vitaflo keeps me happy this morning. blissful lack of anything less than visceral. related to stratton’s work, and reminding me - happily - i have art to hang tonight (where?)
more topical work arrives tomorrow. and thank you, my friend, for curating the collection for me.
the next artist i must collect is harsh. in a word : breathaking.
“the core selection criteria for the selection of the awards are excellence, innovation, and enhancement of the quality of life.”
don’t freak. don’t freak. don’t freak.
ordinarily i could give a shit about awards. this is uncomfortable.
for those of you attending iml this month who happened to catch out magazine’s profile of chicago: it’s bullshit.
ignore the recommendations for city suites, sidetrack, buddies, and ann sather. city suites is expected, sidetrack is for north halsted sweater queens (think banana republic), buddies and ann sather are interchangeably tired and bland.
instead, stay at the congress downtown (near the art institute and michigan avenue stretch). drink at manhole, the funky buddha, and sinibar. and cellblock. and backroom fun is generally pretty easily found at the eagle (from what i’m told) and the lucky horseshoe (seen it, done it) . to get your boogie on, hit berlin, red dog, crobar (be forewarned: weekend crowds are bighaired suburban types), rednofive, and fifth floor (directly upstairs). for eats, it’s all about ezuli, pepper lounge, thyme and los mananitas.
go forth, chirstian soldiers.
happy birthday, audrey.
i remember my best friend and i, heartbroken, the day the most graceful woman in the world died. we’d had an audrey fest just the day before. audrey, you’ve always been an inspiration to me - the foundation of my belief that elegance, style, and generosity can indeed exist side by side. i love you. i miss you.
something geekish happened at dreamhost yesterday, hence my disappearance. i wasn’t the only one affected, and i’m sure we’ll all be welcoming prol back to life soon as well. many thanks to dreamhost technical support, who keeps the world’s most ridiculously thorough backups.
“i remember years ago when scott duff first approached us to work with aboutface. he had just completed a one-man show entitled faggoty fag fag fag. when asked why, he replied ‘i don’t know. i just always wanted people to call me faggoty fag fag fag.’”
“now, for the first time anywhere, is scott duff’s masterwork: faggoty fag fag fag.”
the aboutface new works festival is well underway with new works from artist in residence jim grimsley, members of aboutface youth, and several others. jeff recommended, as always.
ooo, stickers and t-shirts…the diy statement for the modern girl who knows how important her cross-marketing is. make your own. make ibm and their pussy marketing efforts quiver in shame (note that they got busted). you’re the modern corporate entity, honey. small and lean travels faster, works smarter, makes more money.
“good god, have you been shopping at the ho sto’ again?
whaddaya mean?
“that’s the tackiest thing i’ve ever seen you wear.”
:::silence:::
“how much did you pay for that thing, anyway?”
versace, asshole. it’s supposed to look like glam hooker.
“oh. sorry.”
yeah.
oh god. it’s true.
this brings haunting resonance to a betting pool my friends and i hatched at Thursday Morning Regrets a few weeks ago : first to fuck a real worlder gets a thousand bucks. i’m thinking my chances are slim; they played the gay castmember card a little hard last year in new orleans…
i have no fucking idea what an artist’s statement should look like and am therefore feeling so very underdressed to this party…
how come designers are never taught this stuff?
speaking of hot theatre (we were talking about hot theatre? did i doze off?), guess from whom i got an illustration commission?
fuck conde nast. this is the stuff i drool over. here’s to test driving a new partnership, girls.
design’s dirtiest little secret : in an industry of self-proclaimed visionaries, few actually create everything they say they create.
most times, miscrediting of work is due to the soundbite nature of the design press, breathlessly looking for the next cultural buddha. other times it’s blatant lies. ego and insecurity are always at the root. i’ve gotten caught in this childish game before.
everyone knows the rumors : barry deck, i’ve been told, never finished template gothic himself. vignelli makes harried sketches, leaving others to finish the thought (which i’ve seen evidence of). i myself am in the market for someone to finish production of a font collection which i have no time to complete. will they be paid? yes. generously. will they be credited? no. i’ve completed everything except the actual font database.
where’s the line that determines credit where credit is due? in my opinion, if an artist’s talent contributes to conceptual tones, s/he gets credit. if the artist is performing production-level tasks…sorry.
i’ve had my feelings hurt by this before, therefore i try to be clearheaded on the issue. that’s also why i work utterly alone for my personal clientele. every pixel, every sketch, every photograph, every letter : mine.
the most famous are those who want to be famous. the most powerful covet their power in a likewise fashion. anyone thinking the design press impartially bestows recognition upon the worthy by virtue of talent is mistaken. it’s just as guided by half-truths and glossed-over press releases as any other publishing industry.
the real fun starts when private squabble comes to public light : hurt feelings, hissy fits, and hairpulling followed by the usual ill-feigned surprise. then embarrassed silence. we pride ourselves on the originality of our thought. when simple vanity enters the equation, it’s embarrassing. most embarrassing because we all know it happens, yet our professional etiquette has taught us to simply pretend otherwise. at least until two cocktails into the awards ceremony.
image found via lines and splines, originally posted by luc devroye.
someone recently published a page decrying several prominent designers, followed by a list of three designers listed as a “cure” to what’s supposedly going on. my name was one listed as a remedy. this page has been reproduced several times (i’m not linking) and apparently spawned a nasty public slapfight. fortunately, i didn’t know about any of this until it was, for the most part, over.
while i’m flattered that i would be perceived as some sort of a panacea to what may be wrong with the state of beauty, it’s really stuck in my craw that i was portrayed as such without my consent and portrayed as a rival to artists whose work i admire. one of those artists was one i had hoped to collaborate with, and that may now be impossible. i consider the action leading to this manipulative and childish.
the author did begin to bring up good points regarding the design media and its belittling of philosophically sound work which are unfortunately cloaked by angry hyperbole and namecalling, so i can’t make any objective critique. but the fact of the matter is : he made me a tool to his own aims without asking my permission.
unfortunately, that deserves a public response. those of you who’ve seen the piece know what i’m talking about. and i’ll have to say, publicly, that i am not involved in this. nor do i care. and i am annoyed at the amount of my own psychological energy this has taken up. it has colored my mood an ugly shade of black over the past couple of days.
as point of reference, it reminds me of a ridiculous critique magazine printed about three years ago article which pit thirst (where i then worked) against vignelli (who clearly holds differing philosophical ideals than embodied in our work). it was done without our permission and was obviously contructed to create sparks for public display. a pissing match to call attention to the venue.
so. for those of you with whom i speak daily, if i seem impatient or short-tempered…now you know why. as for the author, i consider him a good friend and brilliant artist. but he overstepped boundaries that maybe i should have made more evident.
i am not involved in the design disciplines because i want to be a superstar. nor do i care about “saving” the web. for the most part, i stay as far from design media as i can. i read the trades infrequently. i think those publications call undue attention to a cult of personality which adds nothing to the integrity of the work. my experience at thirst taught me that celebrity is a poison capable of co-opting even the most earnest talent. i am, at my most instinctual level, an imagecrafter. i create my work from love of pictures, words and their interplay. everything else is a sideline issue. i will not be martyred for the sake of some silly manufactured rivalry. i will not let myself be involved in the cult of the diva.
you know that thing where every designer in the world fixates on something REALLY HARD, like, usually something really REALLY insipid, and then bango for six months you get this mindboggling where’d that come from and why do i have to see it all the time mini-phenomenon?
here’s your next annoyance. prepare to see this everywhere for the next few months. good for the lazy little maeda in you! and don’t even ask : of course i’m trying it. (via k10k)
good heavens. she’s me. but with (more of) a grudge (than i already display) and no sense of humor to speak of. wonder if it’s inadvisable at this point to consider a heterosexual marriage.
probably.
it’s not so much that i’m a yooge buffy geek (well, okay, i am). it’s more like i’m in love with complex linguistic structures with deep layers of embedded cultural references.
an american kid’s world is a natural for linguistic folderol : immersed in hyperbole, playing with human relationships, creating phrases designed to declare ownership of their ideas. to die for.
mating tip : cleverly-crafted wordplay gets me all jelly-belly. now read this book and get to work, cakeboy.
‘cause we were never being boring
we had too much time to find for ourselves
and we were never being boring
we dressed up and fought, then thought “make amends”
and we were never holding back or worried that
time would come to an end
what the fuck is a humanist sans-serif, anyway?
black leather jeans, a muscle tee, square-toe boots, messy stripes of eyeliner, a little gold lipstick, and a rhinestone choker : i’m takin’ my platinum vip card out for a spin. catch you on the upswing.
wanna come along? find me with the ibq (in dkny tonight), dj promqueen (probably wearing her hello kitty cha cha pumps and a sundress), and dj daughter of lothar (she says, “it’s vivienne night,” referring to miss westwood of course). check the lounge on the second floor. we’ll be the ones chatting everyone up by the bar.
i met a booooooooooy
and i think i like him
frank heine’s at it again. his dalliance, newly published through emigre, is a perfect reconstruction of 19th century “proper penmanship” as filtered through the eyes of someone who has no possible connection with such things. typography goes disney. “it ain’t postmodern, i just didn’t know what i was talking about.”
who’s frank heine? oh, come on. you’ve seen his motion collection. if not that, you’ve seen fucking remedy, which is on my list of overabused faces.
the number one position on that list has been held four years consecutively by lithos by carol twombly (who should be rewarded for her efforts by being shot, drawn, quartered, boiled, and served with a bottle of bonny doon cardinal zin, 1997).
…seriously though, I invite you to my events : bartending, shows, etc. and you decide to be a bitch and not show. I am like fine imported crystal. You must take care of me, and treat me ever so gentle or I might shatter and be lost…
codependence is soooooooooo dreamy.
(the author is this handsome young man.)
for those of you who 1) have my phone number and 2) can get your asses to the west side of chicago on 05 28 01, i got one word for you : shindig.
mine and the IBQ’s place, 3PM ish to whenever. BYOwhatever (light narcotics only, please). primary bar (vodka/gin/whiskey/red/white and mixers) provided. light fare, but enough to make a meal. vegetarians and omnivores representin’.
call if you need directions.
oh, and it’s andrei’s birthday. come ‘n’ get it.
thirteen pounds of meat (helLO, i’m a vegetarian), four bags of hamburger buns, four bags of hotdog buns, two bags of pita, three bottles of jack, three bottles of tanqueray, three bottles of ketel one, six cases of beer, and four cases of bonny doone wines (various). if you missed out, it’s your own damned fault. i was sober enough to get one good picture before i decided i didn’t care any more. i’m going to bed.
sister, i’ve been to both the endup and pleasuredome. you are so going to the wrong places to pretend to find any sort of joy. and on top of that: you’re paying too much to get in.
you and i need to go dancing together. i have a thing or two to teach you about paradise, the dancefloor and their interminglings. they’re the same concept, no matter what some underemotive twit says about a supposed “dionysiac frenzy.” he’s clearly not getting it.
sounds to me like someone’s trying to make commentary on a world in which he’s a tourist.
5{a rainy city street at 2am with nobody around, thinking about a beautiful person you just saw for the first time, adoring them from afar. that’s a blissful moment. “always” by lisa shaw is the perfect snapshot of a moment in love.
naked music delivers lisa shaw’s talent with a degree of artistry and care not often afforded obscure house acts. so beautiful to see music management done so…right.
so go buy the real thing - mixed by everything but the girl’s ben watt - to feed your hungry head. a delicious slice of lisa’s work is here.
well spoken. and well moderated.
am i the only person in the world who wasn’t aware tobias frere-jones works with the hoefler type foundry..?
yow. talk about deadly combinations. every other foundry in the world may as well just close. like now.
apparently, i was the only one who didn’t know. i really should pay attention to such things.
fluff piece on hoefler and frere-jones in time magazine, dutifully tracked down by lines and splines.
seems unusual to outsiders, i’m sure. seems unusual to me, now that i have some distance from tennessee. but not very : good ol’ boys, white supremists, and the klan were an everyday fact of life. still, not real hip on them selling their wares at music festivals.
most regarded them as trash. dangerous trash. in fact, my uncle was murdered by them.
“welcome to tennessee. y’all go home now, hear..?”
so now that you’re all buff and stuff, can i call you buffy?
left by my friend, my brother, my favorite typographer…and tonight’s dining partner.
