11/08: George Henry Borawski
Yesterday, I had a curious, but ultimately delightful meeting with a young artist named George Henry Borawski. He is working on a collection of photographs of the poor, dispossessed, and wounded. And he thought I might be of some help in this endeavor—how much remains to be seen. Until I met with him, I had not seen his work, but a cursory review of his online photo-album showed him to be at least a very interesting artist.The meeting did not start off terribly well. I was concerned about the project that George had in mind; I thought it might be exploitative. This concern quickly vanished after seeing some of his work and talking to him. Just as my concern was fading, his was rising. He became agitated. "Why are you helping me?" he wanted to know. This struck me as a strange question, so I answered bluntly, "I'm not helping you—at least not yet." And then he was concerned that maybe I wasn't who I claimed to be. This all ended in what was—for me—a humorous episode where I showed him my driver's license. This seemed to assuage his concerns and we went on to have a three-hour conversation with topics as far-flung as the cardinality of different infinities, using literature to determine if you are dreaming, and how platonic idealism makes me a bad artist.
Even without this young man's (he is only 21 years old) formidable talent (more on that in a moment), he was well worth meeting. It is so rare that I meet people—much less young people—who are interested in much of anything. George seems to be interested in just about everything.
The self-portrait above is a very good likeness of him—both in appearance and attitude. He has a certain frightened yet defiant air about him. Whatever the reason for this (and I could speculate, but it makes me sound so old), he comes off as a cool guy. You can imagine him at the back of the Royal Roost in '49 to experience Miles Davis at the birth of the cool before anyone new it was cool. One of his paintings is called, "All My Heroes Are Long Gone."
From left to right, they are: Leo Tolstoy, Bill Hicks, GG Allin, Andy Kaufman, Travis Bickle, Salvador Dali, and George Orwell. The inclusion of Travis Bickle is a bit perplexing or just creepy, given that he is one of the most evil characters I can think of. But he does fit in with this group. All of them are rebels. The problem with Bickle is his motivation: "Kill a senator? Kill a pimp? It's all good." Borawski does seem to have a certain fascination with death—take a look at his site.
What is most compelling about his photographs is what he chooses to shoot. It has a profound affect on his art. Looking at many of his photographs, I often think that I am looking at images from my childhood. There are a number of shots around a junkyard that are exceptional. I particularly like a shot of two little girls who apparently live there; the camera is tilted slightly—giving the feel that the girls are being flung off the earth. His feel for pain is tangible, and he snatches it in the most unlikely places. And, as you can see in the picture of the train stopped in the middle of a snow-covered forest, he is capable exquisite photographic composition.George Henry's painting is less consistent than his photography. This may have something to do with his media: he often works on plywood and even particle board. He seems much more at ease with charcoal and paper, as in the self-portrait above. But he always has interesting ideas. The following image, called "Made of Paint," is very compelling.
There is a great deal to like from this talented young man. I will be very interested to see what he does over the next couple of decades.
07/04: Waiting for Beckett
I continue to wrestle with the contextualization of art—especially my art—even though I am getting better at not caring. If I were to create a beautiful table, there would be a shared context for that table: it's a table. No one would question the rounded corners or intricately designed legs. No one would wonder why I created this specific table. Everyone would simply appreciate it for what it was to them—even if it was simply something to set things on. Art, on the other hand, is purely symbolic. A book is paper, glue, ink; but unless one understands the symbols represented inside it, it is roughly the same as a rock. Unfortunately, it is not enough just to understand the words as signifiers of things. One could easily read and understand every word in a book and gleem not a single idea from it. Thusly came my idea for a kind of theater that coddles the audience—that teaches it enough to enjoy what it is watching. People want to find meaning in art, but it stands alone—without context. This is why artists of all kinds need to produce a critical mass of work; it usually takes time for others to contextualize the work.
Consider this: Fifty years from now, Tom Stoppard will not be considered the great artist Samuel Beckett is today. This is not to say that Stoppard is not a great writer—I think he is; I am reading Rock'N'Roll right now—I don't have time to read plays by hacks. But let's look at Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead for a moment.It is basically Vladimir (as Guildenstern) and Estrgon (as Rosencrantz) from Waiting for Godot thrown into the middle of Hamlet. There is nothing new here. Admittedly, it is wonderfully creative and great fun; but it is just a variation (and a minor one at that) on Godot. In fact, I would say that Stoppard is ripping of Godot more than Beckett ever did after he wrote it. Endgame? Happy Day? These plays are in no way variations on the theme of Godot.
Under ordinary circumstances, Waiting for Godot would have been a flop; it would have taken years for it to be seen for its greatness. But it had two things going for it. First, Beckett was James Joyce's assistant and I think most people thought he was going to take up where Joyce left off. (Thankfully, he did not; I would love to discuss this, but it doesn't matter and it is getting off track.) But he was already a respected writer and scholar when he wrote Godot. Second, there is something about the nature of the play—the stripping away of what was still (is still) largely Victorian theater that made the fact of meaning in the play obvious to even the most ossified audience. I specifically mean that the audience could not help but understand that there was meaning in the play—maybe important meaning; I am most certainly not saying that they knew what that meaning was.
Barring the part about getting to work with Joyce, I would prefer to have the life of Stoppard; but oh, how I wish I could create like Beckett!
Consider this: Fifty years from now, Tom Stoppard will not be considered the great artist Samuel Beckett is today. This is not to say that Stoppard is not a great writer—I think he is; I am reading Rock'N'Roll right now—I don't have time to read plays by hacks. But let's look at Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead for a moment.It is basically Vladimir (as Guildenstern) and Estrgon (as Rosencrantz) from Waiting for Godot thrown into the middle of Hamlet. There is nothing new here. Admittedly, it is wonderfully creative and great fun; but it is just a variation (and a minor one at that) on Godot. In fact, I would say that Stoppard is ripping of Godot more than Beckett ever did after he wrote it. Endgame? Happy Day? These plays are in no way variations on the theme of Godot.
Under ordinary circumstances, Waiting for Godot would have been a flop; it would have taken years for it to be seen for its greatness. But it had two things going for it. First, Beckett was James Joyce's assistant and I think most people thought he was going to take up where Joyce left off. (Thankfully, he did not; I would love to discuss this, but it doesn't matter and it is getting off track.) But he was already a respected writer and scholar when he wrote Godot. Second, there is something about the nature of the play—the stripping away of what was still (is still) largely Victorian theater that made the fact of meaning in the play obvious to even the most ossified audience. I specifically mean that the audience could not help but understand that there was meaning in the play—maybe important meaning; I am most certainly not saying that they knew what that meaning was.
Barring the part about getting to work with Joyce, I would prefer to have the life of Stoppard; but oh, how I wish I could create like Beckett!
25/02: Indian Rope Trip Part II
Check out Part I of this Article.
As promised, I am going to explain the Indian Chain Trick, the magical illusion that is most like the Indian Rope Trick, but which probably had nothing to do with the creation of the myth because John Elbert Wilkie probably knew nothing about it.
The Mogul Emperor Jahangir reported on the Chain Trick some time around 1600. What he wrote was not translated into English until 1829, and what I quote here is Peter Lamont quoting from this English translation. It seems that the conjurers
produced a chain of 50 cubits in length [roughly 23 meters], and in my presence threw one end of it towards the sky, where it remained as if fastened to something in the air. A dog was then brought forward, and being placed at the lower end of the chain, immediately ran up, and reaching the outer end, immediately disappeared in the air. In the same manner a hog, a panther, a lion, and a tiger were successively sent up the chain and all equally disappeared at the upper end of the chain. At last they took down the chain and put it into a bag, no one ever discovering in what way the different animals were made to vanish into the air in the mysterious manner described.
This sounds amazing, but actually, Jahangir was not that impressed with this particular effect; the conjurers did much more amazing things like make fruit trees grow and produce ripe mangoes. But let's forget the mango trick; it is well-know (to those in the know) and it's secret can be learned from a variety of books. As far as I know, no one has explained the Chain Trick. (And most likely, no one has cared.)
The biggest problem with explaining this trick is the hog. Regardless of how you look at it, hogs can't climb up chains. The other animals—well, I could imagine they could be trained. But given that hogs can't climb, I assume that none of the animals actually climbed up the chain. And yet, Jahangir claims they did. Leaving aside the fact that he was almost certainly wasted out of his mind on booze and opium, there are reasons to doubt his description of the effect.
The Problem with Eye-Witnesses
In my experience, when people see magic tricks they have seen (without the help of booze and opium), they are not very accurate. For example, when someone sees the color changing deck, he will say, "He had me select a card from a blue deck of cards; then he fans out the deck and all the cards are red, except for the one I picked that is blue." I don't want to go into details here but the trick started where it ended: with a red deck of cards and two blue cards.
What's even more important is that magicians are liars. They talk and are generally entertaining and then they start their act. But... They already started it; during all that chitchat, they were doing the "trick"; in fact, in most cases, by the time the audience thinks the effect is starting, it is over from the magician's standpoint. Ricki Jay's Four Queen Routine is a good example of this, even though it may not be clear to the uninitiated—which is the whole point, after all. This isn't always the case, of course; as an example, I would refer you to Daryl's Rope Routine where he is doing straight sleight-of-hand throughout a six minute effect. But this is the exception, not the rule.
The Method
I can think of a few ways that the Chain Effect could have been done. First the chain: most likely it was simply held up with thread—either from a single strand directly overhead, or two strands running off to each side (the way a tennis net is held up). Obviously, this would likely not even be strong enough to allow a rat to climb up the chain, so we move on to part two: the animal climb.
My guess is that the conjurers had a box that they performed on. It is from this box that the chain rose. On the top of this box was a trap door that allowed the hog (etc.) to disappear into. But how would it do this without being seen? How would Jahangir (other than the drug effects) see the hog climb the chain? The answer is simpler than you would think: he didn't.
Instead, one of the conjurers would put the hog on top of the box. He would then surround it with something like a cardboard box with its top and bottom cut off and one of the sides cut. This would allow him to place it around the hog and chain. At this point, the hog would fall through the trap door, without Jahangir noticing; he would think the hog was still there.
Now the conjurer would raise this "screen" up to the top of the chain at the same time he said something along the lines of, "See how the hog climbs the chain!" And then, when he gets to the top of the chain, he opens the screen and the hog has vanished!
The emperor goes wild! And forgets that he didn't actually see the hog climb; he just thought he did.
Ditto for the dog, panther, lion, and tiger. There are other possible methods of doing it, but I bet it was something very similar to this. My only question is how did they keep the animals from eating one another? (Just kidding; that's an easy one.)
As promised, I am going to explain the Indian Chain Trick, the magical illusion that is most like the Indian Rope Trick, but which probably had nothing to do with the creation of the myth because John Elbert Wilkie probably knew nothing about it.
The Mogul Emperor Jahangir reported on the Chain Trick some time around 1600. What he wrote was not translated into English until 1829, and what I quote here is Peter Lamont quoting from this English translation. It seems that the conjurers
produced a chain of 50 cubits in length [roughly 23 meters], and in my presence threw one end of it towards the sky, where it remained as if fastened to something in the air. A dog was then brought forward, and being placed at the lower end of the chain, immediately ran up, and reaching the outer end, immediately disappeared in the air. In the same manner a hog, a panther, a lion, and a tiger were successively sent up the chain and all equally disappeared at the upper end of the chain. At last they took down the chain and put it into a bag, no one ever discovering in what way the different animals were made to vanish into the air in the mysterious manner described.
This sounds amazing, but actually, Jahangir was not that impressed with this particular effect; the conjurers did much more amazing things like make fruit trees grow and produce ripe mangoes. But let's forget the mango trick; it is well-know (to those in the know) and it's secret can be learned from a variety of books. As far as I know, no one has explained the Chain Trick. (And most likely, no one has cared.)
The biggest problem with explaining this trick is the hog. Regardless of how you look at it, hogs can't climb up chains. The other animals—well, I could imagine they could be trained. But given that hogs can't climb, I assume that none of the animals actually climbed up the chain. And yet, Jahangir claims they did. Leaving aside the fact that he was almost certainly wasted out of his mind on booze and opium, there are reasons to doubt his description of the effect.
The Problem with Eye-Witnesses
In my experience, when people see magic tricks they have seen (without the help of booze and opium), they are not very accurate. For example, when someone sees the color changing deck, he will say, "He had me select a card from a blue deck of cards; then he fans out the deck and all the cards are red, except for the one I picked that is blue." I don't want to go into details here but the trick started where it ended: with a red deck of cards and two blue cards.
What's even more important is that magicians are liars. They talk and are generally entertaining and then they start their act. But... They already started it; during all that chitchat, they were doing the "trick"; in fact, in most cases, by the time the audience thinks the effect is starting, it is over from the magician's standpoint. Ricki Jay's Four Queen Routine is a good example of this, even though it may not be clear to the uninitiated—which is the whole point, after all. This isn't always the case, of course; as an example, I would refer you to Daryl's Rope Routine where he is doing straight sleight-of-hand throughout a six minute effect. But this is the exception, not the rule.
The Method
I can think of a few ways that the Chain Effect could have been done. First the chain: most likely it was simply held up with thread—either from a single strand directly overhead, or two strands running off to each side (the way a tennis net is held up). Obviously, this would likely not even be strong enough to allow a rat to climb up the chain, so we move on to part two: the animal climb.
My guess is that the conjurers had a box that they performed on. It is from this box that the chain rose. On the top of this box was a trap door that allowed the hog (etc.) to disappear into. But how would it do this without being seen? How would Jahangir (other than the drug effects) see the hog climb the chain? The answer is simpler than you would think: he didn't.
Instead, one of the conjurers would put the hog on top of the box. He would then surround it with something like a cardboard box with its top and bottom cut off and one of the sides cut. This would allow him to place it around the hog and chain. At this point, the hog would fall through the trap door, without Jahangir noticing; he would think the hog was still there.
Now the conjurer would raise this "screen" up to the top of the chain at the same time he said something along the lines of, "See how the hog climbs the chain!" And then, when he gets to the top of the chain, he opens the screen and the hog has vanished!
The emperor goes wild! And forgets that he didn't actually see the hog climb; he just thought he did.
Ditto for the dog, panther, lion, and tiger. There are other possible methods of doing it, but I bet it was something very similar to this. My only question is how did they keep the animals from eating one another? (Just kidding; that's an easy one.)
23/02: Indian Rope Trip Part I
Peter Lamont has written a fun little book called The Rise of the Indian Rope Trick. If you know this magic trick, you will get the punning title; if you are like me, you won't know quite how you feel about that. If you don't know the trick, let me explain.
A magician—but one with a turban, not a top hat—takes a length of rope and causes it to (magically) rise into the air. Then, his assistant climbs up the rope and (magically) disappears. The rope falls back to the ground. The crowd goes wild! You can imagine, just look at this:
Now, admittedly, you don't see the boy disappear in the photo. In fact, he never does disappear (unless you want to imagine it in your mind). This picture is of The Great Karachi. Karachi was one of the great Indian magician—except that he was actually from Plymouth in the Southwest corner of the United Kingdom. And his name was Arthur Derbyh. But he looks pretty Indian, don't you think?
The problem with the Indian Rope Trick is that it was invented by an American. His name was John Elbert Wilkie. A great magician? No. A so-so journalist? Yes. 
He just made it up for an article he was writing. I understand this. I've been a journalist, and I know that you normally get paid by the article: poorly; the more you pump out, the more money you make. It's not like anyone's going to check, unless your name is Jayson Blair, or, as in the case of Mr. Wilkie, you are dead.
What is interesting about all of this is that the article took off. People believed it and the story spread to (God help us all) Victorian England. And in Victorian England, the people knew they were the best; and yet, no one could actually do this trick. Okay, sure: Karachi/Derbyh: Rope rises, kid climbs up, kid climbs down. No big deal. Even Howard Thurston (who was a total hack) could do that. It's the disappearing that was the key (and outside; don't forget that—you can do anything in a theater).
Of course, after Wilkie first "reported" on the effect, it ran wild. Numerous variations appeared. Here's my favorite: rope up, boy climbs, magician climbs after him with sword, and cuts him up: arms, legs, torso, and head fall to the ground; magician climbs down; he assembles the parts again, and the boy gets up and dances a gig—or the Indian equivalent of it. Gruesome, yes; but surprisingly easy to do; a lot easier than that disappearing thing.
Anyway, we get a lot of Victorians hunting around India looking for the trick (that doesn't exist because it only ever existed in Wilkie's mind, and by now, he is with the United State Secret Service—I kid you not). And there is lots of waving of hands and all that, mostly because the British magicians cannot accept that there is anything that Indian conjurers can do that they cannot (and they're right). There is, as with just about anything having to do with Victorians, much hilarity. Truly, the only thing that isn't ridiculous about this period is Oscar Wilde—who was also hilarious but for completely different reasons.
It turns out that there was a magic trick that Indian conjurers did that was similar to the Indian Rope Trick. In it, a chain was thrown in the air where it stuck. Then, a pig, and a dog, and other assorted beasts climbed up the chain and disappeared. I'm pretty sure I know how this was done and in part 2 of this article I am going to explain it. (And it is almost certainly not what you are thinking.)
But don't pass up on Peter Lamont's book. It is a lot of fun—excellent summer reading.
Check out Part II of this Article.
A magician—but one with a turban, not a top hat—takes a length of rope and causes it to (magically) rise into the air. Then, his assistant climbs up the rope and (magically) disappears. The rope falls back to the ground. The crowd goes wild! You can imagine, just look at this:
Now, admittedly, you don't see the boy disappear in the photo. In fact, he never does disappear (unless you want to imagine it in your mind). This picture is of The Great Karachi. Karachi was one of the great Indian magician—except that he was actually from Plymouth in the Southwest corner of the United Kingdom. And his name was Arthur Derbyh. But he looks pretty Indian, don't you think?
The problem with the Indian Rope Trick is that it was invented by an American. His name was John Elbert Wilkie. A great magician? No. A so-so journalist? Yes.
What is interesting about all of this is that the article took off. People believed it and the story spread to (God help us all) Victorian England. And in Victorian England, the people knew they were the best; and yet, no one could actually do this trick. Okay, sure: Karachi/Derbyh: Rope rises, kid climbs up, kid climbs down. No big deal. Even Howard Thurston (who was a total hack) could do that. It's the disappearing that was the key (and outside; don't forget that—you can do anything in a theater).
Of course, after Wilkie first "reported" on the effect, it ran wild. Numerous variations appeared. Here's my favorite: rope up, boy climbs, magician climbs after him with sword, and cuts him up: arms, legs, torso, and head fall to the ground; magician climbs down; he assembles the parts again, and the boy gets up and dances a gig—or the Indian equivalent of it. Gruesome, yes; but surprisingly easy to do; a lot easier than that disappearing thing.
Anyway, we get a lot of Victorians hunting around India looking for the trick (that doesn't exist because it only ever existed in Wilkie's mind, and by now, he is with the United State Secret Service—I kid you not). And there is lots of waving of hands and all that, mostly because the British magicians cannot accept that there is anything that Indian conjurers can do that they cannot (and they're right). There is, as with just about anything having to do with Victorians, much hilarity. Truly, the only thing that isn't ridiculous about this period is Oscar Wilde—who was also hilarious but for completely different reasons.
It turns out that there was a magic trick that Indian conjurers did that was similar to the Indian Rope Trick. In it, a chain was thrown in the air where it stuck. Then, a pig, and a dog, and other assorted beasts climbed up the chain and disappeared. I'm pretty sure I know how this was done and in part 2 of this article I am going to explain it. (And it is almost certainly not what you are thinking.)
But don't pass up on Peter Lamont's book. It is a lot of fun—excellent summer reading.
Check out Part II of this Article.
15/02: John Stewart and Jules Shear
Many years ago, while I was in the process of flunking out of college, John Stewart gave a lecture about nothing in particular and everything in general: his life, songwriting, cars, women, performing. This was only a few years after his hit song Gold, so it was surprising that not many more than a hundred people were in attendance. I had something else that I had to get to, so I knew that I was going to have to slip out of the lecture half-way through. Stewart did not allow me to do this unnoticed, however. He was very friendly throughout; cheerfully chiding me for missing his pearls of wisdom.
After I was done with my thing and he was done with his thing, we happened to run into each other. He remembered me: it had only been two hours and I was, after all, the guy who walked out on him. We walked to his car, which, if I remember correctly was some piece of junk. I don't remember what we talked about, but I do remember two things he told me. First, he said, never listen to what your friends and family tell you about your work. He said, everyone told him that he sucked—until he sold his first hit and made $50,000 on it (in the early 1960s, I think); people who don't know you are the only ones who can really see your talent. The second thing he told me was that art was whatever the hell you make it. He had an example: Happiness is a Warm Gun. Now here is a song that is just four song fragments pasted together. By traditional standards, it's a piece of shit; but as we all know, it is great.
Not long after that, I was playing in band whose name I would prefer to forget because it was pathetic. It consisted of me (who could kind of play and wrote all the songs), Will (who could scream really well), and Roger (who was a very good keyboard player). Roger was about ten years older than Will and me, and he thought he knew music much better than we did (and in a way he did). One day I brought in a song called "Do You Like Life?" I was very pleased with how we did the song, but Roger had a real problem with it. You see, the song had no chorus; it had a bridge kind of thing, but it was really just a chant. Roger said, as he often did, "You can't do that!"
A couple of weeks later, Will and I meet up with Roger and he is very excited: he wants to play a song for us. It was Lovers By Rote off the first Jules and the Polar Bears album Got No Breeding. In the song, Jules Shear does something similar to what I was doing (admittedly, what I was doing was more extreme). His "bridge" went:
All you really gotta do is tug a little leash to find yourself constricted
All you really gotta do is think about the crime to find yourself convicted
And Roger relented, "I guess you can do that!" I know that people said the same thing about Beethoven's First Symphony. "You can't start a symphony with a dominant seventh chord!" Who do these people think they are? How do they think any field of art progresses?
Or maybe it is all about me. Beethoven was established. John Lennon was established. I was not. But in general, innovation comes from those who are not established. I think that John Stewart was keenly aware of that. And as for Jules Shear and me: I don't think either of us care.
After I was done with my thing and he was done with his thing, we happened to run into each other. He remembered me: it had only been two hours and I was, after all, the guy who walked out on him. We walked to his car, which, if I remember correctly was some piece of junk. I don't remember what we talked about, but I do remember two things he told me. First, he said, never listen to what your friends and family tell you about your work. He said, everyone told him that he sucked—until he sold his first hit and made $50,000 on it (in the early 1960s, I think); people who don't know you are the only ones who can really see your talent. The second thing he told me was that art was whatever the hell you make it. He had an example: Happiness is a Warm Gun. Now here is a song that is just four song fragments pasted together. By traditional standards, it's a piece of shit; but as we all know, it is great.
Not long after that, I was playing in band whose name I would prefer to forget because it was pathetic. It consisted of me (who could kind of play and wrote all the songs), Will (who could scream really well), and Roger (who was a very good keyboard player). Roger was about ten years older than Will and me, and he thought he knew music much better than we did (and in a way he did). One day I brought in a song called "Do You Like Life?" I was very pleased with how we did the song, but Roger had a real problem with it. You see, the song had no chorus; it had a bridge kind of thing, but it was really just a chant. Roger said, as he often did, "You can't do that!"
A couple of weeks later, Will and I meet up with Roger and he is very excited: he wants to play a song for us. It was Lovers By Rote off the first Jules and the Polar Bears album Got No Breeding. In the song, Jules Shear does something similar to what I was doing (admittedly, what I was doing was more extreme). His "bridge" went:
All you really gotta do is tug a little leash to find yourself constricted
All you really gotta do is think about the crime to find yourself convicted
And Roger relented, "I guess you can do that!" I know that people said the same thing about Beethoven's First Symphony. "You can't start a symphony with a dominant seventh chord!" Who do these people think they are? How do they think any field of art progresses?
Or maybe it is all about me. Beethoven was established. John Lennon was established. I was not. But in general, innovation comes from those who are not established. I think that John Stewart was keenly aware of that. And as for Jules Shear and me: I don't think either of us care.
04/01: The Twilight of Painting
The Twilight of Painting is a reactionary book about how everything is going to hell these days. It was first published in 1945. And it was written by the great artist R. H. Ives Gammell. In fact, the book is not about how everything is going to hell—just painting. You see, Gammell started painting during the pre-WWII era and he found that his work was totally outside the Modernist main-stream of the time. He was firmly rooted in the Academic Art of people like William Bouguereau—another artist I admire.
I first discovered Gammell and the art movement he started—American Classical Realism—at the Maryhill Museum of Art. They have a small room with perhaps twelve paintings. I spent over an hour in that room. It was amazing. The exhibit did not just include him; it included his disciples—in particular, Richard Lack.
More recent artists in this movement are pursuing some interesting paths. Take, for example, Jacob Collins:
Or Michael Grimaldi:
Or Graydon Parrish:
This is amazing, beautiful work.
Gammell always thought that Realism in painting would come back. And it has. But not at the expense of abstract work. The worldwide environment for art has changed in the post-modern era. Since any notion of absolute reality becomes more and more distant, and frankly, intellectually childish, so does the dominance of any one school of art. This means fewer artists become rich, but many more can make a living. That alone is welcome progress. However, even more welcome is the wondrous diversity of the art world; we are all enriched.
I first discovered Gammell and the art movement he started—American Classical Realism—at the Maryhill Museum of Art. They have a small room with perhaps twelve paintings. I spent over an hour in that room. It was amazing. The exhibit did not just include him; it included his disciples—in particular, Richard Lack.
More recent artists in this movement are pursuing some interesting paths. Take, for example, Jacob Collins:
Or Michael Grimaldi:
Or Graydon Parrish:
This is amazing, beautiful work.
Gammell always thought that Realism in painting would come back. And it has. But not at the expense of abstract work. The worldwide environment for art has changed in the post-modern era. Since any notion of absolute reality becomes more and more distant, and frankly, intellectually childish, so does the dominance of any one school of art. This means fewer artists become rich, but many more can make a living. That alone is welcome progress. However, even more welcome is the wondrous diversity of the art world; we are all enriched.
Are you lucky you tuned in today! Probably not, but as usual: you should be. I have found a great short lecture (Okay! It's 58 minutes, but the time flies.) by David Timson:
David Timson Speak the Speech
If you know who Timson is you are doing better than I am. He is certainly a guy who reads books on tape (or CD now). He has done a lot of Shakespeare and Sherlock Holms. He also seems to have done some film acting; and lots of radio broadcasts. As you will see—if you take the time to listen to the lecture, and you should—he has a great voice.
In this lecture, Timson discusses the changing style of Shakespearean performance since the invention of audio recording. Unfortunately, he is not terribly insightful, but this may be because he feels his wonderful examples speek for themselves. And largely they do. He plays very early recordings of Edwin "Am I My Brother's Keeper" Booth (the unfortunate brother of John "Et tu, Brute?" Wilkes)—check out this great John Singer Sargent painting on him, Sir Henry "Big Hank" Irving (just kidding about the "Big Hank" moniker), and Lewis "Sugar Ray" Waller (not kidding about the "Sugar Ray"; no, just kidding; I was).
I have been fascinated with Edwin Booth for a long time, because I wonder what it would be like to be the brother of a famous murderer (I used to live with Melvin Simpson). But I have never heard his voice. In fact, since he died in 1893, I didn't even think there was a recording. Not surprising, he has an excellent voice (so does Melvin). He actually sounds a bit like Orson Welles (so does Melvin; no, just kidding). If that doesn't get you to listen, little will.
The lecture moves up to the present from Sir John Gielgud to Laurence Olivier to Kenneth Branagh (who really is amazing).
The point of the lecture is that Shakespearean acting has moved from a highly musical or operatic style to a more conversational and (to our ears) natural one. We could extrapolate backwards and conclude that acting during the Elizabethan period would be unintelligible to us. This is not unreasonable (but I don't know how reasonable it is, and that's why I put it that way). According to the iconoclastic Shakespearean scholar Gary Taylor, the sounds of the words themselves have changed so much that we would likely get little meaning from them. In effect, Shakespeare—written in (more or less) modern English—has to be translated for modern readers every bit as much as Aristophanes—written in (more or less) ancient Greek.
David Timson Speak the Speech
If you know who Timson is you are doing better than I am. He is certainly a guy who reads books on tape (or CD now). He has done a lot of Shakespeare and Sherlock Holms. He also seems to have done some film acting; and lots of radio broadcasts. As you will see—if you take the time to listen to the lecture, and you should—he has a great voice.
In this lecture, Timson discusses the changing style of Shakespearean performance since the invention of audio recording. Unfortunately, he is not terribly insightful, but this may be because he feels his wonderful examples speek for themselves. And largely they do. He plays very early recordings of Edwin "Am I My Brother's Keeper" Booth (the unfortunate brother of John "Et tu, Brute?" Wilkes)—check out this great John Singer Sargent painting on him, Sir Henry "Big Hank" Irving (just kidding about the "Big Hank" moniker), and Lewis "Sugar Ray" Waller (not kidding about the "Sugar Ray"; no, just kidding; I was).
I have been fascinated with Edwin Booth for a long time, because I wonder what it would be like to be the brother of a famous murderer (I used to live with Melvin Simpson). But I have never heard his voice. In fact, since he died in 1893, I didn't even think there was a recording. Not surprising, he has an excellent voice (so does Melvin). He actually sounds a bit like Orson Welles (so does Melvin; no, just kidding). If that doesn't get you to listen, little will.
The lecture moves up to the present from Sir John Gielgud to Laurence Olivier to Kenneth Branagh (who really is amazing).
The point of the lecture is that Shakespearean acting has moved from a highly musical or operatic style to a more conversational and (to our ears) natural one. We could extrapolate backwards and conclude that acting during the Elizabethan period would be unintelligible to us. This is not unreasonable (but I don't know how reasonable it is, and that's why I put it that way). According to the iconoclastic Shakespearean scholar Gary Taylor, the sounds of the words themselves have changed so much that we would likely get little meaning from them. In effect, Shakespeare—written in (more or less) modern English—has to be translated for modern readers every bit as much as Aristophanes—written in (more or less) ancient Greek.
