April 29, 2013 § Leave a Comment
From “Leave Britney Alone” to “I’m F$%#ing Matt Damon”, This compendium is a good Cliff’s Notes version of memes.
Dicaprio smoking on a stepladder, the Stay-Puff Marshmallow model, and others shots comprise this series of photos. One of the most interesting recent ones is the one shown about above, from Inception.
These B-movies coupled with horrible translation are funny and sometimes baffling to read, like this one from Dr. Orloff’s Monster.
April 13, 2013 § Leave a Comment
By Jackie Raineri
I dedicate this story to Jeremy, who continuously inspires my imagination. - Jackie
No one is on the road at 4:30 a.m. except truckers, but they don’t go where I’m going. Like usual, the first of April was cold as the sun popped up behind the trees. There were snowflakes hitting the windshield of my Toyota Tacoma and George Strait playing on the radio, getting me in the country mood. After working in the big city for the past year it was going to be nice taking a break from all the hustle and bustle and getting in touch with nature and memories.
Specks of mud from the dirt road leading to Gramps’ camp joined the salt and sand that was plastered on the side of my truck, but the thought of a dirty truck only reminded me the first time my grandpa drove down that road when he bought the camp.
He was smiling, driving an old Chevy pickup truck, getting fidgety and excited to show me what lay just ahead, past the hill and through the overgrown trees (where later we would build a cabin). A creek lay just beyond the hill and down a cliff. Gramps pulled to a stop before the cliff, got out and pulled two pair of waders, two fishing rods, some salted minnows and lures, and two vests filled with fishing gear out of the back of the truck. My eyes must have been the size of saucers when he told me we were going fishing.
He helped me get in my gear and then hiked down the cliff to the roaring creek. The water was high from the snowmelt. Gramps pulled me into the shallow, slow-moving part of the creek—I could feel the cold water through the waders and my jeans. I wondered if we’d catch anything since the water was so cold.
Gramps helped put the salted minnows on my hook and added a sinker, and then showed me how to cast the line. He then did the same for his pole and stood holding the line, waiting for a bite. After a few moments there was a tug on my line.
“Hold it tight, Danny!” Gramps had yelled. “You don’t want to lose the little bastard!” He tried to help me pull my fish in, but it was too heavy. I remember asking him for help.
“Get the damn net!” Gramps yelled, but we didn’t have a net—Gramps had forgotten to put it in the truck. So I held my grandpa’s fishing rod while he struggled to pull in my first eight and a half pound rainbow trout.
“Ah ha! It’s a beast, Danny!”
That day I caught six fishes and Gramps only caught two (in reality he had caught all the fish, just with my pole). I lost his favorite lure in the belly of the biggest fish I had ever seen, and went for a very cold swim trying to catch that fish without a net. But Gramps never once got mad. He pulled me from the creek, hiked me as fast as he could up to the truck where he blasted heat on me and held me close to warm me up.
Gramps has been gone for over fifteen years now, but on every first of April I drive to the camp he left me, at sun rise, in the same vest and waders he gave me the first time we went fishing. The world may be changing, but I can always get away from it and spend a little time with the memory of the greatest man I ever knew at camp where it’s me battling the trout, still forgetting the net at home.
March 25, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Forrest McCluer is using the remains discarded computers to make amazing installations like the one pictured above. Lately, he has taken a liking to making sculptures based on virus models such as that of the Rhinovirus.
The Swiss artist took his organizational obsession to ridiculous levels and sorted flower arrangements down to their petals, and even a part of the stars at night. He has a TED talk about the topic as well.
March 5, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Last month I was invited to a gallery by a good friend to Loft 594, where the art team New York Kills Artists presented their show “Burnt Reynolds”. While sipping on a whiskey/cider combination, trying my best to solve a crossword puzzle of female artists, I examined the pieces made by the collective. Here are some of the images from the show:
The team’s bio is eerily similar to the one Cindy and I came up with when we created Cram:
Evolving from an experimental website joining invisible artists with academic criticism and theory, Underwrite Art has recently morphed into the more active curatorial experiments of the team known as New York Kills Artists. In short, our basic goal is to put on a series of shows, that have been somewhat reverse curated, by presenting a stable of artists with an overarching theme. The basic idea is that by presenting a theme to a group of artists and challenging them to create work specifically for the show, we might be able to more easily perceive what each theme might mean to them. The culmination is one night events where each artist exhibits their work as an active exploration of artistic processes and the vast differences in what a single idea can mean to a collective of artists working independently of each other.
Our biggest influence in deciding to structure shows in this way was the lack of critical communities open to artists after they leave art school. An easy comparison is that it is similar to getting a homework assignment from an art professor and weeks later coming together, pinning it to a wall, and having an open dialogue about how so many solutions could come from one problem.
We try not to take ourselves too seriously while seriously trying to open up some sort of community that we feel has been pushed out by the commercialization of art and the weird idea that an artist must be independent and fully realized, fully able to carry a solo show, and fully able to sell upon completion of their degrees. We have been exploring the idea that an artist should always be working and changing, and how important seeing differences in other artists ideas and perceptions can be to that process.
Ali Printz is a member of New York Kills Artists. She is a figurative painter and printmaker based out of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where she currently does private commissions and is preparing a larger body of work. Her work is historically based and deals with media imagery and manipulation from the 19th and 20th centuries. Her most recent work is from found photograph, usually on eBay,randomly on the internet, or something that she buys at a flea market. She reinterprets her findings, transforming them into something wildly different through the use of color and contortion of the imagery.
“If I work on something historically based, I try and create something visually interesting enough that the person viewing it will go and do some research on their own about whatever I’m painting,” She told me in an email. “So I guess the goal is the make the imagery “haunting.”" You can read more of her bio on her about page.
Ali’s partner in NYKA is Jenna Gard. She is a photographer and illustrator and she also did the pipeline piece and the two collaborate on everything including the ‘zines, curating, writing, etc. NYKA has staple artists, as well as some that are features in specific shows and exhibitions. Two that have been in previous shows include Sofia Palacios Blanco and James Eggleston.
February 26, 2013 § Leave a Comment
This fascinating article discusses the failed plot to assassinate Lincoln on his inauguration day. It’s amazing to read how an assassination could be stopped during the 1800′s.
This is a short film out of Denmark directed by Mikkel Mainz and Kenneth Ladekjaer. It’s beautiful and poignant and fantastic – definitely a must-watch.
Feel Desain brings us work from photographer Maurizio Galimberti – beautiful stitched-together Polaroid collages of celebrities. It feels like they’re huddling together; holding secrets. From the site:
Galimberti describes the process as making music with photography, “dividing the space into particles and arranging it like sheet music. The more I penetrate it the more I enrich it with my vision.”
February 6, 2013 § Leave a Comment
What’s Yours Is Ours
By Jackie Raineri
The day I died is not all that memorable for some. Many even tend to claim that they wanted me gone. Charlie, my future husband, he was probably the happiest that I was gone—he even says that the day that I died was the happiest day of his life.
I never thought I was a bad person—maybe thick at times and overly needy—but, overall, I wasn’t a bad person. Maybe, sometimes, I would tell Charlie that he couldn’t go out with his friends, or that his penis was really our penis, and if he ever left me that I would find him and take our penis back—that doesn’t make me a bad person. And when Charlie would leave, I may follow him to see where he’s going and whom he’s with. For some reason, he had been staying with his parents for the few weeks before my unfortunate death.
So, on the night that I died, Charlie had come home one last time. I thought he was there to stay, but he told me that he was just grabbing a few things and going out with his friends.
“What do you mean?” I asked him. “I have seen you in weeks. Maybe we should stay in tonight and spend some alone time together—you, me, and our penis.”
“Tracy, we’re done. We’ve been done for weeks. I’ve told you this. You have to leave me alone. If you ever come close to me again—”
“What? You’ll have me arrested?” I asked, giggling. “Everyone in town knows you’re mine—that we’re in a relationship—the police won’t touch me.”
“I will have you shot,” Charlie said, slamming the door behind him. He got in his car, screeched the tires in the driveway and drove away. He couldn’t have me shot—that was illegal. Charlie just needed to calm down and he would come back. Maybe if I talked to his mom things would have been different.
Instead I followed him to the only bar in town. Charlie’s car was parked in the lot, so I parked a few spaces away and waited for him to come out. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of all my friends.
A few moments later, I saw him get out of his car—with a woman. How could he? Just because he said it was over, didn’t mean it was over. Both parties had to agree, right?
Charlie and the fairly unattractive, muscular woman (with luxurious looking brown hair, and sparking blue eyes) walked into the alley next to the bar. I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of my car quietly and followed them into the ally. The music was so loud; I could hear Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats”—ironic. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness, so I walked blindly into the alley.
A loud bang, sparks, and the shadow of a Colt .45 kicking in feminine hands erupted from the darkness. Pain shot through my left shoulder. Warm liquid ran down my chest and the air escaped my lungs. I fell to the ground clutching my shoulder and gasping for breath.
“I told you to stay away, Tracy,” Charlie said walking over to me. My eyes had adjusted enough to see his white, perfect teeth as he smiled at me. “Now you’ll never bother anyone again.”
My last words: “You’ll never get away with this.” Very dramatic, but wrong. Turns out no one missed me, the music was too loud to hear the gun shot, and the police decided to go with self defense—even though the cameras that were in the alley showed otherwise.
And the best part? I get to relive that day for the rest of eternity.