Indieoma: The Language of Independence

Miriam Makeba: Italy Pays Tribute - The Free Speech/Race Edition

2010-03-09T10:28:43-05:00

As our tribute to a powerful African singer and civil rights activist, who died following an onstage collapse during a concert given for free speech near Naples, we give you Indieoma’s first foreign language edition, on race, freedom of speech and ‘Italy’.In promotion and support of the Miriam Makeba tribute concert (March 13th, Rome Italy) Indieoma team up with Lorenzo Marsili of European Alternatives, all female Media promotions group Sulleali, who provide us with exclusive ten minute footage of Roberto Saviano paying his own tributes (press ‘play’ in the Media player, left), Southern Hemisphere Italian language magazine Caposud, and singer Tasher Rodrigues, with her own personal reflections of Makeba.

Piracy And Pieces Of Eight

2010-02-17T13:23:40-05:00

As EMI puts Abbey Road studios up for sale after reporting a pre-tax loss of £1.75bn in the year to 31 March 2009, Indieoma considers whether illegal file-sharing and downloading has made it impossible for artists (and labels) to make money from music… Julia talks about bands and branding and Chris T-T gets angry. Simon Indelicate responds with "Fudge Really Has Nothing To Do With It, Dan Bull explains why he supports file sharing and Matt Stockman reveals how to make money as a record company by giving music away for free. Part 2 – Piracy on the airwaves. Artrocker’s Ric Rawlins takes a look at where the internet has left Pirate Radio and reviews The Boat That Rocked – a filmic interpretation of the story of Radio Caroline.

SXSW 2010 Report - Part 1

2010-02-10T10:35:03-05:00

Austin earns its tagline of the “Music Capitol of the World” with the annual >SXSW Festival. For 9 hot & sticky Texas days, people from all corners of the world merge upon the city capitol to celebrate new interactive, film and music projects. Our 1st edition features Latino Alternative DJ’s, an indie radio show from San Antonio & even a UK pop chick gone solo. Also on loan from la Banda Elastica, Yadira breaks down keynote speaker Gustavo Santaolalla and rapper Anita Tijoux.

Mark Fisher's 'Capitalist Realism': a Sober 21st Century Account

2010-02-03T05:48:55-05:00

‘In one of the key scenes in Alfonso Cuarón’s 2006 film Children of Men, Clive Owen’s character, Theo, visits a friend at Battersea Power Station, which is now some combination of government building and private collection. Cultural treasures – Michelangelo’s David, Picasso’s Guernica, Pink Floyd’s inflatable pig – are preserved in a building that is itself a refurbished heritage artifact. This is our only glimpse into the lives of the elite, holed up against the effects of a catastrophe which has caused mass sterility: no children have been born for a generation. Theo asks the question, ‘how all this can matter if there will be no-one to see it?’ The alibi can no longer be future generations, since there will be none. The response is nihilistic hedonism: ‘I try not to think about it’.‘ So begins Mark Fisher’s vision of contemporary Capitalism, a balanced if damning account, which may answer the long standing question over who might be able to do justice to our times. By doing justice, one means being able to effectively render in the written word the dire aspects that characterize society in the UK, without simultaneously reverting to shrill Anti-Capitalist hystericism, and in a way that can be understood widely, not just in closed academic circles; a few guys at the Sorbonne and a smattering of blogging pedants. Yes, Mark Fisher might be that writer – and he does well to appropriate the methods of Žižek, always having a filmic or, often darkly humorous, real life anecdote to hand to back up his claims, whilst avoiding the complexity that blights the work of the aforementioned – though one feels that if he is, he is hamstrung somewhat by the nature of the times he attempts to describe. For whilst one sees an expert diagnosis of the problems in a ‘capitalist realist’ society, i.e. one where (following Žižek and Frederic Jameson), ‘it is easier to imagine the end of the world than it is to imagine the end of capitalism’, one also sees little offered in the way of a cure for our contemporary ills. More on this later, though I must say now, that Fisher has conceded that the length of the study he has undertaken does not permit of solutions. The line that Fisher takes is well worn, and at points one wonders whether he has swallowed Adorno’s better known works, before regurgitating parts of them, having forgotten where he got them from. To be sure, Adorno is an unfashionable figure as regards the critique of Capitalism, yet when Fisher asks, ‘What happens if the young are no longer capable of producing surprises?,’ later going on to talk, vis-a-vis gangster rap and Kurt Cobain, about the fact that there is no ‘alternative’, one wonders whether a genuinely novel artwork might be appealed to as a corrective to the malaise caused by the ‘culture industry’. Two or three pages after approaching the lack of a truly ‘alternative’ scene, Fisher references Žižek, on the way in which we all deceive ourselves – ‘According to Žižek, capitalism in general relies on this structure of disavowal. We believe that money is only a meaningless token of no intrinsic worth, yet we act as if it has a holy value…’ Yet, if money is only illusion, could we not shift its value through a call to a more worthy illusion – i.e. genuine ‘art’, which makes illusion its primary focus? We would then, of course, be stuck asking whether or not ‘art’ can really exist in a society so ridden with ulterior motive, but all the same, this debate, or even a hint towards it, seems conspicuous in its absence. However, to make too much of this would be unfair, and one might anyhow assume that Mark Fisher just doesn’t see art as having an emancipatory value. Another thing he doesn’t see, is the value of the extreme anti-capitalist movement, and he is to be lauded for identifying its faults, having argued that there was – during recent major activist actions) – a ‘sense that the anti-capitalism movement consisted of making a series of hysterical demands which it didn’t expect to be met.’ As a writer I see here a certain bravery in Fisher’s words. He pulls no punches when tackling the worst excesses of Capitalism on the one hand, neglecting to hide behind the veil that philosophical obscurity provides many academic dissenters, whilst having a pop at the extreme Left wing and anti-capitalist factions on the other hand, something unprecedented in writing of the sort he undertakes. What Fisher proposes is that the soft sheen that Capitalism presents be exposed as a mere front, with many of its supposed ‘softeners’ – things fed to the public to condition them to the system – in fact being outright lies. The Liberalist promise of less bureaucracy and state control are two such blatant examples. In the latter case state control has recently been referred to in order to shore up Capitalism. We have the worst hybrid. State Capitalism. We need rupture that sheen somehow, and expose not the realism of capitalism (i.e. the argument that Capitalism is all that is) but the Real which resides beyond it. With reference to the numbing effects of bureaucracy and of our society in general Fisher refers to his experience of teaching teenagers: ‘Depression is usually characterized as a state of anhedonia, but the condition I’m referring to is constituted not by an inability to get pleasure so much as it by an inability to do anything else except pursue pleasure. There is a sense that ‘something is missing’ – but no appreciation that this mysterious, missing enjoyment can only be accessed beyond the pleasure principle.’ The kids don’t ‘get’ that to really enjoy one’s life requires work on their part, and yet their teachers are unable to convey such a message, being that they spend all of their time meeting targets. It is here that a funny line entered my head with relation to the said teenagers: ‘they need an injunction… make art or die!’. Of course, that returns us to my own aesthetic/Adornian sensibilities, but it also points to what is, I feel, most radical in Fisher’s account… his disdain for the values of the youth of today. Of course, one sees when reading Capitalist Realism that such a sentiment on the writer’s part is not borne of a disdain for the said teenagers/young adults themselves… yet the opinion stated is nonetheless seemingly a stoical one, the kind of which will have no doubt left many of Fisher’s readers feeling angry and uncomfortable when they were in their teens. However, far from being the old grouch, one gets the impression that Fisher’s take is a justified one that relates to a world far removed even from that which I inhabited at A-Level college 15 years ago. His description of a student who on one day insists on wearing his i-pod headphones with no music playing, yet on another day insists on playing the music – very quietly – without wearing the headphones is as sharp as it is hilarious. People these days need the constant comfort of the electronic media machine at hand… otherwise reality somehow seems less ‘real’ for them. Yet I feel there is a missed opportunity here, and although Fisher is clear in his disdain for the hedonism of our times (students fall ‘into hedonistic lassitude: the soft narcosis, the comfort food oblivion of Playstation, all-night TV and marijuana.’), when he comes to propose solutions to our problems it he, arguably, reneges on what might have been an opportunity to really ‘mark’ himself out. For where, in places, Fisher attacks the digital age for the dumbing down effect it has on the written word – something that could be easily counteracted with the argument that, well, it is not obligatory that written forms stay the same for all of history – one sees a conservatism, whereas if he eked out the potential of his attack on hedonism he might be seen to approach, conversely, something positively radical. Who would dare deprive the anti-capitalist front of their drugs and party lifestyle? Returning to writing, I don’t personally feel that there are any worthy battles to be fought over written forms, any more than we should be forced to read only the Bible, and in Latin! But changing the world for the better might be easier if many of the factions hungry for change weren’t ‘wasted’ half the time. Fisher references A-Level college. He might have referenced University, where bright kids learn to be dumb, and end up fighting addictions for the rest of their lives. Take into account that a healthy percentage of ‘drink money’ is given to the State, which props up Capitalism, and we have a grim reality that needs to be held to account. In any case, Fisher implies points like these I his disdain for a society which always values the quick route to happiness. At 16 that means being drip fed digital entertainment, at 26 being virtually drip fed mass produced lager, at 66 just being drip fed, old obese, and no longer useful for the task of making more money. Another thing Fisher does well is point to the links between Capital and madness… incidences of pyschosis seem to accord with the level to which a society is Capitalist, and this seems the most damning indictment of our system that Fisher proffers. We are simply not made for the society we live in, and changes are needed, whether they be revolutionary, or in the manner of fine tuning. In the closing pages Fisher both implies the need for rationing, thus returning to stoicism whilst adding an ecological dimension, and alludes to some kind of potential positive rupture in society, even hinting at the useful critical capacity that might reside in the minds of the mentally ill. One wonders here what kind of recipe for change this is… stoicism admixed with schizophrenia? It almost poses a call to look East, where in some cultures breakdowns are characterized as powerful unleashings of spiritual energy which must be allowed to run their course, whilst frugality is a way of life, when not though necessity, as a trait of culture. One hopes, however, that Capital doesn’t stifle these alternatives before it is too late. Perhaps what is needed is intervention in industrializing nations, so that when they supercede the West in technical capacity they will then bombard us with positive cultural images of their own, rather than feeding our dire systems back to us, with a Bollywood bent. For now, however, we have a resurgent social critique in the UK, and thanks to Fisher it may have substance. I have a feeling this is not the best he could offer, but it is needed right now, and if it doesn’t pose solutions entirely convincingly, it as at the least a powerful, coherent and sober account that will reach out to many. Mike Watson ‘Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative?’ is available from ZerO Books

Open Ideas Project.

2010-01-27T07:30:51-05:00

Introducing the Open Ideas Project platform. In this edition we approach philosophies of the object, with contributions from philosophy blogging pioneers Graham Harman and Nick Srnicek. Open Ideas Editor Mike Watson and artist/writer Paul Sakoilsky address object oriented philosophy in relation to the artwork. Meanwhile, Karim and Caposud lend a tangible edge, addressing issues around ethnicity in Europe, and challenging stereotypes about the Southern Hemipshere.

Latin Rock, Alternative or whatever, to devour in 2010

2010-01-20T12:13:57-05:00

Top tips and hot picks for 2010 from LATINO SLANT and Edson Sanchez. Check media player for videos from: La Santa Cecilia; Brownout; Maneja Beto and Wait Think Fast.

Thank F#*k It's 2010

2010-01-13T16:16:59-05:00

When we came up with this title we felt a wave of optimism, or, at the least, relief. 2009 was a very trying year, and 2010 could only get better. On that note new writer Séverin details the highs and lows of 2009 whilst Ric looks forward to films coming out in 2010. Karim looks forward and backward over the economy, taking pride over having nothing intelligent to say, and Farryl provides a fable on the ‘crisis’. There’s us with the best intentions. It may not be much if you’re skint, cold and tired of the same old politics… but if we’re still only half way through a difficult time, then at least we’re by now used to it. Best wishes for 2010!

Imagine Me

2009-03-31T18:08:56-04:00

Imagine me: a 19 year old blind woman. I have a dog and his name is Patrick. Patrick is a standard guide dog in the sense that he is one of two predictable kinds of guide dog: Labrador Retriever or Golden Retriever. Guess which one. Go ahead, guess which predictable breed Patrick is. Actually try and guess. Seriously don’t read any further without guessing. Really, stop right now. Accept this as a challenge in restraint. Don’t read any further. I knew you couldn’t. Patrick is a yellow lab, but a very unusual yellow lab. See, he’s very much his own dog, he doesn’t fall victim to the chauvinistic socialization of what male dogs are supposed to be. I’m blind because of an infection. My eyes itch of it even though I’m told that they’re completely dead and shouldn’t. No light at all. Some blind people can still sense light; like when a sighted person stares at the sun with his or her eyes closed and orange bleeds through. For me orange is only a taste. If the itching had a sound it would be that of pop rocks or of hydrogen peroxide being poured down a sink. Or else it would sound like a thousand miniaturized, highly knit series’ of people crunching into freshly peeled carrots. One after another; thousands of them. Up until an hour ago I hadn’t broken down and rubbed my eyes for nearly three months. It makes me feel weak when I have to itch. Like the infection won, like it’s still haunting me even though the doctors say it came and went. I ask them where? Where did it WENT, doctor? And they just shrug their shoulders and repeat that it’s gone. I remind them of The Law of Conservation of energy: energy cannot be created nor destroyed. It’s somewhere, I tell them. Nothing just disappears. Things hide, compost, dissipate, fracture, get inhaled and exhaled, go thermal or kinetic, but they never just disappear. Most doctors are idiots, no, that’s not true; worse, most doctors treat me like I’m an idiot. Patrick’s tail feels very similar to a quazi-erect penis. A very big one, and slightly harder than it’s downward position would let on. I know because my ex-boyfriend, Dylan, was perpetually quazi-erect. Never fully soft, never fully hard, always quazi. Which, I suppose, for functionalities sake is the best stage to have one’s penis frozen in, I mean if you had to pick. Dylan was crazy about Patrick. That was the first thing that drew him to me. He came up to me and started asking all about Patrick while petting him. It bothered me that he couldn’t resist petting him. Patrick doesn’t even like to be pet all the time. He’s like me: interested in touching sometimes and not at others. Me, I’m never always anything even though sometimes I wish I was. Say that one again out loud: I’m never always anything, though sometimes I wish I was. Now shake it up: Was I wish I sometimes though anything always never I am. Am I never always anything though sometimes I wish I was? I’m annoying. Patrick’s not very “happy-dog” like. He’s definitely not what they call “a buzz light-year dog.” You know, those nauseatingly heroic Lassie types. Those dogs should be strictly reserved for muscular blond men who hunt and love football with their shirts off in a very yachtish kind of way. I learned that association from Dylan: yachts are to blond muscular men who drink martinis and speak insensitively about socio-political issues on deck, as guide dogs are to the blind. Dylan successfully doubled his adjective repertoire by adding “ish” “y” or “esque” to any noun he employed. At first it was a turn off, a constant reminder of his impoverished vocabulary, but after I fell in love with him I fell in love with it. And besides, it always worked, I always understood what he meant: it felt a little computer-ish; there was something pleasantly puppy-esque about him; it was a bit big business-y. See. And when you imagine me, imagine one more thing, imagine me as that 19 year old blind woman you imagined before, only now imagine her on a bus that she’s just gotten on after dumping her boyfriend, Dylan. And imagine her moments before, when she slowly got on the bus, listening carefully to everyone waiting a little longer than they need to as the blind, broken hearted woman slowly stepped aboard. People are willing to wait forever for a blind woman. I could have stood in between the doors for ten minutes if I wanted, and everyone would’ve stayed completely silent. And watch as another piece of me as simple as— I’m on my way to move in with my mother, Annie, to cry and eat a lot— adds to what you see. Here’s more: Patrick is laying underneath my legs. I’m wearing a blue track suit and a green backpack. Blue and green are words I’ve memorized for people like you, because you understand them, and I understand why you like them. And if you were on the bus you could see that I desperately want to satisfy an itch: my eyes are watering, and I’m exhaling loudly out my nose and distorting my mouth in a way that suggests the brink of explosion. I dumped Dylan because he cheated on me. He looks at pornography. Men are very visual you know. He touches himself, imagining that he is the one having sex with some poor hyena-screeching failed actress. The first time, I asked him what he would feel if I touched myself to the sound of another man breathing in my ear, imagining his pubes rubbing against mine, imagining him inside of me? Dylan told me that it would hurt him very much. Okay, now you’re getting it, I said. We hugged and kept on walking toward the airport. I’d never been to the airport and wanted to hear and smell it. The second time I caught him looking at pornography, he said, “Baby, it’s just that men have two sides. One of me is this stupid, hungry, dog-ish looser, and the other is your and only your lover. I love you and don’t love them. It’s not something that can make sense to you, it’s just that men and women are different like that.” “Dogs have nothing to do with it, Dylan.” I petted Patrick for emphasis. We stayed quite for a while. I was facing the window. We were at his house, in the kitchen, on the sticky floor, at the small round table, under the ceiling fan, next to the sharply buzzing fridge, and across from the open window with children playing nearby. Children old enough to have recently learned ugly words: Wigger, faggot, assmunch, pussy. I could hear that some of them were young enough to still be a little bit scared of those words. That’s why it excited them; that’s why they wanted to be around the slightly older, ugly word using boy. I hear all of this. The same way I heard that Dylan was still looking at pornography when I asked him. Patrick sighed. He was under the table, his chin lay on my naked foot. “I would never actually do it,” he went on, “it’s just something else entirely. Not personal.” “You support an industry that objectifies women. You pretend to fuck these women. It’s not personal. Now say what I just said back to me, Dylan, say, I objectify women; I pretend to fuck these women; it’s not personal.” He sighed. I screamed, “Say it!” in that burnt-shriek kind of way. After a minute, he mumbled, “I objectify women; I pretend to fuck these women; it’s not personal.” He sounded broken, not acting broken either. “Am I enough for you?” I asked knowing that Dylan could only say yes. I knew I was leaving anyway; I just wanted to hear his yes. I also wanted a little more drama, after the scream I mean. “Of course you are. Much, much more than enough.” Here he was acting. He felt something that I couldn’t ever feel, and he knew he just had to hide that part of himself from me. Words don’t mean anything at all. It’s their vibrations that resonate long enough to be understand. Vibrations that never leave, that ripple on forever. Vibrations that cannot be created or destroyed. Even while you’re reading this (even though I asked you to stop), you hear my voice. It’s all vibration. Maybe Dylan does love me, but not enough to kill his hungry “dog” self off. I wanted to explain to him the value of sacrifice, about how important it is to know when it was time to lose something in exchange for something greater. How restraint is strength. Instead I walked away. Maybe Patrick will attract another man someday that I can love. Maybe it’ll be a better man. Karim lives, plays, and writes in Paris, France.

THE TAQWACORES: Photographs by Kim Badawi

2009-03-04T15:46:01-05:00

powerHouse Books is pleased to announce the July 2009 release of The Taqwacores Photographs by Kim Badawi Just a few years ago the notion of “taqwacore,” a Muslim subgenre of punk rock, existed only as an inspired fiction. Writer Michael Muhammad Knight coined the term for his novel The Taqwacores, the story of a Muslim punk house in Buffalo, NY, which Knight initially distributed from the back of his car in DIY xerox format. In time, the book found legitimate distribution and garnered supporters, even inspiring the first woman-led prayer of a mixed-gender congregation in the United States in 2005. But something far grander was in the works; unbeknownst to Knight, a real Muslim punk scene was starting to emerge, based on the one he had imagined for the book. Photographer Kim Badawi first met Knight around this time, and bore witness as the taqwacore phenomenon began to take hold. Beginning in 2006, Badawi traveled across the U.S., chronicling the burgeoning subculture and the musicians who had been spurred to action by Knight’s creative vision. In 2007 he was invited to accompany the TaqwaTour, traveling to major cities across North America alongside bands including The Kominas and Secret Trial Five. As the genre continues to take shape and influence a rising generation of artists and intellectuals, Badawi’s The Taqwacores stands as a photographic companion to the original text and an indispensable document of the making of a movement. Born in Paris in 1980, Kim Badawi is American photojournalist and documentarian of French, Egyptian, and Slovenian background. He began his photographic career photographing the plight of refugee families from Mississippi to Texas in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, while still interning for Contact Press Images and Magnum Photos in New York. Selected for publication by the Center for Documentary Studies at Duke University, Badawi’s work appears in 25 Under 25: Up-and-Coming American Photographers (powerHouse Books, 2008). For more information, please visit: http://www.powerhousebooks.com/book/1015

THE GOSPEL OF HIP HOP: The First Instrument, Presented by KRS-One for the Temple of Hip Hop, An I AM HIP HOP Book

2009-03-04T15:44:36-05:00

powerHouse Books is pleased to announce the June 2009 release of The Gospel of Hip Hop The First Instrument Presented by KRS-One for the Temple of Hip Hop An I AM HIP HOP Book The Gospel of Hip Hop: The First Instrument, the first book from the I Am Hip Hop imprint set for launch in Spring 2009, is the philosophical masterwork of KRS-One. Set in the format of the Christian Bible, this 600-plus-page opus is a life-guide manual for members of Hip Hop Kulture that combines classic philosophy with faith and practical knowledge for a fascinating, in-depth exploration of Hip Hop as a life path. Known as “The Teacha,” KRS-One developed his unique outlook as a homeless teen in Brooklyn, New York, engaging his philosophy of self-creation to become one of the most respected emcees in Hip Hop history. Respected as Hip Hop’s true steward, KRS-One painstakingly details the development of the culture and the ways in which we, as “Hiphoppas,” can and should preserve its future. The Teacha also discusses the origination of Hip Hop Kulture and relays specific instances in history wherein one can discover the same spirit and ideas that are at the core of Hip Hop’s current manifestation. He explains Hip Hop down to the actual meaning and linguistic history of the words “hip” and “hop,” and describes the ways in which Hiphoppas can change their current circumstances to create a future that incorporates Health, Love, Awareness, and Wealth (H-LAW). Committed to fervently promoting self-reliance, dedicated study, peace, unity, and truth, The Teacha has drawn both criticism and worship from within and from outside of Hip Hop Kulture. In this beautifully written, inspiring book, KRS-One shines the light of truth, from his own empirical research over a 14-year period, into the fascinating world of Hip Hop. KRS-One is a philosopher, activist, author, lecturer, and emcee. Since founding canonical Hip Hop act Boogie Down Productions in the mid-1980s, he has released a granite-solid catalog of 19 full-length albums, along with a star-studded list of collaborations. In 1988 he founded the Stop the Violence Movement, a collective of artists, activists, educators, and entertainers exploring the roots of violence while working to promote the development of positive conflict resolution methods; he is currently producing an album celebrating the organization’s 20th anniversary, with contributions by Nelly, Method Man, Busta Rhymes, The Game, Hakiem Green, Grant Parks, Duane “Da Rock” Ramos, and many others. KRS-One is an accomplished public speaker who has delivered lectures at over 500 colleges, universities, and other venues. In addition to The Gospel of Hip Hop, he is the author of The Science of Rap (1995) and Ruminations (Welcome Rain, 2003). Currently, KRS-One is touring the United States with Stop the Violence, urging America’s urban centers to seek non-violent conflict resolution over revenge and war. For more information, please visit: http://www.powerhousebooks.com/book/1006

BUSTED: powerHouse Magazine Issue 5

2009-03-04T15:35:02-05:00

powerHouse Books is pleased to announce the June 2009 release of Busted! powerHouse Magazine Issue 5 Remember when you got grounded in 10th grade for coming home drunk and vomiting on the dog? Or the time you got caught selling fake ecstasy and were escorted out of that after-hours dive? Or how about the time your girlfriend got your password and broke into your Gmail account, only to discover you had an online honey? Man, if you had a dollar for every time you got busted, you’d be able to post bail right about now. To celebrate all that goes wrong when you’re up to no good, powerHouse Magazine introduces Issue 5: Busted, a sometimes serious, often hilarious look at failure and fiasco from around the globe. From manhunts to masturbation, friendly fire to robbing the mafia, trespassing to parking-lot madness, Busted promises the most eclectic mix of nogoodniks, anarchists, and frisky kids ever caught between two covers. Featuring the work of Keiji Ando, Patti Astor, Basty, Orkan Benli, Nora Bibel, Boogie, Nathan Brown, Negri Cabrini, Nicola Cairns, COPE2, Matthew Charles Crabe, Raphael Dellaporta, DJ Disco Wiz, Deborah Dragon, Meiko Elias, Michael Ellsberg, Ron English, Derek Erdman, Larry Fink, Yoav Galai, Jesse Gammage, Samantha Gainsborough, Michael Gonzales, Griddy Grimes, Roc Herms Pont, Steven Hirsch, Pinch Hudson, James Hughes, Idris Intifada, JR, Musa Kart, John Lurie, Narayan Mahon, Brantly Martin, Craig Mathis, Sarah McNeill, MISTA KGKASS, Caleb Neelon, New York Daily News, NOV as Loucious Broadway, ONE 9, Mark Peterson, Mia Petzall, Joseph Rivera, Joseph Rodriguez, Christophe Salet, Ivan Sanchez, Colin Simmons, Todd Solomon, Lila Szasz, Hank Willis Thomas, Maureen Valdes, Nathaniel Welch, Geordie Wood, Wooz, Meiko Xavier, and Joy Yoon. For more information, please visit: http://www.powerhousebooks.com/book/1017

Trailer Park

2009-03-04T14:17:58-05:00

Who can I rage at!? Who can I maul? Which cretin is to blame?! Who committed this travesty?! I speak, of course, of my own decision to leave my beer in the freezer for too long, this committing myself to a writing session of slurping on slush puppies. Ah biddy thee well… what are we talking about today again? Let’s read an email. “Ric… it has been a long time. We received the postcards from Mongolia – but we could not decipher them, merely the phrase ‘the bastards have finally tracked me down’ followed by hasty scribbles… A week later we received some human finger bones in the post and are deeply concerned. However. We are not concerned enough to resist firing you if you don’t get your boney ass back here immediately… we need 1000 words on cinema and advertising this week, or you’re ketchup, you illiterate scumbag!” Wise words. And who can blame them? I have indeed been on some very secret business recently, but now is not the time to be going into that… Besides, cinema and advertising is a fine subject to elaborate on while crunching my teeth into some alcoholic ice. Few innocents would guess that I’m a massive fan of action movie trailers. Speaking as a connoisseur of the genre, I can automatically reel off ten you should go and watch now on Youtube. That would probably be unforgivably boring though, so let’s reel off three. Under Siege 2 is of course, about a cook – who also happens to be pretty good at blowing the holy fuck out of terrorists. The trailer sees Steven the Seagull mutter the immortal line: “I’m not even a good cook – but there are some things I’m good at…” before he snaps the neck of yet another poor D-list actor, drafted into play a terrorist. Another good one is the trailer for Jean Claude Van Damme’s Oscar winning masterpiece ‘Time Cop’. This one edits together the action scenes to the music from Aliens, building into a orgiastic climax of action, explosions and Jean-Claude doing the splits in some very tight trousers – the kind of tight trousers that make it really obvious when you’re getting an action-boner. Come to think of it, just like the one I get from watching this trailer. King of the action movie trailers though, is Speed. “The game began,” goes the deep throat voiceover, “when someone put the city of Los Angeles… to the ultimate test.” Then we get ‘the pitch’ – you know, deep throat explains all that crap about the bomb on the bus. But then, the beauty begins. “Now…” (there’s always a ‘Now’ approximately halfway through action movie trailers), “He’s the only solution!” And we’re off. Flying buses. Racing drums. Exploding planes. Thrusting violins. Speeding trains. More drums. Falling lifts. Bigger explosions. Faster drums. The flying bus again. Keanu Reeves! More explosions! Dennis Hopper! More explosions! Deep throat! Explosions! Explosions! And…. ahhhhhhhh. It’s called Speed. Honey, shall we go see that movie? Christ, that paragraph was a bit fast – I need to sit down after that. Although let’s be honest – I am already sitting down, and after those last few paragraphs, you’re probably assuming that I’m not only sat down, but sat down in my Y-fronts, stroking a grenade placed neatly by my desk. Let’s not be harsh though – I have an exercise we can do together to regain some trust. The beauty of action movie trailers is they’re bloody easy to write. You don’t even need a movie, just make it up as you go along. Let’s see… DEEP THROAT: He was an ordinary man on an ordinary vacation… (CUE SHOTS OF BLOKE DRINKING WINE IN HOTEL, LAUGHING WITH WIFE) DEEP THROAT: Until one day… (CUE SHOTS OF SNOWY EXTERIOR, FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF SOME HELLISH MONSTER APPROACHING THE HOTEL AND BREATHING HEAVILY) DEEP THROAT: It came to visit! (THE HOTEL LOBBY BLOWS UP, PANIC, DEATH, MAYHEM) DEEP THROAT: And now… (THE BLOKE STRIPS DOWN TO A VEST AND NICKS A MACHETE FROM THE KITCHENS) DEEP THROAT: He’s taking the fight… to the freezer! (FAST EDITED SEQUENCE OF:) THE MAN DIVING OUT OF A HELICOPTER FIGHTING THE BEAST WHILE RIDING ON TOP OF IT SWINGING FROM THE CHANDELIERS CLOSE UP OF THE BEAST’S SHARP FANGS AS IT HOWLS DEEP THROAT: Ray Jameson… (EXPLOSION) DEEP THROAT: Laura Manning…. (GIRL HANGING OFF CLIFF EDGE) DEEP THROAT: In a cold world…. (SWAT TEAMS AND ARMY DRIVING OVER THE HILL IN SNOW PLOUGHS) DEEP THROAT: He’s going to turn up…. (A MOUNTAIN EXPLODES) DEEP THROAT: The heating! (EVERYTHING EXPLODES) DEEP THROAT: The Abominable Snowman. Chill out… this winter. I quite like the sound of that – and The Abominable Snowman is surely the last classic myth that hasn’t been raped, re-written and shat on by the modern studio system too. And it’s all mine… mine I tell you! I mean, it’s not as if 20th Century Fox read this blog, is it? Ha ha ha! What? What’s that? They do read it? Ah… (tip toes over to grab an envelope and send the idea to himself in the post). The rest of the Advertising posts: Introduction Karim: So What do You Do In Life? Johnny: Tight Fits and Bumpy Rides Bassma: Ad Enough Daniel: Queuing Sean: Give me a[n Ad] Break! Nuala: Two Poems

Nuala Ní Chonchúir - Two Poems

2009-03-04T10:55:30-05:00

We are pleased to welcome Irish poet and writer Nuala Ní Chonchúir, who brings two published poems dealing ‘with the power of advertising in the beauty industry over women.’ Mannequin Envy It’s not the pert plum breasts or the bloodless complexion It’s not the gamine gait or the fuck-me-please eyes It’s the luxurious laziness of her shop-window leisure, the loitering with no intent. Pandemic Fun-size women bite each others backs, every flesh-inch tasted and tested against their own They pay lip service to meal-times where each swallowed and supped morsel is scaled, good or bad In their seeded, split wine-apple cores they want to be small above all else: little girl as alien species Nuala Ní Chonchúir lives in County Galway, Ireland. Her third short fiction collection Nude will be published by Salt in the UK in September 2009. Poems and an essay will appear in The Watchful Heart – A New Generation of Irish Poets, edited by Joan McBreen (Salmon, April 2009). Nuala was chosen by The Irish Times as a writer to watch in 2009. Her website is www.nualanichonchuir.com The rest of the Advertising posts: Introduction Rik: Trailer Park Karim: So What do You Do In Life? Johnny: Tight Fits and Bumpy Rides Bassma: Ad Enough Daniel: Queuing Sean: Give me a[n Ad] Break!

Tight Fits And Bumpy Rides

2009-03-03T15:47:17-05:00

For new bands, getting involved with advertising in the early stages of their career can be the kiss of death. While “overnight” success might seem initially gratifying, the accompanying hype can mean (as many X factor finalists have discovered) that people just as quickly get sick of you. Once you are perceived to have “sold out” it can be very difficult to claw back any kind of credibility. The mid 1990s saw a string of new acts disappear just as quickly as they arrived after sound-tracking Levis jeans commercials: Despite topping the charts in 1994 with “Inside” (following the Levis ad campaign), Stiltskin’s album failed to match the single’s success and after limping into the charts at No. 34 with second single Footsteps, the band split shortly afterwards. Freak Power scored a minor hit with the original release of Turn On, Tune In and Drop Out in 1993 (it peaked at No. 29). However, on it’s re-release in 1995 after sound-tracking the Levis advert, it charted at No. 3. Although Freak Power’s second album was released a year later, they did not manage another Top 40 hit until 1998 and even then, success was again short-lived. In 1996 Babylon Zoo took up the challenge with the single Spaceman. Again, it was a huge hit, remaining at Number 1 in the UK for 5 weeks and topping the charts in 23 other countries. The first album sold reasonably well and the band scored two more Top 40 hits before disappearing from the public eye. Three years later the first single from the second album, “All The Money’s Gone” only managed to chart at No.46 and any further commercial success escaped them. Conversely, when companies have opted to use songs by more established acts, especially those with a cult rather than a mass following, to accompany their adverts, it has often had the opposite effect on the band’s fortunes. For example; In 1991 The Clash scored their first Number 1 after Should I Stay or Should I Go was used in a Levis ad campaign despite the fact that they had split up five years earlier. Since then, their profile and the respect they command has continued to increase to the extent that they are far bigger now than they ever were while they were “active”. In 1993 The Velvet Underground benefited from a renewed interest in their back catalogue when Venus In Furs was used in Dunlop’s visually striking “Tested For The Unexpected” advert. The Fall also experienced something of a renaissance when Touch Sensitive (originally written in 1997) was used to accompany Vauxhall’s Corsa advert in 2002 – suddenly they found themselves playing bigger venues and with greater regularity than for many years. To end, it’s worth mentioning two radically different artists with radically opposing views on their music and advertising. In 1999 Moby famously licensed every single track on his eighth album Play to films, television shows and commercials – a move which meant that the album was a financial success way before it clocked up its eventual multi-platinum sales. Perhaps partially as a result of the massive exposure and airplay that this approach afforded its songs, Play also spawned no less than 8 UK top 40 hits. At the other end of the spectrum is Tom Waits, a man so vehemently opposed to his music being used in adverts that in 2000 he sued car manufacturer Opel, after they used a sound-alike singer on their ads in Denmark, Sweden and Finland. He had a strong case as they had originally asked to use one of his songs and had been turned down. In 1994 Waits sued his own record company in 1994 for licensing his song Heartattack and Vine for …a Levis commercial. The rest of the Advertising posts: Introduction Rik: Trailer Park Karim: So What do You Do In Life? Bassma: Ad Enough Daniel: Queuing Sean: Give me a[n Ad] Break! Nuala: Two Poems

Ad Enough

2009-03-03T14:13:03-05:00

“By the way, if anyone here is in advertising or marketing, kill yourself…Seriously though, if you are, do. No really, there’s no rationalisation for what you do, and you are Satan’s little helpers, OK? Kill yourselves, seriously. You’re the ruiner of all things good. You are fucked and you are fucking us, kill yourselves, it’s the only way to save your fucking soul. Kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself now. Now, back to the show.” _Bill Hicks Ah… that infamous Bill Hicks line on people in advertising and marketing; quite apt as the 26th of February marked the 15 anniversary of his death to pancreatic cancer. For all intents and purposes I do agree with this viewpoint since working in the field of fashion, where I have found people in advertising and marketing to basically be coked up fuck-wits who’s abuse of the word ‘DAhhhhRLING’ provokes in me a near Pavlovian reflex, which, if exercised, would have me ripping their faces off. I was asked by Indieoma to address the issue from a balanced perspective, something which has proved quite a difficult task. I realised, when I took a moment to step down from my Naomi Klein soapbox, that there is a nebulous grey area that exists between my two extreme views of advertising. On the one hand I see the Ad industry as having forged a collective Faustian pact with the devil, yet on the other I preserve a benign childhood image of Ad-men, as if they are all Samantha’s weak willed whiney husband ‘Darren’ in the ’60’s TV series Bewitched. To my shame, my friend Aliyah and I recently spent nearly one hour on Youtube watching different versions of the Cadbury’s Milk ad with the Gorilla drumming to Phil Collins’ ‘In the Air Tonight’. Its comic genius – which has has absolutely nothing to do with chocolate – appeals to my sense of the ridiculous and makes me laugh something chronic. This may also be down to my love of 80’s power ballads …don’t judge! I dare you to resist the air guitar solo in a Living on a Prayer. When I first moved to Amsterdam at 23, I nearly wet myself when I saw a commercial on Dutch TV for an English language school. It featured a Dutch family who merrily pack themselves into a car for a day out together. The father turns the radio on and they all enjoy listening to an up beat euro-pop English language tune; unbeknownst to them is the meaning of the lyrics that they are singing along to in unison; ‘I’m gonna fuck you in the ass, I’m gonna fuck you in the ass’. The Ad promptly ends with the banner – ’Isn’t it time you learnt English?’. Aside from the humorous side, the industry does afford some great breaks for artists who want to bridge the gap between being an unknown creative and having recognition on a national, or even international, level. Wasn’t this the case for Jonathan Glazer with the Guinness ads in the 90’s or the I-pod commercial that featured music by Feist? Didn’t Warhol and Richard Hamilton’s iconic images owe their inspiration to ‘Satan’s little helpers’? I left my own artistic aspirations behind in my late 20’s and drifted into the dark world of fashion, where without the pretext of high brow culture that underlines the Fine Arts , people working in the industry knowingly and willingly act a bit like being courtiers at the Versailles of Louis the XV; air kissing is a must and bitching about each other practically a code of honour. In some respects I found it refreshing that we didn’t have to pretend we were changing the world. At times it was unbearably superficial but at least honest in its superficiality. We want to sell you a dream – every page flipped through in Vogue (where 60% of its content is ad pages) is kind of an aspirational Soma of sorts. Working in the industry, I learned how these pretty mirages and lifestyle dreams were constructed; hell, I was helping construct them! Yet despite knowing I was selling was a myth, I often willingly bought into the flight of fancy I had helped create. Sometimes reality was so ugly I just wanted to dream for a little while. I was torn, I loved dreaming but when I opened my eyes and peeked for a second at my over coiffed, botoxed, boob jobbed, Kate Moss stylised, collagen plumped fellow dreamers who had been dreaming too long, I freaked out and bailed out. Subsequently I opted to ditch my well paid soul destroying job where I got to wear some fabulous shoes, pontificate about Westwood and generally talk rubbish. Instead I now sit here in a café on an overcast day in Berlin and write to you. I’m living out the age old marketed romantic 19th Century myth of the artist/writer as an individual with rich ideals yet a poor pocket. Don’t worry I won’t be cutting off my ear or dying of consumption any time soon. The rest of the Advertising posts: Introduction Rik: Trailer Park Karim: So What do You Do In Life? Johnny: Tight Fits and Bumpy Rides Daniel: Queuing Sean: Give me a[n Ad] Break! Nuala: Two Poems

So What do You Do In Life?

2009-03-03T11:53:16-05:00

The first peculiar ad I saw was at the bank. A teller was explaining to me why I shouldn’t continue using my debit card when I don’t have any money in my account, when my eyes drifted to a poster behind her. It was a picture of a handsome couple looking at an ultrasound of their unborn child. Lots of pretty blues and yellows and reds. They looked sincerely happy and it made me feel lonely. Above them was written, “There is a solution for every emotion,” in charming bubble letters. Though I didn’t understand the meaning of these words, especially in the context of a bank ad, there was something deeply soothing about them. The teller continued to explain the actuality of how bank accounts work, and I replayed, “There is a solution for every emotion…There is a solution to every emotion” in my head. Each time with a different cadence and intonation and stress. Finally, I decided on my favorite and barked, “There IS a solution to EVERY EmoTION!” On the way home, I took note of another puzzling ad at La Gare Du Nord. It was a poster of a sultry woman in a white tank top and pajama bottoms. She held a cup of instant noodles that she’d ripped open with her mouth (the cardboard still between her teeth). She had hungry eyes and disheveled hair. Above her, in apple-green lettering, it read, “On Monday nights, I only want him.” There was nothing but those words, the noodles, and the woman on the large white backdrop. I had to assume that “him” referred to the box of noodles that she’d carnivorously de-clothed. But why copulate with instant noodles specifically on Monday nights, as opposed to, say, a Tuesday or Friday? Another curious one stood out to me at La Gare De Lyon. It was of a very hairy man (dreadlocks, a big grey beard, and fury arms), working under the hood of a beat up car. It was an ad for an auto shop chain called Autoralia. Above the hairy man, in some sort of hairy-letter-font, it read, “Someone’s not afraid of a hairy situation.” I stared at this poster and imagined that meeting of higher-ups that concluded with the decision to run the ad. A group of executives and advertising consultants in gorgeous suits, 80euro haircuts, all sitting around a shiny mahogany table, staring at the hairy man projected onto the wall of the conference room, and saying, yeah, that’s the direction we want Autoralia to go in. The most perplexing ad campaign in all of Paris is for Orangina. They opted to use sexy cartoon animals as their mascots. Bears, zebras, giraffes, fawns, all drinking Orangina suggestively from a straw. The bear wears only a fig leaf below his libidinous eyes and blazing six-pack. The zebra and giraffe sit poolside, voluptuously filling their bikinis. The zebra’s breasts are on the brink of bursting out of her pink top, and the giraffe’s hypnotizing ass stares at you while she flicks the tip of her straw with her tongue. But that’s okay. I’ve thought of a solution to this problem. I’m going to become idiotically rich and buy up all the billboard and poster space in Paris. I’ll govern all the advertising in every metro, bus and train station, on every boulevard, in every mall and esplanade and fountain space. Advertising will no longer be about propagating commercial products with trite salesmanship, but will become a reflection of the citizens’ idea of beauty. It will be the people that decide what goes up on the walls of this city. They’ll be able to put up their favorite paintings and pictures and graphics in any public space. Humanitarian causes will still be welcomed to advertise on a first come first serve basis. Concerts and theatre and exposition ads will also be permitted, and so will informative ads about those ever-elusive social and health care programs in France. It won’t stop at images though. Stories and quotes by nobodies and everybodies will be encouraged too. People will be able to share whatever they want with the city, from something deeply personal to a joke to something without any significance at all: “I’m not afraid of soup;” “My brother just died. I miss him a lot;” “What did one coffin say to the other coffin–– ‘Hey, is that you coughin’?’” “I don’t know how to care about the news;” “If I was a fish, I would never leave your bathtub;” “Stop staring at me, I don’t owe you anything;” “Can I give you a hand, Job?” At the beginning, of course, I’ll have to use my own personal images to get the ball rolling. For instance, I might open by putting a massive picture of my dog, Doggie, up on the 30X40 billboards across from Les Galleries La Fayette. It’ll be a montage. Doggie will hold a slightly different head pose on each of the three giant billboards, causing a slow head turning effect. Doggie is very cute and I think he will raise everyone’s spirits. Then I’ll adorn the sides of busses with pictures of my family, my friends, myself, and so on. But there’ll always be my website at the bottom of these images, inviting the public to send me the images that they would want posted: their family, and selves, and doggies. People could go on the website and vote on which image they most wanted to see. There will be a citywide moratorium on any run-of-the-mill commercial ads: diamonds, cell phones, cars, energy drinks, instant noodles, designer clothes, soda, perfume, alcohol, lingerie etc. That image of the spiky haired, shirtless, sweaty model bleeding Gatorade will no longer pollute the triangles on top of Taxi-cabs. Sexy giraffes and hair-puns will be banned forever. No longer will we be oppressed by our own consumer-obsessed culture. Nor will we be made to feel poor or unattractive or insignificant, as it will be you and I that will be represented in them. Advertising space will be reinvented as a medium that exposes the people’s art. I’ve done some preliminary research as I await the necessary funds to put this dream into motion. Over the past two weeks, I’ve been handing out a one-question survey to pedestrians on busy streets. The question is, “How would you fill the billboard space I bought you for your birthday?” Of the approximate 4,000 people I’ve offered the survey to, I’ve received 28 proper answers. Below are some of the more interesting ones: “How much time do you spend in your memory?” “My son won’t stop trying to stare at the sun.” “Lemons are acid, not sour.” “Next time, I won’t love you.” “Warning: this is a dry sauna. Please don’t put water on the rocks. It may cause an electrical hazard.” “I’m sick of being the only psychic one.” “So what do you do in life?” Please send any ideas, words, or pictures you’d like posted in Paris to Karim.Dimechkie@gmail.com thank you. The rest of the Advertising posts: Introduction Rik: Trailer Park Johnny: Tight Fits and Bumpy Rides Bassma: Ad Enough Daniel: Queuing Sean: Give me a[n Ad] Break! Nuala: Two Poems

Mush Records – Ten Years Of Mush (sampler)

2009-02-25T08:53:43-05:00

Whether they are made for your own enjoyment, for a party, or to introduce new friends to your music tastes, or simply your latest headspace, compilations are the lifeblood of the music lover. For many years, meeting up with friends for Christmas drinks largely consisted of intense discussions about our latest choices of listening matter accompanied by the earnest swapping of home made compilation CD “Christmas presents”. The compilations acted like a snapshot of a particular time and space. They showed where the compiler was looking in their hunt for new music and they also turned me on to a lot of new (and old) music that I was unaware of before. While home made compilations can be tailored to one particular individual or group of friends, those that are commercially available generally have to rely on packing in the hits, often concentrating on one particular genre to the point of overkill and becoming desperately dull/predictable as a result. In other words, compilations only really become interesting when they get personal. Happily the new Mush Records compilation, “Ten Years of Mush” is totally personal – with a label that is essentially one person’s project, it has to be. Happily, in these economically challenging times, it is also free. Mix 1 is overwhelmingly down-tempo yet pleasantly cinematic. The first 20 minutes are more comparable to the sort of music you’d expect to see backing a lo-fi Scottish art house film than anything likely to come out of Hollywood. Ambient electronica, trip hop and understated vocals accompanied by gently simmering guitars give way to glacial, nocturnal beats that would seem perfectly at home in Cold War-era Russia. Think Sigur Ros meets Mogwai, meets Brian Eno. The mix moves on to more upbeat, tangible songs (they have verses and choruses and everything!) where dub and jaunty indie nestle side by side before disappearing once again into textural dreamscapes and more aggressive hip hop for Mix 2. All in all, it sounds a lot like John Peel’s Radio show always did. There is the odd artist that you will undoubtedly recognise (Her Space Holiday, Devendra Banhart, Clouddead etc) but, apart from a handful of remixes supplied by other acts (Stereolab, Boards of Canada etc) the bulk is made up of artists (and sounds) you almost certainly won’t. And in the context of a compilation, that is no bad thing. Ten Years of Mush can be downloaded for free by clicking here.

A Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist

2009-02-17T00:00:00-05:00

I recall at 18 or so drawing a self portrait in charcoal and chalk. It was a happy accident – a self portrait that really caught the kind of late pubescent wonderment and nerves that was perma-fixed on my face until about the age of 25. My Mum, for reasons then not entirely known to me, deigned that I should visit the local rectory and show the priest my drawing. To be fair, she was a Catholic, and I was a semi-Catholic, so it wasn’t so random as it at first sounds. Being dropped off at the gates of the rectory, left to my own own devices, I kind of schlepped around for a few minutes, before knocking on the door, with a kind of ‘tappety-teppety-tup’. The priest promptly answered. So prompt it was, that, where I then thought that he hadn’t been expecting me, I now can surmise that he fully knew that I was coming, and who I was. Struggling for words I stood with a drawing of myself held tight to my chest, as if I were protecting it, defensively, but with the image facing outward, toward the priest.. ‘I did this drawing of myself’, I said. Feeling somewhat out-to-sea, and at a loss for what else to say, I was then whisked inside. I have mused often, upon what mixture of confusion and enforced humility the priest had had to feign on that occasion, and also, over how routine this procedure might have been for him… Not the thing of having to look at people’s self-portraits, but the whole hoo-ha of having to humour people, and of often not knowing what had bought people in front of him, as many of those who stood in front of him, out of grief, or guilt, or whatever, would have been relatively speechless. See, where I was part Catholic, he hadn’t actually met me before. The part that was Catholic was the part that was hedging a bet, and a bet, at that, which required no commitment on my part. From my purview he was dealing with a random kid who turfed up on his doorstep sporting a picture of his own mug, held so tighly to himself, that it were as if the identity of the young artist and of the drawing had become confused in the mind of that fledgling artist. The resemblance in the drawing, the priest noticed, was striking. What else he said, and asked, I can’t pretend to remember. The meeting was probably 10 minutes in total, and felt to me to have lasted an hour or more. I replied with only ‘yes’ words. And when I tried to say something more, he did that thing of cutting me short, as if to help me not to have to further embarrass myself. […] It’s funny how memories morph with time, and how it is not until many years after an event that the various factors recorded in a memory’s make-up concretize into a form that is acceptable and conceivable. It is possibly the incongruence of some events, their thorough-going strangeness to us, that keeps them going around in our heads like this, until they finally gel and make sense to us. In my experience this is more often truer with regard to the very slightly odd events, than with the bigger, perhaps more disturbing ones; the latter often bearing an import that is clear from the offset. Here things get a bit analytical, in a treatment-couch kind of way, and it is not my wish to draw huge generalities here, although I will run with this a little further: One of the most hitting factors of undergoing psychological analysis is that you discover, in exploring the corner cupboards of your head, not only just how deep runs your embarassment, as a kind of ongoing inscription of all that you can’t quite digest in your life, a kind of catalogue of minor errors, but also, what a base and wretched person you really are underneath it all! We’d all sell our grandmother’s down the river, apparently. Though this is only half true… we might all do, given the most extreme of circumstances. Otherwise, we’re all fairly morally indifferent most of the time, whilst being capable of overwhleming goodness just on those rare days when things transpire to make it so. More often for some than for others. Some very few people are positive freaks of fate, and just don’t stop doing good – but that is, unfortunately, not too common. The artist, writer, musician, etc.. (and really I use ‘artist’ as a blanket term) is, arguably, under a kind of constant self-analysis, the works they produce unearthing greater and greater acts of goodness and depravity, even if only portrayed in their medium, rather then enacted in ‘real life’. This is something that often plays out into the arena of the wider art world, the correlation between the moral struggle on the canvas finding comparison with the act of displaying work, performing, publishing, and then selling the products associated with that work. Some artists excuse themselves certain moral ‘obligations’ on the basis that their art demands that they seek fresh experiences. Monogamy and loyalty to friends are prime casualties in the lives of the old style ultra-male painter, this applying even to the female artist, should she subscribe to this comi-tragic notion of the artist as a chronicler of decadence and excess. The term ‘action-painter’ – coined by critic Harold Rosenberg to account for a kind of gestural theatircality present in American painting of the ’40’s and ’50’s – kind of says it all… not content to be considered a kind of visual lyricist, the whole process of painting, of making art, becomes some kind of ‘fight’, applicable to every artistic trend that springs to mind since the phrase came about – German Neo-Realism, the YBA’s, whose business techniques can be as aggressive as their works – and certainly some that had gone before – Futurism, Dadaism, and so on. So, successful artists are all to often seen as some kind of angst riddled business-supermen, of questionable ethics. Art colleges, consequently, are full of students desperately trying to draw out the pain of lives lived under the aegis of depravity, whilst simultaneously reaching for the giddy financial heights, despite their – often – tender ages and their, normally, quite stable lives and backrounds. There is not much really strong happening to counteract all of this machismo, depsite the fact of much of it being media-hype. It is always the ‘overblown’ that brings these tabloid artists and writers to the fore. But, perhaps, we do not need something ‘strong’ happening, but rather something ‘soft’, a kind of ‘non-gesture’. […] For years my memory of the priest/self-portrait event was cringeful. I had imagined the priest thinking that I was just a drifter from off the street who had randomly knocked on his door to show him a picture of myself, silently. Now, consider that. And then consider the propensity the teenage mind has for embarassing itself. A teenager is in a perpetual state of paranoia, so much so that the adult mind, under the same pressure, would be considered material for a medical probing. Further, consider the Jesus-like nature of the pose struck in that drawing of myself. Having, as I did, hair down to my shoulders, and bearing, as I said, that look of bewilderment, and, well, downright nervousness, that was just the way that my face hung back then, cast downward, long nose, chin disappearing, due in no part to foreshortening, to a mere pink pea at its end. I felt that the priest could only have taken me as a troubled person, a kind of Van Gogh figure, but lacking in the skills that accompanied the master Modernist’s spiritual neurosis. I never went to that church again. Now, what in fact happened, I think, looking back, is that my Mum set up the arrangement, telling the priest in advance that I was coming, to help instill some confidence in me, as regards talking to strangers, and talking to them, more specifically, about my art. Of course, the priest was a natural first choice – he was a decent and understanding fellow, by trade. OK – so that isn’t always the case with priests, but in this case it was, and my Mum knew that. Motives seem wholly agreeable in this light. I can surmise that the priest had genuinely liked the drawing too, now that I can see that he wasn’t fearing for his life. Probably there was some skill in the drawing, but more than that, there would undoubtedly have been a great sense of humilty in my standing there offering this, the portrait of me… something I had undoubtedly wanted to do, on some level I would not have admitted to. Otherwise I would have refused to do it, just like I refused, perpetually, to cut my hair! So, what does this tell us..? Well, for me, it says that people making art, on whatever level, taking pride in their art, and wanting to show it to other people is a valuable thing. Further, for me now, as for various people who looked at me, and my work, 12 years ago, or so, I feel a sense of humility about some artists – about some people – that is infinitely more moving than the crash-and-bang of the rock star artist or writer. So as to whether there can be genuine humility in art, then we could surmise that, yes, there can. It resides in the act of making something just because one wants to, because one wants to inscibe some sort of meaning in their life. And often it stops there, with just a few people seeing that work. This is the soft end of art, the end that suggests that art can still be that thing that is not somehow complicit in the mess that all other things seem to have become in our socially backward-moving world. Here’s to ‘soft art’, as it potters along in the sheds, bedrooms and living room floors of the truly great artists, failing to compete on the big stage, all the while avoiding the moral pitfalls that would so otherwise ensue. The rest of the Competing posts: Introduction Bassma: Too Cool for School Rik: Pulp Friction Karim: Something Like Winning Jay: Run Paul: The Way of the Humble Warrior Johnny: Competition Leila: Two Brothers a Fable on Art

Intro: Competing

2009-02-17T13:37:45-05:00

I once noticed, after giving exam results to a class of students, that although there was a sure sense of competition in the classroom that morning, it was one of students competing with themselves. Only once they’d squared their marks with themselves, were grades bought into the wider arena, and even then, people looked upon other people’s success mostly with reference to how well those people had competed with themselves. So it was never a case of ‘I did better than so and so’, but more ‘So and so bettered themselves better than me’, when that was the case. I’d say writing, and making art in general, is a bit like that at its best, and I can see in that sense where all of the writers in this edition have pulled out the stops, the issue of ‘Competing’ being a central focus as they each wrote. Karim touches upon whether there is or is not a ‘Selfish Gene’ in his piece, ‘Something like Winning’. Guest writer Jay Kauffmann suggests that there is, but that it kind of backfires, as one might suspect that it does in general. See his short story: ‘Run’. Other writers weighed in to the competition with a more-or-less across the board salute to the part in humans that makes us do good. Whether that be through a group effort, as highlighted by Johnny, in his generous account of life on the road and in the studio, with ‘The Others’, or something more inward looking, as Paul discusses in his piece, an interview with 5th degree black belt master in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, John Machado. ‘I have stripped myself bare. These past months call for a cleansing,’ Paul begins – signalling a competiive introspection that goes beyond what most people would comfortably endure – whilst Ric and Leila point out that competition can be sometimes dirty (Ric: ‘Dirty Bastards Everywhere’), unwarranted, and creatively un-useful (Leila:‘Two Brothers – A Fable on Art’). Finally, Bassma discusses the woes of social competition, exampling a recent dinner party she attended. Ach! It’s painful, and we’re with you Bassma. We hope people realise that they can come here when seeking some more honest talk… I give you the results of the new edition: ‘Competing’ Bassma: Too Cool for School Rik: Pulp Friction Karim: Something Like Winning Jay: Run Paul: The Way of the Humble Warrior Johnny: Competition Mike: Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist Leila: Two Brothers a Fable on Art

'Run' - A Short Story by Jay Kauffmann

2009-02-17T12:44:52-05:00

By Jay Kauffmann. We’re pleased to welcome another original short story this edition. Dedicated to John Updike. Terry no longer ran. At fifty-three, growing thick around the waist, and on the verge of divorce, he had let himself go. At night, however, as he slept, he was seventeen again—god-like, hair flopping about, legs a blur—lapping other runners around the school track as if they were standing still. Some mornings, he had gone so far as to put on his running shoes, perform a few knee-bends, touch his toes, only to find that he felt a dull ache in his chest and needed to sit down. When not teaching at the university, he sprawled on his big, empty bed watching game shows, eating salted nuts and drinking beer. He thought he might turn maudlin when his wife moved out, but, in fact, he felt nothing, only tired. Joan had come home from work one day in that little blue skirt he liked, kicked off her heels, and said that she had sold a house. When he drew near to congratulate her, he noticed a strong, musky odor emanating from her, from her reddish hair in particular, which he recognized at once as the smell of sex. “Who is he?” he said, with a composure that surprised even Terry, as if he had seen it coming all along. “Oh, Terr…” she said: for once speechless. He was one of her clients, new to town, an architect. By the end of March, she had moved in with him, into the house he had bought from her—one of those monstrosities in Vinegar Heights. Some nights, unable to sleep, Terry would go for a long drive and find himself, as if waking from a trance, parked in front of their house at dawn, staring at the massive, gray-stone façade, watching deer in the fields gliding through the mist like sharks. He saw them once on Magnolia, walking hand-in-hand. It was May, a sunny afternoon. The architect—whose name, Marc Chapman, he had reluctantly committed to memory—was tall and lean, tan as a film star, with longish, silver hair, and an earring that glinted in the sun. With her new haircut and clothes, Terry almost didn’t recognize his wife beaming at Chapman’s side. Terry followed for a few blocks, moving from tree to tree—something vile and knotted stirring inside him—until they vanished into an antique store. A good teacher ten years ago, Terry now dreaded class, unable to connect with his students, who stared listlessly, seeming only to count the minutes till class was done. They were girls mostly, eighteen and nineteen year-olds, enthralled by Jane Austen, whose work Terry found formulaic. Plus, he didn’t believe in happy endings. Sometimes, mumbling at his shoes, he would look up, as if waking from a reverie, almost surprised to find anyone there. Still, there were days he longed to dazzle them, make them see Richard III for the Rock Star that he was, show them the brilliance concealed within Othello’s jealous rage. Then, one morning in June, Terry got up and went for a run. It was only a mile and comically slow, but it felt good. The next morning, a little sore, he did it again. Within a few weeks, he was up to three miles. He lost weight, discovered that bounce in his step again, and ended the semester on a solid note, inciting his students to argue and laugh, so that they began to look upon him with something more than disappointment in their eyes. Now and then, Terry imagined bumping into Chapman and his wife, himself now tan and fit, a young coed on his arm—savoring the look of astonishment he pictured on his wife’s face. A dozen runners circled the university track as Terry arrived, a few others sprinting up and down the stadium steps. He had been running here off and on throughout summer, hoping to recapture some of the juice from his glory days, though his leg speed was mostly gone now. Terry put in a few laps then stopped to drink from the fountain. The heat was devastating and he felt a vague pain high up in his chest. He decided to do one more lap then head home. As he stepped back onto the track, just settling into a rhythm, a runner streaked past. Tall, silver hair streaming behind—Terry recognized him at once as Chapman. Before he could even think about what he was doing, he surged after Chapman, pulling even with him after half a lap. Chapman looked over and nodded. “Hot one, huh?” Terry didn’t respond, looking straight ahead. They ran side by side for a while. “How far you going?” Terry grinned—the way he imagined a madman might grin—and picked up the pace. “You’re fast for a big guy.” Terry wanted to kill him, run him into the ground. He might be shtupping his wife, but he’d be damned if the bastard would get the better of him today. He pushed harder, already nearing his limit, sweeping past men half his age, legs keening, lungs on fire. “Hey, old sport, what’s the hurry?” Terry bristled at the reference to Gatsby, disgusted in some way he couldn’t name. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman on her feet in the stands, a flash of red hair: Joan? Without his glasses, he couldn’t be sure. As he lifted his hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes, a burning sensation coursed up his torso into his right shoulder and arm like an electrical charge. But he refused to slow down. Chapman was pressing ahead now, making the most of his long legs. Terry fell in behind, gathering himself for another surge, then swung past him on the outside, going faster than he had thought possible, faster than he had run in thirty years. The woman was there again, still a blur, crying out something he couldn’t quite make out. A beat later, it came to him, like an echo: “Stop it!” But neither of them would stop, Terry realized, at least not by choice. They were engaged in a struggle as old as humanity. As Chapman, impossibly, pulled alongside, they shot furtive looks at each other. Terry could see he was on the verge of collapse, weaving, face waxen, with desperate eyes. Then, all of a sudden, they collided—a brief tangle of elbows and legs—and Chapman went down, groaning as he folded in on himself. For another moment or two—before his heart seized and stopped as if struck by lightning—Terry continued around the track, as if seventeen again: soaring, exultant, god-like. Jay Kauffmann is an award-winning poet and fiction writer, and the 2009 Writer-in-Residence at Randolph College. New work is out or forthcoming in “The Writer’s Chronicle,” “Lumina,” and “The Mid-American Review.” He lives in Paris and is working on Mannequin, a memoir about his years as an international model. The rest of the Competing posts: Introduction Bassma: Too Cool for School Rik: Pulp Friction Karim: Something Like Winning Paul: The Way of the Humble Warrior Johnny: Competition Mike: Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist Leila: Two Brothers a Fable on Art