Obras Callejeras Political Art and Installations: Blog

Mercurial or Cautious?

Thu, 28 May 2009 07:35:03 -0500

This blog, with its nonexistent readership, often veers sharply into the personal, and today will be one of those reflections. Just over a month ago, I met a fascinating writer, who foams at the mouth like Howard Zinn..of course I am enthralled as rarely do I meet such an intellectual tour de force in the flesh. Being a captivating story-teller, he was soon predicting a future for us that tugged at my deepest dreams, but being a typical man, he was not available - emotionally or otherwise - to follow through on these grand schemes. My response? Vacillation, and a guarded optimism that at the very least a friendship can be sustained. I've an allergy to emotional entanglements and messiness of any variety. And for some reason, after an extended dry spell, I appear to have a long list of suitors. There seems to be a reemergent 50's singles scene that I was hitherto unaware of. So I'm not anxious to settle for anything -or anyone- that is not exactly who or what I want. Is this crazy writer who or what I want? Some days yes, others no. From behind a veil of trepidation I will measure the relative merits of a continued involvement with this individual. Some see that as being mercurial..I see it as being cautious. I need my heart to beat for me; I can't hand it over to just anybody anymore.

Lonely Boy -- A Slice of the American Dream

Mon, 27 Apr 2009 21:53:36 -0500

In the understated manner of cinema verit�, Wolf Koenig's and Roman Kroiter's 1962 film "Lonely Boy", sets an early and unflinching lens on American-style celebrity and fans alike, dissecting a burgeoning Hollywood behemoth that was just setting out on its imperial conquest of local cultures across the globe. Canadian film culture might well be one of its first conquests. Teen idol Paul Anka, the subject of this award-winning National Film Board documentary film, was a runaway Canadian talent who rose quickly to fame at a young age, and his na�ve adoption of the trappings of celebrity culture are presented by the film-makers as a kind of empty success - a success without soul, rooted in nothing but fame itself and the mass hysteria it provoked in the audiences. This subtle and accomplished documentary won several awards in the international film circuit, including Grand Prize at the Festival dei Popoli / International Film Festival on Social Documentary (Italy, 1963), Film of the Year at the Genie Awards (Montr�al 1963) and First Prize for a Documentary - City of Oberhausen Award -- at the International Short Film Festival (Germany, 1963) . The steady gaze of the no-frills, hand-held camera also examines the fans themselves: face after gushing face, the screams, the tears, are filmed in slow-motion, revealing the hungry ghost-like character of this kind of collective and public emotional caterwauling. The pale faces against the vastness of the darkened theatre halls where Anka performed, showed pubescent females, whose impending sexual impulses and mobbish mind-set were exploited by the promoters for brilliant financial gain. Paul is an affable fellow, who charms both men and women, and whose good looks are artificially sculpted to better fit the role of heart-throb. Judged by the standards of today, Anka's nose job looks like a quick trip to the meat-removal market, but as presented in the film, it seems a tragic sacrifice of true and idiosyncratic character in exchange for fame - or money. In this sense Anka's willingness to succumb to the requests of his promoters seems fatuous. Filmed in grainy black and white, the visual impression of the film conveys a kind of nostalgia for something lost, be it in Anka's character, or in the culture that rouses large masses of people to the point of swooning, signaling a kind of mindlessness and inattention to the actual craft of music. Anka's talents as a musician, however large or small, are entirely lost in the furor. We see Anka performing on stage, exuding androgens and whipping up his audiences by pointing a finger, or cuddling a fan during a song. Interspersed with "voice of God" narration and clips of interviews with Paul, his promoters and his fans, one eventually has the sense that Anka lives in a kind of aestheticised bubble that borders on the surreal. That this epitomizes the realization of the American Dream is somehow disappointing. Why would one of the most successful young men of his time - for a time - be lonely? In this respect the film challenges American celebrity culture head-on as well as the Canadian yearning for it. So many of Canada's best-known talents in the film industry had left Canada to pursue the lofty perches of Hollywood, and in so doing blurred the markers that distinguish Canadian culture from that of the US. By presenting a stripped-down look at the mass hysteria that is American celebrity culture, the film seems to be asking the question: what is there to like about it really? We can see that Paul enjoys all the fruits that come with this kind of success, but does he revel in them? Is he truly happy? We see him stripped down in his dressing room as his promoters get him stage-primed; he seems to slip easily into the mold of his tuxedo, but his wistful gaze out of the window of a bus, while his promoters natter incessantly, indicates that perhaps he doesn't live so easily with this fame. At this point, Paul seems as much a victim as a beneficiary in this money-making machine, and one has the premonitory sense that his flame might soon flicker out, despite the ostentatious statement by Anka's promoter, Irving Field, that "God gave [Paul] something that I don't think he's given anyone in the past 500 years" The only music presented in the film is during Paul's performances, and even then we can hardly hear him over all the screaming, with the exception of the scene where the makers abandon synchronous sound --a hallmark of the freshness of cinema verit�- and cut to a recorded track of Anka singing. This presents a specter even more terrifying than the reality of the screaming: the complete and utter mindlessness driving the machinery of the fame industry -- something akin to Chomsky's assessment of sports adulation as an exercise in "training in irrational jingoism" . According to an interview with Koenig by Tammy Stone, the choice to cut the screams from the track was because he himself was tired of hearing them . It was a pleasant surprise to him that this enhanced the effectiveness of the scene. The lack of musical accompaniment in most scenes in the film imparts no underserved sentimentality to the machinations of celebrity-adulation money-shaking. Although the film is conservative in technique, its cumulative effect by its end is that of a locomotive; it has the effect of flattening the imagined topography of American success, and of dulling the hallucinatory hues we attribute to what we call "dreaming in technicolour". Seth Feldman refers to a recurring device in Canadian cinema in terms of silence or absence, and sets it in the context of two linguistic solitudes who cannot properly communicate with each other. In this manner, what is not communicated somehow becomes a central element of the dynamics between the two cultural entities. But silence or absence conveys so much more than mere political enmity; as a device in film making, it carries a heft that transcends heated exchanges, or classically American over-the-top acting styles or out of touch super-heroism. It is in Paul's moments of quiet reflection when we can catch a glimpse into the young man's soul and project our own apprehensions about celebrity culture onto him. Similarly, the absence of the screams ironically amplifies their oppressive effect, engendering in the film audience a fight or flight response that must be contained. Feldman attributes the silence to his conviction that English Canadian cinema "has not yet had its Perrault" . Struggling to overcome not one, but two colonial entities, a distinctly Canadian cinematic English language fails to emerge, and our defeated heroes often fall into a sullen silence. Filling the void of articulation was the Griersonian voice-over, a trend that dominated post-war English Canadian films , especially documentaries, and from which Lonely Boy was something of a departure. Noted for its long roster documentary film-makers, Koenig worked in the more experimental wing of the NFB, Studio B, and shared the work of editing the film with several other colleagues involved in the project. An early to mid-life production of Studio B, Lonely Boy is not an experimental film per se, but Koenig admits that the film was assembled from a series of non-sequential shots, a pastiche of moving images, filmed with one single camera and pulled together in collaboration with Roman Kroiter, Tom Daly, the producer, John Spotton and Guy Cote. Lonely Boy, a ground-breaking success for the NFB, inspired other penetrating NFB documentaries such as Dream Machine, produced by Peter Starr in 2001. Tom Perimutter, Chairman of the NFB's Board, in promoting the NFB's new on-line archive of great film captures the timelessness of the production, "What strikes you is how perennial or how relevant and fresh these films are. A film like Lonely Boy could have been done yesterday."

Beautiful Mexico

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 06:54:33 -0500

The country I so adored.. gilded sunsets, single-file paths through the jungle leading to crystalline watering holes, cascades of water rushing down through the deep murky green, where sunlight barely made it to the forest floor, nopal cactus and century plants sending their prickly fruit up to the sky...meeting along an isolated trail a large group of machete-wielding men whose only greeting was "buenos"..freedom to romp and play and come of age in a completely unfettered way..for an ex-pat. To a certain degree the same was true for Mexican citizens who could manage to dodge familial responsibilities and live a carefree life of their choosing. But what of Mexico's current climate; if media reports are anything to go by there's a head rolling into every discotheque or town square, severed in the name of the "war on drugs"...initiated, you guessed it, in the US of A. The conflagration of billions of US dollars, hundreds of thousands of automatic weapons and Zeta-style organised criminality lies squarely at the feet of US drug-enforcement policy, both north and south of the Rio Grande. The US, which boasts the highest incarceration rate of any Western nation, is packed to the rafters with drug-users. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world, where cooler and less ideological heads prevail, steps are being taken to decriminalise illegal drug consumption. The example of Portugal comes to mind, where illegal drug use is treated as a public health issue, a medical condition that warrants treatment - not incarceration. As CBC Sunday Morning host, Michael Enright, pointed out on a recent show highlighting shifting drug-enforcement perspectives from around the world, it is becoming increasingly clear that many drug-enforcement officials are moving over to the de-criminalisation side of the equation. Anti-ing up the "war of drugs" in Mexico is more likely to edge Mexico ever closer to the narco-terrorist state of Colombia, where even its own citizens are afraid to venture out into the countryside. The war on drugs is, and can never be anything but, a complete failure, and an assault on human rights and dignity.

weeping again

Wed, 15 Apr 2009 22:27:53 -0500

Lucia Kowaluk and Steven Staples have just released a compendium of critical thought on Canada's role in Afghanistan, entitled "Afghanistan and Canada". Their sparsely-attended book release, as well as the poor attendance at the peace demonstration two weeks ago have lead me to a place of despair about the state of critical public voices in the war debate in this country... There is no debate. Staples in particular remarked on the fact that op-ed pieces on the war across Canada are written by a handful of individuals who are on the payroll of DND. How's that for a debate? One audience member mentioned that Rex Murphy's Cross-country check-up on CBC was screening out anti-war remarks from its show last Sunday. I personally didn't listen to the show, so I can't concur, but it wouldn't surprise me. It took several cataclysmic events south of the 49th before ol'Rexie let slip any anti-Bush sentiment. Are we really sending young people in harm's way to protect a gas pipeline? Is this the country we have become? If that is the case, then, in the words Ward Churchill, our chickens will surely come home to roost.

Nudes and Prudes 2

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 10:25:22 -0500

The long silence emanating from the establishment where I'd hoped we'd be showing our first twenty or so photographs is looking like an unofficial "no" to our proposal. It truly is beyond comprehension, since we made the overly generous compromise of editing out any evidence of genitalia, and would essentially be showing only nude torsos of men. My first comment to the lovely E.B., who was the intermediary in this proposal, was "This is Montreal, not Mogadishu!". Bertram Brooker had it right in his commentary on Canadian conservatism in his 1931 essay "Nudes and Prudes", after one of his paintings was refused a gallery showing because of the nudity it depicted. Truly enough, in a real gallery setting today, usually populated by artists, hipsters and pseudo-libertarians, the photographs would not likely cause much of a flap. Yet in a city where on every street corner you can see a five-story nude flogging everything from vodka to jeans to telephones, this disconcerting disconnect is exactly the fissure we are attempting to explore in our photo essay and accompanying testimonials. Unless one's physicality is derivative of the Puget Sculpture Gallery, the naked self is considered an eyesore to be hidden away, decorated by the latest designer knickers configured to produce a simulacrum of the contemporary body aesthetic: the more skeletal and pre-pubescent, the better. Perhaps the fuel propelling me to write this commentary is the fact that in the stairwell of the very establishment that prefers to censure our photographs, is a poster depicting no less than ten naked women entwined in a strategically orchestrated embrace. That the representative of said establishment did not even notice the poster, is a testament to the the gender line that divides the acceptability of female versus male nudity. The commodification of the female body is a standard operating procedure of advertising agencies: are we so flooded with images of the idealised female nude that we are no longer surprised by them? I suspect that there may be a certain ageism at play here as well. Along with the many other denials we create in our minds in order to sustain a sense of order and well-being in our lives, is the denial of aging and death. Even the Buddha, who entreatied others to reflect often on the subjects of aging and death, was not immune to feeling its shattering effect on self-esteem and body image. As artists, we are attempting to create an environment of love and acceptance where the human form, in all its diversity, is worthy of the artistic - and the public - gaze. That we are so self-loathing that only the "perfect" amongst us feels deserving of this gaze I believe diminishes our sense of self, relegating our nakedness to the realm of shame, and making us complicit in the eugenification of the human species.

IDF advertising on my website!!!!!

Thu, 02 Apr 2009 22:28:41 -0500

Israeli Defense Force...I do not support you, your tactics, your exporting of terrorism around the world, particularly in Latin American, your arms peddling and spying conglomerates and your apartheid tactics in Gaza. Get you fucking ads off my website. In the name of Yaweh you behave like godless heathens...no offense to heathens intended!

New film short on Berlin Wall and post-war Germany

Thu, 02 Apr 2009 22:21:06 -0500

Scott MacLeod's new film on post-war Germany, featuring friend and mentor Hannalore is a visual feast, but falls short of its intention as a historical document. Weighing in at just under twenty-five minutes, the film offers much in the way of stunning animation, but precious little of substance that one can walk away feeling, "wow, I've learned something". Hannalore's testimony is barely audible, at times, above a soundtrack of arguably congenial Canadiana-style folk music that conveys none of the atmosphere or aural aesthetic of Germany, contemporary or historical. Quotes from Berthold Brecht and other sages appear occasionally on the screen, but the quotes are general reflections on the state of humanity, and one scrambles to read the small print before the quote disappears and we're left wondering how it applies to Hannalore's story, which is highly subjective and personal. The most touching moment in the film is her reflection on how half the students in her high school vanished in one fell swoop the day that the Berlin Wall was erected in her neighbourhoodin 1961, barring east from west Berlin. Then boom..the story is over. We have no insight into who Hannalore is today, besides Scott's mentor and friend. Nor do we see how the Berlin wall in post-war Germany affected her, beyond the high school incident, in fact we learn nothing about Hannalore whatsoever, even though she was present at the screening. I believe that she mentioned that she left Germany or Berlin altogether shortly thereafter. One gets the sense that the film is more about MacLeod and his diverse talents (documentary film-making not being amongst them), than it is about Hannalore. Great visuals though- shot mostly in black and white, with gorgeous fade-outs and transitions, it is a beautiful mixture of animation, photography and film footage, and for that he should be commended.

Where is my Canada?

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 21:31:02 -0500

Sadly, I don't recognise my country any more. Having grown up during the quiet revolution and come of age during the Trudeau years, "notwithstanding" the war measures act of course, I find myself out of sorts and disoriented in this new country, whose government has banned, for political reasons, a sitting member of Parliament of a Commonwealth nation. OK, the Commonwealth is dead, but still, George Galloway, whose fiery rhetoric I might never have heard if not for the ban on his visit, hasn't said anything that Robert Fisk hasn't said, or Noam Chomsky or Howard Zinn for that matter. What is going on in this country? Last month I was astonished to discover an entire edition of the Montreal rag, the "Metropolitan", devoted to the following equation, that to criticize Israel is to be an anti-Semite, and no less than three pages was devoted to Irwin Cotler's diatribe on this matter. Simply stated, this is a fallacy, an argument without basis. It reminds me of the accusations leveled against critics of American foreign policy as "anti-American" or "unpatriotic", and illustrates the character assassination that proponents of Israeli or American foreign policy resort to when historical fact and logic are not on their side. What is most alarming in this situation is that the Israeli stance on all things Palestinian has now become indistinguishable from the utterances of Stephen Harper and his host of ministers. Where, someone please tell me, is the Canada I know and love?

Michael Snow: Life Review in Fast-Mo

Sun, 22 Mar 2009 11:42:27 -0500

Michael Snow's new Bolex-recorded release caused a negative sensation last Thursday night at the DHC as two-thirds of the audience bailed out before the end of the film. A perplexed Mr. Snow extended his apologies, afterward, for making the movie "too long" after having introduced it as "really good". Not ballsy enough to insult the Canadian artistic icon by leaving early myself, I stayed to the bitter end of the question period, hoping to gain some insight into the pastiche of fast-moving, sweeping images and strange domestic scenario that constitute the film collage, uneasily wedded together by the opaque title "Representation". Snow, who has recently collaborated with the hot American sound artist, Christian Marclay, has been perhaps too much influenced by the younger artist's turntablist working methods. What might work in sound, does not necessarily translate well into visual representation. Snow established his reputation and status in the iconography of Canadian art by means of bold experimentation in film-making, for which he has won numerous prestigious awards as well as for his "Walking Woman" series in the 1960's, a recurring thematic running through his body of work in sculpture, painting and film. Walking women feature no less prominently in "Representation", although we fail to grasp the reason for his preoccupation with this subject beyond the roving eye of the "male gaze". The scenes were constructed, according to Snow, by filming snippets of his daily life with his hand-held Bolex over the course of five years, beginning some time in the 1980's. Fortunately for the viewer, Snow's life has been marked by travel to exotic locations, many of which are featured in this moving collage. Added to the mundane imagery of numerous walks down the street or in the woods, Snow adds some scenes from an open-heart surgery, and the killing and skinning of a dog in the Arctic. What made the film unpalatable for me, personally, was the frenetic and disjointed camera movements that induced a psychic and physical distress that made me want to bolt from the room. While others succumbed to that urge, I simply closed my eyes for the last half hour of the film to avoid getting spun out by the vertiginous mixture of speedy camera spans combined with unpredictable yet relentless scene splices whose transitions were marked by a spare digital snare beat. Unable to open my eyes, even for the culmination of this ninety minute, feature-length experimental film; I could tell the end was near by the acceleration of the drum beats, rising, crescendo-like, just before the film emptied again into a dark chasm, just as it had begun. The film's end aroused little applause and even fewer questions amongst the few troopers who managed to hang on to their seats until the projector duly stopped rolling. While I can admire the courage and dedication it takes to bring such an experimental work to the fore, one gets the sense that maybe Mr. Snow should have spent more time in the editing room, and that perhaps it was a nostalgic attachment to what must have been, and by all accounts still is, a very exciting and creative life that caused him to bring so much of this film to his audience. "You might think that I used all of my film footage", Mr. Snow quipped during the question period, "but I actually edited out quite a bit". Not enough, however...

on nothing at all

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 00:03:36 -0500

Back to the diary-type blog. I've come to the conclusion that I am gullible and easily taken in by duplicity, and then...nabbed. I made the unfortunate discovery that my colleagues actually don't want me around for the long-term, despite protestations to the contrary. It leaves me feeling kind of despairing, actually, that the same kind of petty professional jealousies exist everywhere. It's not that I'm a bad teacher...it's just that I'm more disorganised than I should be, not as prepared as I should be, not as up to date on my corrections as I should be...probably by many teachers' definitions, that would make me a bad teacher...Really, I'd rather be doing art, and I think that's clear to everyone concerned. So, do I go back to the same old job? Or make a play for a new one. And on a vastly different note, lovely H invited me to share his studio at the Belgo...It is ever so tempting at the Belgo. Art Icon building in Montreal. Do I take the plunge? It's like $100 more a month than what I pay at the Chat, and I'd get to be around H and his work. So much to think about, and so little time to think...Signe