#berkeley art

[ics2]

Berkeley No. 12

Rickard Diebenkorn, 1955 Oil on Canvas 53 1/4 x 43 1/4 in

[streetartsf]

San Francisco Bay Area Art Events __ 2/8 Oakland - The Compound Gallery - Political Postcard Writing Party from 7-8:30PM at 1167 65th St @thecompoundgallery __ 2/8 Berkeley - Shoh Gallery - Games People Play solo show - Jan Wurm from 6-9pm on 700 Gilman @shoh_east_bay __ 2/9 San Jose - Cukui - Solo show for Bam TDK titled Na 'Aumakua from 6-9pm at 229 Jackson St in Japantown. @bamtdk @cukui __ 2/9 SF - Art Primo SF - Hella of a Sticker show from 7-10pm on 1124 Sutter ST by Larkin St @artprimosfblog __ 2/10 SF - Accion Latina - Siffon Norris will be on artist panel from 3-4 talking about how the Mission influenced him at 2948 24th St @sirronnorrisstudioblog-blog @accionlatinasf __ 2/10 Oakland - Good Mother Gallery - 3rd Year Anniversary group show from 7-11pm on 408 13th St in Downtown Oakland @goodmothergallery  __ 2/10 SF - 63 Bluxome St Gallery - 3 person show featuring Doug Rhodes, Lee harvey Roswell and Joseph Murdach. - titled Outroverted from 7-10pm at 63 Bluxome close to the train station @63bluxomestgallery __ 2/10 SF - Back to the Picture - Unreal Estate group show from 6-9pm on 1160 4th St in Mission Bay @back_to_the_picture __ 2/10 Oakland - Burnt Oak Gallery - Filthgrime solo show - Street Saints from 6-10pm on 306 15th St @burntoakgalleryca

[sivatherium]

[communistsinthegazebo]

Sign up to audition

Everyone! The Berkeley Rep School of Theatre is hosting auditions for the teen one acts festival this Saturday, December 2, 11:30-2:30. This is a fantastic opportunity to learn and create as part of a driven, creative community of teens. If you are or know any teens who act or might be interested in acting, please send them our way! Auditionees should arrive prepared to deliver a short monologue. Sign up at this link.

[beetleblossom]

Jade Sea Worm

Original hand cut collage on paper 2016

[gag-magazine]

GAG! PUNK GENRE DEEP DIVE

[gag-magazine]

Weekends

By Jade Raven

Friday 

I never like to remember what we are made of. There’s something strange about knowing what’s inside my body. At some point, we learn from a scrape on our knee, that there is blood beneath our skin, and our parents warn us not to break our bones, which we figure must be what we feel when we crack our knuckles, and it must be what is pushing against our lungs when we breathe and breathe. We must have walked this Earth for hundreds and hundreds of thousands of years, not knowing what we are made from, except from the violent injuries that left torn limbs. At least until we got so curious we opened ourselves up ourselves, and now that we know we must think of it: meaty tendons stuck to each rubbery ligament, wrapped around our bones, blood pulsating through a million strands of tiny veins. Each so fragile and volatile, all perfectly stretching, beating, binding us into place. I feel my nails protruding from my fingertips, and the follicles of my hair buried beneath white soft skin. Layer upon layer we are built from nothing into something in a perfectly imperfect manner. My house of animated flesh, the suit for my nerves, carrying out my commands unto the world. And what to do with it? We spend our lives asking this question. 

Though now, our bodies are not our bodies alone; they are adorned with fabrics and paints, pastes, scents, and trinkets of all kinds. Countless artifacts to choose from, each morning and sometimes nights become ceremonial. This is always the way a Friday night out begins. It feels safe to stick to this ritual, whether with people or not, it is necessary to forgo transformation as I prepare in many ways for the night to become something, of course, akin to myself, but just not quite exactly the same. There is an anticipation of how in an hour, two hours, the energy of my body will be changed entirely. How my blood will rush up to my head, and quickly through the ventricles of my heart. My muscles tense and relax and then lie numb under my excited skin. And my head; Completely detached more and more as the night goes on, painted and prim, it rolls around my neck completely of its own accord. The thousand bits of energy rushing through my nerves all overwhelming my poor little brain, but still I love it. It rarely matters what music is playing tonight. Lately rounds of punk rock, house, or techno, each admittedly bearing with it an entirely different energy, but none failing to provide a veil of safety over my eyes and ears, and each of my other senses; always turned up so loud I can mostly just hear my own heartbeat. Yes, it’s going to be that kind of Friday night. 

Saturday

Saturdays often prove to me a few things; the pressure of autonomy, the fluidity of ability and life in general, and that really, you can get a lot done in just a day. 

Also, when you’ve had that certain kind of Friday night, your body still remembers on Saturday. It leaks over into the fresh morning, and for this reason, I like to take Saturday mornings easy. I’ll rise leisurely, careful to enjoy the moments going by, pick my clothes out, and stare into the mirror. There is a certain obligation of conscious self awareness to pay attention to what we look like. But on Saturday’s, I try to find the mirror a playful dimension to the best of my ability. I figure that if there are going to be not one but two worlds in which one imitates me, the kindest thing I could do is show it something happy to replicate. Even if it’s only on Saturdays. 

I suppose it has something to do with the fact that unlike Fridays, where the daytime is occupied, and Sundays where instead it’s the night that holds a limit anticipating Monday, Saturdays are the days wrapped in complete freedom. So then, I’ll get breakfast, and coffee, and I’ll probably listen to a song or two as I go about it. I’ll squint my eyes into the sun, or stare at the clouds, rain, take a minute to listen to the layers of sound flowing right into my brain. My head cools down, and I stretch my limbs until they feel like jelly. And I’m afraid I’ll have to talk about Saturdays for less than I could, for they are always the pinnacles of potential for the very best and worst thoughts I could ever have. So instead, I’ll suggest, perhaps a little bit naively, to go to the beach, go somewhere big and vast, and see something more grand than Monday or Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and even more so than Friday night. Then, maybe if you want, consume everything you can reach, and make it last the rest of the week. 

Sunday 

There is a special kind of love dedicated to Sundays, for reasons I can understand but have never known. Honestly, in fact, I might as well not exist at this point. But my body hasn’t quit its habit of a heartbeat, so I’ll gather the courage and get a cup of coffee. 

[sivatherium]

Plant People

Benji Friedman