ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME
Meadham Kirchhoff girl by Susie Bubble
Love it, love everything about it. I think I’ma have to get into this seapunk thing because it’s HILARIOUS and complete bullshit, ie two of my favourite things.
Those who knew me in college would remember my wall of cloud photos. I still collect them (from others people’s image blogs :/) - allow me to present a nice selection.
For those of you I didn’t manage to earbash the first time, I briefly wrote for a/n (now-defunct) online art magazine called art(e)fact, run by my buddy the illustrious Dr Andrew Yip (shameless plug - www.andrewyip.org). Sadly we had to shut it down after much squabbling at meetings, because essentially it was written and produced by three very harried PhD students (mainly Andrew), but we were competing with publications where the contributors were paid for their time. It was however a lot of fun while it lasted, and led to my first, but hopefully not last, visit to Rosemount Australian Fashion Week (I sat next to this crazy model and realised, in a circuitous fashion, that she was bitching about a dear friend of mine who had inadvertently slept with Crazy Model’s bf while she was in like Milan or some shit. Once they accidentally killed the electricity at Club 77 - in fact that whole block of William St - by drunkenly falling into the fusebox. Trufax). I thank Andrew immensely for the opportunities he gave me through art(e)fact, and his continued friendship and support.
Lately I’ve been half-arsedly approaching a sort of freelance writing bizo (shameless plug The Second - http://thegloss.com/fashion/gallery-historical-fashion-trends-dying-for-a-comeback/), so I had a look through my old art(e)fact pieces and have decided to toot my own horn here (well, it’s a blog innit, one of the most inherently self-absorbed forms of expression in existence. My readers are interested in me! They give a crap about my half-baked ramblings!!) I’ve decided to reproduce my favourite piece here - a feature I wrote on two of my favorite artists, Tracey Emin and Damien Hirst. When this first appeared in art(e)fact, it was actually illustrated with my hilariously rushed watercolour representations of Hirst’s famous shark and skull, as Andrew and I decided we could in no way afford the ludicrously expensive press shots his agents were peddling (Hirst, don’t you have enough money yet, you crazy asshole??). However, now that this is appearing on my personal site rather than on an actual business-y type real site, I can illustrate it with real photos, and just provide you with the relevant image credits (bless you, internets, bless you). Excuse me while I crawl up my own ass here for a moment, but I’m actually damned proud of this article. I emailed my parents a link to this when it was on the art(e)fact site, and Mum was like, “I never did like that bed thing. That’s not art, that’s just a big mess.” Le sigh.
So, in lieu of actually writing something new here, please join me for a quick* fap** over the yBAs.
PS, please note that originally I had intended for this article to be footnoted, but stupid tumblr can’t cope with that idea (who would have thought that this hipster site wouldn’t be compatible with the apparatus of academia), so in the interests of encouraging scholarly writing on the internets(!), I have awkwardly shoehorned the relevant information into the text in brackets.
* Not actually quick
** Definitely a fap though
Damien Hirst, For The Love of God, 2007. (http://boingboing.net/2007/06/02/damien_hirsts_diamon.html)(my article is better)(take that, anonymous internet writers!)
Or possibly, bugger me dumplings. Here’s another selection of images that give me the willies, in a good way. (Tee hee, WILLIES!!!)(oh god).
So I’m slogging through a chapter on the Bible right now. It’s a bit jarring to have spent eight years working/reading/writing in art history and honing my skills that-a-wise, and then suddenly having to write a commentary on the way John the Baptist is used in the Gospels. So far this is roughly the level of academic criticism I can muster:
I miss pictures! What the fuck am I doing?? It’s been a long, hard day, and only Kraft dinner can calm my nerves. So here are some black and white pictures I’ve had floating around - no words - I’ve had enough words - but with some attention paid to the order in which I’m showing them to you.
Or, the post about SEXYTIME!!!!!!!!
GET NUDE!!!! Oh wait… they already are.
Let’s see if I can gross everyone out.
Let’s see if I can actually work any legitimate ARHT into this.
Let’s talk about sex, baby!*
*Be prepared for the full arsenal** of hilarious nicknames, puns, misnomers, euphemisms, double entendres and single entendres that I can muster.
** Tee hee, ARSEnal***!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*** Did anybody really NOT get that?
Editorial note: A friend pointed out that my last post, which was quite some time ago, was fucken miserable. So I’m going to try to simultaneously raise the tone, and lower it.
I feel I should point out that as a Renaissance crackpot, I very much identify with the fifteenth-century understanding of the cosmos and the human body. Certainly I am melancholic in humour. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humours) (and if you couldn’t figure it out for yourself, clearly I’m this one: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melancholy) Sometimes, however, there’s a reason for this. Now let’s put on some Radiohead, look at some dismal pictures, and really sombre up the place a bit:
(You’ll recognise some images from the awe-inspiring Bill Henson. Take a look at http://www.roslynoxley9.com.au/artists/18/Bill_Henson/)
So I’m sick of explaining the concept of the picturesque, or Romantic, landscape tradition, to my students. I’ma just refer them here from now on. What I’m interested in primarily, is how modern landscape photography has inherited some of the tools used by the original picturesque landscape painters - again, a visual type so deeply ingrained in the mind’s eye of Western artists and viewers that we don’t notice the process at work.
I would argue that this photographer (lord knows who) is working within the confines of the Romantic landscape tradition.