economic miracle" in this film, which of course is what Germany underwent at this time. But for Maria Braun it is hardly a miracle. She’s on her back.
White, July 24 2005
When I read articles about sexy movies, Body Heat (1981) is often mentioned. It was only a few years ago that I finally saw it for the first time. Immediately I related, but not so much because Kathleen Turner was a movie star Goddess on par with just about any of the past. Good God what a woman!
It was the use of white. She wore one white floating ensemble after another throughout the film. These ensembles were definitely of the era (let’s call it Halston – smooth and reductive) but were completely timeless, almost like the Greeks. And they showed me what I always suspected – that white is far from strictly virginal. White is mysterious, a sort of absence of implication. It lets the imagination wander and in this, you can be vulnerable. The white is what led William Hurt into lust and murder, unsuspecting.
I’ve never had the floating kind but I have had my share of white clothes. The Mod look, first of all, in white leather jackets, white Lee men's jeans and white boots. Plus those frilly shirts the Who and the Hollies used to wear. I wore a plain white dress to the opening of Chambers.
And of course there is white in art. I used it a lot when I first painted at the Art Students League. Right now I am considering going back to it, as I try to figure out this new thing I’d like to address. But the white I consider is a far cry from the meditation of say, an Agnes Martin work.
The thing with white in painting in that it can give you (the viewer) a way out. It can break things up and I’m not so sure I want that. I enjoyed my private association with Phil Spector and his Wall of Sound. That bombardment was very central to my last body of work.
Blow Up, July 21 2005
Lately Blow Up (1966) has been in the news. Gus Van Sant talked about it in the Oregonian the other day, plus Mat spoke about viewing it recently in his journal.
The first time I saw it, I was at the U of O, mid-70s. It made a huge impact that I am still trying to assess. The initial response might be just a love of fashion, photography, beautiful women and men, sex, drugs and rock and roll. That film had it all. But since then I have seen it probably ten times, so it’s got to be much more than that.
While the film has very hyped-up scenes of drug parties and people fighting over guitars, these are inter-spliced with long stretches of what appear to be almost nothing. It was this nothingness that I came to love and want to watch over and over again. In a way Antonioni created in film what I liked in visual art. I followed him to The Passenger and L'Avventura and liked them all.
The gorgeous David Hemmings, who wears a pair of flawless white jeans throughout the film, spends hour after hour just sitting, smoking and drinking as he stares into photographs of what was green space. These spaces are blow ups of scenes which were already sort of blown up in a way for us, the viewers, on the screen -- as he stakes out his territory: a park in which he shot pictures which seem to be nothing at first but are far from it.
The greenness of that park is something not to be reproduced. There is this expansive feeling that you would think could never really be captured on film, especially considering that it is only a city park. I read that Antonioni had the whole lawn painted greener for effect.
But it also the way the camera sweeps like a lonely eye. I’ve spent most of my life alone (still do) and understand this eye well. I know what it is to look and look and find nothing, but to have great pleasure in that. The nothing is a mystery you hope you never need to solve. But in this film, Hemmings solves it.
What many artists and photographers cherish is how Antonioni creates a vehicle to question the very nature of photography. We all know now that it presents no truth at all. In the film Hemmings plays a fashion photographer who is well aware of the fictions he creates in the world of fashion and he’s bored with that. He’d rather shoot gritty black and whites of the workers of the world – real ‘truths’. But when he chases a subject out of sheer curiosity, he finds he takes on a bit more than he aimed for.
This is the screen debut of Vanessa Redgrave, one of the greatest actresses still working today.
But it is also a film to document Verushka, perhaps the greatest model of all time. She came up in a time when ingénue types like Jean Shrimpton, Twiggy and Penelope Tree were the ideals of beauty, but Verushka was tremendous, huge, an Amazon.
She was typecast as a trippy model here but even in this, you cannot fail to see how unique this individual is. She went on to photograph herself later in life -- and using body painting, she painted herself into jungles, made herself a brick wall and meshed herself into all kinds of environments. She was much more than any kind of pretty face.
Years later I went to one of her receptions for her exhibition and would also see her around in the subway. Unfortunately she looked like she had spent maybe too long at that party. It’s hard to imagine anyone coming out of that era unscathed though.
Lifeboat, July 20 2005
How wonderful it was to check out Artnet this morning and see the work of Mary Mattingly and Paul Middendorf.
I don’t know Mary, though met her once – but I have had Paul on Artstar awhile back. He told us all about the Lifeboat then. It was just great to see it online. Paul is a special person, artist and curator.
The case of the missing phone, July 15 2005
The crowd was as varied as the two artists, something I counted on. Chambers got so packed all I did was say red or white? – till some help arrived. I never did have any deep conversations with anyone. During a certain chaotic moment my desk was unmanned and later I noticed that my cell phone was gone. As this number is the gallery number and the world was promising to call me, this put a major crease in my head.
We sold work, journalists came and took notes, all went well. But the case of the missing cell phone distracted me. Pretty soon friends were calling me, getting close to any suspects and even listening to the garbage. But it was nowhere to be found.
Later last night I couldn’t sleep. I had the idea that whoever had it at one time, may have ditched it as the out-calling was disabled. At 3 in the morning, I called my phone. An old black male voice answered, not even minding that it was 3 in the morning, telling me he had found it in Old Towne while trolling for recyclables and sure, I could have it back. Could I see you tomorrow morning? Sure, anytime.
I met him at the Greyhound Bus station at 8:30am. There he sat on a bench with a friend, an old world type of man who made his way collecting cans or whatever, not a drunk or a junkie, but someone who is just getting by day to day. Probably is at a soup kitchen everyday. And totally honest – after all, he didn’t have to give me back my phone. His name was Emit. I gave him the cash I had on me and finally started to feel alright about the previous evening. And better about people in general. You feel violated when someone steals, especially when you are giving away wine! I met up with a lot of people over the past 24 hours or so, but Emit made the biggest impression.
Ta-Dah!
By Zach Kircher
Yesterday, July 14 2005
How wonderful was yesterday. I was physically tired from installing the two shows the day before, but as everything was done, all I had to do was show up. From the moment I opened the doors, people were there and art was even sold.
People from the building came down to welcome us to the neighborhood. The space had been a gallery before – for over twenty years, it belonged to Elizabeth Leach. I think people were glad to see a gallery back in the building. It’s a historical building – gorgeous in fact. Everyone remarked on it. I felt (and feel) so lucky.
A few people thought I would use that back room where I have installed Paul Fujita as my office. But no, I like being right on the floor where the action is. Maybe someday I will feel differently about that, but for now it is nice to see who all is there. Wid bought a beautiful desk from the late 1950s from Portland Modern (not the art organization but a new mid-century design place on NW 21st), a great combination of cherry wood with skinny chrome legs. It looks great in the space.
As I told you before, I got a drivers license recently. Bought a beater car this last Sunday, my first car. So last night I took a big gulp and drove downtown and across the river for the first time on my own. I know that sounds like no big deal, but as a natural-born pedestrian for over 40 years, I trust no one behind the wheel. It’s going to take time.
But if I had any goal for getting this damn license and car, it would be to go to art shows I couldn’t get to before, at least on my own. I just couldn’t believe it I was there last night at Tracy Savage, checking out the new work of Zach Kircher. He is one hot painter, totally of-the-moment. I loved everything I saw.
Getting ready, July 13 2005
PORT has a bit up about the opening of Chambers today. Also, Strongweek has a nice plug by Lisa Radon, As it is a subscriber newsletter, I thought I would cut and paste the piece for you:
In a brilliant juxtaposition of
old master and young gun, curator Eva
Lake--Artstar radio hostess and former owner of Lovelake
Gallery--pairs octogenarian collage artist Eunice Parsons with
Zeitgeist Gallery co-founder and skate/graff artist, Paul Fujita for
the inaugural exhibition at Chambers Gallery. Interestingly, an
important part of Parsons' practice is the incorporation of found
words from subway posters and other "detritus of our contemporary
culture," as the artist puts it, while one of the projects Fujita
shows here is a book in which the words have been obscured by and
abstract painting. An exciting Fujita piece is his Hans Hoffmans-esque
collage of broken skate decks. Chambers Gallery is the new game in
town run by Lake as gallery director and owner Wid Chambers in the old
SW Elizabeth Leach space. With TJ Norris also slated for a show later
in fall, Chambers looks promising. [LR]
Granny, July 9 2005
Since I have shared images of my Granddad, I thought I would show you Granny too. She is sixteen in this photograph taken in 1916.
I was not as close to her as I was my granddad. She spent a lot of time in the kitchen and I guess I assumed that was where she wanted to be.
It was only after her death that I heard she was someone who wanted to travel the world -- and to go out to dinner. But Granddad did not. So you get this inaccurate picture of who the person is – it seemed like the man was the less domesticated and more adventurous but that was actually not the case.
She accepted her lot and did what she had to do. During the depression, she not only took care of three kids but took in other people’s laundry and ironing and sewing, plus heavy-duty gardening and canning. Even in their ‘retirement’, Granny never stopped working.
Daniel Kaven
July 7 2005
Daniel Kaven is having an opening tonight at Gallery 500. The show is called Divorce, in which he details those tragic times.
I also want to mention that my pal Carolyn Zick of Dangerous Chunky has a drawing show up now. She will also be showing at Shift in Seattle in September.
This is just another bit of news: Victoria is a mother. In this diary I have mentioned Victor/ Victoria. Here is a brief recap:
A backyard blue jay was seriously injured about a year ago. The breast was bloodied and then this turned into a red ball the size of a potato. He was like this for months, furtively visiting for some food but very shy and vulnerable. He did not play with the other jays at all, a complete loner nursing his wounds and trying to survive.
Slowly the wound healed but left a scar. I always know this bird by the scar. I named him Victor as he was victorious, a survivor. But then one day I saw him do this interesting dance with another jay, who then fed him. Victor would lean back in a sweet way to receive the food. At this moment I realized that the bird was a female being courted and she became Victoria.
Today I heard a strange high pitched carping sound. It came from a jay who chased Victoria from branch to branch and tree to tree, calling out plaintively. I then saw that she would feed this bird as he followed her everywhere. Looking through my binocs I could then see that the plaintive jay was a grey-headed baby. And so the whole thing has come full circle.
Saturn does not disappoint, July 6 2005
Saturn’s rings blow my mind. When I see these images, I recall what my mate said to me about the whole Cassini thing: “These images have never been seen before.” As artists we struggle to produce such a thing, though we will not always confess it. When we actually see newness, our response can vary – it isn’t always positive. But in this case, as the article in the Times by John Noble Wilford states:
Even up close and under repeated scrutiny by the Cassini spacecraft for a full year now, Saturn does not disappoint
Voice archive, July 5 2005
From where I live I can hear the trains blasting from the other side of the river. A train is one of the best sounds I know. One time a fellow was calling me (in New York) from a Swiss train station and he left a message on the machine. Off went a train in the message; it was marvelous.
I wonder if I still have it on tape? When I left New York I pulled out the 2 tapes I had used over and over again in my message machine and kept them -- there was 11 years of friendship (and some business) on the phone. You could almost follow the entire course of my life in them, for some people came and went with school or a job or a love affair.
Even the one boyfriend who nearly destroyed me is there, with a heavy, angry breathing of "Eva....Eva....pick up the phone"--- said in a way that did not tempt me in the slightest.
About 30 people are on the tapes, unsuspecting that I still have them, in a sense. It’s another form of documentation.
One voice can take you back to a certain time in your life. In the form of a voice is the Art Students League, the Chanel Boutique and Bergdorf Goodman, the dance and theatre world of Luigi, the crazed poets and artists of ABC No Rio, DJs at WFMU. It is a personal voice archive.
Doing nothing, July 3 2005
My group of chairs at Alysia Duckler in 1999 were right before I went into the abstract (if that's what you want to call it), the transition. I had so much fun making them.
This was also the last big fling I had with pastels, as the way I work now does not need so much drawing. But I have some new ideas in my head and might exercise them in chalk first.
There was a time I drew a lot and I know I’ve already written a bunch about it here. Let’s just say that space and money allowed me no grand oil paintings, but I made up for it by learning to use chalk like paint. I could make it thick and solid if I needed to. People didn’t think of them as drawings. I confess I owe a lot to Unison – that chalk is the best in the world, no contest. You feel like you are pouring pigment onto the paper.
The chair is of course my tribute to doing nothing -- nothing but thinking and sitting around, the important stuff. I'm a great advocate of doing nothing and I guess I am also thinking of it because I’ve done quite bit of nothing today.
When I showed my chairs to the gallerist, I purposed to show them all in one big grid, like a billboard; no glass or frames. They would almost function like portraits. The dealer got the figurative nature of what I was doing but wanted them all product-like in their frames. And so only eight showed. I used to think she was wrong about it, because the way I had it in my mind, it would have been a very memorable installation. Lately though I’ve been championing editing, so maybe she was right. Just because you made it, doesn’t mean it should show.
Achievement, July 2 2005
There have been times I thought to give up painting. I never do, but I have been discouraged throughout the years. Every now and then something happens to remind me that I can not give up, that I must maintain ambition, that it is never too late.
Like how about that Croatian fellow who won Wimbledon a few years ago? Seated 125th and came from all that way to win. He was thinking about retiring and was tired of being "the best player who had never won a major". What a story.
Then of course the press kept reminding us that he made sexist comments about a judge and his victory seemed a little tarnished. This is probably not what you would expect to hear from me, but I say let him have his day, let him have his achievement. It is an inspiration to me.
As an artist I have looked for role models who were great as artists and as people. It's rare, as someone once observed: “Artists are good at art but often bad at life.”
We keep running across heroes who were assholes. Picasso comes to mind and he’s not the only one.
There's plenty of novels we can canvas which are sexist, racist or some other crime. A lot of our contempt could have to do with whether we lived through those times or not, how personal it is for us. That newish novel, The Wind Done Gone, might be an example. It plays on the injustices and discrepancies of Gone with the Wind. The only problem is excellence. It is not a page turner and GWTW is. Miss Mitchell's racism, or the racism of her times, did not make her achievement disappear.
More recent entries: June 2005
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