Policemen at the ball
Jul. 1st, 2005 01:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imomusNew York is the ultimate fairy tale. By that I don't just mean that there's a strong sense of "Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!" about it, but also that it contains, alongside the sense of delight and possibility, the darkness and despair of a tale by the Brothers Grimm.
The delight stuff happens mostly in my creative ghetto, the streets of Chelsea. Coming out of our show, Mai and I run into Chrissie Iles and Philippe Vergne. They seem really interested in considering our show for inclusion in the next Whitney Biennial, which they're curating. Mai and I eat at a nice new Japanese cafe in Williamsburg, Supercore, then head for a party Jeffrey Deitch is throwing at his big warehouse on North 1st. Phiiliip, whose records I've released on my American Patchwork label, is performing, and I haven't seen him live for two years. And![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
koalas_in_love is there!
The dark side begins to intervene when I approach the door of the warehouse. A man in a paramilitary uniform runs up to me. "Are you serious?" he demands angrily. "Are you seriously going into the street with that?" Of course! I have a bottle of beer in my hand, and this is America. I'm used to Berlin, where people walk everywhere with beer. I promise, slightly sarcastically, to stay just inside the lino line which demarcates the warehouse from the street. This isn't good enough: one of the organisers runs up and says "Please, stay right inside. We don't want any trouble."
Inside there are dancers. I'm not sure if they're paid dancers, but they're gesticulating to 80s acid house with an air of exaggerated evil, as if dancing itself were an inherently satanic pastime. That's how it's seen in this city where you aren't even allowed to dance in most bars (one I used to go to was called Sway because that's all you could do). Dancing can, after all, be dangerous. There's an epicene hula dancer gyrating. Mai and I sit on the floor, our beers in front of us. Suddenly the hula hoop shoots off the dancer's body and knocks our beer over, making a big puddle on the floor. Well, that's the beer problem solved, anyway.
The party doesn't last long. One of the neighbours has complained about another evil, bicycles chained to his railings, and the police surround the place, lights flashing on their squad cars. We're shut down; I won't get to hear Phiiliip this year after all. At least, as we file out, the lights are on and the music is off. I get to talk to Larry T, Ella Christopherson (the charming and vivacious editor of Index) and Deitch himself, who promises to come to our show.
Back in Harlem, the nightmare kicks in again. I'm woken at 1.45am by the sound of gunfire. Three pistol cracks, right outside my window. No squealing tyres, no running feet, just the serious, scary sound of shots from the dark park opposite. A few minutes later one, two, three patrol cars, and an unmarked black FBI car, arrive. No sirens, just flashing lights. Nobody gets out, as far as I can see. The officers complete paperwork inside their cars. The cars leave. When I ask the security guard about it the next morning she knows nothing.
Back to Chelsea. A woman with a heavy African accent preaches on the A train. She tells us that only Christianity can save us. Islam and Judaism are misleading religions. When I get off she's stuck in the carriage door, her Bible and one arm sticking out dangerously. I free her and head for the gallery. We have a big day ahead. Deitch and the Whitney are coming down. And the New York Times has run a review of the show, a review which seems to say "Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!"
The delight stuff happens mostly in my creative ghetto, the streets of Chelsea. Coming out of our show, Mai and I run into Chrissie Iles and Philippe Vergne. They seem really interested in considering our show for inclusion in the next Whitney Biennial, which they're curating. Mai and I eat at a nice new Japanese cafe in Williamsburg, Supercore, then head for a party Jeffrey Deitch is throwing at his big warehouse on North 1st. Phiiliip, whose records I've released on my American Patchwork label, is performing, and I haven't seen him live for two years. And
koalas_in_love is there!The dark side begins to intervene when I approach the door of the warehouse. A man in a paramilitary uniform runs up to me. "Are you serious?" he demands angrily. "Are you seriously going into the street with that?" Of course! I have a bottle of beer in my hand, and this is America. I'm used to Berlin, where people walk everywhere with beer. I promise, slightly sarcastically, to stay just inside the lino line which demarcates the warehouse from the street. This isn't good enough: one of the organisers runs up and says "Please, stay right inside. We don't want any trouble."
Inside there are dancers. I'm not sure if they're paid dancers, but they're gesticulating to 80s acid house with an air of exaggerated evil, as if dancing itself were an inherently satanic pastime. That's how it's seen in this city where you aren't even allowed to dance in most bars (one I used to go to was called Sway because that's all you could do). Dancing can, after all, be dangerous. There's an epicene hula dancer gyrating. Mai and I sit on the floor, our beers in front of us. Suddenly the hula hoop shoots off the dancer's body and knocks our beer over, making a big puddle on the floor. Well, that's the beer problem solved, anyway.
The party doesn't last long. One of the neighbours has complained about another evil, bicycles chained to his railings, and the police surround the place, lights flashing on their squad cars. We're shut down; I won't get to hear Phiiliip this year after all. At least, as we file out, the lights are on and the music is off. I get to talk to Larry T, Ella Christopherson (the charming and vivacious editor of Index) and Deitch himself, who promises to come to our show.
Back in Harlem, the nightmare kicks in again. I'm woken at 1.45am by the sound of gunfire. Three pistol cracks, right outside my window. No squealing tyres, no running feet, just the serious, scary sound of shots from the dark park opposite. A few minutes later one, two, three patrol cars, and an unmarked black FBI car, arrive. No sirens, just flashing lights. Nobody gets out, as far as I can see. The officers complete paperwork inside their cars. The cars leave. When I ask the security guard about it the next morning she knows nothing.
Back to Chelsea. A woman with a heavy African accent preaches on the A train. She tells us that only Christianity can save us. Islam and Judaism are misleading religions. When I get off she's stuck in the carriage door, her Bible and one arm sticking out dangerously. I free her and head for the gallery. We have a big day ahead. Deitch and the Whitney are coming down. And the New York Times has run a review of the show, a review which seems to say "Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!"
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 05:23 pm (UTC)i'm glad things are going well with your installation. hopefully, i'll be able to check it out.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 05:44 pm (UTC)A positive review in the Times also picked up the theme of disembodiement that has been discussed a lot on LJ and I felt was the most strongest element of the show.
How about bringing the show to the West coast ? Zach has a gallery here in LA : http://gallery.kantorfeuer.com
Richard
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 06:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 07:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 07:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 07:33 pm (UTC)New York can bring into high reIief how little one matters in the scheme of things, but it's rare that I don't have an inadvertant, friendly chat with a complete stranger when I'm in town. I like that about New York--it brings a person out of their shell.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 07:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 07:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 07:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 07:48 pm (UTC)How about a midwest show? Chicago or Minneapolis (as much as I love my own city Milwaukee...the galleries here seem to be more keen on visual art rather than performance art...although your show could be the perfect thing to open that up).
I have to admit...since I'm not seeing the show, I'm sad there won't be any paper trail of the stories you've been telling (besides what you've shared on click opera), but at the same time I think it is one of the bravest aspects of the show.
Essentially, I just want you to write and publish a book of short stories!
Review
Date: 2005-07-01 10:08 pm (UTC)Zach Feuer Gallery (LFL)
530 West 24th Street, Chelsea
Through July 15
"Folktronia," also at this gallery, the 2000 debut of the alternative-music legend known as Momus (born Nicholas Currie in Scotland in 1960), included bales of hay, video animation, visiting karaoke singers and improvised music. This time, things are more focused. Mr. Currie is simply improvising with the Japanese performance artist Mai Ueda in the empty gallery from 1 to 5 p.m. Tuesday through Friday. The results, at least on the opening day last Saturday, produced a surprisingly satisfying mixture of the linear and nonlinear, narrative and abstract, immediate and remote.
Seated on the floor and wearing a loose, vaguely Japanese robe, an orange hood (possibly a T-shirt) that partly obscured his face and a black eye-patch, Mr. Currie resembled an ancient storyteller. A laptop provided a synthesized soundtrack. Speaking in a low, hypnotic voice, he made up oddly gripping tales that often centered on shocked disbelief and repeated, almost choruslike questions. One tale, set in 1871, involved a mistakenly delivered letter through which one woman received another one's dead son as a prize.
Ms. Ueda, wearing a smaller, gauzier robelike dress and heels, drifted about, exploring the gallery as both a space and a sound-making device, and intermittently singing in a high, slightly nasal voice that nicely parried Mr. Currie's stream of narrative. Sometimes she echoed or supplemented his tales, interjecting ticks and tocks as he told of a man outraged by a friend who threw away a watch simply because it had stopped.
Mr. Currie's immobility and Ms. Ueda's ability to sing rather loudly without much facial movement contributed to a disembodied mixture of sounds. Nothing is planned, nothing is for sale nor is anything being documented in this work of endurance and sound art. Everything will be happening just once, and much of it could be worth experiencing. ROBERTA SMITH
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-02 12:15 am (UTC)and then more after that. :)
good work. good review. and good luck with Harlem tonight and the next and the next & so forth...
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-02 03:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-02 06:37 am (UTC)the gunshot business definitely sounds scary..
the deitch party was the first interesting gathering type thing i have been to.it's a shame it got cut-off all short like that..
i wished i also hadn't missed your performance
ahhhh well..now that i have been travelling around i feel more courageous with just getting on a bus/or plane and going somewhere
so hopefully i get around for something else awesome in the future
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-03 06:59 pm (UTC)yeaaaah!come to berlin!
mario
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-02 07:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-02 09:09 pm (UTC)tell me somewhere cool to go tonight and tomorrow and every day after.
i hope you tried the meatballs. they were really good.
loud noises in harlem
Date: 2005-07-05 08:53 pm (UTC)