Thursday, January 17, 2008

Chris Marker's La Jetée (1962), my favorite artwork of all time. Name the protagonists!

"On the tenth day, images begin to ooze, like confessions.

A peacetime morning. A peacetime bedroom, a real bedroom. Real children. Real birds. Real cats. Real graves.

On the sixteenth day he is on the jetty at Orly. Empty.

Sometimes he recaptures a day of happiness, though different.

A face of happiness, though different.


A girl who could be the one he seeks. He passes her on the jetty. She smiles at him from an automobile. Other images appear, merge, in that museum, which is perhaps that of his memory."


Tom Otterness -- a sculptor I'm apparently not supposed to like, but really do. Seen in the bowels of the NYC subway system in early summer 2003 and recalled ever since with pleasure and surprise. Mr. Otterness knows Monopoly, Carl Barks, and Karl Marx, by the look of his puzzled little characters. (Somewhere I have a photograph of the Incredible Talking Cats among Otterness' tiny cartoon figures, amused Manhattan commuters ambling by). Recalled today via an email exchange with Jeffrey Boone, who is busily converting a previously not-so-interesting commercial gallery into an ambitious home for several of my closest friends.

Kevin Madill

CSA Space
#5 - 2414 Main Street
Vancouver, British Columbia
Canada. V5T 3E2

18 January – 17 February 2008

Opening Friday 18 January 30, 6-9pm

Curated by Christopher Brayshaw

He Loved Him Madly, 1974. Dave Liebman's alto, Miles floating somewhere above, cold wind drifting over sheet metal--

"[Producer Teo Macero] called Miles to note that it seemed like a whole woodwind section and big band could be mysteriously heard, as if Duke was somehow looking down on the session. . . ."
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Q: How come you don't post as frequently as you used to?

A: Winter depression (mediated by Vitamins B, C and D, but still unmistakably present); BUSI 121, Foundations of Real Estate Mathematics (15-20 hours a week); and, just for giggles, the as-yet undiagnosed medical incident (mini-stroke or nerve damage, jury still out) that essentially paralyzed my typing/writing hand from Sunday through yesterday afternoon. Seriously: my handwriting, never your classic up-and-down cursive, degenerated into full-on Cy Twombly-meets-Morse-code scrawl. Dashes 'n curlicues!

And, while I'm in a bitter, ungenerous mood:

An Open Letter to Vancouver's Visual Artists, Especially Those Given to Repeatedly Visiting Me At Work

Hi, guys 'n gals. CJB here, possibly the only Canadian critic who doesn't have an office door that locks. If you're contemplating dropping by the bookstore simply to update me on your career, or conspicuous lack thereof, please think again. And if you're planning to ask me to write an (inevitably unpaid) review of your exhibition of ballpoint-pen drawings of birds; dumb-ass "process-based performance"; or staged photographs of dolls and Matchbox toys, beware: I just might.

The Lost Luggage Depot, 2001: the only good photo-documentation I've found of this strange public monument. Mr. Floyd Burroughs calls dibs on the washcloth at left, originally taken from his Alabama farmhouse by some seedy FSA type in 1935 or '36.
Monday, January 14, 2008

You, you walk up thin blue lines possible with reality
And I, I see through small red eyes,

Glowing still at your uncertainty

Out of darkness you will come around,
I know you will

I know you will

And I'll find you
And I'll find you there

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Readers, 2007-8. Panel 4 of 6.


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