By Matthew Kangas
Portland Art Museum Northwest art curator Jennifer Gately, guest juror for the 2006 CoCA Annual, visited studios in addition to reviewing slides to select the artworks now on view at the Center on Contemporary Art. She chose 16 artists from Seattle, Portland and New York City from nearly 1,000 entries. Three artists split the meager prize money: Robert Yoder ($500); Lucas Blalock ($250); and Jennie Thwing ($250).
An artist-supported alternative space founded in 1980, CoCA in 1989 took over the duties of the venerable "Northwest Annual," which the Seattle Art Museum (originally Seattle Fine Arts Society) had hosted between 1914 and 1975. In 2002, CoCA's board decided to junk the regional focus and open up the competition nationwide. Was it worth forsaking the 74-year-old tradition?
Probably not, but this year's effort by Gately is a valiant, even charitable, effort. CoCA's annual can no longer be compared with the remaining Northwest juried shows (the biennials at Tacoma Art Museum and Gately's own Portland Art Museum), because it is much smaller, with a fraction of the prize money. But the CoCA Annual is the only annual competitive show held in the Greater Seattle area since the old Bellevue Art Museum closed. Maybe it's time to re-orient the CoCA Annual back toward Alaska, British Columbia, Idaho, Oregon and Washington exclusively.
Emphasis is put on the seamy, sleazy and ill-constructed in the works of Oregonians Alicia Eggert, Stephanie Robison and Sean Healy. As to the New Yorkers, Gately found Margarida Correia, Christine Gatti and Shen Wei. Photography plays an important role in their work but fails to reveal any original ideas. Were they and the Oregonians really worth including?
The Seattleites, on the other hand, leave the others in the dust. Elise Richman's paintings contain hundreds of tiny built-up strands of oil paint and are intensely physical, optical and abstract. Susanna Bluhm's quirky mixed-media paintings of awkward abstract shapes could lead somewhere I'd like to go. To be disappointed but to want to see more is always a good sign.
Like Bluhm, Tim Cross' work has a light touch. However, it has firmer, more easily identifiable imagery. "Heater Beach" and "Black Bridge Beach" (both 2006) mix trees, fire and metal pipes in landscape settings. All are drawn with ink, soot, liquid paper and, of course, coffee.
Ross Sawyers' computer prints of big beautiful empty rooms are also big, beautiful and empty. They're too similar to many other artists and demonstrate an awareness of trends more than an individual vision. (This is a frequent criticism of regional artists who are often unable to see originals and must make do with art magazines.)
2006 CoCA Annual, noon-5 p.m. Wednesdays-Sundays, through Dec. 30, Center on Contemporary Art, 410 Dexter Ave. N., Seattle; free (206-728-1980 or www.cocaseattle.org). Robert Yoder and Scott Foldesi are the stars of this year's Annual. Yoder's vinyl-and-metal-tape collages are colorful and highly structured. With several New York shows under his belt and a sterling reputation locally, Yoder should retire from competitive shows and leave them to the younger generation.
Foldesi has got to be the most talented young Seattle painter still without a gallery. His large photo-based scenes are part paint-by-number satire and part David Hockney. They are remarkable for how much they can convey with so little paint. Like Cross and Bluhm, he treats a blank white background like a big piece of paper. Included in last year's Annual, Foldesi raises another question: What happened to the CoCA tradition of giving the best of the Annual artists their own solo shows? Foldesi should be at the top of the list.
As to the Portlanders, Sean Healy is the one to watch. His circular relief of hundreds of cigarette butts is hilarious and timely. And don't miss "Egghead" (2006), his tribute to Melville Dewey, the founder of the Dewey Decimal System common to library-card catalogs. An upended library table has a likeness of Dewey rendered in hundreds of used chewing gum wads. Remember when you stuck your gum under the library table? Go see it.
Copyright © 2006 The Seattle Times Company
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Friday, December 08, 2006
Emily Hall's Farewell
The Road of Good Intentions Is Paved with Painted Pigs
The Stranger’s Departing Visual Art Critic Re?ects on Ambition, Naiveté, and Why Seattle Still Isn’t a Great Art Town
BY EMILY HALL (From 2004)
Well, goodbye.
Even as I hate the valedictory impulse to generalization (I much prefer the small specific), I'd be remiss to leave this city without some sort of fond or not so fond farewell. Even as I write this I'm swinging pretty wildly between feelings of nostalgia and good riddance--not entirely surprising, since Seattle's art world is rife with the kinds of contradictions that so firmly cement us somewhere between backwater and art capital, and that pulled me regularly between pleasure and despair. Good work by really very talented artists on the one hand; a patronizing, social-work-driven attitude about art on the other. A whole lot of lip service paid to the idea of art, but very little money backing it up. There's sophistication, and there's naiveté. In my very first weeks of writing The Stranger's art calendar, in 1999, I got an indignant letter from a woman whose show--in Bellingham, quite out of the range of The Stranger's purview--we had failed to include in our visual art listings. It was cruel of me, she wrote, to ignore her show, because art had--literally, she said--saved her life.
Probably you already know that I take a dim view of ascribing life-saving qualities to art. I tend to take a view more in line with critic Dave Hickey's in his essay "Frivolity and Unction": "We could just say 'Okay! You're right! Art is bad, silly, and frivolous... Rock and roll is bad, silly, and frivolous. Movies are bad, silly, and frivolous. Next question?' Wouldn't that open up the options a little for something really super?--for an orchid in the dung heap that would seem all the more super for our surprise in finding it there? And what if art were considered bad for us?--more like cocaine that gives us pleasure while intensifying our desires, and less like penicillin that promises to cure us all, if we maintain proper dosage, give it time, and don't expect miracles?" (Good God, but the man can write!) In Seattle, the general drift is toward penicillin, toward the cure-all, and also toward a rigorously democratic idea about art, one that encompasses album covers and industrial design and accessibility and education. In many ways it's fitting, if not emblematic, that Seattle's progress in art, to much of the art world, is tied to glass: The Studio Glass movement, with Dale Chihuly at its prow, is characterized by a distinct defensiveness about taking a medium out of the realm of craft and trying (forcefully, willfully) to place it in the realm of fine art.
The contradictions we face here make for both good and bad news. The bad news: Seattle is not a great city for art or for artists. The question of what it would take to make it a city taken seriously by the rest of the world (local artists sought out by collectors from elsewhere; artists moving here from elsewhere; local art writers regularly represented in national and international publications) has no simple answer, perhaps no answer at all. What I can tell you is that there isn't enough of anything: not enough good galleries showing risky work, not enough money available to artists to try new things and possibly fail (a great deal of the available funding is project-dedicated, so that failure is not an option), not enough critical outlets, and not enough critics, in the outlets available, thinking interestingly and hard about how art does what it does and how the work in this city compares to work in other cities, or (perhaps most importantly) willing to risk letting the public know when the art or the curatorial practice fails. And, of course, there are not enough collectors (though God bless the ones there are) willing to tear their gazes away from New York and Los Angeles and London and Berlin and buy the work (quite often the peer in quality of work from those other cities) right under their noses.
This is an inelegant knot of a situation, because it's not entirely clear which problem should be solved first. It's a series of exquisite dead ends. If there were more money for artists, there'd be more good art, and more galleries would open. If more galleries opened, there'd be more opportunities to see good art, and the Seattle viewership would increase--maybe skyrocket--in sophistication and collecting. If Seattle artists were getting more national attention from critics, national agencies and foundations would direct more money to artistic production, and there wouldn't be this constant stream of artists leaving for places where they'll get noticed. But my instinct is that no single advance would create the rising tide that Seattle needs. Somehow the base has to expand all at once.
What must happen, what absolutely must happen, is for this city to get over its ambivalence and distaste for ambition. You don't become a great art city by filling the street with painted pigs. You become a great art city by supporting artists doing what artists do. Everyone, from the National Endowment for the Arts on down to teachers and well-meaning citizens, likes to yammer on about how important art is to how we see ourselves as a civilization, to advancing as a civilization, and yet where funding is concerned, art is consistently lumped in with education and social work and even tourism. This attitude produces a lot of bad art and, instead of creating respect for artists, makes artists into propagandists, educators, and decorators. It's an unfortunate contemporary convenience that so many disparate activities--from after-school programs to public art to unrestricted money for artists--are collected under the same rubric, under the same innocent-seeming word. To do this is to make conflicting claims for art, as Bruce Bawer wrote in a pointed critique of the Poets Against the War anthology (which included, alongside poems by established writers, poems by children): "What does it mean to profess the inestimable value of the poet's role in society... and then to suggest that even an 11-year-old can fill that role?" This sort of confusion about what art is for produced such disasters as Pigs on Parade, the "arts tourism" championed by Michael Killoren at the Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs a few years ago, and the repurposing by committee that transformed BAM from an interesting contemporary museum into a community crafts forum.
Think of it this way: Should Little Leaguers play in Mariners games? It's the same sport, after all. But of course not. Somehow acknowledging that some are more talented than others (to say nothing of higher paid) doesn't rankle so much when it comes to building stadiums. I am so tired of the pummeling taken by what's commonly known as elitism, this insistence (itself quite sniffy) that art is somehow out of the realm of common experience, that its pleasures are not available to everyone. Certainly it's become more common to have to, you know, read something (a plaque on the wall, an article in a newspaper, an artist's statement) in order to begin to understand a work of art, but this is what great contemporary art does: It advances through ideas, by engaging our minds. And art galleries are perhaps the only venue where art, any art form, is free to the public. It's all there, available and wanting nothing more than your attention.
Don't get me wrong: It's nice that Seattle is so concerned with human enrichment and better lives for everyone. It might very well be the case that the Bellingham woman's life was saved by art. And it may well be the case that art keeps kids off drugs, cures cancer, enhances self-esteem, and makes America great. But please understand that I write this only out of real ardor for and delight in art: All of those things, and other positive aspects (like helping the economy, like attracting the so-called creative class to Seattle) are not art's problem. To demand that art fulfill such a role is to limit the scope of what it can do. Art is good for us only because it's art, because it exists outside the realm of advertising and politics, and it is only good for us (whatever that means) when it presents an object with which our relationship is not already bossily mediated. In the best possible scenario, we create our own relationships--intellectual, emotional--with art, so that the most elevated claim it's possible to make for art is that it makes us more thoughtful, perhaps more complex, people.
The good news--finally, the good news--is that despite this handicap, there's a lot of real forward movement around here. Artist Trust continues to plough a lonely furrow by giving artists project grants and fellowships (and the Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs has recently given a generous handful of artist grants as well, a development that's long overdue). The renovated Toshiro-Kaplan Building provides artists live/work space (a rarity), bringing a cluster of working artists back to Pioneer Square, saving that neighborhood from being so removed from the world of art as to be irrelevant. Rhonda Howard and her organization Thread for Art supports artist-driven exhibitions and produces lovely catalogs, so that artists have documentation of their work as well as exposure. The collectors Bill and Ruth True have opened Western Bridge, a good-looking space in which they'll be showing works from their collection as well as commissioned works, which brings to Seattle works that we might never otherwise see. The renegade stencil gang Beware the Walls invigorates public space with the kind of surreal street moments that reframe everyday experience. The ceramics program at the University of Washington (which is only tangentially concerned with ceramics and has amazing teachers Doug Jeck, Jamie Walker, and Akio Takimori) produces interesting young artists. There's a cluster of newish galleries on Capitol Hill (including 1506 Projects and Crawl Space) that have a lively artwalk and some appealing (if not yet fully realized) shows. There's Platform Gallery opening in the fall, run by four artists who have a taste for the difficult, and who don't kowtow to usual gallery practices. Billy Howard and Jim Harris also aren't afraid of difficult work; the shows in their galleries seem to revel in it. Greg Kucera, in his gallery, has taken on some interesting younger artists, and brings news from the rest of the country. Greg Lundgren is still around, plotting his next move (the openings of his shows at Vital 5 Productions rate among the high points in the social life of art in the last few years). And it would be disingenuous, if not modest, if I failed to mention that The Stranger's Genius Awards allow the paper's editors to take a break from relentlessly criticizing everything and shower affection and money on artists they like.
There have been casualties. We lost Walter Wright to Atlanta (after his two good exhibition spaces, Project 416 and Fuzzy Engine, fell to the manifest destiny of development). Artists Jennifer West and Nicola Vruwink moved to Los Angeles. Curator Meg Shiffler is in New York for graduate school, and will probably stay there. Many of the artists behind RedHeaded StepChild, an artist-run zine I had the privilege of working on (they made an exception for me, since I was good at grammar) for the two years of its existence, have dispersed for other cities. Every one of these departures (and all those I can't remember at this moment, sitting here in a cluster of people tapping away at their iBooks at Victrola) made me sad, and soon I'll be leaving, too. Well, perhaps that won't make anyone very sad. But at least--and it seems I've got the valedictory impulse after all--I got the last word.
Emily Hall was The Stranger's visual art editor from 2000-2004. She now lives in New York City.
The Stranger’s Departing Visual Art Critic Re?ects on Ambition, Naiveté, and Why Seattle Still Isn’t a Great Art Town
BY EMILY HALL (From 2004)
Well, goodbye.
Even as I hate the valedictory impulse to generalization (I much prefer the small specific), I'd be remiss to leave this city without some sort of fond or not so fond farewell. Even as I write this I'm swinging pretty wildly between feelings of nostalgia and good riddance--not entirely surprising, since Seattle's art world is rife with the kinds of contradictions that so firmly cement us somewhere between backwater and art capital, and that pulled me regularly between pleasure and despair. Good work by really very talented artists on the one hand; a patronizing, social-work-driven attitude about art on the other. A whole lot of lip service paid to the idea of art, but very little money backing it up. There's sophistication, and there's naiveté. In my very first weeks of writing The Stranger's art calendar, in 1999, I got an indignant letter from a woman whose show--in Bellingham, quite out of the range of The Stranger's purview--we had failed to include in our visual art listings. It was cruel of me, she wrote, to ignore her show, because art had--literally, she said--saved her life.
Probably you already know that I take a dim view of ascribing life-saving qualities to art. I tend to take a view more in line with critic Dave Hickey's in his essay "Frivolity and Unction": "We could just say 'Okay! You're right! Art is bad, silly, and frivolous... Rock and roll is bad, silly, and frivolous. Movies are bad, silly, and frivolous. Next question?' Wouldn't that open up the options a little for something really super?--for an orchid in the dung heap that would seem all the more super for our surprise in finding it there? And what if art were considered bad for us?--more like cocaine that gives us pleasure while intensifying our desires, and less like penicillin that promises to cure us all, if we maintain proper dosage, give it time, and don't expect miracles?" (Good God, but the man can write!) In Seattle, the general drift is toward penicillin, toward the cure-all, and also toward a rigorously democratic idea about art, one that encompasses album covers and industrial design and accessibility and education. In many ways it's fitting, if not emblematic, that Seattle's progress in art, to much of the art world, is tied to glass: The Studio Glass movement, with Dale Chihuly at its prow, is characterized by a distinct defensiveness about taking a medium out of the realm of craft and trying (forcefully, willfully) to place it in the realm of fine art.
The contradictions we face here make for both good and bad news. The bad news: Seattle is not a great city for art or for artists. The question of what it would take to make it a city taken seriously by the rest of the world (local artists sought out by collectors from elsewhere; artists moving here from elsewhere; local art writers regularly represented in national and international publications) has no simple answer, perhaps no answer at all. What I can tell you is that there isn't enough of anything: not enough good galleries showing risky work, not enough money available to artists to try new things and possibly fail (a great deal of the available funding is project-dedicated, so that failure is not an option), not enough critical outlets, and not enough critics, in the outlets available, thinking interestingly and hard about how art does what it does and how the work in this city compares to work in other cities, or (perhaps most importantly) willing to risk letting the public know when the art or the curatorial practice fails. And, of course, there are not enough collectors (though God bless the ones there are) willing to tear their gazes away from New York and Los Angeles and London and Berlin and buy the work (quite often the peer in quality of work from those other cities) right under their noses.
This is an inelegant knot of a situation, because it's not entirely clear which problem should be solved first. It's a series of exquisite dead ends. If there were more money for artists, there'd be more good art, and more galleries would open. If more galleries opened, there'd be more opportunities to see good art, and the Seattle viewership would increase--maybe skyrocket--in sophistication and collecting. If Seattle artists were getting more national attention from critics, national agencies and foundations would direct more money to artistic production, and there wouldn't be this constant stream of artists leaving for places where they'll get noticed. But my instinct is that no single advance would create the rising tide that Seattle needs. Somehow the base has to expand all at once.
What must happen, what absolutely must happen, is for this city to get over its ambivalence and distaste for ambition. You don't become a great art city by filling the street with painted pigs. You become a great art city by supporting artists doing what artists do. Everyone, from the National Endowment for the Arts on down to teachers and well-meaning citizens, likes to yammer on about how important art is to how we see ourselves as a civilization, to advancing as a civilization, and yet where funding is concerned, art is consistently lumped in with education and social work and even tourism. This attitude produces a lot of bad art and, instead of creating respect for artists, makes artists into propagandists, educators, and decorators. It's an unfortunate contemporary convenience that so many disparate activities--from after-school programs to public art to unrestricted money for artists--are collected under the same rubric, under the same innocent-seeming word. To do this is to make conflicting claims for art, as Bruce Bawer wrote in a pointed critique of the Poets Against the War anthology (which included, alongside poems by established writers, poems by children): "What does it mean to profess the inestimable value of the poet's role in society... and then to suggest that even an 11-year-old can fill that role?" This sort of confusion about what art is for produced such disasters as Pigs on Parade, the "arts tourism" championed by Michael Killoren at the Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs a few years ago, and the repurposing by committee that transformed BAM from an interesting contemporary museum into a community crafts forum.
Think of it this way: Should Little Leaguers play in Mariners games? It's the same sport, after all. But of course not. Somehow acknowledging that some are more talented than others (to say nothing of higher paid) doesn't rankle so much when it comes to building stadiums. I am so tired of the pummeling taken by what's commonly known as elitism, this insistence (itself quite sniffy) that art is somehow out of the realm of common experience, that its pleasures are not available to everyone. Certainly it's become more common to have to, you know, read something (a plaque on the wall, an article in a newspaper, an artist's statement) in order to begin to understand a work of art, but this is what great contemporary art does: It advances through ideas, by engaging our minds. And art galleries are perhaps the only venue where art, any art form, is free to the public. It's all there, available and wanting nothing more than your attention.
Don't get me wrong: It's nice that Seattle is so concerned with human enrichment and better lives for everyone. It might very well be the case that the Bellingham woman's life was saved by art. And it may well be the case that art keeps kids off drugs, cures cancer, enhances self-esteem, and makes America great. But please understand that I write this only out of real ardor for and delight in art: All of those things, and other positive aspects (like helping the economy, like attracting the so-called creative class to Seattle) are not art's problem. To demand that art fulfill such a role is to limit the scope of what it can do. Art is good for us only because it's art, because it exists outside the realm of advertising and politics, and it is only good for us (whatever that means) when it presents an object with which our relationship is not already bossily mediated. In the best possible scenario, we create our own relationships--intellectual, emotional--with art, so that the most elevated claim it's possible to make for art is that it makes us more thoughtful, perhaps more complex, people.
The good news--finally, the good news--is that despite this handicap, there's a lot of real forward movement around here. Artist Trust continues to plough a lonely furrow by giving artists project grants and fellowships (and the Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs has recently given a generous handful of artist grants as well, a development that's long overdue). The renovated Toshiro-Kaplan Building provides artists live/work space (a rarity), bringing a cluster of working artists back to Pioneer Square, saving that neighborhood from being so removed from the world of art as to be irrelevant. Rhonda Howard and her organization Thread for Art supports artist-driven exhibitions and produces lovely catalogs, so that artists have documentation of their work as well as exposure. The collectors Bill and Ruth True have opened Western Bridge, a good-looking space in which they'll be showing works from their collection as well as commissioned works, which brings to Seattle works that we might never otherwise see. The renegade stencil gang Beware the Walls invigorates public space with the kind of surreal street moments that reframe everyday experience. The ceramics program at the University of Washington (which is only tangentially concerned with ceramics and has amazing teachers Doug Jeck, Jamie Walker, and Akio Takimori) produces interesting young artists. There's a cluster of newish galleries on Capitol Hill (including 1506 Projects and Crawl Space) that have a lively artwalk and some appealing (if not yet fully realized) shows. There's Platform Gallery opening in the fall, run by four artists who have a taste for the difficult, and who don't kowtow to usual gallery practices. Billy Howard and Jim Harris also aren't afraid of difficult work; the shows in their galleries seem to revel in it. Greg Kucera, in his gallery, has taken on some interesting younger artists, and brings news from the rest of the country. Greg Lundgren is still around, plotting his next move (the openings of his shows at Vital 5 Productions rate among the high points in the social life of art in the last few years). And it would be disingenuous, if not modest, if I failed to mention that The Stranger's Genius Awards allow the paper's editors to take a break from relentlessly criticizing everything and shower affection and money on artists they like.
There have been casualties. We lost Walter Wright to Atlanta (after his two good exhibition spaces, Project 416 and Fuzzy Engine, fell to the manifest destiny of development). Artists Jennifer West and Nicola Vruwink moved to Los Angeles. Curator Meg Shiffler is in New York for graduate school, and will probably stay there. Many of the artists behind RedHeaded StepChild, an artist-run zine I had the privilege of working on (they made an exception for me, since I was good at grammar) for the two years of its existence, have dispersed for other cities. Every one of these departures (and all those I can't remember at this moment, sitting here in a cluster of people tapping away at their iBooks at Victrola) made me sad, and soon I'll be leaving, too. Well, perhaps that won't make anyone very sad. But at least--and it seems I've got the valedictory impulse after all--I got the last word.
Emily Hall was The Stranger's visual art editor from 2000-2004. She now lives in New York City.
The Fabulous Nate Lippens
We were lucky to have a superb substitute for our "Propulsion of Art in a Viral Age" course last week. Gretchen Bennett and friends were off to Miami for Art Basel (have a cocktail and a stroll on the beach for me).
Nate was the art critic for the stranger for years, he's writing for the P-I now if I remember correctly. Here's a sample of his writing, and its back to working for the final push of the semester :)
Assume the Position
A Critic's Unsentimental Education
BY NATE LIPPENS
"What are your credentials?" the gallery owner asks me. He's smiling. He's jocular, but he's also dead serious. Art-world humor--it's a killer. It's my first official art walk as this paper's art reviewer, not an Eames side chair critic, and it feels a little like speed dating: There's a lot of ground to cover and everything has potential. Are you the one? Or you?
It's also the first Thursday without longtime Stranger art critic Emily Hall. And while I had fully expected scrutiny and the second-best feeling of being the replacement cast for a beloved cultural doyenne, I was a little unprepared for the veiled--and just plain naked--hostility directed my way. When I weakly tell the gallery owner that I've written for this paper in every arts section for the last four years, he snaps, "Not good enough." It's played as a joke but it isn't. Then he adds, "Do you even like art?" I'm flustered and I fumble some lame response; I want to get away from him fast.
This interaction comes directly on the heels of another opening reception for a much buzzed-about show during which I met an artist who said, "Don't you write a country music column?" Yes. "What are you going to review--a quilt show?" Fair enough. That's funny.
While the personal reception hasn't been wonderful, what sticks with me at the end of the night is the feeling that I have trespassed into somewhere I don't belong and have been swiftly reminded of my place. The issue of elitism in the Seattle art community is something Emily Hall wrote about--and tried to debunk--in a farewell essay in last week's paper ["The Road of Good Intentions Is Paved with Painted Pigs," July 8]. "I'm so tired of... this insistence that art is somehow out of the common experience," she wrote, "that the pleasures aren't available to everyone." Her impliction is that elitism doesn't exist, that everyone is welcome at galleries. But based on my experience that simply isn't true. There is a mentality and an attitude about art--perhaps stemming from a protectiveness toward it, since it can be so easily dismissed--whose core conceit is exclusion: You don't have the tools to understand this; you shouldn't be here. Elitism has driven me away from the art world several times over the years--in Chicago, in New York, and, yes, in Seattle. (Curiously, in London of all places, I never encountered such starchiness.) And this has been true for many of my friends--smart, credentialed people. It's the real crisis--more than funding, more than education--that plagues contemporary American art.
Before July's First Thursday, I had never existed on any of these people's radars. I see art all the time, but I've usually avoided openings and gone to galleries on weekdays when no one is around and I don't have to be surrounded by the less-charming aspects of the art world. I'm not an artist and I didn't study art history or criticism. I didn't study anything formally. I cobbled together my own art education like a magpie, pulling from many different sources to find my way, and wandering down a lot of dead ends. I read (and still enjoy reading) Lynne Tillman, Peter Schjeldahl, David Rimanelli, Gary Indiana, Roberta Smith, and Holland Cotter--not to mention the inspiring (and inspired) New York School Poets, who brought their chatty abstraction to art writing. My version of an education, whatever its drawbacks, freed me from being stuck in a rigid theoretical rubric. I don't want to be frozen into a stance that dictates my opinions neatly, where expectation always becomes experience. You can turn yourself into little more than a prop plane of other people's ideas by adhering too closely to theory. It's a great (and sometimes helpful) place to visit, but it's too constraining to live there.
But none of that is the point. Or is it? If pedigree is truly what matters, then admit it once and for all that art is not for everyone--that it's for the rich, the blue-chip collectors, the lavishly educated. And stop asking the rest of us to care, to nurture, fund, and support it. If you think we are beneath understanding art, then don't ask us to revere it.
Last week, Hall, quoting art critic Dave Hickey, wrote that art in this town should be more like cocaine and less like penicillin--more intellectually decadent and less curative. And while I agree with her that art shouldn't be a prescriptive, what she didn't mention is that this town is buried in art cocaine. People are paranoid, they talk all the time, and they have nothing to say.
Just observe the strange parade at First Thursday: bobbleheaded girls, yammering on cell phones, in low-slung jeans with dorsal cleavage showing, standing beside a young man in a Jean-Michel Basquiat T-shirt from Urban Outfitters, next to someone having an insular, sibilant art-world conversation (artists say meaner things about other artists than any critic ever would). It's glorious and uncomfortable, communal and fractured, with people oohing over work that I think is crap and whizzing by the stuff I think is transfixing.
I love those moments, especially when they pry open the gap between thought and expression, when the work slips the noose of easy description, when it flatters writers by making them think that it needs them to translate, to capture--but it's only a cock tease. Art doesn't need a writer. It does need a viewer. And that's where I will write from: What does it look like? Why am I looking at it? What is it doing and does it succeed?
I've never articulated it this plainly but I suppose this is my mission statement: I want to go out and report back. My allegiance, as it were, is to the reader, to the layperson. Can I really recommend that show? Separate of connections, pedigree, social life--is it good?
Perhaps this is what I should have conveyed to the gallery owner who took so much delight in deciding I was unqualified to think about the work he had on sale: I don't care if you went to Columbia or grew up in a trailer by the Columbia River, I'm interested in the work. I'm very much aware that an artist's background directly influences their work, but it shouldn't be the only thing supporting it. I don't want to have to see the strings. Everything you need to know should be in the work itself.
At the end of First Thursday I'm exhausted, a little wounded but not too much worse for the wear. Art gives way to a complicated experience; it's one of the few things about which we aren't told directly what to think, and that can be intimidating. What's damning--not to mention disheartening--is when you're told you're not allowed to think about it. Art is also, for me, a source of wonder and mystery, and its seductive pull keeps drawing me back to it, elitism be damned.
Nate was the art critic for the stranger for years, he's writing for the P-I now if I remember correctly. Here's a sample of his writing, and its back to working for the final push of the semester :)
Assume the Position
A Critic's Unsentimental Education
BY NATE LIPPENS
"What are your credentials?" the gallery owner asks me. He's smiling. He's jocular, but he's also dead serious. Art-world humor--it's a killer. It's my first official art walk as this paper's art reviewer, not an Eames side chair critic, and it feels a little like speed dating: There's a lot of ground to cover and everything has potential. Are you the one? Or you?
It's also the first Thursday without longtime Stranger art critic Emily Hall. And while I had fully expected scrutiny and the second-best feeling of being the replacement cast for a beloved cultural doyenne, I was a little unprepared for the veiled--and just plain naked--hostility directed my way. When I weakly tell the gallery owner that I've written for this paper in every arts section for the last four years, he snaps, "Not good enough." It's played as a joke but it isn't. Then he adds, "Do you even like art?" I'm flustered and I fumble some lame response; I want to get away from him fast.
This interaction comes directly on the heels of another opening reception for a much buzzed-about show during which I met an artist who said, "Don't you write a country music column?" Yes. "What are you going to review--a quilt show?" Fair enough. That's funny.
While the personal reception hasn't been wonderful, what sticks with me at the end of the night is the feeling that I have trespassed into somewhere I don't belong and have been swiftly reminded of my place. The issue of elitism in the Seattle art community is something Emily Hall wrote about--and tried to debunk--in a farewell essay in last week's paper ["The Road of Good Intentions Is Paved with Painted Pigs," July 8]. "I'm so tired of... this insistence that art is somehow out of the common experience," she wrote, "that the pleasures aren't available to everyone." Her impliction is that elitism doesn't exist, that everyone is welcome at galleries. But based on my experience that simply isn't true. There is a mentality and an attitude about art--perhaps stemming from a protectiveness toward it, since it can be so easily dismissed--whose core conceit is exclusion: You don't have the tools to understand this; you shouldn't be here. Elitism has driven me away from the art world several times over the years--in Chicago, in New York, and, yes, in Seattle. (Curiously, in London of all places, I never encountered such starchiness.) And this has been true for many of my friends--smart, credentialed people. It's the real crisis--more than funding, more than education--that plagues contemporary American art.
Before July's First Thursday, I had never existed on any of these people's radars. I see art all the time, but I've usually avoided openings and gone to galleries on weekdays when no one is around and I don't have to be surrounded by the less-charming aspects of the art world. I'm not an artist and I didn't study art history or criticism. I didn't study anything formally. I cobbled together my own art education like a magpie, pulling from many different sources to find my way, and wandering down a lot of dead ends. I read (and still enjoy reading) Lynne Tillman, Peter Schjeldahl, David Rimanelli, Gary Indiana, Roberta Smith, and Holland Cotter--not to mention the inspiring (and inspired) New York School Poets, who brought their chatty abstraction to art writing. My version of an education, whatever its drawbacks, freed me from being stuck in a rigid theoretical rubric. I don't want to be frozen into a stance that dictates my opinions neatly, where expectation always becomes experience. You can turn yourself into little more than a prop plane of other people's ideas by adhering too closely to theory. It's a great (and sometimes helpful) place to visit, but it's too constraining to live there.
But none of that is the point. Or is it? If pedigree is truly what matters, then admit it once and for all that art is not for everyone--that it's for the rich, the blue-chip collectors, the lavishly educated. And stop asking the rest of us to care, to nurture, fund, and support it. If you think we are beneath understanding art, then don't ask us to revere it.
Last week, Hall, quoting art critic Dave Hickey, wrote that art in this town should be more like cocaine and less like penicillin--more intellectually decadent and less curative. And while I agree with her that art shouldn't be a prescriptive, what she didn't mention is that this town is buried in art cocaine. People are paranoid, they talk all the time, and they have nothing to say.
Just observe the strange parade at First Thursday: bobbleheaded girls, yammering on cell phones, in low-slung jeans with dorsal cleavage showing, standing beside a young man in a Jean-Michel Basquiat T-shirt from Urban Outfitters, next to someone having an insular, sibilant art-world conversation (artists say meaner things about other artists than any critic ever would). It's glorious and uncomfortable, communal and fractured, with people oohing over work that I think is crap and whizzing by the stuff I think is transfixing.
I love those moments, especially when they pry open the gap between thought and expression, when the work slips the noose of easy description, when it flatters writers by making them think that it needs them to translate, to capture--but it's only a cock tease. Art doesn't need a writer. It does need a viewer. And that's where I will write from: What does it look like? Why am I looking at it? What is it doing and does it succeed?
I've never articulated it this plainly but I suppose this is my mission statement: I want to go out and report back. My allegiance, as it were, is to the reader, to the layperson. Can I really recommend that show? Separate of connections, pedigree, social life--is it good?
Perhaps this is what I should have conveyed to the gallery owner who took so much delight in deciding I was unqualified to think about the work he had on sale: I don't care if you went to Columbia or grew up in a trailer by the Columbia River, I'm interested in the work. I'm very much aware that an artist's background directly influences their work, but it shouldn't be the only thing supporting it. I don't want to have to see the strings. Everything you need to know should be in the work itself.
At the end of First Thursday I'm exhausted, a little wounded but not too much worse for the wear. Art gives way to a complicated experience; it's one of the few things about which we aren't told directly what to think, and that can be intimidating. What's damning--not to mention disheartening--is when you're told you're not allowed to think about it. Art is also, for me, a source of wonder and mystery, and its seductive pull keeps drawing me back to it, elitism be damned.
Review of Bo Bartlett from ArtDish
Bo Bartlett at Winston Wachter Fine Art
Through January 4, 2007
The Bo Bartlett exhibition at Winston Wachter is a winner of an exhibition, and because it contains so many different kinds of work, it gives us a good overview of the artist’s strengths and weaknesses.
Very much on the plus side of the ledger is the way Bartlett’s fierce intelligence, taste, and painterly virtuosity informs nearly every work. There are few, if any, contemporary American artists who can match Bartlett’s ability to conjure people and places in paint, and the inventiveness and energy of his brushwork is a joy to behold. The faces of his sympathetically-observed subjects gaze out at us with a directness and intensity that is at times almost disconcerting. Everywhere we look, there is a dramatically painted, highly aware person staring back. Few of his subjects glance away, or for that matter, glance at each other. They want very badly to gain our attention and to let us in, albeit obliquely, to their secrets.
Equally striking is the sense of place that informs these realistic, but highly stylized images. Bartlett has long been associated with the sort of landscape setting familiar from the works of Andrew Wyeth (a friend and mentor of the artist), particularly the stark, elemental coastline of Maine, conceived as a place where only the jagged pyramid of crashing waves interrupts the cleaving marriage of rocky land, churning water, and featureless sky. Bartlett uses the starkness of this setting to lend drama and weight to the stories of the people he portrays, life-sized, in the foreground. These coastal narratives are iconic, timeless, and freighted with a sense of significance. Though Bartlett paints the world of today, since the early 90s he has allowed barely a glimpse of the familiar artifacts of contemporary life, things like sprawl, billboards, and television, the better to focus on the human subjects that are the center of his interest.
So linked is Bartlett with the primal Northeast that it comes as something of a shock to come across several walls containing modest-sized images of Seattle landmarks, everything from Mt. Rainier to the Space Needle, with the container docks and the headquarters of amazon.com thrown in for good measure. Several of these paintings contain rather anonymous figures – not looking in our direction, for once - but for the most part they serve as a sort of catalog of regional attractions, observed with the fondness and attentiveness of a new arrival. It’s as though Bartlett is trying on the local landscape for size, considering which elements to use in narrative paintings yet to come. He’s also making nice with the local clientele, something we can well forgive him for when the baubles are as luscious as his amazing, molten-paint depiction of the spotlit Smith Tower, or his close-up of a container of Starbucks coffee, lit and rendered with the attention and reverence we associate with depictions of holy relics. It’s your basic $30 thousand-dollar cup of joe, and it’s sold.
Given the importance Bartlett clearly assigns to the niceties of his physical location, which has changed, it’s no surprise that movement, transition, and change looms large as a theme in the show. His companion Betsy – an artist at the same gallery - figures in several of these images, here seen meditating while voyaging on Puget Sound ferries, there accompanying the artist on a highway voyage to the opposite coast.
In this latter painting, entitled The Good Traveler, Bartlett the driver stares directly at us through his side window (rather than at the road ahead) while his companion examines a map. The featureless landscape they pass through is a slice of nowhere, a place to be gotten by on the way to somewhere else. The neutral green-grey palette used for car, clothing, and land is set against the light on Betsy’s face and the vivid blue of several lakes on her map. An incongruous tiara glitters atop her forehead – is she for real? But she’s clearly the focal point of the painting, for it’s she who is engaged in the moment, taking care of business. He’s conflicted about the journey – why isn’t he watching the road? --and we’re led to wonder how far he would get (and where he would go) if he was left to drive alone, which I take to be the point of the painting.
Other large narratives feature beautiful, solitary figures enigmatically meeting our gaze with theirs, or groups of figures lost in their own thoughts. A bus full of everymen and everywomen metaphorically enacts their individual journeys through life; a gorgeous, nearly nude girl with a baby portrays a modern Madonna; two figures lounge on a couch.
If there’s a weakness to these large narrative paintings, it’s clearest in this last image, attractive and competent, but lacking in narrative tension. In his perfectly controlled sense of design and lighting, and his preference for a particular slim, attractive, and preppy physical type, some of Bartlett’s work inadvertently brings to mind the faux-American scenography of fashion advertising, the perfect WASP universe of Ralph Lauren, J. Crew, and Abercrombie and Fitch. It’s one of the curses of contemporary art that the line that separates art from fashion can at times seem so fuzzy, and at times Bartlett seems to veer across that line.
Perhaps it’s also my discomfort with this brittle perfection that make me so enamored of the most interesting and provocative painting in the show, the disturbing Au Matin. While the subject of Au Matin is also transition and displacement, this time the transition is ominous in the extreme, and the imagery is skewed, starting to break up.
Here the Maine coastline of the setting may or may not be a figment of someone’s imagination, since cliff, sea, and waves are seen through a mysterious wall, one which fades in and out of view.
Walking towards the edge of this phantom cliff and away from us are three figures – two identical men in overcoats and fedoras holding a woman in a bloodied straightjacket. Equally unsettling is the posture of the three figures, all of whom lean to one side in a highly choreographed, highly stylized manner, further destabilizing the image. The materiality of the paint shifts in a way that makes us doubt the substance of nearly everything, except for the coagulated blobs that depict the burnt out embers of a fire in the foreground, made of the artist’s palette scrapings. It’s a great picture, and an open-ended one, whatever its place in the artists’ ongoing autobiographical saga.
Au Matin is also interesting in that it represents a new direction for the artist, one in which the dreamlike and the surreal plays a larger role. Already at the top of his game technically, Bartlett clearly aspires to more deeply probe the mysteries just beyond the visible surfaces he has so long, and so skillfully, depicted.
Through January 4, 2007
The Bo Bartlett exhibition at Winston Wachter is a winner of an exhibition, and because it contains so many different kinds of work, it gives us a good overview of the artist’s strengths and weaknesses.
Very much on the plus side of the ledger is the way Bartlett’s fierce intelligence, taste, and painterly virtuosity informs nearly every work. There are few, if any, contemporary American artists who can match Bartlett’s ability to conjure people and places in paint, and the inventiveness and energy of his brushwork is a joy to behold. The faces of his sympathetically-observed subjects gaze out at us with a directness and intensity that is at times almost disconcerting. Everywhere we look, there is a dramatically painted, highly aware person staring back. Few of his subjects glance away, or for that matter, glance at each other. They want very badly to gain our attention and to let us in, albeit obliquely, to their secrets.
Equally striking is the sense of place that informs these realistic, but highly stylized images. Bartlett has long been associated with the sort of landscape setting familiar from the works of Andrew Wyeth (a friend and mentor of the artist), particularly the stark, elemental coastline of Maine, conceived as a place where only the jagged pyramid of crashing waves interrupts the cleaving marriage of rocky land, churning water, and featureless sky. Bartlett uses the starkness of this setting to lend drama and weight to the stories of the people he portrays, life-sized, in the foreground. These coastal narratives are iconic, timeless, and freighted with a sense of significance. Though Bartlett paints the world of today, since the early 90s he has allowed barely a glimpse of the familiar artifacts of contemporary life, things like sprawl, billboards, and television, the better to focus on the human subjects that are the center of his interest.
So linked is Bartlett with the primal Northeast that it comes as something of a shock to come across several walls containing modest-sized images of Seattle landmarks, everything from Mt. Rainier to the Space Needle, with the container docks and the headquarters of amazon.com thrown in for good measure. Several of these paintings contain rather anonymous figures – not looking in our direction, for once - but for the most part they serve as a sort of catalog of regional attractions, observed with the fondness and attentiveness of a new arrival. It’s as though Bartlett is trying on the local landscape for size, considering which elements to use in narrative paintings yet to come. He’s also making nice with the local clientele, something we can well forgive him for when the baubles are as luscious as his amazing, molten-paint depiction of the spotlit Smith Tower, or his close-up of a container of Starbucks coffee, lit and rendered with the attention and reverence we associate with depictions of holy relics. It’s your basic $30 thousand-dollar cup of joe, and it’s sold.
Given the importance Bartlett clearly assigns to the niceties of his physical location, which has changed, it’s no surprise that movement, transition, and change looms large as a theme in the show. His companion Betsy – an artist at the same gallery - figures in several of these images, here seen meditating while voyaging on Puget Sound ferries, there accompanying the artist on a highway voyage to the opposite coast.
In this latter painting, entitled The Good Traveler, Bartlett the driver stares directly at us through his side window (rather than at the road ahead) while his companion examines a map. The featureless landscape they pass through is a slice of nowhere, a place to be gotten by on the way to somewhere else. The neutral green-grey palette used for car, clothing, and land is set against the light on Betsy’s face and the vivid blue of several lakes on her map. An incongruous tiara glitters atop her forehead – is she for real? But she’s clearly the focal point of the painting, for it’s she who is engaged in the moment, taking care of business. He’s conflicted about the journey – why isn’t he watching the road? --and we’re led to wonder how far he would get (and where he would go) if he was left to drive alone, which I take to be the point of the painting.
Other large narratives feature beautiful, solitary figures enigmatically meeting our gaze with theirs, or groups of figures lost in their own thoughts. A bus full of everymen and everywomen metaphorically enacts their individual journeys through life; a gorgeous, nearly nude girl with a baby portrays a modern Madonna; two figures lounge on a couch.
If there’s a weakness to these large narrative paintings, it’s clearest in this last image, attractive and competent, but lacking in narrative tension. In his perfectly controlled sense of design and lighting, and his preference for a particular slim, attractive, and preppy physical type, some of Bartlett’s work inadvertently brings to mind the faux-American scenography of fashion advertising, the perfect WASP universe of Ralph Lauren, J. Crew, and Abercrombie and Fitch. It’s one of the curses of contemporary art that the line that separates art from fashion can at times seem so fuzzy, and at times Bartlett seems to veer across that line.
Perhaps it’s also my discomfort with this brittle perfection that make me so enamored of the most interesting and provocative painting in the show, the disturbing Au Matin. While the subject of Au Matin is also transition and displacement, this time the transition is ominous in the extreme, and the imagery is skewed, starting to break up.
Here the Maine coastline of the setting may or may not be a figment of someone’s imagination, since cliff, sea, and waves are seen through a mysterious wall, one which fades in and out of view.
Walking towards the edge of this phantom cliff and away from us are three figures – two identical men in overcoats and fedoras holding a woman in a bloodied straightjacket. Equally unsettling is the posture of the three figures, all of whom lean to one side in a highly choreographed, highly stylized manner, further destabilizing the image. The materiality of the paint shifts in a way that makes us doubt the substance of nearly everything, except for the coagulated blobs that depict the burnt out embers of a fire in the foreground, made of the artist’s palette scrapings. It’s a great picture, and an open-ended one, whatever its place in the artists’ ongoing autobiographical saga.
Au Matin is also interesting in that it represents a new direction for the artist, one in which the dreamlike and the surreal plays a larger role. Already at the top of his game technically, Bartlett clearly aspires to more deeply probe the mysteries just beyond the visible surfaces he has so long, and so skillfully, depicted.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Masi Oka: Coder, Actor, Hero
Masi Oka: Coder, Actor, Hero
Millions of viewers of NBC's Heroes know actor Masi Oka as Hiro Nakamura, the bored young Japanese office worker who discovers he has the power to alter time and teleport. What they probably don't know is that he's been working behind the scenes for years as one of Industrial Light & Magic's top programmers.
In an ensemble cast that features solid acting all around, Oka steals the show every time he's on the screen. The show literally has his Hiro living out the exploits of his own comic book, 9th Wonders.
Since graduating from Brown University in 1997, Oka has worked on more than 30 big-budget Hollywood films at ILM. During that time he has written more than 20 programs and 100 plug-ins for the leading special-effects house. While audiences might not have known his name or face until Heroes, they've seen his programming magic on the big screen in films like The Perfect Storm, Star Wars: Episode II, Terminator 3 and the first two Pirates of the Caribbean movies.
"I've been programming computers since elementary school, where they taught us, and I stuck with computer science through high school and college," said Oka. "ILM offered me an entry-level position at its Marin, California, headquarters, but they refused to fly me out for the job interview. Fortunately, Microsoft also was interested in hiring me and they flew me out to Seattle, then down to San Francisco and back to Providence."
Oka ended up taking the job with ILM and remains with the company to this day, despite his hectic TV production schedule. He said ILM was a great place to start in the industry because he learned a lot about the pipeline and how the company worked.
"It was also a way for upper management to determine how much drive we had," said Oka. "If we wanted to, we could always start our own projects."
After a year and a half of training, which included some work on Star Wars: Episode I and Rocky and Bullwinkle, Oka got his first big "show" with The Perfect Storm. He worked with John Anderson to create the computer-generated water effects for the film. All of the water effects in that film, as well as water effects in more recent films like Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, were the result of code written by Oka.
"That allowed me to get my name out in the ILM community and people wanted me to do a lot of particle work, fluid stuff and modeling for different shows," said Oka. "I became more of a firefighter, going around from show to show doing short-term work as a hired gun to solve problems on a very quick basis."
A lot of the software Oka wrote became applicable to other shows. For example, the computational fluid dynamics he worked on in Terminator 3, which allowed liquid metal to take shape, handled the drool in Dreamcatcher. His surface-cracking technology from Star Wars: Episode II worked well for Pirates of the Caribbean.
"The key to digital effects is to do things that are visually accurate but done cheaply and approximated," said Oka. "I would simulate viscosity or advection, things that are specific to the way water moves. We'd do a cheap simulated effect for these movements and they were used for things like the spray and wakes in The Perfect Storm."
Oka managed to get his Screen Actors Guild card by performing in a few industrial videos. After working on The Perfect Storm for nearly two full years, Oka moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career in 2001. He appeared in a number of TV shows (Scrubs, Reba, Without a Trace) and films (Along Came Polly, Legally Blonde 2, House of the Dead 2) before Heroes thrust him into the spotlight.
Working remotely from ILM's Los Angeles studio, Oka has remained active with movie effects, although now he's limited to one or two days of ILM work a week because of his production schedule.
"I love both acting and programming equally," said Oka, who enjoys challenging both sides of his brain. "I think it enriches me and enhances me as an artist. I have a lot of appreciation for what people do in front of the camera as well as behind the camera. I don't think I could like one without the other. Eventually, I think the road will lead me down to producing or directing, because it's more about problem solving."
Should Heroes' early success continue for NBC, Oka said he would love to be able to direct an episode in season three or four and bring all of his ILM cronies in to help out.
"I'd make use of my employee discount -- buy two effects and get one free," joked Oka.
Millions of viewers of NBC's Heroes know actor Masi Oka as Hiro Nakamura, the bored young Japanese office worker who discovers he has the power to alter time and teleport. What they probably don't know is that he's been working behind the scenes for years as one of Industrial Light & Magic's top programmers.
In an ensemble cast that features solid acting all around, Oka steals the show every time he's on the screen. The show literally has his Hiro living out the exploits of his own comic book, 9th Wonders.
Since graduating from Brown University in 1997, Oka has worked on more than 30 big-budget Hollywood films at ILM. During that time he has written more than 20 programs and 100 plug-ins for the leading special-effects house. While audiences might not have known his name or face until Heroes, they've seen his programming magic on the big screen in films like The Perfect Storm, Star Wars: Episode II, Terminator 3 and the first two Pirates of the Caribbean movies.
"I've been programming computers since elementary school, where they taught us, and I stuck with computer science through high school and college," said Oka. "ILM offered me an entry-level position at its Marin, California, headquarters, but they refused to fly me out for the job interview. Fortunately, Microsoft also was interested in hiring me and they flew me out to Seattle, then down to San Francisco and back to Providence."
Oka ended up taking the job with ILM and remains with the company to this day, despite his hectic TV production schedule. He said ILM was a great place to start in the industry because he learned a lot about the pipeline and how the company worked.
"It was also a way for upper management to determine how much drive we had," said Oka. "If we wanted to, we could always start our own projects."
After a year and a half of training, which included some work on Star Wars: Episode I and Rocky and Bullwinkle, Oka got his first big "show" with The Perfect Storm. He worked with John Anderson to create the computer-generated water effects for the film. All of the water effects in that film, as well as water effects in more recent films like Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, were the result of code written by Oka.
"That allowed me to get my name out in the ILM community and people wanted me to do a lot of particle work, fluid stuff and modeling for different shows," said Oka. "I became more of a firefighter, going around from show to show doing short-term work as a hired gun to solve problems on a very quick basis."
A lot of the software Oka wrote became applicable to other shows. For example, the computational fluid dynamics he worked on in Terminator 3, which allowed liquid metal to take shape, handled the drool in Dreamcatcher. His surface-cracking technology from Star Wars: Episode II worked well for Pirates of the Caribbean.
"The key to digital effects is to do things that are visually accurate but done cheaply and approximated," said Oka. "I would simulate viscosity or advection, things that are specific to the way water moves. We'd do a cheap simulated effect for these movements and they were used for things like the spray and wakes in The Perfect Storm."
Oka managed to get his Screen Actors Guild card by performing in a few industrial videos. After working on The Perfect Storm for nearly two full years, Oka moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career in 2001. He appeared in a number of TV shows (Scrubs, Reba, Without a Trace) and films (Along Came Polly, Legally Blonde 2, House of the Dead 2) before Heroes thrust him into the spotlight.
Working remotely from ILM's Los Angeles studio, Oka has remained active with movie effects, although now he's limited to one or two days of ILM work a week because of his production schedule.
"I love both acting and programming equally," said Oka, who enjoys challenging both sides of his brain. "I think it enriches me and enhances me as an artist. I have a lot of appreciation for what people do in front of the camera as well as behind the camera. I don't think I could like one without the other. Eventually, I think the road will lead me down to producing or directing, because it's more about problem solving."
Should Heroes' early success continue for NBC, Oka said he would love to be able to direct an episode in season three or four and bring all of his ILM cronies in to help out.
"I'd make use of my employee discount -- buy two effects and get one free," joked Oka.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
AHHTV
WASHINGTON, DC—The Federal Communications Commission voted 3-1 Monday to require electronics manufacturers to make all television sets ADHD-compatible within two years.
To adhere to the guidelines, every program, with the exception of The Hi Hi Puffy AmiYumi Show, will have to be sped up to meet the new standard frame rate of 120 frames per second.
FCC Chairman Kevin Martin characterized the move as "a natural, forward-thinking response to the changing needs of the average American viewer."
"In the media-saturated climate of the modern age, few have the time and energy to sit still for an entire episode of King Of Queens," Martin said. "Although the FCC will leave it up to the television networks to make the necessary programming changes, we are recommending, in accordance with the ADHDTV standard, that all shows be no more than six minutes in length, and that they contain jarring and unpredictable camera cuts to shiny props and detailed background sets."
"We're also advising that intra-episode recaps occur every 45 seconds," he added.
The ruling represents a growing shift toward ADHDTV, a television format designed to meet the needs of an increasingly inattentive and hyperactive audience. The tuner includes a built-in device that automatically changes channels after three minutes of uninterrupted single-station viewing, as well as a picture-in-picture-in-picture-in-picture option.
According to Sony, the leading manufacturer of the ADHD-compatible sets, the new technology will allow viewers to play up to three simultaneous video games while watching television.
"Many of our ADHDTVs will come with a motorized base," Sony spokesperson Richard O'Dell said. "In the event that the viewer turns his attention away from the television, it will begin to rotate and emit sirens and piercing shrieks."
The mandate to conform to the new format has already been met with some resistance, particularly from movie channels like HBO, live programs such as ABC's Monday Night Football, and the History Channel, whose ambitious five-part, 10-hour historical documentary about World War II, slated for completion in late 2007, will have to be shortened to a six-minute montage of the war set to a medley of Ashlee Simpson hits.
Some networks, however, are embracing the change.
"A majority of our shows are only watchable for a few minutes at a time anyway," said Fox president Peter Liguori, whose recently unveiled fall 2007 TV schedule includes over 850 new series. "We're going to roll out an exciting lineup of major sporting-event highlights, late-night yell shows, and a brand-new season of The O.C. that will feature 37 new characters and—well, I don't want to give too much away, but let's just say it will have a lot more guys jumping up and down, saying, 'Hey! Hey! Look over here!'"
On standard 4:3 televisions, ADHDTV programs will be shown in letterbox format, with the top and bottom of the screen alternately filled with bright, flittering butterflies, undulating rainbow-colored patterns, and singing hamsters in top hats.
Skeptics say the switch to ADHDTV will likely be delayed in favor of other projects or even completely forgotten by next week. However, the FDA is fast-tracking approval of the new drug Entertainalin, developed in anticipation of the modified programming. In clinical trials, the drug has been effective in helping viewers concentrate not only on the new TV format, but also on their immediate surroundings, the couch fabric, a dog passing by the window, and pieces of lint floating in the air.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
How to avoid nightmares
Great attention is to be paid to regularity and choice of diet. Intemperance of every kind is hurtful, but nothing is more productive of this disease than drinking bad wine. Of eatables those which are most prejudicial are all fat and greasy meats and pastry. These ought to be avoided, or eaten with caution. The same may be said of salt meats, for which dyspeptic patients have frequently a remarkable predilection, but which are not on that account the less unsuitable.
Moderate exercise contributes in a superior degree to promote the digestion of food and prevent flatulence; those, however, who are necessarily confined to a sedentary occupation, should particularly avoid applying themselves to study or bodily labor immediately after eating. If a strong propensity to sleep should occur after dinner, it will be certainly bettor to indulge it a little, as the process of digestion frequently goes on much better during sleep than when awake.
Going to bed before the usual hour is a frequent cause of night-mare, as it either occasions the patient to sleep too long or to lie long awake in the night. Passing a whole night or part of a night without rest likewise gives birth to the disease, as it occasions the patient, on the succeeding night, to sleep too soundly. Indulging in sleep too late in the morning, is an almost certain method to bring on the paroxysm, and the more frequently it returns, the greater strength it acquires; the propensity to sleep at this time is almost irresistible. Those who are habitually subject to attacks of the night-mare ought never to sleep alone, but should have some person near them, so as to be immediately awakened by their groans and struggles, and the person to whom this office may be entrusted should be instructed to rouse the patient as early as possible, that the paroxysm may not have time to gain strength.
Moderate exercise contributes in a superior degree to promote the digestion of food and prevent flatulence; those, however, who are necessarily confined to a sedentary occupation, should particularly avoid applying themselves to study or bodily labor immediately after eating. If a strong propensity to sleep should occur after dinner, it will be certainly bettor to indulge it a little, as the process of digestion frequently goes on much better during sleep than when awake.
Going to bed before the usual hour is a frequent cause of night-mare, as it either occasions the patient to sleep too long or to lie long awake in the night. Passing a whole night or part of a night without rest likewise gives birth to the disease, as it occasions the patient, on the succeeding night, to sleep too soundly. Indulging in sleep too late in the morning, is an almost certain method to bring on the paroxysm, and the more frequently it returns, the greater strength it acquires; the propensity to sleep at this time is almost irresistible. Those who are habitually subject to attacks of the night-mare ought never to sleep alone, but should have some person near them, so as to be immediately awakened by their groans and struggles, and the person to whom this office may be entrusted should be instructed to rouse the patient as early as possible, that the paroxysm may not have time to gain strength.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Images of delight
Images of delight
This morning Antoinette Ledzian of Stonington, CT wrote:
"Digital art has been my savior. Moments which might have been
blurred have turned into transformational pieces through my use
of Photoshop. I love the instant processing, the ability to
rework my images and go right onto another piece. I could never
do this when I practiced calligraphy or painted. Possibly I've
finally found my medium. What's happening?"
Thanks, Antoinette. It's an epidemic. Creative folks of all
stripes find the making of digital art to be almost
irresistible. Brilliant software--on a constant arc of
improvement--permits ever more speedy and imaginative
manipulation. Through portals like Flickr, images are posted
and feedback is immediate. Communities are born and people are
empowered. Instant gratification is the order of the day.
Worldwide, more than a thousand new images are currently being
posted every second. Like poetry in the last century, more is
being made than seen. And like poetry, the making of it is
absorbing, challenging, life enhancing, and full of beautiful
"aha" epiphanies. Digital manipulation is probably the fastest
way to cross-breed motifs and ideas. Everyone who tries it can
see that it's a creative tool like no other. To get an idea of
current and cutting edge digital art, I've asked Andrew to put
up a collection at the top of the current clickback. See URL
below.
And yep, digital has its problems. While holding out the hand
of democratization to all who would participate, like
photography itself, it also runs counter to the role of art as
commodity--digital is difficult to make rare. Its facile nature
and general proliferation tend to render it less valuable.
Those who would commercialize digital are faced with the
question of what to do with it. Posters, art-cards, gallery
sales, even pay-per-view on the Internet have so far shown only
faint success.
For us, digital is a celebration of looking and seeing, of
delight in what nature has given--and what the human creator
can do with what is seen. Its champions and masters are now
appearing. Digital is a welcome force for human exchange and
universal understanding--a sort of instant handshake that helps
to make real our essential brotherhood and sisterhood.
Best regards,
Robert
PS: "A computer is an interface where the mind and body can
connect with the universe and move bits of it about." (Douglas
Adams, 1952-2001)
Esoterica: In Leonardo's time there were few artists and those
few made magic that the wise and privileged desired. Today the
wise and privileged make magic for themselves. We can still
make our mark with brush and canvas, or chisel and stone--but
we are also blessed with the grace of a higher technology. In
the words of Daniel Bell, "Technology, like art, is a soaring
exercise of the human imagination." Can it be that this
technology is a window to a brighter future? "The new
electronic interdependence recreates the world in the image of
a global village." (Marshall McLuhan, 1911-1980)
This morning Antoinette Ledzian of Stonington, CT wrote:
"Digital art has been my savior. Moments which might have been
blurred have turned into transformational pieces through my use
of Photoshop. I love the instant processing, the ability to
rework my images and go right onto another piece. I could never
do this when I practiced calligraphy or painted. Possibly I've
finally found my medium. What's happening?"
Thanks, Antoinette. It's an epidemic. Creative folks of all
stripes find the making of digital art to be almost
irresistible. Brilliant software--on a constant arc of
improvement--permits ever more speedy and imaginative
manipulation. Through portals like Flickr, images are posted
and feedback is immediate. Communities are born and people are
empowered. Instant gratification is the order of the day.
Worldwide, more than a thousand new images are currently being
posted every second. Like poetry in the last century, more is
being made than seen. And like poetry, the making of it is
absorbing, challenging, life enhancing, and full of beautiful
"aha" epiphanies. Digital manipulation is probably the fastest
way to cross-breed motifs and ideas. Everyone who tries it can
see that it's a creative tool like no other. To get an idea of
current and cutting edge digital art, I've asked Andrew to put
up a collection at the top of the current clickback. See URL
below.
And yep, digital has its problems. While holding out the hand
of democratization to all who would participate, like
photography itself, it also runs counter to the role of art as
commodity--digital is difficult to make rare. Its facile nature
and general proliferation tend to render it less valuable.
Those who would commercialize digital are faced with the
question of what to do with it. Posters, art-cards, gallery
sales, even pay-per-view on the Internet have so far shown only
faint success.
For us, digital is a celebration of looking and seeing, of
delight in what nature has given--and what the human creator
can do with what is seen. Its champions and masters are now
appearing. Digital is a welcome force for human exchange and
universal understanding--a sort of instant handshake that helps
to make real our essential brotherhood and sisterhood.
Best regards,
Robert
PS: "A computer is an interface where the mind and body can
connect with the universe and move bits of it about." (Douglas
Adams, 1952-2001)
Esoterica: In Leonardo's time there were few artists and those
few made magic that the wise and privileged desired. Today the
wise and privileged make magic for themselves. We can still
make our mark with brush and canvas, or chisel and stone--but
we are also blessed with the grace of a higher technology. In
the words of Daniel Bell, "Technology, like art, is a soaring
exercise of the human imagination." Can it be that this
technology is a window to a brighter future? "The new
electronic interdependence recreates the world in the image of
a global village." (Marshall McLuhan, 1911-1980)
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
In Praise of Days
Pearls from Robert Genn
Yesterday, Nancy Hall of Sandy Hook, Manitoba wrote: "As an
artist, mother, farmhand, two-dog owner and a writer, I would
sure welcome some organizational tips! I'm curious how you pack
all you do into your life."
Thanks, Nancy. Early one morning when I was a very small kid, I
was standing on some rocks at the beach below where we lived.
The water was flat calm and grey to the horizon. I remember
thinking what a remarkable thing a day is. I wasn't thinking
about a "special" day, I was thinking about an ordinary day--a
day you could do things in. As I grew older I came to realize
that days are golden units by which our lives are measured. As
a self-anointed self-manager I realized that if I were going to
get anywhere, I needed to bring good habits, joy and a certain
amount of sacrifice to my days. By the time I was in my teens,
I had figured out that habits were holy--I saw in habits the
key to an independent creative life:
Work doggedly, one thing after the other.
Begin work early, finish many things each day.
Work on what comes to hand, what demands attention.
Have rough plans--work them daily.
Rest from the work--look at the water.
Regarding joy, Winston Churchill said, "It is no use doing what
you like; you have got to like what you do." I observed that
all kinds of people worked at jobs that were distasteful to
them. I didn't want to be like that. Besides, I was struck with
a peculiar disorder--I couldn't concentrate on dull jobs. I was
really lousy at everything except those things I wanted to do.
I needed to have work that was some sort of automatic or
semi-automatic joy. I wanted to be most often in "the joy
mode." I figured my work habits would take me there. By my
mid-twenties I had discovered that work is not work when the
work is loved. I had fallen in love with art.
Regarding sacrifice, early on I found that my days were not
long enough. I had to be more efficient in my use of the time
allotted, and I was prepared to make sacrifices. It was okay to
cut back on the time taken socializing, commuting and eating.
One must not, I thought, sacrifice sleep, exercise,
contemplation, love, family or dog activity.
Best regards,
Robert
PS: "Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let
me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow."
(Mary Jean Irion)
Esoterica: To be fair, a supportive partner and studio
assistants go a long way toward fooling people into thinking
that one is organizationally competent. Helpmates are above
angels. The telephone and the computer, on the other hand,
present special problems. I save some outgoing calls for the
car--and actually look forward to making them on a relatively
safe, hands-free (Bluetooth) system. A studio computer frees
up, speeds up, and actualizes an artist. Around here, Tuesdays
and Fridays are particularly full because there are so many
Inbox friends. As I'm older, and perhaps more mature, this
universal socializing is hard to resist. I'm eating better too.
Yesterday, Nancy Hall of Sandy Hook, Manitoba wrote: "As an
artist, mother, farmhand, two-dog owner and a writer, I would
sure welcome some organizational tips! I'm curious how you pack
all you do into your life."
Thanks, Nancy. Early one morning when I was a very small kid, I
was standing on some rocks at the beach below where we lived.
The water was flat calm and grey to the horizon. I remember
thinking what a remarkable thing a day is. I wasn't thinking
about a "special" day, I was thinking about an ordinary day--a
day you could do things in. As I grew older I came to realize
that days are golden units by which our lives are measured. As
a self-anointed self-manager I realized that if I were going to
get anywhere, I needed to bring good habits, joy and a certain
amount of sacrifice to my days. By the time I was in my teens,
I had figured out that habits were holy--I saw in habits the
key to an independent creative life:
Work doggedly, one thing after the other.
Begin work early, finish many things each day.
Work on what comes to hand, what demands attention.
Have rough plans--work them daily.
Rest from the work--look at the water.
Regarding joy, Winston Churchill said, "It is no use doing what
you like; you have got to like what you do." I observed that
all kinds of people worked at jobs that were distasteful to
them. I didn't want to be like that. Besides, I was struck with
a peculiar disorder--I couldn't concentrate on dull jobs. I was
really lousy at everything except those things I wanted to do.
I needed to have work that was some sort of automatic or
semi-automatic joy. I wanted to be most often in "the joy
mode." I figured my work habits would take me there. By my
mid-twenties I had discovered that work is not work when the
work is loved. I had fallen in love with art.
Regarding sacrifice, early on I found that my days were not
long enough. I had to be more efficient in my use of the time
allotted, and I was prepared to make sacrifices. It was okay to
cut back on the time taken socializing, commuting and eating.
One must not, I thought, sacrifice sleep, exercise,
contemplation, love, family or dog activity.
Best regards,
Robert
PS: "Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let
me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow."
(Mary Jean Irion)
Esoterica: To be fair, a supportive partner and studio
assistants go a long way toward fooling people into thinking
that one is organizationally competent. Helpmates are above
angels. The telephone and the computer, on the other hand,
present special problems. I save some outgoing calls for the
car--and actually look forward to making them on a relatively
safe, hands-free (Bluetooth) system. A studio computer frees
up, speeds up, and actualizes an artist. Around here, Tuesdays
and Fridays are particularly full because there are so many
Inbox friends. As I'm older, and perhaps more mature, this
universal socializing is hard to resist. I'm eating better too.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Paris Hilton targeted in CD prank
Sunday, 3 September 2006, 14:04 GMT 15:04 UK
Hundreds of Paris Hilton albums have been tampered with in the latest stunt by "guerrilla artist" Banksy.
Banksy has replaced Hilton's CD with his own remixes and given them titles such as Why am I Famous?, What Have I Done? and What Am I For?
He has also changed pictures of her on the CD sleeve to show the US socialite topless and with a dog's head.
A spokeswoman for Banksy said he had doctored 500 copies of her debut album Paris in 48 record shops across the UK.
She told the BBC News website: "He switched the CDs in store, so he took the old ones out and put his version in."
"It might be that there will be some people who agree with his views on the Paris Hilton album"
HMV spokesman
But he left the original barcode so people could buy the CD without realising it had been interfered with.
Banksy is notorious for his secretive and subversive stunts such as sneaking doctored versions of classic paintings into major art galleries.
His spokeswoman said he had tampered with the CDs in branches of HMV and Virgin as well as independent record stores.
He visited cities including Bristol, Brighton, Birmingham, Newcastle, Glasgow and London, she added.
A spokesman for HMV said the chain had recovered seven CDs from two Brighton shops but was unaware that other locations were affected.
Artistic leeway
No customers had complained or returned a doctored version, he said.
"It's not the type of behaviour you'd want to see happening very often," he said.
"I guess you can give an individual such as Banksy a little bit of leeway for his own particular brand of artistic engagement.
"Often people might have a view on something but feel they can't always express it, but it's down to the likes of Banksy to say often what people think about things.
"And it might be that there will be some people who agree with his views on the Paris Hilton album."
A spokesman for Virgin Megastores said staff were searching for affected CDs but it was proving hard to find them all.
"I have to take my hat off - it's a very good stunt," he added.
Hundreds of Paris Hilton albums have been tampered with in the latest stunt by "guerrilla artist" Banksy.
Banksy has replaced Hilton's CD with his own remixes and given them titles such as Why am I Famous?, What Have I Done? and What Am I For?
He has also changed pictures of her on the CD sleeve to show the US socialite topless and with a dog's head.
A spokeswoman for Banksy said he had doctored 500 copies of her debut album Paris in 48 record shops across the UK.
She told the BBC News website: "He switched the CDs in store, so he took the old ones out and put his version in."
"It might be that there will be some people who agree with his views on the Paris Hilton album"
HMV spokesman
But he left the original barcode so people could buy the CD without realising it had been interfered with.
Banksy is notorious for his secretive and subversive stunts such as sneaking doctored versions of classic paintings into major art galleries.
His spokeswoman said he had tampered with the CDs in branches of HMV and Virgin as well as independent record stores.
He visited cities including Bristol, Brighton, Birmingham, Newcastle, Glasgow and London, she added.
A spokesman for HMV said the chain had recovered seven CDs from two Brighton shops but was unaware that other locations were affected.
Artistic leeway
No customers had complained or returned a doctored version, he said.
"It's not the type of behaviour you'd want to see happening very often," he said.
"I guess you can give an individual such as Banksy a little bit of leeway for his own particular brand of artistic engagement.
"Often people might have a view on something but feel they can't always express it, but it's down to the likes of Banksy to say often what people think about things.
"And it might be that there will be some people who agree with his views on the Paris Hilton album."
A spokesman for Virgin Megastores said staff were searching for affected CDs but it was proving hard to find them all.
"I have to take my hat off - it's a very good stunt," he added.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Meauring Tenacity
The English landscape painter John Constable spent a lifetime
studying clouds. Seeing them both vaporous and solid, he found
them to be the most challenging of actors. Yesterday near
Ashern, Manitoba, under the prairie sky, I entered into their
leaden tops, slid down their warming gradations and confirmed
the dimensions of their mysterious volumes. Turning my
attention to their edges, I saw that they were cut with yellow
counter-light, while subtle tones slid progressively down the
colour wheel as they moved toward grays. In addition, their
flattened underbellies were brilliantly warm where they
reflected the golden fields below. Wispy micro-cloudlet
partners added vivacity, energy and design. Still, these clouds
were lit and shaded like any art-school blocks. "When such a
simple thing is so complex," said Constable in a similar
situation, "one needs tenacity."
In degrees of tenacity, some of us are steel-toed hiking boots,
others are an old pair of flip-flops. This understanding just
may determine how far we go. Thankfully, within the creative
universe there are different personality types--the sensitive
and the insensitive, the automatically creative and the
developmentally creative. Right- and left-brain tendencies as
well as other personality quirks provide a wide range of
possibilities and expectations. Constable, the most gentle and
sensitive of men, was also tenacious. I've asked Andrew to put
up a few examples of Constable's clouds at the top of the
current clickback. See URL below.
Sometimes I think this art business is all about channelling
and focusing our tenacious natures. These days, the general
ease of life promotes playtime, laziness, goofing off and a
"let George do it" attitude. But thriving artists often have
what I call "the relentless pursuit of entitlement." I'm not
talking about the entitlement to be supported--grants,
residencies, etc. I'm talking about the entitlement to "get
good."
Getting good takes work, and tenacity shows itself best during
the process of making art. "Genius," said Jane Hopkins, "is the
infinite capacity for taking pains." These pains can be minor
and yet powerful. John Constable was among the first to
tenaciously sit out in nature and try to work out such
seemingly lesser issues as relative darkness and lightness,
plainness and complexity, form and formlessness, weakness and
strength.
Best regards,
Robert
PS: "Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well." (P.
D. Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, 1694-1773)
Esoterica: Nuances are those subtle and seldom noticed
differences occurring in nature that many artists need to bring
into their work. Nuanced work depends on observation,
understanding and application. Nuance is often the difference
between ordinary art and great art. The tenacious artist takes
the time to get it right. Good enough is not good enough.
Further, tenacity and humility can be friends: "I know very
well what I am about and that my skies have not been neglected,
though they often failed in execution--and often no doubt from
anxiety about them." (John Constable, 1776-1837)
studying clouds. Seeing them both vaporous and solid, he found
them to be the most challenging of actors. Yesterday near
Ashern, Manitoba, under the prairie sky, I entered into their
leaden tops, slid down their warming gradations and confirmed
the dimensions of their mysterious volumes. Turning my
attention to their edges, I saw that they were cut with yellow
counter-light, while subtle tones slid progressively down the
colour wheel as they moved toward grays. In addition, their
flattened underbellies were brilliantly warm where they
reflected the golden fields below. Wispy micro-cloudlet
partners added vivacity, energy and design. Still, these clouds
were lit and shaded like any art-school blocks. "When such a
simple thing is so complex," said Constable in a similar
situation, "one needs tenacity."
In degrees of tenacity, some of us are steel-toed hiking boots,
others are an old pair of flip-flops. This understanding just
may determine how far we go. Thankfully, within the creative
universe there are different personality types--the sensitive
and the insensitive, the automatically creative and the
developmentally creative. Right- and left-brain tendencies as
well as other personality quirks provide a wide range of
possibilities and expectations. Constable, the most gentle and
sensitive of men, was also tenacious. I've asked Andrew to put
up a few examples of Constable's clouds at the top of the
current clickback. See URL below.
Sometimes I think this art business is all about channelling
and focusing our tenacious natures. These days, the general
ease of life promotes playtime, laziness, goofing off and a
"let George do it" attitude. But thriving artists often have
what I call "the relentless pursuit of entitlement." I'm not
talking about the entitlement to be supported--grants,
residencies, etc. I'm talking about the entitlement to "get
good."
Getting good takes work, and tenacity shows itself best during
the process of making art. "Genius," said Jane Hopkins, "is the
infinite capacity for taking pains." These pains can be minor
and yet powerful. John Constable was among the first to
tenaciously sit out in nature and try to work out such
seemingly lesser issues as relative darkness and lightness,
plainness and complexity, form and formlessness, weakness and
strength.
Best regards,
Robert
PS: "Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well." (P.
D. Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, 1694-1773)
Esoterica: Nuances are those subtle and seldom noticed
differences occurring in nature that many artists need to bring
into their work. Nuanced work depends on observation,
understanding and application. Nuance is often the difference
between ordinary art and great art. The tenacious artist takes
the time to get it right. Good enough is not good enough.
Further, tenacity and humility can be friends: "I know very
well what I am about and that my skies have not been neglected,
though they often failed in execution--and often no doubt from
anxiety about them." (John Constable, 1776-1837)
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Scholarly Perspectives on Digital Art
From artist Bruce D. Price
A recent issue of ArtNews (November, 2003) featured a Russian artist said to be pursuing "a digital aesthetic." His works, it turns out, are "pixel-based paintings of art-historical classics." Why, one might ask, does digital art need to refer to anything historical? What's the point? Digital is the unpredictable present and the unseen future. Let's see where that goes.
At the start of the 20th century, intellectuals hailed the beauty of the machine. This philosophy was called Machine Aesthetics. What the intellectuals meant was the sleek aerodynamic surface of the racing car or ocean liner. (They did not mean the dirty engine or dangerous boiler.) At the start of the 21st century, we are entering an unexpected new chapter in Machine Aesthetics. Now there's no beauty on the surface, as the computer can be in a cardboard box or hidden in the wall. The beauty is deep inside the silicon chips that enable computers to perform a billion calculations a second. Digital art can be understood as Machine Aesthetics II--The Inner Beauty.
A sculptress (more precisely, a potter who makes artistic ceramics) was interviewed in the Princeton Alumni Weekly. "Sometimes," she said, "the most interesting pieces come from a series of guided accidents." Exactly. Many digital artists would tell you the same thing: "I'm looking for those wonderful accidents that are more beautiful than anything I might think up beforehand. Serendipity--that's the best part."
Digital art can be used to replicate traditional media and to represent traditional subjects--e.g. to paint a flower or a nude. Brilliant work will be done in this direction. But why use this exciting new medium in old-fashioned ways? Avant-garde thinking suggests: this new kind of machine (the computer) should be used to create new kinds of art.
How do they do it? Hard to say. Even digital artists can't always tell how other digital artists achieve their effects. There's trade secrets and luck and even unexplainable, unrepeatable results. In an odd way, digital art of today is like glass blowing in Venice in, say 1000, when every glass blower had personal secrets and techniques. This mystery is part of the fun in digital art. But don't be intimidated. If you don't like the art, it's bad. If you like it, it's good. Buy it.
That Jackson Pollack dripped all those paintings was a big problem for many people. Cynics said, "My kid could do that." The Jackson Pollacks of today are digital artists. People ask, "So, when my kids get a computer, then they'll be able to do digital art?" Sure--exactly to the degree that when they get a set of oil paints, they'll be able to do oil paintings.
A new field is emerging, the sociology of computers. Here are the first findings: Turns out that almost half the population thinks the computer is bad, a devilish machine that is both impersonal and anti-creative. This Luddite perspective views the computer as a cookie-cutter drudge. For these people "computer art" is an oxymoron... Simultaneously, almost half the population thinks the exact opposite! Computers are gods. Push a button and opera comes out. Any child and a computer can write War and Peace and outpaint Manet. An artist painting on a computer isn't doing anything because the god-like computer is doing the work. Sorry. Neither view is very helpful. The computer is just a tool. A word processor--i.e. a computer programmed to manipulate texts-- doesn't create poetry, and an image processor--i.e. a computer programmed to manipulate images--doesn't create art. As always, poets make poetry and artists make art.
Digital art--here's one reason why the art world sometimes tries to pretend it's not there--is hugely democratic. Once a piece is created, the artist can make multiple copies. In this respect it's exactly like the photograph, another much maligned democratic medium. For the first 100 years of its existence, let's say 1850-1950, the camera was not considered a real artist's tool. What did the photographer actually do? Push a button, that's all. Much too democratic. But little by little, good artists went to work with the camera and made great art. Philistine opinion gave way. The same story is now being replayed starring the computer. What took a century in photography's case will pass by in relatively few years for digital art.
Andre Breton and the Surrealists said that artists should liberate the unconconscious. The idea was that you don't try to control everything. You let the creative process loose. Turns out the computer is a natural ally to experimentation, freeing the unconscious and, in effect, getting out of the way.
Toward a Digital Manifesto: the pixel is the language of the future. Digital is the landscape on which we will live. The goal of the digital artist is to explore the vast new aesthetic possibilities that digital technology has presented to us.
Welcome to the digital universe.
© Bruce D. Price 2004
A recent issue of ArtNews (November, 2003) featured a Russian artist said to be pursuing "a digital aesthetic." His works, it turns out, are "pixel-based paintings of art-historical classics." Why, one might ask, does digital art need to refer to anything historical? What's the point? Digital is the unpredictable present and the unseen future. Let's see where that goes.
At the start of the 20th century, intellectuals hailed the beauty of the machine. This philosophy was called Machine Aesthetics. What the intellectuals meant was the sleek aerodynamic surface of the racing car or ocean liner. (They did not mean the dirty engine or dangerous boiler.) At the start of the 21st century, we are entering an unexpected new chapter in Machine Aesthetics. Now there's no beauty on the surface, as the computer can be in a cardboard box or hidden in the wall. The beauty is deep inside the silicon chips that enable computers to perform a billion calculations a second. Digital art can be understood as Machine Aesthetics II--The Inner Beauty.
A sculptress (more precisely, a potter who makes artistic ceramics) was interviewed in the Princeton Alumni Weekly. "Sometimes," she said, "the most interesting pieces come from a series of guided accidents." Exactly. Many digital artists would tell you the same thing: "I'm looking for those wonderful accidents that are more beautiful than anything I might think up beforehand. Serendipity--that's the best part."
Digital art can be used to replicate traditional media and to represent traditional subjects--e.g. to paint a flower or a nude. Brilliant work will be done in this direction. But why use this exciting new medium in old-fashioned ways? Avant-garde thinking suggests: this new kind of machine (the computer) should be used to create new kinds of art.
How do they do it? Hard to say. Even digital artists can't always tell how other digital artists achieve their effects. There's trade secrets and luck and even unexplainable, unrepeatable results. In an odd way, digital art of today is like glass blowing in Venice in, say 1000, when every glass blower had personal secrets and techniques. This mystery is part of the fun in digital art. But don't be intimidated. If you don't like the art, it's bad. If you like it, it's good. Buy it.
That Jackson Pollack dripped all those paintings was a big problem for many people. Cynics said, "My kid could do that." The Jackson Pollacks of today are digital artists. People ask, "So, when my kids get a computer, then they'll be able to do digital art?" Sure--exactly to the degree that when they get a set of oil paints, they'll be able to do oil paintings.
A new field is emerging, the sociology of computers. Here are the first findings: Turns out that almost half the population thinks the computer is bad, a devilish machine that is both impersonal and anti-creative. This Luddite perspective views the computer as a cookie-cutter drudge. For these people "computer art" is an oxymoron... Simultaneously, almost half the population thinks the exact opposite! Computers are gods. Push a button and opera comes out. Any child and a computer can write War and Peace and outpaint Manet. An artist painting on a computer isn't doing anything because the god-like computer is doing the work. Sorry. Neither view is very helpful. The computer is just a tool. A word processor--i.e. a computer programmed to manipulate texts-- doesn't create poetry, and an image processor--i.e. a computer programmed to manipulate images--doesn't create art. As always, poets make poetry and artists make art.
Digital art--here's one reason why the art world sometimes tries to pretend it's not there--is hugely democratic. Once a piece is created, the artist can make multiple copies. In this respect it's exactly like the photograph, another much maligned democratic medium. For the first 100 years of its existence, let's say 1850-1950, the camera was not considered a real artist's tool. What did the photographer actually do? Push a button, that's all. Much too democratic. But little by little, good artists went to work with the camera and made great art. Philistine opinion gave way. The same story is now being replayed starring the computer. What took a century in photography's case will pass by in relatively few years for digital art.
Andre Breton and the Surrealists said that artists should liberate the unconconscious. The idea was that you don't try to control everything. You let the creative process loose. Turns out the computer is a natural ally to experimentation, freeing the unconscious and, in effect, getting out of the way.
Toward a Digital Manifesto: the pixel is the language of the future. Digital is the landscape on which we will live. The goal of the digital artist is to explore the vast new aesthetic possibilities that digital technology has presented to us.
Welcome to the digital universe.
© Bruce D. Price 2004
Monday, August 28, 2006
Resonses to "Hope"
"When artists slip the collar of convention, only then can they roam the forest of new found sites. With skill they may return with their visions for others to see in the code of their paintings. I do not understand the language or code of the birds but I do still love their songs. New visions need not be fully understood--only agreeable. I believe that true genius does not understand the word fear--instead their sails are set by hope of unseen shores."
Todd Plough
Todd Plough
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Willpower is best used with care
Cordelia Fine
June 14, 2006
A DECADE ago when I was an undergraduate psychologist, a departmental librarian called Anne was doing something any psychologist would say was impossible. Every year, with near-perfect accuracy, she would predict which third-year undergraduates would be awarded first-class degrees.
Anne didn't know how their essays were rated, what A-level grades they had under their belts, or how they scored on IQ tests. (All information many would say was essential to forecasting final results.)
All she knew was how often she had seen students in the department library: reading course notes, photocopying journals, borrowing books. And the handful of students who Anne saw a lot - conspicuously more often than the other students in the same year - were going to get a first.
Anne was working on the principle that in academic achievement it is self-discipline, not talent, that counts. Ten years on, a study published recently in Psychological Science has come to exactly the same conclusion.
Psychologists Angela Duckworth and Martin Seligman descended on the eighth grade of a large public school in the northeast of the US. As the autumn leaves fell, each of the 160-odd children took an IQ test, then they (and their parents and teachers) answered questionnaires that probed self-control. Are you good at resisting temptation, they were asked. Can you work effectively towards long-term goals? Or do pleasure and fun sometimes keep you from getting work done?
The children were also given a real-life test of their ability to delay gratification. Each was handed a dollar bill in an envelope. They could choose either to keep it or hand it back and get $2 a week later. Their decision was carefully recorded.
The researchers returned in spring. They took note of each child's grades and then looked back to see both how clever, and how self-controlled, that student had been in autumn. What, they wanted to know, was the most important factor in school grades?
The psychologists discovered it was self-control, by a long shot. A child's capacity for self-discipline was about twice as important as his or her IQ when it came to predicting academic success.
At first glance, research of this sort is a comfort to those of us not exploding with raw talent. The science seems to back up the writer Kingsley Amis's well-known advice that "the art of writing is the art of applying the seat of one's trousers to the seat of one's chair". Why, in that case anyone can write a book. Yet a small problem remains; namely, the problem of keeping the seat of one's trousers applied to the seat of one's chair.
Amis kept to an "unflinching schedule" of 500 words a day, according to The Guardian. (No doubt the young Amis would have returned the seductive single dollar bill to the researcher with barely a hesitation.) But just as we all have different levels of physical endurance so, too, do we differ in the strength of our will.
Some people are simply more susceptible to temptations and distractions, and we all sometimes reach the limits of our willpower sooner than we would like. "Programs that build self-discipline may be the royal road to building academic achievement," psychologists Duckworth and Seligman conclude from their findings.
So what can we do to strengthen self-discipline, to transform ourselves from impulsive dollar-snatchers to lofty long-term investors in future success?
Help lies in seeing willpower as a muscle, recent research suggests. The "moral muscle", as it has been called, powers all of the difficult and taxing mental tasks that you set yourself. It is the moral muscle that is flexing and straining as you keep attention focused on a dry academic article, bite back an angry retort to your boss, or decline a helping of your favourite dessert. And herein lies the problem: these acts of restraint all drain the same pool of mental reserves.
Take, for example, a group of hungry volunteers who were left alone in a room containing both a tempting platter of freshly baked chocolate chip biscuits and a plate piled high with radishes. Some of the volunteers were asked to sample only the radishes. These peckish volunteers manfully resisted the temptation of the biscuits and ate the prescribed number of radishes. Other, more fortunate, volunteers were asked to sample the biscuits.
In the next, supposedly unrelated, part of the experiment, the volunteers were asked to try to solve a difficult puzzle. The researchers weren't interested in whether the volunteers solved it. (In fact, it was insoluble.) Rather, they wanted to know how long the volunteers would persist with it. Their self-control already depleted, volunteers forced to snack on radishes persisted for less than half as long as people who had eaten the biscuits or (in case you should think chocolate biscuits offer inner strength) other volunteers who had skipped the eating part of the experiment.
As this and many similar studies show, if you draw on your reserves to achieve one unappealing goal - going for a jog, say - your moral muscle will be ineffective when you then call on it to help you switch off the television and start essay-writing.
What, then, can we do about this unfortunate tendency of the moral muscle to become fatigued with use? One option is to build it up and make it strong. Evidence is starting to accumulate that the moral muscle, like its physical counterpart, can become taut and bulging from regular exercise. People asked by experimenters to be self-disciplined about their posture for two weeks were afterwards stronger willed when it came to a test of physical endurance, compared with other people allowed to slouch about in their usual comfortable way during the fortnight.
By regularly exercising self-restraint and virtue in all areas of life (moral muscle cross-training, we may call it), we will come to resist temptations with the same casual ease with which a world-class athlete sprints to catch a train. That, at least, is the idea.
Unfortunately, like any sensible, long-term strategy for self-improvement, this approach has limited appeal. For just as we want to fit into those trousers next Monday - not after eight tedious weeks of healthy eating and regular exercise - it is often the same for our more cerebral ambitions. Exam dates are set in stone, deadlines loom on the horizon, or may even mock us from the past. In other words, there simply may not be enough time to become a master of temperance and virtue before tackling our goal.
Fortunately, there is also an attractive quick-fix approach to the problem of limited willpower. This is to use your moral muscle only very sparingly. My father, a professional philosopher, has a job that involves thinking very hard about very difficult things. This, of course, is an activity that consumes mental resources at a terrific rate.
The secret of his success as an academic, I am now convinced, is to ensure that none of his precious brainpower is wasted on other, less important matters. He feels the urge to sample a delicious luxury chocolate? He pops one in his mouth. Pulling on yesterday's shirt less trouble than finding a clean one? Over his head the stale garment goes. Rather fancies sitting in a comfy armchair instead of taking a brisk jog around the park? Comfy armchair it is. Thanks to its five-star treatment, my father's willpower - rested and restored whenever possible - can take on the search for wisdom with the strength of 10 men.
Although we may not all be able to live the charmed life of the well-paid scholar, the general principle - not to spread our inner resolve too thin - is an important one. If you are about to embark on a big project you court disaster if at the same time your life is cluttered and demanding, or you also commit to draining attempts at self-enhancement. The would-be novelist whose taxing day job exhausts her moral muscle will find it harder to apply the seat of her trousers to the seat of her chair. The dieting philosopher will struggle to keep his attention on a tricky passage of Friedrich Nietzsche.
Where are the students whose self-discipline is constantly worn away by other concerns? Not in the library reading course-notes, photocopying articles or borrowing books. And if they are relying on their smarts to get them to the top of the class then there will be disappointment ahead.
But don't just take my word for it. Ask a librarian.
Cordelia Fine is a research fellow at the Centre for Applied Philosophy and Public Ethics at the University of Melbourne.
June 14, 2006
A DECADE ago when I was an undergraduate psychologist, a departmental librarian called Anne was doing something any psychologist would say was impossible. Every year, with near-perfect accuracy, she would predict which third-year undergraduates would be awarded first-class degrees.
Anne didn't know how their essays were rated, what A-level grades they had under their belts, or how they scored on IQ tests. (All information many would say was essential to forecasting final results.)
All she knew was how often she had seen students in the department library: reading course notes, photocopying journals, borrowing books. And the handful of students who Anne saw a lot - conspicuously more often than the other students in the same year - were going to get a first.
Anne was working on the principle that in academic achievement it is self-discipline, not talent, that counts. Ten years on, a study published recently in Psychological Science has come to exactly the same conclusion.
Psychologists Angela Duckworth and Martin Seligman descended on the eighth grade of a large public school in the northeast of the US. As the autumn leaves fell, each of the 160-odd children took an IQ test, then they (and their parents and teachers) answered questionnaires that probed self-control. Are you good at resisting temptation, they were asked. Can you work effectively towards long-term goals? Or do pleasure and fun sometimes keep you from getting work done?
The children were also given a real-life test of their ability to delay gratification. Each was handed a dollar bill in an envelope. They could choose either to keep it or hand it back and get $2 a week later. Their decision was carefully recorded.
The researchers returned in spring. They took note of each child's grades and then looked back to see both how clever, and how self-controlled, that student had been in autumn. What, they wanted to know, was the most important factor in school grades?
The psychologists discovered it was self-control, by a long shot. A child's capacity for self-discipline was about twice as important as his or her IQ when it came to predicting academic success.
At first glance, research of this sort is a comfort to those of us not exploding with raw talent. The science seems to back up the writer Kingsley Amis's well-known advice that "the art of writing is the art of applying the seat of one's trousers to the seat of one's chair". Why, in that case anyone can write a book. Yet a small problem remains; namely, the problem of keeping the seat of one's trousers applied to the seat of one's chair.
Amis kept to an "unflinching schedule" of 500 words a day, according to The Guardian. (No doubt the young Amis would have returned the seductive single dollar bill to the researcher with barely a hesitation.) But just as we all have different levels of physical endurance so, too, do we differ in the strength of our will.
Some people are simply more susceptible to temptations and distractions, and we all sometimes reach the limits of our willpower sooner than we would like. "Programs that build self-discipline may be the royal road to building academic achievement," psychologists Duckworth and Seligman conclude from their findings.
So what can we do to strengthen self-discipline, to transform ourselves from impulsive dollar-snatchers to lofty long-term investors in future success?
Help lies in seeing willpower as a muscle, recent research suggests. The "moral muscle", as it has been called, powers all of the difficult and taxing mental tasks that you set yourself. It is the moral muscle that is flexing and straining as you keep attention focused on a dry academic article, bite back an angry retort to your boss, or decline a helping of your favourite dessert. And herein lies the problem: these acts of restraint all drain the same pool of mental reserves.
Take, for example, a group of hungry volunteers who were left alone in a room containing both a tempting platter of freshly baked chocolate chip biscuits and a plate piled high with radishes. Some of the volunteers were asked to sample only the radishes. These peckish volunteers manfully resisted the temptation of the biscuits and ate the prescribed number of radishes. Other, more fortunate, volunteers were asked to sample the biscuits.
In the next, supposedly unrelated, part of the experiment, the volunteers were asked to try to solve a difficult puzzle. The researchers weren't interested in whether the volunteers solved it. (In fact, it was insoluble.) Rather, they wanted to know how long the volunteers would persist with it. Their self-control already depleted, volunteers forced to snack on radishes persisted for less than half as long as people who had eaten the biscuits or (in case you should think chocolate biscuits offer inner strength) other volunteers who had skipped the eating part of the experiment.
As this and many similar studies show, if you draw on your reserves to achieve one unappealing goal - going for a jog, say - your moral muscle will be ineffective when you then call on it to help you switch off the television and start essay-writing.
What, then, can we do about this unfortunate tendency of the moral muscle to become fatigued with use? One option is to build it up and make it strong. Evidence is starting to accumulate that the moral muscle, like its physical counterpart, can become taut and bulging from regular exercise. People asked by experimenters to be self-disciplined about their posture for two weeks were afterwards stronger willed when it came to a test of physical endurance, compared with other people allowed to slouch about in their usual comfortable way during the fortnight.
By regularly exercising self-restraint and virtue in all areas of life (moral muscle cross-training, we may call it), we will come to resist temptations with the same casual ease with which a world-class athlete sprints to catch a train. That, at least, is the idea.
Unfortunately, like any sensible, long-term strategy for self-improvement, this approach has limited appeal. For just as we want to fit into those trousers next Monday - not after eight tedious weeks of healthy eating and regular exercise - it is often the same for our more cerebral ambitions. Exam dates are set in stone, deadlines loom on the horizon, or may even mock us from the past. In other words, there simply may not be enough time to become a master of temperance and virtue before tackling our goal.
Fortunately, there is also an attractive quick-fix approach to the problem of limited willpower. This is to use your moral muscle only very sparingly. My father, a professional philosopher, has a job that involves thinking very hard about very difficult things. This, of course, is an activity that consumes mental resources at a terrific rate.
The secret of his success as an academic, I am now convinced, is to ensure that none of his precious brainpower is wasted on other, less important matters. He feels the urge to sample a delicious luxury chocolate? He pops one in his mouth. Pulling on yesterday's shirt less trouble than finding a clean one? Over his head the stale garment goes. Rather fancies sitting in a comfy armchair instead of taking a brisk jog around the park? Comfy armchair it is. Thanks to its five-star treatment, my father's willpower - rested and restored whenever possible - can take on the search for wisdom with the strength of 10 men.
Although we may not all be able to live the charmed life of the well-paid scholar, the general principle - not to spread our inner resolve too thin - is an important one. If you are about to embark on a big project you court disaster if at the same time your life is cluttered and demanding, or you also commit to draining attempts at self-enhancement. The would-be novelist whose taxing day job exhausts her moral muscle will find it harder to apply the seat of her trousers to the seat of her chair. The dieting philosopher will struggle to keep his attention on a tricky passage of Friedrich Nietzsche.
Where are the students whose self-discipline is constantly worn away by other concerns? Not in the library reading course-notes, photocopying articles or borrowing books. And if they are relying on their smarts to get them to the top of the class then there will be disappointment ahead.
But don't just take my word for it. Ask a librarian.
Cordelia Fine is a research fellow at the Centre for Applied Philosophy and Public Ethics at the University of Melbourne.
Make a Conservator Happy
From Art Biz Coach ~
Camilla J. Van Vooren is a good friend who is in my Toastmasters club. After she leaves us on Wednesday mornings, she goes to her job as Senior Conservator of Paintings, Western Center for the Conservation of Fine Arts in Denver. I asked her recently what kind of information conservators need from artists. If you are concerned, as you should be, about the enduring nature of your art, take heed:
"What we desperately need to know from artists, I think, is a 'structure and instruction' report which makes specific references to their intent., i.e., 'If that caviar falls off your work, should I restore it or just go buy fresh caviar?' [Did I mention Camilla has a sense of humor to be envied? She continues. . . ]
"Seriously, what I think would be of immense value would be a form that covers every aspect of the structure of the work. For example, on an oil painting, start with the 'auxiliary support,' the stretcher, strainer, panel or board that the art is executed on. Then we would talk about the gesso or ground layer, then the paint film, the varnish, etc. It would be helpful to the artist to keep records of these things for their own future reference.
"For each of these categories, the artist would list the brands or types of materials used including technical references, especially if it is an unusual material. If they would include procedural notes such as layering schemes it would be invaluable to future conservators.
"Then, they could include notes on the degree to which they would have any part conserved or restored. For example, if the stretcher fails, do you approve of a conservator removing the canvas from the stretcher and replacing it? Now, on all of the different areas, they could include condition notes and their thoughts about it with some general comments about their intent at the end. This might be anything from 'Do anything necessary to preserve the 2-dimensional image' to 'Do NOT VARNISH' to 'Let the thing rot. I specifically do not want it to be preserved!'
"If we had these types of guidelines from the artist, it would be heaven!"
KNOW THIS Conservators need to know your intent and materials.
THINK ABOUT THIS Future generations have no idea what your intent was. You have to spell it out if it isn't obvious.
DO THIS If you want your work preserved in a museum one day, make a conservator happy. Get in the habit of keeping notes about your working materials, techniques, and intent.
Camilla J. Van Vooren is a good friend who is in my Toastmasters club. After she leaves us on Wednesday mornings, she goes to her job as Senior Conservator of Paintings, Western Center for the Conservation of Fine Arts in Denver. I asked her recently what kind of information conservators need from artists. If you are concerned, as you should be, about the enduring nature of your art, take heed:
"What we desperately need to know from artists, I think, is a 'structure and instruction' report which makes specific references to their intent., i.e., 'If that caviar falls off your work, should I restore it or just go buy fresh caviar?' [Did I mention Camilla has a sense of humor to be envied? She continues. . . ]
"Seriously, what I think would be of immense value would be a form that covers every aspect of the structure of the work. For example, on an oil painting, start with the 'auxiliary support,' the stretcher, strainer, panel or board that the art is executed on. Then we would talk about the gesso or ground layer, then the paint film, the varnish, etc. It would be helpful to the artist to keep records of these things for their own future reference.
"For each of these categories, the artist would list the brands or types of materials used including technical references, especially if it is an unusual material. If they would include procedural notes such as layering schemes it would be invaluable to future conservators.
"Then, they could include notes on the degree to which they would have any part conserved or restored. For example, if the stretcher fails, do you approve of a conservator removing the canvas from the stretcher and replacing it? Now, on all of the different areas, they could include condition notes and their thoughts about it with some general comments about their intent at the end. This might be anything from 'Do anything necessary to preserve the 2-dimensional image' to 'Do NOT VARNISH' to 'Let the thing rot. I specifically do not want it to be preserved!'
"If we had these types of guidelines from the artist, it would be heaven!"
KNOW THIS Conservators need to know your intent and materials.
THINK ABOUT THIS Future generations have no idea what your intent was. You have to spell it out if it isn't obvious.
DO THIS If you want your work preserved in a museum one day, make a conservator happy. Get in the habit of keeping notes about your working materials, techniques, and intent.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
V for Vendetta
I do have to say that I love this film. Scarlet Carson roses do not really exist unfortunately. The sequence in the film in which Evey reads the autobiography hidden in the wall is one of my favorites.
V for Vendetta: Behind the Scenes
V For Vendetta is set in London in the near future. Though still anchored by venerable landmarks such as Parliament, Old Bailey and Big Ben, the city, like the rest of the country, has fallen into a state of post-war isolation and depression. Chancellor Adam Sutler wrested incalculable power over this tightly-controlled society by championing his extremist Norsefire party as England’s only safeguard against war, disease and famine. Yet Sutler’s oppressive policies have stripped the culture of its spirit, vitality and hope. Food is rationed but fear is in great supply. Personal freedoms are an antiquated notion of the past, and no one dare raise a voice in dissent, lest they be “black bagged” by Fingermen �" Minister Creedy’s secret police force �" and never heard from again.
Led by director James McTeigue, the V For Vendetta team strived to capture the essence of present-day London in their rendering of the film’s grim socio-political landscape. “England has become quite soulless,” says production designer Owen Paterson, who previously collaborated with McTeigue and the Wachowski Brothers on the Matrix trilogy. “We tried to create a London that is very recognizable, yet frozen by having become this totalitarian state.”
Paterson and costume designer Sammy Sheldon used a palette of gray tones to evoke the bleak, regimented pall that envelops the city and its citizens. “In this environment, choice is limited,” set decorator Peter Walpole notes. “You might be able to buy a car or a can of baked beans, but there’s only one brand available. This was reflected in the television studio set, for example. All of the monitors are the same brand, and all of the desks and chairs are exactly the same.”
The film was largely shot on soundstages and interior settings to underscore the story’s tone of anxiety and alienation. “We wanted to create a sense of claustrophobia, so the film is very purposefully interior,” McTeigue explains.
Filming began in March 2005 at Babelsberg Studios in Potsdam, Germany. With nearby Berlin doubling for a handful of practical locations, the production spent ten weeks on the Babelsberg soundstages before moving to London for a few weeks to shoot principal exterior sequences.
Paterson oversaw the design and construction of a staggering 89 sets for the Babelsberg segment of production alone, including the Jordan television tower, home to the government-controlled British Television Network; Victoria Station, a former stop on the ruins of the Underground, which the government shut down years ago; as well as another critical section of the Underground that V has commandeered for use in his plot to blow up Parliament.
On historic Stage 2, where Fritz Lang’s classic futuristic thriller Metropolis was filmed in 1927, the cast and crew of 500 inhabited the grandest and most elaborate of Paterson’s sets: the labyrinthine Shadow Gallery.
Like V himself, his subterranean lair is elegant, mysterious and enthralling �" a stylish cross between a crypt and a church, carved from the passageways beneath the city. “I envisioned the Shadow Gallery as an expanded ace of clubs, with a central space and chambers spiralling outwards from the middle,” McTeigue says of the sprawling set, which includes a library, V’s dressing room, a kitchen and a screening room/lounge. “It feels like it’s located beneath some great cultural institution that has long been closed down by the government.”
“The Shadow Gallery is the sort of place that could exist below St. Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey,” Paterson elaborates. “It’s an arched, Tudor kind of space where you can imagine someone bricked up a door years ago and forgot it was ever there.” V’s vaulted hideaway also serves as a museum of sorts, a home to his extensive collection of music, film, literature, philosophy and art �" all of which has been banned by the government’s Ministry of Objectionable Material. “V has become a caretaker of everything that the government won’t allow,” says McTeigue.
“He’s a guardian of a culture that is in danger of being lost forever,” adds Hugo Weaving. “I suspect there are a number of people in this world who are like him, who have their own hoards, their own treasure troves like the Shadow Gallery.”
One of the biggest challenges for set decorator Peter Walpole and the art department was securing the rights to reproduce the Gallery’s myriad iconic works �" and then replicating them and dressing the numerous Gallery chambers. “We had to get an enormous variety of objects �" everything from Picassos to Turners, modern art to comic books,” Walpole says.
Walpole’s team also had to collect and arrange hundreds of books to dress V’s makeshift library. It is here that Evey first awakens in the Shadow Gallery and finds herself surrounded by stacks and stacks of treasonous volumes.
“As you enter the room, the books are piled low, as though they’ve been blown in like a bunch of leaves,” Walpole describes. “But as you move toward the far end, the piles grow until they reach the ceiling and line the walls, almost like a snowdrift.”
To give McTeigue and the crew maximum flexibility while filming in the library, many of the books were fastened together like building blocks, so the stacks could be moved quickly and reconnected like Lego components, rather than moved piecemeal.
During production of this scene, Natalie Portman recalls, “James brought in a clipping from a newspaper with a photo of a library that was discvovered in Iraq. The government had shut it down and there were piles and piles of books everywhere. It was sort of incredible, having this real life parallel as we were filming.”
In addition to designing the sets, Paterson also collaborated with McTeigue and art director Stephan Gessler on the creation of V’s eerie mask. More than a mere disguise, an affect of his theatrical personality or a veil for his hideously disfigured face, V’s mask becomes a powerful symbol of the ideas of freedom and expression he represents.
Paterson’s design was modeled on V’s iconic visage from the graphic novel, which illustrator David Lloyd based on the eponymous masks worn in tribute to traitor-turned-folk hero Guy Fawkes. But as drawn by Lloyd, V’s mask takes on different moods and expressions from frame to frame.
McTeigue opted to create a “fixed” façade, rather than using CGI or a flexible mask that could be manipulated to form expressions. “I wanted the face, even though it’s very distinct, to have a ‘universality’ to it,” he says. “I knew that if we achieved the right look for the mask, we would be able to tonally and atmospherically change the way it appears on camera through the lighting design and Hugo’s performance.”
The result, which the director describes as “a cross between a traditional Guy Fawkes mask and a Harlequin mask,” was sculpted from clay �" a considerably more imperfect and painstaking process than the modern mold-making method of computer cyber-scanning �" then cast in fiberglass and painted with an airbrush to create a porcelain doll-like quality.
“We had a very fine sculptor named Berndt Wenzel who patiently went through seven generations of carving the mask from clay to get the right personality,” Paterson says. “We needed to capture the perfect generic look so that when we lit the mask in different ways, it would take on different expressions.”
Bringing the mask to life was “definitely a collaborative effort,” Weaving reports. Though aided by lighting and cinematography, the actor needed to convey a great deal of emotion solely through his voice and body language, as no part of his eyes, mouth or face are visible behind V’s façade. “James often gave me notes about my dialogue or my performance as I would do it if I weren’t wearing a mask. That was great, because central to making the mask work was making the character behind the mask work.”
Finding V’s voice was crucial to the process. “I knew I didn’t have to worry about my voice being muffled by the mask when we were filming, because we would re-record my dialogue in post-production,” says the actor. “But it’s still important to find the character within the voice and give the right performance on the day.”
In addition to the challenges of emoting through the mask was the considerable challenge of learning to work with the mask. “It has a very narrow field of vision,” McTeigue explains. “Hugo’s actual eye-line when he’s looking at the character he’s playing opposite is at their stomach.”
Weaving also had to integrate acting in the mask with the character’s wig, hat and a heavy cloaked costume featuring a high neckline that restricted his head movement. “The amount of sweat that pours off you when you’re wearing a wig, a hat, a very hot costume and a mask is phenomenal,” Weaving says good-naturedly.
Created by costume designer Sammy Sheldon (Black Hawk Down, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), Weaving’s wardrobe was styled after McTeigue’s vision of V as “a cross between the actual Guy Fawkes character and a gunslinger.”
“V’s costume is rooted in the 16th century, but we chiseled it down to look more simple, sleek and modern �" futuristic in an historical way,” says Sheldon, who crafted the ensemble from cashmere, wool, leather and an original 16th century silk basket weave. “V’s hat was modified, for example. We shortened it and made it cleaner, instead of fancy and feathered as it would have been in Fawkes’ time.”
As with V’s wardrobe, his weapons of choice �" six handmade throwing knives �" reflect a combination of period and modern design. “When V opens his cloak, I wanted it to look as though he has metal teeth attached,” McTeigue explains. “Our armorer, Simon Atherton, did an amazing job of crafting V’s knives and creating the metal sheaths they slide into.”
V’s chillingly exquisite calling cards, Scarlet Carson roses, were portrayed in the film by red Grand Prix roses. The prop department purchased dozens of Grand Prixes daily to ensure there were always a few on hand at the studio in the perfect state of bloom for filming.
While Weaving contended with his character’s multi-faceted costume, Natalie Portman had a much more minimalist wardrobe challenge in portraying V’s unlikely accomplice, Evey Hammond: she was required to have her head shaved on camera for a pivotal sequence in which Evey is imprisoned and tortured to reveal V’s identity.
Knowing he had only one take to capture Evey’s anguish as Portman’s auburn locks were stripped, McTeigue used multiple cameras to cover the action and asked the film’s hair stylist, Jeremy Woodhead, to handle the shears.
Portman found the experience liberating. “It’s been really nice to step away from vanity a little bit,” she says. “The time you spend on your appearance as a woman �" if you put all that together you’d have an extra ten years of your life. It’s been great to get away from that. But at the same time, it takes a really long time to grow back, so the sooner, the better!”
Another powerful shot that McTeigue and company needed to achieve in one take is a stunning sequence in which V touches off thousands of dominoes meticulously arranged in an intricate “V” pattern on the Shadow Gallery floor.
While principal photography rolled on at Babelsberg, an advance team prepared for the final few weeks of filming in London. Owen Paterson’s art department transformed exterior locations to convey the dull pallor of the strictly-controlled society �" removing advertising signage, all signs of public transportation and any splashes of color or brightness. “We wanted everything to be gray,” says set decorator Peter Walpole. “Then we added surveillance cameras and telegraph poles with speakers mounted on them to emphasize the ‘Big Brother’ atmosphere.”
For flashbacks to the 1990s that depict life in England prior to the election of ultra-conservative Chancellor Adam Sutler, the sets are “a little more cluttered, a little more lived in, a little freer,” Walpole describes. “In the scenes set in the present day in the film, there’s not quite as much set dressing. Everything’s a bit more regimented. There’s a subtle contrast.”
The film’s climactic sequence, set in the shadows of Parliament, took place on Whitehall, the iconic thoroughfare running from Nelson’s Column at Trafalgar Square to the Parliament Buildings and Big Ben.
Home to such high-profile Westminster addresses as 10 Downing Street and the Ministry of Defense, the security-sensitive thoroughfare had never before been closed to traffic to accommodate filming. After nine months of negotiating with 14 government departments and agencies, including the Ministry of Defense, location supervisor Nick Daubeney secured unprecedented permission to close the street for filming between the hours of midnight and 5am for three consecutive nights. This gave the production only four hours of shooting time per night, given the setup and removal of equipment, personnel and the production’s vehicles, including two army tanks.
As with the multiple permissions secured to film on Whitehall, the production also had to obtain authorization for the use of the two tanks and simulated weaponry during rehearsals and filming at the location.
The decommissioned ex-military tanks were acquired from a prop warehouse in the UK. Prior to transporting the vehicles to Whitehall for filming each night, the tanks were inspected off-site by government security personnel to ensure their weaponry was not functional nor had been altered in any way. They were then taken via trucks to the location �" with no stops or changes to the tanks allowed during transport �" and were accompanied by security officials at all times. (On screen and on set, the tanks moved under their own power.)
Background checks were conducted on every actor and technician who carried simulated weapons during production of the Whitehall sequence. Barcodes on the weaponry were scanned to track each piece and the individuals authorized to handle them.
Meanwhile, government security personnel surrounded the production at all times �" some of whom were identifiable to the cast and crew, and others who maintained anonymity within the crowd to ensure the security of everyone involved. This ambitious sequence also required costume designer Sammy Sheldon and her team to outfit 500 extras in replica V cloaks and hats, as well as fabricate uniforms, helmets and flak jackets for 400 extras portraying militia.
Following the completion of principal photography, visual effects supervisor Dan Glass and the V for Vendetta miniatures unit, led by Model Unit Supervisor José Granell, spent ten days detonating large-scale models of the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and Old Bailey for key scenes in the film.
While some computer-generated effects were later fused with footage of the models being exploded, it was important to the filmmakers that the explosions, which carry great symbolic value, be as realistic as possible, so they opted for the practical effect of detonating physical replicas of the buildings over CGI.
“The models provide a real, tangible environment,” Granell explains, “and when you’re dealing with physical elements such as water and fire, and especially pyrotechnics, you get a better look when you have real, physical events taking place. With CGI, unless you actually deliberately create them, you don’t get any accidents �" so you don’t get that essential feeling of nature doing its own thing.”
The filmmakers chose to utilize large-scale models in order to create a realistic relationship between the size of the buildings and the pyrotechnic events being filmed. Built in eleven weeks at Shepperton Studios by the London firm Cinesite, the plaster models were constructed at one seventh scale, which yielded an impressive 20-foot replica of Old Bailey, with the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben towering at approximately 30 feet high and the length of Parliament stretching 42 feet long.
During the course of their research, Granell and his team studied documentary footage of actual stone buildings being exploded to get a feeling for how stone reacts to detonation. From there they began their experiments with materials. Since plaster breaks up well and behaves most like stone when detonated, the models were predominantly constructed with cast plaster. The team experimented with a variety of plaster recipes for different areas of the model �" some components had to be more rigid, while some of the finer detail necessitated a weaker version of the plaster.
Prior to the final filming, an effects element shoot was held during which the team performed individual pyrotechnic explosions that they would later be able to use in post-production. They tested a variety of combinations of types of charges and different varieties of plaster, to see how each pairing performed on film. “For instance, one of the problems we found is that the weakened plaster we used tended to create too much dust,” says Granell. “And the one thing I didn’t want to do was hide any of the color of the actual combustible elements �" the pyrotechnic charges, the flames, all of those details. So we adjusted the plaster recipe to remedy the problem.”
The team had to study the architecture of the Old Bailey and Parliament buildings inside and out, in order to accurately surmise how the structures would react to the detonations. For instance, how fast the explosions would travel through the building, how the structures would break apart �" which areas would give first, which would be able to withstand the blast, what the size of the fragments would be and how fast and far they would travel.
In addition to this structural accuracy, the designers studied the outer detail of the legendary buildings to achieve exactly the right look. “You’ve got to be a real stickler for detail,” says Granell, “and pay close attention to how the real building looks �" such as design elements or the aging of the stone �" so that you can match it. You have to keep in mind that you’re dealing with structures that are potentially very familiar to a lot of people, who will be in a position to judge whether they look right or not.”
All of the research, time and work put into creating the incredible structures resulted in extremely convincing detailed models and detonations that look authentic onscreen and performed perfectly during filming. “The buildings looked just fantastic,” says Granell. “I apologized in advance to the chaps who were working for us because they put a lot of hours into this and the miniatures looked beautiful �" until we blew them up. So the only thing I could do was make sure we did a good job of blowing it up, and make it all worthwhile!”
James McTeigue's Career
V for Vendetta marks James McTeigue’s debut as a feature film director. This follows an impressive body of work as a commercials director. His career as an assistant director includes some of the highest grossing films of all time. These films include The Matrix Trilogy and Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones. Other career highlights as first assistant director are Moulin Rouge, Looking for Alibrandi and The Monkey’s Mask. These films were a natural progression from his career as second assistant director on Dark City, Paradise Road, To Have and to Hold, A Country Life and The Well. This diverse body of work makes V for Vendetta an important and exciting directorial entrée.
V for Vendetta: Behind the Scenes
V For Vendetta is set in London in the near future. Though still anchored by venerable landmarks such as Parliament, Old Bailey and Big Ben, the city, like the rest of the country, has fallen into a state of post-war isolation and depression. Chancellor Adam Sutler wrested incalculable power over this tightly-controlled society by championing his extremist Norsefire party as England’s only safeguard against war, disease and famine. Yet Sutler’s oppressive policies have stripped the culture of its spirit, vitality and hope. Food is rationed but fear is in great supply. Personal freedoms are an antiquated notion of the past, and no one dare raise a voice in dissent, lest they be “black bagged” by Fingermen �" Minister Creedy’s secret police force �" and never heard from again.
Led by director James McTeigue, the V For Vendetta team strived to capture the essence of present-day London in their rendering of the film’s grim socio-political landscape. “England has become quite soulless,” says production designer Owen Paterson, who previously collaborated with McTeigue and the Wachowski Brothers on the Matrix trilogy. “We tried to create a London that is very recognizable, yet frozen by having become this totalitarian state.”
Paterson and costume designer Sammy Sheldon used a palette of gray tones to evoke the bleak, regimented pall that envelops the city and its citizens. “In this environment, choice is limited,” set decorator Peter Walpole notes. “You might be able to buy a car or a can of baked beans, but there’s only one brand available. This was reflected in the television studio set, for example. All of the monitors are the same brand, and all of the desks and chairs are exactly the same.”
The film was largely shot on soundstages and interior settings to underscore the story’s tone of anxiety and alienation. “We wanted to create a sense of claustrophobia, so the film is very purposefully interior,” McTeigue explains.
Filming began in March 2005 at Babelsberg Studios in Potsdam, Germany. With nearby Berlin doubling for a handful of practical locations, the production spent ten weeks on the Babelsberg soundstages before moving to London for a few weeks to shoot principal exterior sequences.
Paterson oversaw the design and construction of a staggering 89 sets for the Babelsberg segment of production alone, including the Jordan television tower, home to the government-controlled British Television Network; Victoria Station, a former stop on the ruins of the Underground, which the government shut down years ago; as well as another critical section of the Underground that V has commandeered for use in his plot to blow up Parliament.
On historic Stage 2, where Fritz Lang’s classic futuristic thriller Metropolis was filmed in 1927, the cast and crew of 500 inhabited the grandest and most elaborate of Paterson’s sets: the labyrinthine Shadow Gallery.
Like V himself, his subterranean lair is elegant, mysterious and enthralling �" a stylish cross between a crypt and a church, carved from the passageways beneath the city. “I envisioned the Shadow Gallery as an expanded ace of clubs, with a central space and chambers spiralling outwards from the middle,” McTeigue says of the sprawling set, which includes a library, V’s dressing room, a kitchen and a screening room/lounge. “It feels like it’s located beneath some great cultural institution that has long been closed down by the government.”
“The Shadow Gallery is the sort of place that could exist below St. Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey,” Paterson elaborates. “It’s an arched, Tudor kind of space where you can imagine someone bricked up a door years ago and forgot it was ever there.” V’s vaulted hideaway also serves as a museum of sorts, a home to his extensive collection of music, film, literature, philosophy and art �" all of which has been banned by the government’s Ministry of Objectionable Material. “V has become a caretaker of everything that the government won’t allow,” says McTeigue.
“He’s a guardian of a culture that is in danger of being lost forever,” adds Hugo Weaving. “I suspect there are a number of people in this world who are like him, who have their own hoards, their own treasure troves like the Shadow Gallery.”
One of the biggest challenges for set decorator Peter Walpole and the art department was securing the rights to reproduce the Gallery’s myriad iconic works �" and then replicating them and dressing the numerous Gallery chambers. “We had to get an enormous variety of objects �" everything from Picassos to Turners, modern art to comic books,” Walpole says.
Walpole’s team also had to collect and arrange hundreds of books to dress V’s makeshift library. It is here that Evey first awakens in the Shadow Gallery and finds herself surrounded by stacks and stacks of treasonous volumes.
“As you enter the room, the books are piled low, as though they’ve been blown in like a bunch of leaves,” Walpole describes. “But as you move toward the far end, the piles grow until they reach the ceiling and line the walls, almost like a snowdrift.”
To give McTeigue and the crew maximum flexibility while filming in the library, many of the books were fastened together like building blocks, so the stacks could be moved quickly and reconnected like Lego components, rather than moved piecemeal.
During production of this scene, Natalie Portman recalls, “James brought in a clipping from a newspaper with a photo of a library that was discvovered in Iraq. The government had shut it down and there were piles and piles of books everywhere. It was sort of incredible, having this real life parallel as we were filming.”
In addition to designing the sets, Paterson also collaborated with McTeigue and art director Stephan Gessler on the creation of V’s eerie mask. More than a mere disguise, an affect of his theatrical personality or a veil for his hideously disfigured face, V’s mask becomes a powerful symbol of the ideas of freedom and expression he represents.
Paterson’s design was modeled on V’s iconic visage from the graphic novel, which illustrator David Lloyd based on the eponymous masks worn in tribute to traitor-turned-folk hero Guy Fawkes. But as drawn by Lloyd, V’s mask takes on different moods and expressions from frame to frame.
McTeigue opted to create a “fixed” façade, rather than using CGI or a flexible mask that could be manipulated to form expressions. “I wanted the face, even though it’s very distinct, to have a ‘universality’ to it,” he says. “I knew that if we achieved the right look for the mask, we would be able to tonally and atmospherically change the way it appears on camera through the lighting design and Hugo’s performance.”
The result, which the director describes as “a cross between a traditional Guy Fawkes mask and a Harlequin mask,” was sculpted from clay �" a considerably more imperfect and painstaking process than the modern mold-making method of computer cyber-scanning �" then cast in fiberglass and painted with an airbrush to create a porcelain doll-like quality.
“We had a very fine sculptor named Berndt Wenzel who patiently went through seven generations of carving the mask from clay to get the right personality,” Paterson says. “We needed to capture the perfect generic look so that when we lit the mask in different ways, it would take on different expressions.”
Bringing the mask to life was “definitely a collaborative effort,” Weaving reports. Though aided by lighting and cinematography, the actor needed to convey a great deal of emotion solely through his voice and body language, as no part of his eyes, mouth or face are visible behind V’s façade. “James often gave me notes about my dialogue or my performance as I would do it if I weren’t wearing a mask. That was great, because central to making the mask work was making the character behind the mask work.”
Finding V’s voice was crucial to the process. “I knew I didn’t have to worry about my voice being muffled by the mask when we were filming, because we would re-record my dialogue in post-production,” says the actor. “But it’s still important to find the character within the voice and give the right performance on the day.”
In addition to the challenges of emoting through the mask was the considerable challenge of learning to work with the mask. “It has a very narrow field of vision,” McTeigue explains. “Hugo’s actual eye-line when he’s looking at the character he’s playing opposite is at their stomach.”
Weaving also had to integrate acting in the mask with the character’s wig, hat and a heavy cloaked costume featuring a high neckline that restricted his head movement. “The amount of sweat that pours off you when you’re wearing a wig, a hat, a very hot costume and a mask is phenomenal,” Weaving says good-naturedly.
Created by costume designer Sammy Sheldon (Black Hawk Down, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), Weaving’s wardrobe was styled after McTeigue’s vision of V as “a cross between the actual Guy Fawkes character and a gunslinger.”
“V’s costume is rooted in the 16th century, but we chiseled it down to look more simple, sleek and modern �" futuristic in an historical way,” says Sheldon, who crafted the ensemble from cashmere, wool, leather and an original 16th century silk basket weave. “V’s hat was modified, for example. We shortened it and made it cleaner, instead of fancy and feathered as it would have been in Fawkes’ time.”
As with V’s wardrobe, his weapons of choice �" six handmade throwing knives �" reflect a combination of period and modern design. “When V opens his cloak, I wanted it to look as though he has metal teeth attached,” McTeigue explains. “Our armorer, Simon Atherton, did an amazing job of crafting V’s knives and creating the metal sheaths they slide into.”
V’s chillingly exquisite calling cards, Scarlet Carson roses, were portrayed in the film by red Grand Prix roses. The prop department purchased dozens of Grand Prixes daily to ensure there were always a few on hand at the studio in the perfect state of bloom for filming.
While Weaving contended with his character’s multi-faceted costume, Natalie Portman had a much more minimalist wardrobe challenge in portraying V’s unlikely accomplice, Evey Hammond: she was required to have her head shaved on camera for a pivotal sequence in which Evey is imprisoned and tortured to reveal V’s identity.
Knowing he had only one take to capture Evey’s anguish as Portman’s auburn locks were stripped, McTeigue used multiple cameras to cover the action and asked the film’s hair stylist, Jeremy Woodhead, to handle the shears.
Portman found the experience liberating. “It’s been really nice to step away from vanity a little bit,” she says. “The time you spend on your appearance as a woman �" if you put all that together you’d have an extra ten years of your life. It’s been great to get away from that. But at the same time, it takes a really long time to grow back, so the sooner, the better!”
Another powerful shot that McTeigue and company needed to achieve in one take is a stunning sequence in which V touches off thousands of dominoes meticulously arranged in an intricate “V” pattern on the Shadow Gallery floor.
While principal photography rolled on at Babelsberg, an advance team prepared for the final few weeks of filming in London. Owen Paterson’s art department transformed exterior locations to convey the dull pallor of the strictly-controlled society �" removing advertising signage, all signs of public transportation and any splashes of color or brightness. “We wanted everything to be gray,” says set decorator Peter Walpole. “Then we added surveillance cameras and telegraph poles with speakers mounted on them to emphasize the ‘Big Brother’ atmosphere.”
For flashbacks to the 1990s that depict life in England prior to the election of ultra-conservative Chancellor Adam Sutler, the sets are “a little more cluttered, a little more lived in, a little freer,” Walpole describes. “In the scenes set in the present day in the film, there’s not quite as much set dressing. Everything’s a bit more regimented. There’s a subtle contrast.”
The film’s climactic sequence, set in the shadows of Parliament, took place on Whitehall, the iconic thoroughfare running from Nelson’s Column at Trafalgar Square to the Parliament Buildings and Big Ben.
Home to such high-profile Westminster addresses as 10 Downing Street and the Ministry of Defense, the security-sensitive thoroughfare had never before been closed to traffic to accommodate filming. After nine months of negotiating with 14 government departments and agencies, including the Ministry of Defense, location supervisor Nick Daubeney secured unprecedented permission to close the street for filming between the hours of midnight and 5am for three consecutive nights. This gave the production only four hours of shooting time per night, given the setup and removal of equipment, personnel and the production’s vehicles, including two army tanks.
As with the multiple permissions secured to film on Whitehall, the production also had to obtain authorization for the use of the two tanks and simulated weaponry during rehearsals and filming at the location.
The decommissioned ex-military tanks were acquired from a prop warehouse in the UK. Prior to transporting the vehicles to Whitehall for filming each night, the tanks were inspected off-site by government security personnel to ensure their weaponry was not functional nor had been altered in any way. They were then taken via trucks to the location �" with no stops or changes to the tanks allowed during transport �" and were accompanied by security officials at all times. (On screen and on set, the tanks moved under their own power.)
Background checks were conducted on every actor and technician who carried simulated weapons during production of the Whitehall sequence. Barcodes on the weaponry were scanned to track each piece and the individuals authorized to handle them.
Meanwhile, government security personnel surrounded the production at all times �" some of whom were identifiable to the cast and crew, and others who maintained anonymity within the crowd to ensure the security of everyone involved. This ambitious sequence also required costume designer Sammy Sheldon and her team to outfit 500 extras in replica V cloaks and hats, as well as fabricate uniforms, helmets and flak jackets for 400 extras portraying militia.
Following the completion of principal photography, visual effects supervisor Dan Glass and the V for Vendetta miniatures unit, led by Model Unit Supervisor José Granell, spent ten days detonating large-scale models of the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and Old Bailey for key scenes in the film.
While some computer-generated effects were later fused with footage of the models being exploded, it was important to the filmmakers that the explosions, which carry great symbolic value, be as realistic as possible, so they opted for the practical effect of detonating physical replicas of the buildings over CGI.
“The models provide a real, tangible environment,” Granell explains, “and when you’re dealing with physical elements such as water and fire, and especially pyrotechnics, you get a better look when you have real, physical events taking place. With CGI, unless you actually deliberately create them, you don’t get any accidents �" so you don’t get that essential feeling of nature doing its own thing.”
The filmmakers chose to utilize large-scale models in order to create a realistic relationship between the size of the buildings and the pyrotechnic events being filmed. Built in eleven weeks at Shepperton Studios by the London firm Cinesite, the plaster models were constructed at one seventh scale, which yielded an impressive 20-foot replica of Old Bailey, with the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben towering at approximately 30 feet high and the length of Parliament stretching 42 feet long.
During the course of their research, Granell and his team studied documentary footage of actual stone buildings being exploded to get a feeling for how stone reacts to detonation. From there they began their experiments with materials. Since plaster breaks up well and behaves most like stone when detonated, the models were predominantly constructed with cast plaster. The team experimented with a variety of plaster recipes for different areas of the model �" some components had to be more rigid, while some of the finer detail necessitated a weaker version of the plaster.
Prior to the final filming, an effects element shoot was held during which the team performed individual pyrotechnic explosions that they would later be able to use in post-production. They tested a variety of combinations of types of charges and different varieties of plaster, to see how each pairing performed on film. “For instance, one of the problems we found is that the weakened plaster we used tended to create too much dust,” says Granell. “And the one thing I didn’t want to do was hide any of the color of the actual combustible elements �" the pyrotechnic charges, the flames, all of those details. So we adjusted the plaster recipe to remedy the problem.”
The team had to study the architecture of the Old Bailey and Parliament buildings inside and out, in order to accurately surmise how the structures would react to the detonations. For instance, how fast the explosions would travel through the building, how the structures would break apart �" which areas would give first, which would be able to withstand the blast, what the size of the fragments would be and how fast and far they would travel.
In addition to this structural accuracy, the designers studied the outer detail of the legendary buildings to achieve exactly the right look. “You’ve got to be a real stickler for detail,” says Granell, “and pay close attention to how the real building looks �" such as design elements or the aging of the stone �" so that you can match it. You have to keep in mind that you’re dealing with structures that are potentially very familiar to a lot of people, who will be in a position to judge whether they look right or not.”
All of the research, time and work put into creating the incredible structures resulted in extremely convincing detailed models and detonations that look authentic onscreen and performed perfectly during filming. “The buildings looked just fantastic,” says Granell. “I apologized in advance to the chaps who were working for us because they put a lot of hours into this and the miniatures looked beautiful �" until we blew them up. So the only thing I could do was make sure we did a good job of blowing it up, and make it all worthwhile!”
James McTeigue's Career
V for Vendetta marks James McTeigue’s debut as a feature film director. This follows an impressive body of work as a commercials director. His career as an assistant director includes some of the highest grossing films of all time. These films include The Matrix Trilogy and Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones. Other career highlights as first assistant director are Moulin Rouge, Looking for Alibrandi and The Monkey’s Mask. These films were a natural progression from his career as second assistant director on Dark City, Paradise Road, To Have and to Hold, A Country Life and The Well. This diverse body of work makes V for Vendetta an important and exciting directorial entrée.
Riviera's Shanghai Dream
Tomson Group is swimming against the tide in seeking top dollar for its apartments but it has superb location and top-notch views of Puxi on its side, writes Olivia Chung in Shanghai
Monday, April 03, 2006
Tomson Group is swimming against the tide in seeking top dollar for its apartments but it has superb location and top-notch views of Puxi on its side, writes Olivia Chung in Shanghai
How much would you pay for the best view in Shanghai?
Tomson Group, the first Hong Kong property developer to invest major money in Shanghai back in the early 1990s, reckons that 143,000 yuan (HK$138,252) per square meter is about right.
That's what it is likely to demand for the best apartments in Tomson Riviera, four luxury tower blocks in the center of the Lujiazui financial and trade development zone in Pudong, the section of the city that lies east of the Huangpu River.
By asking well above the going rate for luxury apartments, Tomson Group is betting that last year's Shanghai property slump, when prices of all classes of housing fell an average 20 percent, won't last long.
In a city as flat as Shanghai, the only way to enjoy a view is to be in a tall building. But even that is problematic since new skyscrapers are going up all the time, and broad vistas can easily turn into blind alleys.
Tomson Group believes it has the problem licked, however.
Riviera is the Pudong development closest to the river, with only a green belt separating them. There's little chance of anything interposing itself between Riviera and its classic Old Shanghai view.
The company is most proud of the the flats in Riviera's Block A - 36 in all, each one a floor unto itself with an area of 597.57 sq
uare meters.
From their 20-square-meter balconies, the occupants will have an unimpeded western view of the Bund and its riverfront promenade, the 19th century Customs House, the early 20th century Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corp building and the Peace Hotel, the 16th century Ming dynasty Yuyuan Garden, and a sprawl of other buildings whose architecture runs the gamut from baroque and Roman to art deco and art nouveau.
Tomson says it is not at all concerned that since it put the first flats in the development up for sale last October at an average price of 110,000 yuan per square meter - a Shanghai record - it has yet to record a single sale.
"After seeing the two-bedroom units in Block C in the showroom, many potential clients expressed an interest in buying the best units in Block A, which are bigger and have a better view," says executive director Albert Tong, the 23-year-old son of the company's founder.
When the four-bedroom apartments in Block A finally come on the market, he adds, they will cost 20 to 30 percent more than the Block C flats, or as much as 143,000 yuan per square meter.
Some in the property industry believe Tomson Group is being unrealistic.
"The city's property market has recently shown some signs of recovery, but I believe it will take a very long time for prices at the luxury end to return to the level demanded by Tomson," said Peter Lee, vice general manager of Shanghai Centaline Property Agency.
"While it waits for that to happen, Tomson will be paying an opportunity cost because it has billions of yuan locked up in the Riviera project."
The 220-unit project, comprising four tower blocks - two of 40 stories and two of 44 stories - cost Tomson three billion yuan in land and construction outlays.
Lee noted that while the average level of Shanghai property prices fell by 20 percent last year, luxury properties took an even bigger hit, falling by 30 percent.
Transaction volumes in the primary market totaled 500 a day in the first two weeks of last month, up from 200 units per day in December.
But that is far below the peak of 1,000 units per day in the first three months of 2004.
Tong insists, however, that the company will not cut prices.
He said the failure as yet to sell any of the less expensive apartments wasn't due to a lack of buying interest but because of ongoing bulk sale negotiations between the company and certain property investment funds.
Until these are resolved, no intensive sales promotions for individual buyers can be launched.
An Australian fund hopes to acquire an entire Riviera block, while an American fund has its sights set on two blocks.
An individual investor, who Tong said was considering withdrawing capital from Thailand because of the political situation, also approached the company about a block purchase.
Tong said the company had already turned down a Japanese fund's bid to buy two blocks because it offered 20 percent less than the asking price.
"If we cannot reach a deal with the funds or the individual buyer within a month, we will launch an intensive global promotion program for individual buyers, including those in Hong Kong," Tong said.
Tomson's plan is to sell three of the four blocks for about eight billion yuan and to keep one as an investment, leasing out the apartments at 40 yuan per square foot per month, a rental return of more than 4 percent.
Tong said the company can afford to name its price and bide its time because it has HK$1 billion of cash on hand and a net debt-equity ratio of less than 30 percent.
He said there were already about 30 potential clients for the most expensive units in Block A, half of them from Taiwan.
General manager Hsu Bin said some people had put down deposits on the most expensive flats without waiting to know what the final prices would be.
But Hsu said the high-profile nature of the development was making some buyers cautious.
"There's a Chinese saying - to shoot the bird which takes the lead. Because the media have called Riviera the most expensive apartment complex in China, the first buyer is bound to attract a lot of attention - from the mainland authorities, the tax bureau for example."
Developers are required to provide accurate sales information on fangdi.com.cn, which is the official online trading platform for both new and second-hand homes.
This is to prevent them from manipulating prices by claiming that apartment sales are better than they really are.
"So that our customers won't be hassled, a number of buyers' names will be posted on the official online trading platform at the same time. No one will be able to guess who our first buyer was," Hsu said.
Despite Beijing's renewed pledge in March to curb property price rises, Tong says further macro-economic measures to rein in the market are unlikely. He expects overall property prices in the city to climb 70 to 80 percent in the next five or six years.
High-end prices will rise 10 percent this year, he predicts.
"Foreign investment and economic growth are unlikely to slacken in the next five to 10 years.
"These continue to be the factors driving property prices," he said.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Tomson Group is swimming against the tide in seeking top dollar for its apartments but it has superb location and top-notch views of Puxi on its side, writes Olivia Chung in Shanghai
How much would you pay for the best view in Shanghai?
Tomson Group, the first Hong Kong property developer to invest major money in Shanghai back in the early 1990s, reckons that 143,000 yuan (HK$138,252) per square meter is about right.
That's what it is likely to demand for the best apartments in Tomson Riviera, four luxury tower blocks in the center of the Lujiazui financial and trade development zone in Pudong, the section of the city that lies east of the Huangpu River.
By asking well above the going rate for luxury apartments, Tomson Group is betting that last year's Shanghai property slump, when prices of all classes of housing fell an average 20 percent, won't last long.
In a city as flat as Shanghai, the only way to enjoy a view is to be in a tall building. But even that is problematic since new skyscrapers are going up all the time, and broad vistas can easily turn into blind alleys.
Tomson Group believes it has the problem licked, however.
Riviera is the Pudong development closest to the river, with only a green belt separating them. There's little chance of anything interposing itself between Riviera and its classic Old Shanghai view.
The company is most proud of the the flats in Riviera's Block A - 36 in all, each one a floor unto itself with an area of 597.57 sq
uare meters.
From their 20-square-meter balconies, the occupants will have an unimpeded western view of the Bund and its riverfront promenade, the 19th century Customs House, the early 20th century Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corp building and the Peace Hotel, the 16th century Ming dynasty Yuyuan Garden, and a sprawl of other buildings whose architecture runs the gamut from baroque and Roman to art deco and art nouveau.
Tomson says it is not at all concerned that since it put the first flats in the development up for sale last October at an average price of 110,000 yuan per square meter - a Shanghai record - it has yet to record a single sale.
"After seeing the two-bedroom units in Block C in the showroom, many potential clients expressed an interest in buying the best units in Block A, which are bigger and have a better view," says executive director Albert Tong, the 23-year-old son of the company's founder.
When the four-bedroom apartments in Block A finally come on the market, he adds, they will cost 20 to 30 percent more than the Block C flats, or as much as 143,000 yuan per square meter.
Some in the property industry believe Tomson Group is being unrealistic.
"The city's property market has recently shown some signs of recovery, but I believe it will take a very long time for prices at the luxury end to return to the level demanded by Tomson," said Peter Lee, vice general manager of Shanghai Centaline Property Agency.
"While it waits for that to happen, Tomson will be paying an opportunity cost because it has billions of yuan locked up in the Riviera project."
The 220-unit project, comprising four tower blocks - two of 40 stories and two of 44 stories - cost Tomson three billion yuan in land and construction outlays.
Lee noted that while the average level of Shanghai property prices fell by 20 percent last year, luxury properties took an even bigger hit, falling by 30 percent.
Transaction volumes in the primary market totaled 500 a day in the first two weeks of last month, up from 200 units per day in December.
But that is far below the peak of 1,000 units per day in the first three months of 2004.
Tong insists, however, that the company will not cut prices.
He said the failure as yet to sell any of the less expensive apartments wasn't due to a lack of buying interest but because of ongoing bulk sale negotiations between the company and certain property investment funds.
Until these are resolved, no intensive sales promotions for individual buyers can be launched.
An Australian fund hopes to acquire an entire Riviera block, while an American fund has its sights set on two blocks.
An individual investor, who Tong said was considering withdrawing capital from Thailand because of the political situation, also approached the company about a block purchase.
Tong said the company had already turned down a Japanese fund's bid to buy two blocks because it offered 20 percent less than the asking price.
"If we cannot reach a deal with the funds or the individual buyer within a month, we will launch an intensive global promotion program for individual buyers, including those in Hong Kong," Tong said.
Tomson's plan is to sell three of the four blocks for about eight billion yuan and to keep one as an investment, leasing out the apartments at 40 yuan per square foot per month, a rental return of more than 4 percent.
Tong said the company can afford to name its price and bide its time because it has HK$1 billion of cash on hand and a net debt-equity ratio of less than 30 percent.
He said there were already about 30 potential clients for the most expensive units in Block A, half of them from Taiwan.
General manager Hsu Bin said some people had put down deposits on the most expensive flats without waiting to know what the final prices would be.
But Hsu said the high-profile nature of the development was making some buyers cautious.
"There's a Chinese saying - to shoot the bird which takes the lead. Because the media have called Riviera the most expensive apartment complex in China, the first buyer is bound to attract a lot of attention - from the mainland authorities, the tax bureau for example."
Developers are required to provide accurate sales information on fangdi.com.cn, which is the official online trading platform for both new and second-hand homes.
This is to prevent them from manipulating prices by claiming that apartment sales are better than they really are.
"So that our customers won't be hassled, a number of buyers' names will be posted on the official online trading platform at the same time. No one will be able to guess who our first buyer was," Hsu said.
Despite Beijing's renewed pledge in March to curb property price rises, Tong says further macro-economic measures to rein in the market are unlikely. He expects overall property prices in the city to climb 70 to 80 percent in the next five or six years.
High-end prices will rise 10 percent this year, he predicts.
"Foreign investment and economic growth are unlikely to slacken in the next five to 10 years.
"These continue to be the factors driving property prices," he said.
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