eroplay

Probably two or three years ago, I ran into this website. It is an enormous clusterfuck surrounding Frank Moore, who organized a ton of erotic performance art in the Bay Area. He writes and he has several degrees as well, and cereberal palsy. Somehow, though, this isn't one of those stories of rising above some intense cicurmstances straight into the pages of Reader's Digest's everyday heroes. I guess to understand what I'm talking about you have to check out http://www.eroplay.com/Cave/Underdogonline_FM.pdf


"Yes, I have always been lucky. I have a body that is deal for a performance artist. And I have always wanted to be a performer. When I was a kid, my younger brother used to get mad when people looked at me when he pushed me to the movies or to the teen club. He cried. But I liked people looking at me. That is what I mean by I am 'lucky'. I am lucky I am an exhibitionist in this body. One time I was working out on the jungle gym outside of our house when a kid came by and asked if I was a monster. I just roared like a monster. It was fun."

i think I just peed my pants a little

I love art that makes me feel both stunned and completley inept.

-thank you brian-

Found Photos

I found this site a little while ago. I think that there is a good chance it is already out of comission, but it is still up, available, and pretty bloody amazing, in my opinion.
" In March of 2004 the Found Photos project came together on accident, by using a filesharing program seeking music and finding hundreds of photos in a folder instead. 120 Archives of photos have been created since then, each containing an average of 50+ photos hand selected from an average of 5000+ photos per archive. All photos displayed were publicly shared. " I'm well aware of the found object craze, but there is something about this site and the images that are selected to be shown that just makes sense. That's all I have.

-i.

"Field Dressing" and Brian Lesteberg

Here is a link to some more photography, this time by Brian Lesteberg on The Morning News' Gallery.Check out the Morning News and Lesterberg...you know...for a good time.

Polaroids and Paul Schiek

This is a website I ran across. Worth a look. Some of it I could take or leave but overall good stuff.

Robyn Cumming

A little sense of humor goes a long bloody way.

"My grandma used to plant tomato seedlings in tin cans from tomato sause & puree & crushed tomatos she got from the Italian restaurant by her house, but she always soaked the lables off first. I don't want them to be anxious about the future, she said. It's not healthy" -Brian Andreas

Just found this while reading...

Just read this small paragraph and found it hillariously up my alley. "12 March 1988. Most artists are afflicted with more than common stupidity, and this makes them even more desperate than they need be, and so they make themselves even more stupid than they really are, and so they make themselves artistically impotent - because, by panicking (consciously or unconsciously) at their own nonsense, they lose all self-respect and can produce either nothing whatever or nothing but unspeakable stupidity."

Cheers to that.
-the unspeakably stupid

'Ahora'

This is another small panel/ acrylic transfer/ collage piece.

faucets and lables

I have always enjoyed making art, but I also always enjoy installing a sink, taking a shower and making someone breakfast. Somehow, in my largely hollow mind, I concocted that being an artist was a moral and valuable endeavor. There is prestige, mystique and identity in making art, or so I thought. And I justified to myself that there is no prestige without a possibility, therefore, of tragic failure. So the pressure in my head grew, causing intense headaches and cerebral crushing...in essence retarting my limited thinking ability even furthere. But somewhere along the line I had an epiphany. I realized that I had installed many sinks that worked better than any of my art did. Pherpahs, I thought to myself, I should begin to call myself a sink installer. I realized how absurd that sounded and began to laugh at myself for what seemed to be, at minimum, two hours. I laughed at myself in the shower. I laughed at myself while dressing. I laughed at myself with brushing my teeth. I almost laughed at myself through breakfast except that I wasn't particularly hungry. Instead I decided to write this historically significant document of self-deprecation in case I ever, in the future, decide that life is tragic.

R: Negative influences like pot make it harder to see your true self.
H: well, my fake self is more popular these days.
H: Who needs a true self anyway
H: a true self is much harder to market, due to its inflexibility

installation in progress

What I am attempting is to bring the personal into the public sector saying "This is the reality that we try not to notice, frequently ignore and otherwise hide...and in the midst of this entropy, happiness happens." Through these photographs I am admitting to my clutter, my clothes on top of the toiled, my plunger- opening doors to associations with showering, sleeping eating, acting- in fact...I hope that they glorify acting and accept its residue (like scarification is a remembrance of a ritual, like marks on your back are residue of your suspension) We are a culture of rituals except we call them routines...the bottle of wine before bed, the shower first thing in the morning, the cup of tea in front of the computer, 9 loads of laundry friday night. I am not implying that these things are mystical or spiritual, but they are relevant and necessary- they are mundane and sometimes odd...like my father's obsession with cottage cheese. And in the end, the art professor and the cabinet maker are both sometimes too tired to do the dishes, too busy to eat well, too distracted for politics--->but they are both moving, acting and leaving residue. And in a sense, clutter is comforting. It tells us that we are home and that it is safe to unload here, to screw the dishes and go to bed. Clutter is in sharp contrast to the way homes are portrayed in the media (in soap operas, tv shows, and magazines) where they are exhibited like professional porn stars on platforms, untouchable, attractive, with huge "pillows" and a great, well kept "lawn"...and if you've got one of THOSE baby, then you've made it. What does it come down to? That I suppose I am making amateour home pornography, glorifying the normalcy of my space, its details and imperfections, in essence creating 1200 portraits of (mundane) living.

(The images posted are about 1/10th of an installation I am currently fucking around trying to complete)