Thursday, December 27, 2018

Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam



Repetition is the sincerest form of flattery. In this art world, this is especially true. Because repetition is the sincerest form of flattery in the visual art world. Live any lover, in the throes of passion, the artist cries, "Do it, again! Do it again!" And so, the artist does. Again and again. The history of visual art is replete with obsessive examples. Monet had his mountain, Slab had his cheese danishes, Jacques Halbert had (and has) his cherries. But these pale in comparison with photographer James Mackay.

In the early 1970, Spam became Mackay's obsessive subject. (It is to this day, but we refer to his peak period.) The photographic artist-photographer captured more than 10,000 images of this now-iconic symbol of consumerism and processed pork shoulder meat.

None is more iconic than "A Study in Spam." (circa 1973). It is, to use a pedestrian term, a wonderful image. So wonderful, we can only wonder what we're wondering about. Let us do so now.

What do we see when we see what we see? A monochromatic image, a photograph created in a darkroom, no ones and zeroes involved. We have entered a world without color, a world defined in shades of grey. Within this world, a tin of SPAM rests on an indeterminate planar surface. Asphalt, perhaps? A badly-maintained badminton court? The tin itself is in harsh focus. Harshly lit from the side, casting a long linear shadow to the viewer's left. Behind it, we see the blurry images of palm trees, the lumpy suggestion of human dwellings, and a contrail in the sky. Or perhaps a darkroom mistake.

At first glance, the image is simple. At second glance, it remains simple. At third glance, not so much.

The figure-ground discordancy of this image creates a fugue state which leads the viewer to question the validity of their own perceptions. The biomorphic indeterminacy of the background creates a subliminal frisson of cognitive dissonance when juxtaposed with the foreground image — the seemingly benign, mechanical/inorganic mass-produced, consumer-oriented geometry of a tin of SPAM (emblazoned with its own lifeless "art" proclaiming the indeterminate "meat" within). Is there, in fact, a Caravaggesque sense of drama and lurking threat within this image? No, there is not. But the question was well worth asking.

I should be called to task if I neglect to mention the artist's use of chiaroscuro. He indeed uses it. A lot. But this pales in comparison to Mackay's use of Spam. His fixation on this subject matter is no less than monomaniacal.

But why? 

According to the artist, "affordability."

Special thanks to the meatpackers of Austin, MN - whose ingenious inclusion of "meat byproducts" — helped to make the purchase price of the subject affordable to the protean artist.

According to the Artist's Statement: "If 'classic' attributes of an image can be correlated to its 'timelessness,' then the Sodium Nitrite and Sodium Nitrate preservatives ensure that this image — and the very contents of the can of SPAM — are relevant to today's artists (and viewers.)

Friday, December 14, 2018

Justice has a new face.

TEASER TRAILER

EXT, BAR, NIGHT

The first thing you see is a Steadicam point-of-view shot. Mystery Man walks into the seedy bar and everybody reacts to him. Funny looks. Expression of derision and loathing. (OK, OK, kinda like that scene in “Terminator II.”) You’re seeing the bar through the man's eyes. You don’t know what he looks like at first.

Mystery Man sits down at the bar.

The guy sitting next to him looks at him contemptuously and starts laughing.

Laughing Guy: You’re not from around here, are you?

Mystery Man doesn’t answer. He takes a picture from his coat and puts it on the bar. A young girl, about 11 years old.

Mystery Man: I’m looking for this girl.

Laughing Guy: How? I don’t see no eyes up there.

Bar reacts with laughter.

Mystery Man: Have you seen this girl?

Laughing Man imitates him, making farting noises into his hand.

More laughter. But the Bartender senses danger. He's not laughing.

Mystery Man: I asked you a simple question. I'm trying to be polite.

Laughing Guy: Uh-huh. (snickering) Well I got another question for you!

Bartender: Lay off, Leroy.

Laughing Guy: (ignoring him) So … What do they call you, anyway, fella? “Buttface” …? “Assface” … ?

Mystery Man reaches out and grabs the Laughing Guy’s hand. That hand is holding a glass of beer. Mystery Man crushes his hand and the glass within. Blood and beer stream out. The Laughing Guy screams.

Mystery Man: (Clint Eastwood-esque) I’ll repeat my question.

Laughing Guy: Eaggghh!

Mystery Man: Have you seen this girl?

Laughing Guy: No, sir! No, I ain’t seen her! Honest! Lemme go! Please!

Mystery Man: Well. Since you asked politely.

Mystery Man releases his hand. Picks up the photo. Walks away. Stops. Turns to look at the horrified bar customers. And the Laughing Guy, who’s turning white and holding his bloody ruined hand.

Anus: The name … is Anus.

Reveal of Mystery Man’s face. It resembles an anus.

And the title appears …


A Man Called “Anus”

In cinemas everywhere. March 1.

Monday, December 10, 2018

Disney on Ice Part Deux


EXT, FROZEN POND -- DAY

Donald Duck looks down at the bloodied corpse of Walt Disney on the ice. Which resembles a Jackson Pollock painting.

Mickey and Goofy walk up to him.

Mickey: Ha-ha. What’d you do, Donald?

Donald: (looking at the blood on his white-gloved hands) I’ve … I’ve killed my creator. It was an accident, honest!

Mickey: Could happen to anybody, ha-ha. Why …

Donald: Because he made me so f**king angry, that’s why! He kept pushing me. Always pushing! “Donald’s the epitome of everyone I hate.” S**t like that. I told him to back off. “Please back off, Mr. Disney.” I told him … I warned him … He wouldn’t listen! He just kept pushing! (screaming at Walt Disney’s corpse) You happy now, a**hole? You happy?

Goofy: He don’t look happy.

Donald: (collapsing in a heap of despair) Oh no. Oh woe is me! What do I do?

Goofy: Gorsh. You better do that right thing, Donald.

Mickey: Yeah. Let’s put this Nazi-f**ker on ice before anybody gets wise.

Goofy: That’s not what I …

Donald: (blushing shyly) Well … gee fellas. I did bring my ice pick.

Mickey: Good thinking, Donald! That’s planning ahead! 

Donald: It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t!

Mickey: No … of course not. Ha-ha. Let’s get going!

Goofy bends over the frozen pond and vomits.

Sunday, December 9, 2018

Hyperstring Santa from the Nth Dimension



How the hell could Santa Claus be present in so many different malls at once?* How the hell could he deliver Christmas presents to every child in the world (aside from naughty Third World children) in a single night?

Glad you asked.

Here's my scientific explanation ...

One variant of string theory postulated that every electron and positron in our universe is actually a segment of a single N-dimensional hyperstring which cuts in and out of our 4-D bubble of space/time. (The particle is positive or negative, depending on the angle of attack.) I theorize it's the same with Santa. There's actually a single N-dimensional HyperSanta cutting in and out of our universe and manifesting in multiple locations. Krampus is, of course, the AntiSanta — who appears whenever the string intersects at an opposing angle. If Santa and Krampus ever met, our universe would explode. The would, of course, ruin Christmas.

A plausible theory, I think. The premise would also make a great, bad “Star Trek” episode on the original series. Sort of like The Alternative Factor. Except that the episode would end with Santa Claus and Krampus. Hands at each other's throats. Forever locked in agonizing combat in the void between universes.

In our universe, Kirk and Spock would glumly contemplate their fate.

Spock: The universe is saved, captain.

Kirk: Yes. But what of Santa Claus? What of Santa Claus?

* Thanks and a hattip to Michael O'Donnell for reminding me of this question and sparking this bizarre train of thought.

Thursday, December 6, 2018

The A**holes Creed


The Assholes Creed

I believe in Me, the Trumpster Almighty, creator of Trump Towers and The Apprentice. Do you believe in Yourself? If you happen to be Me, the answer is "yes." I believe in Me, Myself and I, Donald J. Trump, who was conceived in defiance of the rhythm method, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, suffered under Spy Magazine, was elected, glorified, and televised; if you’re not Me, you’d be better off dead.