Something About Andy (or, For My Last Blog...)

For my last blog, I saved one of my favorite artists of the 20th century: Andy Warhol. I first became familiar with Andy through the Velvet Underground, a infinitely influential band he produced in the mid- to late-1960s. Because of this familiarity, I decided to do a research paper on him for my American Studies class in high school and ever since, have been in love with his work, from his early pictures of shoes to magazine, to his last works with Jean-Michel Basquiat (who was also featured in our textbook, as pictured below):

Although the book focuses on his commercial Pop Art work (which is incredible), SO much of his other work is either glossed over (films, which is what I will discuss for a good part of this blog) or ignored entirely (his death obsessed early 70s work; his so-called "piss paintings," which are exactly what they sound like; even his series based on DaVinci's "The Last Supper"). 

Warhol's films seldom contained anything that one could label "narrative." Even "Vinyl," his adaptation of Anthony Burgess's "A Clockwork Orange" is notorious for its lack of plotline (spoiler: Edie Sedgwick gets off the box at the end). His most famous film works ('ant-films,' as far as Warhol was concrned) were often incredibly long, incredibly stagnant, and very simply titled. For example, Sleep is a film of John Giorno sleeping for five hours and twenty minutes, Eat is 45 minutes of Robert Indiana eating a mushroom, Empire is over 8 hours of slow motion footage of the Empire State Building, and Taylor Mead's Ass and Blow Job, are, respectively, an hour and a half and 35 minutes of exactly what you'd guess. Here's a bit of Empire to give you an idea:

Even a die-hard Warhol fan has to admit that 30 seconds of that is dull, let alone over 8 hours. It's very similar to watching paint dry. However, in my opinion, it's still art... And pretty good art at that! Warhol never allowed abridged screenings of Empire: If you were going to play Empire, you were going to play ALLLLLLL of it. Warhol's artistic vision was, as he said, "to see time go by." I try to judge artists works by their own goals and, boy, did Warhol ever watch time go by. He really was there for the whole filming. In fact, in the first few reels of the films, Warhol is visible through his reflection in a window. I appreciate Empire, along with Warhol's other films, for being distinctly Andy in all that they did: taking something everybody is used to, putting it through his eyes, and spitting out a new, mass produce-able creation. After all, that's what Pop Art is!

Philip Glass's "Einstein On The Beach" (or, A Masterpiece of Minimalism)

I first encountered Philip Glass a couple of years back while on a MEGA David Bowie kick, as Glass's 1st and 4th symphonies are arrangements of tracks from two of my favorite Bowie albums (Low and "Heroes"). While I'm immensely impressed with how Glass took Bowie's music and, without changing its spirit, managed to completely manipulate it's body, I was much more impressed by his classic opera Einstein On The Beach. Before we go any further, let's take a brief listen. (I'd play the whole thing for you, but it is five hours and you have finals you ought to be studying for).

The progressions take forever to move through, the voices counting are odd and sometimes even clash with each other, and it is incredibly repetitive. Later, bits of poetry will be overlapped and, once in a while, the instrumentation varies, but, truly this is the basic idea. To some it may seem like torture, but, in my opinion, uninterrupted listening to it is tantamount to meditation (a sentiment which the book echoes). The work definitely embodies minimalism as described in the book: "tonality and melody are usually simple, while rhythms and textures, built through minute repetition, are dense and complex."

Einstein On The Beach was the complete opposite of the definition of opera. There is no story being told throughout. There are no characters to watch develop and play out their fates. There is nothing but the tones, the instrument, and the voices. In my opinion though, this creates just as compelling of an image as any beautifully and traditionally operatic work could. If you're willing to let go of the common definition of music and realize that there is more to art than being entertained sometimes and that a feeling can be worth spending a couple of hours alone with a piece of music, Einstein On The Beach is a unique and rewarding piece of music. 

Architecture Doesn't Captivate Me Often (or, Well Done, Perez and Associates)

While I do greatly appreciate architecture and can marvel at it for some time on occasion, it very seldom happens that I find a work of art of that style that has me going back to it over and over again. Chapter 37 of the Humanities textbook presented me with one such piece of art: Piazza d'Italia in New Orleans, designed by Charles Moore.

I don't tend to blow up pictures to huge proportions on here, but I just feel like this deserves it. Taking a look at page 146 in the Humanities book presents a smaller, though somewhat more vibrant, shot. This piece of architecture absolutely exemplifies the Postmodernist manifesto presented in the textbook: "A playful assortment of fragments 'quoted' from architectural traditions as ill-mated as a fast-food stand and a Hellenistic temple." The book also mentions that Postmodernist architecture seeks to dismantle and reassemble in search for meaning.  

Just look at it! There, a piece of a fountain. There, part of a temple with an inscription on it. There, a stairway which will later be lit up with neon lights (check out the last picture in this blog). And, looming behind it all, modern skyscraper, perfect for fitting that 'ill-mated' bit of the theory. To me, this looks like the set to a surreal Fellini film. It embodies the best of Italian architecture, then smashes it up into fragments, and reassembles it into something with an incredible amount of beauty. I hope one day to travel to New Orleans and get to marvel at this in person.

Alone In The Universe (or, Being A Nathanael West Fan in Humanities)

While the bloggers in this class have said a myriad of things about Isabel Allende's The House of the Spirits, there's one thing in common between many of them: a sentence or two stating how, regardless of what they think of Allende, at least it's better than West.

 I could understand jealousy of his incredible mustache, but it seems like most people's issues are guided towards his novel, The Day of the Locust. Frankly, I just don't get it. Since reading The Day of the Locust in class, I have become a huge fan of West's works. I appreciate his lengthy, detailed descriptions, the darkness of the stories, the archetypes that are his characters, and the stark criticism of reality present, underlying the overall surreal feel of many of his passages. For some reason, I just don't get this same feeling with Allende. While West captivated me throughout The Day of the Locust with his sordid tale of Hollywood (and his since done the same with tales of advice column writers and scatalogical humor obsessed poets wondering the bowels of the Trojan Horse), Allende, unfortunately, hasn't done much of anything for me.

While I will admit that some of the 'magical realism' content in Allende's novel, including the giant dog (Barabbas), the man who can send ants away by telling them (Pedro), and, of course, good ol' Clara the Clairvoyant are at least of bizarre interest, I find the book, as a whole, to be dull. That being said, I've never been one for 'family epics,' regardless of style. Just not a genre that has ever captivated my interest. Beyond that, I found West, even in all of his strangeness, to be more relevant. Call me dark, but I'd rather hear West rant on the American Dream all night than spend half an hour hearing Allende ramble about an odd family. Can I understand why The House of the Spirits belongs in the curriculum? Yeah. Does that mean I need to care for it? Nope. Give me mustachio up there anyday!