Announcing the new EP from Will Gray, along with the launch of a new website and myspace...
At a time when the music industry is facing a crippling moment of self-evaluation, artists have to fight tooth and nail to win an audience. Getting signed by a record label is no longer the given that it once was; sadly, many talented artists are left out in the cold these days. Fortunately, the grassroots ethos of the indie music faithful has created and sustained the voluntary connections that keep the music flowing. Through electronic word of mouth and communal hot spots in the blogosphere, we can still find out about the freshest music being made. In an online culture of perpetual recommendations, I can confidently say that Will Gray has something truly unique to offer.
His music has a gravitas that can't be found anywhere else in hip hop and a certain carefree exuberance that folk music lost a long time ago when it started singing to itself. Will captures all the trauma and drama of rap's prophetic voice with none of the self-defeating irony of those that claim "We Don't Care." While the folksters keep whining about administrations and social ills and religious fundies, Will's moan sounds a good bit more like the scourged man of God in Job when he cries out in prayer "How long?!?" Let the beats draw you in and the soul will bring you back.
Find great pre-order prices on the new EP and lots of other merch at Will's new site.
Also, watch out for upcoming posts from this artist here.
Damien Hirst 'Beyond Belief' White Cube, London 3 June - 7 July, 2007
What more can be said about this recent exhibition? Especially the sparkling highlight of the show For the Love of God, Hirst's diamond encrusted, platinum encased human skull?
8,601 VVS to flawless diamonds...
1,106.18 carats in total weight...
In the UK, 2nd in value to the Crown Jewels...
I have to say that the piece is truly stunning and well worth all the hype and media attention it has garnered. Hirst's skull is probably the most remarkable accomplishment of contemporary art. Not to detract from Smithson's Spiral Jetty or Barney's Cremaster Cycle, but this most recent product by Hirst must be the most significant piece of contemporary art to date. Let me qualify that grand compliment.
I am a committed fan of Hirst's work and have an abiding appreciation for the lineage of his practice, especially the earliest works, but I, like others no doubt, have observed a serious decline in the quality of his recent productions. It is almost too obvious to say that Hirst's art has become an international brand, more high class commodity than avant-garde creation, but maybe it should be stated clearly once more. The once refreshingly wry and unrefined sentiments about life’s temporality and death’s perpetual villainy in the form of over-the-top sculptures involving the animal carcasses and life cycles and installations of medical magic have come to possess maybe the greatest monetary value of any art works around but little meaning in the face of their ongoing reproduction. We are beginning to see that we must now take Hirst at his word when he seems to feign that it’s all about the cash.
Despite the glitzy haze surrounding this recent work and the fact that the rest of the exhibition resembles a formulaic museum retrospective and not a very interesting slice of new work, the sheer potency of Hirst’s skull cannot be dismissed. I think the skull will be remembered as his crowning achievement (pun intended!) for the simple fact that it has accomplished his highest aims for art and at the same time embodied consistently the spirit of all his overall body of work.
One of the more attractive features of Hirst’s legacy has been the irrepressible attitude of the common man at work within his practice. Due in no small part to his rather rough, working-class upbringing in Leeds, Hirst brings a simple, often crass perspective to bear on the makings and meanings of contemporary art. None too subtle, he bashes the often vain sophistication of the art world with a deep interest in art that surprises its audience and confronts real life.
With a persistent concentration on the imagery of death, Hirst has pushed aesthetic debates about what can be considered ‘art’ and at the same time leveled biting cultural critiques at the broader society and its specific attempts to escape the realities of death. In this way, he has made name for himself that rivals many international trademarks. Basically, I think that Hirst’s work constitutes a modern appropriation of an interesting and explicitly Christian format from art history—the memento mori. This Latin phrase means ‘Remember that you will die’ and represents a body of art that involves specific symbols of life’s fleeting condition (e.g. flowers, hourglasses, and skulls!) in a tradition of handsomely crafted genre paintings. With this framework, I see three important or overriding categories of death imagery: natural death (i.e. the animals and life cycles), the clinical aesthetic (e.g. the Pharmacy installation), and the death of painting (i.e. the butterfly mosaics, spot and spin paintings).
In this way, Hirst employs the aesthetic of minimalism and a tongue-in-cheek appreciation for the commodity fetish of late capitalism (a posture he learned from Jeff Koons’ philosophy of art as ‘the best that money can buy’) in the service of grand gestures about the most common and elemental features of the human experience: birth, sex and death to name the central core. Thus, For the Love of God must be the natural apex of this sort of practice, for, as the artist himself explains, what could be a grander gesture in the resistance of death than a diamond-encrusted skull smiling back at you?
But of course, the importance of this work does not rest merely on the qualities of the aesthetic object. The fact of the matter, however, is that the atmosphere of pomp and circumstance surrounding the work cannot be explained through the customary language of experiencing art that informs the common fare of art criticism today. As one who has seen the piece, I can say that the experience of viewing the work rehearses the strictures of a medieval pilgrimage to see a holy relic and resembles very little the casual strolls through contemporary museums we usually take. Indeed, the act of assembling with other worshippers outside the gallery and then journeying through the gallery to the dark room where one finally gains that private audience with the skull must awaken latent spiritual sensations in anyone who has ever visited the ruins of an ancient temple or a historic cathedral. For many, the experience of Hirst’s skull may be the most religious event of their lives or the closest to the traditional structure of an officially religious sort of worship.
As Jerry Saltz has pointed out so well, Hirst’s attention to death imagery is devoted to a bold affirmation of life. At the risk of neglecting the complexities of nuance and ambivalence so highly regard by the art world, Hirst intends his work to send audiences home thinking about their own lives and the certain death that awaits us all. So, I happily join the ranks of the worshippers in enjoying the sly irony of the skull, and after all the fun of seeing it, I marvel even more at the gesture represented by the work. Anytime I can get my education about a piece of art from the confident and engaged musings of a security guard, I’m happy. In providing the impetus for so much essential outsider interaction with a piece of contemporary art (i.e. security details around the work, unprecedented media coverage and basically making a gallery show a broadly relevant and entertaining cultural event), Hirst has popped the bubble of art world exclusivity for a moment; hopefully just long enough for an inquisitive elect out of all the uninitiated masses to find something to latch onto inside the discourse and maybe an opportunity consider some important questions in a fresh way. That sort of prospect I can’t resist.
View a brief overview of the show and an interview with the artist here.
Also, check out another interesting interview from a few years ago at a major retrospective in Naples, Italy. See below.
Since this was the most I got to see of the Hayward's exhibition of Antony Gormley, I thought I would offer a photo essay instead of the normal fare. Due to enormous queues over Saturday and Sunday, we were unable to actually make it in to see the show. I guess that fact proves the now worn-out accolade that the press continues to circulate about Gormley being the sculpture laureate of the nation. I hope to catch it next time.
Maybe you saw a newspaper line from several months ago about a woman who purchased a drip painting at a thrift store and subsequently set out on a quest to prove its authenticity as an original Jackson Pollock. Well, the press about this story, which has been ongoing from many years now, was promoting the release of a film about Teri Horton and her potentially priceless drip painting. This documentary was recently recommended to me because it contained a great demonstration of art world hubris. Specifically, it was supposed to show the insular and deluded character of the art world in relation to the plight of the everyday person/art world outsider. Indeed, the protagonist of this bizarre story does widely represent the interests and values of the average individual in that she has absolutely no knowledge of modern art and even less respect for the complexity of the contemporary art world. Basically, she embodies the sort of commonplace derision that most people direct at art and the unpractical and useless 'nonsense' that operates in that world. Her vitriol is actually a huge step up from the even more popular attitude of complete dismissal, but it is the ire that she conjures up when facing those art world representatives that really makes this film even watchable.
While I don't wish to debate the entertainment value of Horton's rants about the art world (she is quite an endearing character with the ever-popular, odd combination of spunk and nastiness that we can only appreciate in the elderly), I would like to redress the balance a bit on this story. The quirky nature of the story actually cements interest in this documentary despite the really poor efforts of the filmmakers. At many points I felt I was watching a heart-warming interest story on the local news instead of an unbiased and objective effort at documentary film-making. While the lionization of Teri Horton and every other art world derider may draw mass appreciation for this film and its sappy fable, no one actually gets a fair sense of what's at stake in this story.
Despite the fact that it seems the filmmakers intentionally selected the most reproachable comments from the art world representatives sampled here, the film never manages to bring the same level of analysis to bear on the simple, yet crude protagonist. For all her hopes that the amazing find might yield even more amazing dividends, we can find no hint of interest or curiosity for the artist that may in fact generate her millions. Teri Horton, more than possessing a work of art, is indeed quite a piece of art herself, and not in the classically beautiful sense but more in the ironic Haim Steinbach or Jeff Koons sense. Consider, for instance, Horton's endgame should the whole project not work out for her: “Before I let them take advantage of me,” she said, smiling broadly, “I’ll burn that son of a bitch.” (from the NY Times 11.09.06 review). In this way, she offers an excellent starting point for viewing art as pure commodity, and to their shame, those who produced this documentary failed to ever draw attention to this glaring character flaw. If they had, their audience might begin to see that the same hollow pursuit of money and fame that Horton so easily vilifies the art world for is quite at work in herself. Unfortunately, the remarkable and more interesting story of how Horton attempts, however naively, to use this quest to right the wrongs in her own life remains undeveloped and unsatisfactorily explored. Even more unfortunate is the fact that the real victim of project is Jackson Pollock, a character that surely could have appreciated a story about second chances.
Ben Gibbard, one of my favorite contemporary songwriters, is in the midst of what is surely an amazing solo acoustic tour. If you value the subtle poignancy of his lyrics and vocals with his band Death Cab for Cutie, then this is the type of show you will love. I have wanted to discuss their work for a long time but never felt like I had much to offer. Not that I have that now, but I wanted to alert others to a great show that NPR has made available. The show is available to stream and while supplies last, available for download through the All Songs Considered Podcast. David Bazan is supporting Gibbard on this tour, and his set is also available. In other words, it is a tour that should not be missed.
Gibbard offers a great set of music mixing DCFC standards, some key Postal Service numbers and some surprising covers (Most notable was the stunning take on another Seattle band's timeless acoustic gem). He moved back in forth between acoustic guitar and piano and never lost the thrilling dynamic of such an intimate performance. In the process, he fended off lots of belligerent crowd chatter and annoyingly ignorant suggestions. There was, however, one really bizarre moment that stands out. Though Gibbard traversed the hysteria quite deftly, it deserves, I think, some careful reflection.
Even though it has been awhile since I have seen a show in the States, the last I saw before the transatlantic move were on the whole really poor examples of crowd cooperation. I have to say that American audiences could learn a great deal from Brits about respecting the artist at a live show. This outburst, however, transcends the typical fare of crowd idiocy.
Not to spoil the surprise, Gibbard closes his encore with an earnest goodbye, his song "I will follow you into the dark." For those of you that might be unfamiliar, I have included the lyrics below. It is a somber, acoustic tune that basically confronts the whole issue of dying alone. Not exactly a rousing bar tune to be sure.
"I Will Follow You Into the Dark" Love of mine some day you will die But I'll be close behind I'll follow you into the dark No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white Just our hands clasped so tight Waiting for the hint of a spark
If Heaven and Hell decide That they both are satisfied To illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you When your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black And I held my tongue as she told me "Son fear is the heart of love" So I never went back If Heaven and Hell decide That they both are satisfied To illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you When your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark You and me have seen everything to see From Bangkok to Calgary And the soles of your shoes are all worn down The time for sleep is now It's nothing to cry about Cause we'll hold each other soon The blackest of rooms If Heaven and Hell decide That they both are satisfied To illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you When your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark
Then I'll follow you into the dark
Well, as Gibbard concludes the final verse in the moment just before returning to the promissory chorus once again, he sings "the blackest of rooms" and some really enthused fan screams out: "F*ck Yeah!!!" Gibbard takes the moment in stride, as if something that ridiculous happens often. He pauses on the chord and simply inquires: "F*ck yeah?... That's like the last thing I would yell at that part." Having posed his question and received overwhelming praise from the crowd for the profundity of his query, Gibbard then commences to finish the song unhindered. "What a strange night?" thought the power pop, indie frontman.
I just wonder what it means when even moments like that can be squandered by some crude concert-goer. I mean, who these days is coming to introspective indie rock shows, and acoustic ones at that?!? This is the leader of Death Cab for Cutie were talking about and not the Rage Against the Machine reunion tour. Here, we have maybe the only example of a contemporary pop song that tries to deal carefully with universal anxiety and doubt we all feel about the inevitable moment of death and what sort of solace we can take in facing it, and this guy wants to yell "F*ck yeah!"
I appreciate the honesty of the song and more than that I am really thankful that someone out there making music still has the curiosity to consider such moments. But for anyone that knows Gibbard's songwriting skills, this is yet another powerful moment stolen from everyday life, redeemed with emotional clarity through a pop song and given to us to consider. Would that more elements of pop culture could offer a similar gift.
I have one request for everyone attending a show on this tour. If you're not going to pause to consider the significance behind what Gibbard is singing, please at least pause to ask yourself: "Is this the right moment to scream 'F*ck yeah'?" Thanks.
The Art SeminarRoundtable organized and chaired by James Elkins E. C. Chadbourne Professor of Art History, Theory, and Criticism School of the Art Institute of Chicago
Event Abstract:
One of the most difficult questions in contemporary art and art history is the place of religion and spirituality. Gestures of transcendence are ubiquitous, but they are seldom admitted into serious discourse on art unless the work is critical or religion. Artists who embrace various forms of private spirituality can find places in the art world (eg, Bill Viola, Wolfgang Laib), but those who represent the principal organized religions normally can’t. The gap between artists and critics who talk openly about spirituality or religion, and academic writers who eschew it, is enormous. Meanwhile art history is theorizing transcendence in very interesting ways.
Schedule: Monday, April 16, 2007; SAIC Auditorium, Columbus Building, 6pm Why Religion and Contemporary Art are Incompatible, James Elkins, SAIC
Tuesday, April 17, 2007; SAIC Ballroom, Maclean Center, 112 S. Michigan Ave, 10am-4pm Roundtable: 'Re-Enchantment'
Panelists and Readings: Gregg Bordowitz, School of the Art Institute of Chicago "Abstract for You" "My Postmodernism"
Due to the great diversity of research represented by the scholars on the panel, much of the conversation on "Re-Enchantment" centered on essential questions of defining the terms of the debate: contested items such as 'religion', 'belief' and 'faith'. Driven by the antipathies between Western and non-Western perspectives, these issues were not quickly resolved but left hanging around in the interest of discussing art practice more specifically. Appropriating metaphors like 'camouflage' or 'smuggling' for understanding how religion creeps into art practice, the panel debated hotly the intentions or motivations behind artists that allow their work to have a religious or spiritual quality. Apparently, the great suspicion of religion demonstrated by Tim Clark (with his oft-quoted statement: "I will have nothing to do with that Leftist, self-satisfied clap trap about art 'as substitute religion.'") runs deeper than most of us thought. Why is it so difficult to state clearly modernism's opposition to traditional religion and postmodernism's suspicion of 'true believers'? Maybe the contentiousness of the panel over the terms employed represents the true starting point for understanding that the age we live in prizes no one perspective over the other and that the result for art criticism or art history is that there is no authoritative power to keep religion either within or beyond the pale. Most helpful was David Morgan's discussion of different 'ways of seeing,' and hopefully his insights will be further developed and allowed to offer guidance in this subject. With the text of the transcript now in the hands of the participants, we can all look forward to a more focused conversation finding its way into the pages of the book. Details on the publication will be forthcoming.
I came across some interview footage with Damien Hirst for the Gagosian show last summer with Francis Bacon. I have attached it to my review of the show here.
