Watched 'Perfume' tonight. I've never read the book, and my opinion is still solidifying about the movie. In the middle, I was thinking, bah, this is no good at all. Well, they could have done without Dustin Hoffman, for one thing. But this is not meant to be a review of the film. I'm not in the mood for that. The themes, however, got me thinking. The film is beautifully shot, and the focus is on senses. People praise the filmmakers for being able to capture scents through film, though I don't find this any more impressive than doing it through writing. Film is another way of telling stories, and we communicate our sensory experiences through language, story telling . . . this is natural. I'm getting off-track. The film made me think about the concept of being a 'sensualist,' which is, I suppose, one way I would describe myself. All artists, at their cores, I imagine, are sensualists. All creative people . . . and craftspeople as well, because perfecting a craft requires an acute sensory attunement to whatever it is one is crafting, be it bread (smell, touch, taste, sight, sound), shoes (touch, sight, sound, smell), perfume (smell . . . sight? taste?), painting (sight, touch). I often (often) ask myself if I might be happy simply as a craftsperson, but I think the reality is that I am too much of an intellectual (read: I enjoy intellectual meanderings, not: I am intelligent) to be satisfied with craft alone.
But this is not exactly the point I intended to get at either. There is more dealing with the themes of the film -- this desire to possess these sort of intangible, ephemeral essences of life, to put in a bottle the scent of beauty, to make the transient eternal, to hold something which cannot be held. This is one of my driving forces as an artist, one I have ignored, neglected, since I decided I shouldn't be a photographer in the 12th grade. I thought, I am trying to make a document which contains my life, and this is impossible, and in attempting to make this document, not only am I guaranteeing disappointment, but I am also failing to live my life in the present, but instead am only experiencing life for the express purpose of creating and preserving a memory. Well.
I walk through cities. I make notes to myself: "the smell of hops and yeast," "an asian couple wearing mickey-mouse earmuffs," "the damp cold, my aching bones," "fireworks light up the foggy horizon like some celebratory battlefield," "buskers on the Paris metro," "inviting lips," "the smell of sauerkraut," "the click-click-tap of rose pastilles in my mouth bouncing against my teeth," "santas playing bagpipes in front of Jenner's department store." I want to capture these things, in a story, in a work of art. I want to place them somewhere for view again and again, where I can study them, use them, try to understand them, possess them.
I am writing a story. It is self-indulgent, sensual, sexy. In it I have the chance to sleep with all the beautiful men and walk away unscathed. I can control every aspect of my world. I say to myself, "is this art, is this literature, or is this pornography?" Should I get off on writing a story? Or, perhaps more importantly, should I feel guilty for getting off on writing a story?
Lars von Trier wrote this: "There is only one excuse for living through -- and forcing others to live through -- the hell of the filmmaking process: The carnal satisfaction in that fraction of a second when the cinema's loudspeakers and projector in unison and inexplicably give rise to the illusion of motion and sound like an electron leaving its orbit and thus creating light, in order to create ONLY ONE THING: a miraculous breath of life! . . . For here is my confession: LARS VON TRIER, A SIMPLE MASTURBATOR OF THE SILVER SCREEN."
(yes, I recognize how disturbing this revelation is in view of such works as 'Breaking the Waves,' and 'Dogville,' but this isn't so much about Lars von Trier or his work as it is about the statement removed from any context.)
I have no conclusion tonight, I'm leaving this To Be Continued (or maybe I've said all I want to say on the matter?). Thoughts? You're always so quiet.
27 December 2006
18 December 2006
Notes from Paris
From the Paris journal:
Friday, 15 December
Dear Jana,
I sit in a Greek restaurant in Paris, nearly empty, staring at a decrepit boar's head hanging from the wall. The maître d'/waiter is busy outside trying to lure customers. He says, "François, Español, English?" "Oui, anglais," I reply.
To my left, over the stairs, hang a variety of masks and plates from Malaysia, Buenos Aires, Martinique. The dolmades have come. They are not impressive. Neither is the wine. Tomorrow I have to eat in a French cafe. . . I should have listened to David Sedaris' Paris episode of This American Life before I left. I think I chose this restaurant because I felt confident the waiter would be nice to me.
This pen says 'Paris' on it, with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. When I bought it, the man in the empty souvenir shop tricked me into kissing him twice. Then he said, "In France, we kiss three times -- here, here, and here," pointing once to each cheek and finally to his lips. "Uh huh. Pardon, au revoir." I remember a time years ago, at a party very drunk and very high, a college boy pulled a similar trick. The Frenchman stank of cologne. I felt dirty, but only for a minute. On my way out, a handsome man asked for money for some children's charity. "I'm sorry, I have no money to give you." "But it's for the chiiiiiiiiildren," he whined as I walked away.
At the Eiffel Tower I decided the lines were too long. I walked along the Seine and thought of "Before Sunrise." Then I walked down the Blvd. Saint Germaine and felt a bit warm and satisfied.
The music in this restaurant is nice, and so is the wine, even though it isn't.
In Paris, couples are constantly kissing. There were two handsome young people climbing on one another to make out on a bench under the Eiffel Tower.
Here is the main . . . The pork is bland and fatty. The rice is cold. The potato isn't even good. How do you screw up a potato? People walk by and stop, contemplating coming in, reading the menu. I try to send them telepathic messages: "Don't be fooled. Keep walking. What you've heard is wrong; you can find lousy food in Paris." Ah, the boar's head should have been a dead give-away. Maybe the baklava will be good anyway.
This waiter -- slicked back hair, big mustache, soul patch. A piece of work. Would I . . . No, probably not. Too greasy.
More plates: Guatemala, Puerto Rico, Bahamas, New Orleans, Hawaii, Australia, Singapore, Canada, London, New York-2000, Trinidad, Stockholm, Thailand.
Look at the waiter leering at the evening strollers. He is feeling desperate, I can sense it. The winter is hard. His business might fail. Better food would help. Word of mouth is important.
The weather is beautiful. Fog in the morning burned off by noon, sunny day, warm, perfect, global warming, perfect.
Waiting for my baklava and coffee. At least I am in no hurry, soaking up the bricolage atmosphere of this sub-par Parisian Greek establishment. If I were Parisian I would have demanded my dessert by now. I'm not even a decent American – too meek. C'est la vie. C'est moi.
Half hour. Oh wow, the baklava isn't even good. I think I’m actually impressed. They survive quite well for being so across-the-board lousy.
Saturday, 16 December
Dear Me,
[penned while enjoying onion soup and Perrier in a charming French café hidden behind a winter market in an out-of-the-way courtyard] The rain today has made me feel ill. That, and the crowds, and the scratchy socks I'm wearing, and the fact that all I've eaten is a pain au chocolat and a can of coke. The crowds in department stores today, this rainy Saturday two weeks before Christmas, were enormous. Of course. The one – what was it called? [Printemps] Went up 9 floors, had window displays with expertly choreographed dancing teapots and table settings, and crowds, no, hordes of families – little children, couples, tourists – were gathered staring. I guess it must be the same in New York, London.
On the metro a couple danced while a busker sang 'Imagine' in a thick and nasally French accent, with an amp pumping out karaoke accompaniment.
Sunday, 17 December
My maternal grandmother makes an infinite amount of sense in the context of Paris. Did she take extravagant shopping vacations here as a young woman? Or . . . maybe this is what New York high society was like in the 1950s. The chain mail clutch purses, fancy mahjong sets, old women with impossible hats impossibly balanced on impossible coiffures, above impossibly painted-up faces, and outfits so gaudy they've come back around to the height of fashion, teetering on the thimble-size points of dangerously high heels, every blue curl in place, spooning raspberry parfait into their violently red mouths. My grandmother would have loved this. This is the world she was so desperately trying to recreate with each passing year, to locate within the decaying walls and sunken faces of Catskill resorts in the 1990s.
The 21 year old Mexican tango dancer from Monterrey staying in my hostel, called Andrés, is reading, "Los Hombres son de Marte, Los Mujeres son de Venus." He has a baby face, is useless on his own, but when I close my eyes and listen to him speaking to his mother on the phone in Spanish, in that deep Mexican accent, he is the most beautiful man I have ever known. There is something about a Latin accent that gets me every time. And I miss my baker, my sweet man, mi hombre impossible, mi novio incomprehensible. Funny what Paris does to the loins.
Friday, 15 December
Dear Jana,
I sit in a Greek restaurant in Paris, nearly empty, staring at a decrepit boar's head hanging from the wall. The maître d'/waiter is busy outside trying to lure customers. He says, "François, Español, English?" "Oui, anglais," I reply.
To my left, over the stairs, hang a variety of masks and plates from Malaysia, Buenos Aires, Martinique. The dolmades have come. They are not impressive. Neither is the wine. Tomorrow I have to eat in a French cafe. . . I should have listened to David Sedaris' Paris episode of This American Life before I left. I think I chose this restaurant because I felt confident the waiter would be nice to me.
This pen says 'Paris' on it, with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. When I bought it, the man in the empty souvenir shop tricked me into kissing him twice. Then he said, "In France, we kiss three times -- here, here, and here," pointing once to each cheek and finally to his lips. "Uh huh. Pardon, au revoir." I remember a time years ago, at a party very drunk and very high, a college boy pulled a similar trick. The Frenchman stank of cologne. I felt dirty, but only for a minute. On my way out, a handsome man asked for money for some children's charity. "I'm sorry, I have no money to give you." "But it's for the chiiiiiiiiildren," he whined as I walked away.
At the Eiffel Tower I decided the lines were too long. I walked along the Seine and thought of "Before Sunrise." Then I walked down the Blvd. Saint Germaine and felt a bit warm and satisfied.
The music in this restaurant is nice, and so is the wine, even though it isn't.
In Paris, couples are constantly kissing. There were two handsome young people climbing on one another to make out on a bench under the Eiffel Tower.
Here is the main . . . The pork is bland and fatty. The rice is cold. The potato isn't even good. How do you screw up a potato? People walk by and stop, contemplating coming in, reading the menu. I try to send them telepathic messages: "Don't be fooled. Keep walking. What you've heard is wrong; you can find lousy food in Paris." Ah, the boar's head should have been a dead give-away. Maybe the baklava will be good anyway.
This waiter -- slicked back hair, big mustache, soul patch. A piece of work. Would I . . . No, probably not. Too greasy.
More plates: Guatemala, Puerto Rico, Bahamas, New Orleans, Hawaii, Australia, Singapore, Canada, London, New York-2000, Trinidad, Stockholm, Thailand.
Look at the waiter leering at the evening strollers. He is feeling desperate, I can sense it. The winter is hard. His business might fail. Better food would help. Word of mouth is important.
The weather is beautiful. Fog in the morning burned off by noon, sunny day, warm, perfect, global warming, perfect.
Waiting for my baklava and coffee. At least I am in no hurry, soaking up the bricolage atmosphere of this sub-par Parisian Greek establishment. If I were Parisian I would have demanded my dessert by now. I'm not even a decent American – too meek. C'est la vie. C'est moi.
Half hour. Oh wow, the baklava isn't even good. I think I’m actually impressed. They survive quite well for being so across-the-board lousy.
Saturday, 16 December
Dear Me,
[penned while enjoying onion soup and Perrier in a charming French café hidden behind a winter market in an out-of-the-way courtyard] The rain today has made me feel ill. That, and the crowds, and the scratchy socks I'm wearing, and the fact that all I've eaten is a pain au chocolat and a can of coke. The crowds in department stores today, this rainy Saturday two weeks before Christmas, were enormous. Of course. The one – what was it called? [Printemps] Went up 9 floors, had window displays with expertly choreographed dancing teapots and table settings, and crowds, no, hordes of families – little children, couples, tourists – were gathered staring. I guess it must be the same in New York, London.
On the metro a couple danced while a busker sang 'Imagine' in a thick and nasally French accent, with an amp pumping out karaoke accompaniment.
Sunday, 17 December
My maternal grandmother makes an infinite amount of sense in the context of Paris. Did she take extravagant shopping vacations here as a young woman? Or . . . maybe this is what New York high society was like in the 1950s. The chain mail clutch purses, fancy mahjong sets, old women with impossible hats impossibly balanced on impossible coiffures, above impossibly painted-up faces, and outfits so gaudy they've come back around to the height of fashion, teetering on the thimble-size points of dangerously high heels, every blue curl in place, spooning raspberry parfait into their violently red mouths. My grandmother would have loved this. This is the world she was so desperately trying to recreate with each passing year, to locate within the decaying walls and sunken faces of Catskill resorts in the 1990s.
The 21 year old Mexican tango dancer from Monterrey staying in my hostel, called Andrés, is reading, "Los Hombres son de Marte, Los Mujeres son de Venus." He has a baby face, is useless on his own, but when I close my eyes and listen to him speaking to his mother on the phone in Spanish, in that deep Mexican accent, he is the most beautiful man I have ever known. There is something about a Latin accent that gets me every time. And I miss my baker, my sweet man, mi hombre impossible, mi novio incomprehensible. Funny what Paris does to the loins.
12 December 2006
Pickled Irishman
I love coming home from a concert covered in bruises. I love the putrid smell of spilt beer and the sweat of 1000 Scottish men. I love the ringing in my ears.
Yes, it's true that the Pogues have to sort of prop Shane McGowan up onstage, it's true that the rest of the band seems in fine form and good health, as Shane sort of bobs and sways and looks as though the image of him standing of his own free will must be some sort of optical illusion. The band glances at him with a bit of sadness, a bit of frustration and embarrassment. My Irish friend says, well, he is a bit of an embarrassment. But the fact remains that the audience is there to see Shane, to see the spectacle and the legend. The rest of the band knows this; this is, I'm sure, the only reason they are working with him again. What's truly astonishing is that EVEN on three bottles of whiskey a day, even though he can barely stand, he's a bit bloated and unwell, nearly knocking on death's door (though he has been for years), even with all this, he can STILL fucking sing. He drank an entire bottle of Powers while performing onstage . . . I should say, he drank an entire bottle of Powers in about three goes while performing onstage (yes I did see him down half of the bottle in one go, and proceed to sing a rousing Irish traditional without hitting a single sour note, without even forgetting any words). So is he embarrassing? Or is he impressive? It's sort of bittersweet, true. I'm sure he hasn't written a song in years, and this is a bit painful when he sings these brilliant brilliant fucking songs, these songs with lyrics and melodies that simply tear you to pieces with their poetic genius, their brutal sincerity. And I know, (we all know), that if he were, by some unlikely chance, to suddenly quit drinking, he would surely drop dead immediately. I'll keep my ticket as a memento to prove the unlikely truth that I did see Shane McGowan perform with the Pogues in 2006, he already about 85% pickled, with dark sunglasses and a pirate shirt, mumbling incomprehensibly but still tearing the house down, and still STANDING, and when he spun around for nearly five minutes at the end of "Fairytale of New York," I was SURE he would fall over. But he never did, he was still standing all the way to the end.
Yes, it's true that the Pogues have to sort of prop Shane McGowan up onstage, it's true that the rest of the band seems in fine form and good health, as Shane sort of bobs and sways and looks as though the image of him standing of his own free will must be some sort of optical illusion. The band glances at him with a bit of sadness, a bit of frustration and embarrassment. My Irish friend says, well, he is a bit of an embarrassment. But the fact remains that the audience is there to see Shane, to see the spectacle and the legend. The rest of the band knows this; this is, I'm sure, the only reason they are working with him again. What's truly astonishing is that EVEN on three bottles of whiskey a day, even though he can barely stand, he's a bit bloated and unwell, nearly knocking on death's door (though he has been for years), even with all this, he can STILL fucking sing. He drank an entire bottle of Powers while performing onstage . . . I should say, he drank an entire bottle of Powers in about three goes while performing onstage (yes I did see him down half of the bottle in one go, and proceed to sing a rousing Irish traditional without hitting a single sour note, without even forgetting any words). So is he embarrassing? Or is he impressive? It's sort of bittersweet, true. I'm sure he hasn't written a song in years, and this is a bit painful when he sings these brilliant brilliant fucking songs, these songs with lyrics and melodies that simply tear you to pieces with their poetic genius, their brutal sincerity. And I know, (we all know), that if he were, by some unlikely chance, to suddenly quit drinking, he would surely drop dead immediately. I'll keep my ticket as a memento to prove the unlikely truth that I did see Shane McGowan perform with the Pogues in 2006, he already about 85% pickled, with dark sunglasses and a pirate shirt, mumbling incomprehensibly but still tearing the house down, and still STANDING, and when he spun around for nearly five minutes at the end of "Fairytale of New York," I was SURE he would fall over. But he never did, he was still standing all the way to the end.
11 December 2006
How To Marry A Millionaire
Five years ago, Martin Creed won the most prestigious award in art in the UK, the Turner Prize, for a work that consisted of a room with a light that turned on and off. In an interview, he said that the idea came to him when he was trying to figure out what to exhibit, and he couldn't decide if he should exhibit in a room with the light on or the light off . . .
Last night he gave a performance at the Royal Scottish Academy, which was not particularly impressive. He did show a really nice video of a pretty girl in cowboy boots and a short skirt vomiting large amounts of glistening red liquid onto a hard floor. The sound of the vomit hitting the floor was a highlight. Do I sound sarcastic? I don't mean to, I did like the video, and one of the songs he sang was nice as well. Other than that, he gave a sort of stilted, uncomfortable talk, which I guess was the point, but it mostly bored me and I caught myself dozing at more than one point.
Later I was introduced to a couple middle aged men, one a charming musician and the other an incredible (ugly, vulgar, immature) millionaire. At one point, the millionaire made a comment about feeling most sorry for the poor saps stuck in the middle class, as it is only those with everything or nothing that have true freedom. He went on to define the "poor saps stuck in the middle class" as those making £100,000 a year… Shortly after this, he was wagging the limp end of a pockmarked-flesh colored frankfurter in my face, claiming this was the closest he would ever come to being in a porno movie.
I think that must have been the exact moment I turned the bitch on. It might serve me well to be more pleasant to crass millionaires, but I just can't imagine how.
Funny thing, later at the party, after a few more drinks, the millionaire became a bit more eloquent and tolerable, had some decent and even thought-provoking things to say. According to this man, the amount of success and joy in one's life is directly related to the amount of risks one takes. This is a very simple and very brilliant observation, and it was at this exact moment that I began to regret turning the bitch on.
The Christmas season here is all mince pies and mulled wine and ice skating and hot cocoa and Santa hats and Christmas parties and German markets and fruitcake and furry slippers. When they put up the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round in the last week of November, I thought everybody must be completely mad. Who wants to go on a Ferris wheel in the middle of winter? I'm beginning to understand the appeal; the cold makes everything more exciting, more intimate, more immediate. People gather closer, sipping on hot rum and mulled wine, rubbing shoulders, wrapped tightly in gloved hands and wooly scarves. The talk faster and laugh harder, clap louder when the young men juggle flaming sticks for their amusement. The desire to keep warm feeds the warmth that grows, until walking through the market on a Saturday evening two weeks before Christmas, you feel you are part of something.
Je ne parle pas français . . . (?) I'm going to Paris on Wednesday. Alone, which I'm quite looking forward to. The musician I met last night had never been to Paris, because at a very young age (17 was it?) he had promised himself that he would only go to the city of love with someone with whom he was in love. Twenty years later, (more?), he has never been to Paris. I considered inviting him along with me, but I didn't.
Oh, there's a new cut and soundtrack for my squirrel video HERE, as well as a cleaned-up and very low res version of my first animation. I'll try to have a second animation up before Christmas, but I'm not sure I'll be able to swing it with all my globetrotting . . .
Last night he gave a performance at the Royal Scottish Academy, which was not particularly impressive. He did show a really nice video of a pretty girl in cowboy boots and a short skirt vomiting large amounts of glistening red liquid onto a hard floor. The sound of the vomit hitting the floor was a highlight. Do I sound sarcastic? I don't mean to, I did like the video, and one of the songs he sang was nice as well. Other than that, he gave a sort of stilted, uncomfortable talk, which I guess was the point, but it mostly bored me and I caught myself dozing at more than one point.
Later I was introduced to a couple middle aged men, one a charming musician and the other an incredible (ugly, vulgar, immature) millionaire. At one point, the millionaire made a comment about feeling most sorry for the poor saps stuck in the middle class, as it is only those with everything or nothing that have true freedom. He went on to define the "poor saps stuck in the middle class" as those making £100,000 a year… Shortly after this, he was wagging the limp end of a pockmarked-flesh colored frankfurter in my face, claiming this was the closest he would ever come to being in a porno movie.
I think that must have been the exact moment I turned the bitch on. It might serve me well to be more pleasant to crass millionaires, but I just can't imagine how.
Funny thing, later at the party, after a few more drinks, the millionaire became a bit more eloquent and tolerable, had some decent and even thought-provoking things to say. According to this man, the amount of success and joy in one's life is directly related to the amount of risks one takes. This is a very simple and very brilliant observation, and it was at this exact moment that I began to regret turning the bitch on.
The Christmas season here is all mince pies and mulled wine and ice skating and hot cocoa and Santa hats and Christmas parties and German markets and fruitcake and furry slippers. When they put up the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round in the last week of November, I thought everybody must be completely mad. Who wants to go on a Ferris wheel in the middle of winter? I'm beginning to understand the appeal; the cold makes everything more exciting, more intimate, more immediate. People gather closer, sipping on hot rum and mulled wine, rubbing shoulders, wrapped tightly in gloved hands and wooly scarves. The talk faster and laugh harder, clap louder when the young men juggle flaming sticks for their amusement. The desire to keep warm feeds the warmth that grows, until walking through the market on a Saturday evening two weeks before Christmas, you feel you are part of something.
Je ne parle pas français . . . (?) I'm going to Paris on Wednesday. Alone, which I'm quite looking forward to. The musician I met last night had never been to Paris, because at a very young age (17 was it?) he had promised himself that he would only go to the city of love with someone with whom he was in love. Twenty years later, (more?), he has never been to Paris. I considered inviting him along with me, but I didn't.
Oh, there's a new cut and soundtrack for my squirrel video HERE, as well as a cleaned-up and very low res version of my first animation. I'll try to have a second animation up before Christmas, but I'm not sure I'll be able to swing it with all my globetrotting . . .
09 December 2006
At the Artists' Retreat, the Artist Retreats.
+
My head is empty, but my belly is full. Aspiring artists also tend to be very good cooks.
02 December 2006
Notes from Budapest
(Thursday)
"Live as if you were to die tomorrow; Learn as if you were to live forever."
Dangerously handsome German artist, charming but not such a great dancer (spectacular artist, just not such a great dancer), three Polish artists, one handsome but scarred, somehow, one cute yet severe, one shockingly beautiful, beautifully ugly, all expert dancers, wild, mad on the dance floor. This club, this Hungarian dance club with a DJ and an accordion (!!!) player, seamlessly moving between American hip-hop, gypsy dance tracks, and latin salsa numbers. This was fantastic. This was worth the trip, sipping ouzo, moving slowly to the music in a sort of blissed-out haze of cold medicine, fever, and alcohol, "this is a real gypsy dance party!" Steve proclaims as he points out the accordion player letting loose in the DJ booth.
The swirl of artist talk, art discussion, leaves my head swimming, leaves me at a loss for words. I invited myself here but contributed very little. I was ill, found it hard to concentrate through the fever and cold medicine, found it hard to organize my thoughts. "Jana is being very quiet," proclaims the mad curator. The people, the talks, the exhibitions, the experience leave me speechless. I'm still (still) trying to understand why art (my art) is important, and what it is that i "do." And I'm so sexually frustrated I can hardly see straight. And what about those six months with the baker in Seattle? Because no matter how much I like to think it was a different life, and a different me, it wasn't. How does that reconcile with this world, this academic, intellectual, esoteric (recondite, obscure...) fantasy land, and what is holding me back, and what is propelling me forward, and when (when?) will I give in and commit, completely, to my art?
(do I actually have something to say?) (am I just a leach? a parasite?) (am I actually dim?) (will they find me out?)
WORKING CLASS vs ACADEMY/ARTISTS/INTELLECTUALS (with MONEY)
(motivations, lifestyles, values, etc)
Working class:
Sex, Drink, Hobbies (crafts, art?), TV (cartoons?!), Comedy, Gossip, History (PERSONAL history), Family, Obligation (Duty, Necessity), Tradition, Drugs, Movies.
Academy/Artists/Intellectuals:
Debate, Art Practice (production), Sex, Drink, Film, Connections, Networking, Gossip, History (Political, Art, Personal), Desire, Ambition, Deconstruction, Subversion, Drugs.
...(*Epiphany*) It feels like play but it is WORK -- this exhibition, the drinks, the talks, the parties, this is how the art world Works. Connections, introductions, networking, leads to projects in Germany, New York, Collaborations with Hungarian artists, Polish artists . . .
[I dreamt about (nearly) sleeping with the German artist last night. It felt good.]
Turkish Baths -- natural hot springs feed these huge, ornate pools that open onto the sky, white steam rising thick into the crisp evening air, old men sit in the corner of the pools, with bathing caps on, playing chess on stone tables that emerge from the sulfured water, as impossible bodies (impossible!) shed robes and dip toes, bellies as big as pony kegs (no exaggeration).
[...Am I trying to break into a BOY's CLUB? All the women here are Curators, or Artist's Girlfriends (even if they are artists themselves), or High-Priced Call Girls. What The Fuck? ...]
(Friday:)
My first and only free day in Budapest. Also, the first day of advent (the Christmas Market opened today). Lunch with a former conspirator/lover/revolutionary of my mother. He is more put together and reserved than I expected, tall, grey hair, and aging quite well. He seems utterly freaked out. Takes me to a nice place near the college where I have a schnitzel bigger than my head and a cup of tea. He has a beer and slowly begins talking. I don't ask about the past, but he is reluctant at first to answer the questions I do ask -- how did you end up in Budapest? What are you working on now? He talks about a film about gypsy music (!!!), but creative problems with the producer leave a bad aftertaste, so I don't push it. A book about market halls, another interesting topic. I talk a bit about myself, my path, about my family and my mom (was I supposed to tell him mom's writing a memoir?). They went to Woodstock together. I feel warm to him, though awkward. He is intelligent, and working on interesting projects. He says, "Ask your mother what it was like working at the Cafe A-Go-Go the night Eric Clapton played." (I did, she claims to remember nothing.) Finally, I say, "Is it weird, me contacting you like this, this meeting?" He says yes, very, he's still not sure how it happened. I try to explain, but I'm not so sure myself. He shows me a small market hall (hidden!!) and gives me directions to a larger one. I take his picture. He looks doubtful. In the end I feel a sudden desire to embrace him, so praise this european custom of farewells with a kiss (always, always with a kiss, all the beautiful artists kissed me, how lovely!).
Walk to a huge indoor market hall just as it is closing, just in time to buy some paprika, use the loo, and take some photos. Walk up by the Danube and look across to the Buda side. Breathtaking. Wander down a pedestrian road and buy a hat, then notice crowds of people so I follow them and find the Christmas Market (opening night!), complete with huge tree, nativity, and bandstand. I wander around for hours, buy some things (candles, transylvanian cake -- delicious! -- glühwein), watch the performances. First a band with bagpipes (?!?) plays traditional christmas songs, then a gypsy band. Not great, but wonderful in the context. There is a man with a hawk, ignoring the crowd he is attracting, listening to the music. Beautiful bird. Insane (no, not insane) man. I watch. He sits next to a woman and a baby. That bird next to a baby?! Eventually she leaves. Two old men dance on opposite sides of the audience (I should have bought some gypsy music here). I stare at the man with the hawk. He looks like an american actor. I think about sitting next to him, trying to start a conversation, going home with him. I don't do it. The music ends, our paths diverge.
Pictures?
"Live as if you were to die tomorrow; Learn as if you were to live forever."
Dangerously handsome German artist, charming but not such a great dancer (spectacular artist, just not such a great dancer), three Polish artists, one handsome but scarred, somehow, one cute yet severe, one shockingly beautiful, beautifully ugly, all expert dancers, wild, mad on the dance floor. This club, this Hungarian dance club with a DJ and an accordion (!!!) player, seamlessly moving between American hip-hop, gypsy dance tracks, and latin salsa numbers. This was fantastic. This was worth the trip, sipping ouzo, moving slowly to the music in a sort of blissed-out haze of cold medicine, fever, and alcohol, "this is a real gypsy dance party!" Steve proclaims as he points out the accordion player letting loose in the DJ booth.
The swirl of artist talk, art discussion, leaves my head swimming, leaves me at a loss for words. I invited myself here but contributed very little. I was ill, found it hard to concentrate through the fever and cold medicine, found it hard to organize my thoughts. "Jana is being very quiet," proclaims the mad curator. The people, the talks, the exhibitions, the experience leave me speechless. I'm still (still) trying to understand why art (my art) is important, and what it is that i "do." And I'm so sexually frustrated I can hardly see straight. And what about those six months with the baker in Seattle? Because no matter how much I like to think it was a different life, and a different me, it wasn't. How does that reconcile with this world, this academic, intellectual, esoteric (recondite, obscure...) fantasy land, and what is holding me back, and what is propelling me forward, and when (when?) will I give in and commit, completely, to my art?
(do I actually have something to say?) (am I just a leach? a parasite?) (am I actually dim?) (will they find me out?)
WORKING CLASS vs ACADEMY/ARTISTS/INTELLECTUALS (with MONEY)
(motivations, lifestyles, values, etc)
Working class:
Sex, Drink, Hobbies (crafts, art?), TV (cartoons?!), Comedy, Gossip, History (PERSONAL history), Family, Obligation (Duty, Necessity), Tradition, Drugs, Movies.
Academy/Artists/Intellectuals:
Debate, Art Practice (production), Sex, Drink, Film, Connections, Networking, Gossip, History (Political, Art, Personal), Desire, Ambition, Deconstruction, Subversion, Drugs.
...(*Epiphany*) It feels like play but it is WORK -- this exhibition, the drinks, the talks, the parties, this is how the art world Works. Connections, introductions, networking, leads to projects in Germany, New York, Collaborations with Hungarian artists, Polish artists . . .
[I dreamt about (nearly) sleeping with the German artist last night. It felt good.]
Turkish Baths -- natural hot springs feed these huge, ornate pools that open onto the sky, white steam rising thick into the crisp evening air, old men sit in the corner of the pools, with bathing caps on, playing chess on stone tables that emerge from the sulfured water, as impossible bodies (impossible!) shed robes and dip toes, bellies as big as pony kegs (no exaggeration).
[...Am I trying to break into a BOY's CLUB? All the women here are Curators, or Artist's Girlfriends (even if they are artists themselves), or High-Priced Call Girls. What The Fuck? ...]
(Friday:)
My first and only free day in Budapest. Also, the first day of advent (the Christmas Market opened today). Lunch with a former conspirator/lover/revolutionary of my mother. He is more put together and reserved than I expected, tall, grey hair, and aging quite well. He seems utterly freaked out. Takes me to a nice place near the college where I have a schnitzel bigger than my head and a cup of tea. He has a beer and slowly begins talking. I don't ask about the past, but he is reluctant at first to answer the questions I do ask -- how did you end up in Budapest? What are you working on now? He talks about a film about gypsy music (!!!), but creative problems with the producer leave a bad aftertaste, so I don't push it. A book about market halls, another interesting topic. I talk a bit about myself, my path, about my family and my mom (was I supposed to tell him mom's writing a memoir?). They went to Woodstock together. I feel warm to him, though awkward. He is intelligent, and working on interesting projects. He says, "Ask your mother what it was like working at the Cafe A-Go-Go the night Eric Clapton played." (I did, she claims to remember nothing.) Finally, I say, "Is it weird, me contacting you like this, this meeting?" He says yes, very, he's still not sure how it happened. I try to explain, but I'm not so sure myself. He shows me a small market hall (hidden!!) and gives me directions to a larger one. I take his picture. He looks doubtful. In the end I feel a sudden desire to embrace him, so praise this european custom of farewells with a kiss (always, always with a kiss, all the beautiful artists kissed me, how lovely!).
Walk to a huge indoor market hall just as it is closing, just in time to buy some paprika, use the loo, and take some photos. Walk up by the Danube and look across to the Buda side. Breathtaking. Wander down a pedestrian road and buy a hat, then notice crowds of people so I follow them and find the Christmas Market (opening night!), complete with huge tree, nativity, and bandstand. I wander around for hours, buy some things (candles, transylvanian cake -- delicious! -- glühwein), watch the performances. First a band with bagpipes (?!?) plays traditional christmas songs, then a gypsy band. Not great, but wonderful in the context. There is a man with a hawk, ignoring the crowd he is attracting, listening to the music. Beautiful bird. Insane (no, not insane) man. I watch. He sits next to a woman and a baby. That bird next to a baby?! Eventually she leaves. Two old men dance on opposite sides of the audience (I should have bought some gypsy music here). I stare at the man with the hawk. He looks like an american actor. I think about sitting next to him, trying to start a conversation, going home with him. I don't do it. The music ends, our paths diverge.
Pictures?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
