“ We finish where modernism began, at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, and perhaps the etiquette now demands that I should try and prognosticate about what is coming next. Well, I won’t because I don’t know. History teaches us one certain thing: that critics, when they fish out the crystal ball and start trying to guess what the future will be, are almost invariably wrong. I don’t think there’s ever been such a rush towards insignificance in the name of the historical future as we’ve seen in the last fifteen years. The famous radicalism of sixties and seventies art turns out to have been a kind of dumbshow, a charade of toughness, a way of avoiding feeling. And I don’t think we are ever again obliged to look at a plywood box, or a row of bricks on the floor, or a video tape of some twit from the University of Central Paranoia sticking pins in himself, and think: ‘This is the real thing. This is the necessary art of our time. This needs respect.’ Because it isn’t, and it doesn’t, and nobody cares. The fact is that anyone except a child can make such things, because children have the kind of direct, sensuous and complex relationship with the world around them that modernism, in its declining years, was trying to deny. That relationship is the lost paradise that art wants to give back to us, not as children but as adults. It’s also what the modern and the old have in common: Pollock with Turner, Matisse with Rubens, or Braque with Poussin. And the basic project of art is always to make the world whole and comprehensible, to restore it to us in all its glory and its occasional nastiness, not through argument but through feeling. And then to close the gap between you and everything that is not you, and in this way to pass from feeling to meaning. It is not something that committees can do. It’s not a task achieved by groups or by movements. It’s done by individuals, each person mediating in some way between a sense of history and an experience of the world. This task is literally endless and so, although we don’t have an avant-garde any more, we’re always going to have art. ”
Robert Hughes in ‘The Shock of the New’ (via inwhichidigress)
PRESSPAUSEPLAY
A well done documentary about the digital revolution and its opportunities. (by House of Radon)
Fantastic documentary. Encourage any appreciator of music or art to take the time to watch this great piece of film.
TBONE HOUSE
A great design by Coast Office Architecture. Notice the Porsche even has a nice glass garage. :) via archiscene
Beautiful live version of Futile Devices by Sufjan Stevens. The piano. My goodness…that piano. The prettiest two and a bit minutes of music I’ve heard in a long time.
This wasn’t drawn in a Moleskine, but I thought it was relevant! It’s a mock ad I had to do for class this semester.
My personal tumblr: syajojo.tumblr.com
Sunday Dalí: The Sense of Speed, 1931. Oil on canvas, 33 x 24 cm.
Part two of a three part series of posts focusing on Dalí’s surrealist landscapes. If you missed it, check out The Sign of Anguish from last week.
The Sense of Speed, to me, embodies the surrealist landscape that I associate with Dalí’s style. Like The Sign of Anguish The Sense of Speed features a single cyprus tree which, as I wrote before, relates to Dalí’s fascination with Böcklin’s Isle of the Dead. The clock embedded in the rock is a reference to de Chirico’s who also painted clocks in his most melancholic paintings.
The rock, which is in the shape of a shoe, has two shoes “carved” onto it. Dalí fetishized shoes as can be seen in Scatological Object Intended to Function Symbolically. Dalí once sent a letter to his friend Federico García Lorca with several shoes from different eras and cultures revealing the differences of utility and taste.1 This analogy can be read back on art, which was likely Dalí’s intention.
Dawn Ades, Dalí, (Venice: Rizzoli, 2004), 202. ↩