Over a year of writing, cutting and proto-typing later, comes Tree of Codes, a haunting new story by Jonathan Safran Foer cut from Bruno Schulz’s words.
The book is as much a sculptural object as it is a work of masterful storytelling: here is an “enormous last day of life” that looks like it feels.
So the garbage from the millionaire’s mansion mixes with the garbage from the poorest favela?
—Vik Muniz
The film’s representation of this ambitious venture begins by introducing Muniz, whose own story is as unlikely as those of his subjects. He grew up in a working class family in São Paolo, he tells an audience in footage from 1998, and in 1982, he was involved in a street fight (trying to stop it, he says). “As I was going back to the car,” he says, “I get shot by a guy who thought I was one of the guys fighting with him.” As a result, Muniz received a payment from the shooter, enough to buy a ticket to New York in 1983. He sums up: “That’s why I’m talking to you today, because I got shot in the leg.”
(via Popmatters)
Brian Liloia is 25-year-old currently living at Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage in northeastern Missouri, learning to fulfill his desires to live more sustainably and self-sufficiently.
Lee Rourke is the author of Everyday, a collection of short stories published by Social Disease. He is also Reviews Editor for 3AM Magazine and edits (with the help of the inimitable Matthew Coleman) his own literary litzine Scarecrow.
Since 2004, as editor of the on-line literary site Scarecrow, Lee Rourke has made it his business to “bang the drum for the unheard, the unconventional, the eccentric, the revolutionary and the radical”, turning his back on “the mainstream bookish blatherskites” and championing “misunderstood, ignored and abandoned underground and independent literary fiction and culture.” There’s something to be said for sticking to your guns:
I have been reading a lot of Heidegger (boredom/mood), Ballard (technology/violence), Beckett (ennui/repetition), Pessoa (emptiness/the ordinary) recently and, in particular, an amazing book called Montano’s Malady by Enrique Vila-Matas (literary suffocation). The Canal could not have been written without the guidance of the above. It’s hard not to be influenced by such writing.
The company, based in San Fernando, California, was founded in 1971. It became one of the best-known resources for artists seeking to produce complicated, large-scale and frequently costly artworks.
“Many artists trying to make work that involves high-tech and precise execution would go to Carlson and they could often figure things out that no one else could,” said New York art adviser Allan Schwartzman.
The firm fabricated some of the most technically challenging artworks created during the six-year rise of contemporary art prices which began in 2002.
The tent city, a former nine-hole golf course, is now home to 50,000 people. There is no way to make money except by selling goods or services right here. So a schoolteacher might open a candy stand. A government accountant might sell spices or batteries.
This is mixed news for Samard. She has more competition for her business, but also more choices as a consumer. Every day, she goes shopping, tent to tent.
Watch Plastic bag by Ramin Bahrani – a sad story narrated by Werner Herzog.
Struggling with its immortality, a discarded plastic bag (voiced by Werner Herzog) ventures through the environmentally barren remains of America as it searches for its maker.
The raw material of Piranesi’s designs consists of architectural forms; but, because the Prisons are images of confusion, because their essence is pointlessness, the combination of architectural forms never adds up to an architectural drawing, but remains a free design, untrammelled by any considerations of utility or even possibility, and limited only by the necessity of evoking the general idea of a building.
Huize Piranesi
The history of Huize Piranesi is the transition of a farmhouse where the peasant family and their livehood used to live together under one roof, into a family house with space for performances.
In the beginning of the seventies, the house welcomed the philosophers Noam Chomsky and Michel Foucault, Leszek Kolakowski, Arne Naess and Karl Popper.
Nice pairing. Two totally annoying know-it-alls that I’ve learned something from.
I do have to admit that the clip shows Foucault at his most dogmatic, while Chomsky is actually asking for support for creative activities outside his usual focus. Foucault focuses so much on established government institutions, as makes sense for his great work on the Enlightenment, as if Obama had more power than the banks too big to fail, that he could drive me to become a dogmatic Marxist.
(The above from Facebook discussion on occasion of Giovanni B. Piranesi’s birthday – Oct 4)
In some ways, Gwathmey was the architecture world’s Norman Mailer, with the same bravado, the same raw talent, and the same career-long anxiety about whether he could continue to equal his spectacular first performance. (New Yorker postscript)
These five had a common allegiance to a pure form of architectural modernism, harkening back to the work of Le Corbusier in the 1920s and 1930s, although on closer examination their work was far more individual.[1] The grouping may have had more to do with social and academic allegiances, particularly the mentoring role of Philip Johnson (NY-Five)
Eisenman has limited his work to images and models of architectural-looking designs in printed media, because he didn’t get many commissions -however he designed the holocaust museum in Berlin.
Artist, Engineer, Poet, Physicist, Inventor and Visionary, and has for thirthy years pursued a singular course of exploration of space, movement, flight, energy and the force of gravity.
Shulman died Wednesday at his L.A. home. One observer says he had ‘a profound effect on the writing and teaching of architectural history … especially Southern California modernism.’
David Ireland
Bay Area conceptual artist David Ireland passed away. He was 78. Kenneth Baker’s obit here.
For an artist who worked in materials as graceless as cement, disused furniture and broken bits of mass-produced garden sculpture, Mr. Ireland enjoyed an unusually varied audience. His reluctance to take himself or his work too seriously nearly always made itself felt. Even people who thought contemporary art absurd often appreciated his willingness to affirm the quotient of absurdity in his work and methods.