You're The Boss - Chisenhale Gallery Education - London - 2008

You're The Boss was an intensive one week art project commissioned by Chisenhale Gallery for 12-14 year olds. The young people 'hired' the artist they wanted to work with and designed an event and interactive art exhibition open to the general public at the end of the week. They visited the Tate Modern to respond on the exhibition, Duchamp, Manray & Picabia, and they chose the way they wanted to work and with what media they could use. They created artworks as individuals and collaboratively. They had to work with a budget, find ways to market their event that included a walkabout around the local park to hand out invitations and talk to the public.

They created a photo & video booth area, scanning & printing area and a research & experimentation area. They worked with text, exquisite corpses, object installations, still life's, sets and costumes. Discussion was an important aspect of the project and they made their own group name and manifesto.

Source:
http://www.helenmarshall.co.uk/youretheboss.html

Great initiatives!

Hannablue

Eskimo's have many words to for ice and snow.

tlapa           powder snow
tlacringit      snow that is crusted on the surface
kayi            drifting snow
tlapat          still snow
klin            remembered snow
naklin          forgotten snow
tlamo           snow that falls in large wet flakes
tlatim          snow that falls in small flakes
tlaslo          snow that falls slowly
tlapinti        snow that falls quickly
kripya          snow that has melted and refrozen
tliyel          snow that has been marked by wolves
tliyelin        snow that has been marked by Eskimos
blotla          blowing snow
pactla          snow that has been packed down
hiryla          snow in beards
wa-ter          melted snow
tlayinq         snow mixed with mud
quinaya         snow mixed with Husky shit
quinyaya        snow mixed with the shit of a lead dog
slimtla         snow that is crusted on top but soft underneath
kriplyana       snow that looks blue in the early morning
puntla          a mouthful of snow because you fibbed
allatla         baked snow
fritla          fried snow
gristla         deep fried snow
MacTla          snow burgers
jatla           snow between your fingers or toes, or in groin-folds
dinliltla       little balls of snow that cling to Husky fur
sulitlana       green snow
mentlana        pink snow
tidtla          snow used for cleaning
ertla           snow used by Eskimo teenagers for exquisite erotic rituals
kriyantli       snow bricks
hahatla         small packages of snow given as gag gifts
semtla          partially melted snow
ontla           snow on objects
intla           snow that has drifted indoors
shlim           slush
warintla        snow used to make Eskimo daiquiris
mextla          snow used to make Eskimo Margaritas
penstla         the idea of snow
mortla          snow mounded on dead bodies
ylaipi          tomorrow’s snow
nylaipin        the snows of yesteryear (”neiges d’antan”)
pritla          our children’s snow
nootlin         snow that doesn’t stick
rotlana         quickly accumulating snow
skriniya        snow that never reaches the ground
bluwid          snow that’s shaken down from objects in the wind
tlanid          snow that’s shaken down and then mixes with sky-falling snow
ever-tla        a spirit made from mashed fermented snow,
popular among Eskimo men
talini          snow angels
priyakli        snow that looks like it’s falling upward
chiup           snow that makes halos
blontla         snow that’s shaken off in the mudroom
tlalman         snow sold to German tourists
tlalam          snow sold to American tourists
tlanip          snow sold to Japanese tourists
protla          snow packed around caribou meat
attla           snow that as it falls seems to create nice pictures
in the air
sotla           snow sparkling with sunlight
tlun            snow sparkling with moonlight
astrila         snow sparkling with starlight
clim            snow sparkling with flashlight or headlight
tlapi           summer snow
krikaya         snow mixed with breath
ashtla          expected snow that’s wagered on (depth, size of flakes)
huantla         special snow rolled into “snow reefers” and smoked
by wild Eskimo youth
tla-na-na       snow mixed with the sound of old rock and roll
from a portable radio
depptla         a small snowball, preserved in Lucite, that had been handled
by Johnny Depp
trinkyi         first snow of the year
tronkyin        last snow of the year
shiya           snow at dawn
katiyana        night snow
tlinro          snow vapor
nyik            snow with flakes of widely varying size
ragnitla        two snowfalls at once, creating moire patterns
akitla          snow falling on water
privtla         snow melting in the spring rain
chahatlin       snow that makes a sizzling sound as it falls on water
hootlin         snow that makes a hissing sound as the
individual flakes brush
geltla          snow dollars
briktla         good building snow
striktla        snow that’s no good for building
erolinyat       snow drifts containing the imprint of crazy lovers
chachat         swirling snow that drives you nuts
krotla          snow that blinds you
tlarin          snow that can be sculpted into the delicate corsages
Eskimo girls pin to their whale parkas at prom time
motla           snow in the mouth
sotla           snow in the south
maxtla          snow that hides the whole village
tlayopi         snow drifts you fall into and die
truyi           avalanche of snow
tlapripta       snow that burns your scalp and eyelids
carpitla        snow glazed with ice
tla             ordinary snow

Have a nice day, and enjoy the first nightfrost .

Miss Hannablue

The Whitney’s welcome retrospective rescues Georgia O’Keeffe from sex and flowers.

No other figure in American art history went from heights to has-been so quickly. See if these comments, some of them by women, don’t make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Critics wrote of the “great painful and ecstatic climaxes” in the art of “this girl,” of how she felt “through the womb,” and gave us a “sense of woman’s flesh in martyrdom.” Her paintings were said to be a “revelation of the very essence of woman as Life Giver,” expressing “dense, quivering, endless life,” and “the world as it is known to woman.” We read about her “outpouring of sexual juices,” “loamy hungers of the flesh,” and her art as “one long, loud blast of sex, sex in youth, sex in adolescence, sex in maturity … sex bulging, sex tumescent, sex deflated.” And those were the admirers! Critic Clement Greenberg, a nonfan, was appalled when MoMA honored O’Keeffe with a retrospective in 1946—one of its first solo shows for a woman; her work was “little more than tinted photography.” Threatened male artists (sex was their territory!) Edward Hopper and John Sloan were “furious” that she’d been elected to the National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1949 and “tried to intervene.”

Given that reception, it’s amazing O’Keeffe continued making art until close to her death, at 98. Less surprising is that she did it in relative isolation, spending her last 37 years in New Mexico—which only added to her mythology and popularity outside the art world.

The Whitney Museum’s revelatory survey of the work that earned O’Keeffe such derision, the evocative, more-or-less abstract art she made starting in 1915—phenomenally early for an American artist—should reopen eyes to an undeniable fact: O’Keeffe produced some of the most original and ambitious art in the twentieth century. Her ideas about surface, scale, and color are not only daring; they presaged the work of artists as varied as Barnett Newman, Milton Avery, Mark Rothko, Morris Louis, and Mary Heilmann, as well as Color Field painting, Lyrical Abstraction, and contemporary postmodern abstraction. At her best, she is a formally inventive poetic powerhouse who makes the nonobjective feel mystical, familiar, objective, and subjective all at once.

Born poor in 1887 on a farm in Wisconsin, O’Keeffe worked and taught and studied art in Texas, South Carolina, Illinois, and Virginia. Just when it appeared she’d be a teacher for the rest of her life, fate stepped in. On New Year’s Day, 1916, without obtaining her permission, a girlfriend showed O’Keeffe’s abstract charcoal drawings to the legendary photographer-proprietor of New York’s great 291 Gallery, Alfred Stieglitz. With his intrepid eye, he instantly recognized her promise; he’d “never seen a woman express herself so fully on paper … I wouldn’t mind showing them.”

In May, Stieglitz hung ten of her charcoals in a group show. Soon thereafter, she confessed to a friend that she had fallen for the “hot, dark, destructive” (and married) Stieglitz. In 1918, O’Keeffe, 30, moved to New York and within weeks became the 54-year-old Stieglitz’s lover. It was an ardent union, judging from O’Keeffe’s letters to him, one of which described being “on my back—wanting to be spread wide apart.” Whew! That is hot!

As revolutionary as living out of wedlock was in 1918 (the couple married in 1924), a 1921 survey of Stieglitz’s photographs, including 45 pictures of O’Keeffe, many of them nudes, transformed the two of them into the equivalent of an art world Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Stieglitz said, “When I make a photograph I make love.” O’Keeffe, who later recalled the “heat and excitement” of the photo sessions, opined that “nothing like them had come into our world before.”

Yet the same nude photos that made Stieglitz famous triggered a backlash against O’Keeffe. Forever after, her work was seen in purely sexual terms. “When people read erotic symbols into my paintings they’re really talking about their own affairs,” O’Keeffe said. Still, the sexualized misconceptions of her work devastated her. “I almost wept,” she wrote of one review in 1921.

The Whitney’s focused show, carefully organized by curator Barbara Haskell, includes over 125 works and more than a dozen Stieglitz portraits. What strikes you about O’Keeffe’s paintings is their restraint and reticence. And the astounding imagination. The sexuality barely registers—which makes the show feel strangely defensive, like it’s scared to let O’Keeffe be as weird, mystical, and suggestive as she really was. I would have appreciated more of her terrified, tentative retreats from and flirtations with abstraction and nature in the twenties, thirties, and forties; her kind-of-like nature/kind-of-figurative hedged bets of the fifties; the oddball flat sixties abstractions; the almost-dissipated seventies works.

Out of the Erotic Ghetto

From left: Red, Yellow and Black Streak (1924); Sky Above Clouds III/Above the Clouds III (1963); Series I—No.3 (1918).   (Photo: From left: CNAC/MNAM/DIST. Réunion des musées nationaux/Art Resource, NY and © Georgia O'Keeffe Museum/Artist Rights Society (ARS), New York; © Georgia O'Keeffe Museum/Artist Rights Society (ARS), New York; Larry Sanders, © Milwaukee Art Museum)

There are naughty bits. But when compared with the work of her closest stylistic contemporary and influence Arthur Dove, it is Dove, not O’Keeffe, who comes off as being “about sex.” Dove plays the brooding, physical Walt Whitman of Leaves of Grass to O’Keeffe’s intricate Emily Dickinson. Dove’s touch has sensual weight, animalistic body, and shadowy intensity. O’Keeffe’s art is Spartan, Apollonian, and cerebral—structured, layered, and faceted like abstract sonnets.

In the first two knockout rooms of the Whitney’s show, Haskell gives us O’Keeffe’s early works on paper and her uncanny ability to conjure indivisible abstract wholes in which all parts are of equal interest and never decorative—something Donald Judd made good on decades later. Aside from one darkened gallery of Stieglitz’s super-seductive pictures of her (who knew underarm hair could be so titillating?), from the third gallery on, you’re lowered into O’Keeffe’s lapidarian vision, glowing prismatic color, and luscious thin surfaces. She never overworks anything; the relationship of her interior forms to external edges feels found yet pure as Pythagorean geometry.

“The men,” as she witheringly referred to male contemporaries, tended to paint dark color with gritty surfaces and romantic symbolism. At the Whitney, you see O’Keeffe coaxing brilliant hues onto smooth grounds via colossally magnified, closely cropped, disembodied shapes. At the same time, she’s assimilated Stieglitz’s (and Paul Strand’s) ideas of photography into painting. All these things made her, in her own words, “an outsider.” O’Keeffe’s purer color and form, her surreal scale shifts, were as radical for her time as Warhol’s Day-Glo color and pop-culture references were for his. Like Warhol, she was willing to forsake high-minded ideas of what constituted “serious art,” and risk being branded with the worst insults the art world could muster: girly, swishy, pretty. O’Keeffe wasn’t afraid of those labels. And as the Whitney show demonstrates, her fearless prettiness is also profound and lyrical—an eerie, ineffable joy. Fuck sex.

source:

http://nymag.com/arts/art/reviews/59249/

kleurenschema's om je op te verlekkeren.

Klik hieronder:

Ik voel me verwant met de Flamenco:

Love and peace

Hannablue

I pass it on to You too

Hannablue

***Speculaties*** zijn leuker dan **formules**

Wanneer het spinimpulsmoment
van een electron
tijd veranderen kan in ruimte

(welke vreemde en breekbare
bloemen vervluchigen dan?),

wannneer in geëlectrificeerde ruimtes
die golven die gidsen
voor golven zijn,
sneller dan het licht zijn

(welk licht achter de hand
speelt dan vader en moedertje?),

of ook wanneer het leven,
de liefde enzovoort,
gevoed worden door negatieve entropie (syntropie)

(welke dwarse dromen
bezielen dan de grote
Manitou, herstel
de oneindige dimensie?),

of ook wanneer de tijd slechts
(om tot ons uitgangspunt terug te keren)
het verstand is van de ruimte
of het onverstand

(werktuig; speelgoed;
en hoe langer hoe beter hoe minder
het één en ander),

op welk slim eiland
moet de oude uitgerekende mens
dan gaan wonen?

Onzin, natuurlijk. Hij hoeft niet.
En wie formule wil,
kan er één krijgen:

oneindig maal niets geeft
duizenden werelden.

*********************************************************

uit: Ik hoor het licht,bloemlezing uit de poëzie van Hans Andreus.
samengesteld door Jos van der Vegt.
uitg: Bert Bakker, Amsterdam

een klein muziekaal momentje voor mijn verjaardag

Beste fans van Hannablue,