Looking at Opałka. Can one focus on the focus?

I'm sure you know the work of Roman Opałka: he has been painting the same continuous picture since 1965, consisting only of numbers, from 1 to infinity. The work has had some changes over the years, among them, in 1968, the introduction of self-portraits.
At the very enriching exhibition of a part of the permanent collection of the Center for Contemporary Arts in Warsaw, there is a room with some six of his portraits, from various periods of his life.
Today I discovered a curious detail: in this particular collection of photos, the early ones are slightly out of focus. Or rather, the focus is on the hair in the back of the head. The later we get, the better the focus. The last two pictures, of Opałka past 70, have his eyes perfectly in focus. As if the disappearing of the numbers was accompanied by the appearing of the person. As if he was more himself.
I'm sure this is a coincidence. But why should I care? What's wrong with a little hermeneutics? Can't we accept conceptual art to have a life of its own, one that eludes its original readings? Isn't the fact that Duchamp's Fountain has long disappeared, and was recreated by the artist many decades later (in several copies) because of interest in the work, isn't this a wonderful enrichment of the original work?
It might be considered a useless stretch of the pure concept. Like overdoing something that was meant to be simple. Possibly. I'll have it my way.


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Feeling of Landscape

This is what would be nice: for all this splatter, all this hazy spirit pollution, to suddenly (or progressively) make sense, and turn into a landscape.
Okay, I admit it, there is a world which I am pretending to ignore. There are those one loves and others which are close enough to be deeply missed, at times.
I admit, there is a light which remains and manages to outshine any particular chaos, any specific too-lateness. For a while, it remains with the body, or the view of the body, or the afterview, and then it moves away, into the back of the mind's eye, and turns into an excuse to remain hesitating, instead of letting it all go.

But no. All this is happy-tuning oneself, it does not sustain. That is precisely why I miss the feeling of landscape: it sustains. While this? It feels more like posing steps on stones in a stream, where no single stone is certain, yet together they make an unexpectedly serious path. (Maybe not "serious". Maybe "defined". Or "path-like". Or is it that looking for adjectives misses the point: that it's the path that's unexpected, not any quality it might have).



And at the bottom, in the water, remains all this, all that stuff that somehow never unbecame me. And lingers on as if too hazy to be rejected, too ridiculously gone. So if it's gone, what is it, I ask.The first three paintings are by Andrew Hollis, and the last two - by Gemma Gallagher. Read more "Feeling of Landscape..."

FINDING PERSONALITY IN A BRICK

Here is a series of splendid drawings with two things in common:

First, they are all drawings of geometric shapes: buildings comprised of straight lines, flat parallel surfaces and right angles.

Second, despite the fact that each drawing started out as essentially a mechanical drawing, at some key point the artist turned away from the unforgiving laws of perspective, the T square and the triangle, and instead injected the drawing full of character and personality.

The brilliant Bernie Fuchs sketched these buildings in the slums of San Juan. Fuchs seems to have a god-given talent for finding the design in any situation, including this row of squat, ramshackle buildings.



When Rodin drew the massive facade of this building, the shape that interested him the most was not the stone blocks or the massive pillars, but rather the shadow in the doorway. The shadow is insubstantial compared to the weight of the stone structure around it, but it dominates this picture, and enabled Rodin to make a nice, modernistic design.


Cartoonist Jeff MacNelly was a superb draftsman whose understanding of weight, volume and perspective gave his cartoons of buildings and heavy industrial vehicles great credibility. In this typically marvelous example, the geometric shapes of the house have as much humanity as a human face.

In each of these drawings, the artist had to begin with a foundation of traditional knowledge and technical drawing skills, even if those rules were quickly abandoned. Each drawings turned out wonderfully opinionated-- the artists were able to imbue a stone block with character, and portray a brick with personality. But their opinions are far more believable because the artist had mastered how to draw the mechanically correct version.

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Money

How do artists make a living?
Besides the selected few who actually make a living from their work, how can an artist afford to be an artist?
The bottom line is: should art pay for itself? Should it be efficient in an economic sense?
Most practicing artists either have money from their day jobs, or from their families.
The funny thing is: the first group seem heroic, and the second - fakes.
Why? Why is there so much resentment towards people who decide to spend the money they have on doing something they love?
Is it because we, as the public, feel betrayed, as if they stopped playing the game with their audience? After all, if they don't care about (our, or government - which comes out to the same) money, aren't we left aside?
(What's wrong with being left aside? Hm. Of course, this modernist idea can come in handy. But I've been writing about it elsewhere.)
Come think of it - would we feel it wrong for a rich person to buy an expensive car? A big house? So why do we want him to feel guilty for spending the money into something we might actually appreciate? It turns art into a hobby, you say? So what?

Below, completely unrelated (at least not that I know), is the work of Paulo Ventura.





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Transparent games continued

Now that there is no essence, we ask: how is it to see through you? What sort of filter are you?
Now that there is no common subject, no us, we say: what is this sum of subject and object?
Now that the body is not enough, and that it stops us as ridiculously as ever, we say: what is so common about this object? What is it about it that is so transparent, and what does this absence, this oppressive absence, taste like when accepted?

The paintings are by Johan Schaefer, the photos - Khristian Mendoza. Read more "Transparent games continued..."

After the Party

The duporet bujany (translating as something like "ass-rocker") was found at poor design. Poor is the author of several clever designs, the most known being the "peg" pendrive. The design is funny, unfortunately as the owner of one such peg I am less enthusiastic about its practicality.
I prefer when he creates poor objects in all honesty - like this "uncovering lamp".

Plexiglas object which gives no light but at least it does not shut off light either. Additionally, it can serve as a stand for a classical lamp with a clamp changing it in a traditional bedside lamp.

Or take this spike:
Perfect for hangovers. Read more "After the Party..."

ALEXANDER LEYDENFROST (1888-1961)

Suppose that you were a baron, born of noble blood, but you lost your rank and title after the heir to the throne was murdered. Then let's say your country declared war on its neighbor but lost the war after a long bloody battle and as a result, your country was dissolved and the economy collapsed so you lost your family money. Then to make the story interesting, how about if we say that the communists took over but were kicked out in another war. And let's suppose further that you and your good friends, movie actors Bela Lugosi and Peter Lorre, decided to flee the country but before you could leave, you were severely injured in a sword fight over the honor of a woman so that you were unable to get around or perform conventional work when you arrived in your new land.

With that type of background, what kind of job would you possibly be qualified to perform?

Obviously, an illustrator.

Sandor Leidenfrost was a baron in the Austro-Hungarian monarchy. His family's title dated back to the 16th century. In the tradition of nobility everywhere, Baron Leidenfrost studied fencing and fought duels and lived off his family money. But he also studied the arts and became a master of perspective. (It's always good to have something to fall back on, even when you are a baron).

After the unpleasent events described above, Leidenfrost changed his name and emigrated to New York City. Because of his wounds from the duel, he could not walk around and apply for a normal job but he drew and painted a portfolio of artwork that Lugosi and Lorre shopped around for him. On the strength of that portfolio, they obtained enough assignments to support the whole group. After Leydenfrost recovered, Lugosi and Lorre left for Hollywood and stardom, while Leydenfrost prospered as an illustrator. He specialized in dramatic pictures of aircraft and spaceships; during World War II he painted a famous series of 35 illustrations of warplanes for Esquire magazine.











He also worked for magazines such as Life and Colliers. He was well known his detailed and meticulous drawings with charcoal and watercolor.



The moral of the story is that when some pain-in-the-ass illustrator starts putting on airs and acting like he is royalty, be careful-- he just may be. Read more "ALEXANDER LEYDENFROST (1888-1961)..."