Nothing to Report

Not long ago I experienced a sudden infestation of flies. I checked all the trash cans, checked the entire apartment but couldn't find the source of entry. Being especially fast and having a fondness for sticking to the ceiling, I was having very little success killing them with a rolled up magazine. I ran to the local 99 cent store and bought a fly swatter (pack of 3 for $1) and an old school fly strip. I immediately stalked and killed seven. Three others stuck themselves to the flystrip. I whacked another in mid-flight but couldn't find him on the ground.... A few minutes later I discovered him on the bottom of my foot. Lovely. Within a few hours my fly problem was over. Still a mystery. 

Two locks, 100 feet apart.

I miss my old apartment downtown; pre-George Nelson daybed and curtains.

 

The little gap between two buildings on Spring Street.

Green-Wood's Rhytidome

Today my friend Eileen and I made a trek out to Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. Fearing hypothermia, I wore long johns under my jeans, a t-shirt, a sweater, a quilted flannel shirt, and the puffiest Eddie Bauer down jacket ever produced. On top of it all, a hat, a scarf and ski gloves. I froze my ass off.

Green-Wood Cemetery is the final resting place to some 540,000 people (yes, over half a million). It's huge expanse of rolling hills which encompasses 478 acres. Full of countless ornate mausoleums built by families of wealthy New Yorkers. Recently hurricane Sandy wreaked havoc on the grounds, taking out over 290 mature trees.

Steering away from grave sites, I ended up focusing on one certain type of tree (yet to be determined). The natural texture, nicks, cuts, ridges and splits in the rhytidome, or, to you non-botanists, bark. I think I'll go back when it's above freezing and shoot more texture photos.

Afterward we shared some arroz con pollo at a crappy Mexican dive. Aside from the bitter arctic chill it was a nice day of wandering.

A Beautiful Fungus

To The Bone

The last few days have been cold and rainy. A bit of snow, a bit of sleet, some cold rain.  Probably my least favorite weather of all. I get chilled to the bone and it takes me hours to warm up.  I shot these walking around Chelsea and Soho the past few nights. 

Washington Square Park

And out of the corner of my eye, this naked torso, while walking through Soho.

Horsefinger and Other Oddities

These two photos were snapped a week apart in Soho. Obviously someone in the neighborhood is offended by this ad to the point of voicing their opinion with this yellow paper protest. I think if they looked around (within blocks) they might find something a bit more offensive than this.

  Mailbox Horsefinger

My father hates when I use foul language on my blog. He tells his friends to read it and then I drop the "F-bomb," which embarrasses him. But, I found this odd, someone taking the time to write this next to the curb. Sorry Dad.  

Many stores have cats. I'm assuming for mouse control. Occasionally they wander outside but always seem on the verge of panic when the door closes behind them. They wait impatiently and then scramble to get inside once a customer leaves. Later they wander out again and repeat the feline anxiety.

Thursday's Stupid Art

I would truly LOVE it if some art critic/professor/curator would PLEASE explain to me what's going on in today's art world. Each Thursday night, rain or shine, cold or hot, I trudge around Chelsea looking for some semblance of "good art." This means (to me at least) something that looks like it actually took some amount of technical skill and a knowledge of composition. Is that too much to ask? But, most nights I find myself walking back to the A train, scratching my head in disbelief of what's actually hanging on the walls of most galleries in Chelsea. The galleries are crowded with people staring at these paintings and sculptures, rubbing their chins as if to contemplate what the artist was trying to convey. I'll tell you what I think, I think the artists are laughing, all the way to the bank. Laughing that anyone is buying this crap, that anyone actually believes this is good or took any talent to create. Ninety-nine percent of what I see on a Thursday night could easily be done by the average 8th grader.... Such bullshit. 

Above: Luc Tuymans... Dull, lifeless, muted boring paintings. I asked the woman at the front desk how much the Tuymans were. She looked annoyed and said reluctantly, "Around a million." I paused for a second, and with a raised eyebrow and with a nasty tone of disbelief I said, "Really?" She just stared back at me with her own nasty look and a short, "Yes. They are."

Above: Stephen Pusey's redundant desire of being Jackson Pollock. Same thing over and over using different paints.... Yawn.

Sol LeWitt. When I see these I can't help but think that the second old Sol died, whoever was in his studio scrambled to find whatever they could with his name on it. Looks like a remnant of wallpaper and a signed piece of torn white paper. Surely no one would really call this art... well, no one with any taste or common sense.

I won't even acknowledge a name of these painted baseball-like balls. Stupid.

Giorgio Griffa, "Fragments 1968-2012." Childlike, unrefined, uninteresting and just plain stupid. You'd think in 44 years the guy would learn how to paint.

Stephanie Gutheil. I'll give her points for technical achievement but aesthetically speaking it was tacky garbage.

At least "art-pal" Iris found this piece interesting. 

Giorgio Griffa. Take a folded (no, don't even iron out the wrinkles, Giorgio) piece of cheap burlap, paint some yellow, pink and blue lines on it--brilliant! This is a joke right?

A Lovely Stroll

Yesterday was a good day for a long stroll so I went to the Chelsea art galleries. I happened upon a gallery with the works of Romare Bearden. Oils, watercolors, quilts and what I think were his best works, collages. In fact, the New York Times called him "the nation's foremost collagist." 

Most produced between the mid-1950s through the mid-70s. Early works were very crude, made of brown paper scraps, which later evolved into more colorful, multi-media works adding drawings and watercolors into the pieces. The prices were well into the six figures with a few around a million. Inspired, I came home, pulled out some old magazines and started cutting....   

Walking into another gallery I saw a little green ball on the floor. I picked it up and immediately heard the scratching of claws against the concrete floor coming towards me. Suddenly she stopped, motionless, waiting. Staring at the ball in my hand with intense concentration, anticipating where I might throw it. Lulu, the gallery dog.

Reflections in the IAC Frank Gehry building on the West Side.

Walking along the High Line at sunset. One of the better strolls in the city.

The Standard Hotel