Again in HK.

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

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Andulka
ojovivo

shark vs the universe
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
styofa doing anything
Show & Tell
will byers stan first human second
Stranger Things
dirt enthusiast
todays bird
YOU ARE THE REASON
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Peter Solarz

Love Begins

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
No title available

#extradirty

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@stacyosterman
Again in HK.
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http://www.vulture.com/2018/09/the-virgin-suicides-launched-our-obsession-with-teen-tragedy.html
Members of a pod of endangered killer whales now appear to be taking turns floating the body of a newborn calf that died more than week ago.
Researching the privilege of my rage.
It is impossible for me to understand my own personal rage without understanding the privilege I am allowed by expressing it. It is a very bitter pill for me to swallow. I am so full of internal rage that it feels overwhelming to deal with and also I’m so privileged that I even get the chance to deal with it.
When I was in my 20′s I was in a car accident on Topanga Canyon. I rationalized that the driver in front of me had caused the situation because he cut me off a mile down the road which forced me to tailgate him to express my anger, which caused me not to see the 14 year old kid who lost control of his parents stolen car and smashed into both me and the car in front of me.
The man in the car I was tailgating was Asian, and when he got out of his car (which had just been totalled) I asked him if he “even spoke english”. Because I was a racist asshole who thought she was always the victim and looked to other people as the problem.
I did apologize to him once my adrenaline fell to normal levels, but he had to hear that. Had to see his car totalled, his day ruined, possibly injured but couldn’t tell due to stress, and he had to listen to some entitled white brat ask him if he even belongs here. It’s hard to admit when you’re part of the problem. When your conscious and unconscious bias becomes a weapon used against someone that looks different than you so you can continue to be the victim Always the victim. Never one to just let go or admit fault.
I’m still trying to learn, but now I rage at people who I see acting like I once did. Rage is never the answer. Fighting is never the answer. Conflict does move things forward but it’s possible for conflict to be respectful and kind. I am still learning how to be that...
Brewer, Obama have tense moment at airport
Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer says she meant no disrespect when she pointed a finger at President Barack Obama during an intense discussion on an airport tarmac. But the Republican governor says the Democratic president showed disrespect for her by abruptly ending their conversation.
White Women’s Rage: 5 Thoughts on Why Jan Brewer Should Keep Her Fingers to Herself
2.) White privilege conditions white people not to see white rage. However, it makes them hyper-aware of Black threat. When we do think of white rage, usually we think of it in masculine terms. Gender stereotypes condition us not to see white women as being capable of this kind of dangerous emotional output. We reserve our notions of female anger for Black women. Such hidden race-gender logics allow Brewer to assert that she “felt threatened,” even though she was trying to handle the situation “with grace.” Now look back at the picture: who is threatening whom? Couple white rage with white women’s access to the protections that have been afforded to their gender, and you have something that looks ironically like white female privilege. Yes (yes, yes), the discourse of protection is based upon problematic and sexist stereotypes of white women as dainty and unable to care for themselves, and yes, these stereotypes have caused white women to be oppressed by white men. But remember, gender does not exist in a racial vacuum. It is performed in highly racialized contexts, and history proves that what constitutes oppression for white women in relation to white men, dually constitutes privilege for white women in relation to Black men. (I’m not spoiling for a fight today, so anybody who feels uncomfortable with such assertions should probably go read some Patricia Hill Collins—Black Sexual Politics–and then try again.) What I know is this: 100 years ago (less than, actually) a Black man even standing that close to a white woman would’ve gotten him lynched. (Seriously, I just discovered that even accommodationist Booker T. Washington was beaten in New York in 1911 for talking to a white woman.) And I know that if a Black woman had wagged her finger at Bush II or even Bill Clinton, we would have seen her faced down, handcuffed, with Secret Service swarming. When your race and gender grant you opportunities to be treated with dignities that others don’t have or conversely, to heap indignities on those people, that is what we call privilege. Deal with it.
Let’s Talk About Why White Women Never Get Brutalized For Cursing Out Police Officers
I imagine my mother with all her impressive attributes being pulled over for a traffic violation — and morphing into an angry White woman with f-bombs splattered all over her person.
She would probably not survive such an encounter — and if she does live to tell her tale of woe — her scars will remain raw with the constant reality of re-infection.
The angry White woman can thrive without issue even when they come dangerously close to the edge. They can be emotional wrecks without inciting the rabid appetite of cops who seem to only crave the texture of Black bodies — by any means necessary.
Angry white woman defecates on floor of coffee shop, then throws her feces at employees
While #BreathingWhileBlack continues to become a popular offense worthy of multiple speed dial phone calls to the police leading to jail time and public embarrassment, apparently white women in Canada are out here throwing poop at folks without a care in the world.
Monday, employees at a Tim Hortons coffee shop close to Vancouver found themselves in an awkward situation when they were attacked by an irate customer who chose to throw her feces at them during a fit of rage.
White woman arrested after assault on Black pregnant soldier
the incident started when two active duty officers in uniform were going to a restaurant and crossed paths with Judy Tucker, 72, and her son Robbie. The soldiers grew tired of waiting for the Tuckers trying to get in a handicapped parking spot and apparently briefly got in the way of the Tuckers’ car.
Robbie Tucker then followed the two soldiers into a local restaurant and began verbally assaulting them, calling them “gay Black b—-es” and yelling “does the military let lesbians serve?”
Soon his mother and sister get into the act and Judy decided to try to lay hands on Capt. Mitchell and her pregnant friend. Big mistake because someone was recording the whole incident on their cellphone. When police arrived Tucker and her family told a tale of being assaulted by the soldiers. But when the officers saw the video, it was a sobbing Judy Tucker who was led away in handcuffs for assault.
4 months...
I can’t write this. It’s too hard. I sit with my eyes closed and I try to run through her last moments. It hurts. I can only feel her experience. I have no hatred of her, no questions about why she wasn’t thinking of me. She was. I can only feel her pain. Her sadness. Her decision. And I have to respect it. Time of death was around now. 4 months...
Happy Mother’s Day. My jaw locks every time I cry.
Oxnard
I have put all my hope in the marina.
It took me hours to fall asleep last night. I thought I would pass out quickly as I had taken an anti anxiety pill before I laid down. It had the opposite effect. Lucas came to bed late, his sleeping has also been erratic. I wish we could sync our patterns. He was surprised I was awake, having gone to bed hours before. I realized I was laying there, wide eyed, not sleeping, not realizing where I was or what i was doing. Just laying there. Eyes open wide.
I was daydreaming. Is that one word? I always wondered if it was two. Dreaming about the day. One day. Any day. Day Dreaming. My auto correct tells me otherwise. I was daydreaming about outfitting my car for camping. How to make a bucket to pee in. I’m now reminded that’s what Mamo used to do with the coffee can on our long car trips from Glendale to Modesto. There weren’t many rest stops on our route through the desert so she improvised.
I thought about what I would need to keep traveling. I’ll need a bucket to pee in. Amazon told me that not only can I purchase a bucket to pee in, but I can also get a toilet seat to fit over it and biodegradable waste bags to put in it. Far cry from Folgers. I might opt for cat litter. If it’s good enough for baby kitty...
I’ll need water. I’m now remembering that I ordered a manual pump to put on water bottles from two through five gallons. I checked my Amazon cart this morning and noticed that I added two dresses and a pair of shoes but did not purchase them. Past Stacy looking out for Future Stacy to make sure that I really did think that boho dress would look cute on me in the cold, harsh light of day. But Past Me was pretty sure Future Me needed that manual water pump because I ordered the shit out of it. Along with a pack of four, disposable, devices that will allow me to pee standing up. Into my bucket.
So when I woke up at 1pm today, and after spending another hour snuggling my cat because he was really digging the whole “staying in bed all day” thing, I decided to drive to Ventura County. I drove through Ventura Harbor first, looking for a restaurant and instead just finding a spot on the beach between the harbor break. Sailboats on one side, coming in for the evening. Surfers on the other side, being filmed by a guy on the beach who I could hear humming. I couldn’t make out the song. Maybe it was nothing. Just sound. I took pictures.
I then drove over to the Channel Islands Marina. The canals felt like...home. I don’t know what home. Maybe home is just where I feel comfortable. The canals were comforting. I drove to the end of the road and parked my car. Out my windshield I saw the harbor opening to the ocean, blue herons diving into the calm water with a huge splash, and a newly placed memorial adorned with a photograph of the recently deceased and other memorabilia. Two forty ounce cans of Molson beer had been opened and tipped upside down in the sand, poured out for their homie.
There was a small bar next to the parking lot. Cash only, on the sand, only a small sign to guide you. I daydreamed about the friends I would take there, how we’d get there from our house so we could get shitfaced and not have to drive home. Maybe we would walk there along the beach. With my dog. While the sun sets. Putting my all my hope in the marina. May it bring me peace. And cheap beer with locals.
Day dreaming. One day. Any day.
17 people were killed over the weekend in protests in support of independence for some Anglophone regions.
Facebook break.
Ok, I'm ready to go public with this. A photographer out of San Diego named John R. Mireles has a show documenting his neighbors. He made a name for himself by taking images of the people in his neighborhood from all walks of life, enlarging those portraits and placing them on the fence surrounding his house. He also has a habit of taking images of the homeless issue in his neighborhood to use as a way to show how these "blights on his area" (aka the homeless) are "disease factories" and "something needs to be done", and he does not mean the homeless needs help. He has lauded the efforts of his city to spend money on placing spikes under overpasses to make it harder for homeless to sleep there. In his personal work he likes to take images of the downtrodden, the ordinary American. He currently has a museum show up. His website is filled with images of those who could find themselves on the street at any moment. Like I would with any artist, I've called Mr. Mireles out on this contradiction and asked him to explain how he can have this viewpoint and yet use their images. He has even taken an image of a woman sleeping in human excrement as a way to show how the homeless bring down property value and safety in his neighborhood. Instead of engaging in a frank and honest discussion about this Mr. Mireles has decided to insult me, look through my website and tear me and my work apart. I'd like to share what he wrote to me today. This is a man who is currently working on his Guggenheim Fellowship application and has a museum show:
"Since I don't know who you are, I went to your website. Wow... you're colonialist street photographer whose work not is only on the low side of third rate, it is both conceptually and visually on par with tourist snapshots. I'd suggest that, instead of taking potshots at me, you sit quietly and look and listen while those who actually are creating intellectually valid and visually well crafted work try to teach you how to elevate yourself from the ranks of a mediocre cultural pornographer.
Everything that you accuse me of is right.there.in.your.work. Stop projecting and focus on improving your art. You'll do better as a human being and an artist - if you ever are fortunate to achieve that status.
Thanks for a good laugh by the way..."
So. There's that. Next time someone asks me why I'm not ready to share my work, this is why. I'm not ready. I haven't given any ideas that I am ready. But my taste is there. I know what I need to do in order to move forward and I'm ready to listen to any criticism that comes my way. I will always listen when someone tells me to be better, even this entitled man who decided to shame me instead of having an intelligent discussion. Thank you for reading.
The portraits we linger on longest suggest that, in the blink of a camera’s shutter, an unseen life has become seen.
“A writer creates a world, and she is the ruler of it; the photographer moves through the world, our world, hoping for anonymity, hoping she is able to humble herself enough to see and record what the rest of us—in our noisy perambulations, in our requests to be heard—are too present to our own selves to ever see.”
Such strength. Be kind to your neighbors. http://m.startribune.com/blast-investigated-at-bloomington-islamic-center/438715693/#1
Big Sky
In my experience, the only constant is change.
“...what happened here in Manchester tonight.”
I was taking the day off. Enjoying a few beers, left over from a gathering of friends. Trying to watch American Gods. There are scenes that make me smile, thinking that Lucas would enjoy this. Like Bryan Fuller’s masculine version of Pushing Daisies. Whimsical and violent. I check Facebook during the lynching scene.
I see my friend Dane has posted something regarding a concert being a place of joyous occasion and I assumed he was talking about the death of Chris Cornell, news he broke to me at 1:30 am via FB post a few days ago. This newest post of his was actually a different tragedy, they just keep coming don’t they? Isn’t it just our access to the media? History tells us it’s always been like this. We’re just paying more attention.
I checked Reddit. Confirmed at least 19 dead. Hundreds injured. Without a care in the world I scrolled through the comments, a video caught my eye as it seemed to be a view from far away, distance is better in a tragedy. I didn’t even see the light on the left side on the screen as I was warned would happen in the description of the content All I heard was a quick and visceral utterance of NO.
I recognized that NO. I too uttered it during an event that seemed unbelievable. One moment I saw my husband drive out into stopped traffic, in front of a bus letting him through, and the next moment I heard a loud crash, two boys on a motorcycle entwined with my love, laying on the road in the middle of Cambodia. I thought I had lost him. I thought he was dead. I screamed a guttural NO before thoughts even entered my head.
That’s was the NO I heard in that video from Manchester tonight. It made me shake with sobs.
The Norton Simon has a wing dedicated to South and Southeast Asian art. It’s my favorite place in all of Pasadena. There is an enclosed spiral staircase that leads down to the basement level where the wing is located. It leads you around the corner and you’re presented with a long corridor that opens up to floor to ceiling windows, showing you a beautiful view of a large Buddha that is surrounded by nature. It’s the embodiment of calm. As I walked through it last week my eyes skimmed the description of the exhibit, landing on the word Nirvana. Maybe it was because I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the music scene from which I grew up after we lost one of it’s patriarchs last week but I was really struck by the definition of Nirvana. The word I’ve always heard but the concept I’ve never really grasped. Until that moment. To achieve Nirvana is to be released from the cycle of death and rebirth. If you reach it you won’t have to come back to this place.
This Whimsical and Violent place.
I can see why you’d want that. Why you would devote your life to seeing everything you possibly can on this glorious planet because you don’t want to ever come back. Humans make the world uninhabitable and they make it completely worth the effort.
“Live music shows should be joyous occasions”
Cai Guo-Qiang
“I hope this movie will encourage a lot more young artists,” said Cai. “It’s not easy to be an artist, but it’s very meaningful.”
I didn’t know that I grew up seeing Cai Guo Qiang work. I cut myself some slack as I was more engrossed in the music scene than contemporary art. Even now when I think of the Ford Taurus’ hanging from the ceiling of the Seattle Art Museum I find them dated. Part of the reason is the choice of vehicle and the bursts of neon light radiating out of the suspended cars. Another reason is the installation of the work at the SAM. The former, amazingly missed, art critic for The Stranger Jen Graves wrote a piece on the work when it was finally removed:
At that museum, you could walk into that single gallery and see the entire arc of the white cars as they tumbled through space with their "exploding" colored lights flashing. There was nothing else in the gallery. The cinematic, frame-by-frame flight—beginning and ending with parked cars on the ground—potentially symbolized a car bomb, or a crash.
In 2007, the artwork came to Seattle Art Museum and became part of its permanent collection. It was a gift from retired banking executive Robert M. Arnold in honor of SAM's 75th anniversary in 2008 and the expansion of the museum, which opened with the cars front and center.
The flashing lights, visible from the street, became synonymous with SAM.
But confusion became synonymous with the flashing lights.
At SAM, the cars flying through the air were interrupted by the architecture, dramatically. You couldn't see the entire arc because the cars flew through a balcony and down onto another floor. Over the years, I gave museum tours for various groups, and every single time, the people would say to me, "What is that?"
Inopportune: Stage One has been one of the worst-installed art juggernauts that I've ever seen.
It was rendered meaningless. But it was also the loudest thing about entering SAM. I found it continually depressing.
I wasn’t thinking about any of this when I finally watched the film that had been sitting in my Netflix cue for over a year, Sky Ladder. The annoying preview that the streaming giant instituted a couple months ago finally paid off and I cried enough happy tears at the short film that I finally decided to hit play. The movie was as encouraging to me as I suspect Cai would hope. Of of the first quotes that resonated with me was from one of Guo Qiang’s many helpers “He doesn’t see failure or success in art”. To create without thinking of that creation succeeding feels so overwhelming. It feels as overwhelming as creating something only to destroy it. I guess when your work consists of explosions it’s an easy concept to grasp.
There were other things that made me grab my notebook and attempt to write out yet another morning schedule to get me motivated and creating. He was greatly inspired by his time in Japan, their idea of minimalism. His father was a calligrapher and during The Cultural Revolution in China was forced to burn any art books he created, which Guo Qiang helped his father do in the early morning hours. His ease at drawing characters, villages on scraps of paper, made me want to wake up every morning and spend an hour sketching.
What is stopping me from doing even a small task like writing every morning, drawing in my book, reading, coloring, practicing my craft? I see the work it takes to create these large scale projects and I know I’m willing to do it but I am scared to be the one that oversee’s the process, finding more comfort in those who help. It’s obviously fear. Fear of creating something people won’t like. Fear of having a team rely on me only to let them down. Fear of asking for what I want. Fear of actually succeeding in creating a sustaining career that isn’t built on anyone but me.
“he doesn’t see failure or success”
As the movie showed the pieces Guo Qiang has created over the years I was surprised to see the familiar lobby of the SAM with the two visible cars of Inopportune: Stage One. This was an artist I had seen repeatedly and yet was never moved by. The piece itself was removed to great fanfare by the local art community. This work was created, purchased by a Bank Executive, and put into a space that didn’t allow for it’s original intent to be shown. Inopportune was basically a temporary work. And he just keeps creating. And now I’m writing about him as an inspiration.
Sky Ladder, the work itself, is another ephemeral piece. Attempted many times, thwarted by weather and permits, years and hundreds of thousands of dollars spent, Cai finally saw it come to life on the banks of a small fishing village at 4:30 in the morning to small viewing party of his family and friends. There was moment, once the sun rose and the fanfare was over, that Cai walked over to his wife who was wracked with tears. Happy tears. She looked at the sky, the skeletal remains of the ladder still hanging from the heavens, and cried even harder. It was over: and it was over, finally. The life of a project, from beginning to end. Treasure the moments, grieve for the loss. Life is temporary, art should be too.
Videos:
Cai Guo-Qiang on Art 21
Elegy: Explosion Event
Cai Guo-Qiang - Drawing with Gunpowder - The Artist's Studio