Helac Fine Art (New York City) presents There is More to the Story, an exhibition of recent photographs by Mónika Sziládi from her Wide Receivers series and Hrvoje Slovenc from his series, Marble Hill. The exhibition will take place at Site/109 on the Lower East Side from November 3rd–25th, 2012.

Focusing on the inherent tension between reality and fiction in photography,

Mónika Sziládi’s digital collage constructions investigate the complexities of human behavior and group dynamics. Her photographs illustrate the paradoxical relationship between the multitude of possibilities for re-invention and individual expression offered by society along with the pressure for assimilation perpetuated by interactions with new media.

Approaching her subjects from an anthropological perspective, Sziládi identifies the ways in which mass media dictates social behavior

and how it has supplanted other societal institutions that historically performed this function. In the series Wide Receivers, Sziládi candidly photographed the attendees at offline networking, meet-up and public relations events that originated online as they interacted in their mediated environments. A nod to current conventions of media display, she rearranges focal points and group interactions to mimic the experience of viewing an image, as one would scan a computer screen with multiple windows open.

In photographs such as Untitled (Candy), 2009, consumption and desirability manifest themselves in body language, clothing and disjointed social interaction of the young women at this event. The self-consciousness of the participants is amplified by the tenuous relationship between public and private personas that each woman chooses to display within this ephemeral environment.

Hrvoje Slovenc documents psychologically charged domestic environments that evoke the illusory relationship between fact and fiction. He possesses a deep interest in the many visual languages photography offers and exploits varied techniques such as documentary photography, sculpture and set design to blur temporal boundaries and evoke a sense of displacement in familiar spaces.

In his newest series, Marble Hill, Slovenc investigates the grotesque yet eerily beautiful world that lies beneath his own neighborhood in the Bronx. Through a series of time-intensive interventions that often take place over a period of weeks, Slovenc seamlessly crosses technological and stylistic eras through a series of black-and white photographs that transcend time and place. In II-II, (2012), he develops the work as a wallpaper installation on a monumental scale; a local man laden with grocery bags - seemingly covering his face in fatigue-- is positioned against a classical background of drapery that evokes the feeling of a stage set or Renaissance interior. The overlapping frames and uneven light effects collapse the three-dimensionality of the space and reveal the ultimate artifice of the image.

14 November - 25 November 2012

Loft Sévigné, Paris

Lost in Paradise: The New Exhibition of A&E Projects

For their third exhibition, A&E Projects chose Loft Sevigne in the heart of Paris to present a selection of 20 artworks from five contemporary artists, each addressing the theme of spirituality.

REZA ARAMESH

b. 1970 in Awhaz, Iran. Lives and works in London, United Kingdom.

Aramesh draws inspiration from media coverage of the international conflicts from the 1960s to the present day. No direct signs of war remain in his photography and the characters seem driven out of their initial contexts. Opposition between beauty and brutality allows the artist to unveil the absurdity and the futility of these actions. Aramesh also creates sculptures that portray modern victims as medieval Christian martyrs. The beatific poses of his human figures show the influence of religious 17th Century Spanish sculpture.

SHEZAD DAWOOD

b. 1974 in London, United Kingdom. Lives and works in London, United Kingdom.

Shezad Dawood’s Pakistani, Indian, Irish and British roots are the origin of his rich and mixed artistic approach. Dawood’s colorful installations made of neons and tribal textiles laid on canvas translate his interest in exoticism, poetry and joy. The Jewels of Aptor comprises a taxidermied bird suspended amongst fluorescent neon hoops. This work refers directly to the 12th century poem "The Conference of the Birds" by Farid Al-Din Attar as well as J.G. Ballard’s novel, The Unlimited Dream Company. In these writings the image of the bird is perceived as an allegory of wider philosophical theories of the divine and spiritual.

IDRIS KHAN

b. 1978 in Birmingham, United Kingdom. Lives and works in London, United Kingdom.

Idris Khan uses digital photography to transform and combine existing images and texts. He overlays written scores of well-known symphonies or pages of books – such as the Quran – to create complex, calligraphic and musical compositions. In Paradise Lost, a series of prints mounted on aluminium and based on the epic poem by John Milton, Khan shows a fascination for the creative power of artists tormented by doubt and despair. Khan’s cylindrical sculpture, The Devil’s Wall: God is Great is a reference to Ramy al-Jamarat, the ritual stoning of Satan which takes place on the third day of the Hajj in Mina, Saudi Arabia.

ARIADHITYA PRAMUHENDRA

b. 1984 in Semarang, Indonesia. Lives and works in Bandung, Indonesia.

Ariadhitya Pramuhendra’s charcoal drawings on canvas and sculptures are manifestations of his interest in the quest for identity as well as his questioning of the role of the individual in society. As a Christian, Pramuhendra belongs to a religious minority in Indonesia; the country being predominantly Muslim. In "See No Evil" Pramuhendra has portrayed himself blindfolded and wearing ecclesiastical attire. By representing himself as a blind religious figure, the artist disconnects himself from the public gaze, defining and affirming his own identity.

MICHAL ROVNER

b. 1957 in Tel Aviv, Israel. Lives and works in New York, United States and Israel.

For more than two decades Michal Rovner’s practice has effortlessly incorporated video production, photography, printmaking, painting, sculpture and architectural intervention. At first glance Rovner’s work appears heavily political but the artist herself is very clear that she seeks to explore the human condition: ‘my work is not about a political situation, but about the human situation,’ As human experience is ongoing rather than fixed, so is Michal Rovner’s work, unresolved and endless.

Once a month, on Sunday at 11:30 a.m., art enthusiasts meet at Dixon Place on the Lower East Side in New York for an event called “Secret City.” Led by Chris Wells, the participants enjoy each other’s company, look for support, and worship art. The Secret City is very popular among its followers and has been growing ever since its establishment in 2007.

The event takes place in a theater and lasts an hour and a half. Under Wells’ direction, it features a band, singers, a mingling exercise, storytelling, and a discussion about the work of a monthly-changing artist who has been invited to speak. The audience can talk directly with the artist and hear more about his or her creative process. A recent gathering featured harpist/singer-songwriter Gillian Grassie. This award-winning young musician, who has received grants from the Thomas J. Watson Foundation and the U.S. State Department, plays a “blend of jazz-inflected indie folk/pop. While just an undergrad at Bryn Mawr, she released two albums: “To An Unwitting Muse,” in 2005 and “Serpentine,” in 2007, and has now played in many prestigious venues around the world.

In September, visual artist John Devaney showcased some of his paintings. He favors public spaces and the human form as his subject matter and captures “the endless parade of life”. Devaney is a former faculty member of The Museum of Fine Art in Boston, the Art Institute of Boston, and Carpenter Center of Harvard University. One of his commissioned murals is on display in the University of Connecticut’s Natatorium.

Secret City is a gathering of the artistic community; it offers a ritual that is supposed to balance out the fleetingness of daily life, and it doesn’t coerce you into doing or thinking something. Everyone can explore their connection to creativity in their own way. After the event, the majority of the attendees usually sticks around in the lobby for coffee, snacks, and a chat. Most of the people who frequent the Secret City work in an artistic field like acting, photography, and puppetry.

In conversations the attendees mention that they come to the Secret City to enjoy a sense of belonging. Furthermore, its function as a ritual energizes them, and the break they get from their daily struggles puts them back in touch with their creativity.

The founder of the Secret City is Chris Wells. He was born in California and his artistic development led him to work in various fields like theater, singing, and dance. The different experiences he had fostered a desire to unite different forms of art so they could benefit from each other’s strengths. But as often happens, with time, more important issues took over -- mostly those connected with figuring out how to earn a living -- and the realization of his desire had to be postponed. When he moved to New York he regained his original motivation. The need resurged for something to bring different artists together and make “the struggle [as an artist in New York] worthwhile,” according to Wells.

Drawing from this sentiment, he conceived the Secret City in 2007. Initially it was held in a room on 14th Street with a handful of attendees, most of whom were Wells’ friends. Word got out and people became curious. Since then, it has grown tremendously and achieved its first honor in 2010 when it was awarded an Obie by the Village Voice under the category “Special Citation.” This past summer the Secret City achieved a second highlight when it began adding events in Los Angeles, where it was eagerly awaited and became a great success with more than a hundred attendees.
 

To explain the idea behind the Secret City, Wells suggests looking at the event as performance art with an interactive component. Being more than just a matinée or a musical performance, it tries to engage the audience and trigger a thought process about creativity. Great emphasis is placed on the awareness of the isolation of artists due to the pressures they have to face in a commercial world and the creative void they risk falling into. The Secret City addresses this problem by offering attendees with artistic interests contact with artists and other like-minded individuals in an environment that is free of pressure and most importantly, spawns further creativity.

An example of this furthering of creativity took place recently at the Secret City in Los Angeles, when an invited group of artists from “Art Division” (artdivision.org), a project that mentors young inner-city and at-risk artists, created a collaborative painting. The piece was  later donated to the space where the Secret City was held and now adorns the lobby of the Bootleg Theater.

Elements like this are what make the Secret City gatherings so special. On one hand, an individual can attend and retain something meaningful from it. On the other hand, the whole event gives something back to the community and creates artefacts that enrich people’s lives. It contrasts typical cultural events which celebrate themselves and leave the attendees alone in finding a connection and putting what they experience in a bigger context.

Bio:

Enzo Scavone is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

Since the inception of Expressionism in the late 19th Century, the art world has conceded to the “Van Gogh Effect,” a term drawn from the pervasive tendency to romanticize an artist’s suffering in relation to his art. As a result, society has come to understand artists as outsiders, haunted and alienated by their own ingenuity. While many critics still savor the idea of the despondent artist, a new trend is beginning to emerge – happiness.

Simple in theory yet deceptively difficult to convey, New York-based artist Eddie Granger has made it his artistic mission to bring back the somewhat unfashionable idea of optimism. “I’m tired of seeing art that is silent or morbid,” he explains. “Everyone thinks that art needs to be really sensitive or dark. Can we divert from this dark place everyone thinks they need to go? Can we do something different?”

Originally from Louisiana, Granger has recently begun to make a name for himself in the New York City art world through his assemblage work formed entirely of cut crayons. These idiosyncratic pieces are hard to classify. Granger manages to maintain a painterly quality in his work, through the fluidity of line and organic composition. They are too sophisticated to be decoupage yet utilize traditional collage techniques by turning objects into artistic forms. Some canvases in his studio are covered entirely in crayons, depicting rich color differentiations and complex designs, while others reveal flowing, overlapping lines intimating the canvas as its own medium. Hints to his process and allowance for slight errors are all visible on the bare canvas surface.

One is inclined to draw comparisons between Granger’s penchant for a reduced, primary color-palette, and that of the Fauves in the early part of the 20th Century, especially when considering Granger’s ties to French Creole art, which often includes large fields of color. When asked how he begins a project, he responds similarly to how one might assume a Primitivist would. “A word that that we use in French is savage,” he recalls. “It means the wild one or one who has no inhibitions. That’s how I view myself. I just go at it, with no expectations. It is how I relate back to my French background. That’s how I was raised.”

In fact, art has always been a part of Granger’s life. After attending an arts academy in Louisiana from elementary through high school, he went on to study architecture in college. As the artist put it, “It was something that would liberate me from my family and friends because I always felt like an outcast. My family wanted me to play sports but I didn’t want to. Art really allowed me to be free.”

Personal liberation is perhaps the most important factor in Granger’s work. Always true to his tranquil existence, the message behind his work is clear. “ When people see my work, I want them to see freedom,” he offers. “I feel that everyone should be free. Everyone should love. Everyone should be very playful and not take things too seriously. No matter how mature my work, I want that feeling of freedom. If that’s what people can get from that, perfect. My job is well done.”

Granger’s independence reaches well beyond his artistic product. In fact, his artistic process is the driving factor in his day-to-day life. A self-proclaimed “sponge of information,” the artist likes to start his days out slowly letting everything he encounters serve as an inspiration in his work. Mundane objects become visual references, encounters with friends commence new ideas, and listening serves as a means of absorbing chaos and relaying that back as a visual resource.

In addition, readings and passages play an important role in Granger’s creative methodology. A lot of his pieces are titled after quotes he has interpreted in his own way and turned into art. Granger finds power and context from even the most minimal phrases. One of his favorites being, “I tried to find you but I got lost in my imagination.” Like crayons, Granger reverts these words back to childhood nostalgia. “I ultimately feel that’s how children think. A child has a wild imagination. They don’t take things too seriously. That is how they grow, learn, and become the person they are.” He says, ”Those who are scared, don’t accomplish anything.” To the artist, getting lost is the only way to find oneself, just as working is the only way to learn.

Talking with Granger is a captivating experience as every part of his personality is reflected in his work. He mentally collects information and physically collects refuse, using both as inspiration for his Recycled Art. He is noticeably attractive and personable, reinforcing his belief that an artist should be involved in society, not aloof and separate.

Most importantly, Granger is young at heart, sophisticated, yet on a constant quest for ideas. This search has led him from crayon drawings to paintings and then back to his original medium. He likes crayons because they recall youth in their smell and in their association. However, his use diverges from the meaning they had in childhood, taking them on as a medium in and of themselves. “I wasn’t using the crayons to make something,” he notes.” I was making something out of the crayons.” The resultant oeuvre of spirited work emphasizes painterly qualities and color over direct representation and realistic values.

Granger’s accomplishments extend well beyond his collage work. He also works extensively on large-scale oil pieces, piles recycable objects onto canvas then removes them one by one in order to release color and space through a growth and decay process, and is working on designing a handbag to be premiered at this year’s Art Basel Miami Beach. Despite these many ventures., his character remains consistent. Similar to the negative space on his canvases filled with subtle creative remnants, when it comes to Granger’s future, there is a greater story to be told.

For more information about the artist, visit www.eddiegranger.com

Author Bio:
Kristin Sancken is an art critic at Highbrow Magazine.

Just imagine: you can eye a sleek black 1929 Buick Marquette—a “whiskey six” -- with more than one compartment for its illegal bounty, before you even enter the exhibit.  But be forewarned:  before you’re face-to-face with the likes of mobster Al Capone and learn to dance the Charleston, Bible-thumpers like hatchet-wielding Carry Nation and evangelist Billy Sunday will do their best to keep you “dry.”  By the time the 18^th Amendment is repealed, you’ll be ready to step outside and into one of the City of Brotherly Love’s cleverest ways to celebrate—the speakeasy.

It’s all happening at American Spirits: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition, the world premiere exhibition on view at Philadelphia’s National Constitution Center on Independence Mall.  The Center made a wise choice in Curator Daniel Okrent, the author of Last Call:  the Rise and Fall of Prohibition.  . 

More than 100 rare artifacts are displayed in the Center’s 5,000 square-foot exhibition space, including such curiosities as the original paraphernalia for making moonshine at home, ratification copies of the 18^th and 21st Amendments and a collection of Roaring Twenties dresses. The flask collection alone show you how far camouflage was carried to hide the “hooch.”  One bar set, “Mr. Dry,” is in the shape of a casket, with the cork-headed corpse concealing a corkscrew body.  Even Carrie Nation’s own hatchet from one of many barroom-smashing raids is on display. 

Are you a “wet” type or a “dry” type?  Just enter the Anti-Saloon League’s portion of the exhibit, take a seat in a handy church pew and join an interactive quiz on IPad screens created for this purpose.   You can determine quickly enough by gender, religion, politics and geography which side of the fence you’re likely to fall on.  Part of the success of the Amendment’s passage in 1917 was the vague wording—“intoxicating beverages.” Many people did not equate beer consumption with the ban. When reality set in, one of the hardest hit groups was Anheuser-Busch in Missouri and similar breweries that felt the pinch in their pockets.  You can view one of the first crates Budweiser produced after the “Beer Act” of 1933, which changed the legal alcohol limit to 3.2 percent per volume.   

A speakeasy has also been set up, complete with a wooden dance floor with footstep diagrams to four versions of the Charleston.  Small cocktail tables surrounding the dance floor carry dinner plate graphics with 1920s slang.  If you’ve never heard of a “blind pig,” it’s a designation from the 19^th century for a low-down establishment that sold alcoholic drinks illegally.  The operator would charge customers for the sight of a pig or some other poor animal as the main attraction, then serve a gin cocktail as a complimentary beverage.

As entertaining as these parts of the exhibit can be, its success lies in its educational overlay. Prohibition is such a rich and often misunderstood part of U.S. history, and this outstanding exhibit is crammed full of fascinating facts.   Arranged chronologically, visitors can be grateful to start at the beginning.

In the early 1800s hard cider was the favored staple of farmworkers and “grog time” was a much anticipated break at 11 a.m. and again at 4 p.m.  The biggest culprit was the males-only saloon.  Between 1870 and 1900, the number increased nationwide from 100,000 to 300,000.  Women weren’t complete teetotalers though.  A bottle of Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound for female complaints contained 20.6 percent alcohol in a 14 ounce bottle.  Statistics on placards abound at every turn and they are sobering:  One adult death every 8 minutes.  On another wall, we’re told that the Titanic carried down 1503 souls and that drink carries off 1502 men and women every 8 days in the year.

For many women, temperance became the byword if not total abstinence.  When Eliza Thompson of Hillsboro, Ohio and her cohorts knelt in the snow one Christmas Eve in front of each saloon, within days, nine of thirteen drinking establishments had closed their doors.  The Women’s Christian Temperance Union was founded shortly thereafter with a 250,000 women’s army.  The campaign soon bled over into political life and in 1893 the Anti-Saloon League (ASL) was born.  Today’s lobbyists should take note.  This group became the most effective pressure group in American history.

Carrie Nation holds her weight in this section, with exhibition notes that tell us she was “six feet tall, with the biceps of a stevedore, the face of a prison warden and the persistence of a toothache.”  According to Kyle McQueen’s “Carrie Nation: Militant Prohibitionist”, from Offbeat Kentuckians: Legends to Lunatics, she described herself as “a bulldog running along at the feet of Jesus, barking at what He doesn’t like.”  She called her saloon raids “hatchetations.” A barking Billy Sunday sermon will remind you that alcohol is “God’s worst enemy and Hell’s best friend.”  Wall notes advertise that if he succeeds, “Hell will be forever for rent.”

The exhibit also pays homage to Wayne Wheeler, the man who made the 18^th Amendment happen.  As chief lobbyist for the Anti-Saloon League, he personally shepherded its passing on January 16, 1919. 

Another powerbroker was Andrew Volstead of the House Judiciary Committee who stipulated what was legal under the new law.  There were three exceptions for alcohol usage—sacramental wine, medicinal alcohol, and fruit preservation through fermentation.  That didn’t allow for a lot of wiggle room.  H.I. Phillips, a New York Sun columnist quoted in Okrent’s Last Call, quipped that “the history of the U.S. could be told in 11 words:  “Columbus, Washington, Lincoln, Volstead, two flights up and ask for Gus.”

American Spirits can be seen at the National Constitution Center, 525 Arch Street, Independence Mall, Philadelphia, PA 19106, (215)409-6600. www.constitutioncenter.org.  through April 28, 2013.  The tour will extend into 2016, and will visit Seattle, WA; St. Paul, MN; St. Louis Mo; Austin, TX; and Grand Rapids, MI.

Author Bio:

Sandra Betrand is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

This uniquely American form of dance draws from a variety of influences. A Maxie Ford. A cramp roll. A pullback. Whether gliding effortlessly like Gene Kelly, or sticking to a spot creating complex rhythms like Savion Glover, tap invites dancers to find their own style.

The Birth of Tap

Master Juba is often credited as the inventor of tap dancing. William Henry Lane (a.k.a. Master Juba) performed in minstrel shows, which were popular from 1840 until 1890. Up until 1838, only white performers in blackface took part in these shows. When Master Juba began performing, he too was forced to wear blackface -- in order to look like a white man dressed up as a black man. Whites appearing in blackface remained popular in stage and film until the 1930s.

As slaves, blacks often weren’t allowed to use instruments, so many used their bodies as such. The “patting juba” included hand clapping, foot stomping, body thumping and thigh slapping.

Master Juba caught the attention of American and European writers, who dubbed him the greatest dancer of all time. Master Juba and other black dancers performed for blacks and Irishmen in 1840s New York City. He won many contests against talented white dancers, including some with Irish dancer Jack Diamond. Irish jig and clog-dancing fused with African-American moves like the shuffle and slide, which eventually led to tap dance.

King Rustus Brown thrived from around 1906-1910 and developed his rhythmic style from minstrel-style shuffle dancing. “Buck dancing” and “time step” were terms used to describe parts of his technique. He influenced popular ‘20s tappers like U.S. “Slow Kid” Thompson, Eddie Rector, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, John Bubbles (of the duo “Buck and Bubbles”), and Bill Bailey.

Florenz Ziegfeld featured tap in his revues, including 50 tap dancers in the first Ziegfeld Follies in 1907. Aside from featuring big names like Fred Astaire, he also hired choreographers and dance directors to ensure the form was receiving particular attention. Tap became more popular as a result.

Ned Wayburn was a hugely influential dance director. Aside from inspiring Fred Astaire to switch from ballet to tap, he also coined the term ‘tap dance.’ Ned Wayburn’s Minstrel Misses added feminine gestures to African-American minstrel movements. The dancers wore light wooden clogs with split soles, and Wayburn called this percussive movement “tap and step dancing.” It was the first time “tap dancing” had been used in the profession.

Tap dancing was a major feature of the vaudeville surge in the 1920s and played its way into Hollywood musicals. After World War II, choreographed routines became more prominent as opposed to solo shows.

Other Influences

Nautch, a popular dance form in North India, also affected tap. One dance involved spreading colored sand on the ground, and dancers tapping their feet to create designs, or to ensure they wouldn’t disturb designs already in the sand. Others would tap their feet to change the design, requiring a great amount of skill and precision.

Zapateado, a rhythmic Spanish dance, was brought to the Americas where it intermingled with Native American culture, and later impacted African-American culture. Spanish gypsies also influenced Irish jigging and English clogging when they moved into those countries. African dance, with fluid upper body movements and drum influences, intermingled as well.

Broadway Tap vs. Jazz Tap

Today, tap is often associated with Broadway musicals. Broadway tap is more about the dance movements and using the whole body, while rhythmic tap (a.k.a. rhythm tap or jazz tap) focuses more on the musicality, with dancers keeping their feet closer to the floor.

Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly used other dance forms (ballroom and ballet, respectively) in their tap dance, making it uniquely their own style. Gene Kelly especially focused on using his entire body, making tap into more of a sport.

Gregory Hines and Savion Glover are famous for their rhythmic tap, sometimes known as hoofing. Hines, a tap dancer, actor and singer, was the first to tap dance to contemporary music, as seen in the 1985 film White Nights and 1989’s Tap. These films helped the general public see tap in a new way, said tap dancer Barbara Duffy.

Duffy is a world-renown tap dancer, who teaches at Steps on Broadway and the American Tap Dance Foundation in New York City. She also started Barbara Duffy and Company, an all-women’s tap ensemble. Hines was one of her mentors, and Duffy said he included tap and other tap dancers in his work whenever possible.

“Nobody heard rhythm like Gregory. It was different -- but totally understandable and approachable,” she said.

Savion Glover won the Tony Award for best actor and for his original choreography in Bring in ‘da Noise, Bring in ‘da Funk, a musical that used tap dance to chronicle the story of African American history. Glover called his style “free-form hard core,” using funk and hip-hop rhythms. He aims to honor those African rhythms that began during slavery.

Tapping into the Future

The director of the animated film Happy Feet (2006) recorded Savion Glover dancing as the character Mumbles the penguin. The dancers for the film wore motion capture suits and headgear to simulate penguins’ beaks.

Tony Waag is the director of the American Tap Dance Foundation, where there are hoards of both kids and adults determined to start tapping, he said. “People become a totally different person through tap dance,” he said. “I’ve learned to love it all over again through them.”

The American Tap Dance Foundation (ATDF), formerly the American Tap Dance Orchestra, was started in 1986 by Brenda Bufalino, Waag, and Charles “Honi” Coles (whom you may remember from Dirty Dancing). The center offers classes, workshops and performances, including concerts and stage and film projects.

Waag started Tap City, a yearly tap celebration with master courses by renowned dancers, awards, performances and citywide events. The festival offers a diverse array of tap events to truly celebrate this unique art form.

Waag fell in love with tap dance after high school, when he danced with Brenda Bufalino and the Copasetics. He loves that tap gives dancers the freedom to be unique. “The personality can really shine, and you can really learn about the performer through his or her individual performance style,” he said.

For those who love tap, their feet won’t be stopping anytime soon. “You can dance until you die with tap dance,” Waag said. “You kind of just actually get better and better because you’re more of a musician than anything.”

Author Bio:

Beth Kaiserman is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

My senses are overrun – a foraging pendulum grasping the air. Begging for answers. Who constructed the pieces of this puzzle? India.

I’m a visitor in this enigmatic southern village; an Oceanside town smothered by coconut trees and heavy rainfall. Broken dirt roads lie flooded. Men wearing dhotis drift by. Women walk in small packs, in silence, their solemn majesty reined beneath an ornate sari.

I haven’t slept. The undulating energy of this country has found its way into my soul. And I don’t want to miss a beat. Not one. I sip tea and watch the village come alive. The carpenter’s hammer is playing an early morning beat. The Grandma next door is chanting her daily prayers at the corner temple. And a hopeless scooter is creeping down the street; the day’s milk delivery is right on time.

Every morning, at exactly 8:30, a group of schoolchildren bang on my front gate and scream for my attention. Disheveled, I greet them on the terrace. “Mr. John!” they shout – delighted by my mere presence. Through word fragments and other bits and pieces of language, gestures and wide eyes, we communicate -- each one of us swimming in our unequivocal humanity, with an unspoken, but resounding internal hope, that somehow everything is being understood. Moments later the kids wave a last goodbye and with childhood laughter and proprietary whispers, they disappear up the road.

Author Bio:

John Torrente is a contributing photographer at Highbrow Magazine. 

In many people's experience, California consists of Los Angeles, Sacramento and San Francisco, and the highways that connect them. In reality, these urban centers make up only a fraction of the whole. According to the 2010 Census, geographically the state of California is more than 94 percent rural. Surprise Valley, Lost Hills, Raisin City, Mecca -- these are the communities that make up "the rest" of California.

Over the past two years, writer and photographer Lisa M. Hamilton has been telling the stories of these rural communities in her multimedia work Real Rural. Lisa has delved into the collections of the California Historical Society to connect these present-day stories with the past to create I See Beauty in This Life: A Photographer Looks at 100 Years of Rural California.

I See Beauty in This Life, which recently opened at the California Historical Society, features approximately 150 photographs, is a combination of large-scale color prints by Hamilton and her selections from California Historical Society's vast photography collections -- material dating from the 1880s through the mid-20th century, much of which has never been exhibited before. Hamilton has selected images that are not predictable views of pastoral windmills or heroic mule teams, but rather images that reflect her own keen interest in revealing the unexpected.

"This is a remarkable exhibition that helps connect rural California to urban areas with photographs that tell unique stories about the beauty, struggles and contributions of rural California to our rich history," said Karen Ross, Secretary of the California Department of Food and Agriculture. "I applaud the California Historical Society and the supporters of this project for bringing these stories and photographs forward and sharing them in such a unique way that is both provocative and educational."

Hamilton, who focuses on agriculture and rural communities, is the first scholar in a new program of the California Historical Society called Curating California through which artists, writers, historians, poets, activists, and other remarkable Californians are invited to explore the rich collections of the Historical Society with the goal of inspiring a project or exhibition.

"We are proud to inaugurate our Curating California program with Lisa Hamilton, whose keen eye, sharp mind and embracing spirit embody CHS's new vision for an open, accessible sense of history," said Anthea Hartig, Executive Director of the California Historical Society. "Taken by amateur and mostly unknown photographers, the photographs Lisa selected are remarkable for their beauty and unusual perspective and the meaningful, everyday stories that each tell."

"These press prints, snapshots, and publicity stills are intimate records of struggle, celebration, community, and the endless work required to wrest a livelihood from the land," added Hamilton. "Together, they tell a complex -- and sometimes humorous -- story of the many different individual lives and landscapes comprising the vast mosaic that is the Golden State.”

The title of the exhibition, I See Beauty in This Life, is taken from an interview that Hamilton did with Modoc County rancher and poet Linda Hussa who says, "If your poetry isn't based on something that's important to you--family, place, the purpose of your life -- well then it's kind of empty, isn't it? Because it has to have that passion to

affect other people, to make other people care about what you are saying. They have to hear that there is something there; I always wanted people to understand what was going on in the rural routes. And that there certainly should be some regard for the people there. Because I see beauty in this life, I don't think it is lonesome. And I don't think it is dumb."

According to Hamilton, there are many ways to define what is "rural." For the purpose of her work and this exhibition, she has used the term to describe "places where the culture and the economy are defined by the direct use of natural resources." This manifests in myriad ways, something reflected by the works in I See Beauty in This Life. We see gushing oil spouts and the faces of the men who work them, as well as graffiti left by trapped miners who were not rescued in time. A 4-H girl guards her prize sheep under the scrutiny of a Los Angeles television camera, and a rodeo queen applies lipstick from the makeup kit in the horn of her saddle. Given the great range of experience presented by these photographs, even those familiar with rural California are likely to be surprised.

The ‘I See Beauty in This Life’ exhibition will be featured in the galleries of the California Historical Society located in San Francisco at 678 Mission Street until March 24, 2013. 

In her 1977 essay "On Photography," Susan Sontag alleges that "photographic images do not seem to be statements about the world so much as pieces of it, miniatures of reality that anyone can make or acquire." She believed that because photographs could be preserved and/or reproduced with such generous variance—in albums, books, frames, newspapers, magazines—people would come to possess a "chronic voyeuristic relation" to the world. For Sontag, the advent of photography brought with it the democratization and “voyeurization” of human experience by means of the photographic image. No matter how mighty, forgotten, gorgeous, or gruesome, events and their actors would henceforth always be leveled and compressed for the common gaze.

When she wrote that celebrated essay, Sontag could not possibly have known just how prescient her insights into the proliferation of images would become. Now, in 2013, the theoretical assertions she made resonate like a premonition, an anxious tremor decades before the earth would truly shift. If she believed that photographs are not statements about the world but "pieces of it," then the Internet has changed those pieces of the world for good, giving them eternal life in cyberspace where they cannot be torn, misplaced, or abandoned.

But this invulnerability comes at a price: There are so many reproduced photographs, and they are all so accessible, that they suffer from their own kind of inflation. Their emotional currency, their power to move and even to persuade us of their veracity diminishes. Perhaps tellingly, we rarely even refer to them as "photographs" anymore; now, they are "images," a word that suggests a further degree of remove from the living, breathing world.

Clearly, this photographic inflation is no tragedy for many aspects of society: Shots of celebrities and ephemeral demigods of pop culture are a fine fit on the Web. There is no depth or gravitas to those images to begin with, so nothing is in danger of being lost. But what about the kind of photojournalism that should really matter? How has the Internet changed the way we are affected by images of war, carnage, and death abroad? If the Internet has further democratized images and the experiences those images capture, then perhaps technology is projecting the illusion that one image is no more meaningful than another because they are each one of millions.

 Not long ago, certain photographs taken at the right time and the right place had a hypnotic power so great that they not only captured reality but conjured hyperreality, enhancing the viewers' awareness of events and peoples well beyond what was previously possible. Take AP photojournalist Eddie Adams' 1968 General Nguyen Ngoc Loan Executing a Viet Cong Prisoner in Saigon. At the time the photo was taken, the attitude toward the Vietnam War in the U.S. was already one of disenchantment; this photo caught lightning in a bottle, making Americans downright vitriolic about the perceived barbarities of a costly, controversial war. Adams himself later said that "still photographs are the most powerful weapon in the world."

Another equally potent example is Dorothea Lange's 1936 photo Migrant Mother. This photo, along with several others Lange took for the San Francisco News and the Resettlement Administration, would prompt the federal government to ship 20,000 pounds of food to the starving migrant camp Lange photographed. Beyond the photo's iconic status and near-occult power to preserve and consolidate scattered, forgotten feelings about the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, Migrant Mother also directly impacted people's lives and perhaps saved many from starvation. This is what photography was capable of in the 20th century: It could go out and find the human condition under its most extreme circumstances and then hold up those circumstances to the world. By doing this, photojournalists declared, in a way words and speeches never could, that the suffering must come to an end. But now in 2013, photographers and their cameras, outfitted with the same properties and characteristics, the same singular ability to blink at the agonies of the world and capture them forever, have lost their power over people.

The conflict in Syria, the latest and longest revolution to come from the Arab Spring, began in March 2011. As of January 2, at least 60,000 people have died from the conflict, the vast majority of which were civilians. For what is now approaching two years it has been a bloody, messy war, with no definitive front but instead scattershot clashes in Homs, Damascus, Aleppo, and countless other cities. All the while, photojournalists have fearlessly tried to tell the story of Syria—its future, its martyrs, its price of freedom. Journalists are risking their lives in the irrepressible hope that these photos, these images, will make a difference. Some of them truly believe that these photographs can ultimately deliver Syria from the bloodshed, heartbreak, and interminable cycle of death and mourning they are facing every day. But can they?

Unlike the products of language—articles, speeches, interviews—which do not give their audience the gift of sight but only offer sightless account, pictures are indeed "pieces of" the world. They can be the "most powerful weapon" because only photography can transcend the demarcations of human experience and transport the viewer to another consciousness, another realm of existence. This is how Migrant Mother brought provisions to the starving American poor during the Dust Bowl; how pictures of the self-immolating monk seared themselves into the waking dreams of millions of Americans and helped combat religious persecution in Vietnam.

The challenges facing this latest generation of photography, and specifically the war journalism coming out of the hell in Syria, are twofold. First, Americans are besieged by such an enormous glut of journalistic news every day that it becomes difficult to distinguish between what matters and what does not. The sheer breadth of the Internet, even the breadth of one major news outlet like The New York Times, is so sweeping and inclusive that it bludgeons everything into the same compartmentalized, miniaturized form. Online journalism, with photojournalism in tow, suffers from the infinity problem of the Internet. Anything can be created—thoughts, images, breaking news, all published with a click—but nothing can be destroyed. So when photographs of stark, grave importance, photographs that seem capable of being "the most powerful weapons in the world," are published online and in print, they are quickly swallowed up by this Internet fortress. The fortress gives all media eternal life but lets none rise out of the egalitarian circumstances of its birth. Because of this, it is far more difficult for this image to achieve the notoriety and captivating power it so rightly deserves than it was for us to be moved by the ones coming from Vietnam in the 60s or California in the 30s.

As the dynamic, socially transformative photographs from the 20th century will attest, the destiny of photography was never to democratize pictures and images so that all are equal and thus watered-down; it was to make human experience something to be shared. Isn't this the grand charge of all art and media? Photography could once bind the viewer to the lives of mothers, monks, soldiers, and starving children thousands of miles away. Now it is hard to believe in the living truth of the image. Now we are a country that has experienced so much of the world in fleeting, phantom images—all rushing through that phantom kingdom, the Internet—that it's hard not to take them all for granted.

The next, perhaps more obvious obstacle facing photojournalists in Syria is their struggle to ignore, transcend, or defy the stark differences between life in the throes of civil war and the comparatively halcyon times in America. We cannot deny that although we have endured our share of economic woes, middle-class peril, and political acrimony, we cannot relate to the tragic upheaval in Syria. In some ways the work of photojournalists like Rania Abouzeid for TIME and Narciso Contreras only serve to underscore the chasm between the Eastern and Western worlds. Contreras' photos, in particular, evoke a debilitating awe as we inevitably fall short of apprehending just how painful and relentless this ordeal is for so many Syrian people. But the aim of these photographers and correspondents is to, against all odds, make the rest of the world understand what this wartorn people is going through.

At one point in "On Photography," Sontag remarks that to photograph "means putting oneself into a certain relation to the world that feels like knowledge—and, therefore, power." Even today, appropriating these images of war and ravaged lives, these severe pieces of the world, feels like knowledge. And knowledge always vaguely ushers towards a sense of power. But then we must ask, what purpose does this sort of power serve? If the dissemination of these photographs spreads knowledge, and that knowledge gestures towards power, how is this power used, if at all? Can it feed the hungry, conquer persecution, or save lives, like it once did? The answer is not as obvious today as it was in decades past, if only because this is a more complicated world, where images must compete for attention and lasting impressions are hard to make. But even when nothing else is guaranteed, their stories must be told, and only photography can tell them best.

Author Bio:
Mike Mariani is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

Photos: Freedom House (Flickr); VOA (Wikipedia Commons).

A lady’s corsage constructed from a paper wasp’s nest is presented in a jewelry box. A jigsaw of avian bones dangles in the air like a morbid wind chime. A matryoshka doll painted with the menacing visage of Cthulhu stands guard among the artifacts. This list may sound bizarre, perhaps even frightening, and you may wonder: Where on this tortured Earth would one find such macabre treasures?

Seattle’s Mourning Market, a quarterly art show hosted in a city know for its rain and shadow, calls together those Pacific Northwestern artists who practice their own unique blend of the “dark arts.” Visitors to this experience could find one-of-a-kind pieces ranging from unseelie photography to vintage gothic posters and specially designed tarot card decks. With new artists joining the show every year, the variety of skill sets it brings together is both innovative and diverse.

The gathering’s origin sprung from two Seattle residents, Alicia Sigala and Ginger Rivera, who were active in the arts and crafts community, but surprisingly did not see many exhibitions that reflected the darker side of the city’s talent.

“We began Mourning Market in 2009 after doing many craft shows (as artists) in the Seattle area and realizing that we were the complete black bats of the craft scene,” says Sigala, “We knew so many amazing darker artists in the Pacific Northwest and felt that we could make a show that catered to people that enjoyed the spookier side of life.”

Four years later, their little experiment has bloomed like nightshade, and since its inception has grossed thousands of dollars for the local artists who sell their wares at the show. With the explosion of online e-commerce store fronts like Etsy, many consumers have simplified their shopping needs to a simple point-and-click. However, the Mourning Market allows for a truly one-of-a-kind experience: a physical flashpoint between buyer and seller and a chance to meet and speak with the creators of the pieces and an opportunity for you to unearth the ideas behind their inspirations. Through this route, buyers have an interesting piece of artwork for their home or business as well as an imaginative story to go along with it.

The event wasn’t an easy one to bring to fruition. Sigala points out the early difficulty of finding a home for the show, “Our biggest obstacle that we have faced over the past four years is our venues closing. We have been at two previous venues before finding our (hopefully) permanent home at El Corazon.” The centrally-located El Corazon is a “live music and libations” setting nestled between Seattle’s Eastlake neighborhood and the rumbling I-5 corridor. She adds, “We LOVE our new Home, El Corazon! It is a perfect location for us. It is very well known in Seattle and it is close to the major neighborhoods.”

Sigala admits that finding compatibility with sponsors has also been sometimes challenging. “We try to look for sponsors that fit our design idea. We have had to turn away many companies that have asked to sponsor our show because we felt that they didn't exactly fit with who we are.”

The Mourning Market itself attracts an assorted crowd of artists and vendors from painters and sculptors to jewelers and doll makers. Sigala has some prospective advice for anyone who wishes to participate: “We require a minimum of five images along with an application, so please try and make the images the most representative of what you do. Also, be creative and unique in what you do. It is great to get inspiration from another artist, but don't ever rip them off. Ginger and I can tell if an applicant is ripping off another artist.” Hence, participation requires approval and the ladies of the Mourning Market can process applications electronically via their website: www.mourningmarket.com. They also regularly post updates to advertise upcoming Markets on their Facebook page.

When asked what she’d like to see more of at the Mourning Market, Sigala says, “I would love to see more original print art and shirt artists. I love art (regardless of the medium) that is affordable.” In keeping with the economic-minded, the Market currently charges $1 for anyone to walk in and browse the exhibits.

As Ginger and Alicia look to the future, it appears to be anything but dark or cloudy for the monster they’ve created. “Ginger and I have so many ideas on where we would like Mourning Market to end up. So far we have been thrilled with how large our little show has grown over the past four years. We would love to incorporate different aspects into our show, maybe adding a fashion show or making an entire weekend of Mourning Market festivities.”

After that, they may have no limit but the gray Seattle sky itself, as there is a possibility that these ladies could be television’s next stars by seizing the reality wave of all things disturbing and artistic. Alicia confides, “We are actually in the works with a production company on possibly doing a reality show. We are super excited about getting the word out about Mourning Market.”

Author Bio:
Snapper Ploen is a contributing writer and photographer at Highbrow Magazine.

Ever since Barack Obama’s victory in 2008, the artist Shepard Fairey has made a rapid rise to stardom. The poster he created with Obama’s portrait and the slogan “HOPE” played an important role in the publicity efforts of the presidential campaign. To express his gratitude, Obama sent Fairey a message. It reads, in part: "Your images have a profound effect on people, whether seen in a gallery or on a stop sign." Fairey, as the most famous figure of an emerging artistic movement, had been commended by the leader of the free world. Urban art had officially arrived.

The movement has risen in popularity and sparked the interest of a broader public. But to those not active in the art scene, the term remains vague. In a first step to improve the understanding of urban art, one needs to look at where it originated: the movement started on the streets of urban environments where works were put up illegally, conveying messages the artists felt were otherwise not being heard by the masses. At this stage--when it can’t be sold or exhibited in a gallery--urban art is considered street art.

This street art, as defined by John Fekner, one of the first street artists in the scene, is “all art on the streets that’s not graffiti” (Street Art: The Graffiti Revolution by Cedar Lewisohn).  However, that still leaves a vast spectrum. In his article for The Journal for Aesthetics and Art Criticism, Nicholas Alden Riggle tries to narrow it down: “The definition implies that street art is likely to be, among other things, illegal, anonymous, ephemeral, highly creative [...]” Once these conditions are met, street art can utilize various media to convey its message. Among them are for example stencil, sticker art, wheatpasting, or street poster art.

An observer might get the impression that this art is rather playful, free-spirited, and not bound by rules. But just as street art can be playful, its brother, urban art, can be serious business. The market that deals in urban art is generally not different from other art markets. However, when considering buying urban art, some characteristics about the urban art market stand out. According to Gareth Williams, Specialist-in-Charge of Urban Art at Bonhams auction house, it is subject to unpredictable fluctuations, and at this stage it “[...] is really in its infancy still so it is difficult to know how things are going to turn out.” Other observers see great opportunities in the market but at the same time warn of the risks. Holly Ellyatt of CNBC.com finds that generally there are good prospects in the urban art market but advises caution. With the rise of some widely-known and iconic artists, there are also free-riders who ride along the wave. Mat Gleason delivers a rather crushing verdict in the Huffington Post where he warns that a similar development with neo-expressionism in the past led to a bubble that eventually burst and left collectors who had works of artists that were less than top-tier with strongly devalued pieces.

The markets for urban art in the United States and Europe show some differences. Urban art enjoys a greater appreciation outside of the U.S. and according to Angelo Madrigale, Street Art Specialist at Doyle New York, America may be losing an opportunity to stay on the cutting edge of this cultural development. “[...] at the moment their [street artists’] work is seeing more mainstream attention in Europe. My concern about this is that this era of artwork is an essential part of American culture and is currently leaving the States; it would be a shame if by the time our country realizes this, the artwork is not available to be seen,” he says.

For now the big names in urban art have enough celebrity to lure people to exhibitions on both sides of the Atlantic. Banksy and the above-mentioned Shepard Fairey are two examples. The Banksy artwork “Love Is in the Air” was sold at Bonhams at last year’s Urban Art Auction in Los Angeles for $20,000. The Vespa Scooter by Shepard Fairey was sold at Doyle’s Inaugural Street Art Auction in New York for $12,500

Clearly such prices suggest that one has to have a substantial amount of disposable income to own urban art. However, there is the possibility to consider less critically acclaimed, but still intriguing artworks like Banksy’s “Pulp Fiction” depicting Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta as  their Pulp Fiction characters wielding Bananas instead of guns for $2,250. Leaving the iconic Banksy, one can take a conceptual piece by Chaz Borjórquez’ titled “Locos” into consideration which is valued at around $2,000.

Because the urban art market came about only recently, there is little experience or information to rely on. In an attempt to provide some clarity, Alain Schibli, publisher of Amateur Magazine, an urban art magazine and an urban artist, proposes that factors determining the quality of a work of art are its style, which should be original, and the artistic skill, which needs to show refinement.

Brittany Moorefield, a fine art consultant for Franklin Bowles Galleries in San Francisco, recommends answering some specific questions when determining the quality of a work of urban art. Some of these include, “How old is the artist and what is their reputation? How much artwork have they produced in the past and are they currently producing? Where is their art being exhibited? [...] How has the artist differentiated themselves from other artists? In their materials, methodology, etc.?”

The answers to these questions help in qualifying a work of art. However, the work should also speak to the buyer and fit into his concept of what he values in art. If that foundation is not given, any further considerations are useless. Angelo Madrigale concurs: “I think that collectors need to be passionate about what they collect. There is plenty of great work out there -- collect what speaks to you. [...] My recommendation is to get involved...”

Galleries, such as Deitch Projects, a renowned urban art gallery in New York and the auction houses Bonhams or Doyle New York offer plenty of opportunities to experience and purchase valuable urban art.

Ultimately, however, the buyer is the one who has to decide on which artwork strikes a chord. Brittany Moorefield offers this advice: “Try to develop your own tastes for what you like and what you don’t like, and understand the whys as well as just the ‘feelings’ that go along.”

Author Bio:

Enzo Scavone is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

Image 1 - Vattkopa

Image 2 - Andreas Praefcke

Image 3 - Victor Grigas

Image 4 - Banksy, Love is in the Air-- Courtesy Bonhams Image

Image5 – Shepard Fairey, Untitled--Courtesy Doyle New York

MARCH in San Francisco is presenting 'Photographs,' an exhibition of Paulette Tavormina's exquisite still lifes.  The show opened March 14 and continues through June 1.

Tavormina's dramatic images reflect the sumptuous detail of 17th century Old Master paintings.  Using a contemporary medium and a modern approach, her vibrant photographs of food and flora are reminiscent of Dutch, Spanish, and Italian still lifes of the Golden Age.  To create these luscious compositions, Tavormina collects “props”—such as butterflies, shells, dried flowers and ceramics—which evoke the still-life vernacular and imbue each tableau with allegorical meaning.  There is a wonderful disorientation as Tavormina’s contemporary pieces evoke the trompe l’oeil effect of Old Master still-lifes.

“I have long been fascinated by the magic of everyday objects, the majesty and delicacy of nature, and the world of culinary delight,” said Tavormina.  “I have blended decades of photography and food styling with a love of 17th century Old Master paintings to create these still-life photographs.  My greatest influences have been Francisco de Zurbaran, Adriaen Coorte and Giovanna Garzoni, in particular Zurbaran’s mysterious use of dramatic light, Coorte’s unique placement of treasured objects and Garzoni’s masterful composition and color palette. The works of these artists remind us of the irretrievable passing of time – tempus fugit.”

Tavormina’s photographs are in museum, corporate and private collections and have been exhibited all over the world, including shows in New York, Paris, London and Moscow.  They have been featured in The New York Times, Boston Globe, L'Express and Martha Stewart Living. Tavormina was the winner of the Grand Prix at the 2010 International Culinaire Photography Festival in Paris.  She lives and works in New York City.

There are few images of horror more recognizable, or more popular, than Edvard Munch’s The Scream. After making its rounds in pop culture-- from Andy Warhol’s silkscreens to “The Simpsons” to even Macaulay Culkin’s childish shriek in Home Alone-- the work has found itself a new, temporary home at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. Even when entombed beneath a Plexiglass covering, the surprisingly bright, simplistic painting serves as a reminder not just of The Scream’s importance, but also its enduring celebrity status.

One of four Scream paintings from Munch’s The Frieze of Life cycle, this version from 1895 is the now famous pastel-on-board that sold for a whopping $120 million (give or take a few cents) in 2012. The headline-making sale represented not just the most expensive art work ever to be sold at auction, but also the persistently positive reputation of The Scream itself. Despite its bleak, maddening subject matter-- Munch’s attempt at reaching the darkest depths of his own soul-- The Scream now  joins the ranks of paintings such as Starry Night and The Mona Lisa as some of the most appreciated, adored works in all of art history.

Edvard Munch, born in a small village outside of Oslo, Norway, in 1863, was quite fittingly a cynic from the very start. Munch was only a child when faced with the death of his mother from tuberculosis, which is the same disease that would later take the life of his older sister, Johanne Sophie; Munch’s beloved sibling died at 15, but Johanne Sophie would eventually be immortalized in a series of macabre works known as The Sick Child (1885-1926). Munch, along with his younger siblings, would be raised by his father and Aunt Karen in Oslo.

According to Sue Prideaux, author of Edvard Munch: Behind the Scream, Christian Munch was a devoted yet fanatically religious father who liked to entertain his children with spooky ghost stories at bedtime. Of his devout, overly anxious father, Munch would later explain, “From him I inherited the seeds of madness. The angels of fear, sorrow, and death stood by my side since the day I was born.”

It seems a natural progression that Munch-- an intelligent, frail boy from a poor family plagued constantly by sickness, mental illness, and death-- would grow up to explore the seedier aspects of life in his work. While we may queue up eagerly to view Munch’s art now, in reality, these works were never intended to please the masses. Instead, their true function was to provide a method for a tortured man to express the grief, guilt, and terror that resided deep within.

Of course, tell that to the crowds of people with flashing cameras currently jostling for space on the MoMA’s fifth floor. Ever-popular, The Scream (on loan to the museum for six months by its fabled owner) sits at the center of a dimly lit, darkly painted room surrounded by a sampling of Munch’s other well-known works. There’s a Madonna lithograph from 1895, depicting perhaps the unlikeliest version of the Virgin ever created; shrouded by ominous waves of black and blue, the abstract, unsettling representation hints towards a small, ghostly infant in the corner—perhaps the scariest Baby Jesus ever-- that is eerily reminiscent of The Scream’s central figure. Similarly, the gorgeous, painterly The Storm, from 1893, recalls the exact grim gesture that would later be re-created in The Scream and forever haunt our dreams.

Before manifesting his nightmarish fantasy into sharp, diagonal lines and suggestive swirls of vivid orange and blue, Munch first had to be inspired. We owe The Scream to a seemingly unassuming sunset stroll that soon became the stuff of legend. The feelings this walk evoked in Munch were later channeled into a poem that was etched by the artist himself into the painting’s simplistic frame:

“I was walking along the road with two of my friends. The sun set-- the sky became a bloody red. And I felt a touch of melancholy-- I stood still, dead tired-- over the blue-- black fjord and city hung blood and tongues of fire. My friends walked on-- I stayed behind-- trembling with fright-- I felt the great scream in nature.”

Why is it that The Scream resonates so much with audiences? Is it because we can all relate to Munch’s suffering? Is there a dark, shadowy figure behind each man and woman that cloaks our very own hidden terrors? Or, is it merely because the painting is widely re-produced each year on everything from mugs, to T-shirts, to Halloween masks?

Either way, it’s an eerie and essential viewing. The painting is on exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art until April 29.

Author Bio:

Loren DiBlasi is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

With the Internet, rapid idea-sharing is the norm. However, some things, such as tattoos, seem to be “trending” at a much higher rate. Even though there is research and poll data to show the increasing interest in tattoos in recent years, it is not difficult for the average Joe with a laptop to notice the rise of tattoos and their prominence in visual media and social media sites.

While some of these sites are simply extensions of other tasteless “hot people” fetishization in the media, posting scantily clad models of both genders showcasing their inked-up bodies, the growing interest in tattoo-gawking online may represent a more noble instinct.

One common reason to get a tattoo is to tell one’s story to the world through a visual representation of an important moment, person, or memory. Tattoo artist Ericksen Reed Linn of Heart and Soul states, “Most of my clients are interested in getting a tattoo to mark some milestone in their life.” Tattoos are a form of self-expression, except that they are so much more communal than traditional art. The tattooist and the client experience the creation of the piece simultaneously, and the person getting inked entrusts their personal story, not to mention part of their body, to the artist.  

Blogging platforms such as Tumblr encourage people to upload photos of themselves with their new tattoos, which serves as advertising for the tattoo artist as well as the tattooee. Tattoo artists are heavily involved in social media, which helps them stay artistically inspired, and enables them to network, and market themselves to potential clients. Ericksen Reed Linn (Instagram handle clumsysurgeon) has nearly 400 artists that he follows on Instagram alone. He says “I just get to look at great art. It’s exciting to find an artist that you have never heard of all on your own, and to have great artists show an interest in your work.” Instagram and other visually focused social media seem to be the most common platforms that attract tattoo artists.   

Part of the increasing interest and acceptance in tattoos might also be partially due to the increasing cultural capital of television shows (such as LA Ink/Miami Ink and personalities such as Kat Von D). This is somewhat controversial in the tattoo world since some artists believe that television encourages people to self-tattoo, which can be dangerous, and that it might cheapen the industry. While the type of person getting inked has been in flux, so has the population of artists themselves. Most people who go into tattooing these days are those who have a serious interest in art and truly identify as artists and artisans, like tattooist Brittany Marie Cox, who “grew up in a very artistic family,”  and has been an artist for as long as she remembers. For many tattooists, ink is just one form of artistic expression.

Younger people, professional artists, and women are more frequently becoming tattoo artists, for example. Ericksen Reed Linn argues that “up-and-coming tattooers of today are not necessarily renegade, subculture biker types, but rather educated fine artists who are looking for a medium to make money in. The competition is vastly more intense artistically than it was even just a few years ago.”

Shannon Perry from Alleged Tattoo is one of those naturally talented artists who got into tattooing “almost by accident.” She argues that although the tattoo industry used to be a “boys club,” it is now much more accepting in some ways. Both Ericksen and Shannon express some concern that there is still a lingering culture of judgment in the tattoo scene. Ericksen has noticed that some people getting tattoos do not respect their own bodies, and that some artists are judgmental when it comes to their clients. Shannon expresses more annoyance in judgment between artists, and resistance to innovation from up and comers.

Even though social media has created a positive outlet for creativity in the tattoo world, there is still pushback from artists themselves about the new types of customers and new types of artists entering the scene. Shannon states, “There's a lot of macho posturing and tradition. I'm a fan of tradition and old-fashioned things, but my apprenticeship didn't involve working 16 hours a day for four years and scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush, or getting beat up by some big tattoo dude at the shop. I was given assignments, chores, and challenged to improve my skills through as much practice as possible. I've met tattoo folks who've said that's not "tough enough" for an apprenticeship. Sometimes that bothers me, especially since I tattoo full time.” However, she agrees that “in the end, I guess it doesn't really matter what people think. My work will either speak for itself or it won't.”

Shannon is still an apprentice, who graduates in March, 2013. She, like many other artists, has been drawing for a long time before getting into tattoos. Her work is not very traditional, which also seems to be a recent trend in tattooing. Shannon specializes in portraiture, but categorizes her favorite style of work as “dainty, line-based, sketch work with creative forms of shading, whether it be stippled dots or cross-hatch or etching style. I like to draw on skin like it was paper, using a liner for an entire piece. I'm of course happy to try any style, but punky line-work is my favorite. My favorite thing to draw is hands. Realistic, stylized, however, just hands. Or psychedelic stuff like eyes and geometrical shapes. I really like goofball tattoos. I'm a sucker for humor.”

Because of the rising popularity of tattoos, niche markets are able to both showcase and create demand for their ideal clientele. So, whether clients are looking for something more traditional, realistic, a recreation of a favorite art piece, an indie-inspired humor piece, or a fun and jokey one, there is a tattoo artist who specializes in that niche.  

Despite the broadened population of inked and happy customers, not everyone likes or accepts tattoos, and some cultural resistance remains, especially from people who grew up seeing tattoos as marks of criminality, a naval background, or even victims of torture or concentration camps. This resistance includes an older generation that feels that putting marks on one’s body is an aberration for someone who wishes to participate in “respectable society.” Many parents would still be surprised and perhaps a bit reticent to accept their children’s tattoos, even though there are those who take their children to get their first ink, or funding the venture as a graduation present. One mother and writer for The Guardian describes the emotional mortification and even betrayal that she felt when her son got his first tattoo. She had told him growing up that it was the one thing he should never do, and he still got one.

Tattoos have become so popular in certain scenes that getting a tattoo might run the risk of becoming a cliché. A friend recently said that he is automatically less attracted to women with tattoos, not because he doesn’t like the marks, but because he feels like they probably just did it to follow a trend, and that gets just as dull when everyone has a tattoo as it does when nobody has them. While tattoos used to be considered rebellious, the more mainstream they become, the less intimidating or surprising they become.

There are websites dedicated to showing which tattoos are the most popular and for which reasons. Carly Chasing Rainbows is a blog that shows common tattoo designs and common placement, and even has a diagram guide for tattoo planning. Many professionals recommend to dream big and “just go for it.” Brittany Marie Cox, one of the owners and artists of Golden Dagger Tattoo Parlour advises to have a good meal and plenty of water beforehand, but to avoid alcohol and drugs the day of, excepting ibuprofen. She also says, “Breathe. Relax. Sit still.”  

Not all tattoos are created equal. Ericksen warns, “Just like someone might judge you for wearing cheap and dirty clothing or admire your designer clothing, I believe people will see tattoos as well-made aesthetic decisions that cost real money, or cheap garbage with little thought behind it, depending on quality of the tattoos.”

When someone is about to get a tattoo, social media is a host of opportunity for inspiration and excitement building. However, it also might lead to a lot of copycats. If the goal is to get something personal and unique, uploading to or downloading from the net might not be the wisest choice. When everyone is pinning and tweeting and tumbling their favorite tattoo designs to share, the “trending” tattoo ideas are more likely to spread like wildfire.

Photos: Shannon Perry.

Ed. Note:Text and photos provided by Park West Gallery.

Autumn de Forest is certainly creating a name for herself in the art world.  At the young age of 12, the child prodigy has commissioned six-figure works of art and has garnered national and international acclaim for her colorful tributes to Marilyn Monroe.  Her artistic style has been compared to iconic abstract painters including Andy Warhol, Jackson Pollock and the Picasso.

Her exhibitions have defined her as one of the most accomplished and recognized prodigies of our time.  Her original masterpieces have sold for tens of thousands of dollars, and have been acquired by several major art collectors.  Autumn has just been chosen for inclusion by Park West Gallery.

Since a very early age, Autumn has been featured in the national and international press.

Autumn has numerous known and collected 20th Century painters in her family including Roy de Forest (American, 1930-2007), Lockwood de Forest (American, 1850-1932) and George de Forest Brush (American, 1855-1941).

She is the youngest living descendant of Robert W. de Forest, who was the Director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC, where the American Wing was named in his honor.

The “pint-sized Picasso” as one media outlet proclaimed her, is also very active in philanthropic endeavors.  Autumn insists upon supporting charitable and humanitarian efforts including arts education, and has raised more than $60,000 for relief efforts in Haiti and Japan.

The young artist's works grace collections worldwide and Autumn had the honor of being the youngest artist ever featured at the National Art Education Association's annual convention, where she appeared along with art world legends such as Peter Max and Chuck Close. Matt Lauer interviewed Autumn on the Today Show, The Discovery Channel profiled her as a child genius, and many other television programs have featured the young talent, including Inside Edition, ABC, CBS, FOX, and NBC News.

Judy Jetson grew up and became a swinger: That’s the impression one might get the first time viewing a Shag painting. The artist Josh Agle—his nom de brosse comes from the SH in “Josh” and the “AG” in Agle—is known for his martini-clutching mod characters in swanky spaces rendered in saturated colors with a distinctive mid-century style. Lithe ladies in bobs and beehives and their cool-cat men lounge on boxy sofas and egg chairs, or sip tropical drinks in bars next to zombies and skeletons while bongo drummers and guitarists play on. There’s usually a leering tiki or five; alligators, black cats, Shriners and Franz Kafka might also make an appearance.

The cartoon-like paintings are an ode to the cocktail culture of the 1950s and 1960s, done in the style (albeit over the top) of commercial art of the era. A nostalgia for the optimism and fashionable hedonism of that time is one reason for Shag’s popular appeal. But like the best art, it’s the doors in our own imaginations opened up by his work that keep viewers engaged—and coming back for more.

As he said in a 2012 interview for the British website Modculture, “I almost always try to paint a story…something that’s happening, often sinister, and usually a bit mysterious.” He plays with well-known symbols: wolf-headed men stand in for suave womanizers, while bulls are their more domesticated counterpart; alluring women are often shown with cat-like aspects; dancing Shivas suggest the exotic. There’s also a playful critique going on: despite the chic sophistication of his subjects, the ridiculous is continually looking over their shoulders. His characters may also be considered stand-ins for the now middle-aged Generation X (of which Agle himself is a part). Shag isn’t necessarily painting people from the past; he could be painting his retro-loving contemporaries who are adopting the styles of the past.

The most obvious reference point for Shag’s oeuvre is advertising from the 1950s and 1960s, with their sharp lines, vivid colors and two-dimensional aspect. Jim Flora’s jazz album cover art of the 1940s and 1950s and the work of cartoonist Gene Dietch also have left a lasting impression on him—and it shows in his own minimalist and stylized compositions. The swank and swagger of his imagery owes a lot to early James Bond films and David Bailey’s “Swinging London” photography. Other influences include Lowbrow artist (and Juxtapoz magazine founder) Robert Williams, graffiti and visual artist Keith Haring, and animator David Weidman. Agle greatly admires the Pop Surrealist Mark Ryden. While Ryden’s work is much darker and more disturbing than anything Shag has shown, both artists have a penchant for mixing cute with morbid.

Shag’s work is tightly linked to his connection with Southern California—but like a Shag painting, there’s more to the story. Born the eldest of nine children in 1962 in Sierra Madre, a community nestled at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains and close to Pasadena, he grew up in a strict Mormon household. His early childhood was spent in Hawaii before the family moved to Los Angeles. When Agle was in high school, his parents relocated again to Utah. He set foot in California once again for college, attending California State University at Long Beach in the mid-1980s, initially studying accounting and architecture.

However, his love of art won out. Bolstered by the legacy of his grandfather, a successful commercial artist in the 1930s and 1940s, Agle switched his major to graphic design and started exploring opportunities to turn what he loved into a source of income. At the same time, the underground culture of Los Angeles began to beckon. He started playing in bands (most notably a folk punk group called Swamp Zombies), exploring the LA garage music scene, and seeking out tiki bars (his love of tiki culture would play a large role in his art and career). He also discovered Mid-Century Modern design, his signature artistic element.

Agle first found success as a commercial illustrator, for such clients as Time, Forbes and Entertainment Weekly as well as local musicians looking for creative album art. “It took me eight years to graduate, I was so busy doing commercial illustration,” he told David A. Keeps in a 2005 article for the Los Angeles Times. Shag the Artist debuted at this time: Agle did the cover art for Swamp Zombies, and signed it “Shag” to make it look as though his band was successful enough to hire a graphic designer. His career took a dramatic turn in 1995, when Otto Von Stroheim, a close friend and the publisher of Tiki News fanzine, asked him to contribute a painting to an art show Stroheim was organizing in Santa Monica. The painting sold right away for $200...and brought Agle to the attention of influential art collector and gallery owner Billy Shire.

Shire has been instrumental in fostering underground artists and bringing new work to the general public since the 1970s—so successfully, in fact, that Juxtapoz magazine has dubbed him “the Peggy Guggenheim of Lowbrow.” When Shag’s next set of paintings were included in a 1996 tiki art show (also curated by Stroheim) at Shire’s famed La Luz de Jesus Gallery in Hollywood, he was blown away. “He created what could be called a whole new genre: twenty-first century hipster cool,” Shire wrote in the introduction to Shag: The Art of Josh Agle. Every Shag piece was purchased that night, and Shire gave Agle a solo show shortly thereafter. The gallery was packed, and the show sold out. Shag and his 21^st century Hipster Cool had arrived.

Since then, Agle has had several shows at La Luz de Jesus and other Southern California galleries, and has shown across the country and in Japan, Australia and Europe. Celebrity collectors include Ben Stiller, Seth Green and Whoopi Goldberg. Hipsters from coast to coast have eagerly snapped up retro-cool Shag originals, as well as prints, books, stationery, Hawaiian shirts, tiki mugs, figurines and other memorabilia—many of which are sold from The SHAG Store, which opened in 2009 in Palm Springs. Agle is well known for his merchandising savvy: Shag’s simple and bold designs lend themselves well to product, and by choosing to offer so many forms of it, he has brought considerable attention to his art and made it highly accessible. “The average person can’t write a check for $4,000 just because they want a little painting,” he explains in his 2001 book Bottomless Cocktail. (These days, a Shag painting could easily cost you $10,000 or more). It is delightfully apropos that an artist whose work “celebrate[s] consumerism and consumption” has made it so effortless for fans to consume his own creations.

Shag merchandising deals have led to some interesting bedfellows. Agle has collaborated with Paul Frank and Harvey’s on handbags, and worked on a wide variety of projects for Disney (including a redesign of the Enchanted Tiki Room). The short-lived Venus Room at the Venetian Resort Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas—for which Agle designed the visuals, including matchbooks, napkins and swizzle sticks—was so heavily scavenged by Shag collectors that it ended up getting a remodel and then closed altogether in 2004. The Georgia Aquarium sports a 100-foot-long mural. Agle has even been involved in theater: he did most of the show art for Cynthia Bradley’s 2005 murder mystery stage show, Shag With A Twist. No matter the venue or partnership (and there are several others), Shag remains Shag, which further reinforces his brand.

When he’s not attending art show openings (Shag exhibits have appeared in Australia, Chicago and Los Angeles just in the last six months, and a solo show in New York opens in April), Agle leads a simple life, steeped in mid-century style. He lives in Orange County with his wife, Glen Way-Agle, a teacher and theatre director, along with their daughter and son, in a 1960 Modernist ranch the couple have decorated to match the era. (It’s said that being inside his home is like stepping into a Shag painting.) Agle paints daily, usually in the mornings and evenings, to satisfy the hundreds of customers and gallery owners who continue to clamor for Shag originals.

While diverse elements have appeared in his work throughout the years—2009’s “Autumn’s Come Undone” had an overall darker tone; “Animal Kingdom” from 2012 was partially inspired by Butterick animal costume patterns; architecture has played a larger role in more recent works—his artistic sensibility and popularity remain consistent. Agle loves what he does, and has stated in numerous interviews that his work and his hobby are one and the same. How lucky for him that his groovy sense of style has been so well received by a frequently fickle public. And how lucky for his adoring fans that he keeps on, well, swinging.

Shag’s “Thursday’s Girl” will be at the Jonathan LeVine Gallery in New York City through May 4.

Author Bio:

Nancy Lackey Shaffer is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

Is there any artist more American than Peter Max? Credited with the invention of psychedelic art, there are few people in this country who have not come in contact with his work.  In fact, through his mass media licensing he has become somewhat of a household name.

Max’s studio is a massive 10,000 square foot loft on the Upper West Side of Manhattan filled with  photographs of the artist with every president from Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter to Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton, George Bush and, of course, Barack Obama. The rest of the space is filled with paintings of patriotic icons and pop culture subjects: athletes, the New York City skyline, sporting events, even Taylor Swift have somehow come to find refuge in Max’s work. After contemplating the artist’s past and strategic rise to success, one might conclude that Max was one of the first immigrant artists to completely fulfill the American dream.

Born in Berlin in 1937, Max and his family fled Nazi-Germany to Shanghai where he would spend the first 10 years of his life. It was here where Max’s father, a reputable businessman, and mother first began to notice his artistic talents. The pair hired the daughter of a street vendor to conduct art lessons and serve as a nanny. Max began his formal art training at the Art Students League of New York in Manhattan where he studied realism under Frank Reilly. Upon graduation, he realized that, because of photography, realism had been deemed obsolete and began exploring his own illustrative and graphic techniques that would eventually lead to the broad spectra of shapes and colors that would come to define his work. Coincidentally, his time in Shanghai would prove invaluable.

As Max puts it, “I learned how to draw in China and I drew my whole life, but I always thought I would become an astronomer.  It wasn’t until I was right out of high school that I decided to go to art school for one summer and I stayed there for seven-and-a-half years. I never became an astronomer even though it is still my single most curious subject in the world. What is out there in the universe?  That is why you see a lot of stars and planets in my art….“The influence from China and my youth came out in these drawings and I, as you know, I became very famous for that.

Max further elaborates: “It was always my own way and my own road, and I never looked at anybody else. I always loved to draw but I didn’t think it was ever something I could let people see. But when Realism calmed down, at that point, people loved my drawings.”

At first, Max’s art, characterized by dark line work, cosmic innuendos, and intense bursts of colors, served as an integral part of the counterculture and psychedelic movement of the 1960s until new printing techniques allowed for his work to be reproduced on product merchandise. As a result, Max’s art was eventually licensed to 72 corporations and his reputation was escalated to celebrity status, landing the artist spots on Johnny Carson, the Ed Sullivan Show, and the cover of Life Magazine with the heading "Peter Max: Portrait of the artist as a very rich man.” Seeing the magazine, Max recalls, was the first time he ever recognized his fame.

“I was walking down the street with my son who pointed at a magazine and said, ‘Daddy, its you!’ And I looked down and saw myself on a magazine. I was about 30, I guess. And that was the first time I ever realized who I was.” Since then, Max has done approximately 1,100 magazine covers, countless museum retrospectives, published an array of books, and has even designed one of Continental Airlines' Boeing 777-200ER aircrafts.

Fame, fortune, and a half-decade-long career have caused no effect on the sprightly artist. Even though he surrounds himself with awards, pictures, magazine covers, and other mementos from the past (like a piano signed by Ringo Starr),  Max’s eyes stay on the future.  

“As I’m about a block away (from my studio), I have this momentum in my heart,” he explains. “My heart is beating like when you’re about to see someone that you love. It is beating because I know I’m going to be painting any minute now. When I get here, the music is playing. I pick up a brush. The canvas is on the easel. I dip the brush into a color. I paint a few brushstrokes and I answer it was another brush stroke and then another. Before you know it, an image comes out. I let it come to me. It’s here and it’s now.”

Like many other critics, I have always respected the cultural significance of Peter Max yet classified his work as nothing more than Pop Art. Yet after an afternoon spent discussing his work, I learned that in truth, Max’s work is undefinable. While his initial work did challenge the traditions of fine art through commercial endeavors, it lacked the conceptual congruence and irony that defined the movement. Instead, there is a purity in Max’s intent that transcends over-intellectualized elitism.

Whereas Warhol and his counterparts sought to distance themselves from commercial material through parody, Max saw mainstream media as an opportunity for financial and professional gain, an ethos commonly associated with capitalist ideologies. In addition, from a hindsight post-postmodern perspective, one may more accurately view Max as a precursor to Simulationism, the artistic movement created around the relationship between man and object often associated with Jeff Koons and Murakami, through his blending of tradition and society. Nonetheless, Max’s work is deeply iconographic and lacks the banality exploited in these high art, low art fusions.

Instead, Max’s art is symbolic of his cultural upbringing. As a Holocaust refugee raised in Shanghai, he gained an Eastern understanding that art and commerce could be blended. As an American immigrant during post-war economic expansion, he was not yet jaded by politics and saw the Golden Age of Capitalism as an opportunity for growth. As a result, Max’s art is less of an appropriation of imagery and more a celebration of the ideal of prosperity and success through hard work. With globalization and economic turmoil, it is rare that one gets to meet an artist as stimulated as Max is by freedom. Yet much like his innate fascination with the Statue of Liberty, he stands as a symbol that life can be richer and fuller despite social class or circumstances. Max himself remains both an admired and celebrated and long-standing artistic anomaly.

Author Bio:

Kristin Sancken is an art critic at Highbrow Magazine.

Marcel Proust stated the evocative powers of the madeleine like no other writer or pâtissier before him. In his novel In Search of Lost Time, Proust’s protagonist bites into a madeleine dipped in tea and is transported to an experience of his childhood.  The sensation of that taste was a coordinate in the geography of his memory. Mapped out, these coordinates throughout the span of a lifetime reveal a distinct memory-scape. Decades later, Alfred Hitchcock too had his madeleine. Played by Kim Novak in Hitchcock’s Vertigo, Madeleine Elster was the living memory through which the protagonist of the film, Scottie, delved into his spiraling past.

Referencing Proust’s seminal work and Hitchcock’s heroine, Chris Marker wrote in the introduction to his 1997 multimedia CD-Rom Immemory, “I claim for the image the humility and powers of a madeleine.” In that CD-Rom and in many of his other creative endeavors, Marker continued the process of memory’s cartography. He embraced a multitude of genres as mapmaking tools, the span of his work communicating the dependence of the image to its memory. He cobbled together the realities of disparate cultures, mending the breaches in time through preservation of minutia and banality. In his 1983 work Sans Soleil (sunless), the narrator states, “He liked the fragility of those moments suspended in time. Those memories whose only function had been to leave behind nothing but memories.”

Born Christian François Bouche-Villeneuve, he assumed the moniker Chris Marker, a name he chose because it would be easier to pronounce for those he would encounter in his travels. He has been described as filmmaker, essayist, writer, poet, photographer, multimedia artist and a lover of cats. It’s important to note the latter. Regardless of medium, Marker approached his work with a feline curiosity and playfulness. When asked for press photographs, he often responded by offering images of his cat, Guillaume-en-Egypte. It was an example of his mischievous side. But it also pointed to his desire for anonymity.

This inclination was further evidenced in his 2011 photographic exhibition Passengers, displayed at the Peter Blum gallery in Manhattan. Many of the images are of women whom Marker secretly photographed while riding the Paris Metro. He juxtaposed their digital images with their counterparts in classical art. For example, one of the more striking photographs depicts an African woman in the depths of a commuter’s slumber, her pose and fragility measured against that of the Mona Lisa superimposed next to her. Marker writes in the volume of photographs from the exhibition, “My aim is exactly…the opposite of tabloids. I try to give them their best moment, often imperceptible in the stream of time, sometimes 1/50 of a second that makes them truer to their inner selves." He approached his subjects with the furtiveness of the voyeur, his camera disappearing into the sightline and rescuing from collective amnesia those moments in time that, if not recorded, are simply forgotten.

An integral figure in the French New Wave movement—which included directors such as Eric Rohmer and Alain Resnais—Marker diverged from the purely fictional (save for his story of post-apocalyptic Paris made almost completely of still photographs, La Jetée) to develop and embrace a distinct documentary style. In reviewing Marker’s 1958 nonfiction film Letter from Siberia, critic Andre Bazin termed his work an “essay documented by film.” Of all his tools, the cinematic essay was his compass, a guiding force for Marker’s most decisive works.

Marker’s Sans Soleil was the paradigm of the cinematic essay. The force behind the camera in the film is hidden, a lens disembodied who we learn in the closing credits is named Sandor Krasna, another Marker pseudonym. What we see is his stream-of-vision, a collage of images from Japan, the former Portuguese West Africa, Iceland, Ile-de-France and San Francisco. Throughout the film, an unnamed female narrator reads letters which Krasna has sent to her.

Marker’s images endure not because they are timeless, but rather they are imbued with time, teeming with both past and present history. He catches a woman from the Cape Verde Islands staring directly into the camera, her smile singularly her own, but her facial features and place in this world shaped by centuries of colonialism. We don’t hear her speak, but her momentary gaze into the camera obliges dialectics nonetheless. She is neither an argument for or against colonialism, but simply its product. Referencing the importance of this moment, the narrator states, ”Frankly, have you ever heard of anything stupider than to say to people as they teach in film schools, not to look at the camera?” Sans Soleil does not seek out the critical issues of civilization to further an argument. We see instead the camera serving as an extension of Marker’s memory. We are asked to interpret these images not for their political or social poignancy, but for their capacity to forge memory. If they touch upon the political state of a place or time, they do so because the image cannot escape their political context.

Time stretches the limits of experience. When stretched too far the experience crosses into the realm of memory. Marker continually traverses these sectors of memory and experience throughout Sans Soleil. The narrator states, “I’m writing you all this from another world, a world of appearances. In a way the two worlds communicate with each other. Memory is to one what history is to the other: an impossibility.” The film begins with three blonde children on a road in the small town of Heimaey in Iceland in 1965. At the end of the film, that same town is shown five years later following an eruption of the island’s volcano. Only the rooftops are seen under the sea of ashes. And those children? We almost forget that this dark, sunless place was where those three children held hands and stared at the camera in wonderment. The eruption of that volcano was an act of forgetting, as though “the entire year ’65 had just been covered in ashes.” What is left of those children? A memory.

The narrator states, “Memory is not the opposite of forgetting, but its lining.” The path then to memory is ahead of us. Marker suggests that our experience reveals only the substance of things. The essence, like the image of those three Icelandic children, is found only in the absence of the image. In nature, this is the obliteration of time. For humans, it’s the act of forgetting.

Author Bio:
Steven J. Chandler is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

Photos: Gary Ing, Festival de Cine Africano Cordoba (Flickr, Creative Commons).

For more than 50 years, the painter Llyn Foulkes has been exploring a variety of forms and themes from his home in Southern California. From post-World War II trauma to nostalgia for the Old West to his iconic mixed-media works exploring the corporatization of American life, this most versatile of artists always places his visceral emotional reaction to his place and time in the foreground—and in so doing, captures a piece of the popular zeitgeist on his canvas.

The Llyn Foulkes retrospective, which ran at the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles through May 19, was a comprehensive and emotionally exhausting journey through some 150 pieces that showcase five decades in a changing world, and Foulkes’s often bitter response to it. The Llyn Foulkes retrospective will be at the New Museum in New York City, June 12 through September 1, 2013.

Foulkes was born in 1934 and grew up in Yakima, Washington. After being drafted into the Army to serve in the Korean War, he spent two years in Germany, touring extensively through Europe before coming to Los Angeles in 1959 to attend the Chouinard Art Institute (now CalArts) on the G. I. Bill. His star rose quickly: he showed at the legendary Ferus Gallery in 1961, a year before Andy Warhol. A number of landscapes were acquired by the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the Whitney Museum. In 1967, he represented the United States at both the Paris and Sao Paulo Art Biennials, winning the Prize for Painting in Paris. His popularity waxed and waned through the following decades, as Foulkes rebelled against what he considered to be “an art market dominated by bottom-line galleries and self-important arbiters of cool.” Foulkes is frequently described as genre-defying: cartoons, Surrealism, Abstract Expressionism, photo representation, Pop and mash-ups of all of these have a place in the Foulkes oeuvre.

Some of the earliest works on display at the Hammer included cartoons from the early 1950s, when a young Foulkes aspired to be a cartoonist. These drawings are reminiscent of Robert Crumb (a friend and contemporary) in both their style and silly obscenity. His paintings from the early 1960s, when Foulkes was fresh from art school and Abstract Expressionism was dominant, feature black, brown and grey pieces influenced by the scarred landscapes and burnt structures he witnessed during his time in post-World War II Europe.

“Return Here” and “In Memory of St. Vincent School” employ charred items, blackboards, sometimes newspapers and photographs that suggest relics rescued from a fire (and show Foulkes’s early adoption of found objects to augment his paintings). “Ode to Muddie” is a ghostly triptych, with an amorphous brown figure, possibly a body bag, flanked by two skeletal forms rendered in hasty black strokes on pale panels. These pieces are mysterious and haunting, capturing the desolation, confusion and despair that remain long after the battle has been waged.

The next gallery is devoted to Foulkes’s famous landscapes of the 1960s. Many of his works from this time mimic postcards of the Old West, and feature famous landmarks (Mt. Hood, Death Valley) or emblems of an America that has been lost. The cow and pig imagery, in particular, might harken back to Foulkes’ agricultural roots. This era also saw him playing with photo representation, texture and color as well as further experimentation with found objects to create depth.

His rock paintings—often inspired by the craggy landscape surrounding Eagle Rock and Chatsworth—are both a celebration of the Southern California natural environment and an exploration of new techniques. The monochromatic “Happy Rock,” for example, is rendered entirely in shades of blue, but with every shade and permutation of the color examined. Applying the paint with rags, Foulkes achieved a very realistic rock-like texture, and the enormity of many of these pieces allows the viewer to see, as Foulkes often did, how the shapes, bends and shadows of the rocks often suggest human figures (1969’s “Portrait of Leo Gorcey,” acquired by the Whitney, seems to have human corpses in it). So simple, so fascinating, with such mastery of the canvas: it’s easy to see how these rock formations have become iconic.

Ever the maverick, Foulkes was not content to stay with this format, however popular. While he would reference his rock paintings in future pieces, he took a dramatic turn with his “Bloody Heads” series—although “obscured heads” might be a better descriptor. Portraits with faces obstructed by bright red, blood-like strokes or symbolic objects (a doctor’s head, for example, has an X-ray superimposed upon his face, while a geometry teacher has a triangle) are jarring in their juxtaposition of the macabre with the mundane. In this series, one can also see some of the techniques Foulkes would employ (to greater effect) in later works. Arms and neckties might leave the confines of the frame, and distress over corporate development—of the natural world, and the people in it—is not-so-subtly hinted.

Starting in the 1990s and up through the present, Foulkes’ preoccupation with found objects, the use of space and worrisome corporate encroachment would finally collide to create some of his most arresting works, which were the highlight of the Hammer retrospective. Here are displayed his numerous Mickey Mouse-as-villain tableaux. Disney cartoonist Ward Kimball, once Foulkes’ father-in-law, gave the artist a copy of the Mickey Mouse Club manual, which troubled him for its insidious, brainwashing aspect. Text from this manual shows up in more than a few paintings, and Disney’s most enduring symbol is a sinister stand in for the myriad ways corporatization has robbed Southern California of its natural splendors, its history and the independent thought of its denizens, while indoctrinating children in a culture of blind obedience and violence.

The darkness and rage in these recent works is palpable, and his use of three-dimensional space is breathtaking. In “O’Pablo” (1983) for example: a painted rock (reminiscent of his earlier rock paintings) rises up from the canvas in relief, not a single line or shade out of place. “The Lost Frontier” (begun in 1997, and completed in 2005) is like a diorama, and a bleak one at that: just eight inches deep, it suggests a wide vista of loss and displacement, where a vast wasteland with a freeway running through is populated by the figure of a Native American, a mummified cat (symbolic for a mountain lion), and an abandoned television. We see Foulkes himself at the foreground, staring into the TV, and in the middle of it all, small but dominant, is a rifle-wielding figure of a pioneer woman, her own head replaced by Mickey Mouse. There’s catharsis in “Deliverance” (2007) where the outline of a pistol-wielding Foulkes has shot the dreaded Mouse, but one senses sadness more than triumph.

The retrospective wrapped up with a film (with audio, which can be heard using headphones) of Foulkes playing The Machine, an instrument made from horns, bells and drums that the artist—also a musician—plays as a one-man band, and a carefully lit room containing 1990’s “POP.” An enormous installation at over 10 feet wide and three inches deep, “POP” took Foulkes five years to complete. An enfeebled Superman (we see his “S” peaking out beneath his shirt) sits in an armchair and stares hypnotically into a TV set, his daughter resting her hand on his arm while his headphone-wearing son looks on, holding a notebook inscribed with text from the Mickey Mouse Club handbook. It’s a masterpiece of mixed media, employing upholstery and clothing, and entering the dark space to see it is dramatic, but “POP” lacks the impact and raw emotion of many of the works that come before it.

 The darkness and anger of his most recent works, while transmitted through a very personal lens, reflect the pervasive pessimism of our current age, and widespread disgust with the corporate takeover of modern life; Foulkes and the protesters of the Occupied Movement have much in common. Truly, he brings great power to these angst-driven pieces. And yet, what’s lost is any sense of mystery. Those rock formations, with their ability to change shape and conjure images the longer you look at them, the somber and mysterious scribbles on the side panels of his post-World War II-inspired triptychs, hold a fascination and depth that his raging against Disney do not.

Still, it’s inspiring to see an artist who so fearlessly lays his own soul bare, without hiding his genuine point of view behind enigmatic symbolism or cool objectivity. Foulkes is never detached—indeed, he himself is a subject in several works. Perhaps this willingness to share his unvarnished, unapologetic vision explains his endurance as a relevant and influential artist for more than half a century. At a robust 78, this cantankerous renegade will no doubt carry on, aiming his artistic arsenal at The Man and letting us watch.

The Llyn Foulkes retrospective will be at the New Museum in New York City, June 12 through September 1, 2013.

Author Bio:

Nancy Lackey Shaffer is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.

Mannequins sporting colored wigs and wearing torn shirts, tartan pants, hardware-embellished dresses and trash bags line the walls; accompanying them are sound bites and video clips of Blondie, the Ramones, Sid Vicious and Patti Smith.

This is the set-up for the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s latest Costume Institution exhibit, “PUNK: From Chaos to Couture.”

The exhibition takes a look at, and focuses on, the do-it-yourself aspect of punk fashion and how it influenced high fashion. It’s an interesting relationship to explore: the anti-establishment culture of the punk movement versus the upper echelon of society.

While PUNK has a lot of potential, it fails in trying to set up a historical context throughout the exhibit. It is broken down into seven galleries: New York and London, which defines punk’s origins in said cities; Clothes for Heroes which looks at the McLaren and Westwood shirts from their famed shop SEX/Seditionaries; and the four D.I.Y rooms—Hardware, Bricolage, Graffiti & Agitprop, and Destroy.

A plaque in the beginning of the exhibit reads “While high-fashion’s co-option of punk inevitably sanitizes its anarchic rebelliousness, it also draws attention to its original potency & its singular capacity to engage & excite the imagination.” This holds true in the galleries as you walk through: each D.I.Y room is inspired by four important visual aesthetics of punk fashion. Some of the clothes are beautiful: a black dotted tulle dress by Moschino, embellished with beads and metal; Dolce & Gabbana silk organza graffiti dresses; while others look like copies—the Junya Watanabe mohair sweaters and tartan pants are so strikingly similar to the pieces Vivienne Westwood designed in the 70s.

The history of punk is summarized neatly in the first gallery “New York and London.” It is agreed upon that the punk movement had two separate beginnings and different visuals and sounds, but possessed the same spirit. The key roots of New York’s punk birth was the music; originally the term punk referred to the untrained vocal and instrument sounds of certain bands of the ‘60s, such as the The Sonics. But punk music as it is known today refers to the bands of the late 70s—Blondie, The Ramones, Velvet Underground, The Sex Pistols etc. The music club CBGB OMFUG was also instrumental in popularizing said music scene, and a recreation of the NY club’s bathroom is on display in the PUNK exhibit.

London’s punk music scene gave the world The Clash & The Sex Pistols, British punk is mother to the style and anarchism that is connected with the movement. The founders of punk style are Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood, who owned the clothing shop SEX in London. Ripped T-shirts, T-shirts with sexually graphic images, tartan-print pants, “bondage” pants and mohair sweaters  were all sold in the shop. Other aesthetics associated with punk—spray-painted clothing, clothespins and piercings—were visuals taken from the musicians.

Clothes for Heroes is a mini-showroom dedicated to the clothing that Westwood and McLaren produced in the ‘70s. Mannequins line the wall in their t-shirts, which are silkscreened or printed with curse words and sexual imagery. There are also mannequins side by side displaying clothes from Westwood’s shop and almost exact copies from other designers.

The four galleries are meant to show the punk influences in couture. Starting with Hardware, many dresses are black and white and featured safety pins and chains that hold the dress together or give the illusion of doing so. Perhaps the most recognizable is a Versace dress, with gold oversized safety pins on its side; worn by Elizabeth Hurley in 1994 on the red carpet, its nod to a sexier side of punk.  Bricolage features a group of designers who have used items associated with trash—think trash bags, plastic, newsprint—to create clothing. There are trash bag dresses by Gareth Pugh and plastic bodysuits by Maison Martin Margiela. The effect is more ecologically friendly than punk.

Agitprop & Graffiti features designer duds spray-painted or printed with words. There are a few Alexander McQueen and D&G numbers that are intriguing, but the recent Westwood dresses—printed with slogans—speak more to the revolutionary tropes of punk. It is interesting to note that a plaque in the room states how people thought The Clash were mimicking Jackson Pollock when they wore clothes covered in paint, but it happened to be coincidence.

The final room, Destroy, features multiple white T-shirts strategically ripped to pieces by Yohji Yamamoto and Viktor Rolf, as well as Calvin Klein. These displays are juxtaposed by pieces from designer Rei Kawakubo, who experiments with the structure of traditional clothing items to question the traditional standards of beauty. While the designs are strange, these few adorned mannequins might be the only part of the exhibit that captures punk’s essence.

The overall issue with PUNK is the lack of spirit within the exhibit. The designers have adopted the aesthetics and these influences are obvious—but the meaning behind punk, the counter-culture lifestyle and ideology is lost in the translation.

For more information, visit:http://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/listings/2013/punk/gallery-views

Author Bio:

Gabriella Tutino is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine.