Parting Looks –15 by HJN

Works by Harold J. Nichols, 1924-2013. (c) 2019 JMN

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Furiouser Than Thou

burned church

St. Mary Baptist Church in Port Barre, La., was destroyed in a fire. Credit William Widmer for The New York Times.

Margaret Renkl writes from Tennessee. Her anguish over what she calls the racist and misogynistic travesty that is endemic and persisting in southern society is palpable in the column cited here.

Renkl cites recent instances of atrocities committed by southern citizens and legislatures, but also defends her culture from the uninformed abuse that can lash back unfairly from “outsiders.” Unsurprisingly, her example comes from Twitter bilge:

“It’s really easy to #BoycottAlabama because who the [expletive] would ever want to go to that redneck [expletive] on purpose?”

And she usefully cites numerous instances of noble, constructive initiatives that bloom throughout the region. Her balancing is clear-sighted and eloquent:

It’s not that I don’t understand the anger [of non-southerners]. The fury of a blue-state outsider can’t possibly touch the fury of someone like me — someone who lives in one of these states, someone who is actually subject to these dangerous laws.

Renkl’s emphasis on “touch” connotes extremity of feeling. I share it. I receive daily at least one bulletin concerning reactionary measures enacted by state government that are cynically corrosive to the general good and profoundly regressive.

It’s saddening that one must ponder one’s own fury in relation to that of outsiders… or be furious at all. I struggle to believe with Ms. Renkl “that what you see coming out of statehouses and frat houses down here isn’t… the only true South.”

(Margaret Renkl, “Shame and Salvation in the American South,” NYTimes, 5-20-19)

(c) 2019 JMN

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Guide by the Perplexed: NODS & Buck-Effing

gris guitar

Juan Gris, “Guitare sur une table,” from 1916, at Helly Nahmad. Credit via Helly Nahmad Gallery.

I’m not a rocker or blues man on a Gibson. I can make a long-fingered foray into the twelfth-fret region, but it’s not fruitful. When I mention “buck-effing” around the fretboard, therefore, only one B-C and E-F pair obtains per string. That’s final.

The premise of buck-effing is if you can swoop to the B and E on each string, naturally occurring diatonic semitones (NODS) get you to the following note virtually in your sleep. It’s the very next buck-effing fret every time.

Here’s a string-by-string tick-off of the pairs:

(1-0E/1-1F) (1-7B/1-8C)
(2-0B/2-1F) (2-5E/2-6F)
(3-4B/3-5C) (3-9E/3-10F)
(4-2E/4-3F) (4-9B/4-10C)
(5-2B/5-3C) (5-7E/5-8F)
(6-0E/6-1F) (6-7B/6-8C)

You’re four-sevenths of the way to note nirvana after several months of intense work on this shortcut. That leaves just A-D-G, which I tag with ADAGE for easy recall.

There you have it. In the quest to subvert musicology we’ve added NODS to OOF and OOP. It’s time to fabricate a cockamamie expedient for ADAGE — coming next.

(c) 2019 JMN

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“Fervent Repetition”

josh smith

An installation view of Josh Smith’s exhibition “Emo Jungle” at David Zwirner. His colorful Reaper paintings are the best in the show, our critic says. Credit via David Zwirner.

… Josh Smith… degrades and celebrates his medium through the relentless yet fervent repetition of a selected motif. [He] tends to work fast and a trifle sloppily, until a certain image becomes second nature, a template. This automatism opens the door to incessant variations in brushwork, background and, above all, color… The visual deluge of this terrific if vexatious show meditates on painting as object, performance, psychic communication, pleasure and, yes, salable product.
ROBERTA SMITH

(“New York Art Galleries: What To See Right Now,” NYTimes, 5-16-19)

(c) 2019 JMN

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No Decapitated Nudes, Please

c finley artist

The artist C. Finley, organizer of the Every Woman Biennial, in front of works by Deming Harriman, Florencia Escudero, Cynthia Alvarez, Amy Vensel and Valincy-Jean Patelli that are part of the exhibition. Credit Andrea Mohin/The New York Times.

Like so many good ideas, the Every Woman Biennial was born of a joke. Now it’s in its third edition, displaying the work of over 600 female and nonbinary artists, and expanding to Los Angeles.

C. Finley, the exhibit organizer, is “a painter who splits her time between New York and Rome.”

In curating, she had only two rules: no hate, and no headless women. “I don’t want a nude body with her head cut off in the show,” she said.

(Melena Ryzik, “An Art Show for Hundreds of Women. And That’s Just the Artists,” NYTimes, 5-16-19)

(c) 2019 JMN

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Lubed Market Takes Epic Sums

kaws spongebob

“The Walk Home,” a 2012 painting featuring the cartoon character SpongeBob SquarePants by KAWS, sold Thursday for $6 million at Phillips. Credit via Phillips.

KAWS is “former graffiti tagger” Brian Donnelly.

“The market is wacky…,” said Douglas Walla, a private dealer based in New York, commenting on the current vogue for KAWS. “The whole thing is lubricated by social media. Artists have been able to become successful without having to engage with the critical arena.”

kaws smurf

KAWS, Kurf (Hot Dog) sold for $2.7 million at Sotheby’s. Credit via Sotheby’s.

(Scott Reyburn, “Contemporary Art Evening Sales Bring $981 Million, Led by Koons and KAWS,” NYTimes, 5-17-19)

(c) 2019 JMN

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“Lay, Lady, Lay.”

Selfie with dead bird

Selfie with dead bird.

“Lay across my big brass bed.”

The Bob Dylan song encapsulates the entrenched American muddle around “lie” and “lay.” The victory of “lay” is all but complete.

It’s obvious the song invites the lady to sexual congress, not to a nap. The third iteration drives home the corrupt overlay of “lie” with “lay.”

I lay this particular muddle at the door of an old bedtime prayer: “Now I lay me down to sleep.” The prayer is phrased correctly, but convincing someone that it’s technically not kosher to say “lay down to sleep,” omitting the reflexive pronoun, is as hard as enlightening a climate change denier on a cold day.

So it goes. The living language has a mind of its own. Popular solecism trumps stodgy  correctitude. When certain of us lie down for our last sleep, this now-picayune rule will lay down with us.

Selfie with spilt rum

Selfie with spilt rum.

(c) 2019 JMN

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The Poor Rich

koons rabbit

Jeff Koons’s “Rabbit” is the newest record-breaker in the art world. Credit John Lamparski/Getty Images.

… The affluent but not super-wealthy collectors — the bankers at Goldman Sachs but not the partners… are put off by the sky-high prices at top galleries and auction houses. When they see a Hockney painting sell for $90 million, they assume the $50,000 work they can afford is not worth buying, especially if they can’t flip it for a quick profit at auction.

A market where extremely rich people pay too much for mediocre art and shut out the not-quite-as rich may not be the biggest issue in a wildly polarized economy. But art is the record of culture we leave for future generations, and it too is being warped by our unequal economy.

(Allison Schrager, “Even the Rich Aren’t Rich Enough for Jeff Koons,” NYTimes, 5-16-19)

(c) 2019 JMN

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Quote This?

music staff

JMN. The start of a painting of the musical modes — Ionic, Phrygian, etc. Painted the foreground first. Poor planning.

A kind observer from somewhere remarked that I had a fair amount of original content on my blog, and asked if I coped with plagiarism or copyright violation, saying he or she was seeing his or her own content cropping up elsewhere on the internet. I paraphrase the comment, because I now can’t locate it. It ghosted partially on my screen until I unlocked, but does not show up on WordPress, which is where I assumed it had originated. I pierce the bloggery veil now for a disquieting moment to address this unexpected but interesting question.

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I suppose plagiarism is similar. The only reason someone might steal my thunder, it seems to me, is because I’ve said something either so useful or so unforgettable — or so potentially lucrative? — that he, she, or “it” corporately, wishes to be remembered for it in my stead. Gosh, thank you, would be my first thought, but I’m hard pressed to imagine any such scenario being the case — self-deprecation is one of my sincerest poses.

I experience EthicalDative mostly as an echo of my inner voice woolgathering in one way or another, ignored by the many, noticed by the few. Little or nothing I post can be more memorable or creative than the vast universe of good content blogged elsewhere.

I’m unaware of my effusions being appropriated with or without attribution. How does one know? In the age of Kardashian many people (and perhaps I’m included) cut and paste much of their very lives to and from the Internet. How do they even know when they’re speaking in their own voice and not someone else’s, or snapping their own face in the selfie and not one bestowed by a YouTube makeup guru?

I restarted this WordPress blog from three primitive antecedents on other platforms. In doing so I read an article that recommended copyrighting each post as a matter of course. I took it to heart and have mechanically followed that practice, though it feels pretentious most of the time. But the article also mentioned the necessity to periodically register your content with the appropriate agency for a small fee, which I have not done.

Failing said registration, and even with it, my understanding is that your avenues of recourse, should you get stepped on copyright-wise, are few and puny for the most part — the equivalent of saying “Please stop doing that!” — unless you have a walloping war-chest of ready money to burn on lawyers, and an endless supply of life to fritter away in lawsuits. I’ve neither. My only defense from theft is ethics, which is to say, I’m naked to the wind.

(c) 2019 JMN

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Guide by the Perplexed — Crossed Eyes, Dotted Tees

gris guitar

Juan Gris, “Guitare sur une table,” from 1916, at Helly Nahmad. Credit via Helly Nahmad Gallery.

Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the cloud of unknowing, I shall fear no malaise, for thy clef and thy stave, they comfort me.

I pause from the demented abstraction of this serialized soliloquy, this goofy guide, to reflect that what it is, actually, is praying — a beseeching of the Inner Power enfolded in the gray matter to grant me long musical life during which to unfuddle prior musical life.

It’s a form of prostration unseemly in better calibrated souls. It grovels for enlightenment in a manner similar to the ostentatious self-abasement of flagellating zealots in olden times.

It’s a quest for absolution from the sin of blind adherence to finger-fucking the fretboard in lieu of understanding the fretboard and melding with it in brain-sourced rites of hard discipline.

It’s an act of penance over having fallen for pusillanimous, bankrupt, complacent teachers who catered to delusions of chumps like me: “Sweet Home Alabama” was at our fingertips if we fingered just so, they purred.

It’s a striving to pay the same attention to fretboard position that we pay to not falling over when we walk — little or none. O Inner Power, let me swoop irreflexively, unerringly, to the note at 3-10F or 5-5D. Guide my finger.

It’s hapless effrontery, whether relieved or not with silliness like this. The truth is that, to the passerby, these mantric soundings towards a contrived musicology are as dry as dust, like Judges or the Book of Numbers.

To be sure, I don’t know what the praying does for me, but it does something. It steadies me. In the pregnant nocturnal silences I’m like, Musician, guide thyself, or whatever.

And there you have it. It’s time to see how naturally occurring diatonic semitones (NODS) can expand indwelling fretboard awareness — coming next.

(c) 2019 JMN

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