THE BUREAU ICON ESSAY
BOB DYLAN
By BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE EDITOR J. A. TRILIEGI
Bob Dylan transformed the idea of what it is to be hip, deep, cool, sexy, funny, ironic and intelligent, all the while, retaining a purist style that remained true to himself. Each step of the way, each level of transcendence, each pitfall, each breakthrough moment has it's challenges, it's problems, its rewards. Success in the creative field can mean as many things to as many performers, songwriters and those who fall in the center of the American spotlight of popularity. Few can survive it, even fewer are able to retain a sense of self and even protect that idea publicly. Dylan took the name of a poet, hopped on a bus, looked at America and told the world truths, that have to this day, remain truer and truer as time passes. The songs he wrote fifty years ago are more relevant now than ever, they will be more relevant in 100 years. The international press corp came at Dylan with the headlights on high beam. Instead of stare like a deer, he treated the alliance like a musketeer might approach a formal fencing match: Touché. The American Poet & wordsmith extraordinaire had become The Folkie, The Beatnik, The Rocker, The Philosopher, The Historian, The Cowboy, The Hermit, The Leader, The Champion of Underdogs, The Christian, The Anonymous, The Legend, The Icon and through it all, he's still Bob Dylan. An American guy from The Midwest who started with nothing but a blank piece of paper and a few ideas.
"They wanted more than the music, more than the lyrics, more than the concert, more than the records, they wanted a symbol they could use for their own parade, their own arcade, their own charade and Dylan denied the puppet strings, denied the sacrificial position, denied the groups that had latched onto him and he remained true to the only thing a human has from the very beginning to the very end: Oneself."
For every title, there also came a group of admirers and detractors, who wanted something. They wanted more than the music, more than the lyrics, more than the concert, more than the records, they wanted a symbol they could use for their own parade, their own arcade, their own charade and Dylan denied the puppet strings, denied the sacrificial position, denied the groups that had latched onto him and he remained true to the only thing a human has from the very beginning to the very end: Oneself. He has understood that selling albums, performing, having a contract to support the self expression is where it's at, and all the while, Dylan has offered us what he has. Critics through the years have expressions and titles and adjectives that glibly describe the various stages of Dylan's career: A Major Album, A Minor Album, Etc… His voice was laughable, compared to entertainers like Frank Sinatra, his stage presence was stiff, compared to singers such as Elvis Presley, his looks were nerdy, compared to performers like Johnny Cash and yet, he competed, sold millions of albums, and wrote anthems that have defined, to it's very core, what it is to Be : American. Bob Dylan is incomparable to other performers in the industry, he is an anomaly, he is the exception to the rule, there is no parallel story that can live up to Bob Dylan, so, please, don't even try. Today, we honor Bob Dylan, not for who you wanted him to be, not for what might have been, not for any ideas outside the realm of his oeuvre but, we honor him for what he actually is : The Great Independent American Artist.
"They wanted more than the music, more than the lyrics, more than the concert, more than the records, they wanted a symbol they could use for their own parade, their own arcade, their own charade and Dylan denied the puppet strings, denied the sacrificial position, denied the groups that had latched onto him and he remained true to the only thing a human has from the very beginning to the very end: Oneself."
For every title, there also came a group of admirers and detractors, who wanted something. They wanted more than the music, more than the lyrics, more than the concert, more than the records, they wanted a symbol they could use for their own parade, their own arcade, their own charade and Dylan denied the puppet strings, denied the sacrificial position, denied the groups that had latched onto him and he remained true to the only thing a human has from the very beginning to the very end: Oneself. He has understood that selling albums, performing, having a contract to support the self expression is where it's at, and all the while, Dylan has offered us what he has. Critics through the years have expressions and titles and adjectives that glibly describe the various stages of Dylan's career: A Major Album, A Minor Album, Etc… His voice was laughable, compared to entertainers like Frank Sinatra, his stage presence was stiff, compared to singers such as Elvis Presley, his looks were nerdy, compared to performers like Johnny Cash and yet, he competed, sold millions of albums, and wrote anthems that have defined, to it's very core, what it is to Be : American. Bob Dylan is incomparable to other performers in the industry, he is an anomaly, he is the exception to the rule, there is no parallel story that can live up to Bob Dylan, so, please, don't even try. Today, we honor Bob Dylan, not for who you wanted him to be, not for what might have been, not for any ideas outside the realm of his oeuvre but, we honor him for what he actually is : The Great Independent American Artist.
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Contributing Photographers: Norman Seef, Kanayo Adibe, Elliott Landy, Ryan Schierling, Mike Miller, Lynn Saville, Melissa Ann Pinney, Herb Ritts, Alex Harris, Jack English, Gered Mankowitz, Bohnchang Koo, Natsumi Hayashi, Raymond Depardon, T. Enami, Dennis Stock, Dina Litovsky, Guillermo Cervera, Moises Saman, Cathleen Naundorf, Terry Richardson, Phil Stern, Dennis Morris, Henry Diltz, Steve Schapiro, Yousuf Karsh, Ellen Von Unwerth, William Claxton, Robin Holland, Andrew Moore, James Gabbard, Mary Ellen Mark, Melissa Ann Pinney, John Robert Rowlands, Brian Duffy, Robert Frank, Jon Lewis, Sven Hans, David Levinthal, Joshua White, Brian Forrest, Lorna Stovall, Elliott Erwitt, Rene Burri, Susan Wright, David Leventhal, Peter Van Agtmael & The Bureau Editor Joshua Triliegi.
Contributing Guest Artists: Melissa Ann Pinney, Irby Pace, Robert Shetterly, David Burke, Michelle Handelman, Jon Swihart, F. Scott Hess, Ho Ryon Lee, Andy Moses, Kahn & Selesnick, Jules Engel, Patrick Lee, David Palumbo, Tom Gregg, Tony Fitzpatrick, Gary Lang, Fabrizio Casetta, DJ Hall, David FeBland, Eric Zener, Seeroon Yeretzian, Dawn Jackson, Charles Dickson, Ernesto DeLaLoza, Diana Wong, Gustavo Godoy, John Weston, Kris Kuksi, Bomonster, Hiroshi Ariyama, Linda Stark, Kota Ezawa, Russell Nachman, Katsushika Hokusai and Xuan Chen
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WELCOME to The Most recent Edition BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE MAGAZINE. This Edition contains The BUREAU ICON Essay: BOB DYLAN. Interviews + Photographic Essays with Alex HARRIS on The INUIT, Kanayo ADIBE in Baltimore, Lynn SAVILLE in New York City, Mike MILLER on West Coast Style, Ryan SCHIERLING in AUSTIN and BUREAU GUEST Artist: Melissa Ann PINNEY ART Interview with David BURKE in Bay Area. Plus: Michelle HANDELMAN. New FICTION: THEY CALL IT THE CITY of ANGELS Part III MUSIC Contributor: Sarah Rose PERRY on The Femme PUNK Scene. MUSIC Interview with JAHI. Plus US MUSEUMS: Detroit's 30 ARTISTS Exhibit, Milwaukee's Larry SULTAN, Photo LA, BOOK Stores Across US: BookPeople, Anderson's, City Lights, Book Reviews from STRAND NYC. Classical MUSIC and Rock & Roll: Not So Different After All. Elliott Landy and The BAND. Edward Hopper at The Cantor. All This and More Plus BUREAU On Line Links to The ART Fairs in MIAMI 2015 with Exclusive Audio Interviews, Reviews & New Online Articles All Year Round at The New BUREAU CITY SITES Across America an The World Through Internet. BUREAU is MEDIA Partner for PHOTO LA . RED NATION FILM FEST + MORE... Also The Main BUREAU SITE:
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THE ACADEMY AWARDS AND PEOPLE OF COLOR
By Joshua A. TRILIEGI for BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE
January 23rd 2016
Film lovers, film critics, film goers, film makers and film aficionados all seem to be giving their opinions, dissertations and criticisms on the lack of diversity at this years Academy Awards. Anyone who is familiar with this publication knows how much we have been influenced by African American Artists, Filmmakers, Musicians and everyday people. From John Coltrane to Spike Lee, from Ice-T to Malcolm X, from Interviews and Essays on Compton Sculptor Charles Dickson, Oakland's JAHI, Leimert Park's Barbara Morrison, Poet Sabreen Shabazz or Baltimore photographer Kanayo Adibe, who is actually from Africa, we at this publication are more diverse than anyone in this publishing game. If you really want to talk about diversity, at least from us, one need only look at my personal commitment to Los Angeles and it's incredible array of nationalities represented in the three year Fiction project entitled, "They Call It They City of ANGELS." I have been watching this controversy unfold and as it unravels, find it is time to join in the conversation.
This is a tough one. For starters, I am from Los Angeles, so I don't have that chip on the shoulder towards the Hollywood elite that taints so much of the National and International dialogue. Nor am I overly impressed with celebrity, we see it everyday, grew up with it, even work with it on occasion. The East Coast film critic's, like A.O. Scott, whom I have always admired and many others, have found it easy to slam, dismiss and criticize the Academy. A simple assessment is any easy way out of actually thinking about and truly wondering what all this is really about. I think this issue deserves more than that. Let's see if we can take this further. Spike Lee has taught many of us, who are not of African dissent what it is like to be, 'Of Color.' Spike has given us some of the best moments ever. To me personally, these are not black moments, these are simply human experiences, but to many, Spike Lee explained what was up. The humor, the sadness, the beauty, the irony, the struggle, the defiance, the pride and the poverty, all personified, in his many films. I should explain that Spike, for many of us looking to make films in the early Eighties, us without money, was very important. How important ? Well, he was so significant to me, that on my first trip to New York City, the first thing I did, was take a cab from the airport directly to his newly opened store and purchased the Forty Acres and a Mule, his production companies name, sweatshirt, which I still own to this day. We studied his books and we knew that, maybe, we too could make films, without much money. Okay, my personal biases have been exposed, you know how long I've been in this, we got that out of the way.
Spike Lee's catalogue is a glossary of life as he knows it with many great moments. I even remember the day, the very day that I saw the film trailer for his first movie, "She's Gotta have IT." Spike is standing on the corner selling, "Three tube socks for five dollars, three tube socks for five dollars, If you don't come and see my movie, I will still be here selling three tube socks for five dollars." I knew then and there, that this dude was someone I wanted to check out. Same feeling when I saw Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise, I thought, this cat is going to do something interesting and I am going to be there when he does, and, he did. When you are part of a community, wether it is film or art or music or design or photography or surfing or architecture or literature, something happens to you, you are drawn to a particular medium and you either, A. Go to School or B. Seek Knowledge, there are other options, I did a little of both. The point is, if you really, really love the medium, as Quentin Tarantino will tell you, "Than, you can become a filmmaker." Same rule applies for other arts, to a certain extent. Most writers of note agree that good writing can't be taught, it can be honed, but you have to have something, to begin with: experience. When I was first drawn to the Art World, I was very naive, in my mind, I pictured a world of artists and galleries and writers and thought they would all be waiting to welcome me, like a long lost family. I had no idea how treacherous, lecherous and venomous the experience could be. We all go through this experience. Spike Lee talks about waiting for the calls to come in after his first film, an after school special, anything, but the phone did not ring. I went through that with my art, with my films, with this magazine, and I'm what is commonly known as, "A white dude." So, we persevere and the work gets better and we continue to offer it to this thing we call a community, but, after all, it's a business and so, we straddle the monster and somehow squeeze moments, images, ideas into something coherently transformative, entertaining, sometimes educational and other times simply something that feels correct, it has a flow, an authenticity and a lasting result of some sort. It could be a film, it could be a book, it could be an image. Filmmaking in particular is an odd mixture of literature, theatre and science. There are levels of excellence and levels of experience and every now and then, even a newcomer can totally blow away those who have been in the game for decades, like Paul Thomas Anderson did with his epic entry into the big leagues with, "Boogie Nights." Speaking of discovering new levels of performing, I will never forget how brave Mark Whalberg's performance was in that film. We knew we were witnessing something very rare.
As far as Spike's journey goes, it has been harrowing actually, and right from the get go, controversy has been a part of his work, on and off the screen. He was a man of color entering what was considered a white mans medium. John Ford, Howard Hawks, Frank Capra, Cecil B. DeMille, George Stevens, John Huston, to name a few, all great filmmakers, telling great stories about what they knew, and what they knew, was mostly what they experienced, which was mostly from an Anglo viewpoint. Now, you should also know that Italian filmmakers, such as Martin Scorsese also faced extremely harsh experiences when dealing with, not only the Academy and West Coast film studios, but the public's reaction to the films that he had made. Many people forget that his life was actually threatened when the nomination for a young Jody Foster in his epic film Taxi Driver, came to the fore. Eventually, the studios realized that, the public wanted to see these films and the Academy honored their originality and their craft: breakthroughs were made. Francis Ford Coppola, Brian DePalma and John Cassavettes, took what DeSica, Fellini and Visconti had going back in Italy and rejuvenated the tradition. If you were a Swedish American, you had Ingrid Bergman. If you were a German American, you had Fritz Lang. If you were a French American, you had Truffaut. If you were an African American, you did not have a reference point per se, in Africa. You had Melvin Peebles, when it came to directing, but most of the time, you had, a white director, a white producer, a white writer, telling a black story.
The black director working with the black actor, and a black writer was rare, actually, it still is rare. I am sure, through the years, from the personification of the maids in Gone With The Wind, to the criminals in The French Connection, to the entire black-sploitation films of the Nineteen Seventies that African Americans got sick and tired of seeing shit on the screen that did not, could not and would not properly represent who they were, who they are and what they were really experiencing. Imagine a young Spike Lee watching, for the first time, "Birth of a Nation," with it's blatant viewpoints. That's some motivation to tell it like it is. The so-called, 'black man,' which is a label that irks the hell out of me every time I hear it. Why do I have to use this label to discuss another human being ? Check out the speeches of Malcolm X on this subject. The very fact that young people today have to REMIND America and Universities and Politicians that BLACK LIVES MATTER is a real sign of where we are at today. The fact that the Supreme Court is swaying so far as to deny the rights of African Americans is simply absurd. Black people are being shot down all across America and here we are with one of the smartest, most patient, charismatic and open minded Presidents in the history of this great land, and, oh yeah, he just happens to Not Be WHITE. So, is all of this a backlash ? Maybe it is. Are we still in denial of our history ? Maybe we are. Is boycotting the Academy Awards going to make a difference ? Maybe it will. But most likely, it will simply start a dialogue and, I imagine, that is what Spike Lee is doing. What many don't know is that Spike Lee was actually given an honorary Oscar Award at the Governor's Ball earlier this year and so, his defiance has a particularly stinging effect. Already the Academy is exclaiming to now expand it's membership in some new and diverse way. Okay, that's a beginning.
Here is where things get tricky. Will Smith, who is really a progeny of the Hollywood entertainment industry, having started on television with the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, forays into pop music and eventually taking on controversial and brave film roles such as, "Six Degrees of Separation," which was a particularly dangerous career choice that payed off well and led to his stellar performance as the Greatest Boxer, Poet and Anti War activist ever in, "ALI," has made a film this year, "Concussion," with a phenomenal performance, as an African doctor, who takes on, of all powerful entities, the National Football League, also known as the NFL. It just so happens that the SuperBowl, presented by the NFL and The Oscar Awards, presented by the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences, are the two largest advertising events of the entire year. The money to be made selling automobiles, beverages and entertainment products is unfathomable to the average person. The politics of which films gets nominated is much deeper, and complicated than any one of us can imagine. Both media events happen in February. Will Smith, who has done very well with big Hollywood, big entertainment and big advertising was not nominated for an award this year. Will Smith's lovely and articulate wife, Jada, was one of the first West Coast personalities, to come out for the boycott. Unfortunately, it appeared to many, and even to me, that Mr. Smith, having been snubbed, possibly sulking around the house wondering what more he had to do to get some recognition for outstanding work in his chosen business, complained privately and in confidence to his life mate, who then came out against the lack of diversity at this years awards. People in the industry began to dismiss her objection. Reactions came quick and harsh, from former cast members to just about anyone. Lets face it, people are jealous of those who get the big bucks, those who get the accolades, those at the top of the pyramid. What I would like to remind both Will and Jada is that, first, you made a great film, secondly, and most importantly, the real reason you did not get nominated was not at all that you are a person with some color. Most likely, the reason you did not get nominated is clearly because you took on the National Football League in your film. It's the equivalent of my magazine writing an in depth article about how bad for your health drinking Coca Cola and eating at McDonalds is and then calling them for advertising. You made a brave film about the NFL and the entertainment industry sacked you. That is to be expected. These people play hard ball, this is big business in America folks. But, it was a brave move, so, like ALI, you gotta float like a butterfly 'cause you already stung like a bee.
But wait, that's not all, ye old plot thickens. Conscientious white actors, such as the extremely socially active and aware Mark Ruffalo has now decided that he may not attend. Amazing since he is actually a Nominated Actor in what people call, a "Main Category." First of all people, ALL CATEGORIES at The Academy Awards are MAIN CATEGORIES. The first thing you learn as an actor or a technician in the world of Theatre and Film is the tired, but true maxim that, "There are no small parts, only small actors," The same is true for categories and awards. The fact that Mr. Ruffalo announced his concerns, prior to the Academy actually voting on a final winner is amazing. So then, Spike Lee has made a difference. But here's the problem, do we really want to have this award or that award go to someone of color because there was a boycott ? What will that do to the process over a long period of time ? Will the Academy then be forced to give a person of color a slot because we made them do it ? The token award, like the token cast member who brings in a demographic ? That could get very convoluted. And then we have to ask ourselves, where are the Latino Actors ? Where are the Asian Actors ? The fact of the matter is, many of the actors in nominated and winning slots have been from England and Australia ? Some media personalities have joked that American White Actors should be up in arms about the Academy's policies and choices. I would like to see powerful celebrities like Will Smith and Jada Pinkett stand up to the Supreme Court who are currently about to gut the rights of African Americans and women across the nation. Who cares about the gold at the top, when the people who watch your films are so damn poor, they have to watch bootlegged versions of your films on the internet ?
The Songwriter, Actor and Producer, IceCube, who has done very well with his film franchise, starting with the breakthrough, "Friday," which my, 'white,' nephew turned me onto years ago, has received a nomination via his screenwriters in this years film, "Straight Outta Compton." When asked recently on BBC Television, what he thought of the recent upheaval, he simply replied, in that no nonsense style, that we have come to love and respect, that he doesn't make films for awards, he makes them for the fans, he makes them for the curious, he makes them to tell a story, and if they don't get awards, maybe it's time to walk away. Then he added, "How can you boycott something that you never attended to begin with ? " Which does put a lot of this in perspective. My office is not far from South Central. I see the real problems facing my African American friends and neighbors. My work takes me into areas of Downtown where thousands of African American people live on the streets. I watch whats happening across the country. I read newspapers in almost every state of the union. The real problems of unity, diversity and justice won't necessarily happen through the entertainment industry. We as Americans need to deal with our past. We need a return to manufacturing and jobs. We need to deal with the Corporate takeover that happened years ago. We need to embrace our differences and unify through those variations. If they don't give us awards, and if Coca-Cola and McDonalds doesn't advertise in our magazine, then, we have simply got to do, what we have always done and always will do, in the words of the late great Curtis Mayfield, we've got to, "Keep on Pushin."
#blacklivesmatter #joshuatriliegi #oscars2016
LOOK FOR MORE SPECIAL REVIEWS AND ARTICLES ON GREAT PERFORMANCES AND FILMS BY AFRICAN AMERICANS IN THE WEEKS LEADING UP TO OSCAR 2016
OSCAR FILM PICKS: BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE
FILM : TRUMBO
- Joshua TRILIEGI
BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE
[ Look for Complete Reviews Soon... ]
FILM : STEVE JOBS
"Aaron Sorkin's script flies across the screen with a maddening pace that is both frenetic and brilliant, the first half hour passes in what seems like minutes. Fassbender drives the cast with a pure and muscular bravado. Kate Winslet is so F*ing amazing, she services the characterization so well that you may not even know she's there. And finally somebody had the guts to cast Seth Rogan in a straight role and his entire gravitational force comes to life. Danny Boyle puts the petal to the metal, I might just watch it again ... The Academy better take a good look at this one. "
- Joshua TRILIEGI
BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE
[ Look for Complete Reviews Soon... ]
FILM : THE REVENANT
"This is obviously going to be Leo's year. He's been working at this for decades, his work with Scorsese has paid off pleasantly, now he has found a vehicle worthy of his desires. Though, the real talent in this landmark adventure film must go to Cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki, his camera persons and the entire technical crew that brought this film through to it's completion. The camerawork is endlessly in motion, dizzyingly dramatic and at the same time quietly observant. An epic spectacle that could not have come to the screen if not for the fifteen year investment in a career of incredible risks by Alejandro G. Iñárritu , the films director. "
- Joshua TRILIEGI
BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE
[ Look for Complete Reviews Soon... ]
FILM : BROOKLYN
"In a year of Cowboy and Spaceman films, Brooklyn is a return to good old fashioned human storytelling with authentic actors, great writing and subtle elliptical life forces with a touch of the Irish magic that makes our history in America and beyond simply wonderful. Writer Nick Hornby secures his position in this poetic, semi sweet tale."
- Joshua TRILIEGI
BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE
[ Look for Complete Reviews Soon... ]
BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE IS EDITED BY J. A. TRILIEGI
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The Republican Presidential Debate NOV 10 2015
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The Democratic Presidential Debate
By J. A. Triliegi
Dateline Saturday November 14, 2015
In comparison to the most recent Republican Presidential debate, the Democrats had a love fest, set an agenda, clarified their differences and, it seems to me, are starting to create a cabinet ideology for the American people, before they even win the election, which, if they continue as such, may very well do so.
O.K. So, no one onstage has the charisma, the excitement and energy that President Barack Obama brought to the elections seven years ago. What many do have is an intelligence, a concern and clearly a compassion for working class people that could entirely mobilize a young, ethnic and elderly crowd who care about the future of America. That is not to say that Republicans do not care about the future, obviously, they do, in their own ' special way.'
The Democrats have, to their credit, a program of inclusivity for the New America, the young America, the first and second generation America and Americans. It's way to soon to say, who, will get the nominations on either side. Obviously, their are front runners, it's a horse race, but the conditions of the track, have not been identified: I would not lay bets just yet. Looking at how Mr. Obama stacked his cabinet and appointments after his victory some years ago, gives us an idea of how the Democratic National team, does their thing. It appears that they will most likely do the same and, if they do, this could be good news for working class, the middle class, students and a wave of much needed compassion in America. Hey, lets not get carried away, it's politics we are talking about here, not rocket science or brain surgery, this is a Nation. One thing for sure, it would be beautiful if America realized that UNITED is a big part of our name and UNITED is how we make life better for real Americans, All Americans, in the New America, the America of tomorrow : Today.
Bernie SANDERS : Who would have thought this little dude with the very Big Spirit could overcome all the obvious concerns and send a strong message to people who sold us out long ago. If America can hear his message, if he can convince middle America that he can actually do what he will set out to do, he will make a great Vice President. Yeah, I know, it's still to soon to say and yet…
Hillary CLINTON : Obviously, she's got it going on. Can she clarify how her White House will work ? With Bill, it was daily running, trips to McDonalds and one incredible economy boosting machine, that put America back to work. What will a second CLINTON go round be ? We are wondering and she has wanted it for a very long time. I hope we don't have to turn this into the first woman thing all year long. She would do well to shy away from that type of storyline and deal with some of the things Sanders is dealing with: Minimum Wage, Banks and Campaign Finance Reform.
Martin O'MALLEY : Yes, he's young, he's straight as an arrow and squeaky clean behind the ears, but hey: he's very honest. Who knew how great the State of Maryland is ? Makes we want to move there tomorrow. He's what we can be proud of in America, and that's always a good thing and he's representing that state and his record with the utmost of straight forwardness, although, lets face it: Baltimore is in trouble and we all know it.
Which brings up an interesting issue, no matter how great any President is, America, Authority, Government and Technology are at an all time LOW, when it comes to Respecting, Serving and Honoring The People. That said, Bernie SANDERS' call for a Political Revolution will probably be the most energizing aspect of this election cycle for issues that concern America today, and to counter that argument, you will always have The Republicans, who are going to turn this horse race into a World Wrestling Federation match, all the way down the line.
The Republican Presidential Debate NOV 10 2015
By Bureau Editor J. A. Triliegi
Dateline Tuesday November 10, 2015
A Quick look at the Republican Debate has this writer and sometime director of films wondering: Whose coaching these candidates ? As a complete outsider of politics with a few distant family ties to strong and influential politicians in my lineage: Here is my advice. And, this comes from neither a Rep or a Dem viewpoint, just a viewer of the Circus we now call politics in America.
First of all, its time to admit the your party is in trouble. You went so far to the right that many Americans find it hard to relate to the artifice. You were the party that had at its center: Abraham Lincoln. Your last president conserved nothing at all. Even your hero Ronald Reagan, de-unionized America and made it very difficult for young people to enter Junior Colleges across America. O.K. You gave us Yosemite, that was amazing. But now you are denying global warming, come on folks, your better than that. Stop polarizing and demonizing to get what you want.
America is hurting because your party and the democrats can't work together to get things done and We The PEOPLE are hurting and we are hurting bad. Maybe its time for a new approach, on both sides, to simply Serve The People ? Besides the fact that your party just lost a speaker, who publicly admitted that he left because his party demanded too much of him in an unrealistic fashion. Get real and get real quick. Here are a few notes as this reporter sees your performance.
Ben Carson : Find more energy pal. Try a double espresso or maybe some gingko biloba, more oxygen to the brain. Also the mic in the ear thing after a debate, makes us wonder who is feeding you answers ?
Carly Fiorina : Probably, the smartest person on stage. Strong articulation of ideas. I would suggest to talk about your family more. It's O.k. to be a woman up there.
Jeb Bush : The family legacy is dragging you down a bit. Find your center, believe in yourself more. We don't want to know about cute names, we want a leader. Dude, your a Bush, might as well act like one. Toughen up.
Rand Paul : You've come a long way. Command the stage a bit more. Find your inner - President. Send flowers to someone at Fox. O.K. Your fiscally responsible, now what ?
Ted Cruz : Forget the sweeping arm movements, it's not working. Forget about the boat and the salt air, get on with it. Stick to the short, exacting statements. Loosen up just a little bit. Take three steps toward the center. Your not Joe McCarthy or are you ?
The Trump : Always a pleasure. You cooled down the crazy antics, way to go. Yes, you don't need to mention a website, but you do need to find some compassion. You hosted Saturday Night Live, is it all downhill from here ?
Marco Rubio : Get Large and get large quick. Watch Tom Cruise movies all this week, the guy is small, but you wouldn't know it on the screen. O.k. your a family man, we got it.
The other guy : Forget about it. Hey, you had your fun. Your daughters will be fine no matter who is President. Who are you kidding ?
Tune in here for more casual insights throughout the 2016 election and, Yes, we will, in the name of fairness in reporting, also be, 'Sending Up,' the Democrats at BUREAU NEWS.
This article is dedicated to the spirit and memory of Hunter S. Thompson.
CATHERINE OPIE Untitled #5 (Elizabeth Taylor's Closet) 2012 Pigment Print 40 x 30 inches (101.6 x 76.2 cm)
Edition of 3, 1 AP Courtesy of REGEN PROJECTS / BUREAU PICK for PHOTO LA INSTALLATION / TBA
SEASON THREE in THE FALL EDITION OF BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE
The Original Fiction Series: " THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS," began in 2013 with Season One. A Literary experiment that originally introduced five fictional families, through dozens of characters that came to life before our readers eyes, when Editor Joshua Triliegi, improvised an entire novel on a daily basis and publicly published each chapter on-line. Season Two was an entire smash hit with readers in Los Angeles, where the novel is set and quickly spread to communities around the world through translations. Season III began in August 2015 and the same rules applied. The entire Final season was Improvised without Any Notes : A Chapter a Day.
THE NEW FICTION PROJECT
THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS:
SEASON THREE INTRODUCTION + ALL EPISODE ONE
BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE LOS ANGELES READERS GET THE ADVANCED EPISODE
CHAPTER 34 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
Each Chapter is Written By Joshua Triliegi in a 24 Hour Period without Prior Notes.
All Chapters in Episode One were written between July 20th 2015 and July 28th 2015
BREAKFAST
The year after The Riots, life in Los Angeles continued. People went to work, children were born, time kept ticking and the story never ended. For those in the heart of the story, for those who were touched by the event, for those who lost and hurt and got burned: life would never be the same. An event that was your life, your experience, your history was being told by newscasters, mainstream publications and radio disc jockeys who knew nothing about what it was really like and never would know. The day after The Riots, a child woke, poured a bowl of Kellogg's corn flakes and watched cartoons on the television. The commercials in between told the child that when the milk was poured into the bowl, that it would, 'Snap - Crackle and Pop,' the child looked around the room, looked around the house, looked around the streets and noticed that every-thing had snapped, crackled and popped. The plastic had melted, the glass had warped, the wires lay open exposing copper, lead and silver, the perfect square box was now imperfect, corners were entirely melted off, the handle that changed the channels had broken and someone had attached a small vice grip tool in its place. The smell of burnt wood, ash and oil permeated the air. Helicopters, sirens and flashing lights became the norm. The curtains frayed at the edges and all along the sides been stained by fire, air, earth and water, the most basic of elements utilized in a fashion that created destruction, instead of construction. The rug was soaked and laden with tiny bits of broken glass, ember and grease stains. Smoke of all color and size wafted through the windows. Angry footsteps inhabited the ceiling, the hallways and alleys. A toy fire truck that lay in the backyard for years was now replaced with a real fire truck that roared incessantly passed its house, at all hours of the night and day. Police car sirens and lights engaged twenty-four hours a day, soldiers from the army reserves of the United States of America in camouflage standing on every corner, an entire world that, 'Snapped - Crackled and Popped.' And Life went on.
Houses went up for sale. Lots stood empty, Ashes piled up. Businesses were abandoned. Families were broken. Dreams were deferred. Third strikes were established by the law and people went to prison for stealing a pizza, a pair of shoes, a case of toilet paper. Men and woman in all manor, in all shapes, in all colors and sizes broke. Screaming through the streets, "Why?" But even a child knows that if you want to learn algebra, you don't ask why. You simply work on the equation, by learning the rules to the diagram, in geometry and trigonometry, there was no time to ask why. Even beer commercials directed the child to not ask why and shoe companies reenforced that ideology by telling the child to, "Just Do IT!" So the child did. Empty slogans had manipulated the population for 100s of years and so the population, in its desperation, in its pain, in it's agony and in its defiance, invented some empty slogans of its own and then quite suddenly, those slogans were inhabited, not so empty after all, for this was not a politician with a team of advisors, this was not a police chief with a speechwriter, this was not a corporation with a dozen brilliant ad executives working on a new account, this was the mother-f*cking-public, these were real people, this was a real event, this was the city of a child who ate corn flakes while watching television every morning before school and when its family and when it's friends and when it's neighbors and when its city began chanting the empty slogan that rang through the city like a Bell on Sunday, this child inhabited that slogan: No Justice / No Peace, Know Justice / Know Peace. Dragnet and One Adam Twelve and Police Woman and Baretta and Starsky and Hutch and CHIPS and The Million Dollar Man and The Bionic Woman, to quote a popular phrase in poetry, "...Will not seem so damn relevant, because the revolution will not be televised," and yet, It was televised after all. The transmission of images was blast across the city in the earliest hours of the event. The Parker Center flash-point had ignited hotspots all along the vertical and lateral thorough-fairs through the city of Angels in a giant grid that only those flying in airplanes and helicopters could view. With the exception of those multitude natural forces of life known as the animals, who watched in glee as the humans failed once again at their own game. A game of self extinction, an experiment of too many mice in a maze called Los Angeles.
Hawks circle overhead, crows cawed, seagulls glanced, thrashers, bluejays, sparrows, woodpeckers, pigeons, hummingbirds and all manner of birds flew overhead, bees returned to their hives, butterfly nestled under branches, spiders strengthened their webs, ants collected bits of this and that, squirrels climbed palm trees to get a better view, coyotes howled through the hills, deer looked on pensively, mountain lions patiently waited, possums stopped playing dead and walked along the tops of fences, a family of bears escaped from the zoo, an elephant stepped on its trainer in a parking lot downtown, snakes slithered to higher ground, raccoons sensed some easy pickings on the horizon and all the while domesticated dogs and cats sat with their owners, watching television. The first time it rained after The Riot, an inordinate amount of chemicals spewed through the streets, into the gutters, down the sewers, along the pipelines and on into the ocean: Formaldehyde, asbestos, concrete, plastic, tar, asphalt, rubber, fiberglass, aluminum, glass, lead, resin, stucco, lime, drywall, and the entire contents of dozens of 99 cents stores which included: bleach, roach killer, hair spray, comet, windex, baking soda, nylon, air freshener, butane, high fructose corn syrup, polyester, lysol, both the regular scent and the new and exciting pine flavor all rolled into one giant blob of city sludge and plopped itself into the intestines of the City of Angels, rolling through the LA River and dumping itself directly into the sea. Blue fin tuna, albacore, barracuda, lobster, sea bass and even mackerel were no where to be seen. There were no shark attacks to worry about. Sharks were too smart to swim in waters infested by chemicals of that variety. Within their very organism, they have a built in mechanism that can detect one ten thousands of an ingredient in the water from miles away. This device was originally evolved, no doubt, for survival, in search of something to consume, but due to the stupidity of the human race, the callous nature of the corporations, the shortsighted views of the now angry populist, this devise was used to avoid certain areas and avoid it they did. The chemicals that trickled down through the ashes, through the soot, through the smoke and through the tears had accidentally informed the organism, transformed the organism, reformed the organism and the child, who had sensed all along that all was not well, would never, ever, be the same again. Nor would the place that they call the City of Angels.
The little plastic box that had for decades transmitted ideas somehow still worked, the device that transferred images, sound and motion on a regular basis, continued to do so. Tony the Tiger, exclaimed to the child that the food it was eating, the contents it was consuming, the simple little flakes of corn in all manner of speaking and description could be defined in a two word phrase that was simple and easy to remember: "They're Great!" The big rabbit with the floppy ears was told time and time again that he was indeed a silly rabbit and that, "Trix are for kids!" The Frito Bandito, Captain Crunch, Count Chocula and a Lucky Charm with a Shamrock were also present, representing an old school variety of corn paste, flour, sugar and salt, added preservatives and in some cases food coloring that sometimes caused cancer, with a simple reminder that if you ever ended up in prison, you would indeed have to choose a cereal that represented something familiar to your general genetic make up. And of course there was the award winning commercial that had Mike-y and his brothers, representing a product that somehow encompassed the child's entire existence, by calling itself, 'LIFE'. "He won't eat it..." his brothers exclaim, as they put a bowl of blocked wheat style cereal in front of the freckled faced child, "...He hates everything." Then, quite suddenly, the boy begins to shovel the wheat blocks into his mouth as his brothers excitedly exclaim, "Hey Mike-y! He Likes IT!" For those with simpler tastes, you had Aunt Jemima and or Quaker Oats, in case you ever forgot who founded this country and what your position in the hierarchy was to begin with. Yes, the little box in the corner with the wire in the wall and the antennae on the roof still worked. And the child watched it. The picture was not as clear, the colors not as crisp, the audio was warped, the depth was foggy, the vertical and lateral lines often separated, but the endless trail of information, disinformation and programming continued on, it taught the child and eventually, the child had learned to transmit its own programs. The child and its family and it's neighbors and its city were all so busy programming, they had no time to wonder, just who exactly was actually eating the giant bowl of cereal that they were all now living in ? The entire city snapped, it crackled and it popped, surely someone was bound to eat it.
CHAPTER 35 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
CHAPTER 35 : DIGITS
Within minutes of entering America, Junior was dead and he didn't even know it. He had been directed to follow a diesel truck trailer, while a duplicate of his car was to distract his police escorts who were meant to get him to a hospital, so that an emergency operation could reattach his thumb. When the duplicate vehicle appeared, Junior dropped back behind the eighteen wheeler with a rolling ramp and drove his car up into the trailer. While his duplicate played decoy on into the hospital an unexpected event occurred. Before crossing the border from Baja into the States, an armed carload of 'exporters' shot their way through the border and drove up into America on the wrong side of the freeway, while Juniors escorted decoy had been exiting the freeway, on the overpass above, the runaway car, heading due north drove head on toward a south bound diesel truck that swerved off the upper level, flipped in mid air and landed directly onto Juniors decoy, entirely crushing the vehicle into an even rectangle of metal, the car looked as if it had been compacted by a machine at the auto wreckage yard. Whoever the driver had been, was entirely unidentifiable, there were absolutely no distinguishing marks to even survey, he had been flattened, not mangled. It was a strangely hermetic accident, blood had oozed from either side of what had once been a car door, but now looked like a suitcase with wheels, though, even they had buckled and folded inward on impact. For all official purposes, Junior was dead before arrival. In reality, he was actually sitting in his car, which was lodged in the back of a diesel truck that was now driving due east. His thumb sat wrapped in a shirt atop the dashboard, while his hand was soaking in a bucket of ice, he had made it across the border alive and was deep in shock. Having never actually looked under the back seat after he had the upholstering re-done, under the orders of his employers, and now that the goal to reenter America had been achieved, curiosity had got the best of him. He opened the door and the ceiling light illuminated the interior enough for him to lift the back seat with his one good hand, there, wrapped in a vacuum sealed plastic cover, was an ancient piece of fabric displaying the image of a man that appeared to be the man known as Jesus the christ. Junior didn't know what to believe, his entire journey had all been entirely unexpected. He had returned to his homeland to spend time with his father, to see the family ranch and to meet with the old Indian and now all that too had presented unexpected results. Would his life never return to some semblance of normalcy, he wondered ?
That is when he noticed the light emanating from the trunk. He re-lodged the back seat cover and there was just enough space between the interior wall of the diesel trailer and the drivers side door, to walk to the back of the car. The trunk had been broken into when Junior had been lured into helping the group of men raise the tower bell in the Plaza Park, just south of Boulevard Revolution. He now assumed that the entire event was a ploy to distract his entering America with the current contents of his back seat, but when he opened the trunk and lifted a blanket, he discovered that he was in a world of trouble, deceit and misery, much larger than he could ever have expected. There under the blanket sat more paper currency than he had ever seen in his life, stacked, sealed and organized in a giant block, next to that was an equally daunting object that scared the living daylights out of the man, something he would never have expected, something he had been promised would never ever be a part of his employment, something he abhorred more than death itself, the very thing that had ruined more lives and created more misery and devastated more men than Junior cared to recount. How many times had he watched men slowly dissolve into nothing ? How many times had he heard about so and so being found dead on the streets ? How many times had he watched as his fellow inmates writhed in pain and in total out and out torturous conditions turning this way and that for hours on end as if they were lizards who had lost a tail, squirming, screaming, moaning, begging, sweating it out while the guards walked by and chuckled ? How many times had he wondered what life for him, his friends, his relatives and even the world would have been like without the very thing he was staring in the face ? How was it that he, Junior, a simple man, could possibly be carrying a most sacred object known to believers across the entire world and also have in his possession the substance that was possibly the very worst and most disgusting element ever invented ? A substance so vile, so despicable, so ruining, so demonic that through the years he had actually thought of this substance as, and there was no other way to put it: The devil himself. There in several blocks of transparent material was the purest of the pure, the worst and above all evilest thing Junior had ever know existed. If the natural shock that occurred from losing a thumb, just less than an hour ago had provided a buffer between him and his feelings, creating a comfort zone, sedating his body and mind from the pain, blocking the nervous system from excruciating and jolting physical effects, all that had abruptly ended: Junior woke up. He tied a rope from trunk to bumper and waited for whatever was next, he knew whatever it was, that his life would never be the same again.
An hour passed and Junior noticed that diesel truck must have pulled off the freeway and onto a smaller street or road, when it came to a stop, he heard the driver unhitch the trailer from the cab and then the cab pulled away. He stepped to the back of the trailer and noticed a double latch that opened from the inside, not knowing what to expect, he grabbed his thumb from the dashboard, tucked in his shirt and slid the dismembered finger down the front, with his one good hand, he grabbed a blackjack from the back seat and slowly and quietly attempted to lift the door to the trailer. As he did so, he realized he was alone, in pitch darkness, he jumped from the trailer and there to the North he noticed a brightly lit cinder block cube of a building. Junior was now out and out frightened. He had been scared, he had been fearful, but he had never actually been frightened before and somewhere in his constitution, somewhere in his make up, some where in his fortitude, he found something of himself that was new territory and now he knew there was no turning back. He walked back up one of the small narrow wheeled metal perforated ramps that followed the trailer, he unhinged the rope to the trunk, opened an old tool box and found a padlock that he had once used to secure his locker in junior high school. Junior silently pulled the trailer door shut and walked toward the brightly lit building in the middle of what felt like an abandoned army base in the middle of the desert. There were no signs out front, but when he looked inside, it was clearly a medical facility, with a flat-topped front desk attendant and several nurses dressed in scrubs and operating garb. He could see no patients, he could see no security guards, if he wanted to keep his thumb, he had no choice whatsoever, except to simply walk into the place, and as he did, the attendant, who was youngish, clean shaven, clear eyed, simply said, "We have been expecting you sir." Junior just looked at the man. "Due to the dire situation, there will be no forms to fill, we are ready to take care of you now." A nurse walked up and asked for the missing finger. Junior, who had shed not a single tear throughout his entire ordeal, reached into his shirt front and handed the girl his thumb. His eyes watered, he took a deep breath, looked around the facility and decided that whatever the hell was going on, first and foremost, he wanted five digits on each hand and so, he sat in the lobby and waited for the attendant to make the next move. The nurse unwrapped the finger, laid it out onto a stainless steel tray and stared at the object for what seemed like a very long time, then she abruptly, looked up at Junior and exclaimed, "Believe it or not, you are a very lucky man." The attendant smiled and called for the patient to be admitted.
Junior had refused to be put to sleep, the operation lasted almost eighteen hours and he slept through much of the operation. He had now been wheeled into a room with a window facing the trailer which could barley be seen in the now two a.m. moonlight. Several bottles of medication sat on the table to his left, his keys and the contents of his pockets had been put into a small basket, his pants had been washed and folded, his shirt and socks had been replaced, the blood that had poured from his hand had been washed clean from his shoes and he was the only person in the room. His hand was wrapped in gauze and an aluminum stripped device protected it from any possible damage. Junior began to review the series of events that had preceded his accident. The first call he had made to his people prior to leaving the US all had seemed appropriate and valid, the voice seemed to be the usual, the directions, the action, the procedural aspects all in line with a familiar tone, but the second call, made from the Bull fight arena, there was now something definitely wrong with that call. He couldn't quite focus on exactly what it was, but something was askew. The voice was just a little different, the change of plans seemed totally out of place, the entire directive was not at all in line with a protocol that he now could put together in a cohesive way. Junior had always been promised that under no circumstances whatsoever would he ever have to come into contact with the substance that was now sitting in his trunk. Nor was he ever asked to be put in a position of ever returning to prison without proper warning of the assignment up front. Either he had clearly been lied to, or someone redirected, intercepted or tapped his conversation and interjected or straight out impersonated someone from his organization. There was a third possibility, but he didn't even want to think about that. The only way to find out, was to head north, enter the harbor and find out for himself. Junior quietly put on his clothes, shoved the bottles of medicine in his front pockets, opened the sliding glass window, jumped out and walked into the cold dark night. He fumbled with the combination lock, could not for the life of him remember the numbers, finally giving up, simply bashed the thing with a rock, slid the door upward, backed the car down the ramp and drove down the moon lit dirt road with no lights on for over half a mile, when he could no longer see the facility in the distance, he turned on his lights and headed toward civilization, if you could call it that. On the way out, he passed several burnt out bunkers, defunct check points and now wireless radio towers. It was a ghost town and Junior still had no idea that, officially, he did not exist.
By the time Junior drove into the Harbor, it was just past four in the morning, for the obvious reasons, he neither went home, nor did he go directly to meet his so-called people. He had been racking his brain while driving and still had not come up with any true or obvious conclusions. Having not eaten in over twenty-four hours, he needed a cup of coffee, he had to figure this out and found himself driving in the direction of Ma' Fritters Coffeehouse, where his father, Louis had been a busboy all those years. It was absurd for him to fathom the fact that, in less than a week, he had actually repositioned his father on the family ranch and been through what seemed like a lifetime. He parked the car a half a block away, positioned it so that he could see it front and back and was pleased that the waitress, nor the busboy recognized him as Louis' son. He ordered breakfast and as was the tradition, the waitress brought over the days paper. Junior, who had gotten in the habit of voraciously reading anything and everything, while in the joint, turned the page of the metro section and there, near the bottom, was a small article that had an extremely familiar image, it was a picture of him, taken a few years back by prison officials, the headline read: Recently Released Ex-con Dies in Auto Accident. The article described the events at the border, the fishing accident cover story, the visit with relatives and the actual accident on the way to the hospital. Now Junior knew that possibility number three was more than likely. He left a ten dollar bill on the table and walked. It was still before five, fog covered the streets. Junior made a decision. He drove up to the home of his brother in law Chuck and his sister Celia's through the alleyway, opened the garage door, where Chuck kept his sunday car, a completely restored woody station wagon and unloaded the contents of the trunk into Chucks wagon: the money and the drugs. Than he quietly closed the garage door and drove four blocks east to a storage facility parking lot that housed old boats, cars and rental units for storage. He pulled his car onto the lot, tucked the fabric artifact from beneath the back seat around his torso and threw a tarp from the trunk over his own car, fastening the corners one by one with his good hand. The placed was closed and a security guard sat in the front office. Junior held up a fifty dollar bill, the man slid open the window and accepted the bill, but said nothing. Junior took a hundred dollar bill and an insurance slip that had his plates, his insurance and the vehicle i.d. and pointed to the tarp. "Put this on the old man's desk." Again, the man said nothing, took the bill and slip and walked over to the old mans desk. Junior eyed the man's newspaper on the counter, grabbed the metro section and walked out into the fog.
CHAPTER 36 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
CHAPTER 36 : BROTHER
Mickey was running late. This was not an uncommon occurrence. Through the years, he had been known as an easy going dude, who enjoyed the company of everyday people and everyday people reciprocated in kind. Mickey had been touched by a long since past casualness that had once pervaded Americans everywhere. He always had time to listen and this old fashioned activity did not derive from some idea of politeness or even a social responsibility, he simply enjoyed hearing and telling stories. As far back as he could remember, Charles and his friends, who had included an extremely wide variety of storytellers sat around, night after night, talking, conversing, excitedly describing events past and recent in a way that, in todays world, had been entirely lost. Mickey's ability to make appointments often neglected to build in a certain amount of time, for that very thing he loved so much to do and invariably, he was often playing catch up with those he loved, most notably, the love of his life: Moon. Now that Charles had returned and the family had cohesively bonded, getting together on a weekly basis over a family dinner, had become the norm and Mickey always seemed to be the last to arrive. Cally would be the first to exasperatingly announce. "I'm ordering anyway..." and Maggie would say, "Your'e waiting for your brother." Charles, who had indeed once been a soldier in Vietnam, a roadie for rock and roll royalty, a doorman for one of the toughest bars in America and one of the West coasts most prominent builders of Harley Davidson motorcycles had mellowed during his lost years. The man was still strong as could be and yet his sensitivity was more than beautiful. "Why is that," Maggie asked herself ? In the old days, Maggie had watched as Charles once lifted a man above his head by the collar and pant leg and threw the guy into a six foot wide mirror that had a logo for Flynn's Irish Whiskey that stated: It was Simply The Best. The unsuspecting man had reached over and simply grabbed the breast of Charles best friends wife, who had taken her beer mug and swung it into the guy's jaw and then Charles finished the job. Maggie watched from across the bar and could not understand why that had turned her on, all she knew is that it did. Now all these years later, she watched as Charles took his giant hand and ever so gently removed the dangling hair from his daughters face, with a single and graceful gesture. The hand that had turned a million spark plugs, slugged countless fools, even pulled a few triggers back in Vietnam, was also now, so graceful, so smooth, so reflective. The road had been good for Charles, where most men crumble, this man had clearly triumphed.
Venice beach was full of musicians, artists, pro, con and otherwise. Very rarely, these days, could anyone actually, 'discover' a new act or a viable mainstream breakthrough for the current markets music scene. Maggie had been known and affiliated with music from another time period. She had been interviewed in countless documentaries about artists such as Bob Dylan and anyone connected with the late sixties and early seventies, where she had made a mark managing bands, tours and all variety of popular musicians including folk, rock and country. When she had been asked to help organize a fund raiser for the inner city youth after the desecration of the riots, she wanted to gather a line up that would encompass the very cultures who had invariably clashed due to the divisions throughout Los Angeles. Already she had commitments from artists like Tom Waits, Fishbone, a couple of the guys from War and Isaac Hayes, but she needed some new acts. Maggie didn't mind doing her part, but underneath all the showmanship and unification, this 'do right' woman was a shrewd and calculating business woman with several children and a career of her own. It had been almost a decade since she had actually, 'discovered' a new act or artist and brought them from the streets to the clubs to the studio to the radio and on into the major marketplace, which had already moved from rock to punk and new wave and now back to rock with the so-called 'grunge' scene coming out of Seattle. Punk and New Wave had entirely eclipsed many of the artists she had represented and it left Maggie feeling, a bit out of touch. She could understand this new scene a little more than what had happened musically over the past decade. The basic melodic chords, the return to rock & roll riffs, the garage style aesthetic had a familiar ring and was getting the kind of play on radio that turned the tables in her direction. So, when she noticed a couple of kids, playing a few songs in the boutique directly across the street from the restaurant where everyone was waiting for Micky, she excused herself from the table. The boy played guitar and sang, the girl played a small keyboard and sang, then they did a duet a cappella. They utilized folk, reggae and soft rock elements with an upbeat vibe that was exactly what Maggie needed to round out the line up. When she asked their name, they both answered in unison: She Said / He Said. Maggie listened to a few more tunes and immediately booked them to open the show. When she asked who their manager was, they both answered in unison: We are. The boy explained that they had recently received a small investment from a local businessman who had recorded a live single that was currently being remixed and it would be ready for distribution soon. She saw the opportunity and invited them over to the house on Sunday.
Maggie returned to the restaurant to find one of her early rivals sitting in the chair she had left at the table. A woman whom she had not seen since those early days, and who had vied for Charles affections, way back when. She hated to admit it, but the lady had barely aged at all. Her hair had grown longer as had her dress and as Maggie now perceived the situation, so to had the woman's teeth. As she walked up to the table, Maggie remembered her name and quickly placed it into context, she tried to conceal what Moon and Cally and her girlfriend Jezz all noticed, that, for the first time in years, Maggie was actually jealous. Now all the girls perked their ears to hear what Charles and the lady were discussing. The lady, with long golden hair and tight blue eyes, was recounting a story about Charles and an obscure musical tour they had all endured long ago. Charles laughed and kissed the woman, like a man might kiss his mother or his sister on the forehead and asked the manager for another seat and a round of drinks. The lady noticing Maggie's arrival, sat up to surrender the throne, but Maggie feigned disinterest and took the new seat handed by the waiter, on the other end of the table with Moon, who was now completely perplexed and had never seen Maggie in such a state. "We just arrived from New York," and "still own the house on speedway," the lady explained. Now Maggie stared at her and remembered everything. She had been the only other woman who had received Charles' affections prior to Mickey's birth. Maggie tried to take the floor by announcing her new musical discovery, across the way, but it came out forced and didn't take hold. Charles began to recount a mammoth party that had been the last time he and the lady had seen one another, the final concert of the tour in which they had previously discussed. Charles, one of the few people that could casually drop the names of some of the greatest musicians that had ever lived in a manner that was neither braggart nor brazen, described the final concert, the party and the after party that had the entire restaurant listening. A large man, both in spirit and in personality with a booming voice, a handsome and chiseled face with a humble yet trustworthy tone. No wonder Mickey liked storytellers, his dad was one of the best. Maggie looked on with ringing ears and burning eyes as Charles finished his story and everyone laughed aloud. Then he turned to the lady and said, "So, what exactly happened to you after that night ?" The lady looked around the table, now realizing that all ears and eye were on her. "Well, for one, I had a son ..." and as she said so, a young man who looked exactly like Mickey's twin walked into the room, "Here he is," she said, as an artist might unveil a new work of art to the world. Moon gasped.
Charles, who was slow to display any type of automatic reactions or responses in general, put his hand out and shook the young man's hand, "My name is Charles," and the younger man took his hand and shook it,"I'm an old friend of your mom's," he explained. "I have heard a lot about you," the young man said and turned back to his mother, who was by now beaming in all directions. Now Moon, Cally and Jezz, were all trying to add up the details of Charles recent story with the young man standing before them, who looked, not 'sort of' like Mickey, he looked exactly like Mickey. Same age, same build, same eyes, same everything. His manner of dress and his style of grooming was not at all like Mickey, but his actual physical make up was a downright doppelgänger. "So, your mother tells us you're just in from New York," Charles noted aloud. The young man looked again towards his mother, who added, "He has just passed the bar." Charles looked into the other room, which housed a lounge and didn't entirely understand the reference. The lady looked at Charles quizzically, "He's a defense lawyer working for a firm here in Los Angeles." Charles finally caught up, "Congratulations, I'm glad you choose the right side of the law," he laughed and everyone joined in. By now, he could not help but notice the way all the women in his life were now staring at the young man standing next to him. Charles called out for another chair and the young man sat down. Finally, Moon asked, the young man how old he was, when he answered, everyone could see the human calculator on Maggy's face doing the math, they too began calculating. When the results were in, as it turned out, the young man was exactly one year older than Micky. Charles explained that they were waiting for his son Mickey and by all means, if they would like to join them for dinner to do so or to drop by the house sometime. The tall, graceful lady declined the offer and they both began to stand and excuse themselves from the table, "It was such a pleasure to see you again," she countered, glancing in Maggy's direction, who was now, quietly, politely, imploding inwardly. The lady raised her wineglass, "To old friends." Charles raised his beer mug and everyone joined in, 'Salute,' - 'Cheers,' - 'Asante.' And then Mickey finally appeared in the front window, he glanced in through the glass and for a split second, the image of his reflection and the young man's met in perfect unison. The young man and his mother walked out the front door as Mickey entered and sat down in the seat his twin had just inhabited. Maggie rose and took her original seat next to Charles. She didn't say a word. Everyone was quiet. Moon just stared at Mickey, who said he was sorry for being late. Cally looked at Jezz and smiled. Maggie looked at Charles, then at Mickey, she took a deep breath, exhaled and stated aloud, "I think we are ready to order."
CHAPTER 37 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
CHAPTER 37 : DADDY
Fred felt divided. Ta had been hinting that if they moved in together, they would save money, have more quality time and could possibly even take longer vacation time later in the year. She even did the math over a three year period and had mentioned, the exact numbers they could save, she was, after all, a rather calculating woman. Fred had gotten use to living alone, he had made peace with his losses and even enjoyed the solitude. Running her own business all these years had made Ta into an enterprising lady and her sense of initiative and 'can-do' style is what attracted Fred to her in the beginning, after months of campaigning, she won the debate and had finally convinced Fred. She had planned to put her townhouse up for rent and was looking forward to starting the beginning of her new life with Fred and right in the middle of the move, Ta received a startling phone call from the government in South Korea. The call opened up an entire chapter of her life that she had all but forgotten. Ta had never discussed her childhood with friends or associates much, nor did she speak much about her parents. She was not secretive, many people who had found their way from the north of the country to the South had difficult transitions and discussing assimilation and the actual difficult arduous physical challenge to cross into the South was not something people wished to converse about casually. Ta had been extremely lucky, having stowed away on a boat at an extremely young age, had made her journey and her entire teenage years in the South seem normal. She had never mentioned her father to Fred or anyone and had not even known if he was still alive. Ta had assumed that he was dead or maybe even worse, in a concentration camp or as they were called in the North, a work camp. As it turned out, Ta's father had once been a ranking officer in the North and when her mother passed away, an Aunt had put Ta on a boat to the South and had died doing so. That was decades ago, since then, she had heard nothing of her father in those years and could hardly remember his voice, his face or anything about him. The only object left in her townhouse was the telephone message machine She pressed the play button on the recorder and heard the voice of a woman from the government, "Hello," she formally greeted in Ta's native language, she gave her name, her location and the department she worked for, which was immigration, then she explained that a man describing himself as Ta's father had defected from North Korea over ten years ago and had finally made his way to Seoul, then Ta could hear the woman tell the man to say hello, "Hello, daughter, I am your Dad."
Ta heard the voice and began to cry. This was a chapter in her life she had willingly forgotten. The painful journey, the loss of her mother, the death of her aunt, the entire experience and deep rooted pain of leaving everything behind and starting anew had never given her time to heal or to even reflect, and now, after all this time, she did not want to deal with it. But there it was, sitting in the room with her. She sat in the empty apartment and cried like a child, she screamed aloud, shrieked and rocked back and forth while sitting on the floor. She had returned to the place simply to take down the floral patterned curtains, and now, she ripped them from the walls and yelled into them as loud as she could, muffling her own voice and the pain that had been hidden. Feelings of abandonment and helplessness overtook the woman and she fell to the floor like a child and broke. Hours passed, it had gotten dark, Ta awoke, turned the recorder back on and listened to the voice again, "Hello, daughter, I am your dad," and again, "hello daughter, I am your dad," and again, "hello daughter, I am your dad." She looked out upon the city lights gleaming, the boulevard below was busy, the other apartments across the way, so full of life, families eating dinner, old men and women watching television, kids running in and out of rooms, she had been running from her past towards success for so long that life itself had become something that Ta had disconnected from. How many times had she watched as families came in and out of her restaurant without once consciously thinking about her own childhood, her own family, her own past, in America and in Seoul. A successful business had been her everything and now she looked out the window into the lives of her community and felt a giant empty cavern. The townhouse was empty, the curtains were down, the lights were off. Ta took off her clothes, walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, the bathroom had been stripped of all her girly items, the liquid echoed when it splashed to the tile, there was not enough water in all the world to wash away the pain. Ta walked out into the empty living room naked and stood there, dripping water onto the floor, she watched the night, and hours passed. Fred who had been waiting at home for her to return eventually called and when Ta answered, he hardly recognized her voice, "Hello," he said, "Hello," she answered back, "Are you my daddy ?" she asked, and Fred, laughingly played along, "Yes, I am." Then Ta began to cry and Fred didn't understand, but he simply listened quietly. "Will you come and get me ?" Ta asked with the voice of a little girl he had never known before and Fred, now confused, simply said, "I am your daddy and I will come and get you." Ta dropped the phone, stared into the night and Fred arrived.
Alex and Fred had become partners after Alex's father had passed away. The loss of the liquor store had created a bond between the boy and Fred. Now They had a water dispensary and a yogurt shop. Alex had been a weird kid, nerdy, not exactly popular among his pears, even considered out of step and maybe a little slow. But when it came to music, Alex was actually way ahead of the curve. He had gone to school to become a sound engineer, having tried his hand at playing piano and even drumming, he settled on engineering and sound mixing and everyone in his immediate family and even his girlfriend, who was now pregnant, had always felt that he should grow up and just get a regular job. Fred had given Alex that job and now he had time and money to invest in the music. He bought mixing gear, microphones and started creating all types of sonic experimentation, from electronica style tracks to mood music that sounded like cinema soundtracks. When Fred had asked Alex if he knew of any bands that could play for the opening party of the new yogurt business, Alex answered yes and called some friends he knew. Without Fred knowing, Alex had actually gotten the band to agree to be recorded and remixed with a distribution deal for a single track to be owned by Alex as a producer, in exchange for remixing the concert for the band. He had even gotten a contract signed. Since that time, the band, who was a guy and a girl duo, had now been asked to play a live fundraiser with some serious headliners, which put Alex in the position of owning a new single from a band that had only played local clubs and gigs up to that time. When Alex got news from Ryan's little brother that, She said / He Said was the opening act to a major Concert, he went into superdrive and created a standard track, a special remix and a dance club electric mix that went out to local radio stations, the disc - jockeys that he knew from school and he handed a stack of cd's to the band for promotion. To imagine that this was the same kid who, months back, had in desperation, tried to burn down a palm tree to collect insurance on his father's business, was almost impossible. With the loss of the boy's father, his pregnant girlfriend and his own particular introversion, Alex had lost all hope. Fred had done what he felt was the right thing to do, against all common sense, he had not only forgiven the boy, he had seen something that no one else could see and now, it was paying off. Alex ran the yogurt shop in the daytime and prepared for the child on the weekends. He began to dress differently, he handled himself in a whole new way and everyone in his family noticed that he had actually become a lot like his father. With Fred's partnership and with Fred's trust, the confused and angry boy had now quite definitely, simply become a man, while no one was looking, Alex had bloomed.
When Ta told Fred about the phone call, he was neither surprised nor worried. They sat at the breakfast table and Fred began to tell her a story about working in the factories. He described the way he and Sam had saved their money, the way they had made a pact to succeed, the way they had followed through with a dream that had now recently ended in flames and smoke and anger in a new country in which a history had preceded that they could not even fathom. Americans, he explained, knew nothing of our real history and maybe, we too, know very little of theirs. How many times had he been called Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, anything but Korean. They know nothing of the actual desecration of our country, the civil war, the rebuilding of the South, the trade deals, technological and new manufacturing that went into making South Korea a viable and modern day trade partner with the world. And here we are, in the middle of a city that is tearing itself apart. "Maybe we are here for a reason," Fred said, "maybe our basic understanding of indifference and division and struggle and rebuilding is exactly what we have to contribute to this country." Fred was avoiding the real problem and could see that Ta was waiting for him to approach the phone call. "What I am trying to say is that you and I both have a history. Whatever yours is, I accept. Now what do you want to do?" Ta was looking to Fred for those answers and she simply stared out into space, blank. Fred's house was covered in boxes, clothes, furniture and all the items that had represented Ta's existence were now strewn throughout the place. He looked around and then looked back at her. She was, to him, absolutely and downright beautiful. Her hair thick and deep black, her shoulders whiter than ivory, her eyes, dark and watery, fingertips cold and sharp, breasts that lifted with her very breath, long legs that extended to and fro, her feet delicately sculpted, he had always seen her as a woman and now was seeing her as a little girl. Whomever had created this woman, this lady, this girl, deserved to be taken care of and Fred knew then what they had to do. Fred walked down the hall into the den, turned on the old time jukebox and selected a tune from long ago, it had been popular years before the war and joyfully described the simple pleasures of having a home. Ta understood what Fred was saying and without mentioning a word, she stood up, walked into the living room and together they slowly danced to the music, arm in arm. Each one wondering what it would be like to return home after all these years as the lyrics of the tune happily chanted, 'Home is a place you can never forget, no matter how far, you can ever get, no matter the people, that you have met, home is a place you can never forget.'
CHAPTER 38 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
CHAPTER 38 : ERRANDS
Jordan learned how to ride by riding. He took the new motorcycle to Lompoc, checked into an old motel about a half a mile from the prison and called it a day. Next morning, he was the first in line for visitors and had to wait a couple hours to put in his request. Jordan always had big eyes for life, always watching, always looking, had an eye for details. In a place like this, that was not necessarily a good thing. He eventually got the message that Mac would be available at two in the afternoon, went outside and waited another couple hours. Looked at the joint, metal everywhere, concrete, steel, wire, posts, galvanized, extruded, exposed and painted. Doors and gates clicked and locked and clicked and opened, cameras on every post and doorway and lookout, armed guards and security and sheriffs and people working for the man of all variety, shape and size. Not one of them exposing their eyes directly. Hiding, from what he thought ? The sun drifted across the sky and Jordan's mind with it. The question was not how the hell was Mac? The question was who the hell was Mac? He didn't know his old man from Adam. Oh he had some early memories and lots of stories told by aunts and uncles about how Mac had been with Malcolm in those days when being black meant something very different from what it means now. How Mac had been targeted ever since his association with Malcolm, how he'd been set up time and time again, for this and for that. How his intentions to lift up those around him had often done just that and ever so swiftly, he would find himself being dragged down because of his efforts. Jordan was as straight as an arrow. He knew his way around, was no fool, but he was not what they would call entirely streetwise, had never done time, never even been arrested and did not intend to either. It was getting close to two, Jordan walked back inside and waited with the rest of the visitors. He sat and watched what prison does to those associated with those unfortunate individuals who lived in this place. Wives, kids, lawyers, friends, girlfriends, everyone seemed to be beat down by the experience. A constant barrage of amplified audio announcements, lines to stand behind, forms to fill out, times to stand and times to sit and times to wait, permission to eat and permission to drink and permission to relieve oneself, always with the disdaining eyes of men and women in uniform, while a very thin, almost invisible veneer of soot & finite filth seemed to cover everything and everyone, the sun was hotter and the shade was colder, a place of exaggerated everything. It seemed unreal and yet Jordan knew it was actually more than real, more real than anything on the outside.
Mac sat at a table in the farthest corner of the room, facing outward. Jordan watched his father watching him as he walked up to the man and shook his hand. He noticed right away that there was no finite soot on this man, who looked healthy, big in spirit, whites of his eyes, clear as a piece of paper, skin moist, hands big, nails clean and trim, voice deep, clear, unbroken. Jordan opened up the conversation, "They say, you're a big man in here." Mac looked at the boy and out chuckled a small bitter breath, "A big man in here ain't nothing much compared to a small man out there." Mac continued, "I saw you on the television, retrieving the 'family heirloom'..." he laughed, "... that was something boy." Jordan replied, "Oh yeah, that was something, something that nearly cost me my job, put my privacy in jeopardy, my relationship into turmoil, got me the kind of attention I never wanted." Mac, looked at his son, "Well, it seems our family has always been in the middle of history in one way or another, looks like you got the same dna as the rest of us." Then Jordan mentioned that his momma, who went by the name of Baby, was staying with him and they were all concerned about Mac's welfare. Mac replied "For the record, Mac was never on no damn welfare, but I appreciate the thought." Then he continued, "Look, I heard you got some friends in places that could mean something to me." Jordan went blank, couldn't think of who Mac was referring to. "Your biker pal... and the lady lawyer... thats a powerful hand you're holding son. In here, politics and friendships, favors and returns on investments mean the difference between life and death, food and starvation, between day and night. Look, I need a favor. And I realize, I got no place to ask you, 'cause I never give you nothing but life itself, but I got something I need done and ain't no one I can trust anymore, been in here too long, people taking advantage of my game on the outside." Jordan stared at Mac, "I'm not a hustler." Mac stared back, "I'm not asking you to hustle. But I got nobody else I can trust, son." Jordan heard the word son and he looked Mac in the eyes. "How did you know about my ... friends?" Mac didn't have to time explain how things worked from top to bottom. "Look, I know things, just trust me on this." Jordan had always mistrusted anyone who had ever told him to 'trust him on this', but because this was his father, he let it go. "We don't have much time here, where you staying ?" and Mac rattled off the names of six different motels that were possibilities and Jordan replied, when Mac mentioned his. "Late tonight, a man will be stopping by with a few things for you and a to do list, If you do things right, I might have a chance to get out of here. Can you do this ?" Jordan didn't know what to say, if he said no, he was just a punk, if he said yes, he was in deep shit. He nodded his head no, but said, "Yes."
Come three in the morning, with his clothes still on, lights on, passed out on the couch, Jordan heard a rap on the door. He looked out the eye-hole and one of the whitest, the straightest, the most police officer looking guys he had ever seen was at the door, mustached, freckle faced, yolked up, full on middle American male. Jordan opened the door and the guy said he was making a delivery for 'Mac' with a duffle bag in hand. Apparently, his dad was a big man after all, had dudes that could do things when necessary and do it they did, for a price. Whatever that price was, Jordan did not know, nor did he want to know. Already, he was regretting the decision, but now it was way too late. He stood there, staring at the dude. "Would you mind letting me in ?" Jordan did mind, but all of that was way too late, he let the guy in. The man threw the duffle bag on the bed and pulled out a list, he handed it to Jordan. It was a full itinerary, looked like a damn bus stop schedule, Jordan thought. Then he reached in and pulled out an envelope, when he took out the contents, there on the table lay an airline ticket, a list of addresses and a stack of cash that look pretty thick, real thick, thicker than he wanted it to look, damn. When he opened up the ticket it read, Destination Detroit Departure 9:00 AM. and then he re-read the itinerary. The man pulled out a new suit, shirt, tie and shoes that, when Mac had sussed up Jordan's size, he assumed would fit. "What the hell is all of this?" Jordan asked. "I am just here to make a delivery that never happened, understand?" And he walked out and drove away. Jordan looked out the window, black car, dark night, no license plates. Jordan just shook his head no, as he had done before he had actually said, Yes. He was way out of his league, then he looked at the airline ticket and realized he had to toss the duffle bag onto the bike and head out toward the airport, now, if he was ever going to make, "A nine a.m. flight to goddamned Detroit," he muttered to himself. He drove into the night with the sunrise eventually to his back, found a car park near the airport for his bike and stepped onto a shuttle. Jordan got into the airport, darted into a stall in the restroom and changed into the clothes that Mac had left for him. When he stepped out and looked at himself in the mirror, among the international, business class and everyday working stiffs, he saw his reflection in the mirror, looked down at the suit, the tie, the shoes and realized that he looked like a pimp from nineteen sixty-eight, pin striped suit, deco-page tie, black shirt and two-tone Stacy Adams shoes that were two sizes too big. He approached a row of a half a dozen sinks which were all inhabited by guys shaving, plucking ear hairs, washing their hands, three of the sinks immediately became available. Jordan bought a disposable razor from the attendant, got a shave, tipped the dude and boarded.
Jordan thought about Detroit. The place of his birth. How long had it been ? He'd been living on the West coast for long enough to forget much of it. He'd spent a good amount of time in Oakland and eventually settled in Los Angeles, each, he thought, had a different degree of blackness. People liked to think of blackness as chocolate. It was always being compared to and packaged as this or that degree in music and in popular culture. Before he had become an adult, he thought of this comparison and wondered what that was all about? Now that he was a man, he would say to himself that LA was black like milk chocolate or like Martin Luther King, he didn't mean it in a disparaging way, it was just the way he saw it, as different degree of blackness. And he felt that Oakland was like a purer chocolate, with cocoa and possibly a Huey Newton or Bobby Seal representing. But Detroit, to Jordan, was serious blackness, dark chocolate, as black as black culture could get and right in the middle of it, was Malcolm X. And out of that came Mac, his dad and Baby, his mom and now him, Jordan, a child of true blackness, a very real blackness, Detroit Motor City stuff. In his mind, the only place blacker was the continent of his origin itself. Than he realized that all this was mainstream thinking. He was dreaming a child's dream and he needed to wake up and wake up quick. Jordan pulled out the itinerary and looked at what needed to be done. His first stop was the Hall of Records, where he was to request and make copies of a full detailed description of a court case with dates, names and numbers listed in capitals, than in parenthesis it stated: [ bring four rolls of quarters, two for spending and two for comfort ]. What did that mean ? "Two for comfort ?" he said out loud, than, under his breath, "Goddamn it, Mac..." The stewardess asked if Jordan wanted anything, a cocktail, a beer, Corvousier? Jordan just looked at her quizzically, "Yeah, I'd like a large cup of coffee." Than, as she walked away, he added, "Black," and several passengers turned in his direction. He had pre-rented a vehicle when he had checked in and when the plane arrived, he was again shuttled to a near by rental lot, where he was given a brand new black cadillac sedan. He asked the lady at the desk, "Don't you have anything a little more ... nondescript ?" A term had had heard though never used. "Well," and then she pointed toward a small white ford, a light green pinto and several passenger vans. "Never mind, this will be fine..." Now he was really fronting. Well, he knew one thing, Mac and baby would definitely be proud of him. Then he realized that he had not called home in the last 36 hours. What was he going to tell Wanda and Baby? I'm in Detroit, driving a big black Cadillac, dressed in a pin striped suit, green two-tone shoes with a wad of cash and I'm just running a few errands for Mac?
CHAPTER 39 / SEASON THREE / EPISODE ONE
CHAPTER 39: LIARS
Stan was facing death in the eye. He had neglected to inform Dora, his wife and Cliff, his son, what the doctors had told him. And now he had to reflect on the how's and the why's. Dora had transformed their diet after Cliff's birth, cooking and eating organically grown foods, being conscious of varieties of meat, processing, preservatives and additives, even making a healthy lunch for Stan, which often times went unconsumed. The man had been stubborn, even short sighted and at times, he was downright foolish, when it came to his health. Now, as he walked through the desolate halls of the empty courthouse, with its marble floors and travertine siding and worn down concrete benches, he reflected on how many cigarettes and how many lunch combinations that included a piece of pizza, potato chips and a coke he had consumed. How many hours of his life had he spent in the company of counsellors, lawyers and liars ? All in an attempt to preserve justice for the people. He had, at one time, actually believed that one person could, would and indeed did make a difference and now, in the desolate hours, in an empty chamber, Stan was unsure if that was possible. He walked into his office, opened a locked file where he kept up a project he thought would never see the light of day or meet the public's eye and now, after all had been said and done, Stan decided that the project was his last chance at redemption of a system he knew was broken. Stan had kept a detailed diary of every important case he had ever resided over. While on the bench, he had written about each and every important twist and turn of the screw from prosecutors to defense, from his vantage point to observations on the jury, who had gone unnamed for obvious reasons. Between his most recent meeting with doctors, the final decision in the case that caused The Riots and his deep love for Dora and Cliff as well as his original and rather naive intentions in becoming a judge to begin with, Stan decided to go public with a book that could blow the roof off of a hundred years of abuses of power in America, which would, most likely, equal his retirement. The day he and Cliff played golf against The Governor, at the request of the President, was a watershed moment: a 'Game-Changer.' Stan knew life was not a game and yet, real lives and real laws and real people were being pummeled into a system that left them disrespected, disabled and dishonored for the rest of their lives. His stroke on the golf course had given him a voice that seemed unfamiliar. He opened the file and realized that the narration in his book, all those years, had that same honest voice. Stan got up off the bench, walked out and headed home.
Dora got a call from Jordan that seemed out of character. Normally, he was, how would she put it: Cool headed ? He had left a message explaining that he was in Detroit, attempting to gain access to a file on record regarding a court case that had pertinent information regarding his father Mac, who was doing time because an inside jail house snitch had opened up on a group of people whom his father had been associated with long ago. Apparently, he was having trouble getting a copy of the file released and wondered if she could have somebody in Detroit or anywhere assist, he gave the serial number, dates and names. In the background, Dora could here people stressing Jordan over their need to use the phone booth, then, he finally said, "I gotta go, see what you can do." Then he gave her Mac's serial number, identification and Location. Dora could hear Jordan taking some serious heat as he attempted to drop the receiver and hang up the phone. Since then, she had received a copy of the file, made a duplicate and had another sent directly to Mac at Lompoc. She had been studying the case and realized that it was tinged with a prison politic that had leaned heavily on racial divides within the actual prison system itself, the other unspoken laws, codes and power lines that average people never knew about. She put the folder aside and waited to hear from Jordan. Twelve minutes later a rust colored brick measuring eight inches by three inches by four inches was thrown threw the air, it came into contact with the plate glass window of her front office and shards of glass landed all over her front sofa, table and waiting room. Dora was never one to panic, she called a local security company that worked directly with her office and went to check on Cliff, who had been quietly watching what had become a new obsession of his, direct and unedited cable feeds from a satellite dish which had recently been installed in the law building that Dora leased. Within minutes, a witness identified a lady, driving a small vehicle, who had pulled to the side of the road, picked up a brick from the garden walkway, threw it through the window and drove directly into a parking lot three blocks away and ordered an ice cream. As the incident came to a head, it came to Dora's attention that the culprit had been the volunteer at Cliff's school who had lost her position because she and Stan had reported the fact that the volunteer had been dressing disabled kids in attire that was meant to send messages to a former boyfriend. When they asked Dora if she wanted to press charges, she asked around about the woman. It turned out, the lady had a large family, kids of her own and a husband who was already in jail and Dora decided not to press charges. Instead, she called some friends in the community and within days the window was replaced and the woman apologized.
The woman, who had some serious psychological issues of her own, had no idea who Dora actually was. When she heard the term 'lawyer,' she flipped out. Then word got out and the lady got schooled by people she had known all of her lives. Dora was practically a hero to folks in that community. How many times had she written letters to judges, lawyers, city council members, employers, social security employees, probation officers, churches, drug rehabs, mayors, congressman and senators on behalf of the rights of underage men and women, first time offenders, abused kids, wives and beaten down working class people ? Thousands and thousands, too many to list and too many to mention. When Stan got home that night, Dora told him about the window and then he told her about the book and they both just looked at one another they way partners often do. He knew very well that she knew how to handle herself and she knew that, if he was serious about the book, life as they knew it was never going to be the same. The phone rang, Cliff, who had been coming up with new surprises just about everyday now, answered the phone, "Hello, Yes, Just a minute," then he turned to Stan, "it's for you dad, some guy from something-something studio," then Cliff walked over and latched onto Dora. "This is Stan, Yes. Well, I don't know, I'd have to think about it. Do you mind if I ask how this came about ? You're kidding? All right, I'll think about it, goodbye." Dora and Cliff stared at Stan as he hung up the phone."They want me to consider doing a television show." Cliff turned his head excitedly in Dora's direction, who was nonplussed by the idea. Then she asked, "What kind of show ?" Stan walked into the kitchen, poured two glasses of wine and said, "A law show of some sort." Dora replied, "Of what sort ?" "I'm not entirely sure, they want me to go down there and do a few tests, apparently my little speech at the golf course, with this little man," referring to Cliff, "made an impression on someone who is handling the Presidents re election and they want me to host or reside as a judge over some kind of law show." Then he added, "He said they want to call it, 'Stan The Man'. Apparently Judge Woppner is old hat these days." Then Dora added, "Judge Woppner was old hat the day he was born and what about your book ?" Stan just mused at the whole idea and said, "Lets not get too far ahead of ourselves here. Cliff and I are making dinner." Then he walked down the hall, turned on the shower, walked back into the bedroom, there sitting on the dresser was the medication he had been given by the doctors, then he looked over at the book file that sat on the credenza. As he walked back toward the bathroom, Dora, who had deciphered Stan's condition by his prescriptions simply hugged him and whispered, "Do what makes you happy."
Cliff woke before anyone else and decided that he was going to make breakfast. He had painstakingly watched his father take two eggs, crack them in a bowl, pour the pre mixed powder and oil and milk and mix them with a fork for a minute straight. He had actually counted it to the seconds. Then the butter was put into the pan and small amounts of the mix were poured onto the grill and then each circle was flipped over after exactly ninety-seconds, cinnamon and butter and syrup were added, sometimes with berries or fruit on top and served up hot. He had made an incredible mess doing so, but he had done it. Cliff carried the giant plate into his parents room to discover the coupling parents completing some type of activity he had, prior to that moment, been entirely unaware of. "Hey, what's going on here?" he exclaimed while carrying the giant plate of syrup covered pancakes into the room and proudly presenting them to his post coital parents. Stan laughed out loud at the very fact that the boy had actually made a pancake breakfast and Dora, completely red in the face, quickly switched modes from the shy woman caught in the act of making love to a proud mother of a boy who had been improving his abilities and for a kid with his issues, actually over achieving. Cliff knew that he was different and being young and self conscious, he made a decision to be different in ways that he could enjoy and not different in ways that made him feel more in control of his everyday comings and goings. The first thing he did was began to pick out his own clothes, reorganized his entire closet, he stacked his books on the shelves in alphabetical order and soon both his parents wondered exactly what was going to happen next. His new obsession was watching people to see if he could tell wether they were telling the truth or lying. It had become his main activity and he was very good at it. Dora had to teach him when it was appropriate to expose his findings and just how to describe those particular observations. So, slowly and rather deliberately, he was introduced to words and to phrases that could describe a liar without calling them out: insincere, inauthentic, stretching the truth, coloring the situation, telling only one side and so on and so forth. To Cliff, it mattered not what you called it, the fun was in being able to decipher such an act, the body language, the blinking of the eye, the tone in the voice and sometimes, while he watched television, he noticed simply that the entire facade of humanity appeared to be doing what one of his favorite comedians would have no interest in rephrasing, which is why Richard Pryor had always meant so much to the boy: Because he told the Truth and he did it without all the clever phrases. Then Cliff just stood up and for no reason at all, simply said, in his best Richard Pryor attitude, awfully loud and very clear, "You - a - God - Damn - M*ther - f*cking - Lying - sumnabitch!" His parents were out on the patio.
http://BUREAUofARTSandCULTURE.com
THE BUREAU SPECIAL EDITORIAL FALL 2015
THE BUREAU SPECIAL EDITORIAL FALL 2015
WE NEED A TRUCE IN LOS ANGELES + WE NEED IT NOW
By BUREAU EDITOR J. A. TRILIEGI
I am a proud Los Angeles resident. I grew up in L.A. I was able to become an artist. I went to college. I travelled the world. I made some films, wrote some books and created this magazine. The neighborhood that I grew up in as a child, was always considered, a rough place. Visit The Link provided below to count the deaths there in the past 15 years. Since I had known everyone there and since they knew me, life was normal. I imagine that the kids I see here and there in working class areas will feel the same as I did. Unfortunately, like many of my contemporaries, some will not make it out alive. By the time I graduated from college, I had lost a half a dozen schoolmates. Shootings in Los Angeles from The Harbor to The Valley are becoming an increasing issue of concern. I hardly think this issue will concern tourists, but it does concern the everyday citizen in Los Angeles. We need to promote a truce between rivaling locals throughout Los Angeles: Too many deaths, too many shootings, too many incidents blown into tragedies.
I don't teach at USC or UCLA, I'm not a specialist on gun control, I don't have the endorsement of the LAPD or The ACLU or The NRA or The LA Times, but I know Los Angeles and I grew up in one of the roughest neighborhoods this city has ever produced. So, I guess that makes me an authority beyond books, movies, degrees and official statistic swingers across the world. I did recently complete a little book called, "THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS," you may have heard about it. Five families, five stories, one city, in the middle of a RIOT. Yeah, I was here for that too, 1992. I know Los Angeles, I've seen it grow together, I've seen it fall apart, I've seen it make money, I've seen it lose money. Sometimes, one gets the sense that one has seen it all. But we have not seen it all and we have no idea what a peaceful resolution to our current problems will be or what it might do for Los Angeles as a whole.
We are not talking about The Mayor of LA or The City Council members of LA. We are talking about the populist. The real people of Los Angeles and Southern California as a whole, who work, who struggle, who scratch and scrape together food and clothes and products for their kids to have a chance to maybe, one day, have a home, or write a book or travel the world or go to college. We can no longer afford to kill one another over Territory. We can no longer afford to kill one another over Race. We can no longer afford to kill one another over Colors. We can no longer afford to kill one another over Jobs. We can no longer afford to kill one another over Relationships. We can no longer afford to kill one another over Income. We can no longer afford to kill one another over ANYTHING. I send a challenge and a message to Southern California's Populist to create peace.
"Is working class Los Angeles going to stand by idle and allow the world to pass us by ? The world honors Los Angeles, they love our Food, they love our Culture, they love our Style, they love our Sunsets, our Beaches, our History. The Everyday People of Los Angeles have been setting trends from the bottom up for DECADES. The So - Called Upper Middle Class and So - Called Upper Class World citizens wish they had our experience and authenticity. All around the world, you will find people sporting LA Style Cars, Fashion, Food and even counter culture specialties such as Tattoos. They LOVE us around the World. You see it in movies. You see it on television. Why do we not Love Ourselves ?"
"Is working class Los Angeles going to stand by idle and allow the world to pass us by ? The world honors Los Angeles, they love our Food, they love our Culture, they love our Style, they love our Sunsets, our Beaches, our History. The Everyday People of Los Angeles have been setting trends from the bottom up for DECADES. The So - Called Upper Middle Class and So - Called Upper Class World citizens wish they had our experience and authenticity. All around the world, you will find people sporting LA Style Cars, Fashion, Food and even counter culture specialties such as Tattoos. They LOVE us around the World. You see it in movies. You see it on television. Why do we not Love Ourselves ?"
And to the young men, who have a need to express their strength, be strong by protecting your family, be strong by getting an education, be strong by fighting man to man, without weapons, be strong by supporting your neighborhood pride by keeping it clean, be strong by simply being strong. We respect your strength, but we need you out of jail, we need you healthy, we need you in support of a unified Los Angeles. I am not saying that you have no reasons to be angry, you do. Institutionalized racism. Lack of jobs. The Economy. It all seems hopeless. You are told that you are unworthy and then you make the mistake of believing it. You are worthy. But you have to find a way to define that worthiness and make it a reality. To the young women in Los Angeles, you are beautiful, I see you out there. I sometimes wonder if you actually know just how beautiful or funny or smart you actually are ? More than I can express here and no doubt, more than you have ever been told.
Is working class Los Angeles going to stand by idle and allow the world to pass us by ? The world honors Los Angeles, they love our Food, they love our Culture, they love our Style, they love our Sunsets, our Beaches, our History. The Everyday People of Los Angeles have been setting trends from the bottom up for DECADES. The So - Called Upper Middle Class and So - Called Upper Class World citizens wish they had our experience and authenticity. All around the world, you will find people sporting LA Style Cars, Fashion, Food and even counter culture specialties such as Tattoos. They LOVE us around the World. You see it in movies. You see it on television. Why do we not Love Ourselves ? Why do we not love each other ?
I call on Los Angeles to create a new unity. Not through a funded project like The OLYMPICS. Not through a Peace Concert. Not through a Political Party. Not through a color division affiliation. Not through a preferred zip code. I call on the working class people of Los Angeles to start anew. Lets not wait for another common tragedy to unify this community. Lets Create a fresh perspective. It is time to see yourselves for what you are. Find and KNOW your power through discovery. Own The Streets of LOS ANGELES in a New WAY. We are LOS ANGELES and WE Are POWERFUL. Powerful People do not try to 'Play' one another. Powerful People are too busy being Powerful. Too busy pursuing Life. Too busy making our Lives worthwhile. Because, if your life is not worthwhile, you may be willing to let it go for much less than it is actually worth. And in case no one ever informed you : Your Life is INVALUABLE.
I call on Los Angeles to create a new unity. Not through a funded project like The OLYMPICS. Not through a Peace Concert. Not through a Political Party. Not through a color division affiliation. Not through a preferred zip code. I call on the working class people of Los Angeles to start anew. Lets not wait for another common tragedy to unify this community. Lets Create a fresh perspective. It is time to see yourselves for what you are. Find and KNOW your power through discovery. Own The Streets of LOS ANGELES in a New WAY. We are LOS ANGELES and WE Are POWERFUL. Powerful People do not try to 'Play' one another. Powerful People are too busy being Powerful. Too busy pursuing Life. Too busy making our Lives worthwhile. Because, if your life is not worthwhile, you may be willing to let it go for much less than it is actually worth. And in case no one ever informed you : Your Life is INVALUABLE.
FOR MORE EDITORIALS, ESSAYS, ARTICLES AND REVIEWS by BUREAU Editor Joshua Triliegi Tap the link below and scroll Down for a FREE Copy of the FALL 2015 Magazine Edition.
http://bureauofartsandculturelosangeles.blogspot.com/p/bureau-of-arts-and-culture-magazine.html
THE BUREAU EXCLUSIVE ART INTERVIEW
DAVID BURKE : PAINTER
Joshua TRILIEGI : The New Work has both architectural as well as figural conflagrations with a seriously organic feel. What happened to you between the previous target series and the new work?
David BURKE : In graduate school I had a professor look at my paintings and say, “You’re not an architect, your belongs in a world that is more organic. Stay away from that other stuff.” It took me almost ten years to paint anything that was remotely architectural after that. It’s funny the things that stick with us, the grad school ghosts that haunt us and eventually need to exorcised. In 2011, I was a visiting lecturer at Chiang Mai University in Northern Thailand and I spent almost the entire year painting landscapes that were spawned by my inability to reconcile the tension between the beauty of the pristine Thai landscape and the destruction of this landscape driven by an increased surge towards westernization and development. When I returned to Bay Area, where I grew up, I was shocked at how a place so known to me could feel almost completely foreign. The intensity of the urban landscape was arresting. In order to get reacquainted with my environment I started painting what I call “fractured landscapes” that tapped into the disorientation I was experiencing upon my return.
"When I’m painting, once the first mark hits the surface, this stuff flies out the window and it’s all about making the work. A painting should never shake its finger at the viewer; nobody wants to live with a work of art that appears to be judging them."
In these paintings pools of ink recede like oil-saturated waters at low tide. Trees emerge from a tangled field of structures, gears, and wires. My process involves equal parts control and chaos, and echoes tenuous socio-ecological relationships depicted in the imagery. The use of synthetic material reinforces the commentary on man’s impulse to consume, contain and modify the earth’s resources in order to accommodate our own needs and desires. Contrary to some of the jaded ideas around the work, the paintings are actually quite optimistic in the sense that I am continually awestruck by the resilience of the natural world in the face of such heinous destruction. This relationship between man and nature has all of the trappings of a dysfunctional marriage that has lasted thousands of years. It’s filled with lover’s quarrels, abuse, comedy and beauty. When I’m painting, once the first mark hits the surface, this stuff flies out the window and it’s all about making the work. A painting should never shake its finger at the viewer; nobody wants to live with a work of art that appears to be judging them.
[ Entire Interview Continues in The FREE FALL Edition ]
Links to David BURKE At The Vessel Gallery Exhibit : http://bit.ly/1NxWCH7
BUREAU CLASSICAL MUSIC :
Radio Host Jim Sjevda and The Empire of Music
Jim Sjevda is kinda the main man over at KUSC Classical Radio. He interviews many of the composers, conductors and classical musicians that come through Los Angeles and Hollywood today. He has a voice and style that sits somewhere between, a low brow professor and a high brow gossip. One gets the sense that Sjevda is a bit of a rebel locked in a world of formalism and pose, as the Classical music scene can, at times, seem rather conservative and even a bit uptight. He does what he can do to shake things up, sometimes for the listeners sake and other times, clearly, for the machinery of Empire, that attempts to control, program and influence the listeners. Whenever possible, I always try to remind the audience and the host's that Classical music, much like Shakespeare, is a radical and beautiful expression that has, since its original unveiling, become wrongly interpreted as a formal and uptight medium. Sjevda delivers his innuendo and facts about composers in a whisper and a snobbery that connotes a coy and secretive irony, as if he were a simple servant at an 18th Century waltz, leaning in towards a prussian officer and describing some particular sorted fact about a great musician such as Beethoven, Mozart or Andre Segovia. What is the point of playing music by some of the most passionate human beings who ever lived, then turning around and ridiculing their freedoms and foibles, all the while, collecting millions of dollars from wealthy donors ?
[ Entire Article Continues in The FALL 2015 Edition ]
CLASSICAL MUSIC ACROSS THE UNITED STATES
LOS ANGELES : PHILHARMONIC http://www.laphil.com/
SAN FRANCISCO : SYMPHONY http://www.sfsymphony.org/
SEATTLE : PHILHARMONIC http://seattlephil.org/
SAN DIEGO : SYMPHONY http://www.sandiegosymphony.org/
SANTA BARBARA : SYMPHONY http://www.thesymphony.org/
CHICAGO : PHILHARMONIC http://www.chicagophilharmonic.org/
DALLAS : SYMPHONY https://www.mydso.com/
NEW YORK CITY : PHILHARMONIC http://nyphil.org/
MIAMI : SYMPHONY http://www.themiso.org/
BOSTON : SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA http://www.bso.org/
KANSAS CITY : SYMPHONY https://www.kcsymphony.org/
PHOENIX : SYMPHONY https://www.phoenixsymphony.org/
WASHINGTON D.C. : PHILHARMONIC http://www.nationalphilharmonic.org/
Founded in 1953 by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Peter D. Martin, City Lights is one of the few truly great independent bookstores in the United States, a place where booklovers from across the country and around the world come to browse, read, and just soak in the ambiance of alternative culture's only "Literary Landmark." Although it has been more than fifty years since tour buses with passengers eager to sight "beatniks" began pulling up in front of City Lights, the Beats' legacy of anti-authoritarian politics and insurgent thinking continues to be a strong influence in the store, most evident in the selection of titles. The nation's first all-paperback bookstore, City Lights has expanded several times over the years; we now offer three floors of both new-release hardcovers and quality paperbacks from all of the major publishing houses, along with an impressive range of titles from smaller, harder-to-find, specialty publishers. The store features an extensive and in-depth selection of poetry, fiction, translations, politics, history, philosophy, music, spirituality, and more, with a staff whose special book interests in many fields contribute to the hand-picked quality of what you see on the shelves. The City Lights masthead says A Literary Meeting place since 1953, and this concept includes publishing books as well as selling them. In 1955, Ferlinghetti launched City Lights Publishers with the now-famous Pocket Poets Series; since then the press has gone on to publish a wide range of titles, both poetry and prose, fiction and nonfiction, international and local authors.
Visit The Store: CityLights.com
261 Columbus Avenue San Francisco, CA 94133 (415) 362-8193
The BUREAU Guest Artist Melissa Ann PINNEY
Joshua Triliegi : How Did The New Book "TWO" Come To Fruition ?
Melissa Ann Pinney : In a funny way, you could say that TWO came about because I finally organized my work, cleaned up my studio and pinned up dozens of prints on the walls. In the spring of 2013, I had been working on the project for a while but this was the first time the images were collected all together. Ann Patchett happened to visit, loved the photographs and proposed that we make a book together. Ann is a an award-winning, best-selling author with a gift for friendship and the ability to make big things happen. Ann is also a bookseller and she wanted to get the book out to an larger audience. To do so, Ann’s thought was to invite ten of our most distinguished contemporary writers ( aka, her friends) to contribute a short essay on the idea of two. HarperCollins loved the idea as did the writers. The images and text are meant to inform one another rather than illustrate in the usual way we think of words and images. For instance, there are no photographs opposite a page of text. Ann wrote the introduction and also is the editor.
"I am looking for pictures – everywhere and always, with or without my camera. The pictures I want most are those I see in passing; the unexpected ways light, people and objects come together. If I am ready and quick it’s sometimes possible to get the picture; if I had to approach, explain and ask permission the picture I wanted would be already gone. It’s the unstudied, uninterrupted sense of theater in the everyday that drew me to make the image in the first place."
- Melissa Ann PINNEY
[ Entire Interview Continues in The FREE FALL Edition ]
The Artist: http://www.melissaannpinney.com
The Gallery: http://www.schneidergallerychicago.com
BUREAU MUSIC INTERVIEW: JAHI
Joshua TRILIEGI : When I first discovered Rap at The Radio Club in 1982, I was still in High school, when did You first hear a Live MC and Did you ever think the Music would have such a long staying power ?
JAHI : 1982 was also an important year for me because of Sucker MC's by Run- DMC and Jam Master Jay and in my neighborhood of East Cleveland, Ohio we had DJ's on our block and had community block parties just like NYC. I remember my sister bringing home the vinyl to "Rappers Delight" in 1979 and it marks a time where I felt like I heard the term "rappers" more frequently. There was no doubt in my mind that Hip Hop music would have staying power. Deeper than the music, it was the building of culture.
Joshua TRILIEGI : Lets discuss The Newest Project: Whats It all About ?
JAHI : insPirEd is the second album from PE 2.0. I said to a friend yesterday that if I became an ancestor today I would leave happy knowing I was able to do this album. Its simply social commentary over boombap. It features my other mentor and friend KRS-One, and has incredible production from Divided Souls from Baton Rouge, the legendary Easy Mo Bee, and DJ Pain 1. It is a call of action. It's BLACK in scope and presentation. We've always know that Black Lives Matter, but this album is also about Black LOVE in a conscious kind a way. The love of my people who still stand strong in the face of tyranny by crooked police and judicial systems, out ability as Black people to still stand firm, grow, love, and live. Music is universal so everyone in Hip Hop will attach to insPirEd if they dig lyricism and hard beats, but its dedicated to my people on the front lines all over the world.
[ Entire Interview Continues in The FREE FALL Edition ]
THE BUREAU BOOK Reviews
By The Staff of Strand Books in New York New York U S A
My Lunches with Orson: Conversations between Henry Jaglom & Orson Welles
by Peter Biskind / Review by Jim at Strand Books NYC
My Lunches With Orson is a unique and hilarious peek at one of America's greatest and most notorious film directors and actors, Orson Welles. Forty years since his legendary debut film, Citizen Kane, and nearly a decade since audiences had seen a finished film of his, Welles sat at the Ma Maison in Los Angeles, treating the Parisian-themed restaurant as a pseudo-office while meeting with filmmaker Henry Jaglom for lunch to discuss business and various other topics. Taken from Jaglom's recordings long thought lost forever, Peter Biskind (famed film writer of Easy Riders, Raging Bulls and Down and Dirty Pictures) compiles this collection of lunch conversations between the two directors. In between discussing his own infamous career, Jaglom and Welles discuss nearly every major figure in American film between 1930 and 1975 - and Welles hates nearly all of them. Katherine Hepburn, John Ford, Pauline Kael, and Charlie Chaplan are amongst the many who are brought up and few survive his wrath. The candid conversations are a brilliant form of performance, as Welles was aware of the recorder but asked Jaglom simply to make it unseen. The legendary filmmaker vacillates often between showboating for his young friend with uproarious speeches, and speaking with the honest desperation of a man at his advanced age being unable to work, and the financial trouble that that situation places him in. All in all, Biskind's framing of the transcripts displays Welles as a dastardly charming man, bursting at the seams with knowledge while posing for his one-man audience as a charlatan. My Lunches With Orson may not be the most informative book there is to read about Welles, but it is one of the most entertaining - and it's all in his words.
Inside the Dream Palace
by Sherill Tippins / Review by Maya at Strand Books NYC
Inside the Dream Palace is an in-depth look at a New York institution full of great mini-biographies and quirky histories. From Mark Twain to Sid and Nancy, the Chelsea Hotel has hosted a wide variety of creative characters (Jack the Ripper may have even stayed in the Chelsea). It’s a great read if you want a book about New York that isn’t too dry or too gossipy. In fact it has very little gossip at all, but lots of interesting facts about the behavior of, mainly famous, creatives. It is a perfect beach book but also a great read for the historian looking to read something light that still has a great deal to say about New York history. I personally enjoyed the way that New York is shown through the eyes of writers, artists and musicians such as Dylan Thomas, Harry Smith, and Patti Smith. Sherill Tippins seamlessly weaves these separate stories together creating a biography of a building, a neighborhood and a city. It’s important to know the history of New York and specifically the history of it’s communities so that we can continue their work. In Dream Palace, Sherill Tippins exposes how creative havens can be fostered but also how they are often destroyed by non-creatives. Dream Palace joins the dialogue and the struggle of the book Black Mountain: An Exploration in Community, and the film The Art of the Steal. We need more voices to tell these histories of how spaces for artists, writers and musicians are being turned into money making schemes.
A Game of Thrones
by George R. R. Martin / Reviewed by Toni at Strand Books NYC
One of the most used cliches in all of high fantasy is that of the farm boy (or other "simpleton") turned hero. Since Tolkien penned his Middle Earth stories, this trope has been wildly popular in the genre. One of the reasons I love Game of Thrones so much is that it completely ditches this typical cliche. Martin writes his story in such a way that it grabs readers immediately. More than once I found myself unable to put the book down until I found out what had happened to the characters I had so quickly become taken by. With each chapter told from the viewpoint of a different character, it easy to pick favorites at the start. It also ditches the typical cliche of the fantasy trope, focusing instead on the individuals functioning as a part of the whole, with each character bringing something to the dilemma. And the dilemma is, what else in a medieval setting, a clash for power. Game of Thrones, for me, reinvented the genre more than any other fantasy series. With five books and counting, I grow more and more attached to the Seven Kingdoms, and root for my favorite characters each time I pick up a book. Of course, there are downsides to the series. Most noteable and really the only negative of substance is that he doesn't write fast enough. For those who have seen the HBO series, I urge you to pick up the books. While the series is phenomenal, the books bring so much more to light. There is so much that you miss simply from watching it on TV. You won't be disappointed.
Canned
By Franklin Schneider / Reviewed by Uzodinma at Strand Books NYC
A down-dirty, grit-covered gem of a book. Mislabeled as humor. Franklin is the pal we all have stories about, like a correspondent on the front lines of a war many of us are afraid to fight. I'd go so far as to say that even if you don't agree with the way he sloughs off society's rules, you've at least wondered about it. You, like me, we've all crunched through pointless jobs, or ones we may even like, and still something's missing. But something's always missing. And this, I'd argue, is what Schneider, would like us to laugh at and understand. Not the evils of culture, or the modern work-week, not necessarily. You can seize up if you want to on the bits about laziness and unemployment checks, but that's the light-hearted, topical fluff. Think about it this way, and it's true: the gifts of the culture we live in were created by thinkers, dreamers, that is, by completely different hands than the ones that use those same dreams to lock us down and enslave us . . . Or maybe that's too far out there. What I like about this guy Franklin though, is that there's no real dogma, no ten-step revolution, nor should there be. He wanted off the 9-to-5 treadmill to become a writer, and thus the book, this book, is the proof that we can create the life we want to live, or go down trying. Thus the saga. Sex romps in unfinished basements. Inter-office pranks. Ten-day benders. The arcade chapter. The dead man in the Porto-Potty. More sex. The sex chapter. More racing, full sprint, down moonlit streets. The lawn mower through the window thing. This is Franklin's saga. Like we each have our own, and it's up to us to stay awake .
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IMAGE: Edward Hopper (U.S.A., 1882–1967), New York Corner (Corner Saloon), 1913. Oil on canvas.
Edward Hopper: New York Corner
Through February 8, 2016 The exhibition showcases the painting New York Corner and contextualizes it by grouping works from the museum’s collection into several art-object-based “conversations.” These constellations point to the kinds of artistic practice that preceded the painting’s creation; showcase concurrent work, both similar and different, by Hopper’s contemporaries; and present the kinds of practice that followed.
The Cantor Arts Center at Stanford University 328 Lomita Drive at Museum Way Stanford, CA 94305
BUREAU OF ARTS AND CULTURE MAGAZINE Supports
VISIT THE FILM FESTIVAL SITE : REDNATIONFF.COM
image: Elliott Landy Courtesy of The Artist and LandyVision.com
THE PHOTOGRAPHER ELLIOT LANDY
This Fall a New Book by Photographer Elliot Landy with Exclusive Images of Bob Dylan and The BAND will be available. Recent Documentaries and New releases on Audio of BOB DYLAN's Famed Basement Tapes Sessions have been celebrated with the participation of T. Bone Burnett, Mumford & Sons and a Showtime Series that included the participation of Elvis Costello have cast a new re-look at this important period in the life of one of America's most important songwriters. Elliott Landy took many of the pinnacle images that defined Robbie Robertson and The Band's Big Pink album as well as Dylan's retreat from the public eye in Woodstock NY. This much anticipated original publication is a must for music lover's, Dylan fans and Rock & Roll Historians.
Check your Local Bookstores November 2015 and for more information visit: LandyVision.com
FIRE + ICE By ALEX HARRIS
Three parka-clad men, their backs to the camera, stand on an ice–covered field. Their body language – what we can see of it – implies rest, perhaps resignation, as they watch a building burn. Minutes earlier, inside a Quaker church in the Alaskan Inuit village of Selawik, these same men heard screams of “fire!” Outside, there was nothing to be done. The burning building, a schoolhouse, contained the only running water in the village, and regardless, the blaze was too far-gone to be fought.
On that April day of 1974, I was part of the crowd watching the schoolhouse burn. I was also a photographer with one roll of film in my camera, eight exposures left, trying quickly to make sense of the moment. Instinctively, I used my lens to see the fire and smoke through the bodies of the men in front of me, the way someone in the crowd would see the fire, the way the men themselves might be experiencing this moment. My instincts were to break most of the rules being taught in photojournalism school at the time. No faces are evident. No action is depicted. People standing in front of my camera mostly obscure the event itself. Yet this same photograph manages to suggest something larger than the moment, hints at the Inuit’s relationship to their environment; implies their acceptance of the power of nature.
Between 1973 and 1978 I made five trips to Alaska, living cumulatively for over a year in several Inuit villages above the Arctic Circle along the Kobuk River as well as other villages on the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta of the southern Bering Sea coast. I often arrived on a single engine weekly mail plane, and if visiting a village for the first time, would be greeted by a small group eager to see relatives who might be on the flight, or anxious to retrieve mail and supplies from the outside. Invariably someone would ask, “Why are you here?” When I said I was there to take pictures, a second question followed. “Where are you staying?” I would respond that I didn’t know. “Then stay with us.”
I learned that there was nothing naïve about the invitation. The Inuit were hospitable and trusting in this sense: they gave me time and a chance to prove myself to be a person they wanted to have around. And I wanted very much to be that person. I believe I became that person. At the time, I was a few years out of college and beginning my second education. For one thing, I was learning the craft of photography, and starting to have control of the medium. I had studied Adams’s zone system for film exposure and development, and knew how to compact into visible detail the range of light in Alaska – from bright sun on snow to deep shadow on parkas – falling on my film. Still, I had quite a distance to go to master the medium technically.
Mostly what I had to offer was my eagerness to get to know the people and places I photographed. I hoped that my familiarity would be reflected in the pictures I made. I was shooting black–and–white film, some 35mm but primarily medium format, and storing my exposed rolls under my bed inside a red tin coffee can with a plastic top. But in another sense, I had to store the photographs in my mind, as I wouldn’t see any of my pictures until I returned to the “lower 48” and developed my film. So I often brought with me a couple of photographic books for inspiration, looking not so much to answer questions about technique, framing, or exposure, but to try to understand what a photographer’s work could tell me about how to get inside another world with a camera.
In 1975 one book I brought with me was Koudelka’s The Gypsies. Whether the Gypsies looked back at Koudelka with recognition, or ignored him entirely, I was enormously drawn to the implied intimacy of the pictures he made. Koudelka was absolutely present in his own pictures, yet his own likeness never appears. He made photographs full of life and also full of mystery. Though I didn’t take on Koudelka’s high–contrast, wide–angle style, I did begin to understand from him how to get inside another world with a camera. In Alaska I came know people in a way that allowed me to participate in their lives. On each successive trip to the villages, I saw it was possible to immerse myself in a world and at the same time to observe it, to step back from the moment I was experiencing and take a photograph. I learned to make pictures – like those I’d seen in The Gypsies – pictures that hinted at more than I saw, more than I knew, more than we can ever know about another person, place or culture.
Alex Harris
Alex Harris is a photographer and writer teaching at Duke University. He is one of the founders of DoubleTake Magazine, of the Lewis Hine Documentary Fellows Program http://documentarystudies.duke.edu/projects/hine, and of the Center for Documentary Studies (CDS) http://documentarystudies.duke.edu . This fall CDS celebrates its twenty-fifth anniversary http://www.cdsfirst25.com/ with a number of events in Durham North Carolina including a November 20th-22nd Documentary Forum http://www.cdsfirst25.com/docforum2015/
[ Entire PHOTO ESSAY Continues in The FREE FALL Edition ]
The NOCTURNE
A Photographic Essay & Interview
With LYNN SAVILLE
Joshua TRILIEGI : What draws you to Night Photography?
Lynn SAVILLE : When I was five years old, two keys things happened. I looked out of the window at night into my back yard in Durham, North Carolina and noticed that the grass, tool shed, wheelbarrow and trees appeared scary at night. Illuminated by the single floodlight behind our house, the very familiar terrain became mysterious and dangerous during the night. It had looked normal and calm during the daytime. This very familiar place took on a new dimension at night. The second key occurrence was that my family boarded a steam ship in New York City’s harbor and traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to Italy. This experience created in me, a dramatic appreciation for New York City, and an awe of the night, the stars, water, the rare sight of the occasional ship at sea.
Joshua TRILIEGI : Take us on a shoot with you: Location, Number of Images, Time invested in The Walk about, Choosing the work, Printing and Exhibiting.
Lynn SAVILLE : When working in my own city [ New York ], I walk during different times of day and evening making mental notes and cell phone snapshots of places that attract my interest. Later I return when it’s dawn or twilight and look again at the way these chosen “locations” appear in the shifting light. I might return to a location three or four times to see what I find…always bringing my camera and tripod and any other items such as velvet to minimize reflections if I’m photographing into a window and a small flashlight or headlamp to use if I want to paint some light.
I edit on my computer and make contact sheets or small 4” x 6” proof prints through inexpensive online printing labs or with Xerox. These I put on my magnetic board in my apartment – to “live with them”. I find that seeing photographs at different times of day and night helps me select the best ones.
When preparing for an exhibition, I print the photographs 8 x 10 or 11 x 14 as “match prints” – fine tuning the files. I generally print on a paper size of 20” x 24” or 30” x 40” and occasionally 40“ x 50”. These are printed with archival inkjet process.
[ Entire Interview Continues in The FREE FALL Edition ]
Dark City Exhibition October 2nd - November 28th, 2015
Lynn Saville explores what she refers to as “limbo regions” in her series Dark City. These regions are undeveloped and overlooked spaces across major cities’ in the United States. Although Saville initially associated these vacant spaces with the economic turmoil of the recession, she came to realize that they also resulted from a natural cycle of decay and renewal in the urban landscape. She photographs at either dawn or dusk so that the place itself is lighting the scene with streetlight, window light, advertisements and surveillance lighting. Saville has been able to transform these spaces into lively and inviting places even with the absence of people and the cities usual attractions. She regards such places as “empty skeletal sets in which objects can dream, and light and shadow can dance uninterrupted.”
Visit The Gallery and The Artist for Sizes, Specifications and Available Photographs at:
SCHNEIDER GALLERY 770 North LaSalle Dr. Suite 401, Chicago, IL 60654
BUREAU BEST BOOKS : ANDERSONS
In 1964 they opened the first official bookstore: Paperback Paradise. Since then they have expanded and moved several times, opening Downers Grove store in 1980 and a children’s wholesale warehouse bookfair company, Anderson’s Bookfair Company (ABCFairs), in 1982. Bookfair company has grown and moved 5 times from being in the basement of Downers Grove store. Last November they opened Two Doors East, an eclectic and unique gift store, just two doors down from the Naperville bookshop. The members 5th generation that own and run the businesses today all started to work at a very young age in the family’s Business. " Working along side with your grandfather, parents, brothers, sister, and children is a family tradition that creates community within your family, and reaches your employees, your customers, and beyond your brick and mortar location." Each generation of their family has offered new touches and ideas to keep it innovative, fresh and exciting.
5112 Main St, Downers Grove, IL 60515 (630) 963-2665
Unidentified photographer, American, 20th century Circa 1950s Gift of Peter J. Cohen Courtesy Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
Museum of Fine Arts Boston
presents
Unfinished Stories: Snapshots
from the Peter J. Cohen Collection Now Through to February 21, 2016
Unfinished Stories celebrates a century of snapshots from the Peter J. Cohen Collection of amateur photographs. An avid collector, Cohen rescued more than 50,000 lost, discarded, or disowned personal photographs, culled from flea markets, antique shops, galleries, eBay, and private dealers. As he sifted and sorted through his finds, Cohen discovered mesmerizing, often humorous, shots removed from their original context: People at Play, Photographers’ Shadows, Double Exposure, Couples, Oddities, and Hula Madness. These pictures reveal the lives of strangers through intimate exposures, telling a story, or as Cohen puts it, “a teeny part of a story that remains unfinished.”
KANAYO ADIBE
The BALTIMORE PHOTO ESSAY
From The Street Scene Photographs of Everyday Life in Baltimore to The Weddings & Parties of Washington DC, Kanayo Adibe has gone from utilizing a cell phone to a professional camera and launched an unexpected career in less than a few years. He has a bold eye for balance, time and place. His subjects inhabit their city with a flare for life. His images capture the goings on in a way that is alive and well. He has a growing catalogue that is both valuable and interesting. We discovered his work through a special program at The Baltimore Sun Newspaper and have become a solid part of his growing audience. Today, we give you Five Questions, a Photo Essay from Mr. Kanayo Adibe's Black & White Images and a glimpse inside Baltimore.
Joshua TRILIEGI : Discuss how you approach photographing a Wedding versus a Street Shoot ?
Kanayo ADIBE : Photographing a wedding is pretty straightforward, there is a storyline, all the characters are present and all you have to do is work the timeline and capture the moments as they unfold. You are able to help shape the story, you are able to enhance it through great imagery or manipulate it by adding in poses. With street you are forced to find order in variability and chaos. You rely on variables beyond your control to tell a story as you see it. You have to act quickly when you find a moment unfolding or anticipate something occurring and hold your composition till it does.
Despite the differences between wedding and street photography a lot of the skills carry over, there is an unscripted part of weddings that remain naturally occurring and random. The difference is they occur frequently and the more attentive you are the more of them you capture. In the streets it’s a lot harder to find those moments because there are no predetermined characters to follow or a defined storyline, you have to pick and choose your subjects and hope that the right elements come together to give you that image you are looking for.
Joshua TRILIEGI : How important is representing our communities in America today and give us some examples in dealing with your subjects, creating relationships and being a strong part of the diAspora in America's culture today ?
Kanayo ADIBE : I think it’s really important to represent our communities accurately, not leaning towards what is more popular or less favorable just to get a rise out of people. As we know the traditional media is skewed in it's representation of certain demographics and usually just say and show things for higher ratings. As for my street work, I honestly photograph anything that stands out to me, good or bad. I’m not in constant search of that angle that will draw more attention to my work; I just shoot from the heart. It could be a special moment between strangers, amazing architecture, a homeless person on the street, it doesn’t matter. As long as it gives me that feeling, I will create that image. Relationship building is important, I have formed lots of bonds with other creatives, some of which have helped me grow creatively and as a business, I have also made new friends in my commercial subjects, my street subject still remain anonymous to me. As a Nigerian living in America and having to deal with the culture as it stands today is pretty interesting, I’m no different from any African American in the eyes of everyone else, so whatever they experience, I experience.
[ Entire Interview Continues in The FREE FALL Edition ]
CRAFTED: Beth Lipman Cut Table Courtesy of Museum of Fine Arts Boston © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
Museum of Fine Arts Boston presents Crafted Objects in Flux
Now Through to January 10, 2016
“Crafted” explores this moment of “flux” in the field, focusing on contemporary craft-based artists who bridge cutting-edge concepts and traditional skills as they embrace and explore the increasingly blurred boundaries between art, craft, and design. Featuring a selection of works from across the landscape of contemporary craft, the exhibition includes more than 30 emerging and established international artists. Looking to a broad range of materials and practices, the exhibition explores the connections between craft and performance; the opportunities provided by new technologies and materials; and the power of rethinking craft’s interactions with architecture and space. This exhibition is the first of its kind within an encyclopedic museum to explore the broad possibilities of contemporary artistic engagement with craft. By examining these interactions in proximity to historical examples in the MFA’s collection, “Crafted” demonstrates the vitality, viability, and variety inherent in choosing craft as a foundation for contemporary artistic practice. Tap: mfa.org
THE BUREAU PHOTO INTERVIEW
Ryan SCHIERLING
The How, The What and The Why of Taking Photographs for a Living . The Austin Based Photographer Discusses His Work in Seattle Washington +More
Joshua TRILIEGI : There is a real diversity in your catalogue, explain what draws you to a subject, how you approach it and where you decide to frame it?
Ryan SCHIERLING : I’m drawn to anything that’s visually and aesthetically pleasing, but I think that describes most photographers. The process of translating what I’m seeing into a photograph using a mechanical process of adjusting this and that is what, my style? Visually, I like clean images. I like to fill the frame with precisely what I want, because I don’t crop much. I want exactly what I want to see, and it’s done in camera, zooming a lens, or moving the legs here and there.
Shooting portraits, specifically environmental portraits, is what I worked the hardest on. Photojournalism is documenting a scene unfolding around you. You’re not supposed to be part of it, you’re an external, impartial observer. That’s easy. To engage someone before the camera even comes out of the bag and have them be comfortable with you, enough to give you a piece of themselves in a photograph, is difficult. There have been people I’ve wanted to take a photo of, but it just didn’t feel right emotionally, or they weren’t in the right frame of mind to be physically and mentally present for the camera. I was never good with the whole “Alright, you have five minutes to shoot Mr. Famous Person” because there’s no connection. You’re just making a visually-accurate representation of what Mr. Famous Person looked like in that 1/60 of a second. I’d rather genuinely talk to them for five minutes, as a real person, and take one frame before I leave.
Ryan SCHIERLING : I did that the last time I photographed John Vanderslice, and I’ve shot so many photos of him - live and portraits - over the years. I shot a few songs of a show at The Mohawk in Austin, and I just wanted to watch and listen for the rest. Throngs of people were looking to talk to him after the set. It was after 1 a.m., and I didn’t want to intrude. I only wanted to let him know that he’d played a wonderful show - as always - and shake his hand. I asked him if I could just take two frames, and he looked a little surprised, but graciously agreed. I said, “Close your eyes. Take a deep breath, exhale.” Click. “Turn around, relax.” Click. Those are some of my favorite images of him.
Faces interest me, body language interests me. How people relate to their environments. Things that happen to people, moments that they will never forget, moments that might seem small, or large, or insignificant. They all make a difference in our lives. I can’t be everywhere I’d like to be, so i just try to capture what I can, when I can. it’s all important in some manner, whether it’s politics, music, dinner, a first date or a death in the family.
There's a photograph in just about every situation you'll ever come across. Sometimes it's just a matter of stopping and looking a little harder. In some photos there are stories that need to be told, in others there might just be a feeling. One quote I remember from photographer Windy Osborne really stuck with me, and it's been probably 25-plus years. "Fill the frame with exactly what you want to see." I try to get all of the important elements in there, without making anything cluttered. And that tends to be my style in whatever I shoot, whether it's music or portraits or landscapes or anything that’s in front of me.
Ryan SCHIERLING : I don’t have a lot of photo books. There are no collections I keep other than cookbooks and old skateboards. The few photography books I do have are by Glen E. Friedman, Charles Peterson, Richard Avedon, Jim Brandenburg. I have all issues of “Loose Lips Sink Ships” from Steve Gullick and Stevie Chick. Gullick is incredible. He and Peterson certainly influenced my music photography initially. Both had a dirty, grainy style, but Steve did some lovely lighting for portraits and Charles captured a Pacific Northwest live music epoch with a camera and a strobe attached to a motorcycle battery. I dig Danny Clinch and his aesthetic. Old school? Windy Osborne and Spike Jonze - shooting for Freestylin’ Magazine in the late 80s - were huge for me, riding, shooting and working on a craft. Dan Sturt and J. Grant Brittain were massive talents at Transworld Skateboarding Magazine. Sturt’s mid-lens artistry and framing in a fisheye-lens dominated industry was incredibly inspirational. Brittain’s 1987 TWS cover of Tod Swank still makes me shake my head and smile every time I see it. At a young age, there were no finer photographers to emulate. New School? I love William Anthony, Dan Winters, Jonathan Saunders, Penny De Los Santos. I don’t shoot for a living anymore, so there’s no pressure to push the button for nonsense. I just try to stay true to the subject and the image, whatever it may be.
[ Entire Interview Continues in The FREE FALL Edition ]
BUREAU INTERVIEW : MICHELLE HANDELMAN ARTIST
Cyphers from Irma Vep, The Last Breath, 2013, digital c-print on archival paper, 18” x 24”, courtesy Participant, Inc., New York City
BUREAU : Let’s discuss video art. Who are your earliest influences.
Michelle HANDELMAN : If by influences you mean cultural artifacts that absolutely transfixed my imagination, both visually and mentally, things that totally rocked my world, then without a doubt it was: horror films. In fact probably the earliest memories I have revolve around my brothers and I dressing up as vampires and watching old black and white horror films. We would put white powder on our faces, throw towels around our shoulders like capes, light candles and watch Creature Features every weekend—Tod Browning’s Dracula, Edgar Ulmer’s The Black Cat—all the 1930s classics starring Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi. And so, from a very early age I had this interest in the macabre and the supernatural, and the symbolic language of monsters. Two films that thoroughly imprinted themselves on me back then were Mario Bava’s Black Sunday and Hitchcock’s The Birds. I mean, when Barbara Steele emerges from that iron maiden in Black Sunday with holes all over her face that was just the coolest thing I ever saw. It was deep. I mean, we’re all riddled with holes, metaphorically, and its all one can do to keep the tatters together and move forward. But to get back to your original question about video or experimental avant-garde film, the first moving image artists who rocked my world were Charles Atlas and Ulrike Ottinger.
BUREAU : Do you believe art can change policy? Acceptance and progress?
Michelle HANDELMAN : I look at the world of humans as one large dysfunctional family that has the ability to evolve and transcend hatred, but the cards are still out as to whether or not that will ever happen. I do feel I’m a realistic optimist, which means I believe in transformation, but I also know destruction is inevitable, and in fact necessary for change. But to specifically address your question, yes, I do believe some art can lead to a change in policy. I don’t think it can actually change policy, but it can open dialogue, that can lead to a change. My piece at Eastern State Penitentiary has been on display for three years now, and periodically I receive emails from people telling me how it changed them. Last year I received a call from the federal Bureau Of Prisons inviting me to present my piece to their corrections officers. That was the first time I actually felt my work was effecting change in a very direct way. I met with the head of the BOP, as well as an assortment of bureaucrats, guards and officers and they wanted to know….they knew they had to change the way they’ve been dealing with trans inmates. They didn’t understand it, probably didn’t like it, but still, they knew they needed to change and they asked questions, lots of questions. In fact just today I was reading in the New York Times about how police officers are now receiving mandatory training on interacting with trans people. I’d like to think that in some small way my piece played a part in this change.
[ Entire Interview Continues in The FREE FALL Edition ]
CINDY SHERMAN UNTITLED FILM STILL # 7 The BROAD MUSEUM
The NEW BROAD MUSEUM in L. A.
PHOTO : Iwan Baan THE BROAD MUSEUM
The Broad makes its collection of contemporary art from the 1950s to the present accessible to the widest possible audience by presenting exhibitions and operating a lending program to art museums and galleries worldwide.The Broad is a new contemporary art museum built by philanthropists Eli and Edythe Broad on Grand Avenue in downtown Los Angeles. The museum, which is designed by Diller Scofidio + Renfro in collaboration with Gensler will offer free general admission. The museum will be home to the nearly 2,000 works of art in the Broad collection, which is among the most prominent holdings of postwar and contemporary art worldwide. With its innovative “veil-and-vault” concept, the 120,000-square-foot, $140-million building will feature two floors of gallery space to showcase The Broad’s comprehensive collection and will be the headquarters of The Broad Art Foundation’s worldwide lending library. The Broad is home to the 2,000-work Broad collection, one of the most prominent holdings of postwar and contemporary art worldwide. With in-depth representations of influential contemporary artists like Jean-Michel Basquiat, Barbara Kruger, Cy Twombly, Ed Ruscha, Kara Walker, Christopher Wool, Jeff Koons, Joseph Beuys, Jasper Johns, Cindy Sherman, Robert Rauschenberg, and more, plus an ever-growing representation of younger artists.
from BURDEN to BALDESSARI
from FISCHL to FRANCIS
from WALKER to WARHOL
221 S. Grand Avenue Los Angeles CA USA 90012 TheBroad.org
Larry Sulton Oranges on Fire 1975 LarrySulton.com
Milwaukee Art Museum
presents
The Photographic Works of Photographer Larry Sultan
October 23, 2015 – January 24, 2016
The exhibition includes more than 200 photographs ranging from Sultan’s conceptual and collaborative works of the 1970s to his solo works in the decades following. Sultan never stopped challenging the conventions of photographic documentation, exploring themes of family, home, and façade throughout his career. Larry Sultan grew up in California’s San Fernando Valley, which became a source of inspiration for a number of his projects. His work blends documentary and staged photography to create images of the psychological as well as physical landscape of suburban family life.
Sultan’s pioneering book and exhibition Pictures From Home (1992) was a decade long project that features his own mother and father as its primary subjects, exploring photography’s role in creating familial mythologies. Using this same suburban setting, his book, The Valley (2004) examined the adult film industry and the area’s middle-class tract homes that serve as pornographic film sets. Katherine Avenue, (2010) the exhibition and book, explored Sultan’s three main series, Pictures From Home, The Valley, and Homeland along side each other to further examine how Sultan’s images negotiate between reality and fantasy, domesticity and desire, as the mundane qualities of the domestic surroundings become loaded cultural symbols.
In 2012, the monograph, Larry Sultan and Mike Mandel was published to examine in depth the thirty plus year collaboration between these artists as they tackled numerous conceptual projects together that includes Billboards, How to Read Music In One Evening, Newsroom, and the seminal photography book Evidence, a collection of found institutional photographs, first published in 1977. Larry Sultan’s work has been exhibited and published widely and is included in the collections of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Museum of Modern Art, the Whitney Museum of American Art, the Solomon Guggenheim Museum, and the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where he was also recognized with the Bay Area Treasure Award in 2005. Sultan served as a Distinguished Professor of Photography at California College of the Arts in San Francisco. Born in Brooklyn, New York in 1946, Larry Sultan passed away at his home in Greenbrae, California in 2009.
The Artist: LarrySultan.com The Museum : MAM.org
Kehinde Wiley / 30 Americans : Detroit Institute of Arts Oct. 18, 2015–Jan. 18, 2016
30 Americans : Detroit Institute of Arts
Oct. 18, 2015–Jan. 18, 2016
30 Americans is a dynamic exhibition of contemporary art by African American artists, on view Oct. 18, 2015–Jan. 18, 2016. “30 Americans” includes 55 paintings, sculptures, installations, photographs and videos by many of the most important artists who rose to prominence during recent decades by exploring racial, gender, political and historical identity in contemporary culture. Organized around several artistic approaches used by the artists to explore identity: defying Western art traditions; portraying black subjects as real people as opposed to types; sampling multiple sources of inspiration, from historical material to found objects; freestyling by adopting improvisational and expressionistic styles to demonstrate creative and technical virtuosity; signifying through the use of symbols, materials and images that imply or trigger associations about gender, race, religion, class and sexuality; transforming the body’s appearance to examine the relationship between societal assumptions and identity; and confronting American history regarding race, racism and power in the United States. VISIT THE LINK AT: www.dia.org
Photo Image: : Melissa Ann PINNEY Courtesy SCHNEIDER GALLERY Chicago USA
The Underground Punk Music Scene : A Feminists View
By Bureau Music Contributor Sarah Rose Perry
Young people from far and near come line up in a Downtown LA alley outside of The Smell -- an all ages, self sustained “community oriented art and music space” waiting to see The Groans Joel Jerome, Sloppy Jane and Peach Kelli Pop. These bands collectively, along with countless more, make up a fresh and new underground music scene. Concentrated in the Inland Empire, but spread about Los Angeles and Riverside counties, the Groups range from garage rock to punk pop. The bands and their fans are something like that of a large family, with many distant relatives; you might not know each person there, but everyone is friendly and glad to see you. The Groans were the opening band at Friday’s show and when asked about why the scene is so important to us young people, they explained that the scene is very much a community and it’s exciting to be a part of, because “it gives people who are different or outsiders a sense of home.” It also provides a space for women empowerment. Whether they are deliberately taking a political stance, or simply being badass women, the message from these leading female musicians is clear and powerful.
As I myself can testify, being a young woman, and seeing these other ladies on stage, confidently doing traditionally male dominated work, can be a catalyst for a dose of adrenaline and self approval. The Groans first got together because the lead singer, Amanda, and the bassist, Annie, thought there weren’t enough women in the local music scene. They explain, “we wanted a band that represented women of color and women in general.” They have achieved this thoroughly and many of their song’s lyrics make that statement loud and clear. One of their more popular songs entitled “The Perks of Being a Girl” (“perks” being used rather sardonically) begins with fast paced music, sing - songy vocals and features a very catchy build up stating, “I can be pretty. I can be skinny. I can be everything, BUT I. Don’t. Owe. You. Anything.” The band states, “It’s about the shit all women go through on a daily basis… It’s us saying ‘fuck you’ to society’s beauty standards; I’m beautiful no matter what.” This turned out to be a highly relatable concept among the young adults at the show, boys and girls alike. During their performance of the song on Friday, a sweaty mosh pit opened up in the middle of the crowd and everyone screamed along, “I’m just another girl in this fucked up world.”
Of course, this is nothing new to punk rock. As writer, Rock Hall explains, “The anti-establishment philosophy of the punk rock movement was the perfect fit for those female musicians who still felt like outsiders in the male dominated music industry” Though this particular comment was in reference to the seventies, some sentiments have remained the same. Amanda, the lead Singer of The Groans states that, “It’s a bit of a boy’s club, but [ they ] are glad to see more women in the scene.” Women throughout history have made significant, empowering gains using punk and all its sub-genres as a facilitator to bring serious female issues to the media, and by making waves in punk in the past. The female gender today are able to make the ‘fuck you, society’ statement, and be critical of authority or social norms, more safely -- which was not always the case and in some parts of the world, still is not.
Like nearly everything else, punk rock began as an all male genre, but with questioning authority and social norms as their main agenda, it was natural for women to step in and take a piece of the spotlight. Inspired by the Sex Pistols, Poly Styrene decided to form her own punk band, X-Ray Spex. Although they only lasted about three years, producing only one album, the band will be remembered by their lead singer screaming, “some people think little girls should be seen and not heard… Oh Bondage Up Yours!” Before the start of their debut single. Chris Salewicz of The Independent says, “As a dumpy, frumpy,almost willfully unsexual girl from Brixton, with braces on her teeth, Poly Styrene was a perfect candidate to find herself through punk; turning this persona on its head into an art form, she became one of the movement's principal female figures, her song ‘Oh Bondage, Up Yours!’ a feminist rallying cry.” Also formed in 1976, The Slits were the first all women punk band. Their song “Typical Girls” includes commentary on the social pressure women receive along with the negative misconceptions upheld about them by society, “typical girls worry about spots, fat, and natural smells… typical girls are emotional / typical girls are cruel and bewitching.”
[ Entire Article Continues in The FREE Downloadable FALL 2015 Edition ]
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