This is Picasso’s Brain on Drugs

Posted on January 6, 2016 by Exile on Pain Street

Picasso after his morning coffee.

Another cup and a bong hit.

A second bong hit and a psilocybin mushroom.

A third cup of coffee and a tab of LSD.

Admittedly, that last one looks like a big glop of plaster. But if you look at the progression, you can kind-of/sort-of see where he was going with this. He kept pushing the boundaries until the form was contorted beyond recognition. He did that with paint, too. I can’t say I like that last one, but it gives me a warm glow to have a vague understanding of it.

These are courtesy of the Museum of Modern Art’s landmark and smartly-installed Picasso sculpture exhibit. It’s being hailed as the last time you’ll see such a complete gathering of his sculptures under one roof. I didn’t understand a lot of it, but it was a thrill.

More tales of women in my past.

bins

June 25, 1995

I didn’t make an entry last night because I was out all night with Maureen. I had planned on going home to watch the Yankees beat-up the Indians. I asked her out for a beer and it turned into an all-nighter. It was fun. She and I talk so easy. I wish I were attracted to her and that she had some social graces. She’s yet another tormented, temperamental artist. This town is choking on them. Their torment is so tedious. I thank God that I’m not cursed with talent. It seems to drive some folks over the edge. We made out once and it was kind of a disaster so now I keep a respectful distance.

Sedaris’ book is out in paperback and is doing well. See that. Sometimes the good guys win.

I met an interesting girl at the Gilberto Gil concert in Central Park. She was a pretty, blonde green-eyed French girl who lives in Toronto. She had a soft accent and a gentle, wispy air to her. She works for the largest French bank on the planet in their Toronto office. She grew up in rural France and was given the choice of transferring to either Jakarta or Canada. She didn’t want to live in a Muslim country so Canada won the contest. Smart girl. She visits New York every few weeks to see her boyfriend who’s an Analyst at Lehman Brothers.

(The Indians are on the radio in the background having their asses handed to them by the Yankees. Good God, will this torment ever end?) [Note: Apparently, not.]

Anyway, her boyfriend had to work, which is what all Financial Analysts do on Sunday, so she was by herself. Her work life is similar to his. She’s routinely in the office until 8:00 or 9:00 at night. Young professionals sacrificing their today for a better tomorrow. They hope. I didn’t feel like flirting because of the insurmountable odds, which was actually kind of liberating. Talking to a girl without having an agenda is always a pleasure.

She’s got a hell of a gene pool. Her sister is in Vietnam conducting a study on how the jungle is being affected by the developing nation. Her sister’s boyfriend is so in love with her that he quit his job in France and followed her to Vietnam. Isn’t that romantic? She complained for a while about how dull Toronto is and how much she loves New York. I know how you feel, sister. She said she can see the Empire State and the Chrysler Building from her boyfriend’s bathroom window, so she leaves the curtain open and looks at them while taking a shower.

Typically, I would’ve been torn to pieces with envy over all this but I was strangely serene. We were sitting on a bench and a couple across the way started making out. It was like watching a softcore porn movie or an instructional video on sexual assault. We watched with a detached fascination. We decided they’d just started dating and were in that phase when you can’t keep your hands off of each other. It wears off sooner or later but it’s nice when you’re in that space.

When we spoke, she looked at me hard, like there were some things running through her mind, but I swear she wasn’t interested in that way. I could tell. I made her laugh a bit and when it came time for her to go I didn’t say or do anything stupid, like follow her out of the park or try to kiss her. This is progress. She had to catch a plane back to Toronto, so she left and that was that.

I go to these Central Park Summerstage concerts exactly once a year. I’ll go to one early in the season, realize how miserably crowded they are and swear off them until next season. I made an exception in this case because Gilberto Gil doesn’t tour this way very often. And it was free.

Come to New York and live like a caged animal.

I called to check the price (because I had to) and you can rent a 360 sq. ft. micro-apartment for $2,750/month.

27th Street IS a fabulous block, so you have to take that into consideration (along with the imminent loss of your sanity).

I’m published in an arts + lit journal

Posted on December 20, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

Once upon a time in a charming corner of San Francisco, a print and design sensei named Johnny Brewton started the X-Ray Book Co. He owned a letterpress and wanted to publish fine and limited edition books, chapbooks, broadsides and ephemera.

The first issue of X-Ray Magazine, a literature and arts journal, was published in 1993. There were 10 issues in total. Each printing ran anywhere from 100-225 copies—an extraordinarily low limitation. Over the years, many greats graced its pages. Charles Bukowski, Billy Childish, Allen Ginsberg, John Cage, Jamie Hernandez, etc. etc. The pièce de résistance is the cover art for Issue No. 4, which was created by Hunter S. Thompson. Thompson took a photo of porn star and Ivory Soap shill Marilyn Chambers, shot it full of holes with a .45, put on lipstick (Chinese Red) and kissed each one. He did that 226 times; one for each copy.

Issue No. 1 originally sold for $7. The covers are made from actual x-rays. When a copy comes up for auction (which rarely happens) it usually sells for +/-$1,000. Brewton has produced work for Tom Waits, Mark Mothersbaugh, Barry Gifford and a host of others. His chapbook for Hunter S. Thompson, Mistah Leary – He Dead, is one of the crown jewels in my collection. That guy is the real deal, kids.

The chapbook was a eulogy for the recently-departed Timothy Leary. It included a sheet of blotter with Leary’s face. Do not drop, indeed.

X-Ray Magazine ceased publication in 2004 and from its ashes rose Bagazine. It’s a magazine! In a bag! Bagazine is an assemblage of hand-made original works of art. Bagazine No. 6 was just published and I’m happy and honored to be a contributor.

Issue No. 6 is limited to 100 copies. The stipulation was that all contributions had to be hand-assembled. I submitted a prototype back in June which was accepted and I spent all of July assembling 103 pieces. (100 for publication + 3 press copies.)

I made a small chapbook containing a poem I wrote many years ago about a conversation I had in an elevator. I had five rubber stamps made and used two colors. Each book required six strikes. Many strikes weren’t useable. I made close to 800 strikes in total.

I set up a print and production shop on my suburban backyard patio. I’d spend warm summer evenings and weekends cutting, stamping and binding. My fingers would blacken with ink and I constantly poked myself with a sewing needle. The Daughters would sit and watch, always begging to help. We’d listen to Ray Charles, Patsy Cline, The Platters, Johnny Cash and The Beatles. I filled their ears with the good stuff.

The book is two leaves; a heavy cover stock and a lighter grade paper for the text block. I printed the cover graphic in red and the title, poem, byline and limitation in black.

The two leaves were scored with a bone folder (yes, there’s a proper tool for folding paper) and saddle stitched with bookbinder’s thread (Wild Rose 18/3).

If you want to read the poem, click on the pics.

Also included in this issue is my old pal, Jim Camp, proprietor of the synaesthesia press. A long time ago, Jim and I published a chapbook for Bruce Springsteen and Nick Hornby. Artistic differences caused a time-out in our friendship that lasted a few years, but we have since reconciled. I still mourn the lost time.

Jim’s piece is a vintage black and white photograph tipped into a single-leaf chapbook. As he explains, “…everyone is a photographer…but nobody has any pictures.”

Each book contains a different photograph, making each copy totally unique and, therefore, totally awesome.

My payment was one copy. I’ve been paid a lot more to do work that wasn’t nearly as gratifying. I’ve been a fan of the X-Ray Book Co. for a long time and am genuinely thrill to be included. Hell, yeah, Merry Christmas.

It’s time for a holiday break. I don’t want to get all Oprah on you guys, but 10,000 thank-yous to everyone who took the time to visit, read, like and comment over the past year. Time and attention is your most valuable commodity and I am flattered that anyone would spend some of theirs here. Writing is a source of tremendous joy in my otherwise ordinary existence. If it weren’t for this outlet I’m not sure where I’d get my jollies. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Patience and Fortitude with their wreaths standing guard outside the New York Public Library on 42nd and Madison.

Or is it Fortitude and Patience? All these years and I still can’t tell one from the other.

Bowie good. Pacino bad. Pacino bad. Bowie good. Depends who you ask.

Posted on December 13, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

All these decades of theater-going haven’t taught me a damn thing.

About two weeks ago I saw Lazarus while it was still in previews at the New York Theater Workshop in the East Village. It’s written by David Bowie and Enda Walsh. Walsh adapted Once for the stage. You know who Bowie is. It’s a musical that uses Bowie’s back catalog and a few new songs he wrote for the play. The show is being treated like the second coming of Mashiach. It is exciting. Bowie is a recluse.

The story is a continuation of The Man Who Fell to Earth, Bowie’s film from 1976, itself an adaptation of the Walter Tevis novel from 1963. [This town has adaptation-itis.] Spoiler alert. Thomas Newton (this time, played by Dexter’s Michael C. Hall, not Bowie) never made it back to his home planet. In fact, he’s stranded in the East Village. How appropriate. That’s pretty much all I understood because I found the entire affair to be a slow, dull, befuddled mess. I can’t say the plot meandered because in order for a plot to meander, there has to be a plot. There were characters on stage who seemed to be in a different play entirely. I surmised it was two intermissionless hours because had they given the audience an opportunity to flee, they would’ve.

Or so say I.

The reviews came out a few days ago. The Guardian gave it four stars. The New York Times said the play contained, “Ice cold bolts of ecstasy…”. Rolling Stone made a liar out of me, saying it ‘…never drags.” Tickets are impossible to get.

They’re all just saying that because it’s Bowie. I don’t know how the New York Theater Workshop manages to land these big names. This spring, Daniel Craig is playing Iago and David Oyelowo is playing Othello. That theater is only 199 seats. They could fill up a medium-sized concert hall for that show.

I think it’s safe to assume that David Mamet and Al Pacino’s best work is behind them. But, c’mon! It’s Pacino and Mamet! Attention must be paid. I saw China Doll, like Lazarus, while it was still in previews. The rumors were rampant that Pacino kept dropping lines and rewrites were being made daily. The critics smelled blood in the water. But I had a very fine evening. Some of the dialog was vintage crisp Mamet and Pacino didn’t go-up on any of his lines (that I’m aware of). It had quite a few laughs. It looked like any problems were either ironed out or never existed in the first place. Broadway chat rooms are full of jealous, gossipy, theater queens.

Then the reviews came out. There’s bad and then there’s scathing.

Variety implored Mamet to, “…quit jerking us around on non-plays like China Doll.” The New York Times said, “…extracting [the plot] from Mr. Pacino’s mumbling is really hard work.” The headline in the New York Post review was: “Al Pacino’s Broadway show is even worse than you think.”

I don’t know about all that. I kind of enjoyed myself. In the end, it hardly matters. The run sold out before previews began.

Same thing with the stage adaptation of Stephen King’s Misery.

They all said Bruce Willis’ performance as writer Paul Sheldon was lethargic and laid back. What’d they expect? The curtain opens and both of his legs are in casts and his arm in a sling. He spends 90% of the show in a bed and the other 10% a wheelchair. It probably helps if you have really great seats because it’s such an intimate story. As usual, I had really terrible seats but I had my binoculars so I was fine.

Laurie Metcalf received universal and well-deserved praise as the demented Annie Wilks. Yes, there’s a cobbling scene and it’s horrifying to watch, even though you know Bruce’s ankles aren’t actually being broken with a sledgehammer. There are more laughs than you’d expect. The critics can bite me. I liked it just fine.

They weren’t very nice to Keira Knightley in Thérèse Raquin, either.

The Times said it was monotonous and her performance had a joyless intensity. I’m going to have to agree with them this time, although my problem was exacerbated terrible seats in the cavernous Studio 54. Every time I see a show in that dump, I swear it’s my last. That’s why good seats are so bloody expensive. They make for a better evening.

Currently at the Kate Werble Gallery down on Vandam Street is Christpher Chiappa’s Livestrong. Chiappa’s medium is:

EGGS!

Hell, yeah! EGGS!

7,000 of them, in fact.

Each one is unique and hand-made from plaster and resin.

eggs1

I like that the ones on the walls obey gravity and are a bit droopy.

Good thing we blasted a gaping hole in the ozone layer. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have this interesting weather. Two weeks before Christmas and it’s balmy enough for a stroll on the beach and boardwalk in Asbury Park. Nothing unusual about that. Nothing at all.

cornerstone

bike

dog

The Horror. The Horror. More Art Auction Results.

Posted on December 6, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

Here’s another batch of results from the November contemporary art auctions at Christie’s and Sotheby’s. While some of these pieces are quite striking, I don’t know that you can consider ANY of them worth what they sold for. They’re trophy pieces that say more about the purchaser than the piece itself, which I believe is by design.

Here’s one of Louis Bourgeois’ beautiful spiders. Christie’s always exhibits a giant sculpture at the entrance. It’s usually one of Jeff Koons’ balloon animals but this wild arachnid does nicely. Another inspiration from the animal kingdom.

Louise Bourgeois
Spider
Estimate on Request
Sold for $28,165,000

It was unintentional, but I like the juxtaposition of the spider looming over a submissive Modigliani hottie. That’s a pretty raw poster for a public sidewalk, don’t you think? It’s right across from Rockefeller Center! There are little kids all over the place!

Speaking of…Here’s another Modigliani beauty. The painting reproduced above fetched +$170 million. This one, a modest +$42 million. Modigliani died when he was just 35 from meningitis. He was flat broke.

Amedeo Modigliani
Paulette Jourdain
Estimate on Request
Sold for $42,810,000

Time for some whimsy. Guess what this is? If you guessed an 85 inch (216 cm) piece of yarn painted three colors and tacked to the wall, give yourself a cookie.

sandback3

Fred Sanderback
Untitled Wall Construction
Estimate: $60,000 – $80,000
Sold for $106,250. Exceeded expectations. Must be quality yarn.

I can’t say I’m crazy about this piece but I have a lot of respect for the effort that went into it. You probably think it’s a tapestry but you’d be WRONG. Give the cookie back.

This is made from tiny, *tiny* glass beads tacked to an aluminum panel.

Scroll back up and look at the first photo. Imagine the physical act of constructing this. It’s big. 72 x 36 inches (183 x 91 cm). What exacting, tedious, painful work.

Liza Lou
Ofensive (sic)/Defensive
Estimate: $200,000 – $300,000
Did Not Sell. What a pity.

Balloon swan! C’mon. You’ve got to like this stuff. It’s so NOT serious. Barely qualifies as art, really. That comes as a great relief to me sometimes. Too much serious art gives me a pounding headache.

Jeff Koons
Balloon Swan (Yellow)
Estimate: $15,000,000 – $25,000,000
Sold for $14,725,000

Here are two spectacular Rothkos. There’s such a sameness to his work that you’d think I’d grow tired of looking at this stuff but I never do. I’m convinced you all think I’m nuts but you have to see these Rothkos in a gallery setting. These canvases GLOW. My photos are crap. Don’t trust them.

Mark Rothko
No. 6/Sienna, Orange on Wine
Estimate: $20,000,000 – $30,000,000
Sold for $17,610,000

Especially this one. It was set off in a dark corner. The walls surrounding it were painted black and the lighting was perfect. This thing throbbed. I stood there a long time saying hello and goodbye.

Mark Rothko
Untitled (Lavender and Green)
Estimate: $20,000,000 – $30,000,000
Sold for $20,410,000

This is one of the last Blue Period Picasso paintings in private hands. Personally, I think it’s kind of ugly although Christie’s insists it’s “striking.” Picasso was broke when he painted it. (He didn’t stay broke for long.) Like many broke-ass painters, he used both sides of the canvas.

picasso_gommeuse1

Christie’s mounted the painting so you could see both sides. You had to walk around a wall constructed in the center of the gallery.

The verso illustration was painted upside-down from the front so they set up a mirror that allowed you to view it right-side up. This is Picsso’s friend and flatmate Pere Mañach. It was considered too ribald by Picasso’s early dealers and covered up. This second painting wasn’t discovered until 2000.

Pablo Picasso
La Gommeuse
Estimate on Request
Sold for $67,450,000

A piece of stone held up by two iron brackets. On the stone is a little pile of bread, a little pile of sugar and some water. That’s it.

Giovanni Anselmo
Trespolo
Estimate: $100,000 – $150,000
Sold for $122,500

Hey, remember Claes Oldenburg’s giant typewriter eraser from the previous auction report? Well, here’s his giant clothespin. Number two from an edition of three. Maybe the fact that there are only two others makes you feel better about spending +$3,000,000 for a giant clothespin. I make fun but I like it.

Claes Oldenburg
Clothespin Ten Foot
Estimate: $1,200,000 – $1,800,000
Sold for $3,637,000. Well done, Claes.

Hey, remember the piece of yarn from above? Same guy. I’m not talking about the yellow cube on the white pedestal. That’s a different piece by a different artist. I’m talking about the piece of red yarn tacked to the floor and wall.

Curious. It doesn’t have a title. Can someone suggest a title for this piece?

Fred Sandback
Untitled
Estimate: $200,000 – $300,000
Sold for $221,000

I was so thirsty. I turned the corner and was happy to see a water fountain. What a relief! A nice, cool drink…oh…wait…not so fast. It’s made of graphite. Like a pencil? That kind of graphite? Is this like one of Duchamp’s readymades? So lazy.

Adam McEwen
Font
Estimate: $100,000 – $150,000
Sold for $293,000. Well above the estimate. Imagine that.

This is from Picasso’s Blue Lobster period. Ha. See what I did there? I only included this painting so I could crack that joke and sound clever. But I do like it. Blue lobsters are rare but real. There’s an aquarium on a New Jersey boardwalk that has one. They’re beautiful.

Pablo Picasso
Le Homard Dans un Panier
Estimate: $1,500,000 – $2,500,000
Sold for $2,165,000

Oh, dear. This is Damien Hirst’s medicine cabinet filled with drugs. In his “Pharmaceutical Heaven,” he described the piece as like a body. Originally, he was going to place the remedies for your head on the top shelves, the guts in the middle and those for your feet at the bottom.

In the end he went with a pleasing color scheme. That’s what I would’ve done, too.

Damien Hirst
Lies
Estimate: $400,000 – $600,000
Sold for $545,000

It has occurred to me that most of the pieces in this review can be considered a joke. Actually, art being subjective, ALL of them could be considered a joke. I usually try to mix the good with the bad but pointing your finger is such delicious fun, isn’t it?

We trimmed our Christmas tree. These two ornaments are my favorites.

shakespeare

There’s one perfect fit. And, sugar, this one is it.

Posted on November 29, 2015 by Exile on Pain Street

100

We saw a special exhibit at the Cleveland Museum of Art while in town for the holiday. Three of Monet’s water lilies panels were reunited for the first time in decades. I know some people are sick of Monet and his water lilies but I have to confess something. We got there when the museum opened and while standing in an empty, dimly-lit gallery in front of these three master works, I had a moment. Something washed over me. I’m not a skilled enough writer or photographer to replicate the sensation. But whatever Monet intended, for that one fleeting moment, it worked. I got it.

Cleveland owns the panel on the left. The others are in the St. Louis Art Museum and the Nelson-Atkins Museum in Kansas City, which seems idiotic when you see them together. This is clearly one painting, not three. Broken apart, they seem incomplete. Not whole.

Water Lilies (Agapanthus), c. 1915-26

I walked into the gallery and saw The Daughter sitting in front of the paintings. I thought she was talking on her cell phone and it made me blue. But she wasn’t. She was listening to the audio guide. So that’s a small victory.

I love the Cleveland Museum of Art. It’s a world-class collection that rivals those in New York, Paris or London. And that’s not one of my witty sarcasms. It’s the truth. When I walk through the galleries and see the permanent collection, it’s like visiting old friends.

Bonus track. Mysterious and haunting.

Jean-Léon Gérôme
Woman with a Veil
Bronze, c. 1891