jenny holzer
Gallery 221
Nestled on a residential block on the Upper East Side, Gallery 221 might easily be missed by passersby, but take a closer look. Artist Michael Brod has recently revitalized the space. The storefront windows lead into a small, 100 sq. ft. room. Brod's own installation "Whoever Emerges" is currently on view and open to the public. Step inside.
“Beginning in 1973, with the help of a few collaborators, Mr. Furlong created Audio Arts, a no-budget “magazine” composed solely of cassette recordings of interviews with artists Mr. Furlong found interesting. He mailed them to friends and subscribers, at first hundreds and then thousands.”
Read the article at The New York Times. »
To Make A Dadist PoemTake a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you arean infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.W H A T. Y O U. C A N. M A K E. W I T H. N E W S P A P E R S.
art as product
an installation
bubble babble
you have an unusually
magnetic personality
ethic
keep on charging
the enemyMichael Brod, 2009. More at The Outlaw Poetry Network
Tristan Tzara Note on Poetry
The poet of the last station no longer weeps in vain lamenting would slow down his gait. Humidity of ages past. Those who feed on tears are happy and heavy they slip them on to deceive the snakes behind the necklaces of their souls. The poet can devote himself to calisthenics. But to obtain abundance and explosion, he knows how to set hope afire TODAY.
p. 305MANIFESTO: A Century of isms. Edited by Mary Ann Caws.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
This is kind of amazing because we’re playing hide and go seek but the person that’s hiding, it’s almost like that someone, the people trying to find them, that somehow invigorates it and makes it interesting. But if no one ever finds you then, if no one ever finds you then who cares? Or … no one could ever find me here and maybe it’s because I know where everything is, because I’ve been here before or just that somehow, somehow that someone is looking for me it somehow invigorates that search, but if no one were to ever find me, then, who cares? Within the confines of a house, but in the confines of a field it’s not okay. And playing hide n go seek gives everyone license to touch each other and to find each other in a sort of grandiose way. But what does it really mean to never find someone else, ever? What if no one ever found me again? In a way, is it a triumph that no one is going to find me because I know this house more than anyone else? I know this house, you could say. I can hear people shrieking above me but they’re not going to find me. Even if they did, they’ll fall asleep in the effort. If they did find me that would be delightful it would be so great — you found me! Down here in the basement, the boiler room, whatever the fuck room I’m in with my feet dirty, my fingers feeling the tip of the cigarette. No one’s ever going to find me. This is so stupid. Good night. Agh. Ach. I might as well fall asleep against this wall while everyone else finds each other. [blowing of smoke] [end]
What you can make with newspapers. Michael Brod on Outlaw Poetry.
“She turned to the obits first. Sports fans turn to the sports page for the scores. She was a death fan. She read everyone, including the listings. She learned about the deaths of uncles and aunts of people she barely knew. Losses of high school friends she never saw. Some death consumed space. Famous figures. Infamous. Peculiar. Some deaths the living fought to have recognized by the Times. She knew of people who worried about how long their obits were going to be. They worried they wouldn’t get a full column. They wanted a picture. Pictures were usually taken twenty years, on average, before the person’s death, which meant the person’s achievements were made twenty years before, then they disappeared from public view or they didn’t want to be photographed later, older, otherwise there’d be a more recent picture available. Columns of print about the dead next to pictures of their relatively young faces.”
— p. 96. No Lease on Life. Lynne Tillman.
The Cool School. How Los Angeles Learned to Love Modern Art.
An interesting look at how the Left Coast developed its own aesthetic and following in the visual arts world, independent and separate, purposefully ignorant of the art history and prestige in NYC.
