I just watched this video at queenscrap.blogspot.com. It’s called: “Get Ready for Some Bad Acting.”

I don’t know which is funnier (as in dumb, stupid, bad funny), the video or the comments…

Who knew the Queensboro Bridge (aka The 59th St. Bridge) had yet another name: The Ed Koch Bridge? Please. Like anyone would ever call it that. Anyway, that bridge will always belong to Simon & Garfunkel.

Why was Bloomberg slumming in my neck of the woods, the Jackson Heights-Long Island City area, judging by the backdrop and the gypsy cab that picked him up and the route they were taking (hey, cabbie…only 15 minutes to the Morris Campus in the Bronx??? From The Ed Kock Bridge in Queens??? No way.)

And Bloomberg getting his dweeb on in the back seat to Lady Gaga. Painful. It’s like watching your parents doing The Twist to Metallica.

New York City is NOT what it used to be. We need a new mayor, por favor.

(courtesy of The New Yorker )

Wouldn’t it be convenient if a prerecorded message were made available to artists, something to guide them through the creation of a work of art, just as the viewer above is guided through the appreciation of the art?

Because there’s no greater “high” than spending a successful day painting (or writing or just being creative)… But when you’re blocked, it’s hell on earth.

When it happens to me, I rapidly descend into a foul mood. I’m touchy. Cranky. Depressed. I am so tied to my work, I  feel it defines me. I don’t think I’m alone in this.

When I lose my “connection” (i.e., when I’m “stuck” on a piece and just can’t move forward in any acceptable way), I often fear I’ve lost it — or never even “had” it to begin with.

Had what? is the question. Where does the “it” come from? Therein lies the mystery.

This past Saturday, I stood in front of the easel staring at my new painting — which was no more than an underpainting, in actuality, since  I’d worked on this piece only one time before Saturday. Then the holidays arrived.

Responsibilities and festivities, all of them good, took precedence…I’d sacrificed “the flow” that continuity bestows…and worried about what would happen when I finally got back to the easel.

I got lucky.

I’d been reading Milan Kundera’s latest book of essays, Encounter, a Christmas gift from J.C., on the train the previous Thursday.

What are these essays about?  ”…a passionate defense of art in an era that, he argues, no longer values art or beauty,” says the liner notes.

From the essay titled “The Painter’s Brutal Gesture: On Francis Bacon,” comes this brilliant piece of insight I hope will help unblock you the way it did me:

“In his reflections on Beckett, Bacon says: ‘In painting, we always leave in too much that is habit, we never eliminate enough.’ Too much that is habit, which is to say: everything in painting that is not the painter’s own discovery, his fresh contribution, his originality; everything that is inherited, routine, filler, elaboration as technical necessity…Almost all great modern artists mean to do away with “filler,” do away with whatever comes from habit, whatever keep them from getting directly and exclusively at the essential (the essential: the thing the artist himself, and only he, is able to say).”

These wise words opened the floodgates. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I was high for the rest of the day.

Thinking Outside of the Box

OMG, what an annoying day at work. Talk about High School Confidential  - a cabal of office workers GOSSIPING as if their life depended on it.

Well…I came home and decided to cook and try to forget about small-minded people. Cooking, at the right time and place, is something I love doing — as long as the iPod player is cooking, too.

On the menu:

Peppers and Eggs (because in NYC, I am reunited with my beloved Italian frying peppers and thoughts of my parents’ kitchen  – Italian peppers were unknown, unfindable in my former residence, L.A.)

A hybrid recipe combining what I’d learned (by watching) as a kid and what I gleaned from Frank Pellegrino’s Rao’s Cookbook (steam the peppers and onions, instead of frying – healthier).

But…this time, I had leftover shallots, so I diced them, FRIED them in olive oil (let’s face it, a slightly browned shallot or onion is to die for), added the peppers, covered the pan and let them steam for 10 minutes.

Poured a glass of Chateau Ste. Michelle chardonnay, still in the fridge, a gift from dear friends visiting on the eve of New Year’s — unbelievably delicious.

Queued up the iPod:

- Bad As Me – Tom Waits (from his new album) – INCREDIBLE!!!!

- Cracked the eggs into a bowl (as  I learned on a old Jacques Pepin video – crack them on the SIDE – no shells in the egg mixture – PERFECT!

- Next on the queue: Baby I Don’t Care - Elvis Presley  (if you think you’ve heard the real Elvis on AM radio, you are so WRONG!)

- Took out the fork (also from Jacques Pepin – use a fork, NOT a whisk, for a perfect blend) and beat the eggs…

- Largo al Factotum (Figaro, Figaro, Figaro…) (Barber of Seville) - OMG, so beautiful and exciting as I beat the eggs – I add some Locatelli Romano, black pepper and a tiny pinch of salt to the egg mixture, continue beating…

- Taste the peppers – about five minutes to go…I heat a croissant in the toaster oven –  I am decadent tonight with no thoughts of calories…

-Una Voce Poco Fa (also from The Barber) begins – I am enraptured!!! Ecstatic!!!

- Pour the egg mixture into the peppers and shallots, stir around gently…

- Pour more wine; Voce Poco Fa  is crescendo-ing…

- Croissant is ready – I take it out…

- Flip the peppers and eggs (I remind myself to get a stove-to-oven pan to avoid the step of “flipping”)

- from iPod player: The Barroom Girl by Chuck Wells – ahhhh, the sublime juxtaposition!!!

- Peppers and eggs are ready; slide them onto an oven-proof dish for warming up later when my man gets home from work…

- Slice open the croissant, place a couple of wedges of the peppers and eggs on top, drizzle the AMAZING “Austin’s Own” Original- Mild Barbecue sauce on top – a gift from my brother in TX and his very special S.O.

- Take a bite…and I’m in HEAVEN with scrumptiousness!!!

- suddenly, on the iPod: Be-Bop-A-Lula by Gene Vincent (which makes me think of an excellent movie scene in: The Year of Living Dangerously (a gem of a Peter Weir film) – where that song is playing, and in Saigon!!! During the war!!!

- bite into my sandwich — OMG, it is SO good..

- Because the Night starts playing — no.. not Bruce Springsteen (though he wrote it, of course, propers to him…) — not Patti Smith (an amazing cover!!)… no…my favorite rendition by Natalie Merchant (10,000 Maniacs – MTV Unplugged) – if you’ve never heard it, you must find it. It’s ravishing…

- almost done with my fantastic meal…then, Airmail Special by Benny Goodman starts playing – my brother, Will, turned me on to this piece — and, what can I say? Thank you, Will! It really SENDS me!!!

Life is beautiful and Good Night!

I’m reading a collection of essays about pop culture titled Pulphead by John Jeremiah Sullivan. Although I haven’t finished reading the essays, so far, my favorite piece is the fascinating and insightful, “The Last Wailer.”

In 2010, Johnson went to Kingston, Jamaica to meet Bunny Wailer, the last surviving “Wailer” of Bob Marley’s band. I love Johnson’s description of Reggae music:

“The reason the great Jamaican stuff deepens over time, over years, not with nostalgia but with meaning and nuance, is that it’s a spiritual music. That’s the anomaly underlying its power. It’s spiritual pop — not in a calculated way, like Christian rock, but in a way that comes from within… In the States, rock ‘n roll is always on some level a move away from God into Devil’s music, but in Jamaica the cultural conditions were different. Pop grew towards Jah.”

Conversely, the collection opens with an essay titled “Upon This Rock,” in which Johnson ingratiates himself into a comradery of musicians participating in a Christian rock music festival. Truth be told, I find Christian rock music 100% percent unpalatable.

In my experience, Christian rock is banal, predictable, completely lacking in poetry, and, frankly, “calculated,” to echo Johnson’s apt descriptor. For that reason, this essay failed to engage me. But in fairness to Johnson, I will revisit this piece at a later time, to pay respect to his excellent skills as a writer.

Although I was raised Catholic (and, admittedly, no longer practice and attend church only on Christmas Eve to be with my brother and his family and listen to my young niece sing in the choir), I cannot bear what the modern day Catholic church has done with the hymns. Talk about bland.

What ever happened, for instance, to hymns like the lovely “O Sanctissima”?

“O Sanctissima O Piissima
Dulcis Virgo Maria
Mater amta intemerata
Ora ora pro nobis…”

Bing Crosby does a wonderful version of it in “The Bells of St. Mary.” As a kid I sang it in church. In Latin, which was never a problem, so why must it be in this day and age? My favorite part of the mass was always the singing (except for one memorable clunker of a hymn called “Long Live the Pope”).

What could be more joyous than joining in with your fellow humans and singing a beautiful, uplifting song? “He who sings well prays twice,”  said St. Augustine.

On the other hand, there is nothing more soul-sucking than being forced to sing an un-melodic, dumbed-down, modern day hymn.

Ponder these uninspired lyrics from the insipid “O How I Love Jesus!”:

“There is a Name that I love to hear
And I love to sing its worth
It sounds like music in my ear
The sweetest Name on earth

Chorus:
O how I love Jesus!
And O how I love Jesus!
O how I love Jesus
Because He first loved me!”

I am not one to argue over the beauty in simplicity; less is more and all that. But there is a significant difference between simplifying the message and patronizing your congregation as though they were a bunch of simpletons.

On this first day of a brand new year, I propose that religious institutions dissolve their divisive boundaries once and for all, dump those lousy hymns, and realize and accept that at the heart of all faiths lies the same important message.

Maybe one song is all we need:

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Will we ever get over the absence of the World Trade Center towers in the downtown skyline? No, never.

But because I’m a fan of TV shows and films from the grittier 1970s, lately I’ve been watching re-runs of the old cop show Cagney and Lacey.

The opening credits of every episode features a dramatic panorama:  a shot of the Brooklyn Bridge spanning the width of the river, and the Twin Towers.

Watching it, at times, feels like a wound.

Just the other day at work, my boss was rooting through a desk drawer looking for leftover Christmas cards from years prior, extras we might send to our non-email-receiving clients.

He pulled out an oldie — a photo of the downtown skyline, the Towers still standing. It gave us pause.

“I guess we can’t send this one,” he said, quietly.

With our troops coming home from Iraq, in time for Christmas Eve, it’s almost impossible not to reflect on the meaning of the war, the Towers, the past 10 years, terrorism, all of it.

Will it upset some people if I wonder aloud: Why were we ever there? Where will these soldiers find employment? What about all the injured? How will they possibly manage in this economy and will such an egregious lack of support? What has really changed as a result of our presence in Iraq? How many of these soldiers will be sent back to Afghanistan? Why are we in Afghanistan?

Fair questions, I believe, which in no way diminish the dedicated work and extraordinary bravery of our soldiers.

Last year, as a gift to me, my boss made a donation in my name into a fund set aside for soldiers. When a soldier calls home from the Middle East, the cost of the call doesn’t have to come out of his or her own pocket and will be paid for by the fund.

It was a nice thing to do, to honor the soldiers and their profound contribution to us all.

The thing is, I can’t believe that our  government would actually charge soldiers for these phone calls.

In the meantime, Merry Christmas, Newt Gingrich (feel free to substitute the name of any politician). Make sure to buy your helmet-headed wife an obscenely expensive trinket at Tiffany’s while soldiers beg, borrow and steal to call home.

 If your Friday was anything like mine…I’m sure you need a timeout.

From my arsenal of inspiring quotes, I offer the following to help diffuse the residual effects of workplace insanity:

- “If I keep the green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come.” – Chinese proverb

- “Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road / Healthy, free, the world before me / The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose. / Henceforth I ask not good-fortune — I myself am good fortune…” – Walt Whitman

- “No problem is so formidable that you can’t walk away from it.” - Charles Schulz

- Fact:  Armadillos can walk underwater.

- “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” – Jesus Christ

- “To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders.” – Lao Tzu

- “If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven played music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.” – Martin Luther King Jr.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING UNBEARABLY CUTE TO SOOTHE THE SOUL

If you’re familiar with the word “darshan,” you may also know it’s from the Sanskrit. It refers to a vision of the divine, to sitting in the presence of a holy person and soaking up the blessings he or she or it naturally radiates.

This weekend, find yourself a sacred person or place and soak up the vibes. Remember:

“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in. “

- Leonard Cohen, Anthem

I’ve just finished writer David Rakoff’s remarkably witty, insightful, poignant, snarky but never mean collection of essays, Half Empty. What a joy to read.

From a piece he calls, Isn’t It Romantic — written in reaction to seeing the Broadway show, Rent – he muses on what it takes to be an artist:

“..hanging out does not make one an artist. A secondhand wardrobe does not make one an artist. Neither do a hair-trigger temper, melancholic nature, propensity for tears, hating your parents, nor even HIV — I hate to say it — none of these make one an artist. They can help, but just as being gay does not make one witty…the only thing that makes one an artist is making art. And that requires the precise opposite of hanging out: a deeply lonely and unglamorous task of tolerating oneself long enough to push something out.” 

In the interest of full disclosure, I have not seen Rent and probably never will; even if, and, perhaps, because, Rent has been hyped as a modern day interpretation of Puccini’s La Boheme. 

I mistrust — hate may be more accurate — hype.

Compare any part of La Boheme, if you will, to the following lyrics from the title song of Rent:

“Last year’s rent
This year’s rent
Next year’s rent
Rent rent rent rent rent
We’re not gonna pay rent”

(Where, oh where, is Stephen Sondheim when we need him?)

From those lyrics alone, I don’t think it’s outrageous to assume that:

Rent is to La Boheme –

– as Thomas Kinkade

is to Christian Boltanski .

Which, quite possibly, begs the question: What is art?

I can tell you what art is not. It is not for individuals that:

1) see something on a wall/floor/ceiling of an art gallery that appears to have taken a really long time to do in the eyes of this viewer (as in: “wow, it looks just like a photograph!”) and continues to judge all art by that bizarre standard;

2) Joe-Schmo-tourist full of unsolicited opinions, who has never taken a single art history course in his life and probably never will and goes to a gallery only while on vacation and only because his wife has forced him into it —  all of which does not keep him from opining, loudly: “They call that art? I could do that!”

3) are the 1%, the billionaires, who have driven up the price of art to obscene heights, who buy art as an investment only, so they can flaunt their wealth to their fellow billionaires (who fully expect them to — otherwise why spend all that money?) Those who buy art at auctions or private gallery showings, and only on the advice of their art consultant since the bottom line is what they care about most (the 1%, the unmistakeable presence in high-end galleries, are easy to spot: those of the expensively cut snowy hair, designer-ly suited up, scribbling notes on little pads next to their too young for botox but botoxed nevertheless trophy wife, whose sole job is to fan herself with the price list and wear stiletto heals and Prada and shun us lowly artists who show up at the gallery – i.e., invade their privileged space — because we would like to see the work).

We all know the rich are getting richer (and if the artist is dead, so much the better because they get to keep all the money at auction that the gallery doesn’t get). Sure-bet, top drawer artists are also getting richer in an inverse proportion to genuine values and a genuine love of art. We’re supposed to admire — revere, suck up to — wealthy collectors who don’t have to cajones to buy a work of art without getting a second opinion.

In yesterday’s paper, there was an article on artist John Baldessari (big time CA artist, rich guy, in case you don’t know) who recently erected a billboard overlooking Manhattan’s High Line, a billboard that brandishes a $100,000.00 bill as its message.

Apparently, very few of that particular denomination of currency have been issued over the years. Accordingly, the billboard has been touted as some kind of “protest” by the Baldessari hype machine. That’s a laugh.

A John Baldessari work recently sold at auction for $280,000. I suppose he’s depressed because it wasn’t $2 million. I’ll bet he’s crying in his pillow this very minute.

Meanwhile, the rest of us artists are doing our own work whenever we can because we love what we do. We make art because we can’t not make art. We don’t need millions. That’s what day-jobs are for. That’s how we pay the rent.

What we would like is some recognition and a little more respect.

]]> http://theninthhouse.wordpress.com/2011/12/04/how-to-be-an-artist/feed/ 6 typehype marquee thumbnail-1.aspx El Caso, 1988 VOGEL-articleInline http://theninthhouse.wordpress.com/2011/11/23/a-walk-in-the-park/ http://theninthhouse.wordpress.com/2011/11/23/a-walk-in-the-park/#comments Thu, 24 Nov 2011 01:18:21 +0000 Typehype http://theninthhouse.wordpress.com/?p=17741 ]]> Thursday was my favorite kind of autumn day. Chilly, overcast, not windy, on the brink of rain but holding fast.

A perfect lunch hour for a Woody Allen movie moment — remember that scene from Hannah and Her Sisters, when Woody and Dianne Wiest share an intimate stroll down a winding path in Central Park amidst a panorama of vibrant autumn leaves  – or in Another Woman, when Gena Rowlands and Martha Plimpton hash out relationship issues on, yes, a stroll in autumnal Central Park — or in Manhattan, when Diane Keaton and Woody are caught in a thunderstorm and escape into the Museum of Natural History (in Central Park)?

So there I was, soaking it all up, having my quintessential New York experience in the park.

Because the day was an out-of-towner’s (and many a New Yorker’s) version of nasty, the park was serendipitously empty of people. A rare occurrence, usually encountered only in the depth of winter.

Although I did glimpse a couple of diehards like myself, shown below, who were seated in the park’s version of a penthouse apartment:

(Click on any photo for a larger view)

If only I could have strolled through the park all day long. Equipped as I generally am, with an umbrella — these days, I’m hardly ever without it — I do love the rain. If my coworkers complain about it, as they usually do (in all fairness, commuting in the rain can be a bitch, with train delays, no fresh air on the platform, flooding and throngs of people), I’ll nod as if I agree.

But, secretly, I don’t.

I’m in the park so often, working in an office located diagonally across the street, yet I never fail to come across something new, something I’ve somehow missed before, usually due to over-crowding.

On Thursday, what I discovered were these little metal placards inscribed with personal messages that were attached to many of the benches. Here are some samples:

I love this one — it’s so New York:

And this one — I can picture a quintet of girlfriends meeting up once a week for a chat and a laugh:

And this touching message of friendship:

Of course, The Donald’s name is on a bench (his name is plastered all over the city):

This one tugged at my heart:

I love this message:

On this Thanksgiving weekend, I remembered a photo (below), taken in Oak Creek Canyon, AZ, located midway between Flagstaff and Sedona, where J.C. and I spent a lovely and peaceful Thanksgiving in 2008 — without T.V., internet, radio, or cell service. A picture window in our cabin, which was nestled in a canyon of majestic red rocks, overlooked a rushing river, a forest of pine trees and a small waterfall.

On Thanksgiving day, it snowed. Absolute bliss.

We listened to music on our iPod player, read books and sat by the fireplace (our only means of heat, which J.C. fed with his frequent trips to the woodshed. He tended to the fire assiduously, just like Paw in Little House on the Prairie or Davy Crockett).

I didn’t know he had it in him. Isn’t it funny how you can discover something new about someone you’ve been married to for more than 11 years.  Once, he fixed a faucet in the bathroom and I was astounded. Who knew he could do that? It stands to reason, if you can take apart a MacIntosh computer and put it back together again, you can fix the sink!

I suppose that’s what keep relationships fresh. Newness and discovery. Woody Allen said it best in Annie Hall: “A relationship, I think, is like a shark. It has to keep moving forward or it dies.” So far, we’re a Great White.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving.

Have a great day.

At Lety’s, a favorite local bakery here in Jackson Heights, I overheard a coffee klatch conversation today among several (I’m guessing) 70-to-80-somethings. One of the guys was trying to encourage a table of 3 ladies to attend a dance being held next Sunday at the local temple.

Guy: “It’s sponsored by the Center for Aging. You should come.”

Lady 1: “Center for Aging? Are you saying I’m old?”

Guy: “Hey, we’re all old. There’s gonna be a swing band.”

Lady 2: “I like music from the 60′s. Now that’s great music.”

Lady 3: “Do you remember the 60′s? I bet she doesn’t even remember the 60′s.”

Lady 1: “She was too strung out on LSD.”

On my way out, I glanced across the room and noticed a young guy sitting across from his girlfriend. He was wearing a black t-shirt with white letters that said:

FECK YOU

YOU FECKING FECK

I was reminded of my one and only visit to the Beverly Hills mall in CA some years ago. A memorable visit. An impossibly skinny blond, about 50-ish, walked by me wearing a similar black t-shirt. Except, her shirt said:

FUCK YOU

YOU FUCKING FUCK

[FYI, from Urban Dictionary:  Feck: A polite and socially acceptable profanity used by the Irish.]

 – If wars were fought with words Ireland would be ruling the world.–

If only!

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