Tokyo II : The John Lennon glasses
What I like to do in Tokyo is to get away from the main shopping areas and wander into the less-known neighborhoods, which in my mind must look more like Tokyo used to be. I wish I traveled there not just ten years before they shot « Lost In Translation » and made Tokyo a cliché, but back in the 60’s or 70’s, when photographers were taking distorted black-and-white nudes, Hondas were small and painted mustard yellow, orange or pea green, and the « modern » women wore strict European dresses and listened to classical music in dark hi-fi parlour in the afternoon.
I soon found myself walking down Jinbo-cho, which is the second-hand bookstores district. It’s a bit like the Strand in New York, if the Strand was laid flat on its back and splitted in hundreds of small shops, with piles and piles of books on the sidewalk. This is when my eyes caught the window of an old-fashioned eyewear shop. On display were faded photographs of John Lennon and round-shaped spectacles, all displayed on emerald green and flesh-pink satin.
The shop was a happy clutter inside and seemed untouched since the late 70’s, with more John Lennon posters and more vintage Lennon spectacles. There were collections of old optometric paraphrenalia, and an old, abandoned VCR, which I suppose once played Lennon’s tapes.
A lady came down the wooden stairs, inquiring in Japanese.
Soon it was obvious that we couldn’t communicate, besides nodding and smiling to each other.
- So you must like John Lennon very much, I articulated with my French accent, in a last attempt, actually hoping she would not understand such a tired line.
She took a cell phone, dialed a number, and after briefly speaking into it, passed it on to me.
A man’s voice spoke a few English words, with a noisy crowd in the background, which made him even more difficult to understand.
- I wanted to tell the lady that it’s a lovely shop, I shouted.
- What ?
- I would like to know the name and address so I could write it down in my blog..!
I was thinking of you, dear readers, at this particular moment (although perhaps hundreds of bloggers and guides might already have listed this information), but finally had to admit to myself that the conversation was going nowhere, with the crowd in the background of the cellphone getting louder. Maybe he was off betting somewhere, or in a busy railway station.
I asked the lady for a card, mimicking the object. She gave me a piece of imitation chamois leather, inscribed with something in Japanese and, at last, a phone number : 03-3291-0279
I bowed, and retreated to the door. On my way out, I stopped in front of a framed picture of a white dog.
- Your dog…? Lovely dog !
But didn’t insist, thinking that the fact the dog’s picture was framed meant he might not be there anymore.
I bowed once more, and was out.
In a time when everybody is willing to sell his soul in a minute in fear of being out of date, such faith and fidelity should be praised. I think it’s true gentleness.
And if only I have had access to this shop when I was a young kid, when I was craving Lennon glasses.
Tokyo, part I
Early this autumn, I was invited to attend Tokyo Graphic Passport, a creative and visual arts conference organized by +81 Magazine - a Japanese graphic design journal – with speakers coming from various parts of the world.
I love Tokyo. From the very first time (back in the early 90’s, when I came as the tambourine player for Uneven Dusk to perform gigs at a small club located in the basement of an anonymous white-tile building in the outskirts of Tokyo) I was taken by the poetic particularity of the city, and has taken every chance I could to come back.
I love the crazy sound of cicadas in the summer, the temples and their gardens, the tiny bars, and the blinking red lights on the tops of office towers at night. I can stroll endlessly in the quiet backstreets behind the busiest arteries, and wish I could live in one of these little wood houses. Even the spectacular flagship stores of the global luxury brands seem surrealistic mysteries, and yet appear more gentle than anywhere else.
Struck by jetlag in the hotel lobby.
With Satoru Yamashita, founder of +81 Magazine and Graphic Passport
Fantasista Utamaro performing at Arts Chiyoda.
« Live painting » as it’s called, is a common and much appreciated form of performance art for painters and their public, just like readings are for American writers. Although anybody who has ever painted could sense that it’s less than likely that a painting executed in public would be any good. Even Picasso was not so astonishing in « Le Mystère Picasso ». But Fantasista managed to get his act together in front his home crew.
These young chaps had looks that deserve a Sartorialist award.
John Warwicker from Tomato had flew from Australia to paint a large mural.
If the mural was John’s, the stained plastic protections on the floor were reminiscent of Hans Namuth’s photos of Pollock.
Most amazingly, John’s painting looked good at all the different stages throughout the 3 days it took to finish.
Toru, assisting John and documenting the performance.
While Roland Barthes’ « Empire of Signs » is my beloved travel campanion in Japan, and a nourishing reading, it’s sometimes more nutritious to dine on Sumo food.
threeASFOUR in the park
A few weeks ago Gabi, Adi and Ange of threeASFOUR invited me to their studio, where they were doing the final fittings, one or two days before their show.
Adi
In the all mirror-and-aluminium surfaced loft, the atmosphere was perfectly calm.
Ange, with Misha.
By the window, Ange was sewing vintage kimono pieces in shape of pancakes.
Gabi took me to their inspiration board, arranged with collages of mathematic constructions, spirals, and outer space diagrams.
Gabi
« I love mathematic, » he said. « The collection is called Vortex. It’s about connecting circles and holes. »
I was afraid he would explain more and find out that I didn’t understand any of it. When it comes down to math, I need to see the circles and holes overlaid on a human body to get the idea.
Soon, a young Russian girl came in for the fitting.
Luna, Ange’s pitbull, was participating.
She had just bought a new cellphone, and was obsessed with it. Probably trying to connect circles and holes in her own way, she wouldn’t stop texting, unaware of her sexiness in the esoteric shapes Gabi and Adi were adjusting on her.
At the end, Gabi was also on the phone.
In the meantime, Christian Wassmann, the architect who had designed a structure for the show, came in.
His Porsche Targa was parked in the street, with plywood elements sticking out of the open roof, which we all helped to download.
On the day of the show, the spiral structure stood in the Sara D. Rooselvelt Park in Chinatown. We could admire the sun setting through the surrounding trees. A nice crowd of connecting circles and holes was there, peacefully waiting for the show to start.
The three kings of the night — Waris, Olivier and André — were in attendance
Cut Pieces
On Fashion’s Night Out, the art galleries of Chelsea were no less crowded than the shopping sidewalks of Soho.
At D’Amelio Terras, the incoming visitors had to be contained so as not to storm all at once the Polly Apfelbaum’s installation. In a piece titled « Off Colour », the artist had cut and arranged sequined stretch fabric in colors derived from a stack of erotic slides bought in a London flea market.
Althought most viewers were carefully navigating through the piece’s negative space, some pieces of fabrics, simply laid on the gallery floor, were disturbed out of place by the more distracted visitors—or those equipped with oversized shoes—leading the artist to re-adjust the pieces in an unpremeditated performance.
I then had to elbow my way down to the MoMA store in Soho, where Adi, Gaby and Angela from threeASFOUR were paying tribute to Yoko Ono’s 1964 « Cut Piece » by cutting into pieces their own design worn by a model. Here Adi wears a dress with drawings by Yoko, from the previous collection.
A wide range of scissors were available to the participating viewers, and when my turn came, I was torn between not damaging my friends’ design with the desire to reveal more of the stunning beauty.
New York Stroll
I saw a man, with a dog, making his bed in a brand new condo on Flatbush Avenue.
On a yacht moored in Battery Park, a man with a red turban was presiding to an intimate dinner, exposed to the Saturday passersby.
I was painting watercolours of the New Jersey sunset, and saw a solitary man catching a small fish from the pier.
And I walked to 23rd Street and 8th Avenue, to see if the Automat where (as told in Just Kids) Allen Ginsberg once bought a sandwich for Patty Smith, thinking she was a boy, still exists.
The faux Baldessari (a true story)
This was about twelve months ago in Paris, at about this same time of the year.
I went into a supermarket, around noon, and in the most mundane surrounding, my eyes were suddenly attracted by an unusual, while somehow familiar silhouette.
A very tall, white haired and bearded man, wearing a green turtleneck, slightly worn khakis, and carrying a cool tote bag, was walking down the alley, giving a gentle but slightly amused stare at everything that came his way. A benevolent giant, or a Dutch hippie, who reminded me somebody: John Baldessari, the great conceptual artist! Could it be him?
I had met him 17 years ago in NY. He had a show then in a galery in Soho, and I had shaked his hand, after he signed a small poster printed on tracing paper.
Although it was a bit surprising to see him in this dull Paris supermarket, it could be because of the forthcoming Basel Art fair, about to open in Switzerland a few days latter. It wasn’t illogical that he would have made a quick stop to Paris on his way to say hello to his dealers, or even to discuss a major retrospective at Beaubourg.
Mr. Baldessari… ? I hesitated to greet him among the other customers.
In the same way an insignificant black-and-white photograph on which is added a pale blue or yellow dot becomes a Baldessari, I contemplated how the whole supermarket had been turned into a Baldessari by the simple presence of the famous L.A. artist in its insignificant alley.
I wondered how many people had recognized him. While debating on whether keeping a discreet distance to respect his incognito, or approaching him to confess my admiration, I saw him strolling away with one or two whisky bottles in his tote bag, followed by a pigeon, in the direction of the Luxembourg garden.
I was delighted the whole day by this poetic vision, although already saddened by the prospect of never seeing him again, and having wasted the chance of a great encounter.
Nonetheless, two days after, on a sultry evening, I saw the man again. He was swaying on the boulevard, dragging his tote bag, his pants half unbutonned and covered with dirt, with a somewhat demented and defiant look on his face.
As if to add insult to my delusion, Art Basel was aproaching its end, and the bum who could then onwards commonly be seen in various states of decay, had become a fixture of the area.
Trisha Brown at Dia Beacon
This was a few weeks ago at the Dia Beacon Benefit.
The Michael Heizer sculpture, the most powerful and impressive piece one might see in an indoor art space, was open to the Art patrons so they could walk around the vertiginous holes. Physical confrontation with the geometric void was in fact so overwhelming that even the most self assured Art experts and trustees would only bend over in the most overcautiously manner, fearing loss of glasses, cellphones, or dignity (by having to be winched from the depth of Art by a crane).
When all the guests were finally safely gathered in the John Chamberlain room, Dia director Philippe Vergne announced that, as a surprise and special treat, Trisha Brown had decided that she will perform a dance piece herself.
She silently came out barefoot, and very slowly became to animate parts of her body at the contact of the other dancers. It started out in very light and delicate touches of fingers and palms. The graceful fragility of hands, wrists, and necks made for a moving contrast with the heavy metal, brutally bent and hammered car parts Chamberlain sculpture which stands next to the soft flexible bodies of the dancers.
A sartorial note : it was hard to figure out a dress code for this kind of event, when everyone has to get noticed while blending in the Art world. For men, the formal outfits were most commonly pastel cashmere tight cardigans, as if dressed for a picnic, while a few individuals met the occasion with bolder statements.
A rival hipster, Kenneth Goldsmith, made it on to several blogs wearing a paisley Thom Browne suit.
Marina Abramovic « The Artist Is Present », part II
I did my best to sit in front of the artist with the appropriate seriousness.
But when she lifted up her eyes, Marina didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic.
I felt like a forgotten lump of clay on a sculpture stand, half dry, and not very enticing, so that after a little consideration the artist finally decides not to use it.
I felt like another mile in the endless journey of a truck driver.
I thought of Marina’s performance as a living illustration of the philosophical concept of how Art looks back at us.
Was Marina hypnotizing me ? I became incredibly relaxed and felt a tremendous urge to sleep.
Images of the full MOMA collections were flying by in my head, along with highlights from the Prado and never-shown pieces from the Louvre reserve.
I watched black and white 16mm footage of early seventies performances, when girls in the audience wore printed miniskirt, and men with wide ties on fitted white shirts, spectacles and long beards, similar to those of today, but with outstanding genuineness.
I was woken up by a nightmarish vision of Marina’s « Dragon Heads », a series of pieces where she had big snakes all around her face.
How long had I slept ? Many of the visitors were in awe.
Walking out, I passed in front of a group of people who seemed offended. In doubt, I apologized for possibly snoring.
Marina Abramovic « The Artist Is Present », part I
It was not without anxiety that I went to « The Artist Is Present », Marina Abramovic’s exhibit at MOMA.
I had always feared that performance art would require a lot of patience, or specialized knowledge, like the kind needed to understand some japanese dances. And I’ve got this big book on Feminist Art with photographs of performances I’m glad to never have endured.
What to expect from a woman who, since the Seventies, has constantly exposed herself to danger, disgust or boredom, played with sex and Death? This morning, a friend remarked that Art is always about Death, but it’s one thing to do a gloomy painting, and another to cut yourself with knives, hold snakes, and scrub skeletons.
On a happy Spring Saturday afternoon, I finally joined a peaceful crowd of tourists and Art lovers at the museum.
On first entering the Marron Atrium, I saw Marina in her red gown. It was stunning.
She was sitting alone, her face in her hands, with the facing chair unoccupied. Standing on the perimeter of the rectangular area, visitors were silently looking, in awe, as if witnessing the last moments of a saint or a beloved outer space queen.
I personally felt sorry for Marina, that nobody would dare sit in the empty chair. Summoning my courage, I considered walking up to the table so that, at the very least, the artist wouldn’t be present for nothing.
But before I could commit, a short plump woman slipped in, moving with less noise than if she had been walking in her socks, and was already in the chair.
She was sitting stiffly, her feet firmly on the ground, her hands flat on her knees, with an expression of calm submission and awareness, as if attending an examination, or a yoga class for the first time.
Marina still had her face in her hands. Was she asleep ? Or in profound pain ? Or intolerably bored with the museum institution, or the idea of « Art » itself ? I sensed she might suddenly stand up, kick her chair, slap the participant’s face, and leave, never to return.
Instead, she slowly lifted up her head, and started to gaze at the woman.
Walking to the other side of the perimeter, I realized that what I had originally taken for a more condensed group of viewers was, in fact, a line. It’s not because Performance Art is imbued with the spirit of Seventies happenings, that there was no order here. Or maybe it was adapted to today’s standards of order. More likely, it was part of the ceremony and constraints within which the visitor was invited to take part. I asked for confirmation from a tall brunette in a very Salinger pale green dress, who was writing in a notebook.
Helen was an Art student in Maryland, and she had indeed been in line for 2 and a half hours.
- Are you afraid? I asked.
- Afraid ?… No. Well, I guess, yes, a little bit.
- I think it’s very brave!
Because who knows what’s going to happen, once one is left alone with his inner self under imaginary scrutiny?
In the distance, opposite to the person facing Marina, was photographer Marco Anelli. He sat behind a telephoto lens, similar to those used to capture wildlife, or celebrities sunbathing on a private island.
He has been documenting the performance since it began, and clocks the same hours as Marina. All his close-ups of participants are on the exhibit website, and it’s the most astonishing body of work.
A strange collection of faces, some illuminated, some in tears, some lost in the void, and a few trying to aggressively dominate. There’s even a priest (one wonders if he is mentally exorcizing the artist), a bewildered child, and a woman wearing a veil, so only her eyes can be seen (was she trying to say something?).
I pointed out to Helen that the people seated in front of Marina always mimicked her position. Although there was no rule clearly stated, it seemed not to have crossed anyone’s mind to slouch on the minimalist wooden chair.
While this made the art student slightly smile, I left her to her upcoming experience with the artist, and went to speak with Marco.
I was curious to know if he was taking pictures randomly or instead, choosing the moment. He said he usually waited at least 10 minutes. Then, he explained, people’s faces changed, something was unleashed and revealed.
In the meantime, the line has reduced. Soon it was my turn. I walked to the chair, and my heart beating, I sat down.
In Conversation with the Central Park Coyote
A few nights ago, I was crossing the Central Park. There was a school party at the ice skating rink, and in the distance you could hear the booming music. It was on a lonely path just by the pond that I saw the coyote, standing very still, and looking straight at me. I had read about the coyote in the park in New York Magazine, but thought it was an hoax aimed at making their readers believe in urban magic while they’re in line at Whole Foods.
- Hi, said the coyote.
- Man, I thought you were an hoax ! But now I can see you’re for real, and you even speak !
- Dude, do you like Indian music ?
- … ?
- I mean, do you believe in reincarnation and all that shit?
I always thought reincaranation was an hoax as well, but I didn’t tell the coyote, not to hurt his feelings and beliefs.
- The last time I was born, he went on, was in the middle of Walter de Maria’s Lightning Field. Until I was a grown up I thought it was genuine Nature, and then somebody told me it was Art. From that moment on, the landscape lost all its mysteries. I thought about moving to L.A., but finally decided to walk all the way back to NYC. I first went to the Bowery, where I was a cool cat in the Fifties, renting a studio next to de Kooning, and advising Robert Frank on « Pull my Daisy ». I was on and off through the sixties, and became a regular at the CBGB where I replaced the Ramones drummer for a set once when he was too drunk to play. But in 2009, the Bowery was no more a place for me. And I took the 6 train – which in the early eighties, I had tagged entirely - up to Central Park. Here I can hide in the bushes and get Smart Water from the pond. I also study Uptown people, since I was more familiar with the Downtown crowd. Of course, there are loads of tourists, but the whole town became touristy anyway. Well, NY is no more what it used to be. It’s all fake and loud, a big shopping mall mainly populated by self-obsessed dogs. Only the architecture remains.
Seeing him becoming bitter, I asked him if the Joseph Beuys coyote in « I Like America and America Likes Me » was a relative.
- No, but I knew him, he replied. He was such an asshole (meaning the coyote, not the famous artist). He certainly was not qualified for the job, totally illiterate with Art, and besides that a real wimp. But he had a strong drive for celebrities, and schemed to be cast for the role. In fact, another coyote, a true wild one, had been selected, but he went on the loose a few days before the performance started, and had to be replaced by this phony at the last minute. I’m glad he got hit by the cane a few times. See, being locked in a cage with Beuys was not like being in an hotel room with Jeff Koons.
- Have you seen the Abramovic show at MoMA ? I heard it’s really impressive.
- Not yet, I hope they’ll let me in. I was refused at the Whitney Biennial.
I wondered if he ever gets bored with monotonous days in the park ?
- I have lots of activities. Escaping from the cops. Stealing sandwiches from uptown kids while their crews of nannies gossip together. Aboriginal art with dirt and stones. African wood carvings. And on Wednesday nights, I perform Native American dance, right by this oak. Free admission, no photos.
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