Nelson Lowhim's Blog, page 115

Netflix and Chill: Cold Days

 It's been some snowy days here in the Inland NW. And the drifting, muffling snowscape gets one to thinking. And when the thinking gets too much—for not one of us is interesting enough to be alone with our thoughts for to long—I watch Netflix and chill. My mind releases those tangled thoughts and soon I'm watching show X, relaxing, not caring. Of course, I would have the luck to stumble upon a disquieting episode of the animated ilk. 
What follows is a lecture by a polyglot professor about the different versions of this story she unearthed throughout her career. In one, the man is a moor and he uses djinns to dispatch the monsters, and the townspeople try to hang him, but he escapes. In yet another version, he allies with the monsters and wreaks havoc upon the townspeople. 
Near the end, the professor stated that none of the stories offered hope, and thus it deserved to be buried—as it was in all the traditions she managed to find it in. But she didn't end it there. She went on a rant about the epidemic of happy endings today and how that hasn't prepared us for anything but going to the mall and not really that if we include the chickens coming home to roost in terms of shootings at the mall and not just that but also it hasn't prepared us for ISIS or anything really, and she was visibly sad and shaken by this world that had so turned on her, and she was losing hope, because at the end of the day even she showed her kids infantile happy endings. Why? What else could she do after a hard day's work where she only wanted a smile to go on? So what was one to make of a world as this, but that it was the sickest joke perpetuated by a sick creator?
At this point, quite taken aback, I was not certain if this rant was hers or part of the show or a continuation of the story. She ended it with that platitude: "Every hour wounds, the last one kills."
And that was it. The disquieting snow was still falling and I couldn't rid myself of the rock planted in my chest by this show. I found the next superhero show and started to forget. Perhaps it's the same for people as it is for a person: that one needn't know oneself (one's peoples) too much lest the knowledge inhibit good living.

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On Adult coloring books

There's been something of a rise in adults using coloring books to de-stress. The above is an example of a new kind of adult coloring book. Well, it's more de-stressing, but in the form of painting. Trick is to paint straight lines that are either up or down or to the sides, all at 90 degree angles from each other. Paint to your heart's delight, then when the base is dried, color in the shapes as you see fit. 

This isn't new, of course, but the original artist who started the movement actually was blamed of copying the edge-node artist at the beginning of his career. He made huge 20'x20' paintings (and the above photo would only represent 1/600th of the entire painting!) and made a killing showing them to be representations of certain cities. Of course, unlike our heroine, his style never really caught on. Who knows why, marketing or perhaps something else. But in the end there was a moment in time when he faced the inevitable bet of whether or not he was going to eat.
And so he turned to the masses, the people he both needed and hated to need the approval of. He set shop in a small studio and tried to train people to paint. No good. He did wine and paint night. Still not enough. It appeared as though having people paint Picassos was not the route to eat.
Finally, he saw how good coloring books were doing and moved into the realm mentioned in the first paragraph. This meditative painting was a hit and soon he was a profitable businessman, though the art world shunned him and pointed to this final sin of his as proof of why he should not have been accepted as an artist to begin with. Hard times, no doubt. But I suggest you try this method and see how relaxing it is. And finally, ask that question: what is art?


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On reading offline.

 I've recently taken to reading offline. No, not just books (even in those terms a dedicated ereader could be considered offline) but magazines. I think it's been about more than a decade since I've actually had a subscription to a magazine. It was about that time that I thought the internet would provide better reading in terms of variety and quality than a single magazine. 
But I do need the offline magazine. My favorite is the London Review of Books. Now this is available online too, but being able to curl up with the magazine and not be distracted by other articles is certainly a positive thing. I will still be looking for magazines online and offline in the future, but to not diversify seems like it will be the way in the future.
[1] In fact, I would call this me hedging my bets. I'm still of the mind that something better will come from the internet, to include a way to minimize distractions and that need to look at the next article rather than the one one's on. Or perhaps I'll increase my discipline.
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The artist, and the people's fear of a just God.

"A person does not lightly elect to oppose his society. One would much rather be at home among one's compatriots than be mocked and detested by them. And there is a level on which the mockery of the people, even their hatred, is moving, because it is so blind: It is terrible to watch people cling to their captivity and insist on their own destruction." —James Baldwin.
If you read this blog, you must know that I think the world of James Baldwin's writing. In the above quote he speaks of the need (not want) to oppose one's society. This is, at the end of the day, the artist's choice and certainly the serious artist's choice [1]. 
 Lately, I've been immersed in trying to finish essays about the events in the world. For most things I find myself continuously dismayed by that which I read, both from friends and strangers on Facebook [2], on various website comments, to what I hear from contemporary authors [3]. The utter lack of imagination, foresight, historical context and any self-awareness still blows my mind. I find it hard to believe that we've been hurtling along on the same rock for several decades now.
At one point, seeing all the blind reactions, I was certain that I was bearing witness to a very specific sickness (or a symptom of it) for I had never seen so many people frightened that their God[4] might very well be as just as they It is. That in even the relatively safe and comfortable West people are completely incapable of rationale thought is sad, and to bear witness to it is sadder, and to know that people less safe can only be less rational (if we're to follow the model of heuristics and emotions and, in less safe areas, fewer long term polities) is sadder yet.
Nevertheless, this thought has gripped my heart as I think on my reaction, think on the essays I need to write on the matters at hand. To do so, I must find the strength in the words of the greats, especially the likes of Baldwin, and I must move on.
So to all those whom I told I would be writing on these matters soon, I will. I most certainly hope to encompass all the reactions around, to include the demagogues who have taken advantage of this situation.


[1] Oh, I know, I mentioned the very post-modern view that one doesn't simply give art that filters through time the accolades people think it deserves. Much of it is the trophy of the powerful and we enjoy such things. But let's avoid that for a second; I am at the end of the day a romantic and I do think that my writing serves more purpose than to just entertain. 
[2] Certainly there's a word for this, that angry feeling when you see political views of your friends, people you enjoy hanging out with, and the fury of that combined with not wanting to start a Facebook war with said friend(s)? I would call it Facebook rage, but that sounds a little weak, if you ask me. Any better words out there? Facerage? Fanger? Man, I'm not good at this. Any teens out there?
[3] There's another post. Most of these authors, even the esteemed Rushdie, sound like nothing more than parroting fools. More or less reflecting the depth or lack thereof in their writing. It's all most likely jealousy (as the better half may point out). 
[4] That may be any God, or whatever it is that you believe holds the die in the universe, even the currently sacrosanct—or at least powerful, or one with the most divisions—nation-state.
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Algo's Barbarians

Some people have been mocking a certain branch of Algo’s never-ending story. Luckily I’ve been allowed to transplant the story here, with the author’s permission. A few thoughts: despite what critics may say, the story ends up working very well. That it’s a solid story and the excessive rant voice only makes perfect sense in this case.  As the sandstorm rolled in, the barbarians did ride forth, with their warpaint all cracking, like Picasso painting on absinthe and with a creeping syphilitic problem, though who amongst us has not flirted with at least the possibility of the latter? And even amongst the settlers—all of whom were now trembling at the sight of iron horses requisitioned, bearing down on their village, a sandstorm just behind—there was none who could cast a first stone on the matter and the barbarians rolled closer, the sound of the dust storm muffling their war cries—of which there were definitely some since they all had their mouths open and what else would they open their mouths for?—and in their other hands were the death flowers these barbarians had been known for: shrunken heads with ears of others vanquished attached to the ends—and to think that some thought of these as art—to form grotesque petals on the aria-head.

And some of the townspeople were certainly thinking this, as they prepped their claymores and tapped, for the infinite time, their magazines, as bits of dust  hit them. The limited visibility or sight reduction helping only the barbarians for they had nothing but dust and their hateful hearts to work with, those hearts with such memories of such slights; then the memories were cooked in that disgusting sandland of theirs, and here it was, whatever infection of their heart then spread, like a worm, like a love for a hooker, like a gas in a vacuum room, like a virus, like a man’s blood as he’s suddenly  cut on the next the pool unnoticeable, but growing in bits, in slight increases of circumference, the eye never noticing but really knowing and suddenly it’s everywhere—and as their hatred spread amongst themselves, then amongst their people, their land too was cursed by God who had never seen any of his children fall so far—and thus that hatred now had dust to hide in, and so they attacked all towns nearby and now this one was the next and the last one.

And the townspeople were certainly thinking all this; though on the matter of art only one, Tom, was thinking the hardest because he had only just missed being killed by he other townspeople for at one point he had lived amongst the barbarians and when it came to art his house was the only one people would consider the local library and museum, for books he had collected plenty and the same with the art, but the townspeople didn’t like the art he kept, and in good times settled with muttering under their breath.

And in bad times—like upon knowledge of an impending attack by the barbarians (the information passed on by a scout who had seen the death flowers and learned from the wreckage of another village what their plans were)—they wanted him dead: sure that both the art he kept was the reason the barbarians (and by some odd alliance, God as well) were angry with the town and wanted it destroyed and thinking that the art was a Trojan horse for the barbarians—that it was barbaric art—and has somehow a cause for the barbarians (again, they were sure that it was simultaneously calling the barbarians and something the barbarians wanted to own again and creations that pissed off the Lord and something the barbarians wanted to destroy for being better than their own art) to come destroy them, and only because the sound of impending destruction did the townspeople leave him be to look over his possessions, the only thin k he truly cared about, and he knew that the townspeople’s anger—a blind raging thing—would be nothing compared to the barbarians’ anger—worse on all counts—for he had lived with some of them and knew fro whence it stemmed, but mainly he thought on his art, the paintings of landscape like any other but with grotesque beings or deformed humans or spaceships or splashes of paints and the sculptures of bulls mating or emaciated animals and standing there he knew or was sure that not only were the barbarians not coming to their town for their art—their anger being too blind to care now—but that though they didn’t care, they would be disgusted by this museum and would destroy it with even more gusto than the rest of the town, now sure that their actions were justified and on they would go and if he, Tom, were still alive, they would hunt him down and cut off his ears and other parts that flopped in the air, all for this gallery and worse than the townspeople wanted to do to him for this gallery.

And as he thought this he fondled his favorite sculpture, a woman with a head for a torso and a man’s body waist down (and well endowed was it) and thought on his lover who had lived there amongst the barbarians, though he wasn’t sure if she was still alive; he missed her, and he half wanted to talk to these barbarians to see what had become of her, but he knew what was about to happen wouldn’t require anymore words and he ran to the wall.

And just as the sandstorm’s penumbra touched the town’s outer walls, did the barbarians disappear. The townspeople all huddled, Tom with his rifle and his fixed bayonet and he waited, hating everything about the town but hating the barbarians more.


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Art as Life, part X

Art is a funny thing (see about that which I discuss "art as life" here). Hard for someone (a pleb, admittedly) like me to truly appreciate the entire enterprise, outside of that which impresses me personally.  Now, I love museums, though I find truth in the statement [1] that a visit to the museum is really just an ode to the trophies of the rich. And so it goes, but that doesn't mean I don't derive enjoyment from being in a museum. I dare say I gain much more from a visit to the museum than other activities; it has a way of expanding the mind and inspiring creation [2].  I suppose I should say it's the art market that truly confuses me. That a beautiful painting like this can barely be considered worth much, but once appraised as Van Gogh's, it's immediately worth millions. When it comes to the worth of Jeff Koons' [3] work, I also "don't understand". This might be a testament to my middle class upbringing and the view that art has something "different" to it than other matters. Perhaps. It's a testament to human creativity and imagination, but when the market is involved, it also becomes a matter of marketing. 
I learned that when talking to a painter in the business. Then, like Koons, I imagine, understanding what and to whom you're selling is very important. It has probably always been thus. Or perhaps it has always been a matter of smokes and mirrors. Nothing every appearing as it truly is or was. Then in such a world, million dollar paintings make perfect sense. 
What am I talking about? I was recently told that a print from Mr. Brainwash was worth thousands. A print. I had asked if the person had seen Exit through the Gift Shop. In this documentary (or  mocumentary) a non-street artist barges into the scene and through what appears to be luck and timing sells enough to make millions. What does one say to that? Of course that he's attached to Banksy is what seals the deal, or is it?
It could very well be that the film is actually lying to the audience and that the work of Banksy is also the work of Mr. Brainwash. In that case it would make sense that the prints are worth so much. Or perhaps I'm missing the point. Perhaps people just like the prints. I have to admit that what I saw of Mr. Brainwash was pretty good. 
Recently, this point, that the artwork itself is something else, has been driven home after I watched F for Fake, a film I certainly recommend you see. In it Orsen Welles follows a painter who makes his living as a forger of paintings. We hear him boasting that most of the work on the walls of museums worldwide are his work, not the artists, or that if an artist saw his forgery of said artist's work, they would think it their own. What then to say of great art and art itself? What is art?
I'm not sure. I have the edge-node painting above to illustrate the point I'm making. That piece was recently the subject of quite a bit of controversy, whereby the original artist of edge nodes claimed that the above piece was a forgery. One that made the forger quite a bit of money. Some people are saying, however, that since the famous artist does not make all of her edge nodes (she hires out some of them now, and even has robotic hands working on more immense pieces) herself, this is merely a detail on the margins. 
What, then, is art? Is it all about a transmission from a very certain artist to you [4] through a medium? Is it about what one gets from standing in front of a piece of art? If the above edge node is not a fake, what does that say (let's say she forgot she had someone paint it) about the artist, the market she's selling to? I'm not sure. But I'll continue to visit museums and enjoying them. And I'll buy the little pieces I can afford. I'll let the rich duel it out about the prices of the "classics".

 [1] Banksy's statement, I believe, though correct me if I'm wrong. 
[2] Still street art and other such forms are only to be lauded. 
[3] Oh, reading about this great artist is very interesting. Here's one article by the New Yorker that can attest to his controversial work. And another that might not be the kindest. Interesting matters, nonetheless.
[4] You here standing for yourself or humanity.  Enjoyed the writing? Please share it via email, facebook, twitter, or one of the buttons below (or through some other method you prefer). Thank you! As always, here's the tip jar. Throw some change in there and help cover the costs! Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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Best books of 2015

I started this a couple years ago, the best books of the year. The best books I read in a year, at least, not necessarily the books from that year. Here are the previous lists, from 2013 and 2014. Fun. This year I spent more time trying to get out my latest than I normally did, and my reading suffered for it. There are fewer books, and more non-fiction books (essays, mainly), but don't fear, this is still a worthwhile list. Enjoy.
I loved this book, easily up to the level of  Summertime, another great book of Coetzee's and with some of the more lucid writing out there. Youth has the same effect as it follows the younf author as he works and looks and considers the world and his own small world. Check it out, it's really that good.

Calvino's Italian Folktales. This might be the best book I read all year. Very deserving of the classic moniker even if I have yet to finish it. When I want to be inspired, or entertained, I crack open this book. I think it's the variety of all the tales, to include the variety of outcomes, that really make this collection tick. Even if all are constrained by the familiar fairy tale structure, the stories work, are ones you can get lost in, the characters witty and engaging. Perhaps with the familiar structure they all end up serving as props for the world created? Hard to say. There are also lines like: "There was once a Prince as rich as cream" that can make the coming story worth it.

Have I mentioned Baldwin before? Oh, I must have. Easily the best writer of the previous century with such insights into society, that I cannot but be amazed. It could be said that his essays are better than his fiction. Maybe, but only because his essays are an art form unto them selves (yes better than Emerson's, IMHO, standing on the shoulders of giants not withstanding). To include the above book, there was a release of previously unseen material. Certainly worth it, even for the "aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages," line. Here it is, then,The Cross of Redemption: Uncollected Writings. And, of course, the best compilation to buy: James Baldwin : Collected Essays . In today's ever bubbling world, there are few contemporaries who seem up to the task of discussing the issues at hand. Instead I've had to turn to Baldwin... and yes, what he says then, is still relevant now.
There are a couple other books, Sontag's Against Interpretation: And Other Essays, which has some great insight and Bolano's Nazi Literature in the Americas. Of the latter, I'm obviously a fan, so if you don't like his other work, you won't like this either. Another non-fiction is Gehl's Cities for People, which is about how cities work better when they disregard cars and are sized for people. Bias confirmation, in my case, but very important for the cities of the future. In addition to all this, there's Chomsky's solid book. It's from the past, but it's worth it even, or especially, today. Well, I hope these books prove to be helpful, in case you're buying books for yourself or someone else.






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Charities and Tree of Freedom

For the few that know, if you know, I mentioned a while back that profits of the royalties would go to the a Syrian fund that helped the refugees and victims of that war. Unfortunately, that didn't work out.
So note that the overpriced Tree of Freedom is the book that will carry that specific burden. Again, I'm aware that I have failed fellow humans by not selling more, and I will always work towards improving that... 
So on to the donation of 53.78$ that will be given to a charity. I mentioned earlier that it would be Doctors without Borders.  There is, however, a Vox article that mentions a few worthy Syrian charities that I will certainly add to the list of charities (note that MSF, doctors without Borders, also contributes to that area): SAMS, SRD and Mercy Corps.  I am in the process of scouring for more. Please add any other charities you feel are needed here... it's something I'm educating myself about still. I will, today, donate to SRD, as they are in that article and seem to be doing good work [1]. Below is the screenshot. I hope that people out there will also do the same (to charities of their choosing).



[1] Again, my research isn't impeccable, someone please inform me if otherwise.


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And then there was one (part of the fractal series)

By now you must be familiar with Tim, that oddball cousin of Gerad's. Recently we found a little story he wrote. We're not certain if this was before or after he knew aliens, but it certainly speaks to a certain personality, doesn't it? So enjoy and bask in the following.
The blue sky, this late in summer, this long after we’d come to be familiar with the cold, was more than welcome. But as I drove around after work, running errands, as one can only run errands in suburbia: sloshing between parking lots in a car. But even then, seeing one too many accidents, I sensed something was amiss, but checking my Twitter feed gave me no information. For a second, as I paused upon opening my car door, the smell of fried-something hanging strong in my nostrils, I glanced up and saw hundreds of black spots in the white-blue sky. Each time I tried to look directly at a spot, they would all vaporize. Gone. This happened enough times—these dots in the sky and sky alone—only in my periphery that I soon had vertigo.A passer-by, one of those friendly small towners, asked me if I was okay. I asked her what she saw in the sky and she looked up, then looked at me and asked if I needed medical attention.

I went home feeling sick, wondering if I’d lost my bearings. The next day I went to work in the dark, the early-morning pain filled shift. The abandoned streets seemed odd, but I tried to avoid any and all wondering thoughts about what was going on. And I surpassed my very instinct to go back home to ready for … something.

My work’s parking lot was also empty and as I entered the building—fluorescent lights flickering—I knew I should have stayed home.

No one was around and still I looked about. Only when I was about to open the door to the lounge did I hear something indicating life in the building. Against my best instincts I entered. In the lounge there sat a man in a grey suit, a top hat, and an empty can of sardines and a half bottle of vodka.

“You’re late,” he said. I realized he wasn’t talking

My heart pumped hard and dropped a heavy acid into my guts.

he shook his head hard and pointed at the window. It was light out now and in the sky hovered large black spacecraft. He raised his hat and walked out. I should have taken this as blessing but feeling an aloneness so profound it cracked me open with longing, I chased him.

“Where is everyone?” He looked at me and pointed back at the crafts.

“Everyone?”

“Not you.”

“Why?”

He squinted at my question: “We wanted everyone but you.” My heart dropped, for I knew he was not lying.

“Why?”

“We have no use for you.”


“But everyone?” I couldn’t believe it even though I knew it.

“I need a reason?”

It was a challenge. “What are you going to do with them? What was I late for?” But he didn’t answer, and in a handful of seconds, between my disbelief, then my mind and body freezing, he flew to a craft and they all took off, burning off the clouds as they turned into specks then nothing.

And I was alone. I went back through the building, hoping I was only mad, but nothing. Neither did anyone reply to my calls. I was alone.



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Art as life, part deux

It's funny to try to judge someone and someone's work from a distance, and yet we do this all the time when considering public people. Of course, this leaves us open to making quick judgments based on nothing more than a handful of glimpses, and why it's important for those in the public eye to curate those glimpses and thus gain the upper hand by manipulating us.
And so it goes. Recently, I found an interview of an artist, whose work I enjoy immensely. You may have read about a view of the pieces she paints. She has been moving towards structures and sculptures which have actual movement. Interesting, most of this. Funny thing is that in the interview she explains some of this, and what flowed from the critics is nothing short of a vitriol that I'm sure I will never understand.  See if the interview irks you.
The artist explains how she sees the world is history as some ever changing flow of actions with a person (in multitude, in other words multiplied by billions) and how they influence each other and their histories and perception of life and so on [1]. She is still trying to approximate that and perhaps paintings and sculptures are all not enough to do so? Moving sculptures are next, she says.

History, or trying to write about it, or even about the human condition is like standing in the middle of a flowing stream and saying the cold I feel speaks to everything about the stream. It doesn't. It doesn't even speak to the water that was once flowing when we weren't standing in the stream. And this is how she sees life, humans and their inability to really speak about the world.

Her art, she hopes will sooner or later become a better approximation. Let's see. 
[1] so far so post modernism, right?


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