John Virtue

I'm at home in Nebraska for Thanksgiving (whoop!) and have been going through stacks of my old work in my old bedroom. As I flipped through stacks of prints I created during my senior year of college, I started missing black ink and printing presses and damp paper and acid wash and Bob Dylan and dirty fingernails. I work with other people's art all day but its been a while since I've been at a press physically rolling my own prints. I miss it.

The prints also reminded me of one of my favorite painters, John Virtue, who has influenced my own work greatly.... some might even say that I copy him. I'm okay with it. I first saw his work at the National Gallery in London where he was serving as Associate Artist (lucky duck.)

The Associate Artist is appointed by invitation for two years. He was given a studio in which to make new work that somehow connects to the National Gallery Collection, demonstrating the potential of the Old Master tradition as an inspiration for today's artists. Love that idea. At the end of his stay at the gallery he had an exhibition of the work completed within that year.

I was fortunate enough to attend Virtue's exhibition London Paintings and immediately fell in love with his work. I remember stepping into the back gallery space and looking up and up and up in amazement and that feeling of exhilaration and excitement that we only get from really good art. It gives us those ideas and inspiration and hope and thrill that we hadn't felt a moment earlier. I still haven't gotten it out of my head.

Virtue is a painter of Landscape (well, cityscape to be specific), inspired by Old Masters such as Turner (my fav), Constable, Church, van Ruisdael, Gainsborough and Rubens. He understands the brilliance of these paintings and their lasting impression on artists today.

Landscape is commonly yawned upon, especially at the National Gallery with their impressive collection of impressionistic and post-impressionistic paintings. It takes a bit more love and care to appreciate a lovely Gainsborough farmhouse than it does a Van Gogh self portrait. And maybe that's why Virtue is so great. He looks with a lens that so many fail to compute. He then paints his own reflections of this era of painting on canvases the size of gymnasiums with black and while oil paint... and like Cecily Brown's, his paintings look like so much fun.

Turner paints London with grace and extreme power. He smears huge washes of black paint over intricately made buildings, bridges, and steeples. The masses can be considered in many different directions... some said it was London's fog, others said storms, shadows, one even said sin. I think they are the reflections of Constable's giant oaks, of Turners crashing waves. He took shapes from those paintings, flattened them, rethought them, and then painted them. He channels his teachers into his paints so physically and so homogeneously. Its a frozen energy and its beautiful. His translations of London somehow creep past cheesy (its so difficult to make a non-cheesy cityscape!) right into epic. Tragically and wonderfully epic.

Like the city itself, Virtue's paintings are built layer upon layer. He isn't afraid of thickness and doesn't shy from error. This jumps Virtue into the 20th century with gusto, while maintaining the structural significance of paintings past. The city is created around an academic structure, not the other way around. They aren't literal depictions. There are triangles and laterals, pyramids and squares. Tracing back to Leonardo himself.

Colin Wiggins, the chief curator of the exhibition, compares Virtue to Charles Dickens. Like Dickens before him, Virtue understands the city as a huge living, breathing and evolving organism. Quoted from Dickens' London in Our Mutual Friend,

“It was a foggy day in London and the fog was heavy and dark. Animate London, with smarting eyes and irritated lungs, was blinking, wheezing, choking; inanimate London was a sooty spectre, divided in purpose between being visible and invisible, and so being wholly neither."

It voices Virtue's paintings, doesn't it? Yet, as Virtue commented,

"I have no interest in recording a rhetorical history of London; really I'm interested in making exciting abstractions from what I perceive. So in a sense I'm not a Londoner painting London out of any roots or any kind of affection - I'm an accidental tourist here, but I intend to go on working particularly on sites around the river Thames."

He isn't taking credit for any of it... he isn't mastering London, nor is he trumping his Old Master superstars. He is simply feeling the city and feeling the grand history of art creep into his huge paintbrushes and grand brushstrokes. Virtue's work is both humble and dominant which makes us all love him and his works with intention.

My own works were on a much more personal scale... pieces of paper smeared with ink over city and sky (Ink, Line, and Sky is the title of my final series.) They can be held and touched and tucked away quietly without a trace of 'epic' or 'grand' or 'dominant'. It is Virtue's interest and love in history that I channel. That I also love.

Although...maybe its not only his Old Master romanticism that I admire. I have to admit how phenomenal it would feel to have gymnasium-sized canvases, buckets of gesso, and the National Gallery vaults at my fingertips... at my beck-and-call. How lovely it would be to step out of my studio onto the rooftop overlooking Trafalgar's Square in the morning with a cup of coffee in an ink-stained apron. Hey. A girl can dream. :)

Milk

Harvey Milk makes us all look lazy (as most martyrs will.) It was San Francisco in the 70's and gay pride was suddenly a thing. Blame the war, blame the hippies, blame revolution-- but suddenly gay neighborhoods started feeling something other than shame... they were proud and happy and joyous.

Gay men and women in America had been told for 200 years, since America's bright and shining existence, that they aren't normal, that something is wrong with them. They were being called the devil and that they were the evil amongst good. That they are the problem and an embodiment of sin. Gay teenagers were killing themselves in shame and desperation. Violent raids and riots were breaking out in neighborhoods like the Castro, and the people's elected officials weren't doing anything. They were actually part of the problem.

But suddenly it was 1970 and there was San Francisco and a camera shop owner named Harvey Milk decided to make some changes. His story is one of heartbreak and hope, love and revolution. What a funny thing to have to fight for, right? Love and acceptance? Harvey Milk died so that others could live-- sounds super familiar, doesn't it...

Sean Penn stared as Milk, with James Franco, Emile Hirsch, Josh Brolin, and Allison Pill as his world. The film jumps between real footage and acting which creates a very clear idea of what this movement felt like. The film stills absolutely mirror the photograph's I've seen of Milk and his campaign which validate its deep sadness and real joy.

This is one of the first movies about gay pride to make a splash in contemporary culture which is kind of shocking. Brokeback Mountain, sure, but this is about openly gay relationships, not hidden, contraband ones. Always use the steps when you come here, Milk told Cleve at San Francisco's city hall. Wear the tightest jeans you can find. You can make a grander entrance that way. And always with Sean Penn's stunning and heartfelt smile.

Milk believed deeply in being yourself, being proud, loving fully. He didn't try to hetero-ize himself or his campaign for the good of the vote. This was extremely risky for a state and a legislature seeing an openly gay man run for the first time. Wouldn't it have been easier had he quieted it down a bit? Snuck in and took over slowly over time? It wasn't Milk's way. There is nothing to be ashamed of, he told the nation. I am Harvey Milk and I am here to recruit you!

The win was beautiful. Glorious. The rein was everything it should be. And we all knew, every one of us, that he was eventually going to be shot. I, however, was not at all prepared for the embodiment and the aftermath of that crime. Fellow Supervisor Dan White shot both Milk and the Mayor their own offices after losing his governmental position over a gay issue vote. It wasn't a mystery, it wasn't a sniper or a hit and run. It was a man with a gun in a room. He served five years for manslaughter. Five years. For manslaughter. The defense arguing that White's bad diet of junk food and sweets caused a chemical imbalance that caused him to commit murder. WHAT?!

After Milk's death, 30,000 people marched the streets in a candlelit vigil, mourning the death of a man so very imperitave to the lives of so many. His life and death rocked the world. It was beautiful.

And as I just read on Wikipedia, writer John Cloud remarked on his influence, "After he defied the governing class of San Francisco in 1977 to become a member of its board of supervisors, many people—straight and gay—had to adjust to a new reality he embodied: that a gay person could live an honest life and succeed." YA THINK!? We've still a long way to go, America...

Sleepwalk with Me

I laughed and laughed and laughed at Mike Birbiglia's show Saturday night at the Bleecker Street Theater. Best feeling ever. We laughed until our heads were floating above us and nothing in the world seemed to matter because everything in the world was funny. I love that feeling, and I haven't felt it in far too long. (Well, that's not true. I recently realized that physical feeling of a good laugh is the same light-as-air feeling that we get from a really hard cry... how unfortunate.) Laughter of this degree comes from good storytelling, not comedy alone. And while Sleepwalk with Me could be categorized as stand-up, it held its own as a story, which made this show stunningly unique.

I first heard of Mike Birbiglia on This American Life, the Fear of Sleep episode. (Listen to it immediately... there is also a super interesting story about The Shining and an even more interesting bit about understanding death through sleep. The human mind astounds me!)

His tone is extremely endearing and his comedy is very clean and not the least bit crude. Well, obviously, as I first heard him on NPR. But he isn't trying to be clean, he isn't trying to be family friendly... he just uses real life as a jumping point, and his real life and his real person are respectful and deeply feeling. I don't usually like stand-up comedy for the reason that it is too easy. Its so easy to jump into vulgarity and to make fun of audience members while being overtly inapproprite. Its so base. Its talentless and cheap.

Birbiglia, on the other hand, talks about love and sex and family with respect and honor, but makes it FUNNY. So funny. So in addition to laughter we feel heart. He's a good guy. These honest good guy qualities--from his opening instructions for us to turn off our cell phones to his closing comments about finally relating to his distant father--make every audience member fall in love with him.

This is what happens when we create a platform for everyday people who are good at telling stories. He reminds me of my friend Cale. He could have been at our dinner table, he could have been in our living room, late in the evening, with wine and lingering laughter. The difference is that he hints at an event, an epic event, then takes the entire two hours or so to get there. There is no one to interrupt or jump in with thier own anticdotes, as often happens when Cale tells stories. And we don't get frusterated by his wandering... that takes talent. We let Mike speak and are grateful for it. The story ebbs and flows, in and out of his life in his twenties, so familiar that we nod along amidst the song-like laughter.

We learn bits an pieces of his life building up to a grand moment that of course doesn't disappoint when we finally arrive. Its a one-two punch, a shuffle-ball-change, but real and epic and larger that life. I turned to my friend Meghan so many times, whispering in her ear our own funnies, our own embarrassing memories from a life growing up awkwardly and together. He was a catalyst, after all, for not taking ourselves too seriously. Thank goodness for that.

If you live in New York City, I highly recommend this show. Its local, off-Broadway theater done really really well. And as my boy Ira Glass has said... hurry and catch him before he gets too famous.

Un conte de Noël

Un conte de Noël, or A Christmas Tale (as unfortunately translated in English) was my Movie Monday pick of the week. We went to the IFC, which is my favorite theater as they play short films before evening's feature. The chosen short this Monday was a lovely 4 minutes of an overweight synchronized swimmer swimming her little heart out... love that someone decided to make a movie about that! Anyway...

Un conte de Noël is a dark french tale of a family brought together by life threatening illness during the Christmas holiday. As previously mentioned, this film held my favorite set-up-- a bunch of people in a house for a weekend, all talk talk talk. The Family Stone meets The Big Chill meets Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal. The characters and sequences are announced with doom-- a la Luhrmann-- and the main players took turns with camera-facing soliloquies-- a la Ferris Bueller. Incroyable!

Mathieu Amalric stars as Henri, the problem-child turned problem-adult. Love him. I last saw Amalric in Le Scaphandre et le papillon (The Diving Bell and The Butterfly), where his stunning performance made me sob uncontrollably for the entire evening. He clearly didn't disappoint my irrational emotional reactions in Un conte de Noël either, as I literally passed out after this film. The man can act. (That-- or my notoriously light head couldn't handle the very frank and very realistic bone marrow transplant sequence. Blechk.)

The film opens with a brief family histoire followed by the banishment of Henri from the Vuillard family, as demanded by Elizabeth, the eldest. Five years later, Junon (Mama Vuillard) discovers a rare disease that can only be cured by a very specific bone marrow transplant that could kill her, the donor, or both. Da da daaaaaa... What follows is a not-so-nice return of the prodigal son into his estranged family's fete de Noel. And guess whose dark and twisty blood ends up being a perfect match... Et voila.

The family interactions slide right past dysfunctional into settled disdain. Snapping, punching, ignoring, glaring, don't-you-dare-come-near-me, hard and dirty disdain. Super gratifying for the viewer. A friend of mine recently criticized our mutual reactions and interactions as being Minnesota-nice. While it stung at the time, more honest verbalizations may have avoided a fall-out of massive proportions. What if we weren't afraid of onlookers overhearing our words, what if we could say anything to anyone and work it out solidly? Stop tiptoeing, stop with the it's okay, it's okay, it's okays...

If everything is spattered on the table, we are able to love and not-love as we please. The family lash-outs do mirror Rachel Getting Married, but in a much darker, French noir-ness (noir-ness?). Its all somewhat refreshing. Don't you love me anymore, Mother? asks Henri. I never loved you, answers Junon with a smirk.

The tone of course crosses to joy (love, even!) as battles are dissolved and jingle bells are hung. Champagne, tinsel, fireworks, snowfall, paper crowns, figgy pudding, fa-la-la. It is A Christmas Tale, afterall, despite the darkness and the depth. The film creates closure without discrediting its art. These people aren't going to kiss and make up, they aren't going to change into a grand sense of togetherness. But they do begin to throw approving glances, they do meet with smiling eyes and a greater understanding of self and understanding of other. And despite the horrific and super realistic bone-marrow transplant final scene... we left with a bit of that understanding too.

Gossip Girl

I am slowly coming to terms with two things:

1) I actually don't have time in my life to watch television.
2) I am not as smart as NY Mag Daily Intel.

So... I haven't seen any of this season of Gossip Girl, even though it is the best show ever. However... I do read about it every week on my favorite blog. Even if you don't watch Gossip Girl (you should) and even if you are pretty sure you are too good for it (you're not), read this. Its brilliant... such smart writing. (I mean, come on. They reference Matlida in this week's blog, along with the Spin Doctors and 'slutty apricots'. So funny.) Reading NY Mag's recap will quickly become one of the best parts of your week. And read all of the comments as well-- New Yorkers are amazing in their wit and genuine enthusiasm.

Honestly, the blog might be better than the show. Funny how that happened... a show about a blog... :)

xoxo...

Richard Avedon

We all perform. It’s what we do for each other all the time, deliberately or unintentionally. It’s a way of telling about ourselves in the hope of being recognized as what we’d like to be.

-Richard Avedon

I was pleasantly surprised by the Richard Avedon Performance opening at Pace last Thursday. It was a very rare exhibit for Chelsea, and perhaps a safe one in this economy. This is work that we want to look at, photos that make us smile. After all, Avedon is a fashion photographer... one of the best. This show wasn't announced a month ago when I called them for show info for my Chelsea guide, which causes me to wonder if this was a star-studded filler for a waning world of collectors. Like busting out The Nutcracker whenever the ballet hits rough roads. But that's simply this non-expert's outsider speculation...

Like I said, I was pleasantly surprised. The last show at Pace was a horrific display of Keith Tyson sculptures that looked like a sour attempt at awakening Mondrian's perfect little squares. (Bummer, because I usually love Tyson and i absolutely worship Mondrian.) Avedon was the opposite... zero guess, zero quease, zero quandary. It celebrated the celebrity and the art of high-gloss black and white portraiture. And everyone showed up for the occasion... the Beatles were there, as was Marilyn. Paul Simon and Carly and Dylan. Bridget Bardot and Charlie Chaplin (pictured) and Audrey Hepburn mid-kick.

The show was about the performer, about the act of performing. Avedon saw performance as an innate quality within all of us. Performing is human nature, its just that some channel it into careers and lifestyles and others work it into our daily interactions indeterminately. Simple, straight forward, refreshing.

Aaron, Daniel, and I slowly circumambulated the space, pointing and smiling, taking turns with our adoring exclamations. There wasn't much to argue at this show (we made up for it at Tony Shafrazi about ten minutes later) there was more to agree upon. The air was light and friendly and nostalgic-- everyone sipping champagne and floating along happily. Again... I have to wonder if this show is perhaps the safe direction to which galleries will turn during these tragic times? I desperately hope not, but for the time being, Avedon cleared my head and turned up the corners of my mouth, just as these performers intended.

In America

I somehow missed In America when it originally came out in theaters. Shocking, as it touches upon all of my favorite things: New York, art, and love. My friend Katie brought it to me as a gift tonight, in a 'how I fell in love with New York' birthday package. (Also included were Working Girl and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, both of which I am greedily awaiting to bite into.) These are the ways that Katie fell in love with this city before her arrival and now she is giving them to me. Lovely, right? Katie, Kate, and I watched it last night with generous glasses of Cabernet and tears in our throats.

In America opens with a young Irish immigrant family reacting to seeing Manhattan, their new home, for the first time. Its the same feeling that we all had in varying degrees as we first entered-- promise. New York City: Where All Your Dreams Come True. It's New York's oldest and dearest story and is told once again through the eyes of two young girls, their dreamer father, and their mother Sarah's strong Irish blood.

The tale mirrors both A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and The Glass Castle, two of my favorite books. Not only is it told through the voice of a young girl, but its told without pity, complaint, or sorrow. The father is named Johnny, the same as in Betty Smith's tale, and is just as big of dreamer. He is more grounded than the former Johnny, but equally Irish, equally poor. Its a bittersweet telling, because even the good and happy parts are tainted with a sadness of not quite being okay. Not yet. The little things seem better and the family is stronger under the lens of poverty and struggle.

The family befriends Mateo, a tall, strong, African painter living in their dilapidated building. He is a stunning artist who feels his anger with paint and gesture. He is HIV positive, we quickly learn, and displaces his rage and anger with a deep love toward Johnny and Sarah's family. Are you in love with Sarah? Johnny asks in fear. Mateo's answer is one of the most poignant and loving voices I've heard coming out of an illness that will surely kill him.

No... he answers, I'm in love with you. And I'm in love with your beautiful woman. And I'm in love with your kids. And I'm even in love with your unborn child. I'm even in love with your anger! I'm in love with anything that lives!

We feel grace and love and pain in the deepest sense as we watch the Johnny struggle, Mateo die, and a new baby fight for her new life in America. We hold our breaths and wince as we watch a father prove his love for his daughter through a carnival game and an E.T. doll. We scream with Sarah as she makes up for a lost child with the desperate hope of a new one.

It is Sarah, after all, who is the stronghold of this family. Sarah as Gaia, the earth goddess, with her feet firmly planted in this New World, with vines and fruit wrapping and stabilizing a family that is a mere floating orb held together by love. But it is also Sarah, the strong, who is set on fire with anger and passion and fear and want. She believes in Johnny because she loves him, not because she wants to. Its a love story that will never end, one that cannot be torn by the petty struggles of those with plenty. One that exists as two people steering a ship together toward the same shore. Its hearty and real and lasting. Even though it is hard. So hard.

The young girls in this film are extraordinary. Christie and Ariel exist as Smith's Francie and Neeley: the protector and the innocent. Christie's brow is furrowed in worry and her eyes are constantly scanning for what could go wrong and how she can soften it. In contrast, Ariel sees America as a constant adventure. She is Alice chasing white rabbits as Christie furiously paints the white flowers red. Its Christie, in the end, who heals the family. She takes the dreamer, the earth goddess, and the adventurer and snaps them into a place where they can move on together, a forward chasing vector, toward a real future in America. Not just a spinning dream anymore.

In America reminded me once more of why New York is great and why it is essential. Its a hope and a promise. A place for dreamers and for workers, for lovers and for fighters. Katie, Kate, and I-- all new New Yorkers who moved here not long ago with dreams and hopes and wishes bigger than ourselves-- fell for this city all over again with tears our eyes. The three of us are struggling too, it seems, but thank goodness-and-mercy that we can struggle here, in a city strong enough to carry us through.