Tag: art

one of my favourite places to be “oh jesus christ” “oh god”

Today I started a letter-book with Troll. A place to house our invisible secrets. My new schedule means that I will never see him now, which leaves all delivery of the book to third parties. I dearly hope, for this especially, the network does not fail.

from we-make-money-not-art:

The Blind Camera, by Sascha Pohflepp, a contributor to We-Make-Money-Not-Art and new media artist based in Berlin, captures a moment at the press of a button. Note that, a moment, not a picture. The device has no optical parts. Instead, the camera records only the time you depress the shutter button and immediately searches the net for other photos that have been taken in the exact same moment.

“Essentially, it is a camera that only takes photos that were created by someone who pressed a button somewhere else at that very time as its own button was pressed.”

After a few minutes or hours, depending on how soon someone else shares their photo on the web, an image will appear on the screen. In a way, it belongs half to the person who had pressed the button and still remembers that moment. Because of that connection, the photos are never dismissed as random, no matter how enigmatic they may be.

Video.

nine months ago, some parents got it ON

pour des dents d’un blanc éclatant et saines (2005) stuffed birds play records by putting their bill into the groove by Jeroen Diepenmaat. thank you Larry.

Happy Birthday to Sam, David, Victoria, Jordan, and my un-cousin Darren today!

The Fountain, by the way, directed by Darren Aronofsky, (Pi, Requiem for a Dream), opens here as part of the Vancouver International Film Festival on Wednesday, October 11th. Tickets are only $9.50, so you have no excuse not to go. I will be attending even if I have to roll pennies off the street to pay for my ticket.

Head On, one part of a three-part installation by Cai Guo-Qiang commisioned by the Deutsche Bank Collection in Berlin, consists of 99 life-sized wolves made over a period of six months out of sheepskin, straw, and other such materials, crashing into a wall of glass. thank you Andrew.

Penn and Teller in Bullshit! take on PETA. thank you Vicky.

Today Ryan sent me a letter from work:

“I think that the word ‘Amputee’ should be amended to ‘Amputeer’ in the English language. Amputeer is a much better word. It implies the sort of person who would consider keeping there taxiderm’ed limb in an umbrella stand, and I fell that this is a behaviour that should be encouraged.”

I think he’s onto something. I miss my taxidermy. I haven’t done any work on it since I’ve been unemployed, feeling somehow like time spent polishing bones is time taken away from my job hunt, that pleasurable or relaxing activities aren’t productive ones and that until I find myself a reliable pay-cheque, I don’t deserve to affix wings onto mink.

People are just monkeys who worry. thank you Stephen.

the last link in this post is one of my universal favourites


Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Lung is picking me up this afternoon, a break in my transcription work, to visit the Fox Adult Theater. He’s always wanted to go, but no one was ever willing to go with him. Spur of the moment planning, we’re going to dress up in evening wear and take lots of pictures. I have to remember to dig out my bow-tie for him before I settle too deeply into my work and lose track of time.

Superflat Monogram, an ad campaign for LOUIS VUITTON by Mamoru Hosoda.
Music by Fantastic Plastic Machine.

I search the tangled mess of my room for traces of you as if I might unearth a shrunken head. Somewhere here is a silver hair, a pack of guitar strings, an earthquake. It’s true though I’ve said it before and not to you, I want the taste of your fingers trapped in my hair. Between my sheets I find your fingerprints. I think I see you creeping past my door in the corner of my eye like a pet that only pretends to be kept as it hides some sticky dead thing under the table in half a tin can. I know better than to look.

There are frozen images of you trapped on my computer, pixilated views into memories that don’t whisper for more than a few seconds long. I long to tap on the glass and hear it crack. It feels like your ghost is flying to me as if it lies on the wind as a bed and the wind obeys my needs.

I trust you. In times of disaster, you would let me climb the burning buildings.

I did it my wa-a-a-a-y

When I was a kid, I wanted a tree-house. I liked the idea of having a little place that was my own, high up, and floored in the cloth bound books I liked to read. I would hang tassels, I would paper with comics and pieces of sari. I wanted to tumble down the ladder in a rush of limbs to a mother waiting with ice-cream. I wanted what the real kids had, only to try. I could see them sometimes, transitory, from the window of the truck I was growing up in as we drove past little houses. Surrounded by trees, always on the highway, these houses, with a gas station at the end of the row that would sell cold things and packets of shrink wrapped pepperoni sticks that my father would open with his teeth. My favourite treat was the Cadbury cream eggs with shiny tinfoil that I would flatten with the back of my fingernail until I could pretend it was tain I’d peeled whole from some antique washroom mirror.

Andrew had a comment published on BoingBoing this week.

Have you ever been in love with someone to the point where you’re afraid? They meet your eyes and the amount of feeling that shoots in to your blood must betray you, it feels certain, but then they blink and look away. Disaster averted. It’s terrifying, like suddenly discovering you’ve got a red jewel of cancer in the palm of your heart.

I’m selling my old monitor on Craiglist for $50.

The fireworks last night were nice. I led everyone directly to the waterfront, with nothing between us and the show but for water. Blooming explosions of mostly gold, laced with red and Italy’s particular green. Their music choice was a little damning, no match of Denmark’s Abba medley of last year, the cheesiest possible clips of Celine Dion, Queen, & Ennio Morricone, but they made up for it with the intense amount of bang.

After, though, was better than nice, it was magical. Police arrived on horses, with back-up from police boats and helicopters, to clear people from the beach. Horses in riot gear, to be more precise, with little see-thru plastic helmets and shiny reflective socks. Lit only by beacons and searchlights, they came out of the heavy sulpherous smoke like a slowly solidifying dream. It was impossible to focus on them, they were so ephemeral, such perfect phantasmagorical memories come real. They seemed both bigger and smaller than horses are, because they faded in and out of the flashing lights so strangely, so beautifully. The police on top seemed grown from the same dark flesh, details were so randomly precise. A leg would show in stark detail then vanish again into the sand and night. I’ve never seen anything like it. Pristine wonder, approaching.

more warning would have helped, also, a consultation


Chris Klapper‘s SWARM of insect-like baby dolls suspended from the ceiling
by cables and springs. You may safely ignore his other work.

I’m trying to round up people who are willing to help my mother with a leisurely move on the price of pizza, beer, and appreciation.

She’s rented a van from 6 o’clock Friday morning to 6 o’clock Saturday morning. We won’t be moving boxes upon boxes, more just pieces of large furniture that she and I can’t move alone. I know it’s ill-timing, what with the plans to meet here for a movie than night-market, but I’m hoping people might still have the morning free.

Wal-Mart staff ordered to search store after bomb threat.

I did not mean to slam the door. Technically, true. I didn’t mean for it to be painful once I had done so either, the first link in a chain reaction of breaking down shaking in my kitchen, almost crying on my roommate, who wanted to know what was wrong. Usually I am better than that. I hold onto myself. I am polite. I keep to myself and swallow extraneous reactions. Feeling anything is risky, it’s true. Feelings have been nothing but a useless simmering frustration for a few years. There have been no rewards that were not false, no punishments that mercifully ceased. The heart as a holding pattern, understanding that there is no space to land. Dead air. Static. I did not mean to slam the door, but for my sake, I should have done so harder, I have not slammed a door in years. When I was a child, I would shake hotels and houses equally with the force of impact, wood in wood frame. My only vengeful outlet, because otherwise I am quiet, refusing to offer what is not asked and hating that no one dares.

“it’s a phase I’m going through”

This nerdgasm is for Katie and Maddie and Kyle.

Chris Cunningham has reached a point where I’m not sure that he’s famous for what he produces or is simply famous for being Chris Cunningham. He’s got a new video out, his first in seven years, Sheena is a Parasite, for the Horrors, and it’s an anticlimactic come-back for such a cutting-edge director. Apparently, Cunningham first hooked up with the band via MySpace. Low budget, frenetic, and nothing we haven’t seen him already do better elsewhere. (See: Rubber Johnny). I’m disappointed, but likely not as much as real fans might be. He’s always been a wave riding to nowhere for me. A hat full of tricks with a hollow bottom. Me, I want to be Mark Romanek in my next life.

Genetically Modified germ spray could keep dentist at bay.

I know this odd boy, Newton, who usually lives in NZ. We met in highschool, and he’s one of the few people I’m still in touch with, mostly because he keeps in touch with me. I talked to him today, he’s back on his yearly visit back to Vancouver, and found that I have nothing to say right now. My issues are all reflections of the global climate. I’m watching Isreal VS Syria develop, New Orleans funds being mis-appropriated for things like diamond rings and sex videos, and keeping tabs on the Net Neutrality issues, but have nothing of my own. I’m unemployed and single, sitting at home with a sprained ankle, and I’ve been like this for almost an entire month. If there was news, I’ve forgotten it.

Machete gang attacks a party just off Commercial Drive, severs a teenagers hand.

The Annual Mad Hatter’s Tea Party starts this weekend. “Bring a picnic blanket, a flamingo and a tasty treat to share.” This year they’ve got three different performances; Saturday July 22nd at the Burrard View Park, Saturday July 29th at Renfrew Park, and Sunday July 30th at Trout Lake Park. For those who’ve never heard of it, The Fool’s Society hosts a batch of free Alice In Wonderland themed performances where everyone is invited to come in costume. It’s a very family friendly event with enough good music and jokes to keep the adults interested, and since when did we consider ourselves grown-up’s anyways? Toot-A-Lute will be there, as well as most of the Carnival Band. Last year there was croquet, a caucus race, and various bits of delightful acting.

Scientists have defined the function of a key protein that nerve cells use to pass information quickly.

Here’s some fine examples of where I’ve been wasting my time on-line

I am wretchedly tired. Come to my party tomorrow. Instead of writing, you’re getting a tab-dump. (Has anyone formalized that term yet? We should get on that.)

blue
  • Fairwood Press currently publishes Talebones, a magazine that has been publishing science fiction and fantasy short stories for eleven years. Yesterday they sent out a plea for subscriptions, saying that they are in financial distress and without new subscriptions, they’ll have to quit putting the magazine out. Click here to see what you can do.
  • European Honeybees commonly imported to Japan fall prey to the Japanese giant hornet. The local bees do not, instead they have evolved a fascinating and wierdly wonderful defense. National Geographic News has a video.
  • An audio recording made on November 18, 1978, at the Peoples Temple compound in Jonestown, immediately preceding and during the mass suicide and/or murder of over 900 members of the cult, has been put on-line by someone who got the audio tape in 1979. This means that for your auditory indulgence, an alarming bit of educational history is vicerally available.
  • The Steam Powered Internet Machine, by Turner-prizewinning artist Jeremy Deller and his collaborator Alan Kane, links a steam engine to a computer, allowing visitors to surf the net, powered by one of the driving forces of the Industrial Age. Although mischieviously impractical, (click to see the picture, it’s neat), the machine does work.
  • Gez Fry decided in 2002, without any experience whatsoever, that he wanted to make a living out of Japanese style illustration. After studying artists like Masamune Shirow, he emerged with an astonishing enough portfolio to break into the big market, in only two years. Pingmag has an essential interview that follows why he decided on his excellent life-changing decision and how he went about it.

    • Hidden Landscapes

    SILENT LONDON
    March 2005 – 735x500mm – Blind embossed etching
    by Simon Elvins

    Using information the government has collected on noise levels within London, a map has been plotted of the capitals most silent spaces. The map intends to reveal a hidden landscape of quiet spaces and shows an alternate side of the city that would normally go unnoticed.

    this album is too sexy

    In memory of language, I will spit you, craven, from my mouth. Every day that was a letter with you, I will burn. In memory of words, of meaning, of the double-handed dealings of my tongue between your lips, I will tear you from me, reject your chrome sensationalism, my infatuation, my glorified attachment to your acquisitive frame. I will deny and repeal all rights your hands had, all liberties of motion, all the rapacious, itching greed I had mistakenly, lasciviously, authorized and stamped with the sanctioned approval of my gentlest kiss.

    I will not allow you the animistic gift of speech. It is mine.

    In respect for adoration, I will not name you. Your face will be blank, as slate on concrete, as lacking in feature as you were in grace. In respect for devotion, I will not need you, not crave or desire your golden smile, your irrevocable beauty, your unfortunate habit of junk crashing my mind. I flatly refuse to focus on your absence or notice the anger on my hands, my thwarted fingers, or my dizzying feeling of rejection. Your singular admiration will sink into time like twinkling stars into a cold winter sea, your voice will be like an aftertaste, and the flame of your being will be as to ashes dusted out of a failed marriage bed.

    Medical-tophat, the creator of The Doctor Pepper Show, has a flickr account.

    The latest in WTFJapan: “I think I have that song for DDR” with dubious thanks to Ed, who wants to know why Japanese women “sound so uncomfortable?”

    Stevie Wonder setting fire to Sesame Street with an injection of pure funk into the Sesame St. Song and Superstitious.

    from your eyes to your brain in two easy steps


    picture by kenichi hoshine

    Vancouver’s outrageous community chorus, The Broadway Chorus, only has two nights left for DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH!, a two-act Broadway extravaganza showing at the Waterfront Theatre on Grandville Island. It’s apparently a fun mix of old classics and new hits from current alt-trendy shows like Spamalot, Urinetown, and Wicked. Adam, who’s in it, used the word “hijinks” in his write-up, which is a pretty good recommendation if you’re into wacky musical theater. Tickets are $16, $11 if reserved in advance from 778.322.7182. As always, doors at 7, show at 8.

    If western musical theater isn’t to your taste, allow me to present Koreans sublimely breaking, scratching and beat-boxing a cover of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, (hosted on the always awesome Transbuddha). With thanks to dear Larry for digging it up, I’m wondering if anyone has any leads on whatever else this group has done. I love dignified cultural mash-up’s. I think taking stylistics that evolved from the South Bronx in the 1970s and combining it with a gayageum cover of a baroque german composer is possibly even more brilliant than Dr. Fu Manchu, rocking out on Casio synthesizers.

    Similarly beautiful to the Korean clip is the riveting UK promo for the tv show LOST set to Portishead and enchantingly directed by David LaChapelle. (LaChapelle is the man behind Rize, the recent must-see hip-hop documentary). It reminds me of Massive Attack’s video for KarmaComa.

    Course, for sheer priceless rock and roll, the winner this week is Superheros. It’s a horrible video with horrible music that with a premise that seems straight out of Spinal Tap, with the band done up like gun-toting soldiers out hunting playboy bunnies. It screams for Women’s History students to set fire to the directors house, but by the end I was laughing too hard to care.

    *live streaming video of oysterhead, (Trey Anastasio, Les Claypool, & Stewart Copeland), click now or miss out: link