Those of you who bought a copy of my book-D3ad/Ends last year, will know that I was very honored to have David Buckley write the introduction. Distinctions are rare enough for me, but when accolades such as Buckley's foreword come along, they far outweigh the complete disinterest I still endure from some quarters.
Which is one of the reasons I wanted to let you know that David has a new book out, about the electronic doyens of Krautrock - Kraftwerk. For those of us that wore out the grooves of Autobahn in our dingy bedrooms, It promises an extensive delve into the dark cybertronic heart of the band as well as a reminder of times when futurist avant garde pop was still being played on the radio.
It also boasts one of the most beautifully designed book covers ever.
You can get your copy on Amazon, from the link below:
Kraftwerk Publikation
So, another monumental artist gone-the formative influences of my childhood rapidly becoming dust.
Not quite, if a footprint on the cultural psyche is all an artist can ever hope for, then mister Giraud has left quite an indent. And whilst the collective elegy will celebrate him for Blueberry, the Metal Hurlant stuff, his work on Alien and Tron, it's work he did with his former Dune collaborator Jadorowsky that changed my life.It was 'The Eyes of the Cat', which I first saw in Taboo #4, -the fusion of silent, futurist, surreal horror and the minimalism of avant garde storytelling all beautifully rendered and designed with the craftsmanship of a modern Albrecht Durer, that savaged any naive ambitions I had of being a force in comics. Quite simply,there was no place left for me to go in that genre.
Gladly, the awe I felt upon first glimpsing those images still enthralls and eclipses any former disappointments I might have clung to.
Dennis Paul Batt-By Jen Trute32" x 24" | oil on linen
Then something happens and all the props fall away, and even the morning sun can't bleach the sudden shadow in the room. That's the way it was when I learned my friend Dennis Paul Batt died. Before I came to write this, I tried to recall if I've ever mentioned him on here before, and a quick glance through postings made me realize that I have been totally remiss. You will forgive me then (even if I cannot), as I try make amends now, as late the hour.
I probably first met him at Mosaic or Thumbprint two years ago, though I know I had seen him before that-how could you miss that face after all?
A remarkable artist himself and fierce advocate for up and coming Artists here in San Diego through his involvement with Synergy, OMA ,the creation of the San Diego Visual Artists Guild, and God knows what other pie, there was no better a champion in my corner than Dennis. In a city of no's he was one of a handful of yes's.
Whenever I was feeling crestfallen, he used to say in that very Bostonian, Jewish way of his- "look at where you're from, to some of these assholes you're sovereignty?" or "don'tchya know, your already fockin' there!?!" or "Oh, why dontcha just go paint some fockin' racehorses?" hands always grasping at air for emphasis.At other times, when he wasn't pulling me to one side and throwing priceless bon mots, or relentlessly taking the piss out of my accent (something he never got right) he would just call me up and chat and bend my ear for an hour about the sorry state of it all, although I think he was still an idealist, but would never admit it.
He was also Jen Trute's partner, and it doesn't seem five minute's ago since I was at his home as he helped me load boxes of art materials into the car. He was always carrying boxes was Dennis-the first in and last out at events, perhaps someone should have told him to take it easy. He wouldn't have listened anyway, though perhaps it was her passing that truly, literally broke his heart. In all of this, doesn't there seem a beautiful apt romance in that?
Last year, if there was a respite from the ghastly part time job I took to make ends meet, it was morning coffee at his house, him sitting perched like a hippie Fagin amongst his collection of San Diego Art alumni that covered the walls or his crate upon crate of rocks, that he proudly displayed. I never saw a grown man so lit up over a peanut sized piece of jade, but Dennis saw potential in its rawest form.
The last time I corresponded I sent him a Christmas card in which I closed by saying, see you on the other side. I meant midnight 2011 of course, but I like to think he'd have laughed at that irony.
Thank you so much Dennis sir, it was a real honor, and no matter how we cover the walls, they shall lack color without you to see them from now on.
The stockings are stuffed, the tree is piled, the eggnog chilled... here's Sharon Tate to remind you to all to have a Merry Christmas.
Extinction Dance60" x 48"
Acrylic on canvas
Celestine-or Fei as I know her-was raised in China, and although she trained briefly in what she calls 'the Russian school of painting' when she was young, didn't begin her artistic odyssey until very recently.
One would never know.
The mess you left behind30" x 24"Oil on canvas
Her work seems thematically placed somewhere between the sensual half light of 80's film noir stained by an underbelly of vice and the muscular strokes of expressionism. Her paintings give that uneasy vantage point, through the so called Hollywood high life, late night last bubbles of bourbon and cocaine, and the toxic haze of cigar smoke.
The brittle beautiful child of Terry Rodgers and Eric Fischl without the sterility.
Beautiful Liar40" x 40"Oil on canvas
Sadly it's the final day before her show comes down, but anyone in the vicinity should catch this showcase if they can. Everyone else should follow what she does here-I fully intend to:
Celestine-in Darkness and Light.
Day Five of five Things that Influenced me as a kid
Living in Liverpool in the 70's, one could have been forgiven for thinking that the only culture left was the unisong of Kop supporters singing 'You'll Never Walk Alone', or hearing the Beatles on the radio.
That certainly would have been the case, had it not been for faded 19th Century coliseum building in the town center called the Walker Art Gallery.
My first visit must have been with my Old Man, or perhaps my Grandad-I was still too much of a tot to remember who exactly-but what I do recall is the opulence of the lobby, the smell of varnished oak and high ceilings with gold flourishes, a side room with alabaster statues before the marble staircase with vast canvases resplendent with Napoleon or Greek allegory.
It was my first introduction to real Art,and although it would be years before I was to see a faded reprint of Bosh's Earthly Delights, my calling was assured in the years between. I've visited so many times since, from bunking off from school to sit for hours studying the masterworks, to seeing it's glories fresh through my children's eyes.
Below are five pieces that consumed me.
'A Horse Frightened by a Lion'-George Stubbs. 1770
'Interior at Paddington'-Lucian Freud-1951
'And when did you last see your father?' William Frederick Yeames-1878
'Echo and Narcissus', John William Waterhouse, 1903
'The Murder'-Paul Cezanne-1868
