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"content": "\u003cp>We see people living on the streets every day and become practiced at turning away because we can’t spare any change, or we’re uneasy. Hugh Leeman practices the opposite. He supports the under-served folks in his neighborhood by printing t-shirts for them to sell, and also works with them as the subjects of his portraits that you might have noticed pasted up on a block near you. Originally from rural Indiana, Leeman ended up in San Francisco where he stayed put to plant roots for the greater good. We visited his studio near 6th and Market and drilled down to his mission statement. Skeptics beware, we’re buying what he’s selling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-1.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us your story, and how you originally started working with people who are living on the streets. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Hugh Leeman:\u003c/b> I always wanted to travel ever since I was a kid. When I was fourteen, I started working and saving money and, when I was 18, I moved to the Virgin Islands. I thought I’d be living there the rest of my life, but it only lasted a year. I moved to Europe, which started a three-year adventure around the world, and I ended up in San Francisco. I came here thinking I was going to work for a few months as a bartender and save money to go around the world again. Long story short, I got here to this apartment and started making some art and really fell in love with the things I was doing. I fell in love with the neighborhood and never left. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-2.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-3.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What have you been making this summer?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> These pieces on paper are new and are based on the life stories of guys who live on the streets. As I’ve gotten to know them better over the years, they’ve become friends, and they tell me stories from their lives. I started painting some stories from their childhoods.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-12.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-13.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Have portraits always been your main jam?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I’ve always done portraiture but, with the new work, I wanted to start telling more of the story in a literal sense. Certainly, a portrait tells some of the story, but some of these guys have profound and beautiful stories to tell. It became a challenge for me to discuss this, and put it in front of a viewer. Some of the stories are not especially palatable, so I started using my own artistic interpretations to depict it. You can look at it and have a different interpretation than I do, but the beauty is that we are coming to it and basing our ideas off of someone else’s life story. Someone who has endured something that you or I typically haven’t experienced. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-15.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-9.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What made you want to work with folks on the street? Did it start when you moved to San Francisco?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I had no idea what The Tenderloin was before I moved here. I looked at five places from Cragislist, and this place was bigger, cheaper and right downtown. It was close to Muni and BART and I thought it was a steal. When I told people I’d moved to 6th and Market, they said they wouldn’t even come here in the daytime. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-10.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>It’s a well-known intersection. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> It was a blank canvas and I wanted models, and these guys were pretty willing. Maybe it’s me projecting a bit, but part of my fascination is that I see myself in them. There’s this freedom in them. My perception of freedom is that I can save up my money and one day I can retire. I can take a two-week vacation here and there, but I know I have to go to work. I know I have to get up in the morning. Their freedom is that they can do what they want, and they don’t have to retire or think about going to work. That’s the simplest way to sum it up. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-18.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-19.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about one of the first people you worked with, and what that interaction was like. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I would come home from bartending and walk up Jones Street late at night, and the same guy would always be trying to sell me drugs. I would never respond, I’d just keep walking. But one night I turned around and said hey, I don’t want that stuff, but can I take your picture? And he said, sure. I started taking photos of him under the street lights and getting to know his story. It dissipates your ignorance. I’m not saying he’s an angel, but you have a preconceived notion that he’s a bad guy. But, in fact, the guy had a wife and a kid, and was short on rent, so he was selling this stuff. Again, he’s not an angel, but you start thinking, if I was in his position and I had to make rent or else I’d be out on the street, then yeah, I would probably do the same thing. That was match to kerosene for me. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-14.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-16.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What are some of the less obvious challenges of working the way that you do?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> Early on, lots of people thought I was a cop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-5.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>When someone asks what kind of art you make, what do you say?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I always had the idea that I wanted to do something more. Not necessarily for people, but for the greater good of the world. It seems isolating to sit in your studio and strategically place pigment on a blank canvas. You want to communicate with people and have real life experiences. Lots of these guys I met asked if they could come over and stretch canvases, or put up posters for me. I had already been printing t-shirts, and I asked a guy I knew named Elbert if he’d want to sell them. At first it seemed like a silly idea, but he said he’d love to. It became exciting in my mind because it was like this entrepreneurship. They’re outside meeting people, shaking hands, and trying to sell t-shirts, and profit from that. I’ve always seen my street art like an advertisement. It’s an ad for my artwork, but it’s also an ad for these people and who they are. The successes of it, quite frankly, are drops of water in the ocean. I can’t say anyone’s life is being changed on a major scale, but some of the successes have been when guys want to move on from selling the shirts because they get employment or something like that. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-17.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What’s your main goal with your artwork?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> My highest aspiration would be to do something akin to the Pichação in South America. People couldn’t speak out against the government, so they would take little rollers and dip them in paint and write political slogans. It was social criticism. I don’t see there being any real social criticism in my work, it’s just simply giving people a voice. As an artist, you often feel that you don’t have a voice; that it’s such a massive world. You talk about art bubbles and auction houses and think, who the hell am I? You’re knocking on a coffee shop door trying to get a print hung. Through street art, I can talk to the public when I want, and I don’t need a curator to tell me what month of the year I can show my work. I want to communicate with massive amounts of people about what I feel is an under-served demographic. That’s a common denominator with these guys on the streets — they want to be remembered too. Lots of them pass away, and they don’t have family, or they’re not remembered. I think it’s just a way to dignify and humanize them. And maybe sometimes, when I’m painting their portrait, I’m painting myself, in a way. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-21.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-6.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>We were wondering why there aren’t many women represented in your work.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> A month ago, I took the first picture I’ve ever taken of a woman living on the street. I have yet to draw her. Early on, people would ask me why I depicted so many African Americans, and my answer was always well, frankly, it’s because I walk out my door and take pictures of the people I meet. I’m not seeking them out, but they’re a large part of the demographic. The same answer applies here, in a way. The majority of people I see sleeping on the streets are men. There certainly are women on the streets, and the work has been maybe a bit too literal and focused on homeless men. It’s more about people who are oppressed, and that’s two thirds of the world. I want to start painting women, and I’ve just started to scratch the surface. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-11.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about the wallpaper patterns you sometimes use in the background of the portraits. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> They’re stencils that I buy from this site for home decorators. It’s aesthetically pleasing, but it also adds visual irony. I’m taking people who live on the street and depicting them, hoping that someone will buy the paintings to match their couch and beautify their wall. There’s an irony to that, and I didn’t want it to be lost. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-4.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>If your work had a soundtrack what would it be?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I think it would be something that is in a foreign language to me. I have this CD called Ambient Africa. I don’t know what the hell they’re saying, but I can feel it. I think that is hopefully what my work conveys. You may not know exactly what I’m talking about because the language doesn’t hit you the same way it hits someone else, but you can feel it. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hugh Leeman’s work can be seen in \u003cb>The City We Love\u003c/b>, a group show at \u003ca href=\"http://www.941geary.com/events\">941 Geary \u003c/a>in San Francisco on view August 13 – September 3, 2011. \u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "We recently visited Hugh Leeman's studio near 6th and Market and drilled down to his mission statement. Skeptics beware, we're buying what he's selling.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>We see people living on the streets every day and become practiced at turning away because we can’t spare any change, or we’re uneasy. Hugh Leeman practices the opposite. He supports the under-served folks in his neighborhood by printing t-shirts for them to sell, and also works with them as the subjects of his portraits that you might have noticed pasted up on a block near you. Originally from rural Indiana, Leeman ended up in San Francisco where he stayed put to plant roots for the greater good. We visited his studio near 6th and Market and drilled down to his mission statement. Skeptics beware, we’re buying what he’s selling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-1.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us your story, and how you originally started working with people who are living on the streets. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Hugh Leeman:\u003c/b> I always wanted to travel ever since I was a kid. When I was fourteen, I started working and saving money and, when I was 18, I moved to the Virgin Islands. I thought I’d be living there the rest of my life, but it only lasted a year. I moved to Europe, which started a three-year adventure around the world, and I ended up in San Francisco. I came here thinking I was going to work for a few months as a bartender and save money to go around the world again. Long story short, I got here to this apartment and started making some art and really fell in love with the things I was doing. I fell in love with the neighborhood and never left. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-2.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-3.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What have you been making this summer?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> These pieces on paper are new and are based on the life stories of guys who live on the streets. As I’ve gotten to know them better over the years, they’ve become friends, and they tell me stories from their lives. I started painting some stories from their childhoods.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-12.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-13.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Have portraits always been your main jam?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I’ve always done portraiture but, with the new work, I wanted to start telling more of the story in a literal sense. Certainly, a portrait tells some of the story, but some of these guys have profound and beautiful stories to tell. It became a challenge for me to discuss this, and put it in front of a viewer. Some of the stories are not especially palatable, so I started using my own artistic interpretations to depict it. You can look at it and have a different interpretation than I do, but the beauty is that we are coming to it and basing our ideas off of someone else’s life story. Someone who has endured something that you or I typically haven’t experienced. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-15.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-9.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What made you want to work with folks on the street? Did it start when you moved to San Francisco?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I had no idea what The Tenderloin was before I moved here. I looked at five places from Cragislist, and this place was bigger, cheaper and right downtown. It was close to Muni and BART and I thought it was a steal. When I told people I’d moved to 6th and Market, they said they wouldn’t even come here in the daytime. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-10.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>It’s a well-known intersection. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> It was a blank canvas and I wanted models, and these guys were pretty willing. Maybe it’s me projecting a bit, but part of my fascination is that I see myself in them. There’s this freedom in them. My perception of freedom is that I can save up my money and one day I can retire. I can take a two-week vacation here and there, but I know I have to go to work. I know I have to get up in the morning. Their freedom is that they can do what they want, and they don’t have to retire or think about going to work. That’s the simplest way to sum it up. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-18.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-19.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about one of the first people you worked with, and what that interaction was like. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I would come home from bartending and walk up Jones Street late at night, and the same guy would always be trying to sell me drugs. I would never respond, I’d just keep walking. But one night I turned around and said hey, I don’t want that stuff, but can I take your picture? And he said, sure. I started taking photos of him under the street lights and getting to know his story. It dissipates your ignorance. I’m not saying he’s an angel, but you have a preconceived notion that he’s a bad guy. But, in fact, the guy had a wife and a kid, and was short on rent, so he was selling this stuff. Again, he’s not an angel, but you start thinking, if I was in his position and I had to make rent or else I’d be out on the street, then yeah, I would probably do the same thing. That was match to kerosene for me. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-14.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-16.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What are some of the less obvious challenges of working the way that you do?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> Early on, lots of people thought I was a cop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-5.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>When someone asks what kind of art you make, what do you say?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I always had the idea that I wanted to do something more. Not necessarily for people, but for the greater good of the world. It seems isolating to sit in your studio and strategically place pigment on a blank canvas. You want to communicate with people and have real life experiences. Lots of these guys I met asked if they could come over and stretch canvases, or put up posters for me. I had already been printing t-shirts, and I asked a guy I knew named Elbert if he’d want to sell them. At first it seemed like a silly idea, but he said he’d love to. It became exciting in my mind because it was like this entrepreneurship. They’re outside meeting people, shaking hands, and trying to sell t-shirts, and profit from that. I’ve always seen my street art like an advertisement. It’s an ad for my artwork, but it’s also an ad for these people and who they are. The successes of it, quite frankly, are drops of water in the ocean. I can’t say anyone’s life is being changed on a major scale, but some of the successes have been when guys want to move on from selling the shirts because they get employment or something like that. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-17.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>What’s your main goal with your artwork?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> My highest aspiration would be to do something akin to the Pichação in South America. People couldn’t speak out against the government, so they would take little rollers and dip them in paint and write political slogans. It was social criticism. I don’t see there being any real social criticism in my work, it’s just simply giving people a voice. As an artist, you often feel that you don’t have a voice; that it’s such a massive world. You talk about art bubbles and auction houses and think, who the hell am I? You’re knocking on a coffee shop door trying to get a print hung. Through street art, I can talk to the public when I want, and I don’t need a curator to tell me what month of the year I can show my work. I want to communicate with massive amounts of people about what I feel is an under-served demographic. That’s a common denominator with these guys on the streets — they want to be remembered too. Lots of them pass away, and they don’t have family, or they’re not remembered. I think it’s just a way to dignify and humanize them. And maybe sometimes, when I’m painting their portrait, I’m painting myself, in a way. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-21.jpg\">\u003cbr>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-6.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>We were wondering why there aren’t many women represented in your work.\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> A month ago, I took the first picture I’ve ever taken of a woman living on the street. I have yet to draw her. Early on, people would ask me why I depicted so many African Americans, and my answer was always well, frankly, it’s because I walk out my door and take pictures of the people I meet. I’m not seeking them out, but they’re a large part of the demographic. The same answer applies here, in a way. The majority of people I see sleeping on the streets are men. There certainly are women on the streets, and the work has been maybe a bit too literal and focused on homeless men. It’s more about people who are oppressed, and that’s two thirds of the world. I want to start painting women, and I’ve just started to scratch the surface. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-11.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Tell us about the wallpaper patterns you sometimes use in the background of the portraits. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> They’re stencils that I buy from this site for home decorators. It’s aesthetically pleasing, but it also adds visual irony. I’m taking people who live on the street and depicting them, hoping that someone will buy the paintings to match their couch and beautify their wall. There’s an irony to that, and I didn’t want it to be lost. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/hugh-4.jpg\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>If your work had a soundtrack what would it be?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>HL:\u003c/b> I think it would be something that is in a foreign language to me. I have this CD called Ambient Africa. I don’t know what the hell they’re saying, but I can feel it. I think that is hopefully what my work conveys. You may not know exactly what I’m talking about because the language doesn’t hit you the same way it hits someone else, but you can feel it. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hugh Leeman’s work can be seen in \u003cb>The City We Love\u003c/b>, a group show at \u003ca href=\"http://www.941geary.com/events\">941 Geary \u003c/a>in San Francisco on view August 13 – September 3, 2011. \u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Richard Serra's \"Sequence\" at Cantor Arts Center",
"headTitle": "Richard Serra’s “Sequence” at Cantor Arts Center | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>Twice a day, on my way to and from work, I walk by a Richard Serra sculpture called \u003cb>Charlie Brown\u003c/b>. The 60-foot tall object is located at Gap headquarters in San Francisco, and unless you work in the building, it’s only viewable from The Embarcadero between Folsom and Howard Streets. Composed of four, rusty steel plates, the piece gently twists as it ascends through the building’s east-facing atrium. When viewed from above, the plates apparently overlap at the top to describe a square. From the street, you can sort of get that, but my eye has always been drawn to the opening at the sculpture’s base, an invitation to timidly enter the piece and, one can only imagine, gaze up in wonder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In late July, 2011, the Bay Area’s newest Serra sculpture, \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b>, from 2006, was installed at the Cantor Arts Center. On loan from the Doris and Don Fisher Collection (Doris and her late husband founded the Gap), it will remain at Stanford until the new Fisher wing at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art is completed in 2016. \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> has been living indoors at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art since 2008; this is the first time it’s been exhibited outdoors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In simple terms, \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> is basically a parallel pair of figure-eights made of two-inch-thick steel plates that rest on one edge, creating rusty ribbons about 13-feet high. Torqued and angled, the void between the ribbons can be entered from either end, and visitors to the Cantor are invited to stroll the path between the curving bands of steel. Along the way, the walls of the ribbons alternately fall away from or overhang the route, widening and narrowing the path below one’s feet and the slot to the sky above, although usually not at the same time. A pair of somewhat circular, similarly uneven dead-end spaces await at either end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sequence-1.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>The first thing you notice when walking through or around \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> is the shadow of the piece that’s been drawn by the sun. These lines on the sculpture’s concrete foundation are as hard and emphatic as the edges of the steel itself, a precise but naturalistic echo of Serra’s machined creation. Then there’s the steel’s texture, whose rusty splotches give the unforgiving material an improbable softness and warmth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Quickly, though, one becomes preoccupied by the sculpture’s scale, which on the day I visited the Cantor was all people around me were talking about. “They had to transport it in pieces on 12 flatbeds,” one man remarked. “It weighs more than 200 tons,” marveled another. In fact, it’s difficult not to be impressed by the scale of \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> and all it implies. The danger, though, is that the massiveness of the thing will call so much attention to itself, some might ignore its implications as a work of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Serra, of course, is smart enough to know that he can’t control what people might think about his work once it’s out there. He’s even called the people who manufacture his pieces his first audience, so I doubt if he’s particularly troubled that many of the people who visit art museums to see his objects are gossiping about how much his creations weigh and how they are shipped.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sequence-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>Still, Serra has also confessed to wanting to create objects that animate the spaces they occupy and truly engage viewers. If so, \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> and pieces like \u003cb>Charlie Brown\u003c/b> succeed because they deliver both, but only on their own terms. For example, one can stroll within \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> to become, in a way, a part of the piece. This is engagement of the highest order, but the price of participating so intimately in the sculpture is to give up the experience of the observer. How well does it animate the space it occupies? The only way to find out is to ascend to the Cantor’s second-floor McMurtry Family Terrace that overlooks the piece. The answer is, very well, but you are now far removed from the experience of the work, an observer only.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thus Serra accomplishes his goals, but not necessarily in the same moment. In this way, his work is very black or white, very either-or, a radical concept in Western cultures whose populations are trained to get everything they want, all at once and all the time. As an observer, I will continue to admire \u003cb>Charlie Brown\u003c/b> from the street, and perhaps my distance from it all these years has been a part of its allure. But I’m also grateful that Doris Fisher has made \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> so accessible to so many people, giving those of us down on the peninsula a chance to become participants in Serra’s work as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All photos by Linda A. Cicero / Stanford News Service.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For \u003ca href=\"http://museum.stanford.edu/news_room/serra-sequence.html\">more information\u003c/a> visit museum.stanford.edu. You can also browse the \u003ca href=\"http://www.flickr.com/photos/stanforduniversity/sets/72157627280617586/with/5975440733/\">Flickr set of photos\u003c/a> taken when \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> was being installed.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Twice a day, on my way to and from work, I walk by a Richard Serra sculpture called \u003cb>Charlie Brown\u003c/b>. The 60-foot tall object is located at Gap headquarters in San Francisco, and unless you work in the building, it’s only viewable from The Embarcadero between Folsom and Howard Streets. Composed of four, rusty steel plates, the piece gently twists as it ascends through the building’s east-facing atrium. When viewed from above, the plates apparently overlap at the top to describe a square. From the street, you can sort of get that, but my eye has always been drawn to the opening at the sculpture’s base, an invitation to timidly enter the piece and, one can only imagine, gaze up in wonder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In late July, 2011, the Bay Area’s newest Serra sculpture, \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b>, from 2006, was installed at the Cantor Arts Center. On loan from the Doris and Don Fisher Collection (Doris and her late husband founded the Gap), it will remain at Stanford until the new Fisher wing at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art is completed in 2016. \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> has been living indoors at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art since 2008; this is the first time it’s been exhibited outdoors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In simple terms, \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> is basically a parallel pair of figure-eights made of two-inch-thick steel plates that rest on one edge, creating rusty ribbons about 13-feet high. Torqued and angled, the void between the ribbons can be entered from either end, and visitors to the Cantor are invited to stroll the path between the curving bands of steel. Along the way, the walls of the ribbons alternately fall away from or overhang the route, widening and narrowing the path below one’s feet and the slot to the sky above, although usually not at the same time. A pair of somewhat circular, similarly uneven dead-end spaces await at either end.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sequence-1.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>The first thing you notice when walking through or around \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> is the shadow of the piece that’s been drawn by the sun. These lines on the sculpture’s concrete foundation are as hard and emphatic as the edges of the steel itself, a precise but naturalistic echo of Serra’s machined creation. Then there’s the steel’s texture, whose rusty splotches give the unforgiving material an improbable softness and warmth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Quickly, though, one becomes preoccupied by the sculpture’s scale, which on the day I visited the Cantor was all people around me were talking about. “They had to transport it in pieces on 12 flatbeds,” one man remarked. “It weighs more than 200 tons,” marveled another. In fact, it’s difficult not to be impressed by the scale of \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> and all it implies. The danger, though, is that the massiveness of the thing will call so much attention to itself, some might ignore its implications as a work of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Serra, of course, is smart enough to know that he can’t control what people might think about his work once it’s out there. He’s even called the people who manufacture his pieces his first audience, so I doubt if he’s particularly troubled that many of the people who visit art museums to see his objects are gossiping about how much his creations weigh and how they are shipped.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003ccenter>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/sequence-2.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px;\" alt=\"\">\u003c/center>\n\u003cp>Still, Serra has also confessed to wanting to create objects that animate the spaces they occupy and truly engage viewers. If so, \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> and pieces like \u003cb>Charlie Brown\u003c/b> succeed because they deliver both, but only on their own terms. For example, one can stroll within \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> to become, in a way, a part of the piece. This is engagement of the highest order, but the price of participating so intimately in the sculpture is to give up the experience of the observer. How well does it animate the space it occupies? The only way to find out is to ascend to the Cantor’s second-floor McMurtry Family Terrace that overlooks the piece. The answer is, very well, but you are now far removed from the experience of the work, an observer only.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thus Serra accomplishes his goals, but not necessarily in the same moment. In this way, his work is very black or white, very either-or, a radical concept in Western cultures whose populations are trained to get everything they want, all at once and all the time. As an observer, I will continue to admire \u003cb>Charlie Brown\u003c/b> from the street, and perhaps my distance from it all these years has been a part of its allure. But I’m also grateful that Doris Fisher has made \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> so accessible to so many people, giving those of us down on the peninsula a chance to become participants in Serra’s work as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All photos by Linda A. Cicero / Stanford News Service.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For \u003ca href=\"http://museum.stanford.edu/news_room/serra-sequence.html\">more information\u003c/a> visit museum.stanford.edu. You can also browse the \u003ca href=\"http://www.flickr.com/photos/stanforduniversity/sets/72157627280617586/with/5975440733/\">Flickr set of photos\u003c/a> taken when \u003cb>Sequence\u003c/b> was being installed.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The San Francisco Art Commission unveiled \u003cb>Art in Storefronts\u003c/b> in 2009, a program of temporary public art commissioned by local artists to populate vacant storefronts. Many of the city’s commercial corridors were hurt by the economy and empty storefronts contributed to a palpable malaise. Further, vacancies invited vandalism that propagated more vandalism, which dispelled new business. Inviting artists to revivify empty storefronts, it was theorized, would generate community pride and increase foot traffic. Beyond its success locally, this San Francisco program, with its open source online Toolkit, has become a model for other cities across the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The current iteration is along the Central Market Street corridor, between UN Plaza and 6th Street. It features eleven site-specific projects, including murals and sculptural installations, along with seven additional projects hosted by community partners including the Luggage Store and Gray Area Foundation for the Arts. As a walking experience, the program invites a reconsideration of areas you may not visit often, or ever. While looking for the projects, denoted with purple and gold signage, you notice things that could easily be construed as art but are simply components of the urban fabric, such as vintage signage for places like the Odd Fellows Temple or the mysterious and anachronistic International Art Museum of America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I emerged from the Civic Center station, blinking confusedly like a mole adjusting to sunlight. Though I know the city well enough, this particular area felt unfamiliar. I was intrigued by a traveler’s sense of wonder without having gone any further than downtown. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paz de la Calzada’s \u003cb>Central Market Dreamscape\u003c/b> (2011) wraps around the exterior of the defunct Strand Theater. Rendered in charcoal, the artist created a swirling mass of hair-like strands over the boarded-up former entrance. Above the iconic sign and marquee, a cut paper installation adorns the second floor windows, evocative of street artist SWOON. A diminutive paper signature spelling ‘Swoon’ made me wonder if I stumbled upon one of Swoon’s actual interventions or the work of a copycat. My eyes traveled back and forth between the drawing, the original theater sign, and the cut paper in the windows, thinking about how simply the artist encapsulated the layered histories of the site: there isn’t one strand, there are many. I crossed the street to see the work better but the finely rendered drawing was a sooty mass from a distance. To really take it in, you had to stand close — but if you stood too close, you couldn’t really take it all in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/truth.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>“TRUTH,” Rigo 23, 2002.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was like a metaphor about living with urban peculiarities. From across the street, I spied a tiny corner of something compelling on another building. To see it more clearly, I backed further and further up UN Plaza, going behind the fountain while holding my breath to avoid the stench of piss and god knows what else — this is a city, after all. And there it was, for anyone who had the fortitude to look from that vantage point, Rigo 23’s \u003cb>TRUTH\u003c/b> (2002) spelled out larger than life in black, white, and silver. Like \u003cb>Art in Storefronts\u003c/b>, you could almost miss it in the visual cacophony of the street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/butterflies.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>“Swallowtails & Sycamores,” Amber Hasselbring, 2011.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Further up Market, Keith Agoada’s \u003cb>City of Green\u003c/b> (2011) presents a vertical garden on the exterior of the Luggage Store. With so much discussion in popular media about greening the urban cityscape, it felt plausible that I was looking at an actual garden and not an artwork. Another work, Amber Hasselbring’s digital mural \u003cb>Swallowtails & Sycamores\u003c/b> (2011), depicting indigenous butterflies and trees on the exterior of a former drug store, further complicated my sense of reality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Do butterflies really inhabit downtown?\u003c/i> I wondered as I made my way back down into the caverns of another transit station. Before today, I might not have imagined such intricate phenomena on Market Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Art in Storefronts\u003c/b> runs through August 13, 2011 along Central Market Street corridor in San Francisco. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.sfartscommission.org/artery/\">more information or to listen to the \u003cb>Sights and Sounds of Central Market\u003c/b> podcast\u003c/a> visit sfartscommission.org.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The San Francisco Art Commission unveiled \u003cb>Art in Storefronts\u003c/b> in 2009, a program of temporary public art commissioned by local artists to populate vacant storefronts. Many of the city’s commercial corridors were hurt by the economy and empty storefronts contributed to a palpable malaise. Further, vacancies invited vandalism that propagated more vandalism, which dispelled new business. Inviting artists to revivify empty storefronts, it was theorized, would generate community pride and increase foot traffic. Beyond its success locally, this San Francisco program, with its open source online Toolkit, has become a model for other cities across the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The current iteration is along the Central Market Street corridor, between UN Plaza and 6th Street. It features eleven site-specific projects, including murals and sculptural installations, along with seven additional projects hosted by community partners including the Luggage Store and Gray Area Foundation for the Arts. As a walking experience, the program invites a reconsideration of areas you may not visit often, or ever. While looking for the projects, denoted with purple and gold signage, you notice things that could easily be construed as art but are simply components of the urban fabric, such as vintage signage for places like the Odd Fellows Temple or the mysterious and anachronistic International Art Museum of America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I emerged from the Civic Center station, blinking confusedly like a mole adjusting to sunlight. Though I know the city well enough, this particular area felt unfamiliar. I was intrigued by a traveler’s sense of wonder without having gone any further than downtown. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Paz de la Calzada’s \u003cb>Central Market Dreamscape\u003c/b> (2011) wraps around the exterior of the defunct Strand Theater. Rendered in charcoal, the artist created a swirling mass of hair-like strands over the boarded-up former entrance. Above the iconic sign and marquee, a cut paper installation adorns the second floor windows, evocative of street artist SWOON. A diminutive paper signature spelling ‘Swoon’ made me wonder if I stumbled upon one of Swoon’s actual interventions or the work of a copycat. My eyes traveled back and forth between the drawing, the original theater sign, and the cut paper in the windows, thinking about how simply the artist encapsulated the layered histories of the site: there isn’t one strand, there are many. I crossed the street to see the work better but the finely rendered drawing was a sooty mass from a distance. To really take it in, you had to stand close — but if you stood too close, you couldn’t really take it all in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/truth.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>“TRUTH,” Rigo 23, 2002.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was like a metaphor about living with urban peculiarities. From across the street, I spied a tiny corner of something compelling on another building. To see it more clearly, I backed further and further up UN Plaza, going behind the fountain while holding my breath to avoid the stench of piss and god knows what else — this is a city, after all. And there it was, for anyone who had the fortitude to look from that vantage point, Rigo 23’s \u003cb>TRUTH\u003c/b> (2002) spelled out larger than life in black, white, and silver. Like \u003cb>Art in Storefronts\u003c/b>, you could almost miss it in the visual cacophony of the street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" src=\"http://a.s.kqed.net/img/arts/blog/butterflies.jpg\" style=\"margin-bottom: 10px\" alt=\"\">\u003cbr>“Swallowtails & Sycamores,” Amber Hasselbring, 2011.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Further up Market, Keith Agoada’s \u003cb>City of Green\u003c/b> (2011) presents a vertical garden on the exterior of the Luggage Store. With so much discussion in popular media about greening the urban cityscape, it felt plausible that I was looking at an actual garden and not an artwork. Another work, Amber Hasselbring’s digital mural \u003cb>Swallowtails & Sycamores\u003c/b> (2011), depicting indigenous butterflies and trees on the exterior of a former drug store, further complicated my sense of reality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Do butterflies really inhabit downtown?\u003c/i> I wondered as I made my way back down into the caverns of another transit station. Before today, I might not have imagined such intricate phenomena on Market Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Art in Storefronts\u003c/b> runs through August 13, 2011 along Central Market Street corridor in San Francisco. For \u003ca href=\"http://www.sfartscommission.org/artery/\">more information or to listen to the \u003cb>Sights and Sounds of Central Market\u003c/b> podcast\u003c/a> visit sfartscommission.org.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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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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"excerpt": "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.",
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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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"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>\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>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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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": "\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>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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"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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"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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"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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"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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"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. ",
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"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. ",
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"marketplace": {
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"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.",
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"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>",
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"order": 12
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"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?",
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"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",
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"planet-money": {
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"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.",
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"politicalbreakdown": {
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"title": "Political Breakdown",
"tagline": "Politics from a personal perspective",
"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
"airtime": "THU 6:30pm-7pm",
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"possible": {
"id": "possible",
"title": "Possible",
"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Possible-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"pri-the-world": {
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"title": "PRI's The World: Latest Edition",
"info": "Each weekday, host Marco Werman and his team of producers bring you the world's most interesting stories in an hour of radio that reminds us just how small our planet really is.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 2pm-3pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-World-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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},
"radiolab": {
"id": "radiolab",
"title": "Radiolab",
"info": "A two-time Peabody Award-winner, Radiolab is an investigation told through sounds and stories, and centered around one big idea. In the Radiolab world, information sounds like music and science and culture collide. Hosted by Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, the show is designed for listeners who demand skepticism, but appreciate wonder. WNYC Studios is the producer of other leading podcasts including Freakonomics Radio, Death, Sex & Money, On the Media and many more.",
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},
"reveal": {
"id": "reveal",
"title": "Reveal",
"info": "Created by The Center for Investigative Reporting and PRX, Reveal is public radios first one-hour weekly radio show and podcast dedicated to investigative reporting. Credible, fact based and without a partisan agenda, Reveal combines the power and artistry of driveway moment storytelling with data-rich reporting on critically important issues. The result is stories that inform and inspire, arming our listeners with information to right injustices, hold the powerful accountable and improve lives.Reveal is hosted by Al Letson and showcases the award-winning work of CIR and newsrooms large and small across the nation. In a radio and podcast market crowded with choices, Reveal focuses on important and often surprising stories that illuminate the world for our listeners.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.revealnews.org/episodes/",
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},
"rightnowish": {
"id": "rightnowish",
"title": "Rightnowish",
"tagline": "Art is where you find it",
"info": "Rightnowish digs into life in the Bay Area right now… ish. Journalist Pendarvis Harshaw takes us to galleries painted on the sides of liquor stores in West Oakland. We'll dance in warehouses in the Bayview, make smoothies with kids in South Berkeley, and listen to classical music in a 1984 Cutlass Supreme in Richmond. Every week, Pen talks to movers and shakers about how the Bay Area shapes what they create, and how they shape the place we call home.",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 16
},
"link": "/podcasts/rightnowish",
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},
"science-friday": {
"id": "science-friday",
"title": "Science Friday",
"info": "Science Friday is a weekly science talk show, broadcast live over public radio stations nationwide. Each week, the show focuses on science topics that are in the news and tries to bring an educated, balanced discussion to bear on the scientific issues at hand. Panels of expert guests join host Ira Flatow, a veteran science journalist, to discuss science and to take questions from listeners during the call-in portion of the program.",
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},
"snap-judgment": {
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