Breathe in and Breathe out

Tacita Dean and I have been friends since the second grade. Ever since I’ve known her, her mind has been searching. For what I don’t know, but even as a child, my imagination couldn’t keep up with hers. What I do know is that Tacita has always been fascinated by time.
I remember the day the story broke about Donald Crowhurst’s disappearance. We were sitting in the car waiting at a stop light after we left the Three chairs exhibition by Brecht, while we listened to the news reporter explain Crowhurst's tragic fate.
“Donald Crowhurst was a British businessman and amateur sailor who died while competing in the Sunday Times Golden Globe Race, a single-handed, round-the-world yacht race. Crowhurst had entered the race in hopes of winning a cash prize from the Sunday Times to aid his failing business. Instead, he encountered difficulty early in the voyage, and secretly abandoned the race. From outside the race, Crowhurst reported false positions, in an attempt to appear to complete a circumnavigation without actually circling the world. Evidence found after his disappearance indicates that this attempt ended in insanity and suicide.”

After the story concluded, and the music came back on, all Tacita said was, “Lost at sea; no time; no space.”

I knew from that moment on she was onto something big.
Tacita went on to make a surveillance film that was an exploration of the strangest places of the mind. She filmed the surveilance on the Caribbean island where Crowhurst’s ship washed up. In the film, one feels that they are being lead on a journey through the spaces of time. Past, present, and future all merge into one; Only Tacita could accomplish this.

CONCLUSION ABOUT PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP...

It's An Art Thing

Upon entering through the gallery doors, I sighed and hesitated as I saw the sign “Breathing In Breathing Out” and thought about what my good friend Marina Abramovic was about to do. I walked through the white halls into the room on the left where I see a crowd of people waiting for the show to begin. I mingled my way in to the front of the barricades and twiddled my thumbs until it was exactly seven o’ clock when Marina and her partner Ulay came out. The crowd silenced themselves right away. I caught Marina’s eyes, and she winked. I winked back at her.

God, I wish she would just listen to me sometimes! I don’t want her to get hurt. Every time she does these performances my heart starts to race, and I get this ghastly, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know how much this “art” thing means to her but to put her own life in danger is not the way to go! Nah-uh! And to be asked to participate as her partner for “Breathing In Breathing Out” seriously tugged at my heart. One: I am way too shy to stand and perform in front of one person let alone fifty. Two: I am not ready to do such an act that will cause harm to my health. Three: I cannot be part of the cause to my friends demise. I had a million of hasty thoughts running through my head when I was distracted by Marina’s commencement. I then watched with terrified eyes.

Marina and her partner Ulay gradually walked towards each other until they were only one foot apart from one another. They steadily kneeled down, and Marina positioned herself between Ulay’s thighs. He tilts his head about twenty degrees to the right, parts his mouth, and presses his lips against hers. With their noses plugged, Ulay takes one gulp of oxygen and progressively breathes out carbon dioxide. In this nineteen-minute performance, the couple are breathing in carbon dioxide. A microphone is attached to Marina’s throat where the audience is able to listen to the sound of her breathing.

I clenched my fist; my fingernails are digging into the palms of my sweaty hands. The show is finally over. What felt like eternity was really only nineteen minutes long. The audience clapped their hands with amusement and relief. They began to disperse like little ants. I caught Marina’s eyes one last time and mouthed to her, “I will see you later,” and made my way out of the room. As I was walking out, I saw an exhibit for Tacita Dean. They were showing a video called “Time and Space” about a man who went by the name of Donald Crowhurst and his unfortunate shipwreck. Feeling a little indifferent and aloof, I concluded to come back another time.

BLUE

Ruin the Blue


I sat behind a desk.

The orchid exposed itself to me.

1,2,3...

Leafs < to stem < to petal < to lips.

Blue

I stood in the door frame.

A white sheet might burn.

Heater

I walked from room to room, its a blur.

Blue

A ghost shed its skin.

Blanket

A sound from the past appears.

Blues

Left, right, left - up, down - heaven or hell

Stairs

She waits for me on my instrument.

Pussycat

I play for her -- a beat.

Thump...

She runs away -

Blue


-Richard Kent-

The Mouth is Interesting.

I met my BFF Mary Cassatt in the United States where we both grew up. Her family had emigrated over from France. We went to the same school in a small town on the East Coast. We were both the “class artist.” But instead of becoming rivals and engaging in competition, we connected from our common interest in the arts. She and I both dreamt about going to France someday…specifically Paris. When we were both old enough and had saved up enough money, we followed our dreams and finally left for France, the art center of the world!

In her painting, “A Woman in Black at the Opera,” she chose the loge because she enjoyed the opera very much so, as did I. It was one of the first things we experienced upon our arrival in Paris. So she asked me, after seeing some paintings by our male associates Edgar and Eduard, if I could be her model in one of her impressionist pieces. Of course I agreed. It was an honor and I have to help out my best friend. So she gave me a fan to hold with my left hand and a pair of eyeglasses for me to look through so I could better see the opera. Her directions to me were to simply watch the opera and to look engaged in it, which wasn’t hard for me to do at all. She paid for my ticket and everything. While I watched she painted. She told me afterwards that some guys were checking us out but they weren’t that great looking. Also being you and at the prime of our lives, these old geezers here were a little less than appealing to us.

There’s a joke we have about Edgar being a pervy old man because he likes to paint pictures of young ballerina girls. As a joke, she drew in the background of my painting an image of Edgar, gawking at me as I watched the opera. I felt that this was a good diss because that guy is such an ass. He said that he refuses to admit that a woman, talking about dear Mary here, was a better artist than he is. What a cocky asshole right?

Questioning, Impressions and Influences

Dear Liz,

How are you? Hope you’re well.

In your book, you mention George Brecht’s “Three Chairs Event,” and I thought I would share with you another piece that is similar to "Three Chairs Event."

Just recently I learned about a piece by Martha Rosler called “The Bowery in Two Inadequate Descriptive Systems” (1974-1975). It is an intricate piece that consisted of 21 black and white images taken in The Bowery in New York. Now, I’ve never been to New York, but by the looks of it, The Bowery is a pretty run down neighborhood--at least it was in 1975. The images feature storefronts, many of which have graffiti, or peeling paint. All of the images feature empty bottles of liquor lying on the street in front of the stores.

Next to every photograph is a box (the same size as the photo) that contains words that are commonly associated with someone who is drunk. Words such as “unconscious,” “polluted,” “down with the fish,” “boozehound,” and “snozzled,” are printed in a black, typewriter-like font on a white page next to the image. There are, on average, 8 words or phrases per image.

By putting these “two descriptive systems” together, Rosler proves their inadequacy because neither the images nor the text describe what is really being presented to the viewer: the homeless people who live on the street. Because the work does not take on a documentary, or a journalistic approach, or a classical fine art photography approach, we can interpret it with the model you use to interpret the “Three Chair Event.” (Val: can you quote Foucault here...?)

Brecht used three chairs--the white art-exhibited chair, the black bathroom chair, and the yellow street chair--to see what viewers would consider art. Martha Rosler raises a similar question.

More about... 

re-state Kotz's arguement about Brecht in 2 sentences or more.

3's... (how are 3 chairs like the 2 inadequate systems?)

Rosler’s lack of a subject in her work parallels Brecht in that it raises the question of what is a documentary, what is journalism, is this art?

(more details about the photos and the texts Rosler uses)

I think that these two artworks raises a serious question of what should be considered art and it is something that should be discussed further. I am interested in your take on the subject. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Valerie Chin

Loneliness, Dirtiness, Hopelessness?

Beauty can be as subjective as you want it to be. Whether it’s internal or external, it is always a topic to be discussed because everyone’s interpretation differs greatly. However, it can be abused and it can be something that strikes several emotions for which surprises are around the corner. Liz Kotz and Ed and Nancy Keinholz created impactful art pieces that strike these emotions and question beauty on different levels, taking beauty outside the box and portraying it as a multi dimensional concept while exploring its extremes. Exploring these extremes allows us to question the lonely, dirty and the hopeless.

How would you react to a simple compliment from a total stranger? Most people would answer one way, others in another. It is a social experiment of sorts, gauging people’s instant reactions and capturing it at the perfect moment. Liz Kotz’s piece captures these genuine reactions when taking photographs of people at the moment they react to the statement: “You have a beautiful face”. Isn’t that such a random, positive compliment to give somebody? Doesn’t it have such a different connotation compared to “You’re pretty” or “You are good looking”? Telling someone they have a beautiful face is such a specific compliment and without a doubt will throw many people off guard. In the midst of being thrown off guard, people will reveal a genuine reaction to their perception of beauty. Whether it’s revealing their various levels of self esteem or strengthening their ego, something will happen. Most of the photographs show smiling faces with a positive reaction yet a couple weren’t so great. Perhaps the negative ones thought they were being insulted because they perceive themselves as not beautiful? Why would someone almost begin weeping when told they have a beautiful face? This is a very psychological art piece that really takes beauty to a different level and shows that some people cannot perceive themselves as beautiful even when told directly.

Boys will be boys, but it’s interesting to see how society molds their perception of beauty and women. Ed and Nancy Keinholz were genius in creating a ridiculous “game” that would lure any curious boy into playing and undoubtedly misguiding their perception of female sexuality and beauty. Reconstructing a Playboy pinball machine, impressionable young boys are welcomed by a pair of sexy female legs protruding from the front, all setup like a bed. Transforming something sexual to overtly sexual totally blurs the ideals of beauty due to the objectification of the human body. The game itself involves sexual body language and various innuendos and does nothing but promote abuse. Witnessing and helping construct this art piece with Ed and Nancy, I learned about how Ed was at an arcade watching young boys get into this game and I heard of how he needed to ask various girls at a bar to model for the legs. Is this beauty? Does beauty have to be so sexual and should it be exposed to impressionable young boys? Beauty doesn’t need to be sexual yet its subjectivity may allow it to be sexual. You can call it dirty and it may assist the lonely with something shallow.

Fortunately, boys are too young to be hopeless and society cannot function without its demons because how would people determine what is clean and good? It just teaches us things and gives us a wider perspective on the concept of beauty. Whether it’s a self perception of a beautiful face or an abuse of the female body in a sexual game, the different dimensions of beauty are portrayed in a genius matter by Kotz and the Keinholz’.

Description

            I’m torrefies with that spire he used. It was much like that of the dictionary definition of an idea. The snootier those people are, the more peerie I’m going use, and go around and terne these little bitches into frogs and toads. That’s the idea.

            Meno and I used a sinfonie to explain my love for Reenter. The sinfonie had a great sound with ferneries dancing in the background. Although it was quickly terpene, it was fretsome. Reenter was the best spirit reif on the Rio Steiner. He always had an idea. He was ideal, an idealist, an idealiser, and he had to idealize. 

            The terror I felt when I was in the outside world was ti and mist and moon and poi and pert and pries and rit and ire and neep, and it’s all too mesne. I neries want to trompe on this impie again. Norn did that pine tenor on the promise of mesenteron. It’s kind of like those definitions that don’t even give you a definition.

            I once bought a noi and cooked with it. The motif was moistened on it because of all the finest serf in foretime. I made peonies with pontoon drizzled with a little bit of pensioner on top. The first step I took to seiner in the feretories was to sennet the reimpose. I waited about nine minutes, ideally, for it to roose. After that smote, I waited for the foment to be fin. After all the mise and mope preremit, the pinon should be pimento. With this idea and all that strife, riot, and toepee you can go ahead and inset. I’m never going rooster again. There’s too many enmities, and I have to to norse noon. My menses were killing me larry.

            Now on, I only estop on the trimo. I wish that I’d never sipeon the entropies again. Good bye young roofer.