From the Diary

My father died last week. First he was sick. Something with his liver. We all went to Philadelphia, where the hospital was. When it started to look like he would survive for a while, we came home. Then he died. As far as I know, no one went back. Certainly there was no funeral. Don’t know what they did with the body.


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From the Diary

Sitting on a bench in Riverside Park, watching some people struggle with a child. Fall. A crow flies down and lands in the leaves near my bench. He’s looking at me, not like a bird but straight on. Then he speaks. I’m so blown away I don’t hear what he says. When I ask, he kind of hops around so his back is to me, shrugs and flies off.


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From the Diary

S back from the city. Strange guy sleeping in the back of the truck. R, she says. The last of the Pump Handle Gang. From the song. Pump don’t work ‘cause the vandals took the handle. Freaks fiddling with the power grid. Either the thing got out of hand, or that’s how they planned it, but the lights are still out.


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At the Lake

Working Pictures

Carl Weese, Waterville, Connecticut, 2007

I don't know much about Carl Weese beyond that he's a photographer fortunate enough to spend a lot of time driving around taking pictures, mostly in New England. And that he has a blog called Working Pictures that I like to look at sometimes.

It's not that I think the pictures there are so great or anything. Weese probably doesn't either; he calls them working pictures, after all. But he has a gentle eye, and the pictures are consistently nice, in the very best sense of that word. Better still, they're almost entirely without pretense. There's a lot to be said for that.

From the Diary

Gasoline tanker tips over on an approach to the bridge. Gas catches fire. Entire thing collapses. Driver hails a cab to the hospital. That’s how it’s reported, anyway.


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At the Lake

The Candidate Shrugs

There was an interesting column by Mark Morford in the San Francisco Chronicle the other day about the need to keep speaking out even if you're gagging in disgust over all the outrageous things being perpetrated in our names. Like we owe it to ourselves, or to the real America, or something. I don't know.

I can't honestly say I've ever been proud to be an American. But the state of play now is such that pride doesn't enter into it. I'm not only ashamed to be American, I'm embarrassed to be human. And almost speechless at the abject fecklessness of those on whom we thought we could count to turn things around, if only a little.

But I'm sick of talking about it anyway. The way I see it, we're going to have the world we deserve. As always. And by the time the shit really hits the fan, I'll be out of here.

Jeff Wall (at SFMOMA)

Jeff Wall, Picture for Women, 1979

Most of us see art mainly in reproduction; it's a blessing and a curse. But if you're used to seeing Jeff Wall that way, his current retrospective - now at SFMOMA - will hold some surprises for you. Not the least of which may be the feeling of estrangement that pervades it.

The truth is that it's almost impossible to disassociate Wall's lightboxes from the advertising displays that were their source. The consequence is a disorienting sense of having been transported from the gallery to that cathedral of 21st century anomie - the airport.

On the other hand, the artificiality of the display format perfectly complements the contrived nature of the photographs. I've criticized Wall's contrivance before - here, for example - but I take it all back. In fact, I now think it's essential to the ultimate success of the work that we know it was staged.

As is the flatness of Wall's subject matter. Lots of subjects would be ludicrous in this format - the Hokusai, for example - but Wall's pedestrians and disco kids do just fine. If these photographs weren't staged, you might wonder why he took them. The fact that he made them up simply obviates that question. Like reality tv, you know they were meant to be cheesy.

All in all, this show works. Refracted through our knowledge that each of these scenes is the premeditated creation of the artist, the trivial subjects and grandiose displays set up an emotional reverberation that is simultaneously disturbing and thrilling.

At SFMOMA until January 27.

From the Diary

Three nights ago there was a thunderstorm. Couldn’t actually see the city lights with all the atmosphere, but there was still a glow on the undersides of the clouds. About twenty minutes into the storm it goes dark. We think nothing of it. The next night was clear, but we still couldn’t see the lights. Nor the next. S set out this morning in the truck. We need to know what happened.


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From the Diary

R was over earlier. Guy comes into his office the other day, says there’s something wrong here. Guy runs the Columbia structural integrity software on the university mainframes up in Connecticut. Been checking the numbers on that project downtown. The world’s ugliest buildings. Says the results are okay, but some of them shouldn’t be. We knew this day would come. Then, strangely, we don’t see the guy again.


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From the Diary

It’s been awhile. In transit since the accident. The presumed accident. The desert is beautiful. City lights far, far away, glowing just below the horizon.


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At the Lake

Nicholas Nixon

Nicholas Nixon, The Brown Sisters, 1975


Nicholas Nixon, The Brown Sisters, 2005

I know, I know. I'm superficial. But I just can't look at these pictures. They fill me with dread.

(If you must, you can see the rest at Zabriskie.)

From the Dairy

From the Diary

Standing in front of Gem Spa enjoying an egg cream when a riot breaks out. Urchins roll marbles under mounted cops. Cops go berserk. Dismount, chase urchins, catch one. Crowd gathers, the usual junkies and malcontents. Cops call for reinforcements, who arrive and start bashing crowd. Too bad you don’t have a back door, I say to the Gem Spa guy. Oh but we do, sir, allow me to direct you. At least I think that’s what he said.


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From the Diary

Bridge over the Mississippi went down last night. One of those retrofits from 1977. The third I know of. Like R said. Small errors, amplified by time.


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From the Diary

The beach yesterday. East Hampton Main. Mist everywhere. You couldn’t really see more than a few yards, although, overhead, you could tell it was sunny. Then, late in the afternoon, it started to clear. And there, far down the beach, were parapets. With flags on top. Pennants. Like a carnival. Like a medieval castle. Rich men’s houses. Fading in and out as the mist swirled.


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Lisa Gerrard

Rob Grierson

How strange is Lisa Gerrard? Very strange. But very, very good.

Gerrard is one-half the Australian art-goth duo Dead Can Dance. Her most recent solo album, Silver Tree, is a dark tone poem, an opera in languages almost entirely of her own invention. And a barrel of laughs compared to The Mirror Pool, its predecessor.

If you're in the mood for something different, you could do way worse.

From the Diary

Went to that concert with L. Had to hitch all the way up the Thruway. It was a bust. Rained for three days. All we had was this plastic drop cloth we bought in a hardware store before we left. I hate mud. We met some people though. Let us sit in their tent for a while, out of the rain. Had some interesting ideas about explosives.


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From the Diary

G’s in the shower again. What a strange cat. Sits there and watches the eddies. Until he realizes his tail is wet. Leaps out then, thrashing it around. Next morning, there he is again. I know he expects to find a fish in there someday.


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