it begins thusly:

Posted by Joel's secretary at 28 Jun 2007
Categories: Pictures, Art, Travelogue
19.6.07

"What the hell am I doing?" is all I can think as I walk into the Memphis International Airport, lugging 43 pounds of possessions (mostly tee shirts and paint) behind me.  Too late for questions now, just one foot in front of the other.  It's a good thing I have no concept of what it really means to do this, to travel the world for a year without tether or touchstone, or I probably wouldn't attempt it. 


I find Koons in the crapper (again) in amsterdam, en route to venice

20.6.07

I arrive in Venice at dusk and ride the vaporetto into the city, snaking through the canal as the setting sun throws a veil across its waters so golden that they almost appear clean.  The smell of decaying fish ensures that no one is fooled.  After meeting up with a couple of other art lovers, it's off to the Giardini and the Arsenalle, the grand gauntlet of art that is the Venice Biennale.


venice (melting)


    The crowds and the weather are hot and merciless.  Amateur art critics abound, sweating out their lunchtime Bellinis in the scorch of the midday sun, dropping quips along the lines of

I think this is a Frida Kahlo.  Is this a Frida Kahlo? (it wasn't)

and,

You know, this is no Picasso.  I mean, Picasso virtually invented minimalism. (he didn't).

    My reactions to the work (and the crowds) vary.  I'm smitten by art (less so by the crowds) and, all in all, I couldn't be happier.  In the Spanish Pavilion I fall hard for the quiet poetry of Ramos Balsa's video/sculpture combinations - one of the few times technology feels human and interesting.  I want so badly to love Emily Jacir's meticulous documentary of a slain intellectual, but it proves to be far too cold, not lyrical or intimate enough to break through to me.  Sophie Calle and I could hang, if she would just get over the narrative (and her ex-boyfriend).  Her 'last words' pieces felt so familiar...  Jason Rhodes is complicated and dead, so I think I like him more than I might otherwise.   A note for Tracey Ermin - if I've seen one giant abstracted vagina, I've seen them all.  And don't drop the abortion bomb and expect me to feel bad for still not liking the work.  Your neon pieces were nice, though.  Kara Walker made one of the only videos I really cared about (most felt self-indulgent and, like most of the photography, probably should have been paintings or drawings or nothings).  Isa Genzken is steely and difficult, and so perfect formally (trend alert - mirrors and metallics - so hot this season).  Sigmar Polke made some of the most decadently overbearing paintings I've ever seen.  I find myself returning to them every few minutes to steal another glance and feel bad for not giving other work, like Ellsworth Kelly's, the same attention.  Well.  Maybe not Ellsworth Kelly.

    At the Accademia I learned that Tintoretto painted unicorns, which puts him right up there with Lisa Frank in my book.  While browsing the gorgeous and potentially practice-changing Matthew Barney/Joseph Beuys show at the Peggy Guggenheim Collection I couldn't help but wonder if the presence of so many unbelievably attractive attendants was supposed to be some sort of ironic comment on Ms. Guggenheim herself (she was no Hannah Wilke).  Art Tempo was possibly the most perfectly curated thing I have ever seen - treasures everywhere, dug up from the ocean and plucked off the walls of MoMA, set in a labyrinthine palace.  Projections on hundred year-old tapestries, old things that look so fresh, dirty things, sparkly things, quiet things.  I didn't know where to look and just as I felt overwhelmed, I found respite in a series of Roman Opalkas paired with an ancient Buddha in a stark white room.


You down with FGT?  Yeah, you know me.

    The pinnacle experience of this art gauntlet was Felix Gonzalez-Torres at the American pavilion.  After years of studying (and unabashedly ganking) the corporeality of his work, his deep symbolism and disarming generosity, the subversive nature of his lyricism, I experienced it in full - the stacks, the light stings, the piles, curtain, mirrors, and newly made reflecting pools.  I sneaked back into the Giardini after closing time to see the pools again, allowing me 20 beautiful minutes alone with them - until the half-drunk security guard found me.  As I was ushered out the garden gate (as cheesy as this sounds) I was so happy to be in Venice among all this art and I felt so lucky to be able to say that I, like Felix and Gerhardt and Sophie, am an artist.  Then I stepped in poo.

  Brain full, shoes cleaned, off to Istanbul, City of the World's Desire and my strange new home for the next three months.


 

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