Best museum food I've ever had.
Early Buddha from the Permanent Collection
Vishnu Narasimha
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Forest Interior, Cezanne (1898-1899)
My last semester in college, studying 19th century avant garde art (probably one of the most amazing courses I've taken, thanks to the wonderful grad student instructor), I came across the painting, Forest Interior, by Cezanne.
For my final paper, I spent a lot of time at the Legion of Honor, sitting on an uncomfortable wooden bench in the final room of the modernist gallery wing, staring at a canvas framed by a ornately bulbous gold frame. Why was this thing so important? What made it special? What are the facts I know about modern art. Where does this fit? Is it abstract? Representational? Both? I thought, well, lets stick to the what exists. In English, the only reading is the textual reading, so what's really here?
Well, Here is this crowded landscape with some trees and sky. But this landscape is different than other landscapes. There's no road. No horizon. Ok, maybe this isn't a landscape. This brown tree in the right field is awkward. The tree is slightly drunken and a frazzled halo of greenery hovers over the trees behind it. The drunken tree, with its heavy darkened outline, is a lone dissenter amidst the straight trunks around it. Maybe, this landscape is actually a painting of an object - the tree, the subject.
But the tree is perched impossibly atop a boulder, unsteady, like it's in the process of falling down or flying away. The boulder on second glance, doesn't look too safe either, its shear surface slides into the intimated precipice below. The other rocks to the left seems solid enough, rounded and inviting, and so I try go there. But in the compressed space at the bottom of the frame, where the dirt seems relatively flat, I feel crowded. So I try to move out of the foreground and into the painting, but the boulders get more solid. They impede me and I can't seem to find a way beyond them.
So I cling to the normalcy of the straight trees, the ones that run reliably up and down, the ones that are logically situated by the gravity of the Earth. But actually, all these trees are kind of strange too. The ones in the front are lit, yet the ones in the background seem lit too, defying the rules of perspective. The shadows in between the trees don't seem to be relating to the logical physics of sunlight.
The depth of field in the world has suddenly shifted on me. Now the trees seem to come from a different painting altogether, or more like different paintings plural, superimposed onto one plane. Choosing to focus on different left and right hand trees begins to frame the landscape into smaller slices, re-configuring the painting into smaller paintings. Things start to make sense inside these divisions. But that drunken tree is there again, refusing too recede, disrupting the equilibrium. My eye runs up the trunk of the tree, past its shifty, transparent evergreen and into the pale, featureless sky, a brief respite for the claustrophobia of the forest. But the sky is so far away and is squeezed on all four sides by barriers.
I'm distracted by pops of color, disconcerting blobs of orange-red nestled in the branches of adjacent trees, and my eye returns into the canopy of the forest. And once again, I'm pondering the trees, the queerly shaded branches angling down acutely, pointing back down to the boulders tumbling into the earth where patches of the shadow lay side by side with an impossibly lit rock, situated next a dab of paint that doesn't seem to denote grass or dirt or anything real, as if those dabs are just paint and the agency of the painter and painted surface are struggling to speak through the artifice of the art. Realism and abstraction seem to be having a tiff, not quite a battle but a dialogue on the paradox of representation having more than one meaning and purpose.
The depth of field in the world has suddenly shifted on me. Now the trees seem to come from a different painting altogether, or more like different paintings plural, superimposed onto one plane. Choosing to focus on different left and right hand trees begins to frame the landscape into smaller slices, re-configuring the painting into smaller paintings. Things start to make sense inside these divisions. But that drunken tree is there again, refusing too recede, disrupting the equilibrium. My eye runs up the trunk of the tree, past its shifty, transparent evergreen and into the pale, featureless sky, a brief respite for the claustrophobia of the forest. But the sky is so far away and is squeezed on all four sides by barriers.
I'm distracted by pops of color, disconcerting blobs of orange-red nestled in the branches of adjacent trees, and my eye returns into the canopy of the forest. And once again, I'm pondering the trees, the queerly shaded branches angling down acutely, pointing back down to the boulders tumbling into the earth where patches of the shadow lay side by side with an impossibly lit rock, situated next a dab of paint that doesn't seem to denote grass or dirt or anything real, as if those dabs are just paint and the agency of the painter and painted surface are struggling to speak through the artifice of the art. Realism and abstraction seem to be having a tiff, not quite a battle but a dialogue on the paradox of representation having more than one meaning and purpose.
Again, I survey the shallow field of dirt at the bottom of the frame and mentally climb the barricade of rocks leading me back into the nowhere in the trees. I try to find a way out my conundrum. I re-confront the out-of-place tree. I search for safe passage through all the byways that appeared closed to me before - a path blocked by walls of shadow, another path by blocked by forbidding branches, a path through the boulders that seems to lead into a clearing but becomes a dead end, an opening towards the sky presses down again to the earth, the earth tilting down into precipice.
Repeat.
I sit there, trying to make sense of this painting, thinking intellectually about the my notes in lecture, art theory, factual history, revisiting Cezanne's biography in my mind. With reservation, I posit that only I experience what I can experience; whether that is a personal interpretation of being in a forest - out at the end of a trail on my bike - or what I think I know about art, or what I think I know about what I think. I sit there going through the circular motion of these ruminations.
Suddenly, it occurs to me that this frustration I'm feeling was also felt by someone who had an interest in sharing that emotion with me: That the formal concepts I spent months preparing to understand, my experiences thus far, are coalescing into a feedback loop. That I am being led through a metaphorical forest with a trail of breadcrumbs showing me how to "see" - when my gaze affects what is happening, what images are connected and where, how I direct those observations. That by walking through the forest, I am engaging in a process of contemplation and release that will ultimately transform what I feel and believe. That maybe what I am actually traversing - while traversing the image of a supposed landscape - is the landscape in my mind.
Telling someone they are "seeing the forest for the trees" and that "when one door closes, another door opens" is a bit like that old cliche of describing the colors of a sunset to someone who is blind. The lesson plan that Cezanne prepared, intentionally or unintentionally, both literally and figuratively, mentored me through the process of gaining - and reminds me to keep looking for - that kind of perspective.
There is a way out of this claustrophobic painting, hidden behind the signpost of the drunken, misguided tree. Cezanne obscured a house back there, a sketch revealed only through forensic examination and dissection of preparatory drawings. Yet, even if you don't know that house is there - observing the image, overcoming that initial object fixation, and exploring the in-between - can lead to the same liberating conclusion that a passage exists.
Perspective
Section, showing the pit where the trains and transit will be.
Concrete slurry wall with steel beams.
Visitors without safety gear - leaving their tracks.
What have I been doing during this radio silence? Well... cramming for a construction documents exam (I passed) and finding my way at a new job post (still hanging in after a few months now).
So far so good, but I thought I'd encapsulate what I've been doing outside of architecture, architecture, architecture recently, and not so recently. And what I liked...
Well, of course, "Suit and Tie" with the ricochet of the submarine radar pinging in two directions and the hyper extended falsetto calling you to pearly gates of heaven with blushing harp pulls.
"Pusher Love Girl" strikes a definite motown chord that D'angelo understood all too well.
Surprisingly, though JT shines vocally in "That Girl" and pulls off some unusual and ambient vibes in "Blue Ocean Floor", in several tracks for 20/20 he is a kind of counterpoint to, rather than the groom on, the party cake. Timberland's exotic "Don't Hold the Wall" - signature in sound but mature - is an almost purely instrumental production.
"Let the Groove Get In" stretches out - prog-pop tripped out on Afrodesia, making me reminisce fondly of my old jazz vinyls.
As the titular pop radio single, "Mirrors" just leaves me competently bored, but even when the rest of the album gets smaltzy with "Strawberry Bubblegum" or the lyrics verge into cheesy territory, I'm still in. Not just sexy but classy is back.
Miguel is the sweet spot between Frank Ocean's intimate and introspective melancholy, as well as the serious post-modern channeling of Prince and pre-Nirvana rock of the 80's and 90's. He doesn't get too precious with the source material, or stray too far into surface ruminations on the past (a kind of post-"Burial"-ing quality many artists have been chasing).
I won't do a play by play, but this album is seriously good. Miguel has a keening quality and virtuosity to his vocals that, when paired with the unexpected grittiness of the music, give the tracks a kind of sad grandeur, and make him, as a persona, a bit inaccessible, albeit working in his favor. I appreciate the breadth of ambition in the emotional scope and storytelling that is happening on this album, again a welcome kind of throwback.
R&B is having a nice moment right now, not too retro and reverent, not too hazily ironic - just enough sincerity to make you a believer again. I've been predicting this hot run ever since R. Kelly held up the torch, so let's just see what happens shall we?
Meanwhile... WTF, right? Since we're on the subject of nostalgia... Apparently, the Daft Robots have been thinking of the past too, and in terms of their own oeuvre even, and furthermore, to the benefit of a certain audience of a certain time period, namely me, who hoped that "Human After All" was maybe a fluke, and that Daft Punk had not abandoned their fans to pursue the more enviable position of rock/hip-hop legitimization to its logical mainstream conclusion.
After the recent documentary blitz - in which Moroder, yes, MORODER, pre-humously eulogizes Daft Punk in an egregiously unabashed way usually reserved for the likes of Stockhausen...
And after the Coachella teaser of Pharell - crooning over the funk of Nile Rodgers, jamming out in front of what appears to be the Daft Robots - playing, respectively, a Lucite organ and Lucite guitar - helmets and sequined tuxes ablaze in sparkle flares, like any decent electro-disco band with vocodor choruses should...
I worry no more. Daft Punk has got my happy fuzzy memories well covered, I'm pretty sure. Nowhen in history has a 15 second clip of music caused so much attention. No. When.
Conversation for another day:
When I get a chance, I'd like to discuss the Rap Lady Renaissance that seems to be sharpening an edge.
Books I really liked:
Wool - Hugh Howey
Down Below Station - CJ Cherryh
Restaurants I enjoyed:
Usagi, San Mateo - yoshoku-ya
City Smoke House, SF - Everything is great here - unctous pulled pork, smoky baked beans - but by god, the chicken...
So far so good, but I thought I'd encapsulate what I've been doing outside of architecture, architecture, architecture recently, and not so recently. And what I liked...
Well, of course, "Suit and Tie" with the ricochet of the submarine radar pinging in two directions and the hyper extended falsetto calling you to pearly gates of heaven with blushing harp pulls.
"Pusher Love Girl" strikes a definite motown chord that D'angelo understood all too well.
Surprisingly, though JT shines vocally in "That Girl" and pulls off some unusual and ambient vibes in "Blue Ocean Floor", in several tracks for 20/20 he is a kind of counterpoint to, rather than the groom on, the party cake. Timberland's exotic "Don't Hold the Wall" - signature in sound but mature - is an almost purely instrumental production.
"Let the Groove Get In" stretches out - prog-pop tripped out on Afrodesia, making me reminisce fondly of my old jazz vinyls.
As the titular pop radio single, "Mirrors" just leaves me competently bored, but even when the rest of the album gets smaltzy with "Strawberry Bubblegum" or the lyrics verge into cheesy territory, I'm still in. Not just sexy but classy is back.
Miguel is the sweet spot between Frank Ocean's intimate and introspective melancholy, as well as the serious post-modern channeling of Prince and pre-Nirvana rock of the 80's and 90's. He doesn't get too precious with the source material, or stray too far into surface ruminations on the past (a kind of post-"Burial"-ing quality many artists have been chasing).
I won't do a play by play, but this album is seriously good. Miguel has a keening quality and virtuosity to his vocals that, when paired with the unexpected grittiness of the music, give the tracks a kind of sad grandeur, and make him, as a persona, a bit inaccessible, albeit working in his favor. I appreciate the breadth of ambition in the emotional scope and storytelling that is happening on this album, again a welcome kind of throwback.
R&B is having a nice moment right now, not too retro and reverent, not too hazily ironic - just enough sincerity to make you a believer again. I've been predicting this hot run ever since R. Kelly held up the torch, so let's just see what happens shall we?
Meanwhile... WTF, right? Since we're on the subject of nostalgia... Apparently, the Daft Robots have been thinking of the past too, and in terms of their own oeuvre even, and furthermore, to the benefit of a certain audience of a certain time period, namely me, who hoped that "Human After All" was maybe a fluke, and that Daft Punk had not abandoned their fans to pursue the more enviable position of rock/hip-hop legitimization to its logical mainstream conclusion.
After the recent documentary blitz - in which Moroder, yes, MORODER, pre-humously eulogizes Daft Punk in an egregiously unabashed way usually reserved for the likes of Stockhausen...
And after the Coachella teaser of Pharell - crooning over the funk of Nile Rodgers, jamming out in front of what appears to be the Daft Robots - playing, respectively, a Lucite organ and Lucite guitar - helmets and sequined tuxes ablaze in sparkle flares, like any decent electro-disco band with vocodor choruses should...
I worry no more. Daft Punk has got my happy fuzzy memories well covered, I'm pretty sure. Nowhen in history has a 15 second clip of music caused so much attention. No. When.
Conversation for another day:
When I get a chance, I'd like to discuss the Rap Lady Renaissance that seems to be sharpening an edge.
Books I really liked:
Wool - Hugh Howey
Down Below Station - CJ Cherryh
Restaurants I enjoyed:
Usagi, San Mateo - yoshoku-ya
City Smoke House, SF - Everything is great here - unctous pulled pork, smoky baked beans - but by god, the chicken...
Hamish Bowles monograph on the influence of regional vernacular on the Spanish designer is wonderfully detailed and much more informative than the book that was offered with the YSL exhibit.
Inspirational matador coats and resultant boleros.
The ollection included the metamorphic kelly green caterpillar/cocoon cape/dress. Flat pack capes in green (above) and yellow (shown in the book) are ingenious in their simplicity.
The ollection included the metamorphic kelly green caterpillar/cocoon cape/dress. Flat pack capes in green (above) and yellow (shown in the book) are ingenious in their simplicity.
Voluminous red silk coat.
Series of black dresses, highlighting unique forms.
Pert New Look suits and lace gowns.
Flamenco influences.
While the pieces themselves are amazing, the De Young likes to cram the fashion exhibits into a small roundabout up the main stair, lighted dramatically like a theater production. I find the pieces don't have space to breathe this way and the written descriptions get confusing in density.
Set in the chiaroscuro, neon/electricity of modern life, the artifice of the flashbulb becomes a kind of explosive club energy. But while the show gains in high impact, it loses intensity in examination. Details disappear from the picture plane when cast in harsh shadows. True, these curatorial decisions evoke Goya, and Surrealism, and high drama in atmosphere much like a bustling soiree. Perhaps this encouragement to look with the glance, to shuffle through quickly and be stunned at every moment, speaks to that. But, I expect a bit more introspection for my money at a museum. Laymen only see garments as flat pictures or illustrations, so the chance to view in person what cannot be shown on paper should not be squandered.
Compare to the superb Gres exhibit in Paris as covered by the New York Times and Stylebubble, where natural light reinforces the experiential aspect of greek naturalism. Ancient sculptures and gowns are presented together, training the eye to see the garments 3 dimensionally and encouraging slow traversal around major pieces. Furthermore, garments are displayed as half size models on stands, in spare galleries, within intimate salons, or behind glass in large boxes. From each shift, the viewer intuits the workings of the atelier, the eventual use of the garment, and the intellectual journey of the curator in preserving antiquity to find meaning in detritus.
Beautiful and voluptuous, tactile. Such is the exhibit of Borchgrave's paper art on display at the Legion of Honor. A hard seed though, of the uncanny, pokes at me as a I walk through the compact exhibit. Here are beautiful gowns and jewels of Bronzino's Eleanor of Toledo, historical, complete, but stiff and mummified and slightly cartoonish in the rendering of the real, which is in itself fantastical to our modern eyes.
Each interpretation is a museum piece come to life as another museum piece, a transference of 2d documentation writ large and slightly dis-remembered from the original into a 3d paper mache, displacing the copy with cutout copies that are slightly stiff and visibly lossy.
In opposition to the showier and more ornamental dresses, in themselves reflective of ornamentation as a function of the originals, certain experiments blend material and construction in a way that loses the qualities of neither. One cape in particular suits the materiality as an origami monolith, a folded, spacial mobius garment that sweeps from the floor into a magician's hood (shown briefly in video 4 from the back.)
Borchgrave's artisty shows best in the details: lenspaper "fabric" recalling burnout velvets and silks, pleated constructions a la Fortuny, or intricate lacework built up from corrugated papers like a messy nest made by fractal avians.
"I discount the theory. I just go and look at the building." - Huxtable.Without much preamble, Charlie Rose interviewing Ada Louise Huxtable.
And a tidbit from Paul Goldberger, a lecture from 2003, Architecture Criticism: Does It Matter?
Besides the smaller works of Tadao Ando, a firm in Seattle always piques my interest for quirky, formally rigorous, and client centric architecture. Kundig and Olsen straddle the line between liveable/marketable and aesthetic auteurism. If I lived in the American Northwest I would beg them for a job.
The firm has quite a few books out:
Tom Kundig: Houses - Kundig designs the more industrial buildings
Jim Olson Houses - Clean, Contemporary
Olson Sundberg Kundig Allen Architects: Architecture, Art, and Craft
The Frye Art Museum: Olson Sundberg Kundig Allen Architects
Art & Architecture: The Ebsworth Collection & Residence
As in great literature, book art has a self contained logic, one that is personal to the world of the book and the person that creates or inhabits such a world. An "art" book is part recycled fantasy and outsider logics, the resultant landscape imbued with Cornell-esque mysteries ripe for dramatic unlocking. While a certain level of escapism is undeniable, the lo-fi charm and familiarity of a cannibalized book is essentially confrontational when dealing with the acts of interpretation and meaning through the canonical. Artists transform books from one physical state to another, dissolving readable text into new narratives of objectification, content, authorship, etc, that refer to a whole body of literary theory a la Barthe, et al.
Below are literal takes and deconstructed fantasies of books by very different artists.
curved book. Nicolas Jones
evolution. Brian Dettmer
alice. Su Blackwell
birds. Su Blackwell
de baudelaire au surrealisme. Georgia Russell
installation. Su Blackwell
Below are literal takes and deconstructed fantasies of books by very different artists.
Literary art remains demurely contained within the spaces of the book bindings. The reveal of pages and their edges is a query of that boundary but also a question about how boundaries themselves can be reinterpreted.
curved book. Nicolas JonesBelow, Elliasson questions the fixedness of content, portraying interiority as a perceptibly malleable space, one where the personal space is all void and no wall. A kismet of architecture and english interdisciplinary studies that was my college miseducation.
your house. Olafur Elliasson
The remade object is a dialogue with the text that reframes subject as a constantly shifting body of knowledge - a conversation that at once edifies and questions language and cultural significance.
evolution. Brian Dettmer 
webster two point oh. Brian Dettmer
Imagination leaps to escape the constraints of the form, bringing the literal page to life.
alice. Su Blackwell
birds. Su Blackwell As curio and dissection piece, the physicality of the object and its content transcends the temporal life of the book, the reclaimed study of the reclaimed artifact being an act of entropy that also one that insists upon reincarnation as well.
de baudelaire au surrealisme. Georgia RussellHere, the physical object is completely obliterated, and the new object is also in the process of being likewise obliterated. Fragmented and scattered, a butterfly effect of knowledge.
installation. Su Blackwell