transfer fair

Bus to Wassaic, or why art needs a sterile box

Julie — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 02:54:53 +0000

My goal this entire summer was to get out of the city as often as possible. Suddenly, when the city comes to the country, a whole new animal is created. I went to the Wassaic annual art exhibition in Maxon Mills only to realize that this show is a dubious combination of vital contemporary art in an “idyllic” setting of perfect country sprawl. It’s so perfect it’s almost ludicrous. The Green Acres theme song keeps coming to mind. “….Land spreading out so far and wide. KEEP Manhattan just give me the countryside.” Um, yeah. Something is off. Eva Gabore was a 5^th Avenue princess and she “gets allergic smelling hay.” Herein lies the problem. We can escape the city for contemplative nature but when you bring a lofty art show to the country, it just doesn’t jive. Are people too distracted by the sun? The mountain view? The crawfish boil (go figure!) and fried catfish truck?

Perhaps the scary truth is that art does need to be contained? Maybe if it breathes or basks it’ll disintegrate. Here, the art is in a structure so perfect, so “authentically rustic” that it comes dangerously close to a quaint curiosity, making it all too easily dismissible. Perhaps the controlled white walls of a big, sterile space direct the viewer into the exact right submission, one in which we succumb to the art because it guides us and forces us into compliance. I’m not saying art has one rigid way of being read, and it’s impossible in a new context. I’m also not talking about the BBQ here or the country distractions – the wet dogs and toddlers. I think art and its reception comes with tacit laws that provide the viewer and art object with a paradigm that makes the experience real. Maybe the idyllic setting has no place for conceptual, free-thinking art because our minds wander? And so it hangs there, trapped by the beautiful wood boards of the hand-crafted barn walls.

I resign to forever admitting that I need a denatured, air-regulated box for a perfectly complete art world experience.

Bus to Portland, a poem for an only child

Julie — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 02:40:00 +0000

The town of Portland is small and wet.

It makes me wish I had a pet.

But then what if my pet will drown.

I’d need to quickly leave this town.

I think that Cali’s sun is brighter.

Ok, Willamette, check you later!

Bus to Tulum with no chickens on it (or in my taco)

Julie — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 00:51:00 +0000

I recently did a chemistry problem that asked me to find the grams of fat in one avocado that is 405 Calories, 13 g of carbs and 5 g of protein, knowing that fat, carbs and protein emit 9, 4 and 4 calories per gram, respectively. What I discovered in my prodigious work with the chemistry textbook are two things. The first is that chemistry really IS useful and the second is that the avocado has 37 grams of fat. Shocking on both accounts, I know! Well, needless to say I ate at least two avocados in guacamole form in Tulum daily, which brings me to my other Mexican confessions.

1. After over sixteen years of not eating any red meat or pork (Oy Gevald!), sigh, I accidentally ate a pork taco. Guess what? That’s right, it tasted like chicken. Fooled me until I was informed of the truth. It was already too late to stick two trusty ones down the ol’ esophagus.

2. The second, albeit less shocking and teshuvah-inducing, is another testament (ha cha cha cha!) to my apparently chemistry-inclined-and-not-much-else brain. We stayed in a little tent made of sticks and leaves with no electricity. We had running water and a toilet, but when I went to turn the hot water on, one knob produced barely tepid water, while the other freezing cold water. I assumed the barely tepid was the hot and waited and waited and nothing. Since we hit a cold front, I couldn’t exacerbate my predicament and opted for not showering at all. On day 5, with the help of Gustavo, I realized that the freezing cold knob was the hot water. Oh well. The ocean was my giant bathtub (that one day that I went swimming).

Bus to the country, or applebomb can kick cherrybomb's ass

Julie — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 23:32:00 +0000

I went upstate to visit my friend who left the art world to work on his father’s farm in Tivoli, NY. Upstate is glorious. Somewhere between the death of indie rock culture and the birth of massive addiction to instant gratification though, we plugged in and never unplugged. I’m guilty too. I guess if smoking was something I once did to pass the time but still have a purpose, now I text or email. And then, the punk kids got older, music became less novel and the brilliance of original thought became, well, derivative. I figured out the age-old solution: nature. Sounds silly, I know, but guess what? It’s beautiful and bigger than I am, and it never changed. It never got old or boring; I never outgrew it; it never got stored on a shelf to collect dust or become a relic for nostalgic tears. Young farmers are making rad things happen, and they are keeping us alive and satisfied all at the same time. Their job matters. They don’t heal nor do they diagnose. They create the basics. It’s radically amazing.

Things I fear about being a farmer:

Weird tan lines
Wrinkles
Boredom
Driving

Things I don’t fear:

Missing NYC
Wearing crappy clothes
Being cold
Relying on B to drive

My conclusion is that I’d rather have a small garden with a house. I think I don’t need to be a farmer, although I’d like to eat what I grow and give the rest away.

pigs are cute. i like them. i don't like to eat them.

Bus to Ithaca

Julie — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 23:24:00 +0000

I’ve seen the stupid t-shirts. I get that it’s stunning. And yet, I thought it was really more distant. We went to this town where farmers grow their own food and people live in hippie happiness pretty much all year round. Granted, the June visit was easy on the senses. To make it warmer and fuzzier, my friend made poppy tea. Here’s how it works. You order poppy bulbs for planting, cut them, drain the seeds inside, and grind the hard bulb in a coffee grinder. Then you brew the tea, bringing the mash to almost a boiled and letting it soak for a good while. I suppose the chemistry of time and proportion comes with experience.

life is good

Then you drink the tea. It’s dry, bitter and tastes like pressed hay blended with dirt and a touch of water. After you drink it, you walk around Ithaca’s gorges and Cornell’s campus. If you’re lucky, you stumble into a strawberry field and you eat as many strawberries as you can possibly stuff in your mouth. Then you just lie on the grass and let the sun hit your face. Another giant hug from the universe.

Bus to Marfa, TX or why Wim Wenders had it right all along

Julie — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 18:27:10 +0000

Marfa is damn far. It sits in western Texas, about three hours from any given airport. You will drive through ghost towns of six abandoned houses, truck stops where ex-felons with face tattoos stand around while the local bodega owners cannot direct you to any other destination. I always wanted to see Paris, TX and retrace Wim Wenders’ brilliant road trip. And yet, Marfa’s remote placement, desert setting of rolling hills, tumble weeds and expansive nothingness render it magical.

Add the heavy dose of art world refinement, New York’s influence of good food that’s reassuringly overpriced and un-Texanly eatable and you get Marfa, a magical middle-of-nowhere destination where west coast hippies smoke weed with east coast art fags.

After the weekend Chinati and Judd Foundation tours where, as I did, you might run into a Brooklyn buddy, you can ride a hefty cruiser around town where the major point of reference is the blinking red light. Drinking my way through the afternoons, I met gay neo-liberal bikers from Florida, starved neo-nihilist artist/models from New York, life-loving vegan chefs from Northern Cali and even a few local punk-rockers-cum-career-waiters, or something to that effect.

And if you’re lucky like I was, you can see Joe Jack Talcum from the Dead Milkmen play a house party in the middle of town, replete with every local ever, obviously; you’ll dance your ass off to “Punk Rock Girl” because you know that’s all you really remember and he’ll still play it because Marfa has this secret way of sealing in time and making little things just make sense. We’ll travel round the world/ just you and me/ punk rock girl. Or just stay in Marfa for a hot minute or a few months between Brooklyn and Silver Lake.

Bus to New Orleans, again, but a much shabbier one

Julie — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 20:50:25 +0000

The lower 9th ward is basically a post-apocalyptic vortex. The remnants of life – foundations from houses that once stood there, barred churches, heaps of trash and sundry puddles – are a modern-day Pompei except unlike Pompei, the civilization that existed still remains, albeit worn and defeated. We were driving around looking for whatever remains of the Prospect 1 installation. The Brad Pitt houses were an impressive intrusion onto the barren landscape. We saw a parked pick-up truck with teenagers sharing a mickey of whiskey in the middle of the day. We drove over dilapidated roads and forlorn shrubs, passing an destroyed school, abandoned homes and various signs that described the particular murder that occurred on that very spot.
We parked by the levee and stared out onto the low water, sitting on the low barrier that leads to this bleakly peaceful death beach. There wasn’t even any graffiti to attest to someone’s marks of presence. I became very panicky. The incessant stories of murders, muggings, pistol whippings and car jackings exacerbated my growing stress level. I pretended it was because I was heart-broken over this scene that ‘s shockingly displaced for this country. All things I’ve heard before. But the truth is, I was scared shitless for my pathetic ass, thinking, probably not without an unwarranted sense of self-entitlement, that my life is somehow better and bigger than this. And that’s the crux of the problem: I’m a selfish, smug coward willing to do my part but only when it fits into my zone of acceptable discomfort. We’re so predictably weak.

Bus to Montreal, or how Craigs List came through yet again

Julie — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 18:59:00 +0000

Now, by bus I'm not talking about the 10 hour Greyhound journey that culminated in a broken motor at the border from where I then had to take a $90 cab to Montreal, no, I mean the amazing convenience of rideshares, the anti-bus, completely anonymous encounters that serve no other purpose than to bring two perfect strangers together in one vehicle with the common goal of a singular destination.

Montreal is full of contemporary pragmatism and thoughts of Leonard Cohen whose wisdom has earned him the right to charge upwards of $200 in his quest for the solace of salvation except that "even damnation is poisoned with rainbows," remember?

Thank you, Montreal, for being there when Paris can't and New York no longer wants to.

Bus to New Orleans, or why vampires totally exist

Julie — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 18:16:00 +0000

I went to New Orleans because American culture is this nebulous area that always fascinates me through its, well, vapid, pre-fabricated efficiency. And yet, this one place is like a little unit of tenacity where people are so happy to be just be there, again, alive, almost well, that they open up and welcome you and all your annoying presuppositions and fussy needs.

Did you know, for example, that the original Blind Mellon bee girl, the one on the cover of the album, worked at Cafe Feelings in Marigny where her large, framed portrait still adorns the wall, right above that of Marylin? Or that the Ursuline Convent on the outskirts of the French Quarter may still house vampires in the attic when they were brought over in wooden cases by young girls to help tend to the sick during a yellow fever epidemic?

Well, I learned all about it, along with Muffeletta sandwiches, regular and frozen Hand Grenades, delectable drinks that combines ten different liquors in a giant plastic cup with a grenade-shaped bottom or the ever popular Hurricane (Rum, corn starch, high fructose corn syrup, red 40).

I also learned that no matter how severe the destruction and destitution, a sunny disposition can be served up with a heavy cream sauce and a large, friendly smile.

Bus to Austin, or how I saw the last two songs of countless bands

Julie — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 20:24:31 +0000

We splurged and got badges to preclude any worries ever about lines, stamps, wrist bands, excessive crowds and alcohol consumption. For many reasons, we were right; in some ways, however, we could have done without because as every seasoned SXSW regular knows, the day parties are way cooler, shit's free everywhere anyway and if they gave us anymore free Dentyne Ice, my tongue would have turned numb, in a minty fresh sort of way. Though I loved the Ice Cream Man, the generous truck that cruised around Austin, giving away delicious ice cream bars and those awesome Froz-Fruit strawberry ice things that I ate enthusiastically at every opportunity.
I also wish to point out that drinking during the day was highly encouraged by the impeccable porta-potties -- pale pink for girls and pale blue for boys -- that graced every outdoor venue and event. They were clean, smelled lovely and even had those hand washing stations conveniently placed just outside the door.
When we first arrived at Ben's, he showed us this huge 70s blue bus parked in front of his neighbors' house that said "How's Your News" on it in big, white, bubble letters. Then I noticed a group of people holding news cameras and microphones, all of whom seemed to be either mildly or severely mentally disabled. Each person in the group wore a "How's Your News" t-shirt, a perfect blue baseball tee that looks like those rad numbers they wore in old Tootsie Roll commercials. I saw these folks around town and at a brilliant day party. Turns out they are all part of a documentary where the reporters have mental and physical disabilities. They also take part in a special camp called Camp Jabberwocky for people with such problems. They love to laugh and laugh at themselves all the time. I wish I had a chance to speak with them more, especially the really cute, curly haired boy who smiled excessively and always asked passersby how they were doing with the most sincere interest. I heard they are funny, crazy and completely easy going about everything. I would have had many questions to pose.

Dude from Lightspeed Champion with his own "How's Your News tee"

When I came back home, I ordered a t-shirt off their website. It's blue with white stripes on the sleeves and a red number 8 on the back left shoulder. It says "How's Your News" on it in white bubble letters on the front, obviously.