Transient art on the walls of Athens - Summer 2013 - part 1

1. The drawing style and technique of this artist distinguishes his/her work from traditional graffiti. Drawn on large pieces of paper and then plastered on the wall, his/her themes mainly include beauty, innocence and hope in the face of ugliness, adversity and racism. 

2. The following artist uses a mixed technique of stensil and graffiti to create a pastel-like soft texture. Great use of light and shadow and attention to detail. Theme: Wind and flying hats. 

3. An imaginary world of monsters and strange creatures lurk in every corner of Athens. Some of these would make H.P.Lovecraft proud while others seem to pop out of comic books.   

And here is finally the most ferocious monster of them all. A perfect specimen of the "politician" creature. It sports a long Pinocchio nose and carries a knife and fork. It has sharp teeth and greedy eyes. Beware of it's many promises... 

Transient Art on the Walls of Athens 2013: 1. Graffiti

Athens, Greece.
Summer 2013.
In the midst of a suffocating crisis, when everything is falling apart and people are sucked into swirling black holes of depression; when most of us are transformed into casual observers of the deadening of our own senses and emotions; when our backs are against the wall... We, in Athens, we turn and look at that wall. And we get a grip on ourselves, we regain our footing, we loose the numbness. For the walls of Athens are alive. They are vibrating. They carry the thoughts and feelings of young artists who refuse to cower in front of that giant crushing wave that hovers above. They just surf effortlessly through it, cutting it in half with an image, a message, a thought.

Take the graffiti artist who signs WD for example. Irony is the name of his game. All you need is Joke... You could take it literarily of course. But then you hear from the television..."- The government may be optimistic about a recovery just around the corner...". Shiny happy people and politicians kissing babies all over again... It's all a joke. The joke is on us. And in the end we live by this joke. Inspired by the Joker character in the Batman comic book, WD "defaces" his own work sending a message that ultimately aims to make you think and make your own mind about the state of things, about ways to turn the tables and react. Take laughter out of slaughter. What a Killing Joke indeed...

Listen to:

Killing Joke - Colony Collapse

John Ruskin (1819-1900) on what constitutes a book

"... A book is essentially not a talked thing, but a written thing; and written, not with the view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of people at once; if he could, he would—the volume is mere multiplication of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in India, if you could, you would; you write instead: that is mere conveyance of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to perpetuate it. The author has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and melodiously if he may; clearly, at all events. In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him;—this, the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. He would fain set it down forever; engrave it on rock, if he could; saying, “This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was as the vapor and is not; but this I saw and knew: this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.” That is his “writing”; it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a “Book.”..."

Extracted from "Sesame and Lilies. Lecture I.—Sesame: Of Kings’ Treasuries" by John Ruskin.

Listen to:
Belle and Sebastian - Wrapped Up In Books

Δύο ποιήματα και ένας ζωγράφος (Γιάννης Σταύρου)

"S/S TERRIFIED RETURN" του Τάσου Κόρφη (1929-1994)

Δεν ξέρω αν φταίνε τα μάτια μου ή αν έχουν μεταβληθεί τα λιμάνια,
αν κάθε τι καινούριο κρύβει κι ένα χωρισμό,
ή μόνο τα μάτια γερνούν, όλο και πιο πολύ ησυχάζουν,
ο χρόνος καταπιεστικά μας περιφράσσει στα χαρακώματα.

Κι όλο ζητάω να βρω καινούριες προβλήτες, καινούρια περίπτερα,
τόπους καινούριους, άλλους ορίζοντες, ξένα φανάρια,
γιατί φοβάμαι, τρομάζω την κάθε επιστροφή,
δεν αντέχω την επαιτεία σε χώρους που τόσο αγάπησα.

"Τα Εσπέρια" του Αλέξανδρου Μπάρα (1906-1990)

Βράδυ.
Ελαιώδη τα νερά του προλιμένος,
βαριά, σαν υδραργυρικά, με κάτι
κυανά σαξωνικά, με κάτι ιώδεις
αποχρώσεις, κάτι θαμπούς
μεταλλισμούς κι αποχαυνώσεις ρόδινες…

Ναι, κάτι τέτοιες
ευδαιμονικές βραδιές,
ανώδυνες,
περιπλανώμενες βραδιές
μέσα στα θέρη,
διστακτικές να σβήσουν,
διστακτικές να καταλύσουν
την ονειροκρατία προς δυσμάς
μετά το πέσιμο του ήλιου,
— ενώ μια θεία μεσοβασιλεία
χωρίζει πια το φως που μας δυνάστευε
απ’ την ερχόμενη του σκότους μοναρχία
ναι, κάτι τέτοιες βραδιές,

στα ελαιώδη νερά του προλιμένος,
μετακινείται κύκνεια
ένα μεγάλο πλοίο,
μετακινείται παίρνοντας
κατεύθυνση προς τ’ ανοιχτά,
μ’ εκείνο το περιφρονητικό του μεγαλείο
των μακρινών αναχωρήσεων…

— Κι ίσως δεν είναι πλοίο,
ίσως είναι το παν που φεύγει,
όλα που φεύγουν — Όλα.

"William Trubridge - Freediver". A video from the Avant/Guard Diaries

William Trubridge - Freediver from The Avant/Garde Diaries on Vimeo.

"Das Eckhaus" Revisited. The real story.

In 2008, I wrote in my blog about a house. A house that once stood in a certain corner in the old city of Dresden. A house that was painted by the great expressionist painter Ludwig Meidner in 1913. The painting was called "Das Eckhaus" or "The House in the Corner". I became fascinated by this beautiful and evocative painting of a villa that was no more. I learned that it had a name. It was once called Villa Kochmann and it was totally destroyed in the allied carpet bombings of February 1945 that left Dresden a city only in name. 

I wondered who lived in this house. Who were the Kochmanns? At the time there was little information and I decided to fill in the gaps based on my own imagination. One day, I was surprised and moved to find a comment in my blog by Joan who was the great niece of Franz Kochmann, the once owner of das Eckhaus. She had stumbled by chance upon my blog, saw the painting and decided to provide some more information about her great uncle that lived in this very house. The villa Kochmann suddenly seemed to be coming to life. Five years later, I was contacted by L. David Tomei and based on his personal research, I can now start to piece together the life of the owner of the house in the painting. 


Franz Kochmann
 - Copyright L. David Tomei
and the Kochman family

Franz Kochmann was born on 12 September 1873. From what we know, prior to World War I, he was a well known and respected citizen of Dresden. But he was in fact a lot more than that. From a very young age he became passionate about a new magical science that was also an art and a practice. It involved creating durable images by recording light and it was simply called photography. Kochmann possessed the vision coupled with the technical ability to make this vision real. He decided to improve, design and produce photographic cameras based on his ideas and patents. In 1921, he founded the Franz Kochmann Fabrik where a number of fine cameras were produced for the professional and advanced amateur markets. Among the most notable were the Enolde and Korelle model series. Perhaps the finest were the Reflex-Korelle models first introduced in 1935. They proved to be one of the most important cameras of the 1930's. 

Herr Franz Kochmann, the successful entrepreneur, eventually became the wealthy industrialist who could afford to live in a villa that was named after him. He could now commission works of art and even become a patron to unknown but talented painters such as Ludwig Meidner or Oscar Kokoschka. There is evidence that in the villa Kochmann in Dresden one could see many important works of art hanging on the walls such as the black ink over graphite drawing "The Bar" signed by Ludwig Meidner or the "Double Portrait of Trudl" by Oskar Kokoschka to name but a few. And of course somewhere in the living room, maybe close to the imposing fireplace, or was it in the library, the Kochmanns had hung Meidner's "Das Eckhaus". A painting found in a house, depicting the very same house that contained the painting.     

But the dawn of one of the darkest hours of humanity was breaking. The rise of the Nazis to power changed the status of the Kochmann family overnight. Herr Franz Kochmann was targeted by the Nazi regime and became Franz "Israel" Kochmann (men were forced to add the name "Israel" and women "Sarah" so that they would be easily recognized as Jews). His company was taken away from him by force and nationalized. It is not clear precisely when he finally departed the family home in Dresden though late 1938 would appear to be accurate. He was refused a request to emigrate but was given permission to move to Utrecht which was at the time under Nazi control. He appears in the records (die Rijksinspectie van de Bevolkkingsregisters) as having registered in Utrecht on 26 March 1942. Such a registration was required of Jews who arrived in Holland at the time. 

The Kochmann art collection was seen to be comprised of mostly decadent art when the Nazis entered the villa. The greatest part of it was confiscated immediately and never returned to the family.

Following World War II, Herr Kochmann got a job with the Dutch camera company Vena and contributed to the design of several successful cameras such as the Venaret. These cameras were simple and inexpensive and did not come near the quality of his earlier designs produced at his own Dresden "Fabrik". 

Franz Kochmann's life came to its tragic end on 25 June 1956 when he was struck by a car in Utrecht. His wife, Clare Cleve Sprotte Kochmann died on 15 April 1971 at the age of 96.

So, here I am looking at the Meidner painting once again and it's late afternoon. It's just oil on canvas one can say, but then it's also so much more. It was a house, it was a family, it was a life and a history that should not be forgotten. 

My thanks to Joan and L. David Tomei.

You can visit David's vintage camera site right here

"Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day" by Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966)

Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day

Calmly we walk through this April's day,

Metropolitan poetry here and there,

In the park sit pauper and rentier,

The screaming children, the motor-car

Fugitive about us, running away,

Between the worker and the millionaire

Number provides all distances,

It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,

Many great dears are taken away,

What will become of you and me

(This is the school in which we learn...)

Besides the photo and the memory?

(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)

(This is the school in which we learn...)

What is the self amid this blaze?

What am I now that I was then

Which I shall suffer and act again,

The theodicy I wrote in my high school days

Restored all life from infancy,

The children shouting are bright as they run

(This is the school in which they learn . . .)

Ravished entirely in their passing play!

(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)

 

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!

Where is my father and Eleanor?

Not where are they now, dead seven years,

But what they were then?

No more? No more?

From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,

Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume

Not where they are now (where are they now?)

But what they were then, both beautiful;

Each minute bursts in the burning room,

The great globe reels in the solar fire,

Spinning the trivial and unique away.

(How all things flash! How all things flare!)

What am I now that I was then?

May memory restore again and again

The smallest color of the smallest day:

Time is the school in which we learn,

Time is the fire in which we burn.

"A Monster Calls" A novel by Patrick Ness (with illustrations by Jim Kay)

When the monster called after midnight it was completely unexpected. As unexpected in fact as the appearance of this extraordinary children's novel by Patrick Ness on the bookshelves. Based on an original idea by Siobhan Dowd and with the help of the truly magnificent expressionistic illustrations of Jim Kay, Patrick Ness has managed to create a book that is both frightening and emotionally charged. He adeptly balances different genres of traditional storytelling with difficult subjects and concepts such as childhood, truth, dealing with serious sickness and loss, pain, guilt, confronting and eventually overcoming your worst nightmares and fears by finally finding that inner strength which makes the difference in times of trouble and adversity. 

This is a powerful and exceptional book that will equally touch children and adults. When you read it as an adult, you re-establish the connection with that atrophied part of yourself, that lost forgotten time when you were a child and the world was very much defined by the power of your imagination. It re-awakens memories that made you stay up at night when all the grown-ups were fast asleep. Memories that had to do with your struggle to understand the adult world that you found yourself in. A world that was so unimaginatively lucid when compared with the world that you knew and understood. That was the time when your antennas were still up there receiving and transmitting below all grown-up frequencies. They had not yet been brought down to be "serviced and adjusted" by adult considerations according to society's norms.

The beautifully haunting graphic work of Jim Kay contributes a lot in giving an almost definitive gothic visual appearance to the written word, pulling you into the dark recesses of Conor's mind. These images are almost archetypes that will not be forgotten after you close the book. They existed in the past and they will continue to exist. The Monster is a pagan giant, a wicker man stuffed with the sum of all your fears and the darkness that you refuse to confront. His roots and his branches will tangle your soul and will not let you put this book down. I challenge you to try...

Listen to:

Electric President - Monsters

"Treacle" by YouYourself&i. A serious claim to the Indie throne of Canada

It was late in the evening and I was still trying to understand what went wrong with this kid. You see Daniel Gélinas from Montreal was not supposed to do all these things. This was not the way things were planned for his future… Good grades at school, clever kid, had fine prospects. A bright career all lined up and ready for him. What’s wrong with a nine to five white collar job? Nothing, I say. Nothing! Be useful to society my boy and think of the security in these times of crisis…  And what does he do? He throws everything out of the window … “I prefer not to”. What kind of Bartleby answer is that? Was it a nervous breakdown? He didn’t show any signs of losing the plot before but… there he is now in abandoned schools and derelict basements, recording scratches, cat hisses and songs. What happened?


I wonder if his so called friends at school are to blame. Friends at that age can throw you in the dark alleys of juvenile delinquency.

Look at these shady characters that helped him self-produce his new album called “Treacle”. No wonder…. And instead of just making a song or two, a single or, ok, an EP as a hobby without neglecting his career, no… he records a double album of music in the making. Music adrift in unchartered waters. Unfinished yet complete, coming from a cry to a whisper and going from a bang to a whimper. Music that can be found in-between chords, under the floorboards, flowing naturally or being dragged out into the open raw for all to see. Daniel Gélinas constantly dives in the fresh undercurrent of experimental ideas and resurfaces with strange turns of lyrical phrase and musical structure. Juggling between French and English, his songs have a strange capacity to Velcro into your head. 

But make no mistake about it. This is no syrupy music. This is certainly “treacle” in its dictionary definition of “antidote to poison”. To the “static mainstream poison” that we listen to every day on the radio, antidote in the sense of cleansing, or in the sense of the 'Drink Me' potion that shrinks Alice in size making her slip into a different world. 

Where does all that leave us with Daniel? Well, you make choices in life that YouYourself&i have to live with. Make the choice and listen to a couple of tracks from the album right here. But this is uploaded just to wet your appetite. The real trip is the double album "Treacle I & II" by YouYourself&i which is available to download for a minimal price following the link below:

The site of Daniel Gélinas and YouYourself&i

It should be noted that all the graphic work for the album was done by Daniel and his bunch of merry men and women from Montreal. 

The making of "Treacle"

When you buy the album, you therefore actually hold in your hands a limited edition lovingly handmade piece of indie history in the making.

Listen to:

YouYourself&i - Basement Heroes

YouYourself&i - Preludes 

The Boxers of George Bellows

George Bellows (1882-1925) was an american painter who managed to capture in his work the birth of the modern era in the United States at the turn of the past century. Is it possible for an artist to paint not only what he sees but go beyond, capturing something larger than life? Something that becomes not just a picture but a definitive imprint of a bygone era? The distilled spirit of an age, the "zeitgeist" of say, the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th? The answer is yes, if one looks at the work of George Bellows. Take for example his painting "Cliff Dwellers", depicting life in the ever sprawling neighborhoods of New York City dominated by tall, intersecting appartment blocks connected by washing lines. No skies and no horizons. Children are left to play in the street and the hustle and bustle of everyday life is so vividly portrayed that you cannot resist being drawn into the painting. Your eye travels in the picture, panning and zooming like a camera lens. After a while your imagination starts to fill in the gaps.You almost feel a strange nostalgia as if you were there once, lived among these people, shouted and cried and heard the noise of the tram passing by. George Bellows was eager to show how this world of industrial turmoil changed the urban landscape and how it affected the everyday lives of the common people. With a kin eye for detail and a talent for capturing the dynamic essence of a live, moving composition, he was the right man at the right time. 

Nowhere else is this more evident than in his paintings of boxers. Prize-fighting boxing at the time of George Bellows was illegal. It took place in seedy, underground joints hidden behind false brick walls that would slide open to reveal a noisy, smoke filled backroom, filled to capacity by a raw crowd, in a betting frenzy shouting, drinking and gesticulating around the ring. Often, the violence inside the ropes would spill over into the audience. Sometimes the cops would receive information and they would raid these places. Panic would then set in and the crowds would run to get away, leaving the two boxers up there, by themselves, oblivious of what is going on, up there, continuing to exchange the blows in front of the cops after all the crowds have cleared out and the only thing left are their hats, the odd shoe and broken bottles on the floor...     

Painted in the chiaroscuro style from the spotlights directed towards the ring, the boxers are caught in the thick of the action and even though they are off balance at the moment of defending or delivering a blow, they strike a perfect compositional balance by the perfect symmetry and complimentarity of the action. This is a brutal, head on collision dance. Their strained and blood stained muscles shining in the spotlight, their faces a blur or rather literarly a pulp, they are locked in combat in a fight that is a fight for survival.    

A noisy, passionate, deformed, ugly crowd follows closely the boxing match absorbed by the action. Painted with thick strokes, some faces could very well have been drawn by Honoré Daumier a little bit earlier at the other side of the Atlantic ocean. You get a glint of an eye here, a hideous mocking laugh there, all teeth shining. The blood red color of the boxers can be found also in some of the faces in the audience. They are an integral part of this brutal scene, tainted in red by their enthousiasm, anxiety, anger and anticipation as the match reaches the crucial minutes before the bell. With the sound of the bell some people will have gambled away their whole life. With the sound of the bell, the men in the tuxedos smile and money changes hands. 

 

With the sound of the bell you realise that you are in a gallery looking at a George Bellows painting. Then again, you get the impression that your clothes have a faint smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol and that your ears are still buzzing from the roar of the crowd when the referee started the countdown. A countdown that has lasted almost a hundred years...