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"content": "\u003cp>As the definition of art has evolved since the 1960s to include a broad range of practices, including conceptual ideas, performance and social phenomena, the definition of public art has become more elastic in tandem. Once understood as permanent, public art is increasingly ephemeral. Previously determined for civic spaces, today public art often straddles public and private spaces — further public art is increasingly self-funded, thus circumnavigating a sticky web of traditional bureaucratic permissions. With these changes, artists no longer need to win grants or competitions to work in the public sphere: they can simply take to the streets with their ideas. In this sense, the definition of street art has also expanded beyond the image of spray-painted urban graffiti to include a diverse range of practices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since 2009, self-taught photographer Chip Thomas has wheat-pasted more than two hundred portraits, publicly and often without permission. By day Thomas is a family physician based in the Arizona area of the Navajo Nation, the country’s largest Native American-governed territory. His body of work features images of Navajo people, often his patients from the reservation, and reflects the cultural shifts in Native American traditional and contemporary lifestyles. He openly borrows from the techniques of \u003ca href=\"http://jr-art.net/\">French street artist JR\u003c/a>, the recent winner of the TED Prize, whose work Thomas first experienced while on sabbatical in Brazil three years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thomas’s “day” job as a physician and the parallel pursuit of his artwork are interwoven. A beneficiary of the National Health Service Corps, Thomas’s medical school was paid for by the government in exchange for a commitment to work in underserved communities. He arrived on the reservation in 1987 and has never left. “Life on the reservation,” says Thomas, an African American who attended an alternative Quaker junior high school, “has been consistent with my politics.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/chipthomas.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>April 2011 saw the debut of Thomas’s \u003cb>to dogpatch with love\u003c/b>, a three-story collage on the 40 x 30 foot exterior façade of Ampersand International Arts, a privately-run alternative arts space in the Dogpatch neighborhood of San Francisco. As one of the few areas to survive the 1906 earthquake and fire, Dogpatch features historically significant architecture dating from 1860. Invited by gallery owner Bruno Mauro to use his building as a blank canvas, Thomas mined the long, diverse history of this unique “mixed-use” neighborhood and engaged local residents in the production and installation of his work. Patricia Parker, a local resident of more than fifty years and one of the subjects in Thomas’s mural, attended nearby I. M. Scott School, San Francisco’s oldest surviving public school built in 1895. Parker’s likeness is featured with that of young Imogene Duomani, another neighbor. The mural wraps around the building and features an image of a dog adjacent to the Ampersand entrance, an icon for the neighborhood moniker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mural was constructed by tiling inexpensive laser ink-jet prints, each section measuring 3 x 10 feet, with forty gallons of homemade wheat paste. While it lasted it was a striking representation of the neighborhood, surprising and engaging viewers with its scale and creating a sense of local pride through the images of recognizable local figures. An unseasonably strong summer rainstorm at the end of June hastened its material demise. Today the building is nearly washed clean.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Thomas, who spent three days installing the mural with assistance from local artist Colleen Flaherty, the fugitive nature of a wheat-paste intervention is part of the work. In 1991, as a young doctor on the reservation, he attended a traditional Navajo Sand Painting Ceremony, a healing ritual presided over by a Medicine Man. This custom implements the labor-intensive construction of a symbolic image through the exacting placement of sand; its ceremonial destruction is believed to restore balance in the universe. This notion of ‘harmony through destruction’ was initially lost on Thomas, but the ritual resonates with him today as he creates images that will be erased by nature, in itself a form of balance, and continue to impact the local community in their absence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chip Thomas’s \u003cb>to dogpatch with love\u003c/b> (2011) was on view on the exterior of Ampersand International Arts, at 1001 Tennessee Street in San Francisco from April 8 until roughly the end of June.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>As the definition of art has evolved since the 1960s to include a broad range of practices, including conceptual ideas, performance and social phenomena, the definition of public art has become more elastic in tandem. Once understood as permanent, public art is increasingly ephemeral. Previously determined for civic spaces, today public art often straddles public and private spaces — further public art is increasingly self-funded, thus circumnavigating a sticky web of traditional bureaucratic permissions. With these changes, artists no longer need to win grants or competitions to work in the public sphere: they can simply take to the streets with their ideas. In this sense, the definition of street art has also expanded beyond the image of spray-painted urban graffiti to include a diverse range of practices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since 2009, self-taught photographer Chip Thomas has wheat-pasted more than two hundred portraits, publicly and often without permission. By day Thomas is a family physician based in the Arizona area of the Navajo Nation, the country’s largest Native American-governed territory. His body of work features images of Navajo people, often his patients from the reservation, and reflects the cultural shifts in Native American traditional and contemporary lifestyles. He openly borrows from the techniques of \u003ca href=\"http://jr-art.net/\">French street artist JR\u003c/a>, the recent winner of the TED Prize, whose work Thomas first experienced while on sabbatical in Brazil three years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thomas’s “day” job as a physician and the parallel pursuit of his artwork are interwoven. A beneficiary of the National Health Service Corps, Thomas’s medical school was paid for by the government in exchange for a commitment to work in underserved communities. He arrived on the reservation in 1987 and has never left. “Life on the reservation,” says Thomas, an African American who attended an alternative Quaker junior high school, “has been consistent with my politics.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/chipthomas.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>April 2011 saw the debut of Thomas’s \u003cb>to dogpatch with love\u003c/b>, a three-story collage on the 40 x 30 foot exterior façade of Ampersand International Arts, a privately-run alternative arts space in the Dogpatch neighborhood of San Francisco. As one of the few areas to survive the 1906 earthquake and fire, Dogpatch features historically significant architecture dating from 1860. Invited by gallery owner Bruno Mauro to use his building as a blank canvas, Thomas mined the long, diverse history of this unique “mixed-use” neighborhood and engaged local residents in the production and installation of his work. Patricia Parker, a local resident of more than fifty years and one of the subjects in Thomas’s mural, attended nearby I. M. Scott School, San Francisco’s oldest surviving public school built in 1895. Parker’s likeness is featured with that of young Imogene Duomani, another neighbor. The mural wraps around the building and features an image of a dog adjacent to the Ampersand entrance, an icon for the neighborhood moniker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mural was constructed by tiling inexpensive laser ink-jet prints, each section measuring 3 x 10 feet, with forty gallons of homemade wheat paste. While it lasted it was a striking representation of the neighborhood, surprising and engaging viewers with its scale and creating a sense of local pride through the images of recognizable local figures. An unseasonably strong summer rainstorm at the end of June hastened its material demise. Today the building is nearly washed clean.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Thomas, who spent three days installing the mural with assistance from local artist Colleen Flaherty, the fugitive nature of a wheat-paste intervention is part of the work. In 1991, as a young doctor on the reservation, he attended a traditional Navajo Sand Painting Ceremony, a healing ritual presided over by a Medicine Man. This custom implements the labor-intensive construction of a symbolic image through the exacting placement of sand; its ceremonial destruction is believed to restore balance in the universe. This notion of ‘harmony through destruction’ was initially lost on Thomas, but the ritual resonates with him today as he creates images that will be erased by nature, in itself a form of balance, and continue to impact the local community in their absence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chip Thomas’s \u003cb>to dogpatch with love\u003c/b> (2011) was on view on the exterior of Ampersand International Arts, at 1001 Tennessee Street in San Francisco from April 8 until roughly the end of June.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "STUDIO INVASION: Pablo Cristi",
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"content": "\u003cp>Blending bling culture with religion and street gangs with Latin American legends, Pablo Cristi’s art transports viewers to the streets of East LA, his hometown. We recently caught up with him at his Berkeley studio where we chatted about the history of the burrito, the ambivalent pride that comes with being from Los Angeles, and much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-1.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about the figures in your paintings.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Pablo Cristi:\u003c/b> I use a lot of popular culture and obscure California history. For instance, I did a body of work about the intersection of bling culture, street gangs, and religion. The current pope became this villainous character in those paintings. I also use the history of Latin American actors and Hollywood. In early Hollywood, it was hard for Latinos to even get a role, and they were typecast more than anything. That’s an example of the paradigm of the society at the time, and the history and evolution of the Latino Actor in Hollywood has been a source for me to exploit, and use to talk about current issues with Latin American identity here in the United States. It’s a visual symbol that I’ll use in order to reference my critique of today. I’ve done a lot of Lone Ranger studies and that has to do with the history of the Southwest and the tension between the Mexican and American border.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-14.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-15.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Have you seen \u003ca href=\"http://www.voces.tv/season1.html\">The Bronze Screen\u003c/a>?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> Yes, that documentary talks about exactly the same issues. You hit the nail on the head. Rita Hayworth was Spanish and she was one of the first actors to have her hairline raised because they said she looked too ethnic, even though she had a white European background. They put her into the Mexican category because of her Spanish accent and upbringing, so she had to surgically change her appearance to look more European even though she was already European. I used Rita Hayworth juxtaposed with Jennifer Lopez, who is celebrated for her curves. That used to not be a good thing. It’s a kind of sick flip-side, this excoticism of Latin-ness, or the stereotype of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I recreate history in a away — retelling it and collapsing time, the past and the present. I try to avoid making too much of a point. I’d rather be more subtle, even though I’m using figures that are very full of information. I try to leave some ambiguity, which is like my painting style. There are some abstract elements and some very concrete, figurative elements to it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-19.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-20.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-4.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What brought you here from LA?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> I love LA. It’s a great place to me. I see myself as an ambassador of Los Angeles culture. My parents are from Chile. I grew up in East LA around mostly Mexican-American culture. The American culture I assimilated to is Chicano culture, which is odd because I’m Chilean, not Mexican. As a young teen, there was a lot of questioning going on about my identity. There was a point when I was around seventeen where I realized Los Angeles is not the only place on earth. I went to college in the Northwest at the University of Oregon, I lived in Mexico for a year and a half, and I moved back to LA various times. A lot of my inspiration comes from my identity as a Los Angeleno. It’s an odd, love-and-hate relationship. I can’t go too long without going back, but once I’m back I can’t go too long without having to leave again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s why I call myself an ambassador of LA culture because I speak about it a lot, and even though I’ve been in the Bay Area for eight years, I’m still that guy from LA. LA gets a bad rap but it’s a very diverse place and there are so many interesting cultural things happening. If you don’t know somebody from LA to show you around, you’ll go to Hollywood and do the obvious things, but no one’s going to take you to that taco truck in East LA that you should go to, or that little hole-in-the-wall bar in Echo Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-6.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-7.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-8.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about your golden burrito sculptures.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> The owner of my house is a ceramic sculptor so there are a couple of kilns that I thought I should take advantage of. The burritos had no meaning to me at first. I’d just sit there and pump a bunch of them out. They’re all handmade, hand-rolled. I made roughly 180. They were all porcelain and I didn’t know how they related to my work until I started reading about the history of the Southwest and its relationship to food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-2.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-12.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The burrito developed because of the cowboy culture. They needed something wrapped to take on their journeys, so it was something born on the Texas-Mexico border. The earliest known burrito was in the late 1800s. The story is that a guy used to sell them off a donkey, a burro, so they called it a burrito. To me, it became this symbol of hybrid culture. The burrito is this easy, accessible food, but it’s become elevated into this higher realm. And porcelain as a material is very high culture. For my MFA show, I made a low-rider burrito cart and tricked it out with a very classic LA look, with LA colors, and then filled it with the porcelain burritos. At first they were just porcelain, but they turned into gold burritos because that related more to California history. I wanted to talk about the burrito almost as an exploited natural resource.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-13.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>And the hand sculptures?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> They’re supposed to be in glass jars, like specimen jars. I did research on Venus Hottentot, the woman from South Africa who was found by Dutch explorers. All the women of her tribe were curvy, and it was a time when the Western philosophy about beauty was forming around these ideas of Africans being more animalistic and savage. So these Dutch explorers put her in a freak show situation where people would poke and prod her. When she died, they cut her genitals off and put them in a glass jar. There’s this cabinet-of-curiosity thing that mostly has to do with European explorers going to exotic places to bring back culturally fetishized tropes. Some of them are really gruesome and happen to be body parts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It happened in California as well. Joaquin Murrieta was known as a California bandit. In Latin American folklore, he’s a hero, but in Western American history he’s a criminal. It’s like the intersection of my existence here and in LA because Chileans claim Murrieta as a Chilean, and Mexicans claim him as Mexican. In folklore, nobody knows where he came from, but he’s this hero; a Robin Hood-type. When they caught him, they cut off his head and put it in a glass jar, and toured it around California. He and his right-hand man, Three-Fingered Jack, whose hand they cut off and put in a glass jar for this exhibit of “banditos.” I wanted to use that dehumanized way of exhibiting things, that disconnect, but I wanted to talk about gang culture and the communication through hand symbols. I like the fact that there’s a hidden layer that’s grotesque. And I paint them with automotive paints so they get really slick. I named the hand sculptures Joaquin Murrieta, Three-Fingered Jack, and El Californio.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And the tapes are also kind of like the burritos, they were an obsessive project. Nobody has seen them yet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-9.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-10.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>They’re warped like when you’d leave your tapes in the car and they’d melt in the sun. That happened to my Janet Jackson tape in ’86 and I was so upset.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> That’s exactly where it came from. I have an NWA and the Posse tape that I’ve had since I was eleven. I’ve had five vehicles since I was sixteen, and I always carry this thing around with me. I can’t throw it away. So I decided to make it immortal and made a cast of it. The tape is melted and screwed up, and then the castings are too. They come out all wonky. Right now they’re just a nostalgic thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-22.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-11.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-5.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>If your art had a soundtrack what would it be?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> Something between Bootsy Collins and Mexican Institute of Sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3z81DxFt0I&w=480&h=390]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Check out Pablo’s work (a denim pig head wearing a golden chicken claw on a chain) at \u003ca href=\"http://www.theintersection.org/calendar/index.php?op=view&id=3953\">Intersection for the Arts\u003c/a>‘ Chico and Chang exhibition through August 20, 2011.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Have you seen \u003ca href=\"http://www.voces.tv/season1.html\">The Bronze Screen\u003c/a>?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> Yes, that documentary talks about exactly the same issues. You hit the nail on the head. Rita Hayworth was Spanish and she was one of the first actors to have her hairline raised because they said she looked too ethnic, even though she had a white European background. They put her into the Mexican category because of her Spanish accent and upbringing, so she had to surgically change her appearance to look more European even though she was already European. I used Rita Hayworth juxtaposed with Jennifer Lopez, who is celebrated for her curves. That used to not be a good thing. It’s a kind of sick flip-side, this excoticism of Latin-ness, or the stereotype of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I recreate history in a away — retelling it and collapsing time, the past and the present. I try to avoid making too much of a point. I’d rather be more subtle, even though I’m using figures that are very full of information. I try to leave some ambiguity, which is like my painting style. There are some abstract elements and some very concrete, figurative elements to it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-19.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-20.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-4.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What brought you here from LA?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> I love LA. It’s a great place to me. I see myself as an ambassador of Los Angeles culture. My parents are from Chile. I grew up in East LA around mostly Mexican-American culture. The American culture I assimilated to is Chicano culture, which is odd because I’m Chilean, not Mexican. As a young teen, there was a lot of questioning going on about my identity. There was a point when I was around seventeen where I realized Los Angeles is not the only place on earth. I went to college in the Northwest at the University of Oregon, I lived in Mexico for a year and a half, and I moved back to LA various times. A lot of my inspiration comes from my identity as a Los Angeleno. It’s an odd, love-and-hate relationship. I can’t go too long without going back, but once I’m back I can’t go too long without having to leave again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s why I call myself an ambassador of LA culture because I speak about it a lot, and even though I’ve been in the Bay Area for eight years, I’m still that guy from LA. LA gets a bad rap but it’s a very diverse place and there are so many interesting cultural things happening. If you don’t know somebody from LA to show you around, you’ll go to Hollywood and do the obvious things, but no one’s going to take you to that taco truck in East LA that you should go to, or that little hole-in-the-wall bar in Echo Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-6.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-7.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-8.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about your golden burrito sculptures.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> The owner of my house is a ceramic sculptor so there are a couple of kilns that I thought I should take advantage of. The burritos had no meaning to me at first. I’d just sit there and pump a bunch of them out. They’re all handmade, hand-rolled. I made roughly 180. They were all porcelain and I didn’t know how they related to my work until I started reading about the history of the Southwest and its relationship to food.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-2.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-12.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The burrito developed because of the cowboy culture. They needed something wrapped to take on their journeys, so it was something born on the Texas-Mexico border. The earliest known burrito was in the late 1800s. The story is that a guy used to sell them off a donkey, a burro, so they called it a burrito. To me, it became this symbol of hybrid culture. The burrito is this easy, accessible food, but it’s become elevated into this higher realm. And porcelain as a material is very high culture. For my MFA show, I made a low-rider burrito cart and tricked it out with a very classic LA look, with LA colors, and then filled it with the porcelain burritos. At first they were just porcelain, but they turned into gold burritos because that related more to California history. I wanted to talk about the burrito almost as an exploited natural resource.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-13.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>And the hand sculptures?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> They’re supposed to be in glass jars, like specimen jars. I did research on Venus Hottentot, the woman from South Africa who was found by Dutch explorers. All the women of her tribe were curvy, and it was a time when the Western philosophy about beauty was forming around these ideas of Africans being more animalistic and savage. So these Dutch explorers put her in a freak show situation where people would poke and prod her. When she died, they cut her genitals off and put them in a glass jar. There’s this cabinet-of-curiosity thing that mostly has to do with European explorers going to exotic places to bring back culturally fetishized tropes. Some of them are really gruesome and happen to be body parts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It happened in California as well. Joaquin Murrieta was known as a California bandit. In Latin American folklore, he’s a hero, but in Western American history he’s a criminal. It’s like the intersection of my existence here and in LA because Chileans claim Murrieta as a Chilean, and Mexicans claim him as Mexican. In folklore, nobody knows where he came from, but he’s this hero; a Robin Hood-type. When they caught him, they cut off his head and put it in a glass jar, and toured it around California. He and his right-hand man, Three-Fingered Jack, whose hand they cut off and put in a glass jar for this exhibit of “banditos.” I wanted to use that dehumanized way of exhibiting things, that disconnect, but I wanted to talk about gang culture and the communication through hand symbols. I like the fact that there’s a hidden layer that’s grotesque. And I paint them with automotive paints so they get really slick. I named the hand sculptures Joaquin Murrieta, Three-Fingered Jack, and El Californio.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And the tapes are also kind of like the burritos, they were an obsessive project. Nobody has seen them yet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-9.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-10.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>They’re warped like when you’d leave your tapes in the car and they’d melt in the sun. That happened to my Janet Jackson tape in ’86 and I was so upset.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> That’s exactly where it came from. I have an NWA and the Posse tape that I’ve had since I was eleven. I’ve had five vehicles since I was sixteen, and I always carry this thing around with me. I can’t throw it away. So I decided to make it immortal and made a cast of it. The tape is melted and screwed up, and then the castings are too. They come out all wonky. Right now they’re just a nostalgic thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-22.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-11.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/pablo-5.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>If your art had a soundtrack what would it be?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>PC:\u003c/b> Something between Bootsy Collins and Mexican Institute of Sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/f3z81DxFt0I'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/f3z81DxFt0I'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Check out Pablo’s work (a denim pig head wearing a golden chicken claw on a chain) at \u003ca href=\"http://www.theintersection.org/calendar/index.php?op=view&id=3953\">Intersection for the Arts\u003c/a>‘ Chico and Chang exhibition through August 20, 2011.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Santa Monica-based artist Michael C. McMillen’s evocative retrospective is currently on view at the Oakland Museum of California (OMCA). The title comes from his kinetic sculpture \u003cem>Train of Thought\u003c/em> (1990), in which a small wooden trestle with a motorized track emerges from a museum wall and stops abruptly over the viewer’s head. The track gently conveys five hundred pounds of tiny alphabet noodles that fall letter by letter into an accumulating pile of macaroni. The seventy pieces that constitute \u003cem>Train of Thought\u003c/em> are overwhelmingly good humored, beautifully crafted, unsettling, and philosophical, gently poking fun at the vulnerability and absurdity of human existence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In this exhibition, McMillen uses the museum itself as site. His paintings, drawings, assemblages, sculptures, and installations are placed throughout the museum as interventions that dialogue with OMCA’s freshly reinstalled collection of California art. Walking through the exhibition, one towers over small-scale boats, airplanes, and hotels taken from the vernacular of mid-century American landscape, literature, and films. His piece \u003cem>Raft of History\u003c/em> (1984) is a shipwreck placed directly across from a William T. Wiley installation called \u003cem>How to Chart a Course\u003c/em> (1971), which looks like a three-dimensional treasure map.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was familiar with McMillen’s \u003cem>Aristotle’s Cage \u003c/em>(1983), which is on permanent view in the museum. Entering through a torn screen door into a darkened space, the viewer encounters a miniature diorama in which a decrepit trailer is set against an orange sky in a desolate desert landscape dotted with oil drums, American cars, and other refuse of modern American life. The lights are on in the trailer and in the factory in the distance. This piece uses the allegory of Plato’s Cave and examines the line between appearance and reality. McMillen strategically combines found objects with his own fabrications, examining the mysterious afterlife of objects and how they connect with poetry, the paranormal, dreams, popular culture, and science fiction.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The 1950s and ’60s Los Angeles of McMillen’s youth was crisscrossed by freeways, anchored by the aerospace industry, spooked by post-war nightmares, and colored by the tacky Southern California beach culture of Venice Beach and the Pacific Ocean Park. Raised by his grandparents in Santa Monica, McMillen was influenced by the Hollywood dream factory and its working class artisans, including his dad, a scene designer for TV, and his next-door neighbor Kenneth Strickfaden, who designed the electrical effects and machines for the first Frankenstein movie in 1931. McMillen himself also worked as a prop designer in Hollywood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/McMillen_5.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>“Red Trailer Motel,” 2003; Courtesy of the Artist and L.A. Louver, Venice, CA.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>McMillen’s 1973 graduate show at UCLA was a storefront installation in Venice called \u003cem>The Traveling Mystery Museum\u003c/em>. The piece was staged at a local shopping mall, and shoppers encountered an ancient mummy (fabricated by McMillen) displayed in a glass case, predating the better known Museum of Jurassic Technology in Culver City. A number of pieces from \u003cem>The Traveling Mystery Museum\u003c/em> are included in the current OMCA show, including \u003cem>Spy Fly \u003c/em>(1973), a diagrammatic drawing of a video drone disguised as a fly, the fabricated mummy head, the floor plans of \u003cem>The Traveling Mystery Museum\u003c/em>, and the bottled last words of Picasso, certified by one Dr. P. Bernal. Although he was a generation younger, McMillen was influenced by Los Angeles’ visual Beats, a group that included collage and assemblage artists Edward Kienholz and George Herms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pavilion of Rain\u003c/em> (1987), \u003cem>Lighthouse (Hotel New Empire) \u003c/em>(2010), and \u003cem>Red Trailer Motel\u003c/em> (2003) are large-scale installations in three self-contained rooms at the rear of the exhibition and are reminiscent of McMillen’s earlier installation \u003cem>Central Meridian (aka the Garage)\u003c/em> (1981). \u003cem>The Garage\u003c/em> was an homage to his grandfather and neighbor, Strickfaden, taking the form of a life-size garage installed in \u003cem>The Museum as Site: Sixteen Projects\u003c/em> (1981) at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. \u003cem>Pavilion of Rain\u003c/em> is a corrugated metal shack with a rain shower timed for every twenty minutes. The ramshackle structure is placed in a thirty-six-foot-long pool of water. It is fitted with survival gear including a surfboard, baby buggy, and a real diving suit with a pair of lead shoes gifted to him by longtime friend and curator Philip Linhares. \u003cem>Red Trailer Motel\u003c/em> is an L-shaped facade with four doors. The first door has the rules of the motel posted next to a locked door. The other three doors have peepholes with which one can view magnified miniature rooms with mysterious goings-on. Directly across the room is a kinetic monochromatic red wall with an installation called \u003cem>Time Below\u003c/em> (2004), which features an aerial view of \u003cem>Red Trailer Motel\u003c/em>. \u003cem>Lighthouse (Hotel New Empire)\u003c/em> is a scale model of a hotel precariously supported by posts in a vat of swirling water with a filmy sheen. The hotel has a billboard that also doubles as a projection screen showing his recent film \u003cem>Quotidian Man \u003c/em>(2009).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>McMillen’s pieces alternate between the forgotten motel at the end of the road, hosted by Norman Bates, and a rustic temple where one can make an offering. His work is concerned with the contemplation of time: whether he uses an underlying nostalgic film noir-fueled anxiety, a futurist \u003cem>Blade Runner\u003c/em> nightmare, or the counting of beans, as in his piece \u003cem>Deliverance \u003c/em>(1993). McMillen makes poetic signs and markers, and even places of refuge along the way, but we will never know where we are going, how long it will take, and what we will find.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Train of Thought\u003c/em> is on view through August 14, 2011 at the Oakland Museum of California. For \u003ca href=\"<a%20href=\" http:>more information\u003c/a> visit museumca.org.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-size: 10px;\">________\u003cbr>NOTES:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-size: 10px;\">In conjunction with this review, the author conducted an interview with Michael C. McMillen on April 29, 2011, and an interview with Philip Linhares on June 3, 2011.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Santa Monica-based artist Michael C. McMillen’s evocative retrospective is currently on view at the Oakland Museum of California (OMCA). The title comes from his kinetic sculpture \u003cem>Train of Thought\u003c/em> (1990), in which a small wooden trestle with a motorized track emerges from a museum wall and stops abruptly over the viewer’s head. The track gently conveys five hundred pounds of tiny alphabet noodles that fall letter by letter into an accumulating pile of macaroni. The seventy pieces that constitute \u003cem>Train of Thought\u003c/em> are overwhelmingly good humored, beautifully crafted, unsettling, and philosophical, gently poking fun at the vulnerability and absurdity of human existence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In this exhibition, McMillen uses the museum itself as site. His paintings, drawings, assemblages, sculptures, and installations are placed throughout the museum as interventions that dialogue with OMCA’s freshly reinstalled collection of California art. Walking through the exhibition, one towers over small-scale boats, airplanes, and hotels taken from the vernacular of mid-century American landscape, literature, and films. His piece \u003cem>Raft of History\u003c/em> (1984) is a shipwreck placed directly across from a William T. Wiley installation called \u003cem>How to Chart a Course\u003c/em> (1971), which looks like a three-dimensional treasure map.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was familiar with McMillen’s \u003cem>Aristotle’s Cage \u003c/em>(1983), which is on permanent view in the museum. Entering through a torn screen door into a darkened space, the viewer encounters a miniature diorama in which a decrepit trailer is set against an orange sky in a desolate desert landscape dotted with oil drums, American cars, and other refuse of modern American life. The lights are on in the trailer and in the factory in the distance. This piece uses the allegory of Plato’s Cave and examines the line between appearance and reality. McMillen strategically combines found objects with his own fabrications, examining the mysterious afterlife of objects and how they connect with poetry, the paranormal, dreams, popular culture, and science fiction.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The 1950s and ’60s Los Angeles of McMillen’s youth was crisscrossed by freeways, anchored by the aerospace industry, spooked by post-war nightmares, and colored by the tacky Southern California beach culture of Venice Beach and the Pacific Ocean Park. Raised by his grandparents in Santa Monica, McMillen was influenced by the Hollywood dream factory and its working class artisans, including his dad, a scene designer for TV, and his next-door neighbor Kenneth Strickfaden, who designed the electrical effects and machines for the first Frankenstein movie in 1931. McMillen himself also worked as a prop designer in Hollywood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/McMillen_5.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>“Red Trailer Motel,” 2003; Courtesy of the Artist and L.A. Louver, Venice, CA.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>McMillen’s 1973 graduate show at UCLA was a storefront installation in Venice called \u003cem>The Traveling Mystery Museum\u003c/em>. The piece was staged at a local shopping mall, and shoppers encountered an ancient mummy (fabricated by McMillen) displayed in a glass case, predating the better known Museum of Jurassic Technology in Culver City. A number of pieces from \u003cem>The Traveling Mystery Museum\u003c/em> are included in the current OMCA show, including \u003cem>Spy Fly \u003c/em>(1973), a diagrammatic drawing of a video drone disguised as a fly, the fabricated mummy head, the floor plans of \u003cem>The Traveling Mystery Museum\u003c/em>, and the bottled last words of Picasso, certified by one Dr. P. Bernal. Although he was a generation younger, McMillen was influenced by Los Angeles’ visual Beats, a group that included collage and assemblage artists Edward Kienholz and George Herms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pavilion of Rain\u003c/em> (1987), \u003cem>Lighthouse (Hotel New Empire) \u003c/em>(2010), and \u003cem>Red Trailer Motel\u003c/em> (2003) are large-scale installations in three self-contained rooms at the rear of the exhibition and are reminiscent of McMillen’s earlier installation \u003cem>Central Meridian (aka the Garage)\u003c/em> (1981). \u003cem>The Garage\u003c/em> was an homage to his grandfather and neighbor, Strickfaden, taking the form of a life-size garage installed in \u003cem>The Museum as Site: Sixteen Projects\u003c/em> (1981) at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. \u003cem>Pavilion of Rain\u003c/em> is a corrugated metal shack with a rain shower timed for every twenty minutes. The ramshackle structure is placed in a thirty-six-foot-long pool of water. It is fitted with survival gear including a surfboard, baby buggy, and a real diving suit with a pair of lead shoes gifted to him by longtime friend and curator Philip Linhares. \u003cem>Red Trailer Motel\u003c/em> is an L-shaped facade with four doors. The first door has the rules of the motel posted next to a locked door. The other three doors have peepholes with which one can view magnified miniature rooms with mysterious goings-on. Directly across the room is a kinetic monochromatic red wall with an installation called \u003cem>Time Below\u003c/em> (2004), which features an aerial view of \u003cem>Red Trailer Motel\u003c/em>. \u003cem>Lighthouse (Hotel New Empire)\u003c/em> is a scale model of a hotel precariously supported by posts in a vat of swirling water with a filmy sheen. The hotel has a billboard that also doubles as a projection screen showing his recent film \u003cem>Quotidian Man \u003c/em>(2009).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>McMillen’s pieces alternate between the forgotten motel at the end of the road, hosted by Norman Bates, and a rustic temple where one can make an offering. His work is concerned with the contemplation of time: whether he uses an underlying nostalgic film noir-fueled anxiety, a futurist \u003cem>Blade Runner\u003c/em> nightmare, or the counting of beans, as in his piece \u003cem>Deliverance \u003c/em>(1993). McMillen makes poetic signs and markers, and even places of refuge along the way, but we will never know where we are going, how long it will take, and what we will find.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Train of Thought\u003c/em> is on view through August 14, 2011 at the Oakland Museum of California. For \u003ca href=\"<a%20href=\" http:>more information\u003c/a> visit museumca.org.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-size: 10px;\">________\u003cbr>NOTES:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-size: 10px;\">In conjunction with this review, the author conducted an interview with Michael C. McMillen on April 29, 2011, and an interview with Philip Linhares on June 3, 2011.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>In June 2011, \u003ci>Gallery Crawl\u003c/i> visited Ever Gold Gallery to talk with Aaron Terry about his solo exhibition, \u003cem>RESISTANCE TO THE INDIGNITIES OF MODERN LIFE\u003c/em>. Terry combines photography, installation, and costume to document the life of his alter-ego character, the Urban Yeti.\u003c/p>\n\u003caside class=\"alignright\">\n\u003ch3>Resources\u003c/h3>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/assets/pdf/arts/programs/gallerycrawl/1106-terry.pdf\">Download educator guide\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003c/aside>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>Kevin Appel and Ruben Ochoa utilize distinctly divergent methods to confront and challenge the legacy of West Coast conceptual art and minimalism in a surprisingly harmonious two-person exhibition at the San Jose Museum of Art (SJMA). Both Los Angeles-based artists borrow physical elements from the diverse environment of Southern California in the service of subtle social and cultural critique. Contained within one gallery, Ochoa’s imposing sculpture of metal poles and debris is suspended from the ceiling, while Appel’s human-scale prints on canvas hang on the walls. Together the contrasting works create a tangible energy in the otherwise neutral space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ochoa’s striking site-specific sculpture resembles a cross between a \u003ca href=\"http://www.davidzwirner.com/resources/25161/bingoinstall2.jpg\">Gordon Matta-Clark building cut\u003c/a> and a \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:NGC_Maman.JPG\">Louise Bourgeois spider\u003c/a>. Seven steel poles bent at angles drop down from the ceiling, rooted in three mounds of crumbling concrete, suggesting resistance against a forceful upheaval from above. It contains both the rebellion against museum exhibition traditions of Matta-Clark and the suggestion of the unexpected power of Bourgeois. Ochoa combines Matta-Clark’s use of the urban environment to create new perceptions with Bourgeois’ ability to make social statements through sculpture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A native of Southern California, Ochoa’s work reflects on the socioeconomic boundaries demarcated by urban structures in the area. In an exhibition at Peter Blum Gallery, in New York, in 2009, Ochoa re-created a \u003ca href=\"http://peterblumgallery.com/exhibitions/2009/ruben-ochoa-collapsed\">collapsed concrete freeway divider\u003c/a>, physically splitting the gallery in half and suggesting the role of highways in the segregation of neighborhoods in Los Angeles. Similarly, his sculpture at SJMA, \u003cem>From the Ground Without Digging\u003c/em> (2011), references chain-link fences, a signifier of the impulse to keep people out, as well as a material associated with construction workers more often than artists. By recontextualizing elements of city life in a gallery setting, Ochoa democratizes art viewing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Ochoa focuses exclusively on contemporary urban materials in the show at SJMA, Appel overlays geometric architectural elements on natural scenes in his two-dimensional works. A seven-foot-tall decorative screen inspired by modernist architecture stands in the back corner of the room. Six rows of black enamel triangles, interspersed with the occasional pale blue and white pentagons, rotate on steel beams. The works on the walls of the gallery mirror these black triangles: painted grids over illustrations from nature magazines reprinted and enlarged.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/218_Gerrity_Appel_01.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>\u003cem>Screen (trial)\u003c/em>, Kevin Appel, 2011; Courtesy of the Artist.\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>Screen (trial)\u003c/em> (2011), Appel painted bold red, white, and blue pennants in a grid formation over two photographs of buffaloes engaged in a hostile encounter. A forceful modernist grid suppresses suggestions of the American flag and the Western frontier. In “Grids,” her 1979 essay on the grid as a symbol of the twentieth century, Rosalind Krauss states, “Flattened, geometricized, ordered, [the grid] is antinatural, antimimetic, antireal.” By overlaying a strictly controlled grid on romantic images of wildlife, Appel suggests the intrusion of man-made elements on the rugged beauty of the West. Continuing his ironic critique of contemporary life through modernist tropes — a technique familiar from his meticulous paintings of architectural interiors from the 1990s — Appel appropriates the grid for his own devices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ochoa and Appel employ different methods and materials to arrive at the same goal: a gentle interrogation of the supposed idealism of the western United States. Ochoa draws attention to socioeconomic inequalities in the Los Angeles area through his conceptual sculpture made from industrial materials associated with the working class. Appel, on the other hand, imposes modernist elements on images of utopian wildlife to create disquieting images that convey the struggle between man and nature. In \u003cem>Beta Space\u003c/em>, the conjunction of the work of the two artists builds a palpable tension without resolution.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Beta Space: Kevin Appel and Ruben Ochoa \u003c/em>is on view through August 14, 2011 at the San Jose Museum of Art. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.sjmusart.org/\">more information\u003c/a> visit sjmusart.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Kevin Appel and Ruben Ochoa utilize distinctly divergent methods to confront and challenge the legacy of West Coast conceptual art and minimalism in a surprisingly harmonious two-person exhibition at the San Jose Museum of Art (SJMA). Both Los Angeles-based artists borrow physical elements from the diverse environment of Southern California in the service of subtle social and cultural critique. Contained within one gallery, Ochoa’s imposing sculpture of metal poles and debris is suspended from the ceiling, while Appel’s human-scale prints on canvas hang on the walls. Together the contrasting works create a tangible energy in the otherwise neutral space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ochoa’s striking site-specific sculpture resembles a cross between a \u003ca href=\"http://www.davidzwirner.com/resources/25161/bingoinstall2.jpg\">Gordon Matta-Clark building cut\u003c/a> and a \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:NGC_Maman.JPG\">Louise Bourgeois spider\u003c/a>. Seven steel poles bent at angles drop down from the ceiling, rooted in three mounds of crumbling concrete, suggesting resistance against a forceful upheaval from above. It contains both the rebellion against museum exhibition traditions of Matta-Clark and the suggestion of the unexpected power of Bourgeois. Ochoa combines Matta-Clark’s use of the urban environment to create new perceptions with Bourgeois’ ability to make social statements through sculpture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A native of Southern California, Ochoa’s work reflects on the socioeconomic boundaries demarcated by urban structures in the area. In an exhibition at Peter Blum Gallery, in New York, in 2009, Ochoa re-created a \u003ca href=\"http://peterblumgallery.com/exhibitions/2009/ruben-ochoa-collapsed\">collapsed concrete freeway divider\u003c/a>, physically splitting the gallery in half and suggesting the role of highways in the segregation of neighborhoods in Los Angeles. Similarly, his sculpture at SJMA, \u003cem>From the Ground Without Digging\u003c/em> (2011), references chain-link fences, a signifier of the impulse to keep people out, as well as a material associated with construction workers more often than artists. By recontextualizing elements of city life in a gallery setting, Ochoa democratizes art viewing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While Ochoa focuses exclusively on contemporary urban materials in the show at SJMA, Appel overlays geometric architectural elements on natural scenes in his two-dimensional works. A seven-foot-tall decorative screen inspired by modernist architecture stands in the back corner of the room. Six rows of black enamel triangles, interspersed with the occasional pale blue and white pentagons, rotate on steel beams. The works on the walls of the gallery mirror these black triangles: painted grids over illustrations from nature magazines reprinted and enlarged.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/218_Gerrity_Appel_01.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>\u003cem>Screen (trial)\u003c/em>, Kevin Appel, 2011; Courtesy of the Artist.\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>In \u003cem>Screen (trial)\u003c/em> (2011), Appel painted bold red, white, and blue pennants in a grid formation over two photographs of buffaloes engaged in a hostile encounter. A forceful modernist grid suppresses suggestions of the American flag and the Western frontier. In “Grids,” her 1979 essay on the grid as a symbol of the twentieth century, Rosalind Krauss states, “Flattened, geometricized, ordered, [the grid] is antinatural, antimimetic, antireal.” By overlaying a strictly controlled grid on romantic images of wildlife, Appel suggests the intrusion of man-made elements on the rugged beauty of the West. Continuing his ironic critique of contemporary life through modernist tropes — a technique familiar from his meticulous paintings of architectural interiors from the 1990s — Appel appropriates the grid for his own devices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "STUDIO INVASION: Sarah Hirneisen",
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"content": "\u003cp>We caught Sarah Hirneisen the day before she had to give up her Mills College studio tucked away in the woods on the lush, fairyland campus. She’s originally from Pennsylvania Dutch country and her artwork digs deep into her family tree and its roots. She combines studies of systems and collections, casting symbolic objects in resin, bronze, and glass. We were treated to a double feature of the artist’s work: in her cabinet-of-curiosities studio, and her stunning thesis show at the Mills College Art Museum next door. Enjoy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-3.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You’ve just become a Master of Fine Arts. How does it feel and what will you do next?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sarah Hirneisen:\u003c/b> It’s funny because it feels kind of anticlimactic actually. We’re losing the community here so it’s important for me to find another space with other artists. Also, we have a great shop so it’s sad to leave that, too. I have an amazing studio with the woods behind me, and there’s a wild turkey that likes to run around out back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-20.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-5.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-6.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For me, the goal is to keep making work. I’m big on daily practices. The next project I want to do is about collections. I just got all these books on people who collect, and the psychology behind collecting, and Americana. There’s a specific tradition in America around collecting. And I’m working on a piece in cast resin where I collect things that people didn’t intend to drop. If I’m walking around and I see something, I’ll just pick it up and put it in my pocket. It has to be something they didn’t intend to drop, like an earring, not a cigarette butt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-16.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-24.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The work I did for my thesis show was a family collection where I was assigning a knot to each person in my family based on their hobby or occupation. I liked thinking about what people collect, like animal heads, doilies, and strange things. I grew up in a house with a deer head on the wall. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-17.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-48.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-47.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Is that where the idea for your fiberglass deer sculpture came from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> Yes my dad is a hunter so the deer sculpture was for him. It’s tied up with the hunter’s bend knot. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-42.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-43.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-45.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What does he think of it?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> He hasn’t seen it yet, but he knows that he traumatized me because I was a vegetarian at age 14. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-4.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-7.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Give us another example of who the knots represent.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> I have a key to the work that’s a print. I made prints directly from knots. There is one knot per person. I made the knots three dimensionally and the butcher’s knot reappears quite a few times because my great grandfather was a butcher. My great uncles were also butchers. I actually got the leg of a cow and made a mold of it and then did cold cast bronze, which is resin impregnated with bronze powder. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-35.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-39.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-34.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>How did you become so interested in knots?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> At the end of our first semester at Mills, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/programs/spark/profile.jsp?essid=24284\">Ron Nagle\u003c/a> gave each of us a fortune cookie. You couldn’t tell anyone your fortune and you had to make a piece that responded to it. I don’t even remember what my fortune was, but I ended up doing this project with knots, and just fell in love with them. I got different books and researched them. I loved the idea of a knot being a stand-in for a person because there is all of this history around knots; they were used for record keeping. One of the pieces in the show is a knot calendar. I would cut a knot a day, and also do a little sketch every day. I’m still doing it while the show is up so I’ve added one more strand. I had read that in Greek times, if a sailor was going on a trip, he would leave a strand of knots with his wife so she could untie or cut one a day to know when to expect him back. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-18.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-21.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us more about how your family inspires your work.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> After having my daughter, my work definitely became more about my family, and I became interested in doing pieces that were directly about them. I grew up in Pennsylvania in a tiny little town northwest of Philly. One thing that happened recently, before I came to Mills, was that my sister came out as being transgendered. She was born as my brother. My family had a hard time with it because they’re so traditional; a blue-collar, working-class family. They just don’t quite get it, so I did a piece for her where I remade her childhood as a little girl. That’s when I really started looking back at my family and even all the handicraft that’s back in Pennsylvania. I like making things and crafting things, and the element of the hand is important to me. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-30.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-46.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>In your earlier work, your process often involved interactions with other people, sometimes by mail?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> I’m always interested in the interaction with the viewer and involving them more. One of my concerns with this body of work that was specifically about my family was how people would be able to enter into it. I was hoping they’d be able to see their own relationships to their family and think about what knot they would be. I have done more participatory pieces like a project on Twitter where I created postcards and asked people to use them to send me their tweets by mail. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-40.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-36.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-41.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What are your favorite materials to work with?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> My undergraduate degree was from RISD. My major was glass and I love transparent things, obviously. I like using resin because it has that similar quality but you can do a lot more with resin than you can with glass. It’s lightweight, although it’s a little more toxic. I’m interested in fabric and other casting materials. One of the pieces in the show is a quilt that I cast in rubber. I also really like lead. I recently discovered you can melt it on a hot plate so it’s easy to cast with, and it’s really malleable. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-26.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-28.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-27.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about your hand-drawn wallpaper. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> I drew wallpaper, but this version I actually scanned and printed. It’s a pattern of little knots. I felt like it made my work more domestic. I like the idea of it being something like a hybrid between your family sitting room and a cabinet of curiosities, or some sort of museum of oddities. My mom was always into decorating so there was a lot of wallpaper in our house. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5RzpPrOd-4&fs=1&hl=en_US&showinfo=0&rel=0]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>If your art had a soundtrack, what would it be?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> Anything by Deerhunter. The music is amazing and it’s fitting with my dad’s knot.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "We were recently treated to a double feature of Sarah Hirneisen's work: in her cabinet-of-curiosities studio, and her stunning thesis show at the Mills College Art Museum next door. Enjoy.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>We caught Sarah Hirneisen the day before she had to give up her Mills College studio tucked away in the woods on the lush, fairyland campus. She’s originally from Pennsylvania Dutch country and her artwork digs deep into her family tree and its roots. She combines studies of systems and collections, casting symbolic objects in resin, bronze, and glass. We were treated to a double feature of the artist’s work: in her cabinet-of-curiosities studio, and her stunning thesis show at the Mills College Art Museum next door. Enjoy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-3.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>You’ve just become a Master of Fine Arts. How does it feel and what will you do next?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sarah Hirneisen:\u003c/b> It’s funny because it feels kind of anticlimactic actually. We’re losing the community here so it’s important for me to find another space with other artists. Also, we have a great shop so it’s sad to leave that, too. I have an amazing studio with the woods behind me, and there’s a wild turkey that likes to run around out back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-20.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-5.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-6.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For me, the goal is to keep making work. I’m big on daily practices. The next project I want to do is about collections. I just got all these books on people who collect, and the psychology behind collecting, and Americana. There’s a specific tradition in America around collecting. And I’m working on a piece in cast resin where I collect things that people didn’t intend to drop. If I’m walking around and I see something, I’ll just pick it up and put it in my pocket. It has to be something they didn’t intend to drop, like an earring, not a cigarette butt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-16.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-24.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The work I did for my thesis show was a family collection where I was assigning a knot to each person in my family based on their hobby or occupation. I liked thinking about what people collect, like animal heads, doilies, and strange things. I grew up in a house with a deer head on the wall. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-17.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-48.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-47.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Is that where the idea for your fiberglass deer sculpture came from?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> Yes my dad is a hunter so the deer sculpture was for him. It’s tied up with the hunter’s bend knot. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-42.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-43.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-45.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What does he think of it?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> He hasn’t seen it yet, but he knows that he traumatized me because I was a vegetarian at age 14. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-4.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-7.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Give us another example of who the knots represent.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> I have a key to the work that’s a print. I made prints directly from knots. There is one knot per person. I made the knots three dimensionally and the butcher’s knot reappears quite a few times because my great grandfather was a butcher. My great uncles were also butchers. I actually got the leg of a cow and made a mold of it and then did cold cast bronze, which is resin impregnated with bronze powder. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-35.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-39.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-34.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>How did you become so interested in knots?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> At the end of our first semester at Mills, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/arts/programs/spark/profile.jsp?essid=24284\">Ron Nagle\u003c/a> gave each of us a fortune cookie. You couldn’t tell anyone your fortune and you had to make a piece that responded to it. I don’t even remember what my fortune was, but I ended up doing this project with knots, and just fell in love with them. I got different books and researched them. I loved the idea of a knot being a stand-in for a person because there is all of this history around knots; they were used for record keeping. One of the pieces in the show is a knot calendar. I would cut a knot a day, and also do a little sketch every day. I’m still doing it while the show is up so I’ve added one more strand. I had read that in Greek times, if a sailor was going on a trip, he would leave a strand of knots with his wife so she could untie or cut one a day to know when to expect him back. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-18.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-21.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us more about how your family inspires your work.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> After having my daughter, my work definitely became more about my family, and I became interested in doing pieces that were directly about them. I grew up in Pennsylvania in a tiny little town northwest of Philly. One thing that happened recently, before I came to Mills, was that my sister came out as being transgendered. She was born as my brother. My family had a hard time with it because they’re so traditional; a blue-collar, working-class family. They just don’t quite get it, so I did a piece for her where I remade her childhood as a little girl. That’s when I really started looking back at my family and even all the handicraft that’s back in Pennsylvania. I like making things and crafting things, and the element of the hand is important to me. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-30.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-46.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>In your earlier work, your process often involved interactions with other people, sometimes by mail?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> I’m always interested in the interaction with the viewer and involving them more. One of my concerns with this body of work that was specifically about my family was how people would be able to enter into it. I was hoping they’d be able to see their own relationships to their family and think about what knot they would be. I have done more participatory pieces like a project on Twitter where I created postcards and asked people to use them to send me their tweets by mail. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-40.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-36.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-41.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What are your favorite materials to work with?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> My undergraduate degree was from RISD. My major was glass and I love transparent things, obviously. I like using resin because it has that similar quality but you can do a lot more with resin than you can with glass. It’s lightweight, although it’s a little more toxic. I’m interested in fabric and other casting materials. One of the pieces in the show is a quilt that I cast in rubber. I also really like lead. I recently discovered you can melt it on a hot plate so it’s easy to cast with, and it’s really malleable. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-26.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-28.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sh-27.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about your hand-drawn wallpaper. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> I drew wallpaper, but this version I actually scanned and printed. It’s a pattern of little knots. I felt like it made my work more domestic. I like the idea of it being something like a hybrid between your family sitting room and a cabinet of curiosities, or some sort of museum of oddities. My mom was always into decorating so there was a lot of wallpaper in our house. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/G5RzpPrOd-4'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/G5RzpPrOd-4'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>If your art had a soundtrack, what would it be?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>SH:\u003c/b> Anything by Deerhunter. The music is amazing and it’s fitting with my dad’s knot.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "STUDIO INVASION: Chris Dorosz",
"headTitle": "STUDIO INVASION: Chris Dorosz | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>Chris Dorosz pushes paint in unexpected directions with remarkable results. He has a few distinct techniques, including filling canvases with grids of industrial staples that hold pools of color, and dripping globs of paint onto clear rods or monofilament strands to create fragmented, 3-D objects and figures. His process is equally regimented and relaxed, much like his enviable lifestyle in South Beach: making art, teaching, hitting the gym, and walking the dog. We paid him a visit to grill him about his studio secrets, and discovered a mutual love for a certain female singer. Let’s just say you might see the three of us at Trannyshack’s Kate Bush Tribute Night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-00.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>EKG:\u003c/b> \u003ci>Tell us where you’re from and how you came to be an artist.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Chris Dorosz:\u003c/b> I’m Canadian, and I’m a military brat so I’m from everywhere. I went to undergrad in Montreal and got my graduate degree at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. We had art books at home growing up, and I have a few relatives that are artists. My uncle used to work for Disney, and my cousins are well-known artists. I’ve always done art, although I did a little stint as an interior designer and hated it. I didn’t want to work in an office. I’ve been an artist ever since. I teach color theory part-time at the Academy of Art. In fact, I just wrote a text book.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-1.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-2.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-4.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>How did you come up with the idea of working with suspended paint blobs to make representational 3-D images?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> All my works feed off of one another, so it started with the earliest work with the staples. I was interested in making paintings where the paint kept its integrity and there was no brushwork. I poured the paint and it created physicality in this staple corral. It just became a pool of paint that was contained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I decided to make them more physical and was visualizing what would happen if a painting actually exploded into a three dimensional space. The smaller work is made of paint drops from a brush, and the larger work is a paint splotch made with my hand, so I’m building it up like icing a cake. And then of course there’s the engineering of it. I have my secrets, but it’s basically just fishing line and paint with a weight at the end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-16.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-21.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Do you have any nightmare installation stories?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> The first version of \u003cb>The Painted Room\u003c/b> was in Waterloo, Ontario at the Canadian Clay and Glass Museum. I met their criteria because there was silica in my paint. I use a gel medium to extend it. The piece looked great in the studio and I packed it all up and shipped it. But the crates were five days late. So I had three days to install what should have taken at least eight days. The ceilings were pitched and 30-feet high, so imagine hanging something that needs to be horizontal to the floor. The real problem came when I started unpacking. I rolled up each monofilament and used a little twist of tape at the end. But the weight at the bottom wasn’t weighty enough so there were kinks in the monofilament. I had an assistant but we had to enlist someone else to help and she kept using scissors to cut the tape, so some of the fibers were severed. I didn’t sleep for 48 hours. And I was supposed to give an artist talk, but I literally couldn’t string a sentence together. The museum people were lovely and I appreciated them being interested in my work. And I certainly needed to do that installation to perfect it. But I’m sure they will never show me again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://www.chrisdorosz.com/images/exhibitions/painted_room/the%20painted%20room1.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003ci>\u003cb>The Painted Room\u003c/b> at the San Jose ICA\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>How do you describe your work?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> I consider what I do painting. I like the historic implications of painting as a document. It’s a trace of somebody who was living and actually stood there in front of the object at arm’s length working on it. It’s a metaphor for the human presence. It’s just like pushing mud around. I have this vision that when all the electricity goes out and we’re potentially starting over again, we’ll always have mud to push around on a cave wall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-3.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Some of your subjects include furniture. What is it about domestic objects that resonates with you?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> Everything I do is a portrait in a way. I like the idea of the surrogate sense of comfort and how we’re losing that sense of physicality. Everything is virtual. I like this physical act of moving mud around, and questioning how I relate to my surroundings. It’s the furniture I live with and the home I grew up in. I’m interested in antiques as visual records of human usage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-9.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-10.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>You’re very in tune with fragmentation and pixelation. Why do you think that is?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> I was interested in pixelation simply because, when I moved here in 2000, I was dating a tech writer and things were totally new to me. Now it’s less about pixelation than fragmentation, and I think fragmentation is what we’re all experiencing in today’s world. The pace of technology is outrunning how we can comprehend it so we look towards places of comfort to find solace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-11.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-13.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-14.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-15.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Does the process require digital tools?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> Yes and no. My interest lies in the handmade. There’s no plotting out on the computer. I actually sculpt it first out of Styrofoam, and the only computer work required would be if I sculpted you as a figure. I’d take a photo from four sides and put that into the computer to line up the elevations, then print it and carve it out of Styrofoam. My father was in the military but also a cabinet maker. He does antique reproductions of furniture, so I learned carving at an early age.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I started doing it, I thought I could be super accurate with these types of models. I realized there’s a point where you have to give up the ghost. You can only plan so much, and then it’s about eyeballing it, and trial and error. It’s amazing what the eye fills in, and that’s the idea of these pieces: when people see them, they move closer to get more information. But they actually get less information because they’re seeing the spaces in between.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-7.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-8.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Tell us about the staple piece you’re working on now.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> I’ve been aestheticizing computer screens and other screens we have in the world; the colors and patterns. The sketch is a picture of a confessional screen from a church. It’s at an angle because I wanted to indicate depth in the imagery. I think there’s a certain spiritual aspect about the work and, with this piece, I wanted to be a little more overt about it. It’s not a commentary either way. It’s just the idea of confessing to a screen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-19.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-20.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>If your art had a soundtrack, what would it be?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> When I’m in the studio, I listen to a variety of things. I listen to a lot of classical music. I love Baroque English restoration music like Henry Purcell. And lately I’ve been listening to a lot of ’80s music again. Things that I might not have listened to in the ’80s, like the Smiths and Depeche Mode. And I love Laurie Anderson. I just can’t get enough of her. And Kate Bush. I’m a huge Kate Bush fan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-18.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-22.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Chris Dorosz’s recently released textbook, \u003ca href=\"http://www.fairchildbooks.com/book.cms?bookId=672\">\u003cb>Designing With Color: Concepts and Applications\u003c/b>\u003c/a>, is available through Fairchild Books.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Chris Dorosz pushes paint in unexpected directions with remarkable results, from filling grids of industrial stapes with pools of color to dripping globs of paint onto clear rods to create 3-D figures. We recently paid him a visit to grill him about his studio secrets and much more.",
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"description": "Chris Dorosz pushes paint in unexpected directions with remarkable results, from filling grids of industrial stapes with pools of color to dripping globs of paint onto clear rods to create 3-D figures. We recently paid him a visit to grill him about his studio secrets and much more.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Chris Dorosz pushes paint in unexpected directions with remarkable results. He has a few distinct techniques, including filling canvases with grids of industrial staples that hold pools of color, and dripping globs of paint onto clear rods or monofilament strands to create fragmented, 3-D objects and figures. His process is equally regimented and relaxed, much like his enviable lifestyle in South Beach: making art, teaching, hitting the gym, and walking the dog. We paid him a visit to grill him about his studio secrets, and discovered a mutual love for a certain female singer. Let’s just say you might see the three of us at Trannyshack’s Kate Bush Tribute Night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-00.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>EKG:\u003c/b> \u003ci>Tell us where you’re from and how you came to be an artist.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Chris Dorosz:\u003c/b> I’m Canadian, and I’m a military brat so I’m from everywhere. I went to undergrad in Montreal and got my graduate degree at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. We had art books at home growing up, and I have a few relatives that are artists. My uncle used to work for Disney, and my cousins are well-known artists. I’ve always done art, although I did a little stint as an interior designer and hated it. I didn’t want to work in an office. I’ve been an artist ever since. I teach color theory part-time at the Academy of Art. In fact, I just wrote a text book.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-1.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-2.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-4.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>How did you come up with the idea of working with suspended paint blobs to make representational 3-D images?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> All my works feed off of one another, so it started with the earliest work with the staples. I was interested in making paintings where the paint kept its integrity and there was no brushwork. I poured the paint and it created physicality in this staple corral. It just became a pool of paint that was contained.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I decided to make them more physical and was visualizing what would happen if a painting actually exploded into a three dimensional space. The smaller work is made of paint drops from a brush, and the larger work is a paint splotch made with my hand, so I’m building it up like icing a cake. And then of course there’s the engineering of it. I have my secrets, but it’s basically just fishing line and paint with a weight at the end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-16.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-21.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Do you have any nightmare installation stories?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> The first version of \u003cb>The Painted Room\u003c/b> was in Waterloo, Ontario at the Canadian Clay and Glass Museum. I met their criteria because there was silica in my paint. I use a gel medium to extend it. The piece looked great in the studio and I packed it all up and shipped it. But the crates were five days late. So I had three days to install what should have taken at least eight days. The ceilings were pitched and 30-feet high, so imagine hanging something that needs to be horizontal to the floor. The real problem came when I started unpacking. I rolled up each monofilament and used a little twist of tape at the end. But the weight at the bottom wasn’t weighty enough so there were kinks in the monofilament. I had an assistant but we had to enlist someone else to help and she kept using scissors to cut the tape, so some of the fibers were severed. I didn’t sleep for 48 hours. And I was supposed to give an artist talk, but I literally couldn’t string a sentence together. The museum people were lovely and I appreciated them being interested in my work. And I certainly needed to do that installation to perfect it. But I’m sure they will never show me again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://www.chrisdorosz.com/images/exhibitions/painted_room/the%20painted%20room1.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003ci>\u003cb>The Painted Room\u003c/b> at the San Jose ICA\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>How do you describe your work?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> I consider what I do painting. I like the historic implications of painting as a document. It’s a trace of somebody who was living and actually stood there in front of the object at arm’s length working on it. It’s a metaphor for the human presence. It’s just like pushing mud around. I have this vision that when all the electricity goes out and we’re potentially starting over again, we’ll always have mud to push around on a cave wall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-3.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Some of your subjects include furniture. What is it about domestic objects that resonates with you?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> Everything I do is a portrait in a way. I like the idea of the surrogate sense of comfort and how we’re losing that sense of physicality. Everything is virtual. I like this physical act of moving mud around, and questioning how I relate to my surroundings. It’s the furniture I live with and the home I grew up in. I’m interested in antiques as visual records of human usage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-9.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-10.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>You’re very in tune with fragmentation and pixelation. Why do you think that is?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> I was interested in pixelation simply because, when I moved here in 2000, I was dating a tech writer and things were totally new to me. Now it’s less about pixelation than fragmentation, and I think fragmentation is what we’re all experiencing in today’s world. The pace of technology is outrunning how we can comprehend it so we look towards places of comfort to find solace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-11.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-13.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-14.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-15.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Does the process require digital tools?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> Yes and no. My interest lies in the handmade. There’s no plotting out on the computer. I actually sculpt it first out of Styrofoam, and the only computer work required would be if I sculpted you as a figure. I’d take a photo from four sides and put that into the computer to line up the elevations, then print it and carve it out of Styrofoam. My father was in the military but also a cabinet maker. He does antique reproductions of furniture, so I learned carving at an early age.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I started doing it, I thought I could be super accurate with these types of models. I realized there’s a point where you have to give up the ghost. You can only plan so much, and then it’s about eyeballing it, and trial and error. It’s amazing what the eye fills in, and that’s the idea of these pieces: when people see them, they move closer to get more information. But they actually get less information because they’re seeing the spaces in between.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-7.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-8.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Tell us about the staple piece you’re working on now.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> I’ve been aestheticizing computer screens and other screens we have in the world; the colors and patterns. The sketch is a picture of a confessional screen from a church. It’s at an angle because I wanted to indicate depth in the imagery. I think there’s a certain spiritual aspect about the work and, with this piece, I wanted to be a little more overt about it. It’s not a commentary either way. It’s just the idea of confessing to a screen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-19.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-20.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>If your art had a soundtrack, what would it be?\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>CD:\u003c/b> When I’m in the studio, I listen to a variety of things. I listen to a lot of classical music. I love Baroque English restoration music like Henry Purcell. And lately I’ve been listening to a lot of ’80s music again. Things that I might not have listened to in the ’80s, like the Smiths and Depeche Mode. And I love Laurie Anderson. I just can’t get enough of her. And Kate Bush. I’m a huge Kate Bush fan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-18.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cd-22.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Chris Dorosz’s recently released textbook, \u003ca href=\"http://www.fairchildbooks.com/book.cms?bookId=672\">\u003cb>Designing With Color: Concepts and Applications\u003c/b>\u003c/a>, is available through Fairchild Books.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Interview with Guillermo Gomez-Pena",
"headTitle": "Interview with Guillermo Gomez-Pena | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tess Thackara:\u003c/strong> What does La Pocha Nostra mean?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Guillermo Gómez-Peña:\u003c/strong> It’s essentially a neologism. “Pocho/a” means a cultural traitor, or a cultural bastard. It’s a term coined by Mexicans who never left Mexico to articulate the post-national Mexican experience. It’s slightly derogative, but we have expropriated it as an act of empowerment. And “Nostra” comes from La Cosa Nostra, the Italian mafia. So you can translate it loosely as the cartel of the cultural traitors, or there is another more poetic translation that essentially means “our impurities.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> I’m interested in the way the mission of your troupe is conceptualized as a facilitator of cross-cultural exchange. What do you see as the value of that meeting ground, other than strengthening marginalized communities and expressing common experiences between these communities?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Well, we originally conceived \u003ca href=\"http://www.pochanostra.com/\">La Pocha Nostra\u003c/a> as a loose association of artists rather than a performance troupe; artists across borders interested in working with me and my colleagues. It began to expand — to develop chapters in many countries and cities. When La Pocha Nostra went beyond the U.S.-Mexico border and became internationalized, it inevitably became a cyber community, with our website as the matrix. There are approximately fifty to seventy artists that work every year with us in different capacities. And they are primarily performance artists, but there are also writers, filmmakers, composers, radical actors, rebel dancers, and curators.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So it’s a very eclectic organization. It’s a permeable, fluid, and ever-morphing live entity that is in the constant process of reinvention. That’s how we like it. We fear institutionalization profoundly, which is one of the main issues that the field of performance art is increasingly facing. How do you deal with the fact that we have been fully accepted by academia, and theorized about, and taught, and therefore de-fanged? We have also been fully embraced by international festivals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Do you ever turn down festivals?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> I would never go to the Edinburgh Festival. There are certain festivals that are just way too mainstream — where I know that I’m just going to be a seasonal freak. And those festivals I do turn down. Most of the time, if the festival is interesting, my challenge will be to present a project that is not “festivalized.” Because festival art has become almost its own genre. Performance artists are being asked to tone down their work and package it very carefully. So in many ways we have become a simulacrum of our work, or a unique form of devised theatre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But, I still believe that there is a way to participate in this international market of performance art without having to compromise your practice. It essentially means that you have to engage in a more ongoing and deeper dialogue with the curators and the producers to make them understand that the kind of project that you will present is not just a credible, repeatable project, but in fact that you will respond to the site; you will incorporate local artists; you will present something that has never been performed before and will never be performed the same way — and that there is always a margin of risk and failure — and they have to accept your terms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Is there a common practice or a common methodology between you and all the artists in your troupe? How do you find members of the troupe?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Let me read you the first page of one of my upcoming books, which is on radical pedagogy. It reveals the nature of the strange multinational community of rebel artists we have formed. It says, “This book is for the rebel, critical, experimental, theoretical, race and gender literate, techno-savvy, tender, bold, hybrid, queer, immigrant, orphan, outsider, deterritorialized, robo-shamanic, performance or live artist obsessed with crossing borders, all kinds of borders in his/her practice.” So I think that’s a good definition of what we have in common. But other than that, it’s a very eclectic mix. We don’t look for them; they find us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> That is very thorough! There’s a quote on your site that says, “The goal is to create a total universe capable of containing our extreme difference.” That really captures how massive the scope of what you’re doing is — in terms of the quantity of references you use. There is a lot of history in your work, multiple cultural identities, the erotic, the Other — the list goes on. I watched an interview with someone leaving one of your performances, and he said that he was completely overwhelmed with impressions and very moved. I thought it was interesting that there are so many references and ideas that get triggered through your work — the work is so dense — that you come away and you’re forced to disentangle all of those references. Is that an intentional way of inviting people to really grapple and engage with the issues in your work?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkAMQBRAqhE]\u003cbr>Guillermo Gómez-Peña and Gustavo Vasquez,\u003cem> A Muerte (Segundo Duelo)\u003c/em>, 2007; video; Courtesy of the Artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> In my solo practice, this happens less. It is my mind at work and only my mind. But when I’m working with my troupe, acting in simultaneity within a large performance space, things get really interesting. Essentially people enter a hypertextual universe. Every audience member is allowed to draw their own journey, to stay for as long as they wish, to come in and out of the space, to get as close as they wish to the individual performers, and in some cases, to even participate in the pieces. There is always a multiplicity of perspectives from which you can enter the piece. We do this because we’re interested in nonauthoritarian formats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the problems faced by performance artists is that, since the early Dadaist experiments and performances, there have been a century of attempts to destroy the fourth wall and erase the border between audience and performer; to engage the audience in the process and to operate without the conventions of having a beginning and an end. Still, one century later, we see that museums and festivals are presenting performance as a proscenium piece. You go there, you sit down, the lights go out in the audience, the lights go on onstage; the magic begins. You’re not allowed to talk back, you’re not allowed to touch the artist, you’re not allowed to grab a prop. You must sit quietly as in a mass, as in a modernist theatre play, let’s face it, and then you go home. It’s a total contradiction in terms, because performance by nature is and must be messy. It’s hard to define when it begins and when it ends. It should be unrepeatable. And the performance artists must take decisions on-site during the process, which are visible to the audience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last year, Marcel-i Antunez, the brains behind \u003ca href=\"http://www.lafura.com/web/index.html\">\u003cb>La Fura del Baus\u003c/b>\u003c/a> — a very well-known performance troupe from Barcelona — organized a really interesting performance event in Madrid precisely about this. He managed to persuade the most traditional and important theatre of Madrid to lend him the whole building for a week to create a performance festival that brought all the people from my generation to fuck with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What do you do with a gorgeous classic proscenium? I chose to invite the audience in a revolving door onto the stage and back. I created a huge screen dividing the stage from the seats where several cameras were live-feeding images of the performance for those who couldn’t go onstage. So half of the performance was live film — in a sense a reality show — and the other half would be experienced by circulating through the stage. It was interesting because in many ways we were dealing with the ultimate paradoxes of the institutionalization of performance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> In the timeline for the \u003ca href=\"http://www.pochanostra.com/youtube/fetishized_identities/\">Museum of Fetishized Identities\u003c/a> on your website, you go through, step by step, the behaviors and reactions you tend to get from people. It seems as though — not that they’re prescribed — but that people tend to react in ways that you do anticipate. Is that the case?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> No, not really.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> So you are always surprised?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> I am constantly surprised by human behavior. Especially because of the kind of practice we do. One week we are in a chic space in New York or Berlin, and then the next week we are in Zagreb or Oaxaca (Mexico), where people have never experienced our work. We don’t just tour the main centers of art, like many of my colleagues. Many of my contemporaries are just touring New York, London, Milan, Paris, and blah blah blah. We do go to these places because it’s important to remain current and visible, otherwise we’ll be completely ousted from the field and deported back to oblivion! But for us, it’s much more interesting to go to places that exist under the radar of the art world, places that are definitely outside of the international art market. Argentine curator Gabriela Salgado calls them the “zones of silence.” This is when things get really interesting — when we take our bizarre practice to Bolivia or Curacao, for example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Do you change your practice according to where you’re performing?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Yes and no. I don’t try to make it more accessible or simpler, just because I assume they don’t have an international artistic education. I believe in the sophistication of the human condition. I believe that performance art is such a visceral art form that it allows for multiple points of entry — some are intellectual, but some are spiritual or emotional. I may make certain adjustments in the text — both in the program notes and in the text that is interspersed with the performance. I may be less theoretical and a bit more populist or humorous in the texts, but I think that the secret to entering the heart of these communities that exist in the zones of silence is not changing the nature of the piece but working with local artists. They will give us entry; they will open the door for us. We locate, in advance, a handful of really interesting artists who have a foot in both worlds — they will be our mediators.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since we have made a practice out of crossing borders, most of the time we succeed. And of course, a few times we get misinterpreted. But I think that misinterpretation and mistranslation are essential contemporary experiences. If it’s just certain aspects of the piece that get misinterpreted, like certain symbols and metaphors, I welcome it. This is inevitable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> If there are those misunderstandings, how do you turn that into a conversation?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> There are reflective and constructive mechanisms within the piece that make people aware that their discomfort, or their misunderstanding, is part of the contemporary experience and we’re commenting on that. Most people get it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>La Pocha uses various mechanisms for our audience’s feedback. People can get back to us through the website with their thoughts on a performance. We take them into serious consideration, and many of these reflections have been published in my books; otherwise we would just be legislating performance and imposing performance practice on communities. Often, as part of our residencies, we make sure that the performance is the last event, but prior to the performance we engage in lectures, public discussions, spoken word recitals, and screenings of videos, and this will prepare local audiences for our practices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> It does seem as though you’re trying to activate your audience, as though your performances are supposed to be a transformational experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> They have a pedagogical dimension. This is also another defining aspect of our performance, as important as the border practice. At this stage of my life, I am more and more interested in the pedagogical aspect of performance. Performance has to be emancipatory; it has to be a liberating process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Do you think that people come to your shows expecting to be liberated?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> No, not everyone. Unfortunately, because some of my performance pieces have to do with shamanism, there are a lot of people that take me at face value and literally see me as some kind of spiritual guide. It blows my mind because I’m the most irreverent person! I have written extensively against the idea of the artist as shaman, problematizing the relationship between spiritual seekers and shamanic charlatans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, there are people that attend live art looking for answers. I feel that the artist doesn’t really give answers. That is the role of the theorist, the scientist, the political activist, and the religious leader. The role of the artist is to ask impertinent and complex questions, irritating questions, and also to make the audience aware of the process of inquiry, and that’s where the pedagogical dimension lies — when the performance becomes the search, and when the process of search becomes the performance; and people see you struggling with meaning, with your own philosophical despair, with your political demons, and your own aesthetics. The audience can participate and join in the struggle of seeking some kind of light — not much, but some clarity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> For people that haven’t been exposed to your work at all, can you run through an example of one of your performances and what that might entail in terms of audience participation? How do they begin to feel they can participate?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> In our project Mapa Corpo, the central image was a live body acupunctured with needles bearing the flags of the occupation forces in Iraq. This was our response to the invasion in Iraq. At the end, we invited the audience to decolonize the body-map of the Middle East by extracting, one by one, the forty-four flags, and by doing it they were making an ethical commitment to peace. That’s a very clear example of how audiences get to participate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txaY7ZAV5ck]\u003cbr>La Pocha Nostra, \u003cem>Border Interogation\u003c/em>, 2009; video; TRT 1:26. Courtesy of the Artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> And in the Living Museum of Fetishized Identities you invite people to perform their own ethnic fantasies?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> We had an “identity makeover booth” where people got to choose, in dialogue with fashion designers and makeup artists, their own fetishized look. It could be a gender- or ethnic-bending fantasy look. They could be as outrageous as they wanted and then they would join us on platforms to create their own tableaux vivants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More recently we performed a piece titled \u003ca href=\"http://www.somarts.org/tag/corpoilicito/\">\u003cem>Corpo Illicito\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. It essentially involved reenactments of some anthological pieces intertwined with brand-new live images. For example, I did a reenactment of one of my classic pieces where I was dressed as a generic terrorist in drag and I invited audience members to hold an uzi or an AK-47, a real one without bullets, and point it at different parts of my body while I was staging iconic images taken from the history of the representation of violence in painting, cinema, and journalism. People got to experience how it felt to have a human in the crosshairs. People would point the weapon at my eyes, at my heart, at my genitals, even at my butt. People would step on top of the platform and put a leg on top of my back and point the weapon at my neck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The performance environments we create are very intoxicating and seductive. There are multiple projections and electronic music, so people get seduced by the space and they let go and participate sometimes without realizing the implications of their symbolic actions. It’s only after, a day or two later, that they go, “Hey, wait a moment. We are all capable of violence; we are all capable of holding a gun against another human being.” This realization comes when they wake up with a little pain in the heart. It is that moment of realization that I’m after. I really distrust kneejerk, immediate reactions to a piece. I think an effective performance creates sediment in your subconscious and it begins to filter into your conscious mind in the coming days and weeks and always in dialogue with other artworks, other books, and other films. That is where the power of performance art lies, as opposed to narrative cinema, a novel, or a traditional theater play, where you are asked to make up your mind right at the end of the piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> When people come up on stage with you and interact — I know you’re not taking a position of judgment toward them in any way — but do you have any sense of how far they’re performing an identity because it’s a response to seeing you perform something, or whether they’re really channelling something innate?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> I can only speculate. I am not an anthropologist, a sociologist, or a psychologist, but I do have a lot of experience with audience behavior — practically three decades of experimenting with human behavior through performance. Some people enact archetypal behavior; they connect to a common, primal self, and in that archetypal behavior — which I love, I adore — I feel that some people are motivated by psychological needs of protagonism and visibility and they tend to overact, and that’s less interesting to me. Others are motivated by true compassion and the need to connect and to engage in a dialogue with the artist. Other people are just performing for their friends — especially the people who have had a little too much to drink or who are on their way to a party. A few are, by nature, exhibitionists. This spectrum of possibilities makes for very interesting audience participation. But as you said, we try to never judge. The only time we stop audience participation is when it gets dangerous — when they grab a dangerous object and you can tell that they no longer have control.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But these are the exceptions to the rule. Most of the time I think people understand that we’re creating a symbolic universe and that whether it’s a violent act or a sexually explicit act, it’s just symbolic. As Chicanos, we’re into artifice, not into phenomenology. Phenomenology belongs to the past — to the ’70s, when blood was real blood, and violence was real violence. We’re more interested in the construction of highly complex and stylized symbols. They are as powerful as the real actions they refer to. Most of the time the audience understands that. It’s like a contract; a subtextual, unspoken contract between the performer and the audience member.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> What are some of the off-the-map places you have performed in? How remote do you go?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> We had a four-year-long project with Sammi communities in the tip of Norway — where Norway meets Russia in the Arctic. It’s a border city where a lot of Russian traffickers and bootleggers bring illicit goods into Europe. It’s a very wild, multicultural place. There are Finnish, Russian, Norwegian, and Sammi peoples — the indigenous peoples of the Nordic countries. We did a four-year project there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We have also performed in small villages in Alaska and in the Canary Islands, off the shores of Africa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Why do you choose those places?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Because that’s where we get to test our practice — in extreme border conditions. We have also been to many small Latin American cities where there is absolutely no contemporary artwork, where they have never seen an experimental art piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Do they understand that what you’re doing is art? How do they understand what you’re doing as separate from reality?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Every place in the zones of silence has been a challenge unto itself. Often it is the indigenous communities that help us enter into the soul of the place, because indigenous peoples throughout the world have extremely performative practices that are closer to live art than say, to Western theatre. They get it. When a Hopi bird-dancer or a Cree grass-dancer dances for twelve hours, don’t tell me that is not performance art!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Performance artists may have all sorts of social shortcomings, and we may be terrible with administering our finances or sustaining a nine-to-five job, but when it comes to crossing borders, we make very good intercultural diplomats. I think that if governments were more enlightened, they would make good use of us. Imagine inviting a performance artist to redesign a hospital. From the lighting to the music and the activities presented to the patients, hospitals would become more human places. Or, imagine performance artists defining the curriculum of a high school or the activities of prisoners — even to humanize the corporate people, giving performance workshops to corporate staff during lunchtime or DJ-ing religious conventions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/I215_GGM.jpg\" alt=\"\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\">\u003cbr>La Pocha Nostra, \u003cem>Piedad Postcolonial\u003c/em>, 2005; photograph. Courtesy of the Artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> I read about Mayor Mockus, a former mayor of Bogota, Colombia, who hired mime artists to address increasing numbers of people being run over by cars. They would step into the street and make fun of drivers who were being irresponsible, or pedestrians who were walking carelessly across the street without looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> I know Antanas Mockus very well. Let’s also think of Subcommandante Marcos, the intellectual leader of the Zapatistas; he was a performance artist extraordinaire. There are many cases where activists and politicians have effectively utilized performance strategies to implement social programs and communicate their ideas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Would you want to be hired by the government?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> [Long pause] I wouldn’t mind training and advising people who occupy certain government positions. Cruz Bustamante, the ex-vice governor of California, happens to be the brother of Nao Bustamante, the performance artist. Cruz never invited Nao to advise him, and as a result, his campaign strategies when he ran for governor were so wimpy and uninteresting that he ended up losing. If only he had invited his sister to advise him, he would have been in much better shape.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> I saw that in 2011 you have plans to explore the culture of violence. Can you talk about that?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> One of the reasons I am based here (in the United States) is because my own country has been taken over by organized crime. Violence is a very emotional issue for us post-national Mexicans. It’s becoming increasingly hard for us to return, and as we witness how our families and loved ones are falling prey to crime on a daily basis, I want to contribute to a dialogue around the causes of violence and try to understand why, in just a few years, Mexico went from being a peaceful country to becoming the continental capital of organized crime. I also want to mourn, through my performance work, those who have been killed. I want to tackle the issue of violence as one of the central issues of our times. I feel that it’s time to create an artwork that concentrates in the exploration of violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another thing that I’m really interested in — and this has to do with the place that I am at in my life — is conversing on the stage or in the gallery with some of my contemporaries. So I have been engaging in a series of performance collaborations with artists that have been my friends for many years: people like Tania Bruguera, James Luna, and Reverend Billy. These performance projects are quite moving. When you witness two friends from different cultural backgrounds and artistic practices working together, coexisting, sharing the space, the project becomes a radical act of diplomacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>________\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Guillermo Gómez-Peña\u003c/strong> is a performance artist and writer based in San Francisco, where he is artistic director of \u003ca href=\"http://www.pochanostra.com/\">La Pocha Nostra\u003c/a>, an international collective of artists, curators, and intellectuals. A native of Mexico City, Gómez-Peña’s pioneering work in performance, video, radio, installation, poetry, journalism, and cultural theory explores cross-cultural issues, immigration, the politics of language, “extreme culture,” and new technologies. Critics have described his live work as “Chicano cyber-punk performances.” Gómez-Peña is a MacArthur fellow, an American Book Award recipient, a regular contributor to National Public Radio, a writer for newspapers and magazines in the United States and Mexico, and a contributing editor to \u003ci>The Drama Review\u003c/i> (NYU-MIT). His performance, installation, and video work has been presented at over seven hundred venues across the United States, Canada, Mexico, Europe, Australia, Russia, Colombia, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Brazil, Peru, Venezuela, and Argentina. Most recently, he has presented work at Tate Modern (London), the House of World Cultures (Berlin), MACBA (Barcelona), The Chopo Museum (Mexico City), the Encuentro Hemisférico (Lima, Rio de Janeiro, and New York), and the Habana Bienale.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tess Thackara:\u003c/strong> What does La Pocha Nostra mean?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Guillermo Gómez-Peña:\u003c/strong> It’s essentially a neologism. “Pocho/a” means a cultural traitor, or a cultural bastard. It’s a term coined by Mexicans who never left Mexico to articulate the post-national Mexican experience. It’s slightly derogative, but we have expropriated it as an act of empowerment. And “Nostra” comes from La Cosa Nostra, the Italian mafia. So you can translate it loosely as the cartel of the cultural traitors, or there is another more poetic translation that essentially means “our impurities.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> I’m interested in the way the mission of your troupe is conceptualized as a facilitator of cross-cultural exchange. What do you see as the value of that meeting ground, other than strengthening marginalized communities and expressing common experiences between these communities?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Well, we originally conceived \u003ca href=\"http://www.pochanostra.com/\">La Pocha Nostra\u003c/a> as a loose association of artists rather than a performance troupe; artists across borders interested in working with me and my colleagues. It began to expand — to develop chapters in many countries and cities. When La Pocha Nostra went beyond the U.S.-Mexico border and became internationalized, it inevitably became a cyber community, with our website as the matrix. There are approximately fifty to seventy artists that work every year with us in different capacities. And they are primarily performance artists, but there are also writers, filmmakers, composers, radical actors, rebel dancers, and curators.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So it’s a very eclectic organization. It’s a permeable, fluid, and ever-morphing live entity that is in the constant process of reinvention. That’s how we like it. We fear institutionalization profoundly, which is one of the main issues that the field of performance art is increasingly facing. How do you deal with the fact that we have been fully accepted by academia, and theorized about, and taught, and therefore de-fanged? We have also been fully embraced by international festivals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Do you ever turn down festivals?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> I would never go to the Edinburgh Festival. There are certain festivals that are just way too mainstream — where I know that I’m just going to be a seasonal freak. And those festivals I do turn down. Most of the time, if the festival is interesting, my challenge will be to present a project that is not “festivalized.” Because festival art has become almost its own genre. Performance artists are being asked to tone down their work and package it very carefully. So in many ways we have become a simulacrum of our work, or a unique form of devised theatre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But, I still believe that there is a way to participate in this international market of performance art without having to compromise your practice. It essentially means that you have to engage in a more ongoing and deeper dialogue with the curators and the producers to make them understand that the kind of project that you will present is not just a credible, repeatable project, but in fact that you will respond to the site; you will incorporate local artists; you will present something that has never been performed before and will never be performed the same way — and that there is always a margin of risk and failure — and they have to accept your terms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Is there a common practice or a common methodology between you and all the artists in your troupe? How do you find members of the troupe?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Let me read you the first page of one of my upcoming books, which is on radical pedagogy. It reveals the nature of the strange multinational community of rebel artists we have formed. It says, “This book is for the rebel, critical, experimental, theoretical, race and gender literate, techno-savvy, tender, bold, hybrid, queer, immigrant, orphan, outsider, deterritorialized, robo-shamanic, performance or live artist obsessed with crossing borders, all kinds of borders in his/her practice.” So I think that’s a good definition of what we have in common. But other than that, it’s a very eclectic mix. We don’t look for them; they find us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> That is very thorough! There’s a quote on your site that says, “The goal is to create a total universe capable of containing our extreme difference.” That really captures how massive the scope of what you’re doing is — in terms of the quantity of references you use. There is a lot of history in your work, multiple cultural identities, the erotic, the Other — the list goes on. I watched an interview with someone leaving one of your performances, and he said that he was completely overwhelmed with impressions and very moved. I thought it was interesting that there are so many references and ideas that get triggered through your work — the work is so dense — that you come away and you’re forced to disentangle all of those references. Is that an intentional way of inviting people to really grapple and engage with the issues in your work?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/rkAMQBRAqhE'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/rkAMQBRAqhE'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cbr>Guillermo Gómez-Peña and Gustavo Vasquez,\u003cem> A Muerte (Segundo Duelo)\u003c/em>, 2007; video; Courtesy of the Artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> In my solo practice, this happens less. It is my mind at work and only my mind. But when I’m working with my troupe, acting in simultaneity within a large performance space, things get really interesting. Essentially people enter a hypertextual universe. Every audience member is allowed to draw their own journey, to stay for as long as they wish, to come in and out of the space, to get as close as they wish to the individual performers, and in some cases, to even participate in the pieces. There is always a multiplicity of perspectives from which you can enter the piece. We do this because we’re interested in nonauthoritarian formats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the problems faced by performance artists is that, since the early Dadaist experiments and performances, there have been a century of attempts to destroy the fourth wall and erase the border between audience and performer; to engage the audience in the process and to operate without the conventions of having a beginning and an end. Still, one century later, we see that museums and festivals are presenting performance as a proscenium piece. You go there, you sit down, the lights go out in the audience, the lights go on onstage; the magic begins. You’re not allowed to talk back, you’re not allowed to touch the artist, you’re not allowed to grab a prop. You must sit quietly as in a mass, as in a modernist theatre play, let’s face it, and then you go home. It’s a total contradiction in terms, because performance by nature is and must be messy. It’s hard to define when it begins and when it ends. It should be unrepeatable. And the performance artists must take decisions on-site during the process, which are visible to the audience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Last year, Marcel-i Antunez, the brains behind \u003ca href=\"http://www.lafura.com/web/index.html\">\u003cb>La Fura del Baus\u003c/b>\u003c/a> — a very well-known performance troupe from Barcelona — organized a really interesting performance event in Madrid precisely about this. He managed to persuade the most traditional and important theatre of Madrid to lend him the whole building for a week to create a performance festival that brought all the people from my generation to fuck with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What do you do with a gorgeous classic proscenium? I chose to invite the audience in a revolving door onto the stage and back. I created a huge screen dividing the stage from the seats where several cameras were live-feeding images of the performance for those who couldn’t go onstage. So half of the performance was live film — in a sense a reality show — and the other half would be experienced by circulating through the stage. It was interesting because in many ways we were dealing with the ultimate paradoxes of the institutionalization of performance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> In the timeline for the \u003ca href=\"http://www.pochanostra.com/youtube/fetishized_identities/\">Museum of Fetishized Identities\u003c/a> on your website, you go through, step by step, the behaviors and reactions you tend to get from people. It seems as though — not that they’re prescribed — but that people tend to react in ways that you do anticipate. Is that the case?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> No, not really.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> So you are always surprised?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> I am constantly surprised by human behavior. Especially because of the kind of practice we do. One week we are in a chic space in New York or Berlin, and then the next week we are in Zagreb or Oaxaca (Mexico), where people have never experienced our work. We don’t just tour the main centers of art, like many of my colleagues. Many of my contemporaries are just touring New York, London, Milan, Paris, and blah blah blah. We do go to these places because it’s important to remain current and visible, otherwise we’ll be completely ousted from the field and deported back to oblivion! But for us, it’s much more interesting to go to places that exist under the radar of the art world, places that are definitely outside of the international art market. Argentine curator Gabriela Salgado calls them the “zones of silence.” This is when things get really interesting — when we take our bizarre practice to Bolivia or Curacao, for example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Do you change your practice according to where you’re performing?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Yes and no. I don’t try to make it more accessible or simpler, just because I assume they don’t have an international artistic education. I believe in the sophistication of the human condition. I believe that performance art is such a visceral art form that it allows for multiple points of entry — some are intellectual, but some are spiritual or emotional. I may make certain adjustments in the text — both in the program notes and in the text that is interspersed with the performance. I may be less theoretical and a bit more populist or humorous in the texts, but I think that the secret to entering the heart of these communities that exist in the zones of silence is not changing the nature of the piece but working with local artists. They will give us entry; they will open the door for us. We locate, in advance, a handful of really interesting artists who have a foot in both worlds — they will be our mediators.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since we have made a practice out of crossing borders, most of the time we succeed. And of course, a few times we get misinterpreted. But I think that misinterpretation and mistranslation are essential contemporary experiences. If it’s just certain aspects of the piece that get misinterpreted, like certain symbols and metaphors, I welcome it. This is inevitable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> If there are those misunderstandings, how do you turn that into a conversation?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> There are reflective and constructive mechanisms within the piece that make people aware that their discomfort, or their misunderstanding, is part of the contemporary experience and we’re commenting on that. Most people get it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>La Pocha uses various mechanisms for our audience’s feedback. People can get back to us through the website with their thoughts on a performance. We take them into serious consideration, and many of these reflections have been published in my books; otherwise we would just be legislating performance and imposing performance practice on communities. Often, as part of our residencies, we make sure that the performance is the last event, but prior to the performance we engage in lectures, public discussions, spoken word recitals, and screenings of videos, and this will prepare local audiences for our practices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> It does seem as though you’re trying to activate your audience, as though your performances are supposed to be a transformational experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> They have a pedagogical dimension. This is also another defining aspect of our performance, as important as the border practice. At this stage of my life, I am more and more interested in the pedagogical aspect of performance. Performance has to be emancipatory; it has to be a liberating process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Do you think that people come to your shows expecting to be liberated?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> No, not everyone. Unfortunately, because some of my performance pieces have to do with shamanism, there are a lot of people that take me at face value and literally see me as some kind of spiritual guide. It blows my mind because I’m the most irreverent person! I have written extensively against the idea of the artist as shaman, problematizing the relationship between spiritual seekers and shamanic charlatans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, there are people that attend live art looking for answers. I feel that the artist doesn’t really give answers. That is the role of the theorist, the scientist, the political activist, and the religious leader. The role of the artist is to ask impertinent and complex questions, irritating questions, and also to make the audience aware of the process of inquiry, and that’s where the pedagogical dimension lies — when the performance becomes the search, and when the process of search becomes the performance; and people see you struggling with meaning, with your own philosophical despair, with your political demons, and your own aesthetics. The audience can participate and join in the struggle of seeking some kind of light — not much, but some clarity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> For people that haven’t been exposed to your work at all, can you run through an example of one of your performances and what that might entail in terms of audience participation? How do they begin to feel they can participate?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> In our project Mapa Corpo, the central image was a live body acupunctured with needles bearing the flags of the occupation forces in Iraq. This was our response to the invasion in Iraq. At the end, we invited the audience to decolonize the body-map of the Middle East by extracting, one by one, the forty-four flags, and by doing it they were making an ethical commitment to peace. That’s a very clear example of how audiences get to participate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/txaY7ZAV5ck'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/txaY7ZAV5ck'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cbr>La Pocha Nostra, \u003cem>Border Interogation\u003c/em>, 2009; video; TRT 1:26. Courtesy of the Artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> And in the Living Museum of Fetishized Identities you invite people to perform their own ethnic fantasies?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> We had an “identity makeover booth” where people got to choose, in dialogue with fashion designers and makeup artists, their own fetishized look. It could be a gender- or ethnic-bending fantasy look. They could be as outrageous as they wanted and then they would join us on platforms to create their own tableaux vivants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More recently we performed a piece titled \u003ca href=\"http://www.somarts.org/tag/corpoilicito/\">\u003cem>Corpo Illicito\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. It essentially involved reenactments of some anthological pieces intertwined with brand-new live images. For example, I did a reenactment of one of my classic pieces where I was dressed as a generic terrorist in drag and I invited audience members to hold an uzi or an AK-47, a real one without bullets, and point it at different parts of my body while I was staging iconic images taken from the history of the representation of violence in painting, cinema, and journalism. People got to experience how it felt to have a human in the crosshairs. People would point the weapon at my eyes, at my heart, at my genitals, even at my butt. People would step on top of the platform and put a leg on top of my back and point the weapon at my neck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The performance environments we create are very intoxicating and seductive. There are multiple projections and electronic music, so people get seduced by the space and they let go and participate sometimes without realizing the implications of their symbolic actions. It’s only after, a day or two later, that they go, “Hey, wait a moment. We are all capable of violence; we are all capable of holding a gun against another human being.” This realization comes when they wake up with a little pain in the heart. It is that moment of realization that I’m after. I really distrust kneejerk, immediate reactions to a piece. I think an effective performance creates sediment in your subconscious and it begins to filter into your conscious mind in the coming days and weeks and always in dialogue with other artworks, other books, and other films. That is where the power of performance art lies, as opposed to narrative cinema, a novel, or a traditional theater play, where you are asked to make up your mind right at the end of the piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> When people come up on stage with you and interact — I know you’re not taking a position of judgment toward them in any way — but do you have any sense of how far they’re performing an identity because it’s a response to seeing you perform something, or whether they’re really channelling something innate?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> I can only speculate. I am not an anthropologist, a sociologist, or a psychologist, but I do have a lot of experience with audience behavior — practically three decades of experimenting with human behavior through performance. Some people enact archetypal behavior; they connect to a common, primal self, and in that archetypal behavior — which I love, I adore — I feel that some people are motivated by psychological needs of protagonism and visibility and they tend to overact, and that’s less interesting to me. Others are motivated by true compassion and the need to connect and to engage in a dialogue with the artist. Other people are just performing for their friends — especially the people who have had a little too much to drink or who are on their way to a party. A few are, by nature, exhibitionists. This spectrum of possibilities makes for very interesting audience participation. But as you said, we try to never judge. The only time we stop audience participation is when it gets dangerous — when they grab a dangerous object and you can tell that they no longer have control.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But these are the exceptions to the rule. Most of the time I think people understand that we’re creating a symbolic universe and that whether it’s a violent act or a sexually explicit act, it’s just symbolic. As Chicanos, we’re into artifice, not into phenomenology. Phenomenology belongs to the past — to the ’70s, when blood was real blood, and violence was real violence. We’re more interested in the construction of highly complex and stylized symbols. They are as powerful as the real actions they refer to. Most of the time the audience understands that. It’s like a contract; a subtextual, unspoken contract between the performer and the audience member.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> What are some of the off-the-map places you have performed in? How remote do you go?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> We had a four-year-long project with Sammi communities in the tip of Norway — where Norway meets Russia in the Arctic. It’s a border city where a lot of Russian traffickers and bootleggers bring illicit goods into Europe. It’s a very wild, multicultural place. There are Finnish, Russian, Norwegian, and Sammi peoples — the indigenous peoples of the Nordic countries. We did a four-year project there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We have also performed in small villages in Alaska and in the Canary Islands, off the shores of Africa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Why do you choose those places?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Because that’s where we get to test our practice — in extreme border conditions. We have also been to many small Latin American cities where there is absolutely no contemporary artwork, where they have never seen an experimental art piece.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Do they understand that what you’re doing is art? How do they understand what you’re doing as separate from reality?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> Every place in the zones of silence has been a challenge unto itself. Often it is the indigenous communities that help us enter into the soul of the place, because indigenous peoples throughout the world have extremely performative practices that are closer to live art than say, to Western theatre. They get it. When a Hopi bird-dancer or a Cree grass-dancer dances for twelve hours, don’t tell me that is not performance art!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Performance artists may have all sorts of social shortcomings, and we may be terrible with administering our finances or sustaining a nine-to-five job, but when it comes to crossing borders, we make very good intercultural diplomats. I think that if governments were more enlightened, they would make good use of us. Imagine inviting a performance artist to redesign a hospital. From the lighting to the music and the activities presented to the patients, hospitals would become more human places. Or, imagine performance artists defining the curriculum of a high school or the activities of prisoners — even to humanize the corporate people, giving performance workshops to corporate staff during lunchtime or DJ-ing religious conventions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/I215_GGM.jpg\" alt=\"\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\">\u003cbr>La Pocha Nostra, \u003cem>Piedad Postcolonial\u003c/em>, 2005; photograph. Courtesy of the Artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> I read about Mayor Mockus, a former mayor of Bogota, Colombia, who hired mime artists to address increasing numbers of people being run over by cars. They would step into the street and make fun of drivers who were being irresponsible, or pedestrians who were walking carelessly across the street without looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> I know Antanas Mockus very well. Let’s also think of Subcommandante Marcos, the intellectual leader of the Zapatistas; he was a performance artist extraordinaire. There are many cases where activists and politicians have effectively utilized performance strategies to implement social programs and communicate their ideas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> Would you want to be hired by the government?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> [Long pause] I wouldn’t mind training and advising people who occupy certain government positions. Cruz Bustamante, the ex-vice governor of California, happens to be the brother of Nao Bustamante, the performance artist. Cruz never invited Nao to advise him, and as a result, his campaign strategies when he ran for governor were so wimpy and uninteresting that he ended up losing. If only he had invited his sister to advise him, he would have been in much better shape.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>TT:\u003c/strong> I saw that in 2011 you have plans to explore the culture of violence. Can you talk about that?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>GGP:\u003c/strong> One of the reasons I am based here (in the United States) is because my own country has been taken over by organized crime. Violence is a very emotional issue for us post-national Mexicans. It’s becoming increasingly hard for us to return, and as we witness how our families and loved ones are falling prey to crime on a daily basis, I want to contribute to a dialogue around the causes of violence and try to understand why, in just a few years, Mexico went from being a peaceful country to becoming the continental capital of organized crime. I also want to mourn, through my performance work, those who have been killed. I want to tackle the issue of violence as one of the central issues of our times. I feel that it’s time to create an artwork that concentrates in the exploration of violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another thing that I’m really interested in — and this has to do with the place that I am at in my life — is conversing on the stage or in the gallery with some of my contemporaries. So I have been engaging in a series of performance collaborations with artists that have been my friends for many years: people like Tania Bruguera, James Luna, and Reverend Billy. These performance projects are quite moving. When you witness two friends from different cultural backgrounds and artistic practices working together, coexisting, sharing the space, the project becomes a radical act of diplomacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>________\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Guillermo Gómez-Peña\u003c/strong> is a performance artist and writer based in San Francisco, where he is artistic director of \u003ca href=\"http://www.pochanostra.com/\">La Pocha Nostra\u003c/a>, an international collective of artists, curators, and intellectuals. A native of Mexico City, Gómez-Peña’s pioneering work in performance, video, radio, installation, poetry, journalism, and cultural theory explores cross-cultural issues, immigration, the politics of language, “extreme culture,” and new technologies. Critics have described his live work as “Chicano cyber-punk performances.” Gómez-Peña is a MacArthur fellow, an American Book Award recipient, a regular contributor to National Public Radio, a writer for newspapers and magazines in the United States and Mexico, and a contributing editor to \u003ci>The Drama Review\u003c/i> (NYU-MIT). His performance, installation, and video work has been presented at over seven hundred venues across the United States, Canada, Mexico, Europe, Australia, Russia, Colombia, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Brazil, Peru, Venezuela, and Argentina. Most recently, he has presented work at Tate Modern (London), the House of World Cultures (Berlin), MACBA (Barcelona), The Chopo Museum (Mexico City), the Encuentro Hemisférico (Lima, Rio de Janeiro, and New York), and the Habana Bienale.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "1001 Chairs for Ai Weiwei",
"headTitle": "1001 Chairs for Ai Weiwei | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>I was about 10 minutes late. The Cherry Blossom Festival was happening at the same time and there was a lot of traffic resulting from the parade — confusingly, the Chinese Consulate is located in the Japantown area of San Francisco. As I had walked out the door, my husband quipped about how I was taking a folding chair that had been made in China to protest in front of the Chinese Consulate. It seemed, in itself, a fitting demonstration against the detention of internationally acclaimed artist and iconoclast Ai Weiwei.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chinese officials in Beijing took the artist into custody on April 3 and he has not been heard from since. His computers and papers have been seized from his studio. I signed a petition for his release initiated by the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation — when I signed it online last week, I was number 700 something, but now it numbers more than 90,000 signatures. (\u003ca href=\"http://www.change.org/petitions/call-for-the-release-of-ai-weiwei\">Sign the petition here.\u003c/a>) Yesterday’s demonstration originated as a suggestion on Facebook by curator Steven Holmes and was then put into action by Creative Time, an organization that advocates for political art in public space. At 1pm hundreds of people gathered at Chinese embassies and consulates all over the world in an international show of solidarity for the artist. It was suggested that demonstrators bring a chair to reference Weiwei’s installation of 1001 chairs, titled “Fairytale,” in Kassel, Germany in 2007.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I parked about four blocks away from the site and walked up a leafy tree-lined street, noticing for the first time that it was a blustery spring day with a slight chill in the air. The demonstrators lined the sidewalk in front of the consulate in a very orderly fashion, organized in rows like outdoor pews. All manner of chairs had been put to service: aluminum lawn chairs and heavy wood chairs were intermixed with those collapsible canvas beach chairs with built in cup holders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I recognized a few artists, including Enrique Chagoya, Kara Maria, and Cheryl Meeker. Courtney Fink, the executive director of Southern Exposure sat holding a sign that demanded Ai Weiwei’s release written in English and Chinese. I soon learned that the sign had been designed by artist Christine Wong Yap and distributed via the Internet. Art dealer Jack Fischer sat near the closed doors of the Consulate. Along the back row, a man with a cane sat holding a large laminated portrait of Ai — I overheard art dealer Cheryl Haines mention that this man had been crippled during the ’89 protests in Tiananmen Square. Haines, also the executive director of the \u003ca href=\"http://www.for-site.org/\">For-Site Foundation\u003c/a>, has worked with Ai on recent exhibitions in her gallery and in a series of site-specific projects at The Presidio. She was visibly emotional throughout the demonstration, simultaneously working her phone to solicit press attention while tending to those in attendance. Her staff moved through the small crowd constantly taking photographs and video footage, passing out buttons that read “Free Weiwei” and offering water in compostable paper cups.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another button on offer featured the image of a single sunflower seed — a large platter of sunflower seeds was passed through the crowd, in reference to Ai’s “Sunflower Seeds,” the mountain of 10,000 hand-painted porcelain seeds that sold at Sotheby’s for more than $500,000 in February. The man seated to my left sat with a tiny dog on a leash — he had pinned one of the buttons on the dog’s collar. The man on my right, a British artist named Phil, observed how cold it was and suggested that it might be the beginning of a classic San Francisco summer (read: freezing) before mentioning that they were protesting by the hundreds in London. Further in the crowd of about 50 or 60 people sat a couple with their six-month-old baby boy, Elias. Elias wore a beanie cap that read “Who’s Afraid of Ai Weiwei?” and the whole family had matching custom printed t-shirts. A tremendous amount of documentation took place throughout the event. Dozens of people took pictures, some uploading the images immediately to Facebook and Twitter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At one point, Haines asked everyone to stand and to back away from our chairs. The rows were straightened for a photograph with the portrait of the artist arranged in the center of the empty arrangement. The group then collectively held a moment of silence in honor of the artist. Just as the crowd was about to disperse, a cameraman from Channel 5 arrived and everyone reassembled. Cheryl Haines implored the reporter to stay and gather footage, noting how vital press coverage would be to assist Ai’s plight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mood was somber, but there was a sense of purpose in the face of futility. An artist remarked to me that the Chinese government is baffled by why Americans are troubling themselves to inquire after a criminal. I overheard another artist say that she was used to this type of thing happening in her native Iran.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I wondered at the effectiveness of a demonstration on a Sunday when the Consulate was closed. But once viral, the plan was in motion. This too seemed a fitting tribute to the artist, who has used social networks to speak out against the Chinese government, most notably following the Sichuan Province earthquake in 2008. After those outbursts, Ai was so severely beaten by police that he suffered a brain hemorrhage that required emergency surgery and resulted in memory loss.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like me, there were legions of people who wanted to feel active and participated in the demonstrations yesterday. I went because I wanted to feel a sense of agency in a world that seems to be suddenly ruled by conservative ideology and brute force. While governments, including my own, produce media spin, I trust artists to know and tell the truth. By 2:30 people began to fold their chairs and disappear into the afternoon. While it lasted, the protest felt like an active way to object to repression, but now we have all returned to waiting. Somewhere out there, we hope, Ai Weiwei waits too.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>I was about 10 minutes late. The Cherry Blossom Festival was happening at the same time and there was a lot of traffic resulting from the parade — confusingly, the Chinese Consulate is located in the Japantown area of San Francisco. As I had walked out the door, my husband quipped about how I was taking a folding chair that had been made in China to protest in front of the Chinese Consulate. It seemed, in itself, a fitting demonstration against the detention of internationally acclaimed artist and iconoclast Ai Weiwei.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chinese officials in Beijing took the artist into custody on April 3 and he has not been heard from since. His computers and papers have been seized from his studio. I signed a petition for his release initiated by the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation — when I signed it online last week, I was number 700 something, but now it numbers more than 90,000 signatures. (\u003ca href=\"http://www.change.org/petitions/call-for-the-release-of-ai-weiwei\">Sign the petition here.\u003c/a>) Yesterday’s demonstration originated as a suggestion on Facebook by curator Steven Holmes and was then put into action by Creative Time, an organization that advocates for political art in public space. At 1pm hundreds of people gathered at Chinese embassies and consulates all over the world in an international show of solidarity for the artist. It was suggested that demonstrators bring a chair to reference Weiwei’s installation of 1001 chairs, titled “Fairytale,” in Kassel, Germany in 2007.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I parked about four blocks away from the site and walked up a leafy tree-lined street, noticing for the first time that it was a blustery spring day with a slight chill in the air. The demonstrators lined the sidewalk in front of the consulate in a very orderly fashion, organized in rows like outdoor pews. All manner of chairs had been put to service: aluminum lawn chairs and heavy wood chairs were intermixed with those collapsible canvas beach chairs with built in cup holders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I recognized a few artists, including Enrique Chagoya, Kara Maria, and Cheryl Meeker. Courtney Fink, the executive director of Southern Exposure sat holding a sign that demanded Ai Weiwei’s release written in English and Chinese. I soon learned that the sign had been designed by artist Christine Wong Yap and distributed via the Internet. Art dealer Jack Fischer sat near the closed doors of the Consulate. Along the back row, a man with a cane sat holding a large laminated portrait of Ai — I overheard art dealer Cheryl Haines mention that this man had been crippled during the ’89 protests in Tiananmen Square. Haines, also the executive director of the \u003ca href=\"http://www.for-site.org/\">For-Site Foundation\u003c/a>, has worked with Ai on recent exhibitions in her gallery and in a series of site-specific projects at The Presidio. She was visibly emotional throughout the demonstration, simultaneously working her phone to solicit press attention while tending to those in attendance. Her staff moved through the small crowd constantly taking photographs and video footage, passing out buttons that read “Free Weiwei” and offering water in compostable paper cups.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another button on offer featured the image of a single sunflower seed — a large platter of sunflower seeds was passed through the crowd, in reference to Ai’s “Sunflower Seeds,” the mountain of 10,000 hand-painted porcelain seeds that sold at Sotheby’s for more than $500,000 in February. The man seated to my left sat with a tiny dog on a leash — he had pinned one of the buttons on the dog’s collar. The man on my right, a British artist named Phil, observed how cold it was and suggested that it might be the beginning of a classic San Francisco summer (read: freezing) before mentioning that they were protesting by the hundreds in London. Further in the crowd of about 50 or 60 people sat a couple with their six-month-old baby boy, Elias. Elias wore a beanie cap that read “Who’s Afraid of Ai Weiwei?” and the whole family had matching custom printed t-shirts. A tremendous amount of documentation took place throughout the event. Dozens of people took pictures, some uploading the images immediately to Facebook and Twitter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At one point, Haines asked everyone to stand and to back away from our chairs. The rows were straightened for a photograph with the portrait of the artist arranged in the center of the empty arrangement. The group then collectively held a moment of silence in honor of the artist. Just as the crowd was about to disperse, a cameraman from Channel 5 arrived and everyone reassembled. Cheryl Haines implored the reporter to stay and gather footage, noting how vital press coverage would be to assist Ai’s plight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mood was somber, but there was a sense of purpose in the face of futility. An artist remarked to me that the Chinese government is baffled by why Americans are troubling themselves to inquire after a criminal. I overheard another artist say that she was used to this type of thing happening in her native Iran.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I wondered at the effectiveness of a demonstration on a Sunday when the Consulate was closed. But once viral, the plan was in motion. This too seemed a fitting tribute to the artist, who has used social networks to speak out against the Chinese government, most notably following the Sichuan Province earthquake in 2008. After those outbursts, Ai was so severely beaten by police that he suffered a brain hemorrhage that required emergency surgery and resulted in memory loss.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like me, there were legions of people who wanted to feel active and participated in the demonstrations yesterday. I went because I wanted to feel a sense of agency in a world that seems to be suddenly ruled by conservative ideology and brute force. While governments, including my own, produce media spin, I trust artists to know and tell the truth. By 2:30 people began to fold their chairs and disappear into the afternoon. While it lasted, the protest felt like an active way to object to repression, but now we have all returned to waiting. Somewhere out there, we hope, Ai Weiwei waits too.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This excerpted interview is part of an ongoing collaboration between \u003ca href=\"http://badatsports.com\">Bad at Sports\u003c/a> and Art Practical. The conversation with Herschend took place on March 15, 2011, as Jonn and his co-founder at \u003c/em> \u003ca href=\"http://www.thethingquarterly.com/\">THE THING Quarterly\u003c/a>, Will Rogan, were about to move into a temporary storefront office at the Kadist Foundation on Folsom Street in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>________\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Andrews: \u003c/strong>Your current body of work crosses the line between installation, performance, video, lectures, PowerPoints: a wide range of material that involves this larger thread that somehow seems to be either pulling the wool over the audience’s eyes or exposing the wool that had been pulled over their eyes. The first thing in your bio is that you were raised in an amusement park. Is that true?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jonn Herschend:\u003c/strong> It’s true. My grandfather started an amusement park in the Ozarks on the Arkansas-Missouri border in the 1960s, called Silver Dollar City. My dad was involved in that as his son, and my mom worked there. It was an 1880s theme park, so there were people dressed up in costume.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So here’s the story: My grandfather was a vacuum cleaner salesman in Chicago when vacuum cleaners were all the rage. He cashed it in, and they bought a cave in the Ozarks. They decided that they would try to figure out a way to entertain people while they waited to go on a cave tour. I think the Ozarks at this point in time, even though it was the 1960s, were pretty exotic for a lot of people. There weren’t a lot of roads there; it was beautiful — there were great, beautiful rivers, and people would come down there from Chicago, because they thought it was a really amazing place to go. I guess it would be like going to Costa Rica today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They built this amusement park up over the top of the cave. They bought a steam train, they started building shops, and they had 1880s performers there. Then I came along. They would dress me up in costume when I was a little older and leave me in the steam train depot with the old timers. So I ran around this park as a kid, and I thought it was really cool, and as I went through elementary school I thought it was strange, but we were just part of the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then, when I went to college and studied theatre, I was really embarrassed about it all because my friends were going off and studying — or going to do Summer stock, and to these amazing theatre companies up and down the East Coast. I went to Boston University and to this really tiny theatre department, and I would go back in the summers and be a train robber. So I did grow up with this backdrop of make-believe and entertainment, and people coming in and suspending belief. Now it’s more interesting to me than it was in college.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" alt=\"\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/EOTI-still-4.jpg\">\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Embrace of the Irrational\u003c/em>, 2009 (video still); HD video; Photo: Lenny Gonzalez.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Patricia Maloney:\u003c/strong> I think you can make a direct thread between that and a lot of your work — in the way that you play with simulacra and reveal where the fictive experience falls away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> I think that is definitely informing the work that I’m doing now. Because there is a willingness to suspend belief when you walk into a situation like that. Also, everyone who is experiencing those particular situations has something going on; I mean, going to an amusement park with kids is usually awful because they eat sugar and go crazy. Families are trying to keep it together, but someone’s crying and yelling. It’s just an intense experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s this background of angst that comes into it, this desire to be entertained, and then on the other side there are people who work in these situations, pretending to be characters. So there’s this fantasy — an exchange that both parties have in the situation — and I find that incredible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM: \u003c/strong>As well as the fantasy of the undue expectations that are placed around the experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH: \u003c/strong>Totally. It’s like going to a museum today. What are the expectations at a museum? There’s no difference. I think culturally it’s different — we put it on a different plateau, but we’re paying money to go and have this experience. And it may not be a hillbilly who is going to have a street shooting with someone else from the Hatfield and McCoy side, but it’s definitely something that’s supposed to change us in some way. What is the role of art and what is the role of entertainment, and how do those — as the economy collapsed, and more and more institutions are looking for funding from the individual, as well — how do those things coalesce? What’s the difference between spending money and going to a museum or spending money and going to a baseball game?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> I think it’s interesting to relate this part of your history to your most recent self-portraiture piece — the self-portrait as a PowerPoint proposal for an amusement park. Could you talk us through that work?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> That piece was made for the Mattress Factory in 2009, but it’s actually going to be in the San Francisco International Film Festival this year. They asked me to do a portrait, and I just could not think of a portrait to do. I hadn’t done anything that was necessarily autobiographical; usually what I end up doing is fiction. I was thinking about the dichotomy of the experience; you suspend your belief and you come into the institution — in this case, the Mattress Factory — and what are your expectations?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a leak in that piece, in the ceiling, that we created by drilling a hole. So even within the piece itself, you constantly have to ask yourself: is this real or is this part of the piece? In the front room, there is a PowerPoint proposal that is completely fictitious, about a guy proposing a rollercoaster, but it becomes a sordid tale about he and his coworker, who have an affair and get in a car wreck because they’re drunk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The second part of the piece is a janitor’s closet that we built. It has a door that’s slightly open, that never closes fully and never opens fully. Viewers have to decide if it’s part of the piece or not, so they go behind the scenes. There is an 8mm projector in the cupboard that projects the true moment of my daughter going on one of those fairground swing-chair rides. She’s having so much fun; it’s just pure innocence and joy — that’s the real experience. I wanted to separate those two experiences, and have them operate in that space. I don’t think it was necessarily super successful, but it was a step for me. It was the first step for me to really think about my background.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM:\u003c/strong> Oftentimes in your work there is a series of decisions that have to be made: how much am I going to embrace this? How much am I going to go along with the logic or the disintegration of the narrative that’s happening, and how much am I going to stay faithful to this before I veer off from it, or I discard it? That’s a process that I’m curious about. In one of the recent additions to \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em> — the piece by Starlee Kine — is a very similar experience. Kine’s \u003cem>Cutting Board\u003c/em> contains a narrative about crying. The idea is that you’re supposed to use this board to chop onions and, actually, as you’re reading the story, which fades away the more you cut on it, it still provokes this very real emotion — or rather, interaction. I’m interested in the way you play with a viewer’s expectations and willingness to embed themselves with the narratives that you’re producing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> Yeah, that issue by Starlee Kine is awesome. That’s one of our favorite issues because she took the task fully to heart and really created something that \u003cem>is\u003c/em> the object but goes\u003cem> beyond\u003c/em> the object. I taught English literature at the high school level for six years, and when I was going to college to learn how to teach, reader response theory was all the rage. It was all about how to incorporate the reader. So I thought, what \u003cem>is\u003c/em> the reader’s response? What is the responsibility of the viewer, and what does that mean in art? How can I really actively engage the viewer? So part of it became, not a trick, but a way to create a scenario where the viewer had to become engaged in some way — whether they wanted to or not — to create a piece where there was a rift in the structure, and the viewer had to step up and fill that rift, and decide: is this serious or is this not serious? It’s out of great respect for the viewer that I think of these pieces when I put them together — not to mess with them or fool them, but to engage them. I think one of the best ways to do that is if you’re doing a live performance, and there’s something that seems to go wrong, really wrong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve seen this a couple of times in business presentations, where someone will freeze for a long time, and you just wonder, are they having a stroke? What’s going on? Then they get back into it. That’s a real moment. I think if I can take that moment and respectfully continue the piece with that drama incorporated, then there’s potential for a cathartic experience. That’s a goal of mine — to create a theatrical moment without the guise of theatre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> I think that’s the root of most successful performance art: the breakdown of that sort of audience-viewer relationship and the ambiguity that comes out of it. Reading through a lot of your earlier bodies of work, seeing them only described as text and photo, I feel awkward. How awkward would I be if some guy is giving a PowerPoint presentation and he starts breaking down? I think a lot of more recent performance work seems to avoid that issue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> It’s true. The other side of this that I think about, and wrestle with a lot, is entertainment and how important it is. What role does entertainment actually play? I do feel that, as artists, we gave a lot up to the powers that entertain. And I think it’s important that we take some of that back. That doesn’t mean that we make things that don’t have any depth or meaning, but I think that’s something that’s being reexamined more and more now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" alt=\"\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/presentation.jpg\">\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Self Portrait as a PowerPoint Proposal for an Amusement Park Ride,\u003c/em> 2009; installation view, \u003cem>Likeness\u003c/em>, 2009. Courtesy of the Artist and the Mattress Factory, Pittsburgh. Photo: Tom Little.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> I’m really interested in that myself — the idea of giving it up to television, Hollywood, the blogosphere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> For a long time I think the intellectual side is what we got. We got to keep that, and anything that smacked of narrative or smacked of entertainment — well, there was already a place for that and that’s where people went for it. I think contemporary art became too austere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> I completely agree with that statement. I think one difficulty operating as a contemporary artist is that quite often if you reach towards humor, or if you reach towards entertainment, you pick up this patina that may be too pop or too commercialized, which is a ridiculous notion, but it marginalizes you away from potentially more active parts of the discourse. So, for people who aren’t familiar, what is \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em>?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em> is a project that Will Rogan and I started with a residency at Southern Exposure in 2007. It’s a periodical in the form of an object. We publish on objects. We work with different writers, artists, and filmmakers to produce an issue each quarter. We treat it like a magazine. It’s not a limited edition; we don’t think about it like that. It’s problematic because it is by default, and it’s also problematic because people have to deal with these objects and may not necessarily want them once they get them, because they’re secret. That’s been the idea behind it — it’s a secret before they come out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our ideal is that everyone uses the objects. But we also understand that some people won’t. The further we’ve gone along with it the more we’ve crept into the design scene. It’s really fun to work with designers. They consider the function of it much more than we do. We always consider the form.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tess Thackara:\u003c/strong> Wasn’t there one issue that was a single shoe? It was like laughing in the face of the utility, because what can you do with one shoe?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> That was Allora & Calzadilla whose work is much like that — laughing in the face of utility. It was a shoe bound to a book. And it was called \u003cem>Problems and Promises\u003c/em>. The idea was that it’s this ridiculous conundrum where you have a shoe bound to a book that’s through the lace. That’s insane, and what do you do with it? Do you put it on your bookshelf? Do you put it in the closet? And the second part is that, for Will and I, the two represent two ways to gather knowledge. Are you going to put the shoe on, if you’re a size seven, and walk around with a book dragging behind you? Or will you use the book and leave the shoe there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM:\u003c/strong> \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em> Issue One was a window shade by Miranda July and there are two versions of the text. I received the one that says, “If this shade is down, I am not who you think I am.” Mine is hung adjacent to the window, so it’s always down. One of our neighbors came in once and read that, and turned to me and said, “Is that shade ever up?” — which I thought was just the best response to that piece. It implied that just seeing the piece calls into question what your relationship is to the person who is actually viewing it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH: \u003c/strong>Miranda had this really amazing vision of people all over putting the shades down in their apartments or houses in cities and the message being sent out to the world: “If this shade is down I’m begging your forgiveness on bended knee with tears streaming down my face.” That was the other one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM:\u003c/strong> As you mentioned earlier, one of the major requirements for all of these pieces besides being utilitarian objects is that they incorporate text. So these are fragments of narratives that then, as objects, become embodied — you’re living with and somehow participating in these narratives. Would you say that that is accurate or does that inform the people that you work with?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> Initially, we thought about what happens when an object receives text. How does that change the object? And that’s all in the interpretation of the person receiving it. I think that’s such a personal thing, and the other thing too is that it’s a way for people to interact with these pieces outside of a gallery — in their homes. So a piece by Allora & Calzadilla would come to your house, and it’s just you and the object. What do you want to do with it? How do you feel about it? For us, it was really important to create that experience or that possibility. Plus, to have the US Postal Service be the intermediary — we like the US Postal Service, even though sometimes issues get lost. But that experience is really what we envisioned, not so much what happened after — that moment when it came to them in the door, and they opened the box, and it’s like, \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em>‘s here! That’s the moment that we really got excited about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM:\u003c/strong> There’s an interesting switch that happens in the unwrapping of the box. It arrives and it says “THE THING”, the issue number, and the name of the artist on it. Then you open it up and you see what the object is. So you know in advance who the artist is going to be, but you don’t know what you’re going to receive. So all of a sudden the object takes precedence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> There’s an incredible amount of expectation in that, too. And that’s the problem we had in the very beginning. You create this expectation, and it can go through the roof. Really, it can only cost so much to make. It has to be very affordable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" alt=\"\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/Thing_cover.jpg\">\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>THE THING Quarterly, \u003c/em>winter 2010/11; vinyl record; issue 13 by Matthew Higgs & Martin Creed; 12″. Courtesy of \u003cem>THE THING Quarterly\u003c/em>. Photo: Lenny Gonzalez.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> So there’s no text or anything that comes with it, there is only the object.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> This is another editorial stand that we took early on. There is text that does accompany the object, but in some cases the text is very terse. We decided early on that we weren’t going to instruct the viewer on the artist or on how to experience this piece unless the artist wanted that. But there are issues that do have more texts than others. Starlee Kine’s, for instance, has an amazing essay that fully instructs you on how to use the cutting board. Whereas Allora & Calzadilla’s issue has no text.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> Which is beautiful. There’s a moment of negotiation. So what’s next for you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> Well, I was just in Copenhagen in a residency for two months. I was in an exhibition there and shot a \u003ca href=\"http://vimeo.com/21320925\">video piece\u003c/a> as part of the residency. Tucker Nichols and I came over together for the show, and the piece I created for them was a promotional video that would play in the lobby of the space when you walk in, and it would look like it was made for the institution, but they had actually gone out and contracted someone to make this. The video falls apart in the process. The translator has taken the narrator’s cat away to the country. They get in fights all the time apparently. She leaves him and he takes her cat away. And so this all comes out in the video and it collapses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have a show at Steven Wolf this fall — in his new space. More immediately up next is the launch for James Franco’s issue. He’s coming to San Francisco to work with us for two days. He will be actually hand writing on each issue. We’re also producing a limited edition with him that we’ll release in May, which we’re very excited about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Listen to the full interview at Bad at Sports: \u003ca href=\"http://badatsports.com/2011/episode-290/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Episode 290\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://jonnherschend.com/\">\u003cstrong>Jonn Herschend\u003c/strong>\u003c/a> is an interdisciplinary artist, filmmaker and experimental publisher. His performances, video work, and installations have included works such as an infomercial about ambiguity and a motorized trolley tour of places where personal crisis became public. His work has been exhibited nationally and internationally including the Stuttgarter Filmwinter Film festival, Germany; Koh-i-noor, Denmark; LKV Gallery, Norway; the Cleveland Museum of Contemporary Art; the Pacific Film Archive, Berkeley; and Southern Exposure and Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco. He is the co-founder and co-editor, along with Will Rogan, of the experimental publication THE THING Quarterly, and is a recent recipient of a Danish Arts Council grant for his work as co-curator, along with Heidi Hove, of the Deadpan Exchange international exhibition series. He has been a visiting lecturer at the University of California, Berkeley, San Francisco State University, California College of the Arts, and Stanford University.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This excerpted interview is part of an ongoing collaboration between \u003ca href=\"http://badatsports.com\">Bad at Sports\u003c/a> and Art Practical. The conversation with Herschend took place on March 15, 2011, as Jonn and his co-founder at \u003c/em> \u003ca href=\"http://www.thethingquarterly.com/\">THE THING Quarterly\u003c/a>, Will Rogan, were about to move into a temporary storefront office at the Kadist Foundation on Folsom Street in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>________\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Brian Andrews: \u003c/strong>Your current body of work crosses the line between installation, performance, video, lectures, PowerPoints: a wide range of material that involves this larger thread that somehow seems to be either pulling the wool over the audience’s eyes or exposing the wool that had been pulled over their eyes. The first thing in your bio is that you were raised in an amusement park. Is that true?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jonn Herschend:\u003c/strong> It’s true. My grandfather started an amusement park in the Ozarks on the Arkansas-Missouri border in the 1960s, called Silver Dollar City. My dad was involved in that as his son, and my mom worked there. It was an 1880s theme park, so there were people dressed up in costume.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So here’s the story: My grandfather was a vacuum cleaner salesman in Chicago when vacuum cleaners were all the rage. He cashed it in, and they bought a cave in the Ozarks. They decided that they would try to figure out a way to entertain people while they waited to go on a cave tour. I think the Ozarks at this point in time, even though it was the 1960s, were pretty exotic for a lot of people. There weren’t a lot of roads there; it was beautiful — there were great, beautiful rivers, and people would come down there from Chicago, because they thought it was a really amazing place to go. I guess it would be like going to Costa Rica today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They built this amusement park up over the top of the cave. They bought a steam train, they started building shops, and they had 1880s performers there. Then I came along. They would dress me up in costume when I was a little older and leave me in the steam train depot with the old timers. So I ran around this park as a kid, and I thought it was really cool, and as I went through elementary school I thought it was strange, but we were just part of the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then, when I went to college and studied theatre, I was really embarrassed about it all because my friends were going off and studying — or going to do Summer stock, and to these amazing theatre companies up and down the East Coast. I went to Boston University and to this really tiny theatre department, and I would go back in the summers and be a train robber. So I did grow up with this backdrop of make-believe and entertainment, and people coming in and suspending belief. Now it’s more interesting to me than it was in college.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" alt=\"\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/EOTI-still-4.jpg\">\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Embrace of the Irrational\u003c/em>, 2009 (video still); HD video; Photo: Lenny Gonzalez.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Patricia Maloney:\u003c/strong> I think you can make a direct thread between that and a lot of your work — in the way that you play with simulacra and reveal where the fictive experience falls away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> I think that is definitely informing the work that I’m doing now. Because there is a willingness to suspend belief when you walk into a situation like that. Also, everyone who is experiencing those particular situations has something going on; I mean, going to an amusement park with kids is usually awful because they eat sugar and go crazy. Families are trying to keep it together, but someone’s crying and yelling. It’s just an intense experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s this background of angst that comes into it, this desire to be entertained, and then on the other side there are people who work in these situations, pretending to be characters. So there’s this fantasy — an exchange that both parties have in the situation — and I find that incredible.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM: \u003c/strong>As well as the fantasy of the undue expectations that are placed around the experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH: \u003c/strong>Totally. It’s like going to a museum today. What are the expectations at a museum? There’s no difference. I think culturally it’s different — we put it on a different plateau, but we’re paying money to go and have this experience. And it may not be a hillbilly who is going to have a street shooting with someone else from the Hatfield and McCoy side, but it’s definitely something that’s supposed to change us in some way. What is the role of art and what is the role of entertainment, and how do those — as the economy collapsed, and more and more institutions are looking for funding from the individual, as well — how do those things coalesce? What’s the difference between spending money and going to a museum or spending money and going to a baseball game?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> I think it’s interesting to relate this part of your history to your most recent self-portraiture piece — the self-portrait as a PowerPoint proposal for an amusement park. Could you talk us through that work?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> That piece was made for the Mattress Factory in 2009, but it’s actually going to be in the San Francisco International Film Festival this year. They asked me to do a portrait, and I just could not think of a portrait to do. I hadn’t done anything that was necessarily autobiographical; usually what I end up doing is fiction. I was thinking about the dichotomy of the experience; you suspend your belief and you come into the institution — in this case, the Mattress Factory — and what are your expectations?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a leak in that piece, in the ceiling, that we created by drilling a hole. So even within the piece itself, you constantly have to ask yourself: is this real or is this part of the piece? In the front room, there is a PowerPoint proposal that is completely fictitious, about a guy proposing a rollercoaster, but it becomes a sordid tale about he and his coworker, who have an affair and get in a car wreck because they’re drunk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The second part of the piece is a janitor’s closet that we built. It has a door that’s slightly open, that never closes fully and never opens fully. Viewers have to decide if it’s part of the piece or not, so they go behind the scenes. There is an 8mm projector in the cupboard that projects the true moment of my daughter going on one of those fairground swing-chair rides. She’s having so much fun; it’s just pure innocence and joy — that’s the real experience. I wanted to separate those two experiences, and have them operate in that space. I don’t think it was necessarily super successful, but it was a step for me. It was the first step for me to really think about my background.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM:\u003c/strong> Oftentimes in your work there is a series of decisions that have to be made: how much am I going to embrace this? How much am I going to go along with the logic or the disintegration of the narrative that’s happening, and how much am I going to stay faithful to this before I veer off from it, or I discard it? That’s a process that I’m curious about. In one of the recent additions to \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em> — the piece by Starlee Kine — is a very similar experience. Kine’s \u003cem>Cutting Board\u003c/em> contains a narrative about crying. The idea is that you’re supposed to use this board to chop onions and, actually, as you’re reading the story, which fades away the more you cut on it, it still provokes this very real emotion — or rather, interaction. I’m interested in the way you play with a viewer’s expectations and willingness to embed themselves with the narratives that you’re producing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> Yeah, that issue by Starlee Kine is awesome. That’s one of our favorite issues because she took the task fully to heart and really created something that \u003cem>is\u003c/em> the object but goes\u003cem> beyond\u003c/em> the object. I taught English literature at the high school level for six years, and when I was going to college to learn how to teach, reader response theory was all the rage. It was all about how to incorporate the reader. So I thought, what \u003cem>is\u003c/em> the reader’s response? What is the responsibility of the viewer, and what does that mean in art? How can I really actively engage the viewer? So part of it became, not a trick, but a way to create a scenario where the viewer had to become engaged in some way — whether they wanted to or not — to create a piece where there was a rift in the structure, and the viewer had to step up and fill that rift, and decide: is this serious or is this not serious? It’s out of great respect for the viewer that I think of these pieces when I put them together — not to mess with them or fool them, but to engage them. I think one of the best ways to do that is if you’re doing a live performance, and there’s something that seems to go wrong, really wrong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve seen this a couple of times in business presentations, where someone will freeze for a long time, and you just wonder, are they having a stroke? What’s going on? Then they get back into it. That’s a real moment. I think if I can take that moment and respectfully continue the piece with that drama incorporated, then there’s potential for a cathartic experience. That’s a goal of mine — to create a theatrical moment without the guise of theatre.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> I think that’s the root of most successful performance art: the breakdown of that sort of audience-viewer relationship and the ambiguity that comes out of it. Reading through a lot of your earlier bodies of work, seeing them only described as text and photo, I feel awkward. How awkward would I be if some guy is giving a PowerPoint presentation and he starts breaking down? I think a lot of more recent performance work seems to avoid that issue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> It’s true. The other side of this that I think about, and wrestle with a lot, is entertainment and how important it is. What role does entertainment actually play? I do feel that, as artists, we gave a lot up to the powers that entertain. And I think it’s important that we take some of that back. That doesn’t mean that we make things that don’t have any depth or meaning, but I think that’s something that’s being reexamined more and more now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" alt=\"\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/presentation.jpg\">\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>Self Portrait as a PowerPoint Proposal for an Amusement Park Ride,\u003c/em> 2009; installation view, \u003cem>Likeness\u003c/em>, 2009. Courtesy of the Artist and the Mattress Factory, Pittsburgh. Photo: Tom Little.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> I’m really interested in that myself — the idea of giving it up to television, Hollywood, the blogosphere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> For a long time I think the intellectual side is what we got. We got to keep that, and anything that smacked of narrative or smacked of entertainment — well, there was already a place for that and that’s where people went for it. I think contemporary art became too austere.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> I completely agree with that statement. I think one difficulty operating as a contemporary artist is that quite often if you reach towards humor, or if you reach towards entertainment, you pick up this patina that may be too pop or too commercialized, which is a ridiculous notion, but it marginalizes you away from potentially more active parts of the discourse. So, for people who aren’t familiar, what is \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em>?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em> is a project that Will Rogan and I started with a residency at Southern Exposure in 2007. It’s a periodical in the form of an object. We publish on objects. We work with different writers, artists, and filmmakers to produce an issue each quarter. We treat it like a magazine. It’s not a limited edition; we don’t think about it like that. It’s problematic because it is by default, and it’s also problematic because people have to deal with these objects and may not necessarily want them once they get them, because they’re secret. That’s been the idea behind it — it’s a secret before they come out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our ideal is that everyone uses the objects. But we also understand that some people won’t. The further we’ve gone along with it the more we’ve crept into the design scene. It’s really fun to work with designers. They consider the function of it much more than we do. We always consider the form.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tess Thackara:\u003c/strong> Wasn’t there one issue that was a single shoe? It was like laughing in the face of the utility, because what can you do with one shoe?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> That was Allora & Calzadilla whose work is much like that — laughing in the face of utility. It was a shoe bound to a book. And it was called \u003cem>Problems and Promises\u003c/em>. The idea was that it’s this ridiculous conundrum where you have a shoe bound to a book that’s through the lace. That’s insane, and what do you do with it? Do you put it on your bookshelf? Do you put it in the closet? And the second part is that, for Will and I, the two represent two ways to gather knowledge. Are you going to put the shoe on, if you’re a size seven, and walk around with a book dragging behind you? Or will you use the book and leave the shoe there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM:\u003c/strong> \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em> Issue One was a window shade by Miranda July and there are two versions of the text. I received the one that says, “If this shade is down, I am not who you think I am.” Mine is hung adjacent to the window, so it’s always down. One of our neighbors came in once and read that, and turned to me and said, “Is that shade ever up?” — which I thought was just the best response to that piece. It implied that just seeing the piece calls into question what your relationship is to the person who is actually viewing it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH: \u003c/strong>Miranda had this really amazing vision of people all over putting the shades down in their apartments or houses in cities and the message being sent out to the world: “If this shade is down I’m begging your forgiveness on bended knee with tears streaming down my face.” That was the other one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM:\u003c/strong> As you mentioned earlier, one of the major requirements for all of these pieces besides being utilitarian objects is that they incorporate text. So these are fragments of narratives that then, as objects, become embodied — you’re living with and somehow participating in these narratives. Would you say that that is accurate or does that inform the people that you work with?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> Initially, we thought about what happens when an object receives text. How does that change the object? And that’s all in the interpretation of the person receiving it. I think that’s such a personal thing, and the other thing too is that it’s a way for people to interact with these pieces outside of a gallery — in their homes. So a piece by Allora & Calzadilla would come to your house, and it’s just you and the object. What do you want to do with it? How do you feel about it? For us, it was really important to create that experience or that possibility. Plus, to have the US Postal Service be the intermediary — we like the US Postal Service, even though sometimes issues get lost. But that experience is really what we envisioned, not so much what happened after — that moment when it came to them in the door, and they opened the box, and it’s like, \u003cem>THE THING\u003c/em>‘s here! That’s the moment that we really got excited about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>PM:\u003c/strong> There’s an interesting switch that happens in the unwrapping of the box. It arrives and it says “THE THING”, the issue number, and the name of the artist on it. Then you open it up and you see what the object is. So you know in advance who the artist is going to be, but you don’t know what you’re going to receive. So all of a sudden the object takes precedence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> There’s an incredible amount of expectation in that, too. And that’s the problem we had in the very beginning. You create this expectation, and it can go through the roof. Really, it can only cost so much to make. It has to be very affordable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" alt=\"\" src=\"http://www.artpractical.com/images/uploads/Thing_cover.jpg\">\u003cbr>\n\u003cem>THE THING Quarterly, \u003c/em>winter 2010/11; vinyl record; issue 13 by Matthew Higgs & Martin Creed; 12″. Courtesy of \u003cem>THE THING Quarterly\u003c/em>. Photo: Lenny Gonzalez.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> So there’s no text or anything that comes with it, there is only the object.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> This is another editorial stand that we took early on. There is text that does accompany the object, but in some cases the text is very terse. We decided early on that we weren’t going to instruct the viewer on the artist or on how to experience this piece unless the artist wanted that. But there are issues that do have more texts than others. Starlee Kine’s, for instance, has an amazing essay that fully instructs you on how to use the cutting board. Whereas Allora & Calzadilla’s issue has no text.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>BA:\u003c/strong> Which is beautiful. There’s a moment of negotiation. So what’s next for you?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>JH:\u003c/strong> Well, I was just in Copenhagen in a residency for two months. I was in an exhibition there and shot a \u003ca href=\"http://vimeo.com/21320925\">video piece\u003c/a> as part of the residency. Tucker Nichols and I came over together for the show, and the piece I created for them was a promotional video that would play in the lobby of the space when you walk in, and it would look like it was made for the institution, but they had actually gone out and contracted someone to make this. The video falls apart in the process. The translator has taken the narrator’s cat away to the country. They get in fights all the time apparently. She leaves him and he takes her cat away. And so this all comes out in the video and it collapses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have a show at Steven Wolf this fall — in his new space. More immediately up next is the launch for James Franco’s issue. He’s coming to San Francisco to work with us for two days. He will be actually hand writing on each issue. We’re also producing a limited edition with him that we’ll release in May, which we’re very excited about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Listen to the full interview at Bad at Sports: \u003ca href=\"http://badatsports.com/2011/episode-290/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Episode 290\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://jonnherschend.com/\">\u003cstrong>Jonn Herschend\u003c/strong>\u003c/a> is an interdisciplinary artist, filmmaker and experimental publisher. His performances, video work, and installations have included works such as an infomercial about ambiguity and a motorized trolley tour of places where personal crisis became public. His work has been exhibited nationally and internationally including the Stuttgarter Filmwinter Film festival, Germany; Koh-i-noor, Denmark; LKV Gallery, Norway; the Cleveland Museum of Contemporary Art; the Pacific Film Archive, Berkeley; and Southern Exposure and Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco. He is the co-founder and co-editor, along with Will Rogan, of the experimental publication THE THING Quarterly, and is a recent recipient of a Danish Arts Council grant for his work as co-curator, along with Heidi Hove, of the Deadpan Exchange international exhibition series. He has been a visiting lecturer at the University of California, Berkeley, San Francisco State University, California College of the Arts, and Stanford University.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>We’ve all heard the horror stories: Wet-behind-the-ears interns who are in way over their heads, or — potentially worse — are overqualified and reduced to fetching coffee. While there is truth to these legends, most intern and volunteer experiences in the arts, while demanding, can be tremendously rewarding. It’s time to thank this earnest army. Interns and volunteers form a substantial part of the workforce in the arts, both in the Bay Area and across the country. Because relatively few arts organizations (both nonprofits and commercial spaces) have large budgets, this contingent is more than helpful – they’re essential part of the art community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, who are they? This photo essay turns the lens on the young folks working behind the scenes and under the radar in San Francisco arts spaces. They are working the front desk, staffing galleries, handling phones, responding to viewer questions, arranging libraries, curating and installing shows, and much more. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to gaining practical experience, interns and volunteers get a foot in the door in a competitive art-world job market (which is not to say that anyone in their right mind pursues a career in art for the money; they do it for love). It is not unusual for an art student to accrue half a dozen internships on his or her resume by graduation. The interns and volunteers pictured here work at various galleries and art spaces across the city: Pier 24, Triple Base Gallery, Southern Exposure, Adobe Books Back Room Gallery, and Silverman Gallery. Together they form a picture of the up-and-comers in the arts, putting in their time, and learning from the best. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/emily-heller.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Emily Heller manages the front desk at Pier 24.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/halmos.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Stephanie Halmos watches the Walker Evans galleries at Pier 24.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cordova.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Sofia Cordova unloads books at Pier 24 Library.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/holmes.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Brandon Holmes helps paint and patch the gallery walls at Triple Base.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/holmes-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Holmes installs and Alexander Kori Girard painting at Triple Base.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/brown.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Jesse Brown enters artist submissions at Southern Exposure.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/brown-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Brown looks over artist materials at Southern Exposure.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/tilghman.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Parker Tilghman oversees Deva Graf’s piece, “Good Morning,”: at the Silverman Gallery.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/tilghman-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Tilghman in the Silverman Gallery office.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hood-morgan.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Volunteer Adobe Books Backroom Gallery Volunteer Director and Curator Katie Hood Morgan speaks with a gallery-goer.\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hood-morgan-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Morgan maintains the exhibition at the Adobe Books Backroom Gallery’s exhibition, “stackedmultiplied.”\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>All photos: Carmen Winant.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cp>We’ve all heard the horror stories: Wet-behind-the-ears interns who are in way over their heads, or — potentially worse — are overqualified and reduced to fetching coffee. While there is truth to these legends, most intern and volunteer experiences in the arts, while demanding, can be tremendously rewarding. It’s time to thank this earnest army. Interns and volunteers form a substantial part of the workforce in the arts, both in the Bay Area and across the country. Because relatively few arts organizations (both nonprofits and commercial spaces) have large budgets, this contingent is more than helpful – they’re essential part of the art community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, who are they? This photo essay turns the lens on the young folks working behind the scenes and under the radar in San Francisco arts spaces. They are working the front desk, staffing galleries, handling phones, responding to viewer questions, arranging libraries, curating and installing shows, and much more. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to gaining practical experience, interns and volunteers get a foot in the door in a competitive art-world job market (which is not to say that anyone in their right mind pursues a career in art for the money; they do it for love). It is not unusual for an art student to accrue half a dozen internships on his or her resume by graduation. The interns and volunteers pictured here work at various galleries and art spaces across the city: Pier 24, Triple Base Gallery, Southern Exposure, Adobe Books Back Room Gallery, and Silverman Gallery. Together they form a picture of the up-and-comers in the arts, putting in their time, and learning from the best. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/emily-heller.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Emily Heller manages the front desk at Pier 24.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/halmos.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Stephanie Halmos watches the Walker Evans galleries at Pier 24.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/cordova.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Sofia Cordova unloads books at Pier 24 Library.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/holmes.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Brandon Holmes helps paint and patch the gallery walls at Triple Base.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/holmes-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Holmes installs and Alexander Kori Girard painting at Triple Base.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/brown.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Jesse Brown enters artist submissions at Southern Exposure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/brown-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Brown looks over artist materials at Southern Exposure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/tilghman.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Parker Tilghman oversees Deva Graf’s piece, “Good Morning,”: at the Silverman Gallery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/tilghman-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Tilghman in the Silverman Gallery office.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hood-morgan.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Volunteer Adobe Books Backroom Gallery Volunteer Director and Curator Katie Hood Morgan speaks with a gallery-goer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hood-morgan-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>Morgan maintains the exhibition at the Adobe Books Backroom Gallery’s exhibition, “stackedmultiplied.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All photos: Carmen Winant.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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},
"closealltabs": {
"id": "closealltabs",
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"order": 1
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"title": "Code Switch / Life Kit",
"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5jb21tb253ZWFsdGhjbHViLm9yZy9hdWRpby9wb2RjYXN0L3dlZWtseS54bWw",
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"id": "forum",
"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED Forum with Mina Kim and Alexis Madrigal",
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"order": 9
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"id": "freakonomics-radio",
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"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
"subscribe": {
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/freakonomics-radio/id354668519",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/podcasts/WNYC-Podcasts/Freakonomics-Radio-p272293/",
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},
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"id": "fresh-air",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=214089682&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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"hidden-brain": {
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"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
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"how-i-built-this": {
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"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
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"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
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"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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"order": 15
},
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"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-Political-Mind-of-Jerry-Brown-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
"meta": {
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"order": 18
},
"link": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
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},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
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"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
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},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
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"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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},
"masters-of-scale": {
"id": "masters-of-scale",
"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"meta": {
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"source": "WaitWhat"
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"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3am-9am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Morning-Edition-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/programs/morning-edition/",
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"link": "/radio/program/morning-edition"
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"onourwatch": {
"id": "onourwatch",
"title": "On Our Watch",
"tagline": "Deeply-reported investigative journalism",
"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/On-Our-Watch-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 11
},
"link": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5ucHIub3JnLzUxMDM2MC9wb2RjYXN0LnhtbD9zYz1nb29nbGVwb2RjYXN0cw",
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},
"on-the-media": {
"id": "on-the-media",
"title": "On The Media",
"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm-3pm, MON 12am-1am",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/onTheMedia.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.wnycstudios.org/shows/otm",
"meta": {
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"source": "wnyc"
},
"link": "/radio/program/on-the-media",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/on-the-media/id73330715?mt=2",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/On-the-Media-p69/",
"rss": "http://feeds.wnyc.org/onthemedia"
}
},
"pbs-newshour": {
"id": "pbs-newshour",
"title": "PBS NewsHour",
"info": "Analysis, background reports and updates from the PBS NewsHour putting today's news in context.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3pm-4pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/PBS-News-Hour-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.pbs.org/newshour/",
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},
"link": "/radio/program/pbs-newshour",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/pbs-newshour-full-show/id394432287?mt=2",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/PBS-NewsHour---Full-Show-p425698/",
"rss": "https://www.pbs.org/newshour/feeds/rss/podcasts/show"
}
},
"perspectives": {
"id": "perspectives",
"title": "Perspectives",
"tagline": "KQED's series of daily listener commentaries since 1991",
"info": "KQED's series of daily listener commentaries since 1991.",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/Perspectives_Tile_Final.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/perspectives/",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 14
},
"link": "/perspectives",
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"npr": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/432309616/perspectives",
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},
"planet-money": {
"id": "planet-money",
"title": "Planet Money",
"info": "The economy explained. Imagine you could call up a friend and say, Meet me at the bar and tell me what's going on with the economy. Now imagine that's actually a fun evening.",
"airtime": "SUN 3pm-4pm",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/planetmoney.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/sections/money/",
"meta": {
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"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/planet-money",
"subscribe": {
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