I Hate You, Martin Kippenberger

For making stuff like this:

Now I'm going to the big birch wood, my pills will soon start doing me good, 1990

Ingredients: 29 birch trees (rolls of cardboard and plastic and black-and-white offset prints), metal stands, and wooden pills. Installed at MoMA. (via)

What is going on here? We have trees made of art materials and pills made of wood. We have the maudlin romantic symbols of melancholy and the practical modern-day solution to one's existential crisis, if swollen and a bit hard to swallow. I think Holland Cotter hits the nail on the head in his NYT review when he asks, quite seriously, is this "a sendup or a nostalgic sigh?"

Most critics, Cotter included, tend to weave together Kippenberger's personal afflictions/ insurgencies with questions of "history" or "culture," our quote-unquote Modern Condition:

Right from the start he understood that as an artist he was appearing on the scene at the end of a drama rather than at the beginning. By the time he arrived, the defining impulses of late-20th-century art — Pop, Minimalism, Conceptualism, Neo-Expressionism — were old. So were the political ideologies like Socialism and Communism, and the utopianism of the 1960s, which, for better and worse, had shaped the world he knew.

Seemingly all that remained were leftover styles and ideas; bit parts and walk-ons. Kippenberger didn’t buy this. He knew that there are no small parts, only timid actors, and that with the right spices scraps make a great meal. In other words, he knew he had to take what was there, including the diminished role of the artist, and make something different, and large, and loud from it, and he did.

Of course, the review is also called, "Live Hard, Create Compulsively, Die Young." So, I throw the question back to you, HC: was that a sendup or a nostalgic sigh?

A more personal and nuanced (though still unabashedly sympathetic) view of Kippenberger's life is here, in the online version of Ronald Jones's article in Artforum. Jones similarly mixes the personal and the historical:

As much as art history fantasizes Kippenberger as the spunky art-world sophomore, his position is too phenomenally complex to leave it at that. He appeared to us when powerful enclaves of contemporary German culture were sponsoring a full-scale excavation of Expressionism. It is an understatement to say that Martin was at odds with all that. ... From the Paris Bar in Berlin to New York's Odeon, to the Anchor, he carried on, untamed - like the neo-Expressionists he held in contempt - but these passages were performances Martin always kept in quotes. He never mistook having fun [for] ideology. True, he possesses an entertaining appreciation of his culture; but more significant, he recognized what it was about to become. He enjoyed a second sight in this way, a formidable perception that modern nationalism was at last giving way to the dominion of the next culture, a culture staggering in its unity. We never really talked about this seriously (it required a sobriety he would rarely permit), but it was on his mind, and I can say that he did more than casually ponder it. Simply said, his pessimistic insight into what the culture would bring forth was one of his most remarkable gifts. (Emphasis added to highlight strange contradiction, which we could explore if I could figure out the even stranger grammar. My best guess is in the square brackets.)

And perhaps this is the right approach, after all. (If we ignore, for a moment, the looming, hovering, mouthbreathing - stop reading my goddamned blog post over my shoulder!!! - question of "the myth of the tragic male hero, whose life is over before it really began because his/our over-aggressive fathers ruined it for the rest of us by acting like such f-ing a-holes." Yea, let's hold on to that one for a minute.)

How could I say that this is the right approach? Well, because art is not a truth-and-reconciliation commission. It can speak to history, it can become part of history, but it never really drew a clear line between the artist as a guy with a drug problem and larger questions, which one guy can never really address or rectify on his own. What I'm saying is, art history has a problem with biography, because art has a problem with biography. It has one foot in the piddling, pitiable messes of lived experience

On the right: Yuri Leiderman, Silent Pity (Dinner Is Served), 1988

and the other in the quicksand into which we are all sinking and which will continue long after we have left this mortal coil. In questions of history, so to speak. Call it a problem with boundaries. Call it competence. Call it the question of painting. But it's been around for at least two centuries, and it doesn't seem to be going away.

So, why do I hate Martin Kippenberger? I suppose because he makes such a great story out of it. And he makes it so easy to tell - so productive! so compulsive! so witty! so tragic! Look how he plays with materials - the pills made of wood, the trees made of art's raw materials. A spoonful of sarcasm really does make the medicine go down. And all that.

Martin Kippenberger, The Happy End of Kafka's "Amerika," 1994; installation at MoMA

A nice story it all makes. But let's not forget that it's not just a story, at least not while we're still around.

Kitty Kat Named Blinchik

This one is for Lisa, who eats 25 ruble blini with abandon and who should spend more time in Moscow.

Hilarious house kitten belonging to the blini place by Taganskaya

Last Post of the Day

Sarcastic children of Russian/Soviet immigrants are a dime a dozen.

Protest to Save Tretyakov Gallery and TsDKh

For those not following the action, there are plans to tear down the building that houses the Central House of Artists (TsDKh) and the modern and contemporary art collection of the State Tretyakov Gallery. This building:


Home of one of Malevich's Black Squares and many of Russia's most important contributions to the history of 20th century art besides, it's the place where many of Moscow's artists and art historians (I am told) first gained a sense of direction and purpose in things art historical.

The 1979 building, however, is also waterfront property on the Moscow River.

Yesterday, there was a second picket/meeting to show popular opposition to proposed plans to replace the building with commercial property and move the space to some other as-yet unconstructed building, off "to the curb." You can see pictures of the protest on the page of the lj user nefte. (You may, if you look carefully, recognize a certain blue hoodie among the protesters.)

Personally, I'm conflicted. Of course, I support the protection of sovereign art spaces and reject the notion of profit and commerce elbowing its way into all available and unavailable space in the center of the city. Of course.

But unfortunately, I wouldn't say that the Tretyakov or TsDKh are the kinds of art spaces I would want for Moscow. They are stuffy, poorly hung, with boring and/or non-existent programming and generally seem to serve little affirmative purpose apart from keeping treasured works of art out of the rain and hosting interesting book fairs. I wish the art-loving population of Moscow would go to the streets demanding truly sovereign art spaces not controlled by an old-guard bureaucracy that is uninterested in moving beyond 1979 or by wealthy oligarchs and their art-appreciating girlfriends. It may seem like the urgent issue now is to hold the line and protect the space art already has. But from the generally sombre mood of yesterday's protest, it seems to me that some more inspiring plans for the future (new space, new structure, more than what's already there instead of going back to the same old thing) may be what's really in order now...

Native Speakers, Please Help

What is the meaning of the word aetiolate?

The closest from OED are:

etiolate: 1. trans. To render (a plant) pale or colourless by excluding the light from it; to blanch. 2. transf. To give a pale and sickly hue to (a human being or his skin). 3. fig. (See next, ppl. a. [Blanched, pallid, colourless. Also fig.]) 4. intr. To become white or whiter; to blanch; to be whitened by exclusion of sunlight, as plants.

and

ætiology: 1. The assignment of a cause, the rendering of a reason; also, the reason annexed, the wherefore of a command or utterance. 2. The science or philosophy of causation; that part of philosophy which treats of the demonstration of causes; the part of any special science which speculates on the causes of its phenomena. 3. That branch of medical science which investigates the causes and origin of diseases; the scientific exposition of the origin of any disease.

The two seem not entirely unrelated, especially in connection with conceptual art, but that is probably just a coincidence.

The original sentence, by the way, is:

Actually, what we [Art & Lanauge] want to resist is the thought that Conceptual Art is or was a readily recognized and ordered artistic style which remains inviolate in the hands of some purists and which has been variously abandoned or aetiolated by others like ourselves. (from A&L, "We Aimed to Be Amateurs")

Curious. I'm guessing the first one, but I'm not sure. What do you think?

Burdens

The conceptual art group Art & Language

intend[ed/s] to abandon the separation of competences between artists, critics and observers, and to transform the art-world into a system of communication between contributors with equal capabilities of reflection.

Maybe I'm naive, but how does one define communication? I mean, how do you (yes, you!) know you're communicating? If A & L put their "blurtings" and "annotations" up on the internet and invite people to respond to their communications, how do they know they're getting their messages across? Or, hmmm, is getting a particular message across not the point of communication? I feel dizzy.

A & L provides a clue. The group's goal

in internal discussions, [was/is] to find non-hierarchical forms of presentation with which to activate readers outside the group. The members of Art & Language developed their methodological basics within a process of »conversational exchanges« ... and they wanted to provoke readers to proceed with this process. So the form of presentation of »Blurting In« sustains a reading habit, which creates a dialogical interrelation between parts of the text/annotations as »surface-structures« ... and »set[s] of contexts« ..., which offer parts of the text. The dialogical intratextual character of the reading process should motivate further dialogues within contexts outside the group. The feedback between group-internal and group-external dialogues was the ideal case for Art & Language.

So, dialogue informed by "a reading habit" was/is the goal. But still, I don't mean to be thick, but how do you tell if your dialogue is mutually productive, that you're not talking past each other without even realizing it? This seems relevant beyond the scope of conceptual art. To teachers, for example - is our goal to inspire reading and discussion or is there content in this class? Students are, unsurprisingly, confused.

And, perhaps more importantly to me (here comes my pet gote...), are you not throwing out the baby with the bathwater when you say that

The discourse investigates functions of the art-world ..., but doesn´t explore the function of art works within the context of art ...?

That is, when you only talk about the institutional structures which support art making/looking/discussing/exhibiting/purchasing/etc. and not the art itself as art, what remains of the art? I guess that's where the idea of "blurring the boundary between art & life" turns into disregarding, denying, or erasing it altogether. Thoughts?

(Art & Language's amazing indexing project "Blurting in Art & Language" [the source of the above quotes] can be read and communicated with here.)

Man carrying a file cabinet.
Oh so painfully literal, I know.

*Please do not use the comments section to count the number of conceptual art-induced tears of boredom you have just experienced. Like A & L with "art works within the context of art," I guess I just don't care.

Eureka!

I've got a dissertation title:

"Moscow Conceptualism: Crazy Free-for-All, 1976-1995." Enh? Ennnnh???

And some other notes for the short of attention span:

1) VDNKh: I don't have to tell you twice.



Well, maybe just a little:


Also, don't you know it, people's friendship has officially been "outlived." Whew! Guess we don't have to worry about that anymore.

2) You'll get your point across better if you're naked. Witness:

Carolee Scheeman, Interior Scroll, 1975

Linda Benglis, ad in Artforum (Nov. 1974).

Wait, what was their point again? It also helps if you actually have something to say. Not sure this lady does. (But, twice in one slide-show...good work, ъ!)

Eloise Fornieles, performance at the opening of "Natural Wonders: New Art from London" at Baibakova Art Projects at Red October Candy Factory.

...natural wonders, indeed.

3) Woody Allen thinks he can get away with the same lame-ass shit he's always pulled but now with extra-perky tits. That's right, I said it. (I'm sure many others have, too.)

4) Andrei Kuz'kin inspires me with his pessimism. But he lets me touch his art, so I don't mind.

Andrei Kuz'kin - the caption reads something like: "Please, save that baby! Save it, for god's sake! Perform a caesarean section, please!!!!"

There were other, better works of his at the ArtStrelka show, but like I said, you've got to be naked to get on in the internets, so all I could find was this naked baby.

More about the Kuz'kin show here. (In Russian.)

Wedding Dress

White Tux

Consider this a political statement, Buster.

"Like being alive twice."

Judging from this doozy, I may have to start reading the Obituaries instead of the Weddings & Celebrations for the real potboilers. Novel and screenplay-writing friends, you're welcome.

And this Zadie Smith piece about speaking in tongues may require comment. But for now, I just wanted to share.

Healing "laying on of hands" ceremony in the Pentecostal Church of God. Lejunior, Harlan County, Kentucky, September 15, 1946. Photo: Russell Lee (Department of the Interior/ Solid Fuels Administration For War). Source: The National Archives (via)

Oh My God, I Love You, Eugene Mirman

Equal hotness = some spanking, mumbling dirty things

1 level hotter = Talking dirty (even if it’s embarrassing), wearing silly shoes

2 levels hotter = some weird butt-related things, kissing feet, yelling “Take it, bitch!”

3 levels hotter = pretending to be racist, having sex over and over ’til it’s unpleasant

4 levels hotter = three-way with same-sex person, filling pants with ice cream

5 levels hotter = peeing in a bathtub, wearing a zipper mask, punching each other

8 levels hotter = poop followed by self-loathing.

(via)

Semiosis for the Masses, or Conceptualism in the Streets

Happy Valentine's Day from MG

Making Do...Another Cooking Dispatch

The mid-year report that I have been asked to fill out on my progress so far asked how I have dealt with social and cultural differences and changes in my daily life here in Farawayistan. Well, one frankly underreported difficulty (I have hardly complained about this at all!) has been my lack of a microwave and my resulting feelings about cooking for one. Namely, it is a huge pain in the kiester to cook for myself when reheating anything made in more than one portion means frying it in a pan the next day. I'm not even talking about the fact that my frying pan has no handle. This is purely a greasy-food issue. So, in the interest of getting the word out, I'm blowing the whistle on the no-microwave situation. And, as an extra-special bonus, I'm offering a solution that does not involve purchasing extra equipment that will not fit in my suitcases or my future electrical sockets anyway. Here we go:

Step 1) Cook something. Let's say: boil some potato chunks, add butter, salt, and dill. Go ahead, let your eyes be bigger than your stomach and cook way more than you can eat. Don't worry, no need to invite friends over, this one's all for you.

Step 2) Eat more than you should, but leave some in a tupperware in the fridge to ensure self-respect in the morning.

Step 3) Pull out all those little plastic bags you have squirreled away in the cupboard and discover, behind random rice cookers and bread pans...are you ready?...a blender!!!!

Step 4) Cook a soup whose main ingredient is whatever you didn't finish the day before. Look! The Times has like 10 soup recipes that involve potatoes in its health section right now. Don't worry that the main ingredient is already cooked, will get mushy, blablabla; when you blend it, it all turns out awesome. I bet it works with anything: potatoes, eggplant, probably pasta, maybe even pickled herring. Awwwright!

Step 5) If you don't eat all the soup that day, repeat the process the next day to create a kind of second-degree soup, or soup to the soupth power. This is a special kind of cooking I like to think of as "cooking with eugenics." (Related examples of this might be yogurt or kombucha, where you grow a strain of "good" [Gr. "eu"] bacteria in a neutral medium like milk or sweet tea and then perpetuate the strain by adding a little bit of the old batch to the regular old medium to form a new batch.) Our leftover soup example, however, is even more eugenic, because not only are you perpetuating the genes of the yummy leftovers, but you are concentrating them in a new and more powerful super-soup whose qualities we can scarcely imagine today. History may condemn you and you might die of food poisoning. But - need I even say it? - it will be delicious.

Addendum: Soup

Because MasterGote is not on Facebook, oversharing of mundane daily details commences now.

The Leftover Potato Soup:

1) Chop an onion and a leek. Fry them in butter for a while in your handle-less frying pan until they are soft. Garlic optional. Don't forget the salt.

2) Boil some water. If you have dried mushrooms in the cupboard, boil some water with dried mushrooms.

3) Put the green stuff in the mushroom water. Simmer for a bit.

4) Add random spices from the spice rack. I tried: basil, thyme, bay leaf, black pepper, salt. You could do parsley or dill. Or hot red pepper flakes. Whatever. Don't go too crazy with the thyme. Or do.

5) Dump last night's potatoes into the simmering soup.

6) Add a veggie bouillon cube that you've dissolved in some of the liquid. Take it slow, those things are kind of strong.

7) Boil until you get bored, then let cool a bit. If you have miso, add it now.

8) Then, when you've cooled it enough that accidental explosions from the blender will not scald your face, attempt to operate your new blender. (Make sure to remove bay leaves and close the cover before pressing any buttons. Duh.)

9) Enjoy with buttered black bread and a subsequent nap in your bear cave.

Dolly Messiter...Poor, Well-Meaning, Irritating Dolly Messiter

Brief Encounter, 1945

However I feel about this movie and what it may have to say about the condition of mid-20th-century British society and its middle classes' desire for stability 1945, I have to say that this is just about the most perfect six minutes of monologue (with impeccably-timed counterpoint) that I have ever seen.

I finally got to see the whole thing. Twice. And it's this good all the way through!

Pardon the Dust

It just didn't feel the same without the acid green. I hope you will forgive.

Here are some pictures to make up for it: