30 November 2008

mike leigh's naked (that's possessive, not a contraction)


I've been meaning to write something about Mike Leigh's 1993 film called Naked for some time now. Probably about 12 years or so. To this day it was the most profound theater-going experience I've ever had in my life. It showed me the anti-Hollywood, something real, not aimed at producing some sort of Brave New World feel-good paralysis. 

But I'll save the writing for the article itself. If you haven't seen the film, hold on, because it ain't easy to watch but it's one of the most powerful experiences you may ever have.

14 November 2008

the enigma of eggleston


The above photograph of the tricycle graced the cover of one of William Eggleston's books of photographs and has become one of his most iconic images. The obvious question is, why? It seems so overwhelmingly mundane, and if the focus or the framing or perspective were a bit off, it would likely be something in any old family album from the 60s or 70s. So are we just being duped into thinking it's high art? To tell you the truth, I don't know. I like looking at the photograph, although I would have a hell of a lot of trouble convincing almost anyone that it is "important" or "significant" if I had to do so. (No career as an art critic ahead of me for obvious reasons). 

Did Eggleston meet John Szarkowski, the director of photography at the MOMA, and have a beer with him and develop an immediate and especially tight bond, thus securing Eggleston a place as an "important" photographer? I don't know. But the question that arises over and over again with his photos is how we can rate him as great but at the same time not excavate all the family albums sitting in trunks in attics in search of overlooked "masterpieces." I love his photos, but I must be missing out on so much other great work that was not taken by "serious" photographers. (And now we get into that boring, muddled Foucault bullshit about what an author is, etc). "Eggleston's intentions were different, blah blah blah."

This week's Nueva Jorker (17 Nov) has a nice little piece about Eggleston to coincide with his show at the Whitney.  I think I could probably take some of my old polaroids down to the Whitney and without even trying to be a con-man I could pass them off as Eggleston's and convince them to include them in the show. I don't mean this to sound like I'm taking a piss on Eggleston; I love his work. But the question is constantly looming, what makes one photograph a work of serious art that appears in the Whitney, and one photograph something that sits in a trunk in an attic for decades when in reality they are strikingly similar? 

I'm not saying all this to try to be obnoxious or flippant or to be libelous towards Eggleston, but I'm asking a serious question. What is the game that's going on with the elitism of art in general and photography in particular? Is Eggleston a great photographer because he plays the game of being an artist, like if he were to somehow come across this blog post he would have to say that I'm full of shit and that I simply don't understand, thus perpetuating the game? Or is every thoughtful snapshooting hobbyist on the same level as Eggleston even though he may spend the majority of his time raising his family rather than schmoozing with the elites of the art world? I don't know. The question nags at me. If you are the only one in a cult that challenges the internal dogmas of the cult, guess who gets kicked out of the cult. Then the rest can go on comfortably playing the game without anyone around to question the rules of the game. 

I just simply don't know.

11 November 2008

mitchell, or, the writer


It's as if Joseph Mitchell had a list of all the things that I would be interested in when I grew up, and he wrote about everything on the list before I was born. There they were for me, published in "Up in the Old Hotel," a collection of his writings from the New Yorker. Rats in NYC, tramps and eccentrics, rivermen, the whole spectrum. 

I read most of these when they came out in book-form in 1992, and they were what made me subscribe to the New Yorker (sometimes lovingly described in this blog and the Nueva Jorker) which I've subscribed to almost continually since then. Now I'm rereading them, and they are just as relevant and vibrant and funny and deep as when I first picked up the book 16 years ago. I haven't reread "Joe Gould's Secret" yet, because I remember how good it was, how it tears you apart, so I want to save that for a time when I'm clear headed and with enough time to read it straight through uninterrupted. 

Inevitably, future generations will have a nostalgia for our time when looking back on us. For me, my own nostalgia comes out strong when I think about Mitchell writing away in the pre- and post-war era. I would have liked to have had a desk adjacent to his.