Archive conundrum

So, would you say the condition of this artwork from the archive is..."good"? "fair"? "fragile"? It's for the database. Love my job.

Nikolai Kolzov, Leonid Tishkov, Poland, 1981. Lint, dust, crumbs, hair.

And yes, I do think this work is xenophobic.

Mission Accomplished

How Funny Is This?

Okay, can y'all please settle a dispute? How funny do you think the following webpage sounds? Answer in the comments.

www.rahmcom.com

And Now For Something Completely Different

Pop quiz: How would you pronounce "Featherstonehaugh"?
Give up? It's not what you think.
Whaa?

New nerd crack! (Just in case old nerd crack was getting boring.)

My favorite ones are where they try to return commonly butchered names back to their original pronunciations, such as here and here. The unintended snootiness is utterly priceless.

Also, this one.

But wait! This totally contradicts their attempts at original-language authenticity. Someone should start a petition.

File Under: Ebay, Trashheap of Your Lamest Fantasies

In case you're interested.

Also, a search for variations on Reisiger schwarzer Ballon revealed:

Really, German ebay? You have a 13 thousand-carat diamond to sell me? Well, I've got a diamond of my own you might be interested in. I found it on the sidewalk in Philly after my first (and last) half-marathon. It's pretty shiny...

ETA: Right, commas = decimal points. Those crazy Europeans, getting MG all hot and bothered. Blow me.

I Am Kino-Eye

I am a mechanical eye. I, a machine, show you the world as only I can see it. (Dziga Vertov, 1923)



Try 5:10

Happy Valentine's Day from MG

Non Sequitur

I like when writers use creative ellipses to make our passions seem more interesting. For example:

After reading Rousseau's Discourse on the Origins of Inequality in 1755, Voltaire wrote to him, "I have received, Monsieur, your new book against the human race.... It makes one desire to go down on all fours." Five years later, Rousseau wrote to Voltaire. "Monsieur,...I hate you."

(via)

Jean-Antoine Watteau, La Surprise, ca. 1718

At least they could agree on their loathing of the rococo.

Quiddity, n.

1. a. Chiefly Philos. The inherent nature or essence of a person or thing; what a thing or person is; that which distinguishes a person or thing from others. Opposed to haecceity.

b. Something intangible. Obs. rare.

2. a. A subtlety or nicety in argument; a quibble. In later use also: a witticism; a quip.

b. As a mass noun: subtlety (of wit); ability or tendency to employ quiddities in argument.

3. In pl. Idiosyncrasies, eccentricities, peculiar features. Chiefly in quirks and quiddities (cf. sense 2a , QUIRK n.¹ 5).

(Source: OED)

I love how, like much bad academic writing (my own recent attempts proving most exemplary), the definition of quiddity devolves from attempting to describe the intangible truth or essence of something, to treating just the argument or meta discursive level, to finally settling on the amusing quirks with which a reader might identify and therefore justify the reading of said text.

Sawaki Suushi, Mikoshi-nyuudou from the Hyakkai Zukkan, 1737

On perhaps not an unrelated note, this is a picture of Mikoshi-nyuudou, the cross-eyed mendicant monster monk from a set of Edo-period Japan picture scrolls. According to this source, the more you look up at him, the taller he grows. If you look up for too long, you die. Unless you say "I see higher," in which case he disappears. Now that's a mantra I can get down with. (More pictures of the Sawaki Suushi scroll here.)

Notes on Enlightenment

This morning [ahem, a morning in the past two weeks] was spent in the sweaty clutches of a search. A search? A search!

Triggered, perhaps, by the cheesy and delightful Les Glaneurs et la glaneuse (The Gleaners and I; Agnès Varda, 2000) screened in the company of numerous bronzed and bespectacled New Yorkers, all over the age of 65 and enjoying their MoMA senior discounts and the poem that is old age in New York. [More on this poem in a future post.]

Triggered, perhaps, by Varda's fuge on the people who glean from what remains from the habitual grind and the wonderful things that they find - food, scraps, artistic inspiration. But in my case, on this particular day [in the past two weeks] isolated, identified, and beaten to a sweaty pulp with the hard sticks of oneness of being and spiritual release. I'm talking, of course, about the Sunday morning yoga class. And so, without any further prolegomenon...what have we gleaned?

Some Field Notes on Enlightenment:

1) Enlightenment cannot be achieved unless one is thoroughly embarrassed. One must humble one's gotely body before one's fellow gotes in order to find one's way to the shiny path. One must sweat visibly and profusely, mopping one's face, legs, and mat with a scummy towel while others sit quietly with their legs balanced lightly on their own shoulders or extended in various directions as if held up by invisible karmic marionette strings. One must wear small, tight black shorts that squeeze one's furry and uninstructed flesh into the meekest and humblest of truth-seeking gote-sausages. And, after the requisite hour and a half, one must remove all the trappings of modesty, becoming pure and innocent, alone in one's innocence, all the while trying not to bump too familiarly into the other naked pilgrims waiting in line for the baptismal font of the group shower.

2) Enlightenment cannot be achieved through the brain. Thinking about other people's marionette strings will not help you grow your own.

3) In fact, thinking about other people's marionette strings only helps the Republican Party gain more votes.

4) *But* if you ignore it all long enough, you may have a vision.



That vision, for that split second, may be your enlightenment.

Or it may not be. But it's worth a shot.