Rain Room, an installation by London-based artist collective rAndom International, is an experiment in sensory disruption. A 300 ft² room is rigged to create a constant downpour, but motion-detecting cameras stop the rain anywhere a person is present. The effect is one of being cloaked in dryness, which follows you wherever you go. The rain is actually so loud that the voice of a person a few feet away is drowned out, thus the lacuna of rain occupied by a body actually forms its own “room.”
While the physical reality of responsive rain is jarringly exhilarating, the effect of insulation that eventually settles in is as soothing as it is surreal.
If your first record player didn’t have a picture of Big Bird on it, you ain’t punk
Vinyl will never die—that’s obvious. The sound is rich and warm and the size is perfect for cover art—a 12-inch jacket is basically a poster and EPs make lovely little accents when displayed.
My last band sold cassettes at our EP release show, even though (except for a bonus song), it was available online for free. Due to the cost-effectiveness of the medium, cassettes never really left the punk scene, and with labels like Burger Records blowing up, it wasn’t much of a novelty (not that there’s anything wrong with novelty). Our drummer (an artist), even drew the inserts, so there was an added bonus of hand-drawn art to the purchase.
And I’ve seen more experimental formats for music, like a pencil and a cassette with all of the tape unwound sold in a mason jar. The idea was to use the pencil to roll the tape back up into the casing, as part of the experience. At least three bands I know have (half-jokingly, half-serious) declared their intentions to either release 8-tracks or mini-cassettes, so I’m familiar with the use of esoteric mediums for music, even the guy who made an Edison wax cylinder out of his own ear wax. Eeww!
Ottawa band, Hilotrons, however, have outdone us all, releasing nuggets of music on plastic records that only work for an all-but forgotten children’s toy. The Fisher Price record player is actually a simple wind-up music box, and each indestructible little plastic record is a spool that triggers different notes. What you get is the creepy, tinkling tones featured in the video below.
I want to be disdainful of this (if only because that’s my habit), but like I said, there’s nothing wrong with a little novelty, and the band seems to be approaching the project like a sort of self-effacing performance art—they only made five and sold them as a special package. It’s clever, really. In a time when the purchase of a physical medium has become all but a niche hobby for vinyl enthusiasts, this sort of takes the piss out of the last dying gasp of “tangible” music and its increasingly anachronistic hardware.
In his memoir Confessions of a Mask (certainly the only book I’ve ever read describable as “Proust meets Jeffrey Dahmer”), the great Japanese writer and all-round rum fucker Yukio Mishima is kind enough to share the precise circumstances of his first orgasm…
It arrived, or better yet arose, when he saw, browsing a volume of art reproductions in his father’s study, Reni’s “St Sebastian,” undoubtedly one of the more louche and insouciant evocations of Christian martyrdom (paid conspicuous tribute to in the above image), and enough to give Mishima his full sexual awakening, concurrently instigating a full-blown sexual and aesthetic obsession with death and sadomasochism that would ineluctably lead, decades later, to Mishima’s own Sepukku (ritual suicide by disemboweling; better known in the west as Harakiri) in 1970, following a failed attempt to lead a military uprising.
Considering his lifelong and highly eroticized preoccupation, it’s easy to imagine that this attempted coup d’état was only really ever meant to provide a pretext for the suicide itself. It was probably one of the strangest occurrences in literary history. Along with four members of the Tatenokai, a Japanese private militia, Mishima (a man, incidentally, who revered writers like Baudelaire, Dostoevsky, Proust…) unveiled a banner and manifesto at Ichigaya Camp, the Tokyo headquarters of the Eastern Command of Japan’s Self-Defense Forces, but his speech was met with mocking laughter by the soldiers. This rejection, though, allowed the comrades to get down to the good bit: disemboweling themselves and decapitating one another. Mishima had been planning this meticulously for a year, but had clearly been fantasizing about it for a lifetime—shades here of Kurt Cobain, whose childhood diaries announce an intention to become the world’s biggest rock star and then take his own life.
Still, though, Sepukku. I can barely read the Wikipedia page without falling out my chair. (Hey, my cat just obligingly caught a mouse he’s been after for about a year and a half, ripped it in two, and left mouse intestine strung across the kitchen linoleum. Cheers, Kit Bear!) I was certainly unable to remain in my chair for the half-hour duration of the following 1966 film, Mishima’s only one, Yûkoku (“Patriotism”) or The Rite of Love and Death, directed by and staring Mishima himself, and based on the almost unreadable short story of the same name. It is essentially an elaborate and idealized rehearsal for the way he would later meet his own death. I watched it on my tip-toes, with regular yelps and howls.
Although the short film was normally screened with the accompaniment of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, the following version—the only one with the film’s proper 3:4 aspect ratio and English titles on YouTube—was scored by musician Aaron Embry. It’s strong stuff, and also—like the rest of Mishima’s writing and life—utterly mesmerizing. (If you are new to Mishima, maybe skip down first to watch the engrossing English interview with him below.)
Titian’s painting “Actaeon Surprising Diana (Artemis) in the bath,” is retold in this short film Metamorphosis by Tell No One.
In Greek mythology, Actaeon was a hunter and Theban hero, who fell foul of Artemis, and was punished. In one version of the tale, Actaeon was wandering through a wood, when he spied Artemis, or Diana, bathing in a “sacred spring.” Actaeon was mesmerized by the goddess’s beauty, and stood staring lustfully at her nakedness. As punishment Artemis forbade Actaeon to speak—if ever he did speak, he would be turned into a stag. Upon hearing the sound of his hunting party approaching, Acteaon called out, and was turned into a stag. He then became their quarry, was hunted and torn to pieces by his own hounds.
Metamorphosis stars Anna Friel and Ed Speleers. The film was made in 2012 for the National Gallery, London, and won a Golden Lion, in the Film Craft category, at Cannes this year.
Occupy Wall Street catches a lot of criticism for failing to develop a tangible political trajectory in the United States. In fact, despite being the site of the original occupation, other countries appear to have benefited more from the movement. Spain, for example, still has a cohesive anti-austerity movement, and the Quebec student activists won a tuition freeze last May. The core idea though, of claiming a space for the public, seems to be the most resilient concept, and Switzerland’s riot last Friday is the latest installment. Events leading up to the incident are slightly complicated, but here goes…
Japanese artist Tadashi Kawamata and Swiss architect Christophe Scheidegger recently collaborated on an installation piece inspired by favelas, the shantytowns of Brazil that nearly 30% of Rio de Janeiro’s population calls home. Favelas aren’t exactly comparable to US ghettos, because though they exist in the midst of urbanity, they tend to lack any real infrastructure like running water or electricity. Kawamata and Scheidegger thought this was a cute concept for a trendy bistro, and so they opened the “Favela Café.” I guess when you don’t have any creative ideas yourself, imitating the resourcefulness of poor people seems like a good substitute—the ultimate bourgeois art, really. Very “Derelicte.”
The installation was actually commissioned by Art Basel, a prestigious and expansive international art show, named for the Swiss town of Basel where it’s held. Earlier this year, protesters from “Basel wird besetzt” (Basel will be occupied) attempted to reclaim an empty building in the town square for a public cultural center, but the cops evicted them after a month.
The occupation of the “Favela Café,” a particularly loaded symbol considering the “ritzy poor” aesthetic of the concept, was their second attempt at reclamation for the commons. It seems they had permission to protest for a period of time, but when they exceeded the limit, the police came down on them in full force. It will be interesting to see what, if anything, comes of this, along with the “Turkish Spring” protests.
People all over the world are making basic demands (though often with larger political undertones), for space that supposedly already belongs to the public, only to be met met with brutal repression—I suspect we’ll see more occupations of this kind in the near future.
Every year, scores of tourists and locals alike attempt to recreate the famous Abbey Road crosswalk scene, even folks who might otherwise find such efforts at photographic performance “cheesy.” Director Chris Purcell elegantly employs the dulcet tones of Liverpudlian performance poet and literary polymath Roger McGough, creating this soothing mediation on photography, iconography that spans generations, and the passage of time.
Fun fact: Roger McGough once wrote a poem entitled, “To Macca’s Trousers,” about a pair of Sir Paul’s pants given to McGough by The Beatle’s younger brother, Mike McGear.
Today is Bloomsday—the day that commemorates and celebrates the life and works of James Joyce across the world.
Bloomsday is the day on which the events of Joyce’s most famous novel Ulysses take place, June 16th, 1904. This is also the date on which Joyce first stepped out with his future wife, Nora Barnacle, to stroll around the city of Dublin.
To celebrate Bloomsday, here is James Joyce reading Episode Seven: “Aeolus” from Ulysses. This recording was made in 1924, on the insistence of Sylvia Beach, proprietor of the Parisian bookshop Shakespeare & Co. and publisher of Joyce’s Ulysses. As the recording is rather basic, a transcription of the extract is been included of below.
He began.
— Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in listening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment since by my learned friend. It seemed to me that I had been transported into a country far away from this country, into an age remote from this age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening to the speech of some highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful Moses.
His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smoke ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. And let our crooked smokes. Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand at it yourself?
— And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. I heard his words and their meaning was revealed to me.
FROM THE FATHERS
It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were supremely good nor unless they were good could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That’s saint Augustine.
— Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our language? You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen; we are a mighty people. You have no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives of humanity and our galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all manner merchandise furrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged from primitive conditions: we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong history and a polity.
Nile.
Child, man, effigy.
By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.
— You pray to a local and obscure idol: our temples, majestic and mysterious, are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra. Yours serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder and the seas. Israel is weak and few are her children: Egypt is an host and terrible are her arms. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles at our name.
A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it boldly:
— But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and accepted that view of life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will and bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he would never have brought the chosen people out of their house of bondage nor followed the pillar of the cloud by day. He would never have spoken with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai’s mountaintop nor ever have come down with the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms the tables of the law, graven in the language of the outlaw.
As the word “hipster” is rendered more and more amorphous and diluted in meaning (perhaps currently used merely to signify some one who is young and wears clothes), it’s become increasingly difficult to take potshots at the people who might make us feel schlubby and out-of-touch. Luckily, folks are still doing creative things with the concept. Photographer Léo Caillard created a series called “Hipster in Stone,” wherein he “styles” famous sculptures in the fashions of today’s younger clothes-wearers. As a broke young person from Brooklyn with a creative job, I feel it is my anthropological duty to place the themes and characters of Caillard’s work.
First off, pictured above is the hungover guy who ruins brunch. Seriously. You save up go to brunch once a damn month and he’s always there, using incredibly deliberate body language, expounding loudly on how wasted he got last night, sitting in his chair in such a way as to obstruct the servers as they attempt to do their jobs. Shut up, hungover guy, just drink your 10$ pitcher of mimosas like everyone else.
This is my old boss from when I worked at a third party political organization. He enjoys chambray, Instagramming graffiti, and rap. He’s really into weight-training and the Paleo diet.
This guy acts like he has no money, but he really has tons of money.
This guy acts like he has money, but doesn’t.
This girl has her MA in Public Policy, but can only find a job at my coffee shop 20 hours a week. Her ex-boyfriend’s a dick, and when she’s not trying to get a job with a living wage, she makes awesome weird paintings of her cat when she’s stoned.
This is just my friend, Steve. He’s a grant writer, and lives in Clinton Hill with his awesome wife, who’s a librarian. Steve is unpretentious, and knows all the dialogue to Big Trouble in Little China. Everyone likes Steve. If you don’t like Steve, then fuck you.
This one is actually me. I ran out of money before laundry day and washed my shirt in the sink. I’m waiting for it to dry, and attempting to get in my skinny jeans. I write for an arts and culture blog, work for a socialist organization, have tattoos, and make punk music. I’m probably a laughable stereotype, and it doesn’t bother me much.
This guy’s a Greenpoint dad, and when he’s not carrying the free-range lambs he breeds on his roof, he’s wearing a baby backpack, so he can bond with little Percival.
This girl and I were best friends for a night at a bar because I gave her some tampons and she gave me some cigarettes when all the bodegas near the bar were closed. That’s not her baby—she nannies for Percival. I can’t remember her name…. I never go to that bar anymore.
David Lynch doesn’t like giving interviews. He has to be coaxed by interviewer Mark Cousins, to give answers to his questions.
Mark Cousins: David Lynch, you don’t like doing interviews, do you?
David Lynch: No I don’t.
Mark Cousins: Why are you sitting on this sofa then?
David Lynch: To do you a great favor.
Lynch certainly does a great favor here, in this fine documentary Scene By Scene, as the cult director goes on to explain his thoughts on films and film-making:
A film is its own thing. And in an ideal world, I think film should be discovered knowing nothing, and nothing should be added to it, and nothing should be subtracted from it.
The usually taciturn Lynch then opens-out about his life; his insecurities (why he once wore three ties); his ideas on the speed of rooms; why he doesn’t follow politics (‘I don’t understand the concept of two sides’); and his response to criticism in his portrayal of women:
..the problem is that somebody sees a woman in a film, and then mistakenly assumes that that is the way the person sees all women, when in actuality it’s just that particular woman within this particular story.
The interview concludes with Cousins asking Lynch about his thoughts on mortality.
Inside, we’re ageless. And when we talk to ourselves, it’s the same person we were talking to, the same age, when we were little, and it’s the body that’s changing around that ageless center.
Recorded prior to the release of The Straight Story, this fifty-minute documentary, made by BBC Scotland, gives great insight into David Lynch and his method of film-making.
Watch it—before it’s gone!
A full transcript of the interview with David Lynch can be found here.
This painting was painted using a post-card sized photograph. It is very well-detailed and quite clear. The light does not reflect as much as the photo shows. It was given to me as a birthday present and portrays me (John “Drumbo” French) playing a specially-designed kit by Gon-Bops (Mariano Bobadillo specially created the kick and floor toms for me) in 1970. The photo was taken at Ludlow’s Garage, which I believe was in Cincinnati Ohio, in 1971, in the month of January.
