In·ter·punct shares book reviews, art news, lit theory and daily musings from the intimate lives of writers. It seeks to highlight, in an edgy and sprightly fashion, the poetic moments that punctuate our lives.
Even the definition of spoken word poetry is beautiful and interesting; “it is as oral art that focuses on the aesthetics of word play and intonation and voice inflection”. This particular form of art is one of the oldest there is and if you have seen it in person, you know the passion and intensity that it carries. Spoken word used to be found in the small hidden places of the city but it is now accessible to many, rather to any with Internet access.
As media sites (such as YouTube and Vimeo) grow, so grows the audience, as well as the amount of poets reciting their words creating more voices that can be heard. I originally wondered if there could be any negative ramifications with such a deal. Is this change a bad one, or is it simply a change?
Before going in depth with the change, let's first dive into the similarities. For their core is identical; humans speaking on humanity and their unique perspective on the universe. In all realms, the person the page and the pixels, no topic seemed to be too much. After many nights spent at the Nuyorican Poets Café I believe I have heard it all (Okay, that’s not entirely true and thankfully so or else my conquest in the world of art would be over, and I’d end up forcing myself to take up an embarrassing hobby like making macaroni necklaces). I was screamed at, sung to, softly spoken to, and enchanted by the beautiful insights and grimy secrets given to me by complete strangers.
Out of the media sharing sites, Vimeo holds the most magic when it comes to poetry and spoken word pieces. Mixing the worlds of poetry and imagery and doing it beautifully. Poetry and film makes for a truly beautiful marriage, as so much possibility lies in it. For centuries poetry has been the chosen language of many and as its words falls onto the audience images take form in their head. Now, artists decide to display these images in their own way and use them as a vital part in their vehicle of expression. This turns a happy stanza into bird of flight. It wraps a hopeless word with a dark forest. A small whisper of desperation is the sky peaking between the lines of tall treetops. Suddenly, you don’t just hear the poem, even more then feel it, and it seeps into your consciousness and plants itself there. Strong images burnt into the back of your eyes for your brain to see.
There is another distinct difference between live performance and a short film that cannot be overlooked. Community. And what makes up a strong community other than people, an audience, big or small but always intent? Hanging on the poets every word, the audience offers themselves to be fed upon and used; as a mirror, as a punching bag, whatever their performer needs. While this experience is such a unique one there is something incredibly intimate about watching a spoken word short film on your screen. In this instance, the audience is free to react in whichever way they need without being seen. The creator also feels more freedom in being anonymous and spared from face-to-face judgment (a very cutting kind).
While putting their most vulnerable thoughts out into the world, some find it safer to do so by piecing together their words alone in an environment of their own. For those who film their own videos, the camera becomes an extension of their thoughts. The same goes for animators; the pen and the lens both carry the special power it takes to explain any given emotion. In the spoken word film “APE” posted on Vimeo by Julie Zammarchi, the animation is used in a surrealist and slightly abstract fashion to fit the strangeness of the poem thereby making it easier to understand and less jarring than it would have been alone. In contrast, Henri Gander’s spoken word film “Alone” features clips of city streets looking as cold and isolated as his words describe him.
Not only is there a beautiful process that goes into the making of a spoken word film, but media hosting sites also have a community of real people that give and take from each other, that offer feedback and criticism and are there to listen at whatever time of day they choose. They start important discussions and contribute just as much as the poets at your local bookstore doing a reading.
“For those who film their own videos, the camera becomes an extension of their thoughts. The same goes for animators; the pen and the lens both carry the special power it takes to explain any given emotion.”
Therefore, maybe change isn’t inherently bad, it’s just different. And in the world of art, different is not something to shy away from.
The Christmas carol, “In the Bleak Midwinter,” was first written by Christina Rosetti in 1872, before it was set to music by Gustav Holst in 1906. The carol was popular with World War I soldiers. One can imagine that the carol’s lyrics – Rosetti’s poem – held poignant meaning for the soldiers in the trenches and for the veterans who returned from the front with memories of fallen comrades in the snow.
War has paralleled civilization. The oldest surviving piece of literature, The Epic of Gilgamesh, has often been cited by modern day military historians as having described the constellation of symptoms associated with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). And the world’s first author known by name, Enheduanna -- daughter of Akkadian Emperor Sargon who, in turn, appointed her priestess – has among her surviving poems a “Lament on the Spirit of War”:
You hack everything down in battle….
Modern day military poetry was popularized by the likes of World War I poets Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, Rupert Brooke, John McCrae, Isaac Rosenberg, Alan Seeger, and Charles Hamilton Sorley, to name a few. But military poetry has been there even before these 20th century luminaries first entered the literary stage. Consider Stephen Crane’s “War Is Kind” (1899), Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” (1867), Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s narrative poem “The Charge of the Light Brigade” (1854), Shakespeare’s “St. Crispin’s Day” soliloquy” from Henry V, Act IV, scene iii (1599), and even as far back as the Old English heroic poem “The Battle of Maldon” (written after 991 AD).
Like Christina Rosetti’s poetry, many military poems have similarly been encapsulated in ditties and songs. The Greeks of Antiquity traditionally wrote in poetic verse, to celebrate a military hero or military event, that would then be transformed into a dirge. The English bard-minstrels, and French troubadours of old followed suit, with two examples being “Wulf and Eadwacer,” an Anglo-Saxon ballad (circa 960 – 990 AD) as well as Marie de France’s “Song from Chartivel” (late 1100s AD). Not surprisingly, therefore, are the well-known American classics of “Yankee Doodle,” Julia Ward Howe’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and Francis Scott Key’s now-famous “Star-Spangled Banner.”
Meanwhile, in the East, both Chinese martial artists and Japanese samurai warriors were encouraged to develop alacrity in writing poetry. Chinese and Japanese warrior-poets were groomed to see poetry and war as complementary pursuits, where poetry would illustrate combat’s glory and horrors while concurrently portraying the honor and virtue demonstrated by the warriors who fought. For these warrior-poets, too, nature was a theme – perhaps because the return to nature was akin to a psychological rejuvenation assisting with the recovery from war’s after-effects. Besides, the exercise of poetry promoted good form – or, good order – of the mind, which was vital to the warrior-poet’s spirituality and meditative life. Just as the martial arts eventually become a way of life for the practitioner, so, too, do both Zen and poetry become ways of life – punctuating every aspect of the practitioner’s lifestyle.
Also for these Asian warrior-poets, poetry was appealing for its brevity. The skills of thinking as a poet with an economy for words was, for a warrior, similar in discipline to the thought-training about deployment of limited resources and battlefield decisiveness as a strategy. Additionally, poetic succinctness was a type of simplicity interwoven with nNature. And this simplicity was sought to balance the fog of war's confusion and the chaos of the battlefield. Some might say that for the warrior-poet, poetry became a means to convey the enlightenment and deepened Zen understanding received from the battleground’s revelations.
Take Basho, the illustrious Japanese haiku master who lived during the Edo, or Tokugawa, period. The Edo period was a time when the Tokugawa shogunate stabilized the country with their “no more wars” campaign, that simultaneously encouraged the growth of the country’s arts and culture. Basho’s brand of poetry, the haiku, grew in prominence because it leveraged the stillness of Zen, attention to detail, meticulousness in word-choice, and utilization of Nature as motif. There are scholars who deem Basho as the Wordworth of Japan. Both Basho and Wordsworth emphasized exposure to nNature as intrinsic to spiritual development, wherein a good relationship with nNature assisted in connecting the individual to his soul, thus making nNature a therapeutic means to de-stress and regain authenticity.
Contemporary society’s industrialized, urban purview makes the return to nNature somewhat difficult. Even Wordsworth recognized that, which was why he wrote poetry about nNature so that his readers could remove themselves from the “artificial social conventions [and] the squalor of city life.” For Wordsworth, the reading of,, as well as the creation of,, poetry on nNature -- and by extension, poetry in general – assisted in relieving the loneliness, sadness, even the disillusion of society. Essentially, nNature transforms a person so that he re-accesses his mind, individuality, and uniqueness to help mitigate the pain or difficulty encountered.
Accordingly, Wordsworth drew correlations between poetry and the ‘self-actualization’ (think, Maslow) of the mind. Indeed, Wordsworth deemed poetry to be “emotion recollected in tranquility.” And scholars ultimately saw Wordsworth and Basho agreeing that the act of writing poems (or haiku) was soothingly restorative, consequently bringing the poet closer to some measure of therapeutic realization (Wordsworth) or Zen-like revelation (Basho).
Comparable to Basho, Wordsworth embraced simplicity. But Wordsworth’s was reminiscent of childhood, that “magical, magnificent time of innocence [when] an intense bond with nature [still existed],” and when children “[had] access to a divine, immortal world [that they then lose contact with when they] age and reach maturity.” The ache to return to that childlike wonder, innocence, and curiosity compelled Wordsworth to pen poems that celebrate idyllic childhood in the hopes of reviving that lost connection to curative nNature.
So,, as we reflect on those World War I soldiers having a fondness for the Christmas carol “In the Bleak Midwinter,” perhaps what they were finding comfort in is the Christ child being born in the manger – that innocent who would grow up to heal the world with his sacrifice. The symbolism is not lost on us of a tiny light in the world emerging in that dark stable, like that first spark in the darkness from which emerged the entire universe, and like that first ember of inspiration born in the creator-poet’s mind who has touched a bit of the divine to create and birth something of his own as well.
Do you hear that? That sound. The sound of commentators compressing the universe of art onto a 1996 USB. Once it was a whisper. Now it’s growing louder. Somebody gave it a megaphone and a million Twitter followers. And what does it say now that it has the audience’s attention? “Art is always political—by definition, you see.”
“By definition.” Is this true? The marriage of arts and politics does have its own Wikipedia page. A sure enough sign that the proclamation deserves at least the minimum of internet detective snooping. A few smacks on the keyboard, a quick click on “I’m feeling lucky,” and what do I find? A small list of names as recognizable as “Oprah” who have decided art is invariably political:
Who says intelligent people can’t say stupid things?
“Art is always political” is bullshit (in the sense of philosopher Harry Frankfurt’s “bullshit.”) It’s a statement in which both parties would be happier after the divorce. Nonsense for Goodreads quotes. Nonsense that has chained the perception of art to a maze, as the minotaur. It declares that when the hurricane of politics fails to evaporate artists must have an umbrella for their mayor, congressman, president; typically in the shape of a middle finger—or a metaphor for one. Copy and paste ad nauseum.
The origin story of “art is always political” isn't as certain as knowing Star Wars movies will be released until the day I die (of old age). But history always offers clues.
It's no secret that 20th Century theorists couldn’t stop themselves from objectifying the world. How else could they believe they had arrived at eternal Truth? That meant reifying even the qualia of my individual experience: sacrificing the ineffable for the easy. As part of that plan, theory put art under the knife to fit it in a bow-tied box labeled with a crayon. “Cut off all that excess! This must conform to count!”
Therein lies what “art is always political,” says: that artworks are just highway markers leading to some intellectual statement, some neatly cataloged epiphany: propaganda with an agenda.
It’s a dangerous sentiment balancing on stilts made of yarn. Best served as spittle from the mouth of a pundit on Fox & Friends rather than any commentary about aesthetic appreciation. “Well, you see, Rivera’s Marxist tendencies…” It proposes that appreciating a poem is nothing more than marking your book with arrows pointing to references to The Decline of the West.
Talk about decline.
“Art is always political” ignores the fundamental experience of encountering any artwork: the evolving dialogue that escapes a definition buzzing around the word “is.” In reality, nobody (who’s human, at least) studiously sorts through symbols—unconsciously or consciously—to analyze a song, a poem, a painting, a building on their first encounter. Paintings aren’t hung in a lab. Political ripples aren't automatically plucked. That's not art speaking. That’s tarring and feathering the Pietà.
In reference to Dante, T.S. Eliot wrote that “genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” A quote taken out of context so often, nobody knows the context; that being Eliot's preference for a childlike naivete. The less gravity I shove down artwork’s throat, the farther I can jump.
Hearing Debussy’s Claude de Lune or Biggie Smalls’ Everyday Struggle brings me into direct contact with my immediate experience, with the totality of my being. Now. Dasein. My cumulative reality. Something the political only shares a sliver of. Only the four windows of my sedan are privy to my pencil neck miming lyrics in traffic. Great art is the presence of Buddha: absorption in the entirety of the magic circle that is the game called life.
I often find myself when reading a new book or viewing a piece for the first time wishing that I could sit down with the creator over a cup of coffee and just have a simple conversation about what they have made. To find out the purpose behind word choice, if there is one. To discover the reasons for certain themes, or just meet the person inside the work. I want to share that luxury with you in my conversation with Jordan Alan Brown, a Buffalo-based visual poet who has recently released his first micro-chapbook, “Man as a Cactus.” Which can be found online at https://ghostcitypress.com/2017-summer-microchap-series/man-as-a-cactus.
So, I give you my perspective of that conversation.
Presumptions: His work presented in his new book Man as a Cactus and interweb scoping drafted a silhouette of a slightly pretentious run-of-the-mill, newly graduated hipster artist. I was intrigued, however, by a sense of humility that was presented on his social media platforms. That, coupled with the stripped down feel that his work evoked, got me excited for what was bound to be at least an interesting conversation.
First impressions: I look up from my phone to see a tall black man, shoulders hunched, making his exact height difficult to estimate. Dressed for the brisk Buffalo pre-winter weather, but in an effortless almost throwback way. His wire rimmed glasses fit not only his face, but his unassuming nature as well. As he lowers into the seat opposite me, his posture suggests a calculated ease. Introductions do nothing to calm awkward nerves; an icebreaker is necessary.
S: So, first off, most important question; Cocoa Puffs or Fruit Loops, I will judge your answer.
J: With surprising confidence. Cocoa Puffs, always been more of a chocolate person. Also, then you get chocolate milk.
S: Why intermedia? Why do you feel that visual and/or poetry aren’t enough separately?
J: I’m at a loss for words a lot of the time and I’ve always liked photography. Of course I think it looks nice, but also I feel that photography and poetry are very similar in the sense that you’re trying to capture a moment. It did start out as an aesthetic thing, but I did feel a responsibility as an artist to have some deeper meaning, something behind it. I think it's very hard to get people to read poetry that don’t normally read it.
S: I noticed that you have described yourself as a novice photographer, why is that?
J: It’s all shoot by the hip, I have a couple cameras but I would never feel comfortable charging someone to shoot them. It wouldn’t be fair for me to say I’m a professional photographer. Quality of photos, a lot of time, are left up to things not in my control. I’m no Ansel Adams, I wish.
S: Where does Man as a Cactus come from?
I feel that photography and poetry are very similar in the sense that you’re trying to capture a moment
J: So, I was at this party once and there was this guy, I was getting super weird vibes from him. So I was very standoffish and he was like, “Awe, man you’re like a cactus.” For him, it meant that I wasn’t like, warm or opening up to him at all. But then I thought about it, being drunk and under the influence of other things, I was like, “Yeah, I am one.” I kinda grew up in an interesting environment. My parents were super religious. My mom still is, my dad is dead; so he’s not anymore. And it just wasn’t conducive to growing personally. All growth was based on God and faith and very focused on that being the only way to be a good person. So when I left that I had to cut all contact with everyone that I knew.
S: Were you mormon?
J: Close, I was Jehovah’s Witness, very close; they’re very similar. They don’t think they are, but a lot of their ideals are similar. Mental health has always been a difficult thing for me. Being black, mental health has always been hush hush, a very taboo thing to talk about. I was directed to, “Just pray about it.” That doesn’t work. So, there were just a lot of things. I felt like I was living in this desert and that I was trying to regroup and grow from that. Yes, cacti grow in deserts and they’re defensive in a sense for themselves to live, but they are also beautiful signs of life in an otherwise barren place. I think a lot of people can relate to that. It just kinda stuck with me and this book is my journey in to that.
S: Do you feel like grief is the most prominent cohesive thread throughout the book?
J: So there’s the grief part of it, but also coupled with the feelings of the strained relationship with my mother. Which is just something else to deal with on top of the grief. So I would say that grief is a large part of it, but also the healing from that. It’s normal, but it never feels normal. It will be a year this week that my father passed away. Like, I still want to pick up the phone and be like, “Hey what’s up?” What it has done has allowed me to focus the good qualities about my dad outside of the religion, being able to focus on his good qualities and now, I guess I have a different view on my dad then I did before.
S: So what’s next? Do you have another project in the works?
J: I’m working on something now, I’m hoping to have it done by the end of this year. I’ve been talking to Kevin at Ghost City Press. I asked him logistically what would he need to make a tangible book. He gave me some pointers, so that’s what I’m working on. I have like 15 pieces that are unpublished right now, that I haven’t put anywhere. I’m not sure what I’m gonna call it, I have some ideas kicking around.
S: Do we get any of what’s kicking around?
J: Look me up when you’re home. A lot of the pieces are about being away. Whether it’s physically or emotionally. I suppose a lot of the themes are much more forgiving, but there are some really heart-loving poems. I try not to be too thematic, but I think there is always a string you can find in there. There are some pictures from a recent trip to Paris that I’m hoping to incorporate.
The boarding pier for an orange-and-white boat, Star Ferry IV, is in one of the busiest and noisiest districts in Hong Kong where people walk down the street like Richard Ashcroft in ‘Bittersweet Symphony.’ The boat ride itself passes weighed-down barges and massive bridges while airplanes and helicopters zig-zag through the sky. Roughly 30 minutes later, when the boat’s engine finally putters out, and the Star Ferry IV lightly bumps into the alighting* pier on the island of Cheung Chau, it doesn’t seem like it’s possible that you’re still in Hong Kong.
The only vehicles are ambulances and police vans. Locals and tourists saunter between meandering bicycles and vendors leisurely chew mango moji, or deep-fried potatoes spiraled around a skewer. The tallest buildings are two or three-story, traditional houses either overlooking the fishing boat-packed bay or tucked away in alleys between locally-owned noodle shops.
I arrived early in the morning, 30 minutes before the Cheung Chau Wave Arts Festival was set to begin. I wanted to make it to the first event on time with my daughter and her extended family. It was a family-focused yoga session lead by a smiling and talented American, yoga teacher: Tina Wojewnik.
After an hour of breathing like we’re cooling hot chocolate and letting my daughter climb on me while I attempted a downward dog, we meandered down the tight, walking streets in search of something to eat. Where we stopped was not your typical place to eat; except for perhaps in Hong Kong. I bought a significant portion of curry squid in a bowl, and next to that we had a bowl of cubed cow lung and intestines, and a few dotted eggs from birds I’m not familiar with. Expert foodie tip number one: it tastes much better if you don’t think about what it is you’re eating.
The afternoon was filled with kung-fu tea, tai chi demonstrations, more unique foods(?), and an intriguing talk by Elizabeth Briel about eunuch singers within Chinese culture and allusions to shark fins being chopped off for soup. To be fair, the talk left my mind with some disturbing images, but it also helped shed some light on how people come to accept themselves and live their lives to the fullest despite the cruelties they’ve suffered in the past. Side note: the sharks don’t survive.
After a jam-packed morning and afternoon, dinner bells rang as the main event was due up while the sun set behind the silhouette of the sleepy island. Just as well; we were hungry. Though the Cheung Chau Windsurfing Center and Windsurf Bar had closed its kitchen almost entirely, they had left the deep-fryer on. Thus, chicken wings, French fries, and spring rolls covered our table in a speckling of light and dark brown platters.
The sun sets quickly in Hong Kong, and a bright, almost-full moon was glowing behind a microphone overlooking the sea. Poets and spectators filled the restaurant, some sitting in small groups and chatting in more languages than I understand, others sat alone, waiting intently for the spoken word event to begin.
Finally, the organizer for the poetry event, Laurence Genee, stepped up to the microphone, seated next to her was Graeme Morris, strumming his guitar lightly and accenting the entire poetry event.
Introducing poets and musicians from Hong Kong, Australia, the United Kingdom, and the United States (including myself), Laurence kept the microphone stacked with talented wordsmiths. I sat back and absorbed the sometimes dark, sometimes funny, sometimes lewd poetry in just as many different accents while I munched on crunchy, deep-fried delectables.
From people returning to Cheung Chau in remembrance of time they had spent there in the past, to poets who frequent a weekly poetry club in Hong Kong known as the Peel Street Poets, two hours of this poetry-burger was filled with saucy syllables and beefy words. Swallowing it all, my heart was full, and the delightful aftertaste remains today.
Upon its conclusion, as I packed up my things and made some small talk with attendees on my way out the door, I looked back at the almost-full moon. I locked in its image as a reminder that I must return next year for another calming day of yoga, art, music, and best of all, poetry.
*’Alighting’ is a term you will frequently see in Hong Kong that is used to describe the exiting of a motorized vehicle including boats, busses, airplanes, and trains.
For more information on the festival, go to www.cheungchauwave.com.
The holidays are a great time to buy a loved one a beautiful book of poetry. One of the most powerful poetry books of 2017 was Depression & Other Magic Tricks by up-and-comer Sabrina Benaim. Benaim shows that new voices offer some of the freshest perspectives, especially in regards to emotional disorders. In Depression & Other Magic Tricks, she gives us breathtaking prose and striking images through her words and gives us a look into her life—a life ridden with depression. This book was moving, heart-wrenching, and incredibly raw. It was a book where the poems spill out of the pages, and the author has everything pouring out of open words. It was about the excitement you feel on a first date (and the way we tend to ramble when we get excited), everyday struggles, the raw truth of pain, and living with depression.
The poems in Sabrina Benaim’s Depression & Other Magic Tricks are gorgeous and poignant; they will leave you breathless, your heart racing deeply, and your lips mouthing “wow.” You will find yourself thinking about your own life and relate to the words piling into your head. You will be warmed by the fact that you find a friend in this book—one you can turn to time and time again—especially if you are also someone who struggles with an emotional disorder, particularly depression. It is also a helpful book to those who want to better understand depression and what it is like for those who live with it every day.
I loved Benaim’s use of prose and short sentences that make you take breaths between thoughts, and the way she portrayed such daunting subjects with such simplicity and beauty. The gravity of her words fall within sentences and well-placed line breaks, while images are created in the way the words are physically placed. I loved how unique each page looked with its different poetry forms—it looked like art in and of itself. The unique way this book was written spreads beyond the beauty in the words alone. Pay attention to the punctuation, the capitalization, the line breaks, and the way the words are placed; you will find visual art hidden beneath gorgeous words and images within your mind.
Some of the most moving pieces were only a few lines long, but they moved with such grace and tenderness that they packed an even more powerful punch. The following poem in the book was a personal favorite of mine; it encapsulated the freshness of Benaim’s perspective and the creative way in which she expressed what it is like to live with depression:
“the slow now”
this morning said
do not press snooze
you pressed snooze
while brushing your teeth,
your reflection in the mirror also said:
to every cotton swab in the blue box
& blue seashell on the shower curtain
you filled your kettle with cold water,
set it on the hot stovetop, to boil
this morning said,
on your bed
watching YouTube videos
of Amy Winehouse
singing back to black
for thirty-six minutes
you rummaged through a drawer
found a bra
put it on
you put on black tights
tried on four dresses
finally decided on the black & white flowers one
nineteen minutes later
you put on a sweater
& you sat
on your bed
for five minutes more
you say hello to afternoon.
if you have eaten anything,
if you plan on leaving the house today.
you pick up the phone
i am starting the pills again
i have a doctor’s appointment
first thing in the morning
your mother responds,
didn’t I tell you to do that two weeks ago? (Benaim, pp. 4-5)
If you are looking for a phenomenal gift to place under your friend or family member’s Christmas tree or just want something beautiful for yourself, Sabrina Benaim’s Depression & Other Magic Tricks is a rich book of depth and demons that will give any reader a new perspective on life and struggles with depression. The best part of this gift is that you will never get tired of re-reading its pages. Each time you flip through it, even for just a poem or two, you will feel deep cuts of emotion strike you to your core and goosebumps prick up your skin. Benaim gives us such passion in so few words, showing that this rising star is far from slowing down.
SCOPE Art Show. 801 Ocean Dr, Miami Beach, FL
Slow-Moving Luminaries by Lars Jan. at Collins Park
1. a person who inspires or influences others, especially one prominent in a particular sphere.
2. an artificial light.
My coworker Jessica Rohl and I were lucky enough to see Lars Jan have an invigorating and necessary conversation about climate change and the effects, both positive and negative, cam have on the planet with fellow artist Isaac Julien and Financial Times Editor John Paul Rathbone two days prior. We were very excited to see this piece in person. We were again lucky enough to find the artist himself standing at the very top of this enormous platform piece.
Lars was incredibly gracious, open and kind. He was also knowledgeable, eloquent and passionate, all things I truly appreciate in people, but especially in artists, as some tend to be pretentious because of how many people look to them for inspiration. He explained the piece to me and the meanings behind the flag with circles and squares on them.
The circles and squares on the flags behind the structure are meant to be an ohmage to Zen Buddhists thought of enlightenment and confusion / they are also the Maritime recognized distress signals.
Underneath the structure, on the first floor, there was a beautiful jungle scene. As we moved through the gray labyrinth, the white representations of the hotels all around the oceanfront where the exhibit was held were moving up and down on metal lifts.
Jan explained that the jungle and sea will overtake the buildings and us someday, if we continue to do a minimal amount of work to detract the effects of global warming. He wanted to express this in a way that would raise the consciousness of this issue in a big way. An S.O.S. can be seen from an aerial view. This was a great piece of art, something Jan really put a lot of time, effort and thought into. I expect for his work to be impeccable for many years to come.
SCOPE Art Fair at Miami Beach, FL.
Contemporary takes art to a whole notha level. This show shocked, awed and inspired me. It was everything rebellious, wild and fantastical that one could hope to find. There were Swarovski crystals making up an infinity symbol, there were large 3D scenes made entirely out of denim, there was a silicone naked girl called “Secret Shame,” and a wall of beautifully designed donuts. This show was everything I’ve ever wanted out of art.
This type of art is not the kind that makes you feel things. It is the kind that makes you wish you had thought of it and makes you want it in your living room. (If you have tens of thousands to drop on art).
The artists are just having so much fun with this thing we get called life. The way they view the world makes you want to think differently, act more boldly, speak with more fun and seriousness, all at the same time. It shows us what we can be and reminds us to keep it weird!
This iconic Campbell Soup image is made entirely out of tiny rubber bands. Only at Art Basel.
I adore a great piece of hilarity in art. My own writing has a lot of humor in it, and I really appreciate the irony of this work. The artist wanted to be entertaining, and he succeeded.
There was no mystery to what this artist was trying to do. I like that. The bold, just say what you have to say and that’s it kind of art. The “I don’t have a reason to exist other than I’m funny” kind of art. The “non-ambiguous” not-just-a-bunch-of-shapes art. Just words that make you feel something.
This is another incredible example of text being the main and most important part of the piece. It could have been any image behind it, but the bear’s shocked face with the pink background brings an innocence that has such a dichotomy to it that really drew me in. That and the quote is just so fantastical. It makes it even better that this was in “The Sunshine State” where this could have actually happened.
I believe that traditional art has its place, and is remarkable in its own right, however, I really appreciate the newer style of art that incorporates language in as well. Nothing can quite tell a story like language can, and even then, the thoughts can be lost in translation.
"The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place." – George Bernard Shaw.
Like, I mostly don’t know what this piece is saying, but I was shocked by the word choice and the uncommon place of not assuming it would be a girl. I was jarred and drawn to the font overlap. Something so simple, brought out by the gold leaf behind it.
This thought pattern can be seen readily in Miami. Glitz, glam and flash are all that matter to the majority of Miami’s visitors. Decency, good character and a warm heart are not seen as easily and are definitely not as sought after here. Everyone wants to be the sexiest, the shiniest, or the weirdest. No matter what the cost.
And sometimes, that creates some really cool things. Take these chairs with cactuses coming out of them. Some really weird, interesting person had to come up with that. These were featured in Design Miami, the hottest, newest pieces of furniture to hit the city of heat.
It is truly remarkable that something with so much color can have less of an impact than this black, white and gray piece, all because text was incorporated. This is the power of words.
The art and the people viewing the art were brilliantly matched. The diversity was overwhelmingly intriguing. The fashions, the ages, the cultures and the nationalities of all the people was beyond any conference I have ever been to. There were men and women dressed to the nines or even seven-elevens (that’s something I just made up for all the kooky styles I saw this week), and then there were adolescents in soccer gear, or a guy in a t-shirt and shorts.
I would antiquate this piece with the shorts and t-shirt.
But really, most of the art was beyond anything I even conceived of art as well. Artists used rugs as a way to tell a story: These rugs spell “OPEN.”
There were pieces where motherhood was abound —such as the car seat painting and the seahorse in the womb— and much mixed media, sculptures, and performances.
The chair pieces were astounding, they had succulents and other moss-like plants coming out of them, and conches under the legs of the victorian-style chair. It was like Mother Earth was coming back to reclaim her territory, what is rightfully hers.
There was a mixed media piece with striking colors and push pins sticking out of the frame and shot glasses pushed into the frame.
The painting is like life, cluttered, chaotic, but somehow paints a very beautiful picture all at once. And obviously the thing that stuck out to me the most were the miniscule word bubbles. They captivated me and led me to ponder what parts of life are actually worthless.
So many pieces just spoke to me, even if I didn’t always know what they were saying.
There was a piece called “Phantom Limb,” which was a breath-taking painting of glaciers, made on sponges and with a plunger sticking out of it. I do not claim to know everything about the art world, but I especially did not understand the plunger. And it did not matter. Because the art still reached me with the title. The Earth will still feel the glaciers even when they are gone, because it is all one energy that we and everything else is made up of.
There was an incredible piece that mimicked the children’s art example of putting paint on one side of the paper then folding it over to create the reverse image, only this one was nearly 10 feet tall and had televisions behind it to create a 3D effect with eyeballs moving, watching.
And because we are the intersection of imagery and text, I captured so many pieces that used words in a way to provoke the audience. Here are a few.
Used words to provoke the audience.
You might think that this swirl of rainbow colors is the piece, but that is only one section of it. The entire piece, below, is called “Are You Lonely Too?”
Needling Whisper, Needle Country / SMS Series in Camouflage /Are you lonely, too? 02-004, 2016
North Korean hand embroidery, silk threads on cotton, middle man, anxiety, censorship, ideology, wooden frame, approx. 2500hrs/1 person
79 1/2 × 78 3/10 in
202 × 199 cm
These irresistible pieces were actually hanging in the convention center’s break room, but I had to grab a peak because the words captured me. I especially love the levity of it all. Art can be moving and society-changing, but sometimes, in order to keep the sanity, we need a few laughs.
The trance music takes you away from life. Looking up at the stars and the clear, blue night sky of Miami, problems are not problems.
You don't even notice that the pink tulle on the screen is moving until the second time around the loop of hypnotizing music. There are city sounds, cars honking, lights flashing, and it is coming from both the speakers and the city of heat.
This was simply laid out for experiencers.
A public park outside of a New World Symphony center. Giant, brightly colored bean bags for laying.
People came, people went, people talked, people were quiet. People were people, but this space was anything but ordinary. And this is what made it special. You knew you were in a public space and there would be distractions, so it did not at all take away from the sound vibrating in your ears. It actually added to it, because here, in such a busy hustle and bustle place, you had an oasis of meditative bliss.
Never have I felt so blessed as to be a part of an art experience.
"Until the second time around the loop of hypnotizing music"
I have no criticisms.
Maybe because after traveling all day, my coworker Jess and I were quite exhausted, and sitting here in the musical silence was a way to rejuvenate us in ways we could not have planned. Either way, art has a way of touching your spirit that you cannot buy, nor can you create in isolation.
We were all strangers in a park.
But we were all experiencing this man's effort through sound, and that is something worth stopping life for.
Molly Ringwald dancing in Pretty in Pink starts with electronic dance music made by the artist playing over it. She is whipping her hair back and forth and really giving it her all. It remixes and her dancing overlaps her dancing in a contorted way. It keeps going and going, for ten minutes. And it was mesmerizing. Our eyes just couldn’t wait to see how she would dance next. At certain points, her face overlapped her other face and it was almost as if she was becoming herself. Here, in all its glory, Molly Ringwald dancing, continuously by Jibade-Khalil Huffman.
The next segment was even more random than this, but with less power behind it. There was something about seeing Molly giving her all that enriched you with the spirit of the human will.
This next film, done by the same artist, was trying too hard to be “good art.” There were images of NYPD, and of young black men revolting. There were firefighters and cars being rammed in to. There were automatic weapons being discharged. But there was also layerings of bad graphics and unicorns, Mariah Carey, bats and SpongeBob.
This was attempting to be a statement about the race issues in America, but it fell flat by the randomness of it. There were supposedly six short films, and for whatever reason, they had no cues, or even a second between them, to let us know it was different from the last. These two artists’ work, Jen DeNike’s and Jibade-Khalil Huffman’s, blended together to become a composition of confusing.
I did appreciate the pieces of real young women drill stepping, and the more human aspects of this piece; this gave it more credibility, but the entirety severely lacked the high caliber work I would expect from Art Basel.
The sounds in this video, of people clapping, came from the video itself, not from the audience watching. We, quite honestly, didn’t know what to think.
There were words flashing, too quickly, on the screen, over backgrounds that made it difficult to read, but a powerful quote I noticed was, “Freedom as a condition of slavery.” Black people in America are still gripped and strangled with the power of the white majority that is opposing them. They are still seen as a lesser race by many in this country, and Huffman was trying to show this disparity, which is always needed and appreciated. But somehow, all the mess took away from the issue at hand, and that is unfortunate.
Then there was commentary of young man taking medicine then eating unconsciously at the fridge with horrifying music.
There were little policemen running amuck.
People were jumping up into pink clouds while Ghost Town DJ’s “My Boo” was playing.
It just continued to get more random.
DeNike tried to show pictures of women from the 50s and connect it to the struggle of being brainwashed into this race war we are in, or at least that is how I took it, as I didn’t even know there were two separate artists until researching Basel’s site afterwards. At moments, it hit that target, but for the most part, it was nonsense behind classical music for an hour. I wish there was more of a takeaway from this piece, as this is a very important issue in our time, but frankly, I didn’t even know if I was watching one film or six. Disappointing, but slightly made up for by the ambience and atmosphere that is Art Basel Miami.
In·ter·punct shares interviews, expositions, poems and daily musings from the intimate lives of writers. Like the interpunct, which is a middot used to separate syllables, this blog seeks to highlight, in an edgy and sprightly fashion, the poetic moments that punctuate our lives.