Jen Graves on Jeffry Mitchell, a breathtaking piece of writing, here.
Jeffry Mitchell’s art is ejaculatory, in
every good and holy and dirty and wrong sense of the word. We are
discussing this at church. Actually, we are outside church; we’ve just
come from the pews of St. Ignatius at Seattle University, where we
lifted our eyes up to the half-naked, tortured, and dead Christ, and
kept quiet.
Seattle could be entering its golden age of art criticism. There are more good writers covering visual art than ever before.
A psychotic need to deny: the Michael Jackson School of Art, here.
Beautiful math in architecture from Los Angeles County Museum on Fire, here.
Douglas Britt on Tilda Swinton, the actress most closely associated with the art world, here.
The best art is meaningless (Bob Dylan: “Walk tall and always carry a light bulb”) here.
In what way did Margarete Heymann differ from other Bauhaus pioneers? She was a woman unattached to a powerful male. Hence, her invisibility. Story here.
Real Clear Arts praises the new Whitney Web site, here.
Two Coats of Paint rejoices: “In the hierarchy of art, painting has always been at the top of the heap …,” here.
Jeff Weinstein on Our Great-Grandfather’s Butts, here.
Translinguistic Other salutes artist and art enthusiast Joey Veltkamp, here. If every town had a Joey Veltkamp, it would be a (much) better world.
Why is this piece from 2003 in The Guardian so much better than anything Sebastian Smee has written in the Globe?
Sample:
Sex has traditionally been the easiest way to distinguish between them:
where art nouveau had been feminine, art deco, the style that succeeded
it, was masculine. Feminine meant curves and organic forms, an orgy of
ornament; masculine meant straight lines, vitality, speed and
streamlining. When art deco kicked in before the first world war,
around 1910, the fine arts were still giddy from the revolutions of
fauvism, primitivism and cubism. But it really blossomed in the roaring
20s, the age of the flapper: in the collective imagination art deco
means women smoking, drinking cocktails and dressing like men.
He’s too young to have gone slack. I’d hate to conclude it’s a difference in editors. The Globe is famous for its editors.
I love the idea of the Michael Jackson School of Art. Too, too true. Truth hurts, Ries Niemi, in regard to your previous “No Max” comments.
I think there’s a Michael Jackson style of journalism as well. The web newspaper that I write for (I mention no names) is always extorting us to find some way to work him into whatever we write.