Friday, May 28, 2004

Notes on semi-gloss

Societal detritus amassed as collectible nostalgia, too sentimental to relinquish and therefore more precious than common junk. That is the premise from which to converge. Two separate paths, two distinct styles representing a palpable sense of aesthetic that must be dovetailed in order to co-exist. Larger metaphysical mores dictate such redesign, inflict a moral obligation beyond the connective and conjugal to regulate that thing called beauty. Postmodern man sees this adventure as a subconscious pilgrimage, an evolution of the modernist edict toward a better world. Even popular culture in its infinite wisdom demands it, brainwashing acolytes with daily dosages of Merge, Trading Spaces, Clean Sweep and Designing for the Sexes to coerce a new look, a new life, a new order.

Because disorder from disorganization equals buried conflict, anathema to crucial infrastructure of healthy relationships. Yin must merge with Yang to achieve balance. That is the not-so-sublimnal message promulgated by mass media. The individual must acquiese and become a singular identity from its disparate parts whether by predestiny or by design.

So who are we as purveyors of such fashion to resist?

Semi-gloss then refers to this urge to combine and merge, to create from the preexisting, to preserve so as to reinvent. Apply a new coat with sheen and its slick surface is pure eye candy. It mimics these methodologies to transform and reform the whole process of process as process. Call it mixed media deconstructed and out of control, reacting to the architecture of spatial realities and definitive objects as the politics of the room versus the formalism of decoration and pattern. Literally the room itself is the defacto and proverbial blank canvas except that instead of one artistic vision, see what transpires via a collaborative effort of differing ideas governing what defines art, craft and simple interior decorating.

Perhaps employ an exquisite corpse technique to affect a hybrid installation, transforming the gallery into a hodge podge chop suey of divergent tastes and influences.

From two minds comes one work. Or so one says.

Thursday, May 27, 2004

Not to win or place, but show

Tuesday afternoon before the Pepsi half-price night rendezvous to see Schoenweiss versus the Gambler, two veteran lollipop lefthanded curveballers, threatens to be washed out. But then the missing sun reappears and just like old times in a snap of a finger, the scenery changes almost instantaneously from drab gray to lush green. So why not squeeze in nine holes to properly acknowledge the forthwith male bonding?

No elaborate planning, no forethought, just consensus and be done. The course is surprisingly empty upon our arrival which means no crucial warmup prior to initial tee-off. Grab your bag, dust off Big Bertha and pray for distance. The anticipation that springs from those wizened old pros, ad hoc judge and jury eyeballing your manic practice swings, an idiosyncratic ritual superstitiously followed ostensibly to loosen up but really a convulated and complex checklist of do's and don'ts, only increases your adrenalin and no doubt, testosterone.

The trick is now part of muscle memory. Address the ball, right hand overlapping left thumb rather than the prototypical interlocking pinkies, and backswing, making sure the torque of the motion forces the left shoulder to contact chin before releasing. Naturally and of course, the head remains absolutely still, eyes locked on the tee. Over and over in your head, one word repeats to quell the performance anxiety in the face of the madding crowd: smooth.

And whack! Long, straight and most importantly aloft, the ball flies.

That is what was said in defense of driving for show yet failing to putt for dough. Something wicked goes awry trying to get up and down as if all that came before simply becomes amnesia.

Thursday, May 20, 2004

Way below the Mendoza Line

It returns. The greatest slump of all time continues. But not from a lack of trying.

What beguiles is that things started off very swimmingly. First a ghost from distant past revealed themself to be a guardian angel in disguise pointing the way, shining the proverbial light. A name I heretofore only read about shook my hand. Then before you can say "abracadabra", the secret door opened. Suddenly these gatekeepers knew who I was and weirdly beckoned me in. That never happened before. This time, though, being in the company of she who is annointed, cast me in a different light. No more queuing among the throngs just to glimpse the booths. An usher escorted us to where the ministers convened, a curtained backroom that few knew about. Inside, other heads of state gladly said hello, exchanged pleasantries, even sought counsel. But then it was too late. I fascinated only because of being garbed in the emperor's clothing, just another oddity.

Of course, the bottom fell out as is the case recently. Looking over the game film pointed out specific foibles in overall strategy. The eye in the sky rarely lies as everyone knows. To place all my eggs in one basket trying to backdoor numerous applications proved disasterous. Rather than follow up hot targets individually the carpetbomb approach failed to yield the anticipated collateral effect. The chain reaction ready to set off never detonated. Now the many commando strikes ineffectually bounce off steel-plated armor.

Forever with one knee on the on-deck circle, waiting. It is much better to be lucky than good.