tom moody

Joe McKay, Wofford, sculpture, 2007. Many of the works in McKay's current vertexList show are made with discarded cell phones. It's hard to escape the usage history of these ubiquitous devices and make them anything but an "artists do crazy things with the tools of the information age" statement but McKay's fuck all attitude almost escapes the Vvorklike. Don't know if this is the one described in the press release as "dog chewed"--in any case, the stuck orange pixel and its reflection makes a nice found Adolf Gottlieb.

A couple of articles on Blackwater, the US mercenary force that is allegedly shooting innocent civilians in Iraq and was recently hired [update: dead link] by the Pentagon "to conduct global counter-narcotics operations":

Jim McDonald, A Blackwater Bouquet

Naomi Wolf , Blackwater: Are You Scared Yet?

From McClatchy news service:

ABOUT BLACKWATER

Founded in 1996 by Erik Prince, a former Navy Seal, multimillionaire and conservative Republican donor, Blackwater began as a training facility for police and the military but began offering security services after the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. Prince, whose father helped bankroll conservative Christian organizations such as Focus On Family and Family Research Council, has given at least $225,000 to the Republican Party and its candidates.

The Congressional Research Service said that as of May there were 987 Blackwater security contractors in Iraq. The director of the Private Security Company Association of Iraq told Congress in 2006 that there were 48,000 contractors from 181 companies providing security in Iraq.

Barbara Gallucci, Begin Again, 1999, Site Santa Fe

Rudolf Stingel, Plan B, 2004 (wall-to-wall pink and blue floral carpet for Grand Central Terminal's Vanderbilt Hall)

Judi Werthein, Corporate Logo, 2007, installation view, Art in General, NY, photo AFC

This is not a "clone attack" because each idea is good and they all make rather different points. Gallucci's recursive carpet comes with a video of itself and a not-too-oblique pop culture reference: a low angle shot recalling the steadycam behind Danny's big wheel in The Shining. The Stingel is called a "painting" and warms up the normally cold lobby architecture, while at the same time Vegas-kitschifying it. The Werthein replaces one element in the gallery's "white cube" formula--the wood or concrete floor--and profanes the sacred art space with suspect commercialism. This could be the gallery space of the future, once silly notions like “autonomy” and “neutrality” are thoroughly disposed of. In each case the carpet is functional--meant to be walked on--and treads a line between object and performance background.

Updated with some thoughts from this discussion.

An excerpt from the Michael Schell tribute to Jerry Hunt mentioned previously:

I'll never forget the first time I saw Jerry perform. It was in 1984 at a music festival in Ohio. The curtain opened to reveal upstage a modest clump of homemade and off-the-shelf electronic instruments. Jerry appeared from behind the setup, pushed a few buttons and began the piece. The music coming from the loudspeakers was a tapestry of sampled instruments -- mainly bowed strings -- constantly churning out a dense micropolyphonic web based on clusters of slow and fast trills. This was accompanied by a host of high-frequency percussive sounds emphasizing rattles, sleigh bells, wind chimes and the like. Loud and unrelenting, it reminded me of a Texas insect chorus on a hot summer night.

While this was going on, Jerry paced the stage holding a variety of homemade hand props: staffs, rattles, different kinds of wands and bells. The rattles were shaken, the staffs stamped loudly on the stage. Some of the wands were quite phallic, and Jerry would make strange motions with them as though they had magical powers. Other wands looked like religious talismans created from junk: an umbrella handle that turned into a cross at the far end, or a stylized metal rod bent into the shape of an astrological symbol. Jerry took out some strange nightlights that he plugged into electrical outlets all over the stage. Later he brought out an old brown suitcase, sat on it like a child's hobby horse, and slapped it like a bass drum using a thick wooden stick.

The performance was redolent of shamanism, as though demons were being exorcised from the auditorium. But it came from a most unlikely persona: the lanky, bald, bespectacled Jerry Hunt, wearing his trademark unironed white dress shirt, long narrow tie, off-white jacket with unbuttoned cuffs and loose fitting trousers. It was a look I call "central Texas meat inspector" -- certainly not what you'd expect from a shaman. It was amusing to watch the spectacle of this mysterious ritual being performed by an utterly mundane-looking man.

Every few minutes Jerry retreated upstage to his equipment rack. He'd gather new hand props, press a few more buttons, and then venture out with a new collection of gadgets and a new repertory of weird motions and gestures. The sounds would change subtly at this point too, so that each part of Jerry's performance had its own timbral, as well as visual, identity. Apart from the periodic button-presses, Jerry didn't touch his musical instruments. They seemed to be generating the musical details in real time -- an impressive accomplishment back before MIDI control had become ubiquitous. Occasionally, a stage movement seemed to trigger a musical event, but it was hard to tell for sure. The piece had an obscure-sounding title, Ground: Haramand Plane, and lasted exactly 36 minutes as Jerry had promised beforehand. I was astonished.

"Central Texas meat inspector" nails Hunt's look. In later years he had an outrageous combover that would hang off the side of his head while he was performing. I loved the weird sculptural things he would pick up and shake at the audience.
His timing was excellent--I remember a spoken word duet where he and a protege kept interrupting each other that worked like the best comedy.