"I laughed and said, Life is easy. What I meant was, Life is easy with you here, and when you leave, it will be hard again."-
Miranda July, from No One Belongs Here More Than You.Miranda July is just oozing with talent. She is a performance (or is it performing?) artist, writer, actress, film director, and musician. I first fell in love with her in her 2005 movie Me and You and Everyone We Know, which she both acted in and wrote. I got another sweet taste of her in her 2007 collection of short stories No One Belongs Here More Than You, which is now one of my favorite books ever.
What I love about July's work is her ability to reach out to her audiences in a brutally honest and raw way. Her stories are written with almost childlike sincerity and thoughtfulness, making sense of certain universal (but seemingly surreal) truths, like the inevitable loneliness of the human condition. Her characters are clumsy, sad, and painfully ordinary, but sometimes they reach out to each other. The plots are bizarre but virtually disposable; the clear importance of July's work is in how characters interact and in the fact of interaction itself.This same focus comes through in the artist's websites as well, which take a particularly performative route. In turn, her sites force interaction between artist and viewer, an odd idea in that this interaction is taking place over the most public and anonymous medium of interaction. Indeed, the website for No One Belongs Here More Than You is split into a number of photographs that tell
the story of the book's release tour. Oh, and each photo is of a hand-written message from the author, scrawled onto the top of her stove. The viewer must clic
k an arrow at the bottom right corner to advance to the next page, and, in doing so, he says, "Yes, I am listening." July's messages are both funny and sweet, allowing the reader to forget the absurdity and commanding nature of the whole operation.
July's homepage opens with an equally bizarre and demanding splash page, asking readers to enter the secret admission password. "(you know the password, just clear your mind and look within. it will probably be the first word you think of.) (if this doesn't work, try looking at a candle for a few seconds.)" I remember the first time I browsed the site, immediately writing "BLANKETS" into the allotted password bar. Of course, any password works -- even not typing in a password and just hitting 'submit' -- and advances you to the main page whose header reads, "YOU OBVIOUSLY KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT."
I believe t
his idea to be the most interesting part of July's work: that is, she is always in constant conversation and communication with her audiences, but never really letting them say anything. She's always filling in the blanks, whether it be by only allowing a next arrow or by revealing that their own thought-out secret passwords are unimportant. Still, she appears to listen and engage in something sincere. "YOU OBVIOUSLY KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT." And it is comforting and cozy there, nuzzled into Miranda July's mind.
I'm always trying to figure out what communication can possibly be real and/or sincere. More often than not, I feel a huge disconnect between my brain and mouth and hands, knowing that I cannot accurately express a single idea with more than one of those places. This seems to be what July is getting at: I imagine her saying, "I know this isn't real. I know you can't really see me. But I'm trying, and we are talking, and something is happening."
She then pauses and quotes her book,
"What a terrible mistake to let go of something wonderful for something real."
Cake.
Lots
and lots
and lots of cake.
In her series The Confections, Amy Stevens takes photographs of her own homemade cakes placed over different patterns. The works appear as obsessive studies of color and design. The images are both aesthetically pleasing and grotesque, not to mention totally bizarre.
The series began as the artist's response to turning 30. Confronted with the reality (and fear) of aging and the entailed stereotypical norms of femininity, Stevens ordered a Martha Stewart cake-making kit and attempted to follow an online instructional video. She planned on baking 30 fancy cakes for herself and then photograph them. Needless to say, her cakes were lumpy and, well, gross next to Ms. Stewart's, which opened Steven's eyes into a world of cake creativity.
The cakes reflect the artist's desire to produce objects of sincere beauty and feminine perfection while addressing the absurdity of the process. The cakes are indicative of contempor
ary Western culture in which females are held to the sugar-frosted expectation of decorating, cooking, and entertaining in a chic, Martha Stewart way: that is, low-brow commonality with the slightest visible touch a woman's hand.
Stevens is interested in the role that women play in society, and I like the way in which she explores the topic. Cake is perishable, crumbly, and seems to hold much more symbolic importance than physical purpose. (This is not to say that cake is a delicious staple of my diet.) The work hints at the perhaps larger topic of human interaction, taking an ordinary food that immediately conjures implications of celebration, collective experiences, and unity but specifically speaks to the isolating and cliche nature of said events. In turn, The Confections ultimately raise questions about the authenticity of processes and (relying on) forced emotion, two topics that I explore in my own work.
I love the because they are beautiful, lonely, and painfully sad while still remaining triumphant, colorful, and celebratory. Plus, I totally want to eat all of them.
Pictured above:
top left: Confections #25, Archival inkjet printer, 2006
top right: Confections #20, Archival inkjet print, 2006
bottom right: Confections #40, Archival inkjet print, 2007
Vik Muniz. What a man.
I love the versatility in Muniz's work. He's famous for using "unconventional" materials to create his images such as chocolate syrup, sugar, dust, wire, thread, peanut butter, candy, silly putty, etc. and then photographing them. I have dabbled around with a few of these substances, but I've never been able to render an image so crisp as Muniz.
His work is centered around the notion of reinterpretation, replicating famous images in the foreign materials abovementioned. To me, his w
ork speaks specifically to the extreme materialism surrounding said symbolic pictures: they literally become sugar-coated, colorful, and seemingly simple. We are a consumptive people, and cultural icons (I am using the term "icon" liberally, defined as including anything of iconic importance at the moment - the latest fad or hot topic, positive or otherwise) are quickly transformed into franchises.
This is an idea I have also explored, specifically focusing on 
how materialism softens and distorts truth. I looked speficially at the image of the American soldiers raising the American flag at Iwo Jima. The event was nothing like it became known as (something shiny beacon of American strength, patriotism, whatever), yet it's still known for it. To me, this suggests that the American history and sense of identity is false and sugar coated, represented more by its material consumer value ("hey! this is a nice picture to stir up American nationalism. it'll sell like velveeta to hillbillies. perfect.") and brought up out of consumer convenience rather than necessity. In fact, this image was marketed as a comforting image post September 11th. Why? I don't know, it looks nice on paper, I guess.
In my own reinterpretation of Iwo Jima, I recreated the famed image using nothing but Jelly Belly jelly beans.
Cheers, Vik.
Photos above:
(top) barry le va (diptych), Vik Muniz
(top left) Sigmund, Vik Muniz (both courtesy of the artist's website)
(bottom right) Iwo Jima, Lauren Schleider (photo courtesy of the artist)
In the field of my brain, there is a vast garden of plants waiting to be watered. These plants take many bizarre forms: some are tall, others short, some striped, others ripped, and a few with tiny multicolored flowers. This is the place where my creative process begins, where I cultivate and fertilize my thoughts. My artwork begins as a tiny seed of an idea, planted somewhere in the deep dirt of my cortex. Soon this seed sprouts, and a couple of twisted spores erupt out of the seed's surface.
Before I choose my materials, I must first have a concrete idea of what I want to address in a piece. This may range from a number of feelings I have (these usually revolve around some sense of loss) to personal experiences of mine: in that sense, all of my work is extremely intimate and makes me vulnerable. The resulting sincerity, I believe, allows me to create my sincerest work.
Once I have a concrete concept, I begin thinking about what possible materials, and, perhaps more significantly, what process I can use to communicate said concept. Indeed, I generally believe the creative process to be the most important part of the work: I consider all of my work to be performative, and for the resulting piece (the painting, for instance) to be the result of my performance. The art itself lays in my own doing. For that reason, I view my materials as a means to get to some pre-desired destination (i.e. concept-land).
I am most easily recognized as a painter as that is the area in which I have the most "organized" experience, but I would never primarily identify myself as that. As I feel about most labels, I believe the term to be reductive and borderline pejorative. Though I frequently use paint in my work, I am no stranger to other media. Paint is just as much a mark-making tool to me as any other than I may employ, like a paintbrush. That said, I've been known to use a number of materials such as plastic bags, sticks, tubes, glass, and spray bottles to apply paint in different ways. This in turn allows me to add different textures and effects to my painted pieces.
When making non-representation art, I prefer to use paint as I feel it is amongst the most easily manipulated mediums. I try to follow in the footsteps of the great abstract expressionists before me -- Joan Mitchell, Jane Frank, and Clyfford Still to name a few of my favorites -- who sought to capture a particular moment rather than a specific image. As referenced above, such paintings become a form of documentation of my movement, and in that way, preserve and deify my act.
Still, only a portion of my work follows the nonrepresentational theme. I am also extremely interested in incorporating sound in my work, both lyrical (involving discernable spoken word, that is) and abstract. This brings an element of installation to my work, which inevitably leads me to more materials. In the last two years, I have been pick up and collect things obsessively -- small things; stupid things; things like my toenail clippings that I keep in a mason jar and humble pile of letter buttons from broken BlackBerry phones. I consider no substance to be off-limits, and I imagine that I will eventually have a use for any collected material.
photo above: Moose by Lauren Schleider, acrylic on canvas, 2007
photo courtesy of the artist
I am often puzzled when people exercise ownership over their bodies. My psyche and physical being, for one, are entirely separate entities bizarrely set alongside each other. Too often I find that my bodily actions do not match up with my thoughts and intentions. I am awkward and uncomfortable, clumsy and misshapen, and far from in control of my body.
Much of my work focuses on the body as a foreign and abstract entity outside of individual control. I look at the body as a series of machines, each little organ mechanically working together to maintain homeostasis. in that way, a single body can be viewed as an independent social system consisting of a series of collaborating internal parts and function outside of the conscious desire. We do not will our hearts to beat, nor do we wake up thinking, "Hey, I think I'll breathe today. That'll be fun;" nonetheless, we beat, breathe, pump, and slosh around incessantly. This is how the body functions for us. But what happens when these parts stop working together and bodily equilibrium is lost?
The body is simultaneously hospitable and hostile, and I have had my fair share of experiences with the latter. I have watched the body flourish, wilt, and crumble, with bated breath, waiting desperately for some rejuvenation that never seems to come. In return, I learned to internalize what becomes the burden of the body, to adopt the sickness, pain, obsession, and grief of my peers, imagining their shriveling, tainted bits assimilated into my own healthy ones. If you won't take me instead of them, Disease, take me down with them.
My own creative process acts as a therapeutic means to understand the lack of control over the body. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Sometimes they get sick: sometimes they get better: the body itself is grotesque and raw in its simplest form. The thought is totally encompassing, terribly compelling, and all too much for me to handle. Making art is a way for me to discuss and confront my own experiences and twisted thoughts on the subject without forcing words which all-too-easily become contrived and hollow. Through the process, I am able to both grieve and triumph. The physical act of creation (the dance, if you will) is my root of the root (via E.E. Cummings's I carry your heart with me), my big sha-bang, my Hokey-Pokey; hey! That's what it's all about!
I am one person who is made up of a million tiny lives. (These are my machines, see.) There is a fine line that separates my art-life from the others, one that I cannot bother myself with trying to track down, hold on to, or define. My art is who I am; it is what I did and what I will do. It is, alongside a plethora or other livelihoods, my balanced breakfast, running shoes, flashlight, and warm milk before bed. I take pride in the satisfaction I feel from my own creation, the work of my very own hands, and the way in which art creates a map of my movements. The thought of not creating is nothing short of terrifying; I maintain that my brain would simply implode, or I would melt, or I'd become a drone made of ill-fitting bolts, of croutons, or dust, or something else useless.
I believe that the crux of art is performative and experimental, defined by the act of creative as a means of communication and sharing between participants (that is, artist, viewer, man who waxes gallery floor, child who is only interested because he thinks the painting looks like an exploding head, security guard, etc.). This collective effervescence (via Emile Durkheim) forms a palpable energy, an inaudible conversation, an ongoing, invisible history that passes through and links all following individuals. There is a beginning, and then another, and then another, and somewhere it turns into a middle, but there is no end in sight. This is the nitty gritty, the soft, oozing marrow in the hard skeleton of art.
My mother enjoys sucking the marrow out of steak bones at the dinner table. She lifts a specimen to her greedy, parted lips, chomps her eager teeth down, eyes bulging with excited delight, and sucks. It makes a sickening sluuuuuurp, and no matter how much I cringe, she sucks until the bone is dry. This is my dearest ambition with art: I am going to suck to my heart's content until nothing remains.
And look out, world. I'm sucking with a vengeance.
the story of the book's release tour. Oh, and each photo is of a hand-written message from the author, scrawled onto the top of her stove. The viewer must clic
his idea to be the most interesting part of July's work: that is, she is always in constant conversation and communication with her audiences, but never really letting them say anything. She's always filling in the blanks, whether it be by only allowing a next arrow or by revealing that their own thought-out secret passwords are unimportant. Still, she appears to listen and engage in something sincere. "YOU OBVIOUSLY KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT." And it is comforting and cozy there, nuzzled into Miranda July's mind.
