Mar 11, 2009

Jon Salad

0 Comments

Large bunch of fresh baby spinach
Fresh basil leaves (a whole handful, twenty or so)
Spring onion, cut into small segments
Other veg, nuts, raisins, sprouts, as available
Half a lemon squeezed (don' be shy)
Olive oil, salt, pepper


Close friends refer to the food I make as "Jon Food". I don't usually follow a recipe. I know the basic sauces and preparations, I have a strong instinct for what will go together, and I do a lot of improvising. I prefer food that is fast to prepare (fifteen to twenty minutes), packs a lot of flavor, and is healthy. I'm not afraid to use a bottled or canned ingredient (e.g. olive tapenade, pesto etc) to speed things up, but I read the ingredients of prepared foods carefully. My rule is, avoid products whose individual ingredients I can't imagine stocking in my kitchen, which rules out anything with e.g. corn syrup or artificial colors.

With no recipes, its hard to explain to people how to repeat what I make. But several people have asked about my salads. My salads tend to combine two main things: first, my friend Kaethe showed me that nothing beats fresh lemon and olive oil as a dressing. I rarely use any other dressing. Its simple, affordable, fast, and tastes great. The second thing is, mix a sweet green with a bitter green to cut the flavor. Basil and baby spinach can do this, but you can also use any lettuce with dandelion, endive, arugula, ... its that combination of sweet, bitter, salty, and sour (lemon) that is so great.

Feb 22, 2009

St Ives (again)

0 Comments


St Ives, Cornwall, Jon Meyer

Spent another week of holiday in St Ives in Cornwall. It is fast becoming an annual habit. St Ives is great in the winter months because the weather is generally mild and the views are amazing. Best food was at Gurnards Head, just outside St Ives.

This time we took the train, stopping at the St Erth railway station. I don't mean to sound like a rail geek, but the old mechanical train signals at this station are a wonder. With everything switching over to automatic electronics, its funny to watch the semaphores clank up and down, driven by cables and pulleys, with some folks sitting in a signal hut all day long watching the trains go by and pulling levers. Must be an unusual job. I hope they preserve the signals.

I also picked up a book on the Porthmeor Studios, which are on the beachfront. Like the rail station, these hark back to earlier days, although they are in desperate need of renovation (see this news article.) Amazing story and really cool studios. Plan to try to visit some of the artists there next year... You can also see them in this YouTube Video (better muted).

Umbilical Brothers

0 Comments

Thanks Ruth and Bruno!

Feb 7, 2009

Dark Space

0 Comments

Dark Space, created by Kate Brehm and Alexis Macnab

Kate and Alexis's new show, Dark Space, is underway. Puppets galore. I went to see it last week, and was mesmerized.

BUY TICKETS (there are only 15 seats per show, so buy them fast) at Brown Paper Tickets.

The show runs until Feb 14th at the Chashama space at 217 e. 42nd st. You can check out what they are doing on their blog.

Air Port City

0 Comments


Air Port City (2008), Tomas Saraceno

[Published in Art Art Art issue 4]

“Utopia exists...” says Tomas Saraceno, in the notes for The Hayward’s Psyco Buildings. He adds that his Air Port City installation is like a cloud, a floating platform, “an attempt to equalise the (social) temperature and differences in pressure.”

Air Port City was installed as a large white translucent ball hovering on the rooftop of the Hayward. It was very photogenic. But how did Saraceno’s utopian dream operate in practice? Here is an excerpt from the instructions posted by the exhibition:

“Due to the limited capacity of the Tomas Saraceno, Observatory, Air-Port-City, 2008, those who meet entry criteria (age 16 years and over, fit and not suffering from vertigo) and win a lucky dip will be permitted on the upper level.”

Saraceno’s first order of the day is to divide the audience into two classes - upper and lower. A lucky few get to ascend the stairs and enter the upper platform. The lower class must be content to sit in a humid enclosed pressurized container below, looking up at those who reached the upper level. The floor of this lower chamber is a giant mirror, a panoptican effect which ensures the lower occupants are constantly reminded of those above.

The instructions continue:

“During and just after wet weather the lucky dip will be suspended and no one will be allowed on the upper level until the membrane is fully dry. We are unable to guarantee participation for everyone. It may be necessary, for the benefit of our customers during inclement weather to close the exhibit.”

When two visitors ascended the staircase to float on the cloud above (religious metaphor ends here), after queuing for forty minutes, they were given more instructions orally (transcribed from memory):

“Right, next two customers please. Two at a time. Step up. OK. Its like an airport security procedure here. Please take off all watches, sharp objects, take off diamond rings, empty your pockets, place all items in the bag. Madam, I need you to take off your belt. And your shoes. Just the clothes is what we want. Good. Now, step here, hold this with your right hand, hold that with your left, twist,step down. Got it? ... Stay away from the edges... No standing up... Don’t roll towards the edges,stay in the center... OK, three minutes is up, face the exit, hold the two hand rails. Wait for the air to lift you up. Now, place your knees there. OK, got it. Thanks for coming, enjoy the rest of the exhibition.”

Utopia, apparently, has more health and safety regulations than a shopping mall. The floating platform is constructed from a thin plastic, easily punctured and extensively patched, requiring numerous safety rules. So where the lower class had to be content with the passivity of spectatorship, the lucky uppers entered a strictly controlled regime.

I admit, I shortened Tomas Saraceno’s quote in the first paragraph. What he actually said was “Utopia exists until it is created”. He demostrates this point here. Tomas Saraceno’s democratic goals for his relational art achieve precisely the opposite. What he has orchestrated is a two class society complete with security guards, rules and regulations, a highly structured notion of entertainment (no jumping!). Had he addressed this in his statement, for example by discussing the Disneyfication of art and the expectations of spectatorship, I might have left his floating city feeling more uplifted. As it was, I found myself thinking about the free bouncy castles offered in some parks where all may enter, in large groups, to bounce and jostle, uninhibited and blissfully unaware of any claims to utopia.

Barnes and Noble

0 Comments

Conversations with twenty seven men and one woman.

Feb 6, 2009

Inflatable Bag Monsters

0 Comments

by Joshua Allen Harris

Thanks Steve!

Feb 2, 2009

New homepage

0 Comments
I've put the Farm Yard Construction Kit project up on my homepage. Still working on it, but you can see it now. link.

Jan 24, 2009

The theory tickle

1 Comments

Critical theory used to not be my thing. When I first arrived at art school in 2003, I had zero exposure to critical theory. My background is in science, and scientists on the whole don't read Derrida. Someone once told me that a German philosopher referred to the French school as Derridada and Lecancan. I laughed heartily - an apt description!

I recently read Postmodernism Disrobed, a review by Richard Dawkins of Intellectual Impostures by Sokal and Bricmont, and realized I may have changed camps. I found myself disagreeing with Dawkins.

Dawkins aims to debunk postmodernism, and the thing he latches onto is communication style. Dawkins writes:

Suppose you are an intellectual imposter with nothing to say, but with strong ambitions to succeed in academic life, collect a coterie of reverent disciples and have students around the world anoint your pages with respectful yellow highlighter. What kind of literary style would you cultivate? Not a lucid one, surely, for clarify would expose your lack of content. The chances are that you would produce something like the following:

"We can clearly see that there is no bi-univocal correspondence between linear signifying links or archi-writing, depending on the author, and this multireferential, multi-dimensional machanic catalysis. The symmetry of scale, the transversality, the pathic non-discursive character of their expansion: all these dimensions remove us from the logic of the excluded middle and reinforce us in our dismissal of the ontological binarism we criticised previously." (Felix Guattari)

Later he writes:

No doubt there exist thoughts so profound that most of us will not understand the language in which they are expressed. And no doubt there is also language designed to be unintelligible in order to conceal an absence of honest thought. But how are we to tell the difference? What if it really takes an expert eye to detect whether the emperor has clothes.

The core of Dawkin's critique is that theory writers use overly-complex language to express their ideas, and misuse scientific terms in ways that make no sense in science. Dawkins argues that critical theory texts should adopt the same metrics of logic, comprehensibility and lucidity as science.

Given that Dawkins wishes to be an advocate for logic and reason, his own heavy reliance on rhetoric does not set a good example. He is surprisingly quick to adopt ad-hominem attacks and juicy language, using words and phrases like the following to try to characterize his subject:

  • ridiculous
  • fashionable
  • daffy absurdity
  • intellectual imposters with nothing to say
  • vacuous rhetoric of mountebanks and charlatans
  • po-faced, solemn and pretentious
  • their writings are so stupefyingly boring
  • a useful tool for bamboozling readers
  • the author of this stuff is a fake

When I first started reading critical theory, I had many of the same kinds of irritations and kneejerk responses as Dawkins. "This stuff is just nonsense!" I told my friends.

I also knew that many in the art world respect writers like Deleuze. Why is this? As a scientist I decided to approach the question empirically. I began a theory reading group with a group of friends. For a year we read a paper a week, meeting every other week to discuss. We called the group Remediality, because it sounded like "remedial," as in remedial studies. The title also contained "media", which suited our focus on media theory. Mostly, though, we made the word up, which goes with the territory.

I discovered that members of the group had very diverse responses to the same article. Some, like me, were theory skeptics. We were quick to point out any passage we thought made no sense. Others were theory agnostic, inquisitive without being dismissive. And a few were theory fans. Kate is in the latter camp. She has a lot of experience reading theory. Once when I said "this makes no sense" Kate responded "yes, but it does give me that sensation in the pit of my stomach." She explained that for her reading theory was not simply about understanding what is said. When she reads theory she gets a buzz, a sense of meaning at the periphery of what can be expressed in language. Kate commented that, after reading a good theory article, a few days later an idea would occur to her in her work, a thought she knew linked back to the theory article. For her, theory helped her think.

I should mention Kate is an extremely rational person, not easily given over to superstitious and religious feelings. So how do we analyze that sensation, her 'theory tickle' as I called it. I am sure Dawkins would dismiss it out of hand as a religious moment. But I'm not so certain. Many scientists will also admit to having had a hunch, a sense that they knew something but didn't understand how, a realization that they grasped an idea at the very edge of their comprehension, and couldn't yet put it in words. These are very human experiences. Kant, perhaps the epitome of a rational thinker, grappled with this issue too. He realized his explanation of the mind was incomplete, some things didn't fit, there had to be an exception - a special case for a human experience at the fringe of reason and feeling, where the mind thrashes against itself. He called it the Sublime.

If we accept, as Kant did, that some experiences are beyond reason, we must also accept that no amount of rational thought can explain those things. Logic will never sufficiently explain human experience. It is here that Dawkins' rational "one model fits all" approach breaks down. When your field of study involves trying to build a mathematical model of the universe, Kantian reason is appropriate. But when your field of study is human experience, there will be moments when the rationalist must admit defeat, put down the pen, and experience a moment of nonsense.

Jan 23, 2009

Unleap

0 Comments

I was originally planning to title this post "A boring image". Not because the image above is of a mundane street scene, but because the kind of digital alteration it represents has become so commonplace it is a cliche.

Instead, I thought I'd tell a story about leaps.

At a coffee counter the other day, the young professional sitting next to me informed me sagely that he no longer trusts media. "It's all lies," he said. "All of it?" I asked. "Well, all except the National Geographic." I laughed, and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to convince him of how the yellow-bordered-one exoticizes semi-naked tribespeople. The conversation drifted to photography and photoshopping.

What has this got to do with leaps? Well, I told my coffee-friend a story about an exhibition I saw a few years back of large scale color photographs. Each photograph showed the artist leaping from an improbably high place - a treetop, a window, and so on. "Really good photoshopping," I said at the time to a bystander, using that knowing tone Keanu used in the Matrix when he said "Really good noodles." We nodded at each other.

But when many years earlier I came across Yves Klein's famous photograph, I was captivated by it. I stared at it for several minutes. Given the date (1960) and the black-and-white newspaper quality of it, I assumed it was everything it looked to be. I puzzled over what I was seeing.

Naturally, I had it all turned around. The artist of the recent color photographs turned out to be an extreme sports fan. He actually liked leaping off from high places, and had injuries to prove it. (SPOILER AHEAD) Yves Klein's much earlier photographs were, of course, a clever fake, made with a double exposure and a rather large mattress.

The way we leap has changed in the last forty years. When we see images of the unbelievable, we used to leap to an assumption of reality. Now we leap to an assumption of unreality.

I was just beginning to warm to this topic when a semi-naked tribesgirl came in and ordered two coconuts.