Long Live the King

I'm glad somebody's calling out Marvel's bullshit vis-a-vis Jack Kirby. Marvel would not have existed without Jack Kirby's work. It sucks that they screwed him over so badly. I loved Marvel in my comic collecting youth (hell, I still have some of my comics stored away), but how Marvel has built its entertainment empire has Kirby's ghost left twisting in the wind. Truly vile policy, and the writer is right on the money (so to speak) when they say:

What makes this situation especially hard to stomach is that Marvel’s media empire was built on the backs of characters whose defining trait as superheroes is the willingness to fight for what is right. It takes a lot of corporate moxie to put Thor and Captain America on the big screen and have them battle for honor and justice when behind the scenes the parent company acts like a cold-blooded supervillain. As Stan Lee famously wrote, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

If Mitt Romney is right, and corporations are people, perhaps Marvel/Disney has the capacity to feel shame. In any event, a public flogging has already begun. Cartoonist and educator Stephen Bissette’s blog post calling for a boycott of The Avengers kicked up a lot of dust in the blogosphere. Tom Spurgeon, writing for his well-respected industry website Comic Reporter also framed the issue in moral terms, as did the cartoonist Seth: “The corporate lie about Kirby's role in the creation of all those characters is abhorrent. It's a bold faced lie. Everyone knows it's a lie. No one is fooled. Everyone lying for the company should be ashamed. Stan Lee should be ashamed. What the Marvel corporation is doing might be legal but it certainly isn't right.”

'Nuff said.

Fabulous

I love these vintage Chicago posters! They're so great! It's amazing to think that at one time so much attention was paid to illustration like that, to create these beautiful posters.

MIP

I saw "Midnight In Paris" again last night, figuring I'd catch it on the big screen a last time before it moved to DVD-land. I was pleased to see as many people (or more) there as when I first saw it. It was as entertaining as the first time. A good movie. It was fun to study the movie more this time around. I think Woody Allen is an ass man -- there are a number of ass shots of the various actresses in the movie, where the camera just kinda hangs there, ogling their asses. Enough to make me think "I think he's an ass man." But the movie holds up as well or better on a repeat viewing, I was pleased to see.

Next up on my movie docket is catching Malick's "Tree of Life."

What else? I'm gonna take advantage of the good weather to do some biking, and will stop by a store or two for some supplies for stuff I'm working on. I also want to make a jaunt down to a bookstore, something I haven't done in awhile, but I feel the need to do so, to recharge my brain a bit.

I'm in a pretty good mood, honestly. Just peaceful.

Midnight in Paris, Afternoon in Chicago

So, I enjoyed Woody Allen's latest, "Midnight in Paris." I am neither a fan nor a foe of his movies. I like some of them well enough, others, not so much, but it all kind of balances out. Anyway, I liked the movie, which followed Owen Wilson as Gil, entranced by Paris on the eve of his marriage to Rachel McAdams, yearning to abandon his (apparently highly-successful yet empty) screenwriting career for novel-writing in Paris. One line that had me scoffing a bit, when Gil scoffed about screenwriting being easy, novel-writing was hard -- I've had the opposite experience! To me, a novel is a far easier enterprise than a screenplay (although definitely a more-satisfying one). Gil begins encountering figures from the Parisian past, a feast of luminaries from the Lost Generation era of 1920s Paris, who all interact with him -- it almost seems like a ghost story, except that it's not in any way scary, but the way Gil seamlessly interacts with these figures (and it's a who's who from the era -- Cole Porter, F. Scott Fitzgerald [and Zelda], Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Picasso, Man Ray, Salvador Dali, etc., etc.), it almost feels like a ghost story.

The core premise of it is this notion of the heart of a romantic is bound in nostalgia for the past, and a yearning for a "golden age," that was, of course, itself, not so golden when it was the present. And, to Allen's credit, Gil does explore this, with his trips to 1920s Paris, finding some of the locals there yearning for La Belle Époque (and, entertainingly, Allen has Gil make a brief trip there with a love interest [Adriana], who herself yearns for that era, and, as they sit for a bit with Lautrec, Gaugin, and Degas [and who appear to long for the era before their own]), and Gil, through his interactions with these characters, comes to value himself as an artist/writer and to ditch his fiancee and live in Paris, where he (at least for the moment) ends up with a (to my eye) rather Mia Farrowesque French babe, to turn his back on his Hollywood life.

So, it was an entertaining movie -- the pile of literary figure cameos woven throughout it do hearken to the incredible confluence of talent that was in 1920s Paris, and Allen lovingly gives them all their due, and the look is perfect, the blending of the past and present on the streets of Paris. Allen's love for this place is palpable in his filming of it, and, as a movie effort, this is one of his best (indeed, I thought "Well, if he dies before making another movie, he can at least be happy that this is his final effort, because it's a great one").

It was kind of a curious thing for me to watch, because I was heavily influenced by Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald in my formative writing years, but I am not a nostalgic or sentimental soul, in truth -- I am a romantic who runs contrary to Allen's contention about the nostalgia in the heart of all romantics. Or maybe my nostalgia runs deeper than the 20th century. Hmm. Hadn't thought of that until just now -- I have ruefully thought a time or two that I was built for charging down Highland hillsides with a broadsword in hand or in cavalry charges with a saber flashing. Hah. And I have mourned that the industrial domination of war has robbed it of its historic glory, made it an exercise of logistics. And I've certainly mused ruefully about the incredible music of the 60s, when Rock was in full flower, and how amazing all of those bands were at the time, what an amazing confluence of talent there had been (although I never had a desire to actually live in that era, or in those earlier ages, in truth).

Hmm. Anyhow, I look at those artists not as the towering figures of culture that they became, but as human beings who simply lived and created beauty in their time, and beyond. I feel kinship with them as a fellow creator, and I suppose I do lament the slow death of culture in our age (although it's hard to look at folks living it up in Paris in the 1920s and not think that great, grave shadows were growing over them, too -- I mean, good lord, Fascism, Stalinism, Nazism -- all were awakening then, too).

I mean, I've written more books than Hemingway ever did. None of them are better than his work, but I am still growing and trying -- he had his turn at bat, before he lost his head (and he started strong and grew weaker in time, as alcoholism diluted his talent; I think my arc is going the other way), and now I am taking that swing. Maybe I'll succeed, maybe I'll fail, but I'm at least trying. And in being alive, there is infinite possibility in the here and now. The past is perfect precisely because it is dead -- the story is already written, you know how it ends. The present can challenge and inhibit precisely because of both the limitations imposed by human mortality, and by the infinite possibilities of action. That's never been a problem for me, though, because I am, and have always been, about the present. Learn from the past, sure, but don't be ruled by it. Live in the now, and enjoy the ride.

I can see these characters in Allen's movie and see them as peers to me, legitimately, certainly far more than most. I doubt anybody I shared the theater with has written more fiction than me, or even better fiction than me; that's not bragging -- it's just fact. I've worked very, very hard on my writing for a long time, and I could walk up to Hemingway (or his ghost) and if he drunkenly challenged me to a fistfight (and he does that a few times in the movie -- of course, Gil, being the proxy for Allen, passes on it), I would have totally taken Hemingway up on it, been like "Sure, Sport. Let's go." *KAPOW* What am I supposed to do, NOT want to take up his challenge? What, because he's Hemingway? *KAPOW* Give the man what he wants. Give him a bucket of ice water to wake him back up.

There was a great line from Gertrude Stein (surely Allen speaking through her) about the job of the artist being to not succumb to the dismal present (I'm paraphrasing; it was said far better in the movie), but to rise above it and create something beautiful and eternal. It was a good line. There were lots of good lines in the movie, peppered throughout. Hemingway had a good one when he said that love was the antidote to death, and that only the coward feared to love, or was so hobbled by his fear of death that he was unable to love, and in so doing, was a coward. Something like that. Again, I am only paraphrasing, but it coming from the machismo-soaked, deadpan, overly serious musing of Hemingway, it made me snicker (I have theories about Hemingway, having read his work and thought about it a great deal).

At any rate, it was a good movie, being both entertaining, funny, and thought-provoking. All of the artists in the movie had the benefit of being legends both in their own time, and over the span of time (although, oddly, the cultural ferment of the Lost Generation is lost in this day and age, really, when even reading a book is seen as somehow eccentric or laborious, in this instantaneous, tech-driven age of the perpetual NOW -- their greatness is lost in a world without readers, and they really do become ghosts of a bygone era).

Testing, Testing...

This is amusingly weird, like something the Parallax Corporation would design, but is probably a digital art project of somebody's...

http://www.hypnoid.com/psytest2.html

Here's my result...

Always happy in a crowd, you love to converse, to relate, and above all to have fun. You tend to think in a more holistic manner than many others. Like a crow you are attracted to shiny objects, new ideas, playful exciting colors and the thrill of a new personal relationship. You love to talk or gossip. You are highly invested in the reality of day-to-day life. Practicality is far more important than issues of honor or allegiance. You are a creature of the here and now. You are a natural multi-tasker, often switching mid-thought from one duty to another. You have a flair for presenting your personality in your work, and are known as a great storyteller and natural actor. You are very skilled at taking in a barrage of information and distilling what is most important from it. Naturally charming, you are quick to win new friends. Over stimulation is a danger.

The Creation

Today was the Chicago Marathon. Great weather for it. Yawn. Great weather all around -- it feels like a summer day, although quieter and milder. Good stuff. I had the boys out at a playground, where they were busy climbing trees. Very cute.

Nearly 40,000 words on the current book. I'm on track to finish the first draft by month's end, which'll be cool. Then a few weeks of revision, and then the slog of trying to find a home for it, which is always rough. Writing is like talking -- everybody thinks they can do it, but few people actually can. Sort of like this...

Dogs are nice.

Very clear and obvious sentiment, right? Anybody could say that. That's where most people are at, when they say "Oh, I can write."

Dogs are nice. Well, maybe not all dogs.

Some people are maybe at that level, allowing for a little more complexity to the mix.

Dogs are nice. Well, maybe not all dogs. Like Moose, the dog that lived in my neighborhood where I grew up. He was a Yellow Lab, a big dog with baleful brown eyes and a bad habit of chasing kids down the street, bellow-barking at them as he went.

Still more can maybe get that far. Maybe not even that well, but they can at least string a few notions together.

Dogs are nice. Well, maybe not all dogs. Like Moose, the dog that lived in my neighborhood where I grew up. He was a Yellow Lab, a big dog with baleful brown eyes and a bad habit of chasing kids down the street, bellow-barking at them as he went. He ruled the block, was the baron of the boulevard, this braying hell hound. The problem was that he lived at the corner of my bus stop, where I would have to catch the school bus. And every morning, I'd have Moose chasing me down the street, scaring the hell out of me. Then, one day, Moose caught me on a bad day, something had pissed me off at school, and Moose came running at me, barking like he always did, and I saw him and I roared at him in rage, arms held out. Moose froze in his tracks -- the look on his face was priceless, like this blend of surprise and horror, a body-wide spasm of terror as he realized that his bluff had been called. For a split-second, we faced off, and then I began to chase Moose down the street, not entirely sure if the dog was going to go at me or whether he was going to run away, and, on that day, not caring (and I don't quite remember why I was so mad). I was gratified to see Moose take off, running away from me -- for the first time in my childhood, great big Moose the Mutt was on the run. He took off, periodically turning to see if I was still chasing him. And I still was. I was completely going after that goddamned dog. I pursued him all the way to his yard, before leaving him alone, breathless, pleased as could be. Fucking dog. He left me alone after that. In fact, Moose wanted to be my friend after that, with the ineffable dog logic going on -- the same dog that had hounded me day after day, once he realized that I would absolutely go after him if he fucked with me again, THEN he wants to be my buddy. I was the only kid on the block who got on Moose's good side. We were pals.

And so on. And on, and on. The above paragraph is only 376 words, and it's a simple memoir-style narrative, nothing even fancy. A novel is at least 80,000 words.

Most people don't write not only because they can't write (let alone write well, or convey ideas evocatively), but they don't have the stomach for it -- the raw thanklessness of it, the endless call of the words, to say nothing of the nature of characterization, plot, description, storytelling, exposition, narration, theme, metaphor, revision, rewriting, etc. -- most people have better things to do with their lives than write -- like watching paint dry, like getting root canals, driving off cliffs -- any number of worthwhile things.

It's comforting from an ego perspective to think "Oh, I could write a novel if I wanted to." Any time somebody says that, I say "Go for it." It's so much harder than you know. And only people who really, really love it will put themselves through it. The same goes for all creative endeavors -- even though creative things make our lives worth living, make them meaningful and rich and fun -- most creatives are not well-valued or even well-compensated. But all human progress flows through them, whether it's realized or not. Human progress flows from the visionary, and the creatives express their visions through their works, benefiting humanity at large.

It's like the anonymous caveman who made the sculpture of the pretty girl, the Venus of Brassempouy. One of the earliest renditions of a human face...

Now, I can almost hear Anonymous Caveman's buds going "Gronk? Why you sit there stare at Ooona? Why you make THING with your scraping stick? We busy throwing rocks in gorge. You come! You throw, too!" And Gronk shrugs, hides it from them, or else flaunts it. But Gronk made it, and it survived (they estimate it was made ~25,000 years ago).

Ooona must have been a paleolithic hottie, or at the very least, had bitchin' hair, since Gronk lavished attention on those plaits and/or braids she was sporting (or else the hood she was wearing -- it impressed him). All of Gronk's aesthetic choices are curious to me, how he marked her eyes and nose very clearly, but gave her no apparent mouth, and took great care with her hair, which must've really impressed him. Some cavebabe inspired Gronk, and Gronk did her justice in his creation. Maybe he thought it would give him magic powers over Ooona, or maybe he wanted to flatter her with the piece.

The very human, very wonderful nature of that moment, captured in a bit of mammoth tusk, communicates the delightful power of art, and how the seeming pointlessness of it is precisely its magic -- both of them -- creator and subject -- are long, long gone, but that creation endures and survives them. And, yes, I think it was a guy who made it, like many of those early Venus sculptures.

Not everything that's created is worthwhile, but that drive to create something beautiful, however it is done (and however it is defined) is a vital (if thankless) human process that is necessary for our betterment as a species. If art dies, humanity's soul dies with it.

Anyway, end of the month, I should be done. And then my usual cure when I'm done with a piece -- more writing. Hahah!

Worst Paintings

Oh, I love this...


15 Worst Paintings of All Time

The Museum of Bad Art! Bahah! Painting is one of those things that people think they can do, like anybody can do it. Until they actually try, and create something ghastly. There are some laughably bad paintings in that collection above.

Pasted

Here is one of the wheatpasted collage bits I saw (alluded to in the earlier post). There are a number of them peppered around the city...

I'm pleased with the colors of this picture, actually. It came out nicer than I thought it would.

We (Culture) Jammin'

I forgot to mention something amusing from the other day. While going through my 'hood, I passed these three whey-faced younglings who looked like they were Up To Something Serious(tm), striding purposefully past me -- army jackets? Check. Chuck Taylors? Check. Black stovepipe jeans? Check. Art Institute of Chicago bags? Check. I noted them in passing, couldn't help it. Serious, serious business. Anyway, I noted them, without paying too much attention, as I was en route to someplace else. Then later that day, I saw that somebody had wheatpasted these collage-poems (I snapped a photo of one; I should post it this evening) throughout the 'hood. All over the place, a bunch of them.

But the funny thing, the punchline, is that I think I found one of their IDs -- I saw it on the street while going to get some groceries, and I saw this ID sitting there in the street, was like "What's THIS?" and I picked it up and saw that it was (I am nearly sure) one of the Pop Cultural Commandos I had seen! I'm sure she's shitting biscuits between bong hits, like "Dooood, where's my ID?? Fawwwwk!"

I pocketed the ID, and thought at first that I'd just mail it back to them (if I can find them -- their name was pretty distinctive, so it should be fairly easy to sleuth'em out). But then I thought about making a little bit of conceptual art to contain their ID and THEN mail it back to them. Then they'd be  like "Dooood! My fawking ID that I thought was lost came back to me in THIS!" and then they see the little thing I created to house their ID. I'm still mulling it, but it amuses me just enough that I might do it. I was thinking of a box-within-a-box-within-a-box-within-a box or something like that. Different boxes. And the final one contains the ID, without sourcing or explanation. Bahah!

Note to would-be Cultural Commandos: don't carry your IDs on you when you go a'wheatpasting!

Artful Dodger

I'm noshing on an Italian BMT (on Hearty Italian bread, with provolone cheese, naturally) from Subway at the moment. *nosh nosh* <-- see?

Beautiful day today -- mild, summery, sunny, lovely. A good walking-around kind of day, although I didn't have my camera handy, it was okay, because nothing jumped out at me (which is perhaps a good thing in Hyde Park -- you don't want anything or anybody jumping out at you down here!)

I was very pleased to learn that my good friend Corvina is getting a venue at ArtPrize! Yay! I stumbled upon that competition earlier this year and told her about it, said she should definitely submit something, on the off chance that she might get a venue (that's the real challenge with ArtPrize -- the venues are incredibly competitive and hard to get). And she got a venue! Her work is so solid, I'm really pleased she got in. Very, very cool. And what's even cooler is that the top 10 finalists win cash prizes for their works (and the prizes are phenomenally good). But even if she's not a finalist, at least she got in! Go get'em, Corvina! I'm so happy for her!

Header

Many thanks to Corvina for the fab header redesign for the blog. It looks way sharper than what I had before!

What a dick!

First I thought this headline in the Chicago READER was about me, but then I realized it was about performance artists... This Guy's Penis Is a Work of Art. Ah, performance artists. *eyeroll* I think he needs to petition patrons for a bigger endowment. ; )

Weekend Worrier

I wasn't as impressed with the Old Town Art Fair (OTAF) this year as I've been in previous years. I don't know if the jury composition changed or what, but there were too many jewelry makers there, and there was way too much meh 2D Mixed Media. I don't object to 2D Mixed Media, but it should be "Wow!" and not "Meh." Still, I always enjoy ambling around the OTAF and seeing what's going on.

I've been encouraging B1 to read to his brother. B2 loves to read, but B1 is more reluctant to do so, trends toward nonfiction. I try to have him read some nonfiction and fiction daily, so he can (hopefully) get into the habit more. His baby brother loves to, but can't properly read, yet (although he really wants to). So, I've been having B1 read to his baby brother, and it's adorable to watch them curled up together with a book. I ordered (and just received) "Icarus at the Edge of Time" by Brian Greene, which is a retelling of the Icarus myth with a black hole in place of the sun -- it's right up B1's alley, and I can't wait for him to see it. He'll love it.

Our old cat is dying. I took his sister to the vet a few years ago -- she was my cat, and her brother was Exene's cat. Anyway, after 18 years, his number's finally up. I told Exene it was on her to take him to the vet's, since I'd done that with his sister, when she was dying. So, predictably, she didn't do anything all weekend, and poor cat's condition worsened. I tried to take care of him, but he's suffering from terminal renal failure, which is common with old cats. He's conducted himself with rather amazing grace, just trying to keep it together, cat-style, but it's still very sad. Exene finally called the vet's this morning, and is going to take him after work. I'm annoyed at how she dithered on that. The moment he got to the point of no return, she should've taken him in, rather than waiting four+ days to tend to it. *headshake*

When Harry Met Andy

Andy Warhol using an Amiga computer to "paint" Debbie Harry.

Like, OMG!

This should be a law of pop cultural physics, it holds so true: if somebody says how "punk rock" something is (or, worse, "punk rawk") -- that person is a poseur (and in this day and age, far and away from Punk's unmarked grave, it's even more poseurish to be a poseur that way, like to even feel obligated to observe how "punk rock" something is).

Every time I've seen somebody marvel at something (or someone) and say "Oh, X is SO PUNK ROCK." That person who says it is invariably the most scenesterish, hipsterish poser type. They just are. I've observed it a number of times in the long span of years -- the tendency to observe how "punk rock" something was came about really in the mid-90s; before then, stuff was either good or it sucked -- no punk worth their safety pins would even make that observation, because you'd just know intuitively. There wouldn't be the need to narrate it, couch it, and otherwise claim it like that for some kind of unearned legitimacy. I remember working with a coworker who once exclaimed (without irony, for once, as he was a consummate hipster) "I'm punk rock! I pogoed to Superchunk!" That alone is worth a cockpunch, just on general principles.

There is a Zenlike art to it, to the intuitive knowledge of it and the anarchic spirit of it, and the people who try to lay claim to that are wusses in sheep's clothing. Lead, follow, or get out of the fucking way.

It matters because that fauxthenticity (yeah, another of my words) percolates far beyond Punk's long-dead corpse, and into the realm of proper art.

In other news, I'm very disappointed that The Urban Dictionary didn't accept "Daffodildo" as a new word. Wusses. They would have, back in the day. God, I hope they didn't purge "Cuntquistador" from their dictionary. Whew. No, they didn't. That's one of my greatest additions to the English language (along with "Errorgasm," "Gliberal," "Crapdusting," "Chickchismo" [apparently a UD Word of the day in '06], "Driveshaft," and "Vaginocity," to name just a few -- I have many more in there).

A Pict Picking Pix

So, I went through some of my pictures, narrowed my selection to about 60 pictures, then culled down to 34, then 29, then 10, then six, and now have my top four selected for the competition. I think they're all strong shots, have a good chance of advancing (?) -- although we'll see. With my luck, I don't know. Truly cannot get my hopes up, but I'm going to try, anyway.

Gonna get a haircut sometime this week -- my springtime ritual, shedding my wintertime locks. My hair's not long, as I've said; it's just shaggy. Getting some white hairs creeping into my generally auburn sideburns! Hey! That's alright. It works. It's all good.

10 days until I turn 40. Ooooh! Truly, I'm about twice as happy at 40 as I was at 38, or 36, or even 27 -- not precisely where I need to be, but I'd like to think I'm on the on-ramp to Happy.

I have a lot to say about that -- life, love, love of life, a life of love, all of that -- but I'm at work ("Where Fun Comes to Die"), so I'll get to that later. I'm thinking a bit about the "Bohemian values" articulated in "Moulin Rouge"(of all places) -- Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love, and what that means, exactly. Is all love that you feel true love? Are there shades of it? Degrees? It seems contrary to the idea of True Love for it to be a matter of degree -- like you're filling a tub with water, a little hot, a little cold, getting the temperature just right. That doesn't seem at all romantic. I don't think True Love can be controlled -- you either know True Love, or you don't. I have known people who are honestly "love-avoidant" -- like it's an alien idea to them. Or they love/hate themselves too much to actually open their hearts to True Love. Too much of either can blind you to it. But enough yammering for now.

A Tree Grows in Chicago

I couldn't quite get my clementine seedling in proper focus, but here's a peek at it. I'm so pleased. I hope it thrives. I'll take good care of it. If I got to play boy billionaire (or middle-aged millionaire, haha) I'd love to have my own garden. I'd make a Japanese garden. I love those. I really wanted to do that with the property I had in Indiana, but it was almost too much space to even hope to make something like that. But someday, I'll have a nice space and will make a beautiful garden.

I think my endless tinkering in Farmville is reflective of that desire, that urge to create something beautiful out of a natural space (even a virtual space). I think the desire to create something beautiful runs right through the heart of me.

What's Love Got To Do With It?

I found this article in THE NATION interesting. I'll comment on it in a few.

Bent

This is on Clark Street, just north of the intersection of Lincoln and Wells. I like the salt spray on it, and, of course, the snow.

Bahahah

Old-time propaganda and/or public health posters always make me laugh. This one is great:

"You can't beat the Axis if you get VD."

Bahaha! Watch out for those "Good Time" Girls, fellas! That tomato at the dime-a-dance joint may have one fine set of gams, but watch out!