Master, placid are
All the hours
We lose,
If, in losing them,
Like in a vase,
We put flowers.

(fragment of a poem by Ricardo Reis, aka Fernando Pessoa)

Tommi Toija, the author of the above sculptures, has an exhibition at the Institut Finlandais in Paris until the end of June.

Brian from MyArtSpace has asked some interesting questions on his Spiritual Side of Art post..

“Has a specific work of art touched your soul? Can you recall a specific work of art that helped your through a difficult time or defined a time of joy for you? I know that some people suggest that there is no longer room for the spiritual in the art of today– do you agree? Or would you say that the spiritual aspects of art surround us just as they did in other periods of time? In your opinion, why does visual art have this power– why do viewers establish these personal connections?” My ArtSpace

I think most of the spirituality in art is in the making of art, with the artwork simply being the byproduct. So a painting can be of something unspiritual, if there is such a word, but the artist may have felt that he/she was touching god while painting it.

I have never seen an artwork that has “touched my soul” or moved me to tears, even though I have looked at lots of art and think of myself as a reasonably sensitive person. Installations and moving images have come close as they have more tools to play with. A painting or sculpture has to work harder to affect the viewer as it simply sits there with no movement or sound, so we have to do all the work ourselves if we are to end up in tears. Film on the other hand has more tools available to press our emotional buttons at will.

Art affects us on a more subtle level, it seeps into our soul rather than blows our mind on the spot. Good art will linger, it will hang around for weeks and months after viewing it, but it probably won’t make you cry or save your life. I think the viewer has to be content with knowing that the artwork is just the waste byproduct of something spiritual, which doesn’t necessarily make the finished piece spiritual. Sometimes that waste product works as a mirror or points to something greater and it affects a person deeply, but usually it just ends up as something pretty hanging a wall.

One of the main areas for art galleries and activity in Dubai is the Al Quoz Industrial Zone. As the name suggests the area is grimy, dusty and mechanical, inhabited by warehouses, factories, storage depots and wholesale outlets. When rents were skyrocketing elsewhere in Dubai this area was still relatively cheap and the large and empty premises were ideal for conversion to gallery spaces so over the past five years or so a lot of galleries have set up here.

There are risks to living in an industrial zone and reports of warehouse fires are frequent. However a massive explosion and fire last year resulted in several casualties, 3 destroyed warehouses and a thick cloud of toxic smoke which hung over the whole city. Luckily none of the galleries were close enough to the site of the fire to be seriously affected and since then it seems that fire safety precautions have been improved.

This is the background to the current exhibition at Total Arts gallery that has to rate among the most memorable I have seen in Dubai during my two years here. Total Arts was founded by architect Darius Zandi and artist Shaqayeq Arabi and was the first gallery to set up in Al Quoz way back in 1996. After the fire Zandi and Arabi visited the burnt out warehouse and were so affected by what they saw they began a long process of transporting things from the site back to the gallery.

The result is Scraps, an installation composed entirely of materials, artefacts and incidental objects found at the site with site photos projected against two of the gallery walls. The scale of the installed pieces varies from huge warped sheets of corrugated metal suspended from ceilings and used to create artificial walls, to small and fragile fragments of paper or cloth.

Some pieces stand on plinths like highly original sculptures, most amazingly a collection of hundreds of pairs of metal scissors all melded together by the heat of the fire. A partially collapsed bicycle stands precariously upright surrounded by different piles of objects fused in plastic, metal and wood. There are melted tins, jars, knives, safety pins, toothbrushes, bicycle pumps, a cash register and many other everyday objects rendered almost unrecognisable by the furnace they emerged from.

Many of the smaller finds have been transformed by the artists into installations in their own right. One wall is covered with blackened food trays set with piles of melted forks and spoons and a metal sheet is covered with knife blades. A series of boxes contain a curious mix of objects, scraps of documents, textiles and electrical wires.

The exhibition is a unique and moving memorial to those who died. It is a wondrous and disturbing sensory experience crystallised by a soundtrack of muffled explosions and the all pervading odour of burnt metal, wood and plastic. It manages to address several different levels and aspects of its own particular local context as well as referencing wider points of aesthetics and art history – a dual achievement still very rare in exhibitions here.

Created by Valerie Grove On 05/22/09 At 10:08 AM

Google is celebrating the birth of the American impressionist painter Mary Cassatt with a Cassatt-ized Google logo.

It’s one of my favorite artist tributes from Google. Google does loud and colorful logos well, but this Mary Cassatt logo shows that they can do subtle and neutral colors too. See more Google logos here.

Mary Cassat was born on the 22nd of May, 1844 in Allegheny City, Pennsylvania and died near Paris, France on the 14th of June, 1926 at the age of 82.

The Mary Cassatt painting in the Google logo is “The Child’s Bath” from 1893. It is owned by the Art Institute of Chicago.

No fall is ever great.
The distance from the tip of the nose
to the dirt is always measured in the smallest units.
It is always ridiculous, always too human, the
concrete body against the concrete soil,
the sight losing focus, and the hands,
the hands.

Richard Beacham’s drawing, at the Boxbird gallery in London.

I am not a person particularly given to metaphysical beliefs.
I tend to be cautious in the way I describe the world, and the parts where I allow myself to travel further are, in my perspective, mere mental experiments, or even tricks of the (artistic) trade.
Yet I wish I could simply apply Elizabeth Gilbert’s advice and speak out to whatever is out there, negociating with me what comes to my mind.
It’s not an easy task. The skepticism rushes in, and I am reminded by myself that, after all, it all remains a metaphor, and although I might be producing things I myself do not expect (that seems to be the rule), I do not know how my heart functions, either, or why I start to sweat or how I fall asleep. The more carefuly I look at myself, the less of what I do can be divided into conscious and unconscious activity. Ergo, I can assume creativity is also somewhere within that quasi-conscious reign that to me should appear no more familiar, or “mine”, than yawning.
But, deep down inside, I am also a dreamer. I love to think I’m lucky. I like pretty formulas, and feel very precisely how sometimes things go right. There you have it: here is an opening for metaphysics. If I am so easily tempted to create all these invisible structures, strings and forces, why can’t I accept the simple idea that there is someone, something, a daemon, that negociates with me everything I do? Why, for heaven’s sake, not accept something that makes your life easier? For the sake of truth? In art?

The problem with abstraction is that a subjective voyage into the unknown is precisely this: subjective. And the exceptional quality of my experience as the creator is something distinct from the experience of the spectator. Thus, whenever the artist moves into abstraction, whenever we receive less (of the visible image of the visible), we find ourselves in a position of risk – the risk of losing track, of losing sight of anything that rings a bell.
It is a risk we have learned to enjoy. It is a risk justified by the way our historically-bound senses receive the world, and well-defended by an astonishing number of passionate theories.
Still, I look with envy at the art lovers who find abstraction as natural as air.
Most of the time, I find it easier to discover new worlds in a stone than in an abstract sculpture.
Yet there are artists who manage to create paths that lead from the world of re-cognition, of everyday objects and images and tastes, of the mimetic pleasures of re-production, to the very limits of abstract forms.
One such artist is Myra Mimlitsch-Gray.

Take a simple object:

The effect of melting does not seem to challenge the object as such. It asks for fruit as loudly as any classic salver does. Nonetheless, it moves us towards a world where the concrete is, well, not so concrete after all:
Here we have a candelabrum, which is hardly a candelabrum any more. It has melted like a candle, apparently contradicting its main function: to withstand melting. Welcome back to the magnificent world of semiotic undoing, and sensual games with the intellect.
Too entropic for you? Why don’t you try something more positive, then? Sugar and cream, anyone?

The sugar bowl is the negative of its own shape, as is the creamer… or is it that none of them actually has the shape? What are they, after all, these shapes that are to be useful, that are to serve, as if their being objects were not good enough? What is left of the representation, of the concrete, once we put it to challenge in its very heart?

Let’s move back to the first picture now. The title of the work is Trunk Sections, and it is made in cast iron. A tree made of iron. Or is it a mold of a tree? (What a strange idea: a mold of a tree!) Or just a part of their trunk? And why do they seem so… wooden? What, then is the matter with them? They are like ghosts, representing something we presume might have been here, but made of another stuff, another material, another essence, defying the way we see the objectness of the object.
We can, of course, go back to seeing them as just a few pieces of iron cast and assembled to create an abstract sculpture, like so many others.
The question is: with this delicious introduction, why would we refuse the voyage?

Myra Mimlitsch-Gray has an exhibition on until June 27 at the Wexler Gallery in Philadelphia, and you can read an insightful text about her work by by David Revere McFadden here.

My last posts brought about several inspiring reactions, among them two great suggestions.
The animation made several people think of William Kentridge, whose characteristic style is a mix of playfulness and profound reflection.
It explores what it means to draw, to create a world, to translate…
In this video, though, he is less focused on the means of drawing itself, and concentrates on an attempt of putting things back together – or is it, trying to find what was it about them that made them/me this and not that?

The simple, classic time reversal and the retro music combined with the “choreography” make it seem like an old magician’s trick. Indeed, undertaking the attempt of constructing myself seems like an impossible task, one that requires, among others, defying the basic entropy of time. Putting it all together is nothing short of getting the papers to fly right in your hand, dancing in the air as if you had trained them all your life.

Another great discovery is Dibujando un espacio (Drawing a Space), a series of 3 videos by two artists working together, Teresa Solar Abbout and Carlos Fernández-Pello.

At first glance, this is a work about distance and communication, and I must admit that given my personal history, it took me a while to go beyond this reading.
But then, once we get past the metaphor of a long-distance relationship, new layers appear: after all, every relationship is, on some levels, a long-distance relationship. Trying to construct something together is a mad project. Words only get us that far, and the only way of building it together is trying to construct primitive (always primitive) structures that can handle the heterogeneous spaces we bring with us.
Suffice it to say that contemporary analytic philosophy started with the idea that some things are simple enough to constitute a solid basis for communication, and by now, analytic philosophers focus on discussing what they mean by “communication”, “constitute”, “solid”, “basis” and “for”.

Both works have a desperation I appreciate and fear. They seem at once hopeless and surprizingly effective. Also thanks to the formal discipline, they become clear pictures of a very unclear, impossible structure, entering right at the point where philosophy struggles.
They share a powerful combination of obsession and self-irony which is both scary and enchanting. Also in art.

Yes, it’s an art blog and doesn’t have much to do with travel, but such is life. I have been ping ponging all over the place lately but I keep forgetting to take my camera with me. I managed to take a few snaps though.

(Click to see larger images)

In a hotel in Canberra I had this trippy ceiling that didn’t let my eye rest. I think as an artist you just let an image take you where it wants to go, but this wallpaper on my ceiling just made me dizzy.

Most trees at home are green all year, so I found these trees interesting. There was something romantic about walking down this path, even if I was alone.. and freezing.

See the parrots in the grass? That’s why they’re called Grass Parrots I guess. I have always loved birds and get pretty excited when I see them in the wild. Click on the image to see a larger version.

Here’s the view from my hotel in Melbourne.

Here’s another view of Melbourne.

One more photo of Melbourne city.

Then I felt like I needed sun and warmth so I jumped in the car and headed North again. I have landed in the commercialized hippy town of Byron Bay. It’s a strange combination of weekend hippies, far out hippies, wealthy retired people, surfers, and BMW driving yuppy types. Along with lots of Germans, Brits, Japanese, Americans, and a number of other nationalities.

Everytime I go to the Byron Bay lighthouse I seem to get wet.

One more Byron Bay photo.

I haven’t decided what I’m doing or where I’m going next, but I check out on Wednesday so I better hurry up and figure it out

I don’t know who wrote this poem as it was left by “Anonymous” on an old Vincent van Gogh Quotes post. The only details he/she left was.. “A friend of mine wrote these words today after we spoke of the life of Van Gogh and the recently published book on his history.”

Anyway, here’s a Vincent inspired poem by “HK”

Hands of colors Dutch

Swirl like a painter’s hand gone mad
Canvas of face and time reflect
Bristles of lead give hues of past
Brushes like swords are in array.

I stand in front of the easel like a jury
Words like paint on white torture my hands and eyes
They taunt me like an old pavement princess
Wanting to believe that the brush is still gold
Music I hear or is that the ringing from glimpses of you

Paint away the now. Paint with colors only seen by angels
Colors that hide and feel like a blanket on a cold day
My stand in a broken seal, trembles with dread
Hoping to cure the demon that makes me paint away the now in me

I taste the colors of your soul. I wish that I could write the words that are
In my soul. Words of color and hope. Words that make the pain stop.
Paint. Paint away the pain.
My canvas is my life, and I give you the colors and brushes of me.

HK