who?
ninth october | one am
"That object's longer than it is wide, it's a symbol of male dominance!"
Tom Wolfe has, IMO, the best dis of Houston (paraphrased from The Right Stuff): "An effluvial swamp with a soggy lump of concrete in the middle which passes for a downtown." I was there to visit the museum of fine arts, which is featuring a prime sample of MOMA NY's travelling collection. It was a bit like paying $12.50 to walk through a textbook: if you have even a passing interest in modern art, or just novelty placemats, then you've already seen nearly every work featured. They were all there: the famous Picassos, Cezannes, Pollacks, etc. I kept waiting for whatever mystical energy it is that supposedly resides in paint to jump out at me and transform my being in a way that reproductions can't, though I'll admit to feeling a sudden lump of joy at coming across a beloved Max Ernst that wasn't advertized in the catalog. De Chirico is always fun too: he's a comic or postcard artist blown up to gallery size (that's a compliment). By far the best part was discovering, tucked away in a far corner of the basement, Gerhard Richter's Baader-Meinhof paintings. I remember reading about them a few years ago (since discovering Daydream Nation as a wee teen his is a name that always jumps out at me); they were every bit as (lazy hack it's-past-midnight-and-I-drove-7.5-hours-today words) haunting and enigmatic as I'd imagined; I spent a long time following their blurred lines around the room, then bought Robert Storr's book in the gift shop.
MARFA: The contrast between Burning Man and the Chinati Foundation in Marfa, TX is a good illustration as to why the Official Art World holds little interest for anyone outside of its politics and $$$ status and power games. Judd picked the remote location because he wanted to reintroduce the experience of pilgrimmage into contemporary art: Marfa is certainly an effort to get to, but once you're there the whole thing deflates. Presumably because the works on display are worth (you guessed it) $$$ the only way to see them is by guided tour. Nothing is lamer, more school-like and dismissive of the freedom feeling that's supposed to come from pilgrimmaging, than a guided tour. The people I toured with - three couples in their 30s and 40s, from Austin, Houston, and London - were intelligent and interesting (and interested), but adamantly refused to shut up, even in the glowing Flavin fluorescent tubed halls, where silent meditation would've been especially appreciated. The Flavin particularly suffered from the rushed group presentation. The other exhibits were interesting, though none grabbed the attention of someone as skeptical of the intrinsic worth of non-reproducible art as I am. Maybe that's unfair; it was hot and the EVIL BUGS were HUGE; I'd be interested to hear someone who's knowledgable about Judd et al talk about them. Anyway, I prefer cheap anonymous art, especially when it comes with drugs, music, nekkidness, and true communal feeling.
Am in New Orleans after by far the worst day of driving yet: I already miss the empty scenery-spoiled southwestern roads SO MUCH. Meism would say hi but she's asleep on the couch; the cat sends her regards.