the · affected · provincial’s · almanack

Popped out for a few hours the other night to catch Chain and the Gang playing at Space 1026. The show was great, of course--Ian remains one of the best frontmen out there--but I was really taken with the posters on the walls. I'll admit that I haven't been keeping up with 1026's new crop of kids, but I have to say these posters were a joy to imbibe.
( Read more... )

I have some delightful women in my life. Below are a couple examples:

Liz Rywelski is madder than a March hare. She showed up at Adam's photo shoot party this week disguised as a lusty bag lady, intruding into the shots and making a menace of herself. But that's nothing compared to some of the truly inspired antics she's pulled over the years (see the link). No telling what she's liable to do next. We're all a little scared of Liz--and we love her for it.

(Photo credit: Abby & Tori)

Abby and Tori are also adorably unbalanced. Here is the new trailer for their home-brewed movie, The Hunt For Good Americans. It's a sort of Alice in Wonderland romp. I make a cameo in it, but I like it anyway.

I always look forward to seeing what these ladies will cook up next. I love how their minds work: their sense of absurdity and their willingness to put play at the center of their art. Kooky ladies: I salute you!

Like Gay Talese, the Starn Twins also hail from Ocean City. The Starn family owned the local Shop Rite grocery stores; I imagine that these poor fellows probably still get smartasses coming up to them at gallery openings, singing that awful Starn's radio jingle.

But I digress!

Any NYers who visit the new South Ferry station will see their latest: a series of arches comprised entirely of bamboo. Workers building the arch spent their days suspended thirty feet in the air, lashing together countless lengths of bamboo. Here's a time lapse video of its construction.

More info at the Starn Studio website.

The NY Times posted a fun little piece about the Paris Review's ditty on Ocean City son Gay Talese's colorful notebook--which is, appropriately, written on a shirtboard.

...might also be the world's most stylish.

(Photo credit: Abby and Tori)

Had a grand time last week with New York sirens Abby & Tori, who swept in from the Metropolis and lured me into the woods to assist with their film project, The Hunt for Good Americans. I was asked to play a messenger from beyond named Agent Wheelsworth, which required me to compose and recite some light verse as well as ride my highwheel about the nearby beech forest.

Abby and Tori's vision is quite playful, as they dress in flamboyant getups that reflect the themes of their various "chapters". The use of color in this particular scene was vibrant, and the dialogue was a kind of musical speech, much like The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.

(No, I did not sing my lines--I can't carry a tune to save my life, and I would have mortified myself in the attempt. Honor would have demanded that I fill my shoes with stones afterwards, and walk stoically into the river.)

While they were filming their parts, I wandered off to do some birding, as they sang in the distance. The effect was quite lovely, as if some arty water nymphs emerged from the nearby river, donned frocks of flowers, and decided to have a go at showbiz. Absolutely delightful.

Then came the time for me to make a hash of things. They first filmed me riding my highwheel through the woods, which was easy enough--but then I had to act in a couple scenes. Abby and Tori are natural performers, but I confess to being a bit timid when it comes to such things. I did my best to keep pace with the girls, so as not to disappoint (I had to cover my ears on playback, because I despise my voice so). I thought my silly poem about my bicycle was quite fun, though; I included some Chihuahhuas and bananas for good measure.

After we were done shooting I gave an impromptu rant about the patch of edible cinnabar chanterelles I'd found by the river, obsessed hermit that I am. Having such colorful visitors did me some good, actually, as I needed to be drawn out of the woodsy-mossy shell I've ensconced myself in of late.

(I kind of like how I look like a rumpled old duffer in the first photo.)



Thank you for including me in your adventures, ladies. And good luck with the film!

My agent just sent me a link to this classic old track by Adriano Celentano. I love the spideriness of the dancers and the mock-English, nonsensical lyrics. It's interesting to hear the raw phonetics, and how English might sound to a non-anglophone.

Enjoy.

So to continue this weekend's parlor game: A corollary to the previously mentioned Cod-Vic is Cod Modernism, or "Cod-Mod" (forgive my cutesy verbiage, but it makes it easier to type and coming up with neologisms keeps me interested).

Cod-Mod is another form of retro, but an altogether less problematic one than Cod-Vic since its clean lines, unadorned materials and simple color schemes lend a laid-back, contemporary air of unaffected sophistication, making it much easier to defend as an aesthetic. Cod-mod has been mined heavily by indie music (Camera Obscura and Belle & Sebastian, anyone?), as well as interior design types like Jonathan Adler and film directors like Wes Anderson. Oh yeah, and Ikea.
( Some examples of Cod-Mod )
Although this aesthetic has been deemed as twee by its detractors, it remains very popular since its cheerful, clean and versatile look also manages to retain a nostalgic appeal while remaining contemporary. Its elegance is not only found in its form but in its fabrication and use: it allows the subtle qualities of the materials to combine with the bold forms and colors. Unlike Cod-Vic's pictorial tendencies, Cod-Mod's abstract/concrete vocabulary of materials, form and color are less literal, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

Although, like Cod-Vic, practicality isn't always Cod-Mod's cheif concern.
( Dig. )
Cod-Mod's emphasis on freshness is its greatest strength as well as its greatest weakness. Although there are plenty of examples of the pleasing patina of a scooter's fender or oven's leg, sometimes little consideration has been paid to how the elements might act upon these materials or forms. Unlike a Stickley Arts & Crafts chair that will gain interest and character over time, a resin-cast Saarinen chair will tend to look like an old grubby plastic toy with heavy use.

*****
PROS: Cheerful, modern, sophisticated, forward-looking
CONS: Precious, smug, may not age or wear well, 1998

*****
So what do you think? Can you cite especially egregious or successful examples of the Cod-Mod aesthetic? Or do you dismiss the whole thing as the self-satisfied preoccupations of design magazine aficionados and Japanese bands singing about airports and pulled sweaters?

Still ill (hear that, Morrissey?) and am devising hobby horses to amuse myself...

"Cod Victorian" is an old term, more common in the UK than stateside. Generally, it referred to the faux Victoriana and nostalgic bunting employed to household chintz and toiletries like, say, tea or soap packaging, giving the product an air of reassuring domesticity. It also refers to a kind of lurid, arch prose style used for comedic purposes, which has been shamelessly flogged to death for a century (mea culpa).

In recent decades, the sphere of the Cod-Victorian aesthetic has broadened into areas where it was once anathema, and has been incorporated in many ways, with varying success: goth, McSweeney's, steampunk and indie rock have all employed Cod-Victorian tropes for their own ends.
( Some examples of Cod-Vic )
"Cod-Vic" (If I may get so cute with the term) has presented opportunities for artists to play with exuberant forms and organic textures largely deemed verboten, tasteless or hopelessly unfashionable throughout most of the 20th Century (the exception being the 60's, when it fused with Pop Art/psychadelia and formed its own subgenre of high camp).
( Dig it, babies. )
Cod-Vic usually has an element of knowing perversity to it, relishing its bad taste rather than recoiling from it. Cod-Vic has also opened the floodgates to a host of one-liners, cheap novelties, and dead ends--some delightful, others less so. The most successful Cod-Vic offerings seem to strike a deft balance, borrowing from overwrought Victorian forms while maintaining a modern crispness and rigor.

*****
PROS: Playful, exuberant, grand, beautiful, witty, funny
CONS: Corny, obvious, conservative, tired, overwrought, Marilyn Manson

*****
So what do you think? Can you cite especially egregious or successful examples of the Cod-Vic aesthetic? Or do you dismiss the whole thing as exhausted, embarrassing kitsh best left to those gluing cogs to felt tophats?

NEXT ENTRY: "Cod-Mod"!

Having done a well-attended show in Brooklyn with imomus and Rusty Santos on the previous night, I felt a twinge of civic embarrassment the following evening as I joined the small but enthusiastic audience at Johnny Brenda's in Philly, where we enjoyed Momus' three-hour marathon retrospective musical revue. It may have been due to the price of admission ($12) or the unfortunate timing (it was the end of a holiday weekend). But knowing Philly, I couldn't help but think that some dull-as-dirt indie band would have filled the place on the very same night. I hope I'm wrong that the old saw "pearls before swine" applies in this case.

Despite listening to Momus albums since the 80's, I had never seen Nick perform before. I was immediately taken by his ardent showmanship and exuberant physical theatricality: his act bordered on a kind of cabaret puppetry. This effect was accentuated by his being joined onstage by Aki Sasamoto, who served as a dramatic foil and dance partner throughout the evening. The setting was ideal for a marionette with an eyepatch and detachable mullet: the stage of Johnny Brendas is a small, glittering box, which lent a paradoxical air of glamor and intimacy. Very much in the bardic tradition, Nick and Aki created little worlds in the minds of the audience out of virtually nothing. Nick trotted out renditions of both highlights and obscurities from his 30-year career: "Hairstyle of the Devil," "The Homosexual," "A History of Sexual Jealousy," "My Pervert Doppleganger," and "Widow Twanky" among them. Nick would likely balk at this description, but his performance had a lot of heart in it: He gave it his all. His voice got raspy towards the close of his set, but since most were sad ballads, his rasp lent them a touching, bittersweet quality. There were a few times when I felt like Nelson Muntz at an Andy Williams concert: I was thoroughly engrossed and entertained.

Whatever you might think of Nick and his music, it can't be denied that his live shows are among the most playful and original out there, making acts half his age seem vapid, timid and boring. Doing what he does with such limited resources takes vision, dedication, and courage. Turns out The Tender Pervert is also an admirable one.

The Brooklyn event hosted by Starr Space and curated by the lovable (and now good friend) Joseph Whitt went well. After a rather lackluster reading by Yours Truly, imomus and Aki Sasamoto put on a haunting presentation together with a mere iPod and a spotlight, to great effect. In his robe and clip-on mullet, Nick gave a spectral sort of air as he milled among the crowd and delivered spirited readings from his books "The Book of Jokes" and "The Book of Scotlands," which are to be released later this year. Strains of Calvino, Rabelais, and Sterne are to be found in his vividly written prose. Good bones, in my humble opinion.
( More spookiness behind the cut )
I then invited our guests to the table and yammered at great length about the items and specimens that I had brought with me. Everyone seemed to like the carnivorous plants and the knick knacks I'd brought from home. As usual, I brought too much; I could have gone on for hours. Luckily for all present, I didn't.


( More images of the goodies behind yon cut )

Rusty Santos then took the stage and performed a piece he had written for the evening, which was intricate and lush, although the high volume forced me to enjoy much of it from the door. Chalk it up to being an old duffer used to sylvan quietude.

To be sure, last night's bill was an odd combination--but inspired, I think. Lots of clashing textures, but an underlying sensibility, a common thread. Hard to put a finger on what it was, but it all seemed to hold together, somehow. Apologies to Nick and Rusty if my squareness cramped their style in any way.

My sincerest thanks to those of you who attended. Special thanks to the good folks at Starr Space, who gave us such a warm welcome. Always a delight to meet new lovely, interesting people.

I like Lully as much as the next unemployable pantywaist, but one needs a bit of roughage in one's diet from time to time. You know it's spring when the sap rises into your record collection, and one's thoughts drift towards the raw and the primitive!

Like soul and R&B, I am a longtime lover of garage rock: in many ways, such bands are the successors of the jug bands of yore, whose elegant low-fi crudity and artful vulgarity I also adore.

Of course the jug bands were far better musicians, but musicianship is besides the point since the craft only has to be good enough to fulfill the intention, and such discussions lead inevitably into prog rock wankery--which scientific evidence has established is strictly for self-serious, overprivileged geeks who need a shoal of expensive equipment, years of practice and a 'concept' in order to play with themselves--while the rest of us manage quite well with a willing gym sock, thank you very much.

And really: If you don't like a funny, scrappy band like The Mummies, then you either 1) Need a fun transplant, and 2) Just don't like rock music in general, whose core is comprised of equal parts gimmicky humor, a knowing kind of stupidity, and fear, or 3) You don't remember a world before Britney and the overproduced hordes that followed in her vapid wake, and so have an underdeveloped palate fit for nothing other than cloying sweets that have been already chewed for you, or 4) You need to buy a vowel, already.

A review of "Shopping in Paris: French Fashion 1850-1925" at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Image: Foster & Partners/URS Group, Inc.

This was Norman Foster's proposed design for the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington DC. Not sure if it fit the brief, but it's quite beautiful.

I love clean, modern forms ensconced in lush vegetation.

Ero-American patriot Ms. Lai says:

In Join Or Die, I paint myself having sex with the Presidents of the United States in chronological order. I am interested in humanizing and demythologizing the Presidents by addressing their public legacies and private lives. The presidency itself is a seemingly immortal and impenetrable institution; by inserting myself in its timeline, I attempt to locate something intimate and mortal. I use this intimacy to subvert authority, but it demands that I make myself vulnerable along with the Presidents. A power lies in rendering these patriarchal figures the possible object of shame, ridicule and desire, but it is a power that is constantly negotiated.

I approach the spectacle of sex and politics with a certain playfulness. It would be easy to let the images slide into territory that's strictly pornographic—the lurid and hardcore, the predictably "controversial." One could also imagine a series preoccupied with wearing its "Fuck the Man" symbolism on its sleeve. But I wish to move beyond these things and make something playful and tender and maybe a little ambiguous, but exuberantly so. This, I feel, is the most humanizing act I can do.

Have to say that I really like how Justine Lai went about this--and the work is nicely done, love the brushwork. And Jefferson, as I've always suspected, is indeed a cuddler.

( More pics )

As seen in this Ihabitat article: "R&Sie Architects designed the aptly-named ‘Lost in Paris‘ house for an ‘urban witch’ who feeds the house through 300 glass-blown pods. A potion of rainwater and plant nutrients nourishes 1200 ferns drop-by-drop throughout the year. The houseplants are entirely hydroponic, and completely engulfing the 1400 square foot concrete home. The blanket of ferns protects the house from outside elements and regulates its inside temperature, all the while adding life and freshness to the neighborhood."

Seen at last night's opening. Met some lovely people. The slugs were a hit.

( Carnivorous plant tattoos behind cut )

Generally, I don't really care for bands that are too reverent towards their influences; there's something distinctly craven about mining older material without adding anything of your own. But once in a blue moon, some band does an older genre as well as it can be done, actually outdoing it, making the lapse in time between the song and its influences irrelevant. The Horrors have done just that with Sea Within A Sea.

The DNA in this song would have been found in my record collection when I was nineteen, such as it was. The quality was pretty uneven with this genre, but these kids know how to select, edit and improve their source material: they've removed the naff excesses that marred much of the work of their post-punk elders, and have left the more sound elements intact. It's the winter of 1987 again, and I'm walking on a cold beach at night.

That said, self-indulgence can be a pitfall with this particular kind of music. Perhaps this is why I'm slightly more partial to their garage sound; It's equally beholden to older music, but I suppose I'm more apt to trust its impulses: open, playful, generous, fun. And above all, it doesn't take itself too seriously. Below is the sound of a band that knows that they're just a band.



But you know, as enjoyable and cozy as this stuff is, it will never emit the startling power and excitement of, say, PiL's debut. Will music ever feel this new again?



Writers and musicians are less and less able to find refuge in the presently existing modes anymore; such things have a lifespan: Rock music is becoming as embalmed as Jazz, its practitioners sounding more like tribute bands, and the novel in its current form, only two centuries old, seems to be reaching depletion, too. Not all this change is due to technology, and the progression is fitful and not always forward: people were creating Twitter-esque quips in newspapers over a hundred years ago.

Does the printed word make sense anymore? Maybe not en masse like newspapers or magazines, but in a time when everything is an electric ghost, books may become more treasured, perhaps passing into an art form as its utility wanes and its obsolescence nears--which, like a diminishing fraction, may never quite reach zero.



Can one still forge ahead without plunging into incoherence? Is the professionalization of art and literature partially to blame for this cul de sac? The avant garde (whatever that means) is now choked with convention. It's become our official high culture, but to react against it is to what: rebel? Can one rebel against rebellion without the nagging feeling that one is only pretending to take chances?

But is taking chances and "going forward" even the point? Perhaps instead of "forward" we should say "around" and "between": perhaps the object is the activity itself and the direction, secondary. If one can go "forward" at all, one cannot do so without taking something of the past; one cannot create in a cultural vacuum. Yet the question looms: how much do we bring with us? Hew too closely to refinement and we risk being mired in tradition; embrace innovation too ardently and we risk burning through our ideas too quickly. Is there a third way, or are we all doomed to play the endgame of filling in the remaining blank spots? Or are these the wrong questions to ask: is the key simply to tinker and follow our noses, being marginal instead of merely "radical," getting it wrong and not giving a damn whether or not what we're doing can be called art or literature?

And should my trousers have more of a break in them?

(Church of the Resurrection in the Grove, 1910)

Color images of The Russian Empire on the eve of its collapse, taken by the Czar's photographer, Sergei Mikhailovich Prokudin-Gorskii. He developed an ingenious photographic technique in order for these images to be captured in black and white on glass plate negatives, using red, green and blue filters. He then presented these images in color in slide lectures using a light-projection system involving the same three filters.


(The Emir of Bukhara, 1911)

Click here to read about the process, and how these slides were converted to digital color images.

The photographs of Sergei Mikhailovich Prokudin-Gorskii (1863-1944) offer a vivid portrait of a lost world--the Russian Empire on the eve of World War I and the coming revolution. His subjects ranged from the medieval churches and monasteries of old Russia, to the railroads and factories of an emerging industrial power, to the daily life and work of Russia's diverse population.


(Mills in Ialutorovsk Uyezd of Tobolsk Province, 1912)

In the early 1900s Prokudin-Gorskii formulated an ambitious plan for a photographic survey of the Russian Empire that won the support of Tsar Nicholas II. Between 1909-1912, and again in 1915, he completed surveys of eleven regions, traveling in a specially equipped railroad car provided by the Ministry of Transportation.

Prokudin-Gorskii left Russia in 1918, going first to Norway and England before settling in France. By then, the tsar and his family had been murdered and the empire that Prokudin-Gorskii so carefully documented had been destroyed. His unique images of Russia on the eve of revolution--recorded on glass plates--were purchased by the Library of Congress in 1948 from his heirs. For this exhibition, the glass plates have been scanned and, through an innovative process known as digichromatography, brilliant color images have been produced. This exhibition features a sampling of Prokudin-Gorskii's historic images produced through the new process; the digital technology that makes these superior color prints possible; and celebrates the fact that for the first time many of these wonderful images are available to the public.