Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Le Transi de René de Chalo
"Prince of Orange René de Chalons died in battle in 1544, at age 25. His widow commissioned the sculptor Ligier Richier to represent him offering his heart to God, set against the painted splendour of his former worldly estate. Church of Saint-Étienne,Bar-le-Duc."
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Bad Romance
I really like Lady Gaga's new song Bad Romance. There is a certian creepy, spooky, scary element to it. I've been so taken by it that I've been scouring the Google Images for spooky/scary pictures of the birdo, and I found just that.
This set of photos was done for Out magazine sometime this past summer by the superb Ellen von Unwerth.
EvU said that her intention was to tell a story about a sort of Frankenstein monster that is turned into a vampire after being endowed with life again.
Isn't that a story you'd love you would love to hear?
The images are very reminiscent to me of of both The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) and The Bride of Frankenstein(1935) staring Boris Karloff and Elsa Lanchester.
As far as the song bad Romance and its music video go, I recommend checking them out. The intro and outro each have a kind of harpsichord (?) in halloween sound and the dance in the video barrows elements of Michael Jackson's Thriller choreography with great success.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
"....more like a cemetary than an avenue...."
Just as I finished the first book of Roberto Bolaño's posthumously published last work, 2666, my lending time form the library ran out and it was recalled. Someone else had placed a hold on the work and I will have to wait another month before I can enact my revenge, perpetrating the same grievous act against them.
I am left with a hauting feeling from the opening book of 2666, The Part About the Critics. It was a strangely interesting and obsessing read. Although for the most part while reading the book, carrying the massive 900 page slab from place to place with, trying to fit in a few minutes of reading and rumination whenever I could, I felt that the work was slow and retarding I could not keep myself from reading more. Unlike so many books that have presented themselves to me as being nearly plotless and void of direction of plot The Part About the Critics was strangely, and borderline upsettingly, obsessing. The story is about four German literature critics and scholars from all over Europe (England, France, Spain, and Italy.) Each is considered an expert in their field of study and on the work of the mysterious German author, held to be the greatest German author of the 20th century (with the exception of Franz Kafka), Benno von Archimboldi. As the four scholars become friends a love triangle develops within the group, Norton and English woman in her late 20s, and two of her male companions, Pelletier, a Parisian, and Espinoza, a Spaniard. As their private lives take over their work and daily tasks the critics find themselves suffer as a result of one another. The stroy windingly leads out of Europe and into a Mexican boarder town, Santa Teresa in Sonora, where, among a mystery concerning hundreds of young women's deaths, the critics hope to find the seemingly mythical figure of their mutual lives, Archimboldi.
The book reads like a Francisco Goya painting. Some figure like his Colossus or Saturn, devouring his son, hangs over the writing. The language is baroque and gothic but without the added weight of romanticism. So much of the story is interrupted by the dreams of the characters of their false memories of such that entire sections of the work feel surreal and unread after a time. As the characters slowly lose all connection to their own lives so does the reader and eventually you find yourself reading without purpose or direction or concern. The work is so disconcerting and unnerving that its easy to forget what you are reading and why. Some of its most stylish,stunning, memorable, and enjoyable lines and passages are constructed with such a dichotomy of grotesque beauty, of clarity juxtaposed with insanity that its hard to not feel upset reading them. Like when Norton, Pelletier and Espinoza, stopping their car along a Mexican highway leaving the city look out across the desert and into Arizona and "the sky at sunset looked like a carnivorous flower."
I am left with a hauting feeling from the opening book of 2666, The Part About the Critics. It was a strangely interesting and obsessing read. Although for the most part while reading the book, carrying the massive 900 page slab from place to place with, trying to fit in a few minutes of reading and rumination whenever I could, I felt that the work was slow and retarding I could not keep myself from reading more. Unlike so many books that have presented themselves to me as being nearly plotless and void of direction of plot The Part About the Critics was strangely, and borderline upsettingly, obsessing. The story is about four German literature critics and scholars from all over Europe (England, France, Spain, and Italy.) Each is considered an expert in their field of study and on the work of the mysterious German author, held to be the greatest German author of the 20th century (with the exception of Franz Kafka), Benno von Archimboldi. As the four scholars become friends a love triangle develops within the group, Norton and English woman in her late 20s, and two of her male companions, Pelletier, a Parisian, and Espinoza, a Spaniard. As their private lives take over their work and daily tasks the critics find themselves suffer as a result of one another. The stroy windingly leads out of Europe and into a Mexican boarder town, Santa Teresa in Sonora, where, among a mystery concerning hundreds of young women's deaths, the critics hope to find the seemingly mythical figure of their mutual lives, Archimboldi.
The book reads like a Francisco Goya painting. Some figure like his Colossus or Saturn, devouring his son, hangs over the writing. The language is baroque and gothic but without the added weight of romanticism. So much of the story is interrupted by the dreams of the characters of their false memories of such that entire sections of the work feel surreal and unread after a time. As the characters slowly lose all connection to their own lives so does the reader and eventually you find yourself reading without purpose or direction or concern. The work is so disconcerting and unnerving that its easy to forget what you are reading and why. Some of its most stylish,stunning, memorable, and enjoyable lines and passages are constructed with such a dichotomy of grotesque beauty, of clarity juxtaposed with insanity that its hard to not feel upset reading them. Like when Norton, Pelletier and Espinoza, stopping their car along a Mexican highway leaving the city look out across the desert and into Arizona and "the sky at sunset looked like a carnivorous flower."
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Moon Men
I am pretty much just ripping this story straight from another blog, content and all. My purpose for this is that I'm a big fan of both Frank Frazetta and IRL. I wish I'd know about the contest mentioned in the BB story while it was still going on- c'est la vie.
This group did an amazing job at recreating Frazetta's work. It helps that, as many people have commented on the flickr page already, that the woman in the shot is not only beautiful and curvaceous, but is also strikingly Frazetta-esque figure and matches the obalisque in the original painting remarkably closely.
I recently read E.R. Burroughs' 1912 novel A Princess of Mars. Frazetta did cover art and insets for a number of these works years after their initial serialization and publication. I was lucky enough to find an illustrated copy of the book in a near-by library's Special Collections. Both the illustration of the princess mentioned in the title of the book, Dejah Thoris, as well as E.R.B's description of her came to mind when I saw Zagreb911's photo.
- "And the sight which met my eyes was that of a slender, girlish figure, similar in every detail to the earthly women of my past life... Her face was oval and beautiful in the extreme, her every feature was finely chiseled and exquisite, her eyes large and lustrous and her head surmounted by a mass of coal black, waving hair, caught loosely into a strange yet becoming coiffure. Her skin was of a light reddish copper color, against which the crimson glow of her cheeks and the ruby of her beautifully molded lips shone with a strangely enhancing effect.
- She was as destitute of clothes as the green Martians who accompanied her; indeed, save for her highly wrought ornaments she was entirely naked, nor could any apparel have enhanced the beauty of her perfect and symmetrical figure."
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Graveyards
When I was born my family lived across the street from a graveyard. There was our house, a brown brick Tudor building with a high isosceles roof and lead set windows. Then the black flattop of the street dividing us from St. Alphonsus church with its roof twice as high and slender as ours and stained panes of glass and flat steps in front of a shallow church yard. And then there was the graveyard full of faded and new tombstones and great big carvings of christ in the midst of his crucifixion.
There were days when my brother and I would play between the stones and others when we would slink past them to the corner store. And other times when I'd go there by myself, crossing the street and squeezing through the fence to wander dumbfounded to the far side of the yard like wading out into the deep end of swimming pool. I'd pick up pieces of trash or crunch dry leaves and grass in my little hands before rushing home again, too scared to stay too long, evading any horrible thoughts I could like trying to escape a Band-Aid caught in my wake.
Before I knew what a calendar was I was easy pray for Friday the 13th tricks by my brother. It didn't matter that I didn't know who Jason was, or what a Friday or a 13 was- I understood bad luck and fright as well as anyone did. When I got older my mother's stories about how at the 'old house' (that house) ouija boards would never work right and tarot readings always seemed congested only fueled my fearful memories. Memories which even today, when graveyards do little to scare or thrill me, are made electric again with the static rustle of Halloween over the street drains.
A feeling I also got when reading the first few pages of Neil Gaiman’s new work The Graveyard Book as I leafed through it at the bookstore the other day. It's a delightful collection of stories (8 to be precise) which together tell the story of Nobody Owens, a child raised by ghosts. As Gaiman describes the thing it's The Jungle Book, with ghosts instead of animals and graves rather than trees.
All and all it's a enjoyable book intended for young readers but accessible by anyone but what I've been enjoying most about the book is the continued coolness it's booktour is allowing Gaiman to cultivate. Over the summer I read Gaiman's first true novel, American Gods, after hearing he had released the full text onto the internet free of charge. I loved the book but even more I think I enjoyed what Gaiman had accomplished- he grew his readership. Months after releasing the book on the web Gaiman's book sales saw huge growth. But what is even more impressive than that is that Gaiman recognized what many good authors today have also seen, that even though the author owns the copyright it's the readers who own the book. And the more interactive and giving an author can be the more receptive and gracious their readership will become.
With The Graveyard Book Gaiman decided to deal with the graciousness of his readers before the demand for him flooded his readings and elongated his signings. Instead of releasing The Graveyard Book online as he did before with American Gods, Gaiman did what with a book like this could be considered one better. He read it aloud. In nine nights at nine different book readings Gaiman read through his book, each night linking a video of the reading on his website for anyone to enjoy. And, with a children's story like The Graveyard Book it's hard not to enjoy having it read to you the way so many other books had been so long ago.
There were days when my brother and I would play between the stones and others when we would slink past them to the corner store. And other times when I'd go there by myself, crossing the street and squeezing through the fence to wander dumbfounded to the far side of the yard like wading out into the deep end of swimming pool. I'd pick up pieces of trash or crunch dry leaves and grass in my little hands before rushing home again, too scared to stay too long, evading any horrible thoughts I could like trying to escape a Band-Aid caught in my wake.
Before I knew what a calendar was I was easy pray for Friday the 13th tricks by my brother. It didn't matter that I didn't know who Jason was, or what a Friday or a 13 was- I understood bad luck and fright as well as anyone did. When I got older my mother's stories about how at the 'old house' (that house) ouija boards would never work right and tarot readings always seemed congested only fueled my fearful memories. Memories which even today, when graveyards do little to scare or thrill me, are made electric again with the static rustle of Halloween over the street drains.
A feeling I also got when reading the first few pages of Neil Gaiman’s new work The Graveyard Book as I leafed through it at the bookstore the other day. It's a delightful collection of stories (8 to be precise) which together tell the story of Nobody Owens, a child raised by ghosts. As Gaiman describes the thing it's The Jungle Book, with ghosts instead of animals and graves rather than trees.
All and all it's a enjoyable book intended for young readers but accessible by anyone but what I've been enjoying most about the book is the continued coolness it's booktour is allowing Gaiman to cultivate. Over the summer I read Gaiman's first true novel, American Gods, after hearing he had released the full text onto the internet free of charge. I loved the book but even more I think I enjoyed what Gaiman had accomplished- he grew his readership. Months after releasing the book on the web Gaiman's book sales saw huge growth. But what is even more impressive than that is that Gaiman recognized what many good authors today have also seen, that even though the author owns the copyright it's the readers who own the book. And the more interactive and giving an author can be the more receptive and gracious their readership will become.
With The Graveyard Book Gaiman decided to deal with the graciousness of his readers before the demand for him flooded his readings and elongated his signings. Instead of releasing The Graveyard Book online as he did before with American Gods, Gaiman did what with a book like this could be considered one better. He read it aloud. In nine nights at nine different book readings Gaiman read through his book, each night linking a video of the reading on his website for anyone to enjoy. And, with a children's story like The Graveyard Book it's hard not to enjoy having it read to you the way so many other books had been so long ago. I recommend you take a look through the book if you get the chance, if only to experience the great artwork of Dave McKean. McKean also did the artwork for another Halloween book, a personal favorite of mine, by a favorite of BSD's- Ray Bradbury's The Homecoming. The Homecoming is another amazing autumnal story perfect for Halloween time.
You can find Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book here. If you have the time it is an easy and fun listen, especially this time of year. Happy Halloween everybody.
CML
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Diana Arbus' Masked Woman in a Wheelchair PA, 1970
"A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall...."
~ T.S Eliot
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Water Water Everywhere and-
HOLY SHIT look at all those tentacle monsters! 
If you've ever wondered what tentacle monsters are or what exactly it is Matt and I are always talking about, this should give you a better idea. What this picture is actually meant to be though is an HIV/AIDS awareness and protection poster. It's brought to you by the artist James Jean.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
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