Regina Hackett

One step up from a Cracker Jack toy, Diana cameras entered the U.S. market from China in the late 1950s and were a novelty hit through the 1960s.

Wikipedia

The Diana is a very simply constructed box camera with a mechanical film
advance, spring-loaded shutter, and a plastic viewfinder of
questionable utility. It is constructed primarily of low-quality
phenolic plastics of the type commonly found in toys imported from Asia
during the 1960s. Because of wide variances in production quality,
combined with a poorly-designed camera body latching mechanism, Diana
cameras are predisposed to light leaks onto the exposed film.

In the 1970s, riding on a river of chance, Nancy Rexroth began to make the most of the camera’s unpredictable disadvantages. (1975, 8 x10 inches, vintage silver print)

Rexroth:

Diana images are often something you might see faintly in the background
of a photograph… sometimes, I feel I could step over the edge of a
frame and walk backwards into this unknown region. Then I would keep
right on walking…

Her figures are standing there, but they’re already gone.

Amy Blakemore began using the Diana in graduate school in the 1980s at the University of Texas. Unlike Rexroth, who stuck to black and white, Blakemore quickly switched to color.  And while Rexroth’s prints are otherworldly, related to late 19th Century Pictorialism, Blakemore’s have an internal precision inside the blur.

For her, clicking the shutter produces a rough draft. What’s important about her prints she achieves in the darkroom. There is nothing accidental about her compositions or her tonal orchestration. And while Rexroth’s landscapes and figures fragile, shot full of light, Blakemore’s are oddly sturdy. She makes them by hand, and her constructions favor the solid. One more thing: While Rexroth’s is a silent world, Blakemore’s tends toward the convivial. Her figures frequently face the camera and look as if they are about to greet the viewer.

Steph, 1995

A 20-year survey of her work is at the Seattle Art Museum courtesy of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, curated by Alison de Lima Greene. At James Harris Gallery is a selection of recent work.

Green’s show is gorgeous, but its installation at SAM is a problem. The problem isn’t necessarily the corridor where it hangs. That particular corridor worked well for Everything Under The Sun: Photographs of Imogen Cunningham and the lovely little Tack & Jibe, art about sailing. But Blakemore’s photos look as if they’re still in storage. Why paid pay to ship 40 framed photos, take them out of a box and put them in another box? They need more room to breath, and so does the viewer.

Blakemore deserves more and gets it at James Harris – small gallery in the back but well-lit, well-hung and not crowded.

I love her historical resonance. Take, for instance, W. Eugene Smith’s A Walk To Paradise Garden, 1946.

Blakemore strips the image of its sentimentality, its holy hush. She lights the before of the passage as well as the after and lays a whip strap of a shadow across the boy’s back.

Boy in Woods, 2010
Chromogenic Print Ed. of 10
19″ x 19″

A shadow expands to cover most of her mother’s stoic face but everything is visible inside it. The composition centers on a tension-release narrative, as the hands of the man holding the wheelchair are white along their edges. (Although he’s the one driving her into the dark, she’s ready and he’s not.)

Mom, 2009
Chromogenic Print Ed. of 10
19″ x 19″

In spirit, her work is closest to Neil Goldberg‘s.

Goldberg, My Father Breathing into a Mirror
Single channel video
2005
1:00 min
Silent

Both Blakemore and Goldberg relate to the final lines of John Cheever’s Falconer:

Farragut walked to the front of the bus and got off at the next stop.
Stepping onto the street he saw he had lost his fear of falling (he had
forgotten how to walk as a free man). He held his head high, his back
straight and walked along nicely. Rejoice, he thought. Rejoice.

Blakemore through Feb. 13 at SAM; through Oct. 9 at James Harris.

As Christopher Knight pointed out, Lady Gaga’s meat dress is set firmly in repeat mode. Jana Sterbak sewed wet, raw red muscle into a garment in 1987. (Photos of both items on the Knight link.)

Knight:

Sterbak’s Vanitas: Flesh Dress for an Albino Anorexic is now in the
collection of the Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris’ modern art museum —
an appropriate locale, given that city’s intersection of art and
fashion. Most recently it has been on view in the exhibition “elles@centrepompidou,” a changing year-long survey dedicated to women artists.

What’s striking about Gaga’s look is the shoes. (Image via John Perreault on facebook.)

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) is unhappy, and best health practice is an issue too. (Art doesn’t have to be nice or good for you.)

Maggot infestation can happen quickly on raw meat at room temperature and will develop faster with heat, accelerated by being close to skin and under hot lights,” says Dr. Shawki Ibrahim, chief scientific advisor for Grow Green Industries. Plus, “the dress is definitely puts her at an E.coli risk if she had a cut on her skin, but otherwise it’s just the stink factor.” (more)

Aside from spectacular discomfort, dressing in crockery has no downside.

Li Xiaofeng

I also like the hat, via Evan Blackwell, artist unknown, from the Minsheng Art Museum in Shanghai.

On September 15, 2002, the painter Robert LaVigne discovered he was dead. His demise was announced in The New York Times, the paper of record, which gave the pronouncement weight. He felt himself – arms, hands, chest, knees – and took a deep breath. Still here.

The occasion for the error was an occasional column known as The Way We Live Now. The Times printed a photo that included Lawrence Ferlinghetti and asked for his commentary.

I am the only one in the picture still alive, because I work out all
the time. They didn’t work out except raising the elbow or rolling
joints. (more)

I remembered this story because the Times has once again printed the photograph.

From left, Bob Donlon, Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, Robert LaVigne and Lawrence Ferlinghetti in San Francisco

When was it taken? In 2002, The Times said 1955. Now, it says 1956. Also, although Bob thinks his last name is LaVigne, The Times currently insists it’s La Vigne. What does he know?

Not to quibble, which would be karmically unwise. If I have a bit of an attitude about The Times’ coverage of this event, however, it’s because Bob called me in 2002 to ask what he should do about his demise. I offered to alert the newspaper to its error, and he gratefully accepted.

Much to my surprise, The Times did not want to be alerted. After a long run-around, I finally got the editor of the section, who told me that LaVigne would have to prove he was alive to get a correction. I was going to ask how he would go about doing so, but she had already hung up. I admitted defeat, and Bob asked a more important friend, I think Daniel Sullivan, who got the job done.

This is not the only time I have hit a wall at The Times. I wrote to ask for a correction to the story on the link, and so did the Seattle Art Museum. Five months later, no correction. Maybe SAM should ask for Daniel Sullivan’s help.

To the left of the entrance of Western Bridge (designed by Roy McMakin, owned by Bill & Ruth True) is an over-sized domestic window. These days, it sports a curtain that opens and closes. Opens, and closes. Opens, and closes.

Standing in the parking lot, we’re sitting on the edge of our imaginary seats. As befits everyone’s busy schedule, we enjoy the beginning and end without having to suffer through the middle. The curtain offers what Paul Valéry wanted to convey in his writing, “the sensation of a story without the boredom of its conveyance.”

Martin Creed‘s Open/Closed, Big/Small, Full/Empty, On/Off is a recap of Creed’s magically mundane moments, for once given all the space they need. In the central gallery, there might be nothing at all. In that case, it means the art has wandered off to look for a treat, a walk, a meal, a pat on the head or a nap under the stairs.

Big/Small (Work No. 748)

In the video gallery, a lamp goes on and off. There’s also a balloon gallery, this time silver.

About that light going on and off (Work No. 227)  –
Maurizio Cattelan sensed a dark purpose:

We all have our bad days, when you just can’t get it right, like moments of loss and surrender. And we all have our good days, when everything seems to run smoothly, just perfect for no apparent reason. I can see clearly now the rain has gone. You wake up, things are okay, and the sun is shining. And then out of the blue, there you go again, down into the dark pit of depression. It’s not just a matter of mood swings. Its something more basic and perverse: the inability to preserve joy. The need to measure it against a black background. Art is no different. It’s a ride on the roller coaster of emotions. Sometimes I feel so happy, sometimes I feel so sad. I always thought Martin Creed’s Work No. 227: The lights going on and off had something to do with this simple truth. It has the ability to compress happiness and anxiety within one single gesture. Lights go on, lights go off – sunshine and rain, and then back to beginning to repeat endlessly. I do not know what Creed was thinking about when he made it but to me it always looked like a swing, a mood swing. That’s why I never found it funny but frightening in its simplicity, it’s a sculpture for our lithium oriented, Prozac enhanced reality. Are we afraid of the dark or just blinded by the light? I see a rainbow and I want to paint it black.

For me, Creed’s work has always been about breathing, about in and out, compression and release; about space charged with a sense of moment, a space where dark and light do not contrast as positives and negatives but embrace as wide-open potentials.

Robert Creeley – Midnight

When the rain stops
and the cat drops
out of the tree
to walk

away, when the rain stops,
when the others come home, when
the phone stops,
the drip of water, the

potential of a caller
any Sunday afternoon.

Through Dec. 18.

Myriad methods present themselves.

By intrusion:

Erwin Wurm

By solitude:

Tim Roda

By force:

Regina José Galindo

By restriction:

Jack Daws

By projection:

Roger Shimomura

By an excess of self-regard: (USA! USA!)

Grant Barnhart

By bad choices:

Susan Robb

By malign intent:

Scott Fife

On view at the Seattle Asian Art Museum, Monk at the Moment of Enlightenment, Yuan Dynasty, 14th Century

Opening Oct. 2 at Kobo at Higo, Tommer Peterson’s Ordinary Household Gods, including, below, Rogue Monk, 2010.

Robert Gober – false evidence of an ordinary life

Kathleen Faulkner – shoes made of river stones, transforming your feet into a river

Matthew Barney – excess to bolster an excess

Iris Schieferstein – the jealousy of the flightless biped, grounding others

Marilyn Minter – glamour and nausea

Do-Ho
Suh – power corrupts

Jennifer Campbell – She did it to herself.

Dennis, from Relatives

Remember your old cousins,
Those fish who crawled from the sea
When the seafood was plentiful
And the land bare.
Think of the voices they strained to hear
As they chose to hobble on tender fins
Painfully in the sun’s glare.

Komada:

Via

The art that matters to you lives in your head. It emerges into consciousness whenever the world presents its echo. On a fine day, for instance, you note Fragonard clouds. In the rain by a pond, you see John Constable muck. Smashed glass on the street, Gretchen Bennett. White-out paint passages to cover graffiti, Matt McCormick. Open any old refrigerator, and you remember a video of a wolf chasing down dinner. (Vanessa Renwick, Hunting Requires Optimism.) See a pit bull cock its head to note the approach of a stranger, and Michael Spafford‘s Minotaur and the Maiden series from the 1980s comes to mind. (The long jaw, the barrel chest, the spring in the legs, poised to strike.)

Wrong Distance made the same point quite nicely: a random photo of a room instantly evokes German painter Matthias Weischer.”It’s far busier than something he would ever do, the colors are not quite, it has a person in it, it’s a photo. and yet…”