Art, Artists, and Artworks

The perennial, unanswerable question: what is art? It was posed again for Ann and me this weekend when we toured SAM’s (Seattle Art Museum) massive show of the works of Ai Weiwei. SAM titles its three-venue show – at the downtown SAM, SAM’s Asian Art Museum in Volunteer Park, and SAM’s Olympic Sculpture Park on the waterfront – Ai Rebel. This is the largest exhibition of Ai Weiwei’s work ever curated, much more extensive than the show Ann and I saw eight years ago at the Strozzi Palace, in Florence.

But back then, the same question was posed. I wrote in our trip log that the show made me “Mindful of Tom Wolfe’s The Painted Word, for the meanings of Weiwei’s constructions need to be explained – the reaction to the Thousand Flowers duplicity, the Sichuan earthquake school collapses, the Red Guard rampages, rejection of veneration, etc. Few of the pieces stand alone as artistic expressions; all need explanation to be understood and appreciated."

About ten days ago, Jannie, a Chinese American friend, alerted several of us to SAM’s current show and encouraged us to see it. She opined (I no longer have her exact words) that Ai Weiwei’s work was of enduring quality and importance.  We had attended SAM’s premiere member reception and lecture by Foong Ping, SAM’s Curator of Asian Art. That and Jannie’s e-mail got me ruminating once again on what is enduring art; indeed, what is art? 

Ai Weiwei: immigration, porcelain;
snake, Sichuan victims' back-packs  

Oldenburg, Philadelphia

I answered Jannie that I wondered (i.e., a polite euphemism for doubted) whether Weiwei’s works would stand the test of time since they were a function of current political relevancy and when the political relevancy passes into the realm of history, would his artworks stand alone or be dependent on explanation? Artists who want us to see or hear differently, in a new way or with a new perspective, use shock and surprise to jolt us out of our usual framework. Jeff Koons’ gigantic, chromed balloon puppies and his ballerinas; Claes Oldenburg’s giant cherry on a giant spoon, his giant clothespin; the artist is startling us into seeing prosaic articles in a new light. Did not Braque and Picasso do the same, “seeing” in multi-dimensional cubism?  

Picasso, 1919

Stravinsky in his Rites of Spring shocked the hell out of its 1918 premiere audience. Lichtenstein did the same by looking at comic books in magnification. Warhol made us "see" Campbell soup cans.  Once seen, is that enough? Which of their works will endure?

Are the resulting artworks novelties, tricks, or worthy of being venerated as aesthetic wonders? Is endurance a function of artistic insight and intent? Of aesthetic appeal? Of explanation? Does the medium matter? Braque worked in paint; Chihuly in glass; Oldenburg in outdoor steel constructions; Shostakovich in music; Weiwei in any number of media but dependent upon an army of artisan joiners, stone carvers, ceramicists, welders, mechanics, and so on. 

And who is to say: the critic, the professor, the viewer, the collector, the dealer and gallery owner, the speculator and the auction market? Somebody paid $58million for a Koons Orange Balloon Dog. What were they thinking?

Or better to the point: 58 million! What were you thinking!?!

 

SAM’s Ai Rebel is an important show, perhaps the best SAM has done. Ai Weiwei and his messages are important. The explanations confront and stimulate, much needed in this time when authority and convention need to be challenged. For those of you in the Northwest, the show is must-see; for those of you from away, Ai Rebel is worth coming to Seattle to see (as is our new waterfront). Don’t miss it.

Homage to the Nap

The nap: the most accessible, most effective, most universally endorsed and prescribed, most time-tested health regimen in the history of mankind. La siesta, das nickerchen. un pissolino, demež, xiaŏshui, son, kulala usingizi, o uttvvákoς, la sieste, alqaylula, et hitnuma, and in scores of other tongues -- everywhere, whomever – ah, the ubiquitous nap.

When I turned eighty, Jenny Pohlman, a sculptor friend, gave me my first formal prescription: sternly, she said, “take daily after lunch, whether needed or not.” But that wasn't necessary; I took them in kindergarten, didn’t you? I had been using the treatment ever since college when I could arrange my schedule to accommodate. In the army, I would fall asleep in minutes on a smokes-&-water break, nestled on a pile of tires or a gun carriage, pack under my head, helmet tipped over my eyes. At world headquarter of (one-man) FCW Consulting, I closed the blinds of my workspace office and stretched out on the oriental carpet, thinking I was getting away in secret but much to the amusement of my knowing neighbors. Today, my nonagenarian nap is de rigueur and should be as well for you youngsters in your seventies and eighties.

My tips? Effective napping is probably as individual as any other habit, but fwiw, here’s what I do. First, I try to fool the body into thinking it is going to bed. If possible, I go to bed -- but lay atop so I don’t have to make it again. Doff my trousers and socks, take off sweater or shirt. Out with hearing aids, off with eyeglasses. Snuggle under a duvet or blanket.

I set an alarm on my phone: twenty minutes minimum, no more than an hour. If I nap for more than an hour, I wake groggy and disoriented rather than refreshed and later have trouble getting to sleep. I often doze and lucid dream; much of this reflection was mentally composed atop the guest room bed this afternoon as I lay on my belly, inhaling an intoxicating mix of fresh air and stale exhale. I never wake up on my belly but I neither do I ever remember having rolled over.

The nap: to it I owe much that I still am in this countdown of precious days. Try it; you’ll like it.

WTF is happening?

 A friend sent me a doctored tape of Macron speaking French in the Oval Office, with insulting subscripts in a phony English "translation" and Trump sitting there, grinning and befuddled. I responded to BR saying: 

"That’s funny – but not funny. Macron told him what Volodymyr Zelenskyy and others have, that Europe’s support is not a loan to Ukraine nor needs be re-paid, but Trump repeats his falsehood again and again. I am more emotional about these goings-on than I have ever been. Usually, I am analytic and put on a mask of rationality, but now I am deeply anxious and depressed.

"It’s all beyond belief, beyond acceptance that men will put their malign intent so openly on display. Where have gone pride and at least a pose of statesman-ness? Godfather as President, something off Francis Ford Coppola’s cutting room floor, surrounded by Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas. Musk sophomorically waving a chain-saw about, dominating the President and Cabinet, not removing his hat in the White House, showing no deference to the office of President of the United States; arrogant 20-somethngs firing professional public servants who don’t work for them; Vance and Trump berating an invited guest and on television, no less; Trump parroting through-the-looking-glass claims of a Russian war criminal and child kidnapper; Trump calling out enemies in Congress by name, taunting Sen. Warren as “Pocahontas”; talking of “getting” Greenland and "taking" ownership of Gaza; insulting and castigating Canada, our most reliable neighbor and friend. It goes on and on. WTF?!?

"WTF is happening in, to, my country? My country: 'tis of thee, sweet land of Liberty . . . crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea. True, we have never managed to fully live up to our ideals, not even coming close at times, but never before have we so blatantly besmirched them. Our representations of Liberty, a Native American atop the Capital and a Euro-American standing in New York harbor, are weeping."

 

Sister-City Kyiv?

 I just sent this e-mail to Mina Hashemi, Seattle's Director of Inter-governmental Relations and copied the Seattle city council. 

Let's use Seattle's long-time leadership in the Sister-City movement (having established our first, with Kobe, in 1957, and now having 19 sister-cities) to send a message to our and Ukraine’s leaders. Recruit and promote a Kviv Sister-City Association and establish sister-city agreements with Kyiv. 

The city put a moratorium on sister-city agreements back in 2019. Isn't it time to lift that and use our power to signal support of Ukraine and disagreement with the Trum/Vance tilt toward justifying Putin's rapacious war?

I am neither Ukrainian nor active in a Sister-City association, but I am willing to participate, support, or contribute in whatever way makes sense.

That Weren't No Hallmarkville Last Night

I often pass on Super Bowls. Unless one my local teams – Redskins, Vikings, Seahawks -- or their arch-rivals -- Eagles, Packers, Forty-niners – are involved. Has Minnesota heard from Denmark or Norway yet, complaining about cultural appropriation? Whatever. 

I normally avoid this amalgam of NFL owners’ collective bad taste and Hollywood hoopla but this year I was curious to see if Patrick Mahomes would have his ears pinned back. (Barbara, a friend’s wife, adores Mahomes and tags him “cute” though how a 6’2’’, 225 pound, multi-millionaire, commanding, hunk can be “cute” escapes me.)

And did his ears ever get pinned back! by those 6’5”, 300-pound defensive Vandals bestowing their brotherly love all over the Big Easy. The Big Easy: that city of not-so-sisterly love. In Spring of 1967, my (then) wife and I were having brunch at The Court of the Two Sisters when the GM and newly hired Coach of the newly formed Saints franchise came in --followed by local news cameras. A nearby foursome we had noticed earlier, two middle-aged gents and two hot young babes, jumped to their feet and rushed away leaving their brunch nearly untouched. “What was that about” my wife wondered. “Two Iowans who are supposed to be working the American Nuts and Bolts Convention don’t want to be seen back home on TV”, I ventured.

 I watched last night’s first half and then shut it off before “The Half-Time Show!” That wretched  “show” has become a bigger deal than the game, itself.

What I saw in the commercials and promotions disturbed me, in all seriousness. A few years ago, I gave a speech on “the Coarsening of America.” Then it was cage fighting on CBS and women bearing vulgar messages across their t-shirts and using the f-word and double-entendre jokes in family fare. It’s only gotten worse and is now coupled with rejection of experts, science, and elites. Many, not all, but many of last night's commercials and promotions were not merely in bad taste but portrayed a testosterone-laced machismo of in-your-face aggressiveness, even from women presenters. One commercial featured murderous gladiators and blood-thirsty Colosseum fans, an open invitation to draw a comparison with Caesars Superdome. Reading this morning’s reviews, apparently the rap-attack half-time show was much of the same.

Don’t we need less testosterone, not more; less macho aggression and more politeness, more empathy, more “niceness” of the British Columbia and Minnesota sort? Maybe this makes me sound like a wimpish snob, but I value good taste and refinement, don’t you?

Il Nostro Posto

Mio Posto ought to be called, in our case, Nostro Posto for it is our place. Tonight, midway through the 2nd qtr of SuperBowl LIX –- (that’s 59^th! OMG: I remember watching the 1st with my first, All-American father-in-law who had played for Pitt in the Rose Bowl of ’28 [Stanford, 7; Pitt, 6.]) – but that’s a different story I’ll tell another time.) – I bailed out of the game and we headed for our retreat of Leslie and Associates. The guy in the black cowboy hat was at the bar as usual along with the other regulars, refugees finding refuge from the crazies of our time in banter, beers, and the Brotherhood of Austin.

We go to Mio Posto about three times a month, typically on Sundays. Our preferred seats are at the end of the bar from where we can see the prep cook prepare Ann’s melanzana con mozzarella sopra arugula, watch the oven-master roast it in the pizza oven just for her (it normally is served cold), and having our waiter serve it up with salad and a glass of Malbec. (Tonight, the cooks knew whom it was for and served it up to her directly.) That’s after the calamari starter, of course.

Mio Posto’s calamari is unique in our experience – and we’ve eaten a lot of calamari over the last 40 years! It is roasted, not battered and fried, in a zesty puttanesca sauce – really special.

But our main treat is watching the multi-person staff weaving about each other to spin out pizza dough, prep salads and deserts, bake pizzas, and all the rest – a beautiful choreography of a happy crew in constant motion and working hard to please. And do they ever work hard! In between the prepping and cooking is cleaning: I have never seen such care and attention lavished on cleaning workstations, constantly wiping and moving ingredient stores to keep all safe and sanitary.

The downer is knowing that this great staff, mainly Columbian immigrants, most with very rudimentary if any English, are all are facing threat from Don-boob and his ideologue henchmen, racists like Steven Miller, Don Jr., J.D., and the rest. These newly- arrived are invaluable to Mio Posto, to their associates and team-mates, and to us, their customers. That they work so hard, so happily with their fellows and gals, all the while in fear of Don-boob’s ICE-Sturmabteilung, is a shame that perhaps our coming back helps a bit to assuage.

It is Nostro Posto, indeed.

Imagery or Substance?

"Official" portraits of Presidents and people of political impact are exercises in imagery, of branding. What does a picture say about meaning and substance? 

Consider these; people of image only or of substance, of accomplishment?

And what of this? 

 

Does he mean to portray trustworthy service-leadership? Or fearsome, watch-your-step power? 

What sort of sophomoric play-acting is this?

The question now before America: is this a man of imagery or of substance? 

PS: Mandate? Hardly: Trump/Vance = 49.30% of the popular vote; Harris/Walz. 48.32%; others, 2.38%. We are still a people betwixt and between.