kitchen_kink | Entries tagged with art

From

harlequinaide: This is just hilarious and beautiful.

I'm unclear whether it's actually by Bukowski or someone aping his style, but either way, it's brilliant.

Musicians in my friends list...

It seems to me that in the late Romantic and especially 20th century is where you can start to hear musicians taking almost orchestrated "breaths" in non-vocal music.

Discuss.

From

moominmolly, who got it from

fennel:

A blender you growl at to make it work.

Make sure to watch the movie, which is really the entire wonderful point.

ETA: I encourage you to google Kelly Dobson and just go check out her site. Especially watch "Session," part of her "machine therapy" series.

I went to YouTube and watched some Robin Cousins, some Torvill and Dean (go watch their Bolero, I mean, right now), and some Scott Hamilton. Man, the sport has come leaps and bounds, athletically speaking, in less than 30 years. In 1978, when Cousins and Hamilton were head to head at the Worlds, the men were doing single axels, and the triple lutz was the big-deal difficult jump to land. In a '94 performance of Hamilton's I just watched, where he was 36, there was commentary to the effect that he hadn't quite gotten the triple axel yet, but was hoping to become the oldest man ever to land one. By the early 90's, a few women were trying triple axels in competition, and near the turn of the century, men started landing quadruple toe loops. Watching the 2006 mens' competition, the top skaters all have quads in their programs - in combination with triples! It's completely insane. No wonder I've been feeling like there are far more falls in skating these days than there used to be - I've no doubt there are, with all of those crazy jumps. And now, with the new scoring system, scores are cumulative, so everybody's going for as many tricks as they can get. What this means is that most programs look a lot alike, and that a lot of artistry has been lost, except by the truly top people.

Overall, I have to say that in the 2006 competition, there wasn't a lot that excited me. None of the gold medalists really blew me away, and they all won because they were athletic, had decent artistry, and could skate a clean program. People like Sasha Cohen and Matt Savoie did stunning things, but these days the artistic elements count for almost nothing, and missing or falling on technical elements carries such severe penalties that there's almost no room for beauty anymore.

It's a damn shame. For a remedy, check out this.

Hamilton is the great jinxer of all skaters. I don't think I've ever seen him say something like, "Now, $Skater is known for being really effortless on these jumps, just beautiful height blah blah blah...His first combination tonight is a quad-triple..." and then have the guy not fuck it up. It's impossible. I think the Russian coaches are paying off Scott Hamilton to say good things about the other skaters' abilities RIGHT BEFORE they jump.

Kee-rist.

(Style of this post somehow stolen from

wurmwyd. Sorry, dear, I've known you a long time, and I've liked figure skating for at least that long. There must be a relationship there.)

Still watching the figure skating stuff. I'll freely admit that my favorite thing in figure skating, bar none, is the men's skating. I love, love love to watch the athleticism and especially the artistry of these skaters. I'll never forget Brian Boitano in '88 and Paul Wylie in '92; tonight Viktor Petrenko was helping the judges out, and I was amused ot see how his incredibly bony face has filled out and he looks handsome.

Watching the short program I was struck by Johnny Weir, the rebellious young skater who simply seems sincere to me, and like the kind of kid I'd like to hang out with. But then there was Matt Savoie, who reminded me for all the world of Robin Cousins: introspection, grace, sophistication. His costume was simple and his expressiveness touched by an originality one doesn't see in skating very often, particularly not with the wacky new scoring system, which seems to be only about points.

My two favorite male skating types are the Scott Hamilton type and the Robin Cousins type: the first a spunky, somehat effeminate showman who gets the crowd going and isn't afraid to be silly; the second a tall, lean, serious dancer whose feet barely seem to touch the ice. Matt Savoie is definitely of the latter category; in the former, currently, is the adorable Jeffrey Buttle of Canada, who just kills me with how gay he is. It's very sweet.

I just wanted to make a note about Matt. He's one to watch; I hope to see him again.

Dear Bernie,

Forgive my familiarity. I saw Wings of Desire at the ART in Cambridge on Dec. 17, the matinee performance, and was struck by the light that seemed to emanate from you as the angel, Damiel. The character's longing; his carnal desire without knowledge of carnality; his combined innocence, passion, and long-ranging yet necessarily incomplete understanding of the world - all of it brought me right along with him: that desire to fully experience, to touch the world, to be Here Now ("and Now, and Now, and Now..."). The performance affected me deeply, and if anything, Damiel's longing and finally, achievement of contact with Reality brought me ever-closer to the immediate, and thus, to the infinite - an irony of the rare non-bitter variety.

I stayed for the post-production discussion, and when you came out to join it, you and I shared a brief smile that was, to me, one of those completely genuine human interactions - as if our souls connected in space for 5 seconds or so in total understanding, then moved on. In a more earthbound sense, it seemed simply to be that you caught my eye accidentally, saw the broad smile of appreciation I had plastered on my face, and returned it, recognizing it as the highest praise. Nonetheless, in the moment I felt a strong, if momentary, connection, such as those we sometimes have when a stranger in the street really looks at us, with none of his defenses in place, and we look back the same way, and then suddenly, it's over, yet we are changed, having opened our doors to another for just a moment. Most of all, though, I could see in that single smile, before all of the things you said in the discussion that confirmed it, that the light I had seen wasn't just Damiel's - it was fully and completely yours.

I finally got around to checking out your blog, especially since your bio indicated you had founded a theatre dedicated to the sacred in art. It made sense to me; it seemed to me that your approach to the character Damiel was based in something that was very real to you, and that your spirit was completely in the role. I noticed your comments on Advent - the bringing of the light to the darkness. I celebrate Yule at the winter solstice, myself, and my tribe and I keep the fires going all night, the longest night of the year, until the pendulum swings back. It pleased me to see echoes, in your Catholicism, of my own spirituality, though my relationship with the Catholic faith in which I was raised is fairly fraught, and I am now Pagan. It is always inspiring to see deep thoughtfulness and criticism coupled with strong belief. Also thrilling to see another fan of Leonard Cohen and Tom Waits.

I apologize if this letter seems obsessive; I promise I'm not a stalker. I just wanted to express my genuine appreciation, admiration, and, in that sense that applies to all humanity as well as to those who simply seem to "get it," love.

Love, therefore,
[dietrich]

p.s. Your last entry asks: "What to do with the beard afterward?" Keep it. It's hot.

"Barnaby Evans’ WaterFire® is an artwork involving movement, participation and surprise. When visitors encounter WaterFire, they cannot absorb the sculpture from just their sense of sight or even from a single vantage point -- they must walk through the installation and they must use all five of their senses. WaterFire is full of motion -- throughout the night the firetenders stoke the fires, the boats move past the flames, the rivers flow quietly beneath the braziers, and the flickering flames reflect off the dark surface of the water animating the architectural fabric of the city."

A few weeks ago, I went to Providence at last to experience WaterFire. Neat, I thought: bonfires on canals. Should be cool. So

imlad and I piled into the car and endured the annoyingly trafficy drive to Providence and met up with my old friend C. and her friend, K.

I'd only been in Providence a few times, and, being there mainly to see shows, I wasn't so much gazing at the architecture. This time I saw everything by daylight, and had the opportunity to walk around downtown. The preservation and neatness of the old buildings here puts Boston's counterpart to shame. And besides, there are all of these canals running through the city, along the edges of parks, with bridges over them, with statues and stone libraries and brick and cobblestone everywhere...this is a place where you really feel New England.

After having dinner we strolled down and saw where they were still lighting the fires. In the middle of the canals, at regular intervals, stood braziers filled with wood. Long black boats with names like Prometheus passed them with torches, setting them instantly ablaze. This was a fairly impressive sight. The lighters wore all black as well, giving the boats the solemnity of funeral vessels. And we strolled along the banks as it grew darker, and watched the fire flicker on the surface of the water. At the end of the line, we looked down the canal to see them all lit in a line, like an endless string of holiday lights.

Pretty.

And for a while, that was it. Okay: pretty. Fire and water. Yay! There was music floating from speakers installed beneath the bridges, creating maximum resonance in this outdoor setting. Haunting things, sounding like Eastern European composers (I later found out that what sounded like Arvo Part probably was), arias from Italian operas, snippets from especially moving film scores. We kept on walking. At some point I became aware of the woodsmoke smell, and the scent of the fuel they were using to light the braziers so efficiently. My head became heavy and light at the same time, and with muffled senses I strolled along, entranced by the flames. At a beautiful stone railing we stopped again and stared out. Some unspeakably gorgeous piece of music was echoing through the space: a mournful alto singing in some unknown language, over some intense instrumentation I cannot recall. I only know I felt I wanted to close my eyes and listen, but I have a voice in my head that tells me how I am supposed to experience art, and a conflicting desire made me want to keep them open and watch the flames. But at last I felt a moment of calm assurance that a few moments of isolated listening was what I wanted, and so, I gave in and my eyelids dropped soundlessly. The voice washed over me, the smell of the wood still reaching me, the fires still flickering behind my eyelids, the sound of their crackling a counterpoint to the music, and I entered a mystical realm of experience: the feeling of being nowhere and in no time, being within a bubble of sound, that sound at once the only thing existing, and the irony striking only afterwards that music, entirely dependent on the passage of time for human perception, is one of the few things that can transfix me in utter timelessness.

We continued to walk, and I was quiet, observing. Fires. Smells. More haunting music. Passing beneath the stone bridges, where there were hanging chandeliers and sconces alive with candles, creating the feeling of a medieval castle. What had seemed like a simple arrangement of elements had become spellbinding.

A bit later, we moved away from the water and checked out some of the exhibits nearby: a collection of large sculptures, one of which threatened to eat us (but which we frightened out of it by banging with our feet simultaneously on its metal hull); a mile of sidewalk chalk drawings in different levels of skill; a combination magician/mime, who actually did neither but wore a top hat over his adorable red head and created small origami creatures as we watched, then soundlessly handed them to children (including our C.); and the gargoyles.

The gargoyles might be getting a short story of their own. They were two men, dressed in horned workboots, tight jeans and pieced-together padded armor painted the same shade of stone grey. Their facial masks were in pieces to allow them expression, and their fingers were extended into spindly points. Left alone, they sat at the base of a huge statue, unmoving. Given a little money, they would animate and interact: scritching your head with a quizzical look, kissing your hand, even grabbing you a bit. One engaged in a staring contest with a child who eventually shrugged and walked away, leaving the gargoyle to put his head in his hands, distraught. One woman stood with him for a while, exploring touch and engaging in a kind of slow contact improv. Interactive spontaneous street performance. I yearned to explore their inner lives.

At last we walked up the hill to beautiful Benefit St., where C. had parked her car, which was full of Camus and apples. We ate luscious Cortlands and parted ways.

WaterFire does a full lighting for the last time this year on October 9. If you can make it, do. But remember to spend a few hours and be patient. This is an experience that washes over you.

These past few months have passed like fog, in which so much has happened, but its happening has been obscured. I've been unable to write about it. I even opened my novel the other day to discover I hadn't worked on it in a month.

This space has become too dense, somehow. What started as an anonymous yawp to the cyberverse has become the real and tangible community of my friends. I just counted: I have 99 LJ friends (I need one more!). 12 are communities or feeds. 5 of them are people I don't know in real life. When I started out here, nearly three years ago, I added people based on interests. Then I started meeting the people I'd added. Now, I only add people because I know them in real life already. What can I write about any person that won't affect another person somehow?

This used to be a place where I aired everything I was feeling, every experience and gesture, every new wonder. Now I'm paralyzed by the text box on the screen, and I don't know what I can say, only that I need to say it, need to have it read. I didn't used to journal this way. I have books filled with my mannish cursive, written furiously in the dark, on trains, in bed, while walking, while not paying attention in class. At work. It was for me, all for me. Now and then I still keep these journals, but this, this space, became the place in recent years where I told my story. Now I had an audience.

And now that audience is too close to be an audience anymore; they're parts of this life, integral to it, at times at odds with each other, at times at odds with me. But no longer passive, appreciative recipients of my half-artful descriptions of my strange evolving existance. They're the reasons, the means, the path of the evolution itself. How can I write it here? What if I get it wrong? My impressions, my feelings, are no longer adequate for the story I'm telling, not to this audience. To many of you, it's no longer a story.

Why does it have to be a story? Unclear. My journals were always written only for my own amusement. I made myself laugh, I made myself think. I worked out difficult things by writing about them, messily, without ceremony, and yet, still, with some sense of artistry. I had to satisfy at least myself. I was my own most and least forgiving audience, and it was enough.

Once I started gaining a loving community, finding what I wanted my life to be, feeling I finally had friends and acquaintances who understood, somewhat, what I was about, this space became a sounding board for everything I was going through. Everyone was supportive, made astute comments, bolstered my ego. Sometimes people said my writing was the best thing they'd seen on LJ. Sometimes people were moved to tears; sometimes just to thought. It was a new world for me: having my writing accepted and lauded nearly daily; having my life stories and tribulations thought at least interesting by other people, people I respected and sometimes loved.

It seems to be time for a change, time for more privacy again. It's not my style; since I've truly come into who I want to be, I've wanted to be completely open about it, to live openly, to feel openly. But it's become more complicated than that. I'm not sure what direction this journal will take. Perhaps I'll move to a new name and build a new base, write out all of my feelings again to that anonymous mob until everyone finds me again. Perhaps I'll just stay here and get brave again. I think I need to wait until things stabilize. Live and work and love and hope that everything can coalesce in some way, that this life isn't just a series of uncertainties dotted with devastating passions and ecstasies. That there is some security, here. That there can be the family, the life I've dreamed of, the home I've never found.