A fine night had in the presence of Jack White and his crew of merry music makers. The curtain went up, and Bean and I did a double take, as Mr. White’s had a most excellent haircut in recent days leaving him with quite the Elvis vibe. Did miss catching a view of that infamous moptop of his, but do still love a good switch up from long to short, and he gave it good. But yada to the aesthetics. As much as I adore atmosphere and appearance playing into and helping to build the mood and feel of a thing, the true goods lay in the lengthy and eclectic performances of those owning the stage. A total treat, I’m filled with inspiration anew. ♦
Bean was really taken with the plight of these three men, once boys, imprisoned for the murders of three younger boys in their hometown years back now. Read and watched everything available. Now it’s a film. I still haven’t got the sight of those little boys’ corpses out of my mind from the documentary footage. Unnatural and so very wrong. These three men when viewed as teenagers were the norm, more or less, where I grew up, so it’s difficult to accept their persecution having occurred seemingly due to their location in the country and the limited perceptions of that location’s inhabitants. See with more than your eyes, people, they’re only the first stage in really seeing. ♦
Pour des Dents d’un Blanc Éclatant et Saines. Jeroen Diepenmaat. 2005.
The Henry Art Gallery up on the UW campus featured a must-see exhibit sometime back. The vinyl record as art, explored through a number of channels- sculpture, installation, drawing, painting, photography, sound work, and video- ’twas terrific!
We began in the foyer, where a wall of albums from local artists beckoned with a turntable awaiting play on a small table in the center of the room. Sadly, this mauled bit of needle put the kibosh on all such indulgence.
“Recycled Records” series. Christian Marclay. 1983.
Christian Marclay was featured quite heavily in the exhibit to my delight, as his work always seems to catch my attention. Video Quartet from a previous showing is of particular note- a large, four-screen projection that features clips from old Hollywood films, hundreds of them, with actors making sounds and playing instruments, in a captivating collage of appropriation art and sampling.
Outsider artist Mingering Mike’s collection was there in all its outsider glory. It was originally unearthed years ago at a flea market, a number of funk and soul albums from the late ’60s and early ’70s, seemingly. Upon closer inspection, they were in fact cardboard discs with hand-drawn grooves inside elaborately illustrated covers. The storage place that had once housed them had sold them off after Mike had fallen behind on payments, and he’d thought they were gone forever. Happily not so! Groovy detail- some of the albums even featured pretend shrink wrap— saran wrap and scotch tape.
This familiar childhood relic was found behind glass, though quite the dirty specimen, it was. Mine resides in the walk-in closet on display for play, and is in much better condition, as is the one I found for my sister several months back. ♦
Oh, dear sir, you’ve been beloved. You’ve been a part of our lives without ever meeting us. A teacher, a comforter, a friend. Emulated and applauded.
You’ve been an absolute favorite to those I’ve loved the very most in life. For some of them, Good Morning, Vietnam and Hook, learning every line.
For me, Mork is counted among my very first friends. A buddy I looked forward to seeing regularly, the pair of rainbow suspenders in my dad’s top drawer visited often with a na-nu, na-nu. How you managed to be Popeye- a favorite- as well, was something my young mind couldn’t quite wrap around at the time.
In later years, came o captain, my captain, and how you expanded my world. The news of Awakenings hitting the screen sent us off to the theatres next, thrilled to see the pairing of De Niro and Williams. How could one screen hold all that wonderful, we wondered. I could recount each and every release thereafter in fact, as we always looked forward to anything you touched.
We’ve cried over you and for you, yes, without even knowing you. What joy you’ve given, Mr. Williams. ♦