Every so often the emergence of a figure like this will serve both to reinforce certain art world myths, and to provide reassurance to others toiling in obscurity by adding fuel to their comforting delusions.  Romanian artist Ion Barladeanu,  (b. 1946), spent more than thirty years refusing to live as an ‘honorable citizen’, whilst working, virtually in secret, on collages of real finesse that fuse pop, dada, and surrealism.  His works comment on the country of his birth both before, but predominantly after the Ceausescu regime.  They are composites of printed and photographic detritus, including many advertisements,  from the broken society in which he lived.  The figure of American artist Henry Darger springs to mind as an obvious comparison, though Barladeanu’s work is less idiosyncratic and one cannot help but situate it within a European tradition, despite the obvious influence of American pop.  It’s hard to tell from images on the web whether the work is really any good or not.  Has the art world fallen for him because of the quality of the works or because of the myth surrounding their creation?  It’s hard to say. I’m more than little late on this one, Angelina Jolie is already a fan.  Must try harder.  Read more here.

March has brought a significant improvement in the weather in Brum making wondering the streets as a pass time much more acceptable.  I am taking the opportunity to explore more hoping to find something, anything, of interest out there.

Florilegium (February) 2006 The Approach

Florilegium (February) (Detail) 2006 The Approach

This artist incorporates pressed plants into his work.  There’s also some sort of conceptual justification to what he does, but whatever, I think visually it’s very strong.  And I can feel Spring just around the corner.  I have heard that, because of the unusually cold weather we’ve experienced this year, it’ll be a little delayed.  When it does arrive however, it will be all the more spectacular.  I hope to enjoy some of it in Devon this year; I’ve been yearning for the countryside lately.

For a long time, (especially when I was grinding out a thirty-seven and a half hour office marathon every week), the idea of a three day weekend seemed such a wonderful idea – and just such an obvious solution to many of society’s problems.  But I always thought my own absolute ignorance of economics and general naivety were getting the better of me.  But now professional economists have come to the same conclusion.  Hallelujah!  I don’t suppose these changes will happen for another generation or so, not at least until generation X, or Y are in control of things.  But all that’s needed is the political will.  Why can’t we just accept that the economy is fucked, probably forever, and concentrate on building a better society?   We need to liberate ourselves from the collective madness of  over-working, the sooner the better.

Great pressure is brought to bear to make us understand ourselves.  On the other hand, civilization teaches us that each of us is an inestimable prize.   There are, then, these two preparations: one for life and the other for death.  Therefore we value and are ashamed to value ourselves, are hard boiled.  We are schooled in quietness and, if one of us takes his measure occasionally, he does so cooly, as if he were examining hi fingernails, not his soul, frowning at the imperfections he finds as one would at a chip or a bit of dirt.  Because, of course, we are all called upon to accept the imposition of of all kinds of wrongs, to wait in ranks under a hot sun, to run up a clattering beach, to be sentries, scouts or workingmen, to be those in the train when it is blown up, or those at the gates when they are locked, to be of no significance, to die.  The result is that we learn to be unfeeling towards ourselves and incurious.  Who can be the earnest huntsman of himself when he knows he is in turn a quarry?  Or nothing so distinctive as quarry, but one of a shoal, driven toward the weirs.

But I must know what I myself am.

And earlier in the novel he writes:

Shall my life by one-thousandth of an inch fall short of its ultimate possibility?  It is a different thing to value oneself, and to prize oneself crazily.  And then there are our plans, idealizations.  These are dangerous, too.  They can consume us like parasites, eat us, drink us, and leave us lifelessly prostrate.  And yet we are always inviting the parasite, as if we were eager to be drained and eaten.

Is it because we have been taught there is no limit to what a man can be.  Satan and the Church, representing god, did battle over him.  He, by reason of his choice, partially decided the outcome.  But whether, after life, he went to hell or to heaven, his place among other men was given.  It could not be contested.  But, since, the stage has been reset and human beings only walk on it, and, under this revision, we have, instead, history to answer to.  We were important enough then for our souls to be fought over.  Now, each of us is responsible for his own salvation, which is in his greatness.  And that, that greatness, is the rock our hearts are abraded on.  Great minds, great beauties, great lovers and criminals surround us.  From the great sadness and desperation of Werthers and Don Juans we went to the great ruling images of Napoleons; from these to murderers who had the right over victims because they were greater than the victims; to men who felt privileged to approach others with a whip; to schoolboys and clerks who roared like revolutionary lions; to those pimps and subway creatures, debaters in midnight cafeterias who believed they could be great in treachery and catch the throats of those they felt were sound and well in the lassos of their morbidity; to dreams of dreams of greatly beautiful shadows embracing on a flawless screen.  Because of these things we hate immoderately and punish ourselves and one another immoderately.  The fear of lagging pursues and maddens us.  The fear lies in us like a cloud.  It makes an inner climate of darkness.  And occasionally there is a storm of hate and wounding rain out of us.

I suppose the late great novelist must have been about my age when he wrote Dangling Man, his first published novel.  War hangs heavily over the book and clearly the author was influenced by European literature of the previous couple of decades.  But there’s clearly something universal in the existential angst he captures in these two passages, the precise nature of the protagonist’s circumstance aside.  Bellow, for me, is up there with the very best – among the authors that help one make sense of one’s own life.

]]> http://www.le-flaneur.com/2010/02/04/dangling-man/feed/ 0 http://www.le-flaneur.com/2010/01/26/1-in-an-occasional-series-ugly-buildings-of-birmingham/ http://www.le-flaneur.com/2010/01/26/1-in-an-occasional-series-ugly-buildings-of-birmingham/#comments Tue, 26 Jan 2010 15:20:50 +0000 Chris http://www.le-flaneur.com/?p=255 I have to walk past this monstrosity to get to Saint Philips Cathedral in  the center of town.  I haven’t been able to ascertain the name of the building yet.  I’m not sure anyone would want to own up to it; it’s probably shared by a number of smallish financial services companies.  What you can’t tell from my pictures is that it sits next to an eight-lane motorway.  The image here is taken from an almost unbelievably bleak footbridge above said motorway.  A face-on view can be seen here.

What I am going to do with this series is avoid noting Birmingham’s obvious and controversial Brutalist structures, and instead point to the designs that somehow sneaked through without anyone really noticing yet nevertheless have a largely detrimental effect on the life of the average citizen,  the buildings that are so bad that we just try and ignore their existence.  I’ll try and get more details about this first one too.

]]> http://www.le-flaneur.com/2010/01/26/1-in-an-occasional-series-ugly-buildings-of-birmingham/feed/ 0 http://www.le-flaneur.com/2010/01/19/shahzia-sikander/ http://www.le-flaneur.com/2010/01/19/shahzia-sikander/#comments Tue, 19 Jan 2010 12:22:42 +0000 Chris http://www.le-flaneur.com/?p=220

Shahzia Sikander, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, The Illustrated Page Series #1, 2005-6. Work on paper (gouache hand painting, gold leaf, and silkscreen pigment). 80x66 inches (framed).

Whilst looking looking through previous shows at Birmingham’s ikon gallery I happend upon the work of Shahzia Sikander.  Her work embodies many of the formal characteristics that currently interest me.  Sikander was schooled in miniature painting in Pakistan.

I recently found a book of Persian miniatures that had belonged to my Grandmother.  The works contained within share many qualities with those of Sikander (who is Pakistani in origin but lives in New York).  I can gaze at many of the pieces at length – they are just exquisite.  Persian Art was coveted and ripped-off by avant-garde artists in the early twentieth century.  Now the contemporary art market is a global one with dealers vying with one another to show the latest sensations from China, India, wherever.

What is significant about creating anything of this nature is that it’s so labor intensive.  Every minute detail of every surface has been highly worked.  The tradition originates from a time when it was some guy’s only job and purpose in life to create such things.  He wouldn’t have had a day job getting in the way.  This accounts for why watercolor landscapes are so popular with the amateur artist – they’re quick.

But I think also that it is this very sense of their having been labored upon that explains their appeal.  They are artifacts from an opulent and luxurious past that seems at odds with the Ikea world we inhabit today.

Although art critics are more  powerless now than they ever were historically, it seems to me that they are all the more important too in the face of an art market controlled by a super-rich elite.  Further. as I shall try to show, I think that the tide has turned.  I believe people are beginning to look again for transcendence in art.  There’s a return to valuing craftsmanship; people are looking for a more obvious sense of substance.  Was Richard Wright’s triumph at the Turner Prize really such a surprise?  Even Damian Hirst creator of ‘For the Love of God’ has started painting.  `In my view there is an appetite for the spectacular again and the dry and inaccessible conceptual stuff just seems underwhelming and passé.  Maybe it’s the economic conditions, or perhaps we’re collectively beginning to get over the gargantuan hangover from the party that was modernism.  Theses are some of the issues I would like to explore here.

From now on I intend to keep a record of all the exhibitions I visit.  Currently I am based in Birmingham and so for the mean time the focus will be here in the West-Midlands and perhaps the North West.  But I also hope to visit London as often as possible.  In the last couple of years I have started painting again myself and become interested in non-western art.  It was an great privilege living in London because  it allowed me to have the enormous revelation that some of the best art I have ever experienced is contemporary.    It feels good to be alive right now.

Could this article be a précis of his newest book ‘Black Mass: Apocalyptic Religion and the Death of Utopia’? Joe, with his atheist(ish) stance thinks it’s right on the money (It must be fun being an RE teacher at the moment). I’m not so sure. I wonder whether Christopher Hitchens will write a response.

Sheikh Malick: International Clairvoyant Spiritual Leader. The 11th generation of the family member of the African medium order.

Initiated healer of well known plants in the wild sacred forest; 15 years experience in Europe. Specialises in desperate cases which seem to be unwordable. He is a specialist in bringing back your loved ones, relationship problems and court cases. He can help with sexual impotency, exams, infertility, lose weight, depression, fidelity between husband and wife and many more, like immigration problems. Satisfaction guaranteed.

Wow! Is there anything Sheikh Malick Can’t do? I particularly like the enigmatic Specialises in desperate cases which seem to be unwordable. I wonder what his rates are like.

What has been interesting is the way it’s highlighted the fanaticism of the CIF crowd making one wonder what really motivates those people. A real shit-storm has ensued. Though many of the comments were pretty funny (I wish I’d been following the feed during the day), I actually find myself feeling sorry for the teenage author of the original blogpost; is he himself really deserving of that level of vitriol? I mean, there’s already a very unkind fake facebook profile for him. Maybe we should all just take a deep breath.

Nepotism is a fact of life. I worked in a mail room with a father and son for a bit and I doubt whether Guardian readers would be too bothered by that. When the nepotism arouses the jealousy of a load of frustrated writers they quickly turn to inverted snobbery for comfort. Well, we’ve all been there I suppose.

That said whoever commissioned and published the piece should be ashamed. It really was a piece of crap. A very sorry episode indeed.