Conversations with Art

"You may want to consider new uniforms for your Ultimate Frisbee team.  Just a suggestion."

"Well, f*ck you too."

Artsy Fartsy

Here's an easy, contention-free question: what is art?  A few months ago I did a post on street art around LA.  I have thought a lot about public art in general and in particular, the Urban Light installation by Chris Burden at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA)...

...and "Bubble Gum Alley" in San Luis Obispo, CA.

The former is high art world approved; the latter may not be considered art at all.  Both installations consist of multiple every day, functional items: lamp posts and bubble gum (okay, and condoms). 

The light installation is beautiful - especially at night; however, I have often thought it a bit boring and safe when looked at as a piece of art.  This is why I thought it would be a good choice to juxtapose against Bubble Gum Alley.  My choice ended up being a bit ironic because it turns out that in his younger years, Chris Burden created some intense and controversial works.  In the 1970s he did a series focused on personal danger in which he was shot in the arm, nailed to a Volkswagen, and shimmied through broken glass with his hands held behind his back.

(Burden's next installation at LACMA is titled Metropolis ii.  It is a sculpture of a city with miniature cars racing through it at 240 miles an hour.   I got a peek at it a few weeks ago, but the last I heard it is still being installed.)

Bubble Gum Alley is not beautiful - I'm betting especially not so at night.  There is a lot of DNA on those walls.  Of course, one can't discuss DNA in art without bringing up photographer Andres Serrano, a controversial, but established artist that uses blood, urine, and semen in his work.  If he can do it, so can all the teenagers in San Louis Obispo.

Bubble Gum Alley is gross, but it's a collective work that has impact.

Urban Light is pretty.  And what's wrong with pretty?

One is made for the public; the other by the public.

Hurtin' for Burton

My friend Stephanie texted me on Tuesday to see if I wanted to go with her to the Tim Burton exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA).  I had been spending way too much time on my computer, so I jumped at the chance.  I am so glad I did.

I had never before thought of Tim Burton as an individual artist, working independently.  This exhibit showed me a whole new, yet familiar, side to Burton.  He is a surprisingly prolific artist - the exhibit is huge!  He certainly does not have cable, I can tell you that.  No one with cable could be so impressively productive. 

The exhibit starts with works from his teenage years in Burbank, including art class projects with teachers’ notes (I love that he saved things like that) and continues into his movie-making years. Most of the pieces are from Burton’s private collection.  One would think that images from under Burton’s bed would be grim and gruesome, but he treats everything with such humor and whimsy that nothing was disturbing to me at all.

I spend a lot of time in museums and art galleries, viewing all kinds of art. What I appreciated most about this exhibit was the utter uniqueness of each piece displayed.  There is virtually nothing in Burton’s work, save the eyeball, that actually exists. His works are pure creation.  Pure imagination.    

I would highly recommend this to anyone in the LA area.  It runs until October 31^st (appropriately), so you have plenty of time.

Although I would have loved to show you photos from the exhibit, no photography was allowed inside.  So, before I head over to Netflix to add all of Burton’s movies to my queue, I will leave you with a poem by the man himself:

Robot Boy

Mr. and Mrs. Smith had a wonderful life.
They were a normal, happy husband and wife.
One day they got news that made Mr. Smith glad.
Mrs. Smith would be a mom
which would make him the dad!
But something was wrong with their bundle of joy.
It wasn't human at all,
it was a robot boy!
He wasn't warm and cuddly
and he didn't have skin.
Instead there was a cold, thin layer of tin.
There were wires and tubes sticking out of his head.
He just lay there and stared,
not living or dead.

The only time he seemed alive at all
was with a long extension cord
plugged into the wall.

Mr. Smith yelled at the doctor,
"What have you done to my boy?
He's not flesh and blood,
he's aluminum alloy!"

The doctor said gently,
"What I'm going to say
will sound pretty wild.
But you're not the father
of this strange looking child.
You see, there still is some question
about the child's gender,
but we think that its father
is a microwave blender."

The Smith's lives were now filled
with misery and strife.
Mrs. Smith hated her husband,
and he hated his wife.
He never forgave her unholy alliance:
a sexual encounter
with a kitchen appliance.

And Robot Boy
grew to be a young man.

Though he was often mistaken

for a garbage can.

So Many Topics, So Little Time

I have a lot to write about today, but no time to write it!  You, my lovely readers who may be few in number, but mean a lot to me, deserve more than a half-assed post.  Therefore, I will get to writing tomorrow when I have more time.  What I can do, though, is give you a taste of what's to come...


{ Stone Darling at The Satellite }

 

{ Image borrowed from web. }

  

{ Heading to Joshua Tree National Park to watch the Perseid Meteor Shower. }
{ Image borrowed from web. }

See you soon!