Stickwork by Patrick Dougherty. Princeton Architectural Press, 2010. 9781568989761. 208pp.
Gene: Patrick Dougherty is a sculptor who works with sticks. (opens book)
Sarah: Oh wow!
G: I know.
S: Are those elephant butts or faces?
G: He works onsite at museums and gardens and parks. When he goes in (he needs a bunch of volunteers to help) he has to figure out what kind of sticks will work with the site. Sometimes the site is trees or a building or the inside of a building. And then he has to find a source of sticks nearby. The intro says that because of urban expansion, trees are often cleared from lots, and small sticks will grow there. Before a lot is cleared again for final construction, there are enough sticks for him to harvest. Dougherty works in different layers, and the first phase is anchoring bigger sticks in the ground to act as structure. Then he weaves in smaller sticks, and keep weaving them in until shapes appear.
This book includes not just photos of freestanding structures but big swirly shapes, some look like they’re windblown or organic…
S: Like they’re put together by birds.
G: And others look like big houses. It’s a look at his career up until the publication date. (looking at another photo) This is a giant swirly pattern in a room. It’s not quite as full as some of the other sculptures. It really looks like if you sketched the wind.
S: It’s cool that he uses local sticks. That makes it more environmental, right?
G: It’s renewable, and the sticks would be removed anyway…
This is one of my favorites, Holy Rope.
S: Twining through a tree…oh, you can go inside it!
G: It was in Chiba, Japan. It’s a swirl of a treehouse, and there’s a photo of two people inside looking out at us.
This is Little Big Man and it was in Denmark. It’s a weird guy who looks like he’s made of wind. He’s just above a pond or marsh.
G: Creepy as hell.
Continue reading “Wow: Stick Man”
The Incantations of Daniel Johnston by Ricardo Cavolo and Scott McClanahan. Two Dollar Radio, 2016. 9781937512453.
Underneath the copyright information, this book starts with a disclaimer: while it draws from a real life, it should be considered a creative work of fiction. The text starts with a warning: “Beware: I don’t think you should read this. I’m warning you.” followed by “There are devils inside.”
The life it draws from is Daniel Johnston’s, a tremendously influential musician and artist shaped by his struggle with bipolar disorder. In this story, Daniel starts making art to counter the demons who tell him that he’s a piece of shit and make his thoughts race and his arms tingle. “He believed he could save himself by making things, but he was wrong. He was really wrong.” His periods of intense creativity are interrupted by breakdowns and recoveries with the help of family and friends.
The illustrations are in Cavolo’s stye: vivid pictures filled with angels, demons, flames, and eyes reflecting intense creativity and intense suffering. Cavolo includes some of common subjects of Johnston’s own paper-and-marker and watercolor art like frogs, comic book heroes, and a man with the top of his head missing. The story is simply told, almost like a picture book, and doesn’t romanticize Johnston’s life: “But then one night Daniel physically assaulted his manager with a lead pipe. So if you think this story is a cute mixture of mental illness and art — then imagine Daniel beating your ass with a lead pipe.”
The artist and writer have, like a lot of people*, fallen under Johnston’s spell. If you listen to his music (there’s lots on hoopla if your library has a subscription) and watch the documentary about his life, it’s hard not to. This book will hook you the same way, but it’s open about the fact that there isn’t a happy ending to his story, just like there isn’t a happy ending to any real story, and after reading it you’ll have a part of this amazing person inside your head.
*Yes, I am also under his spell. I started with a Dead Milkmen cover of Rocket Ship, then on to Kathy McCarty’s wonderful album of covers, then the documentary, then Johnston’s music.
The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death by Corrine May Botz. Monacelli Press, 2004. 1580931456.
Sarah: So in the 40s and 50s there was a woman who was born into money, an heiress — this is a true story — she got into forensic criminology and then used some of her money to sponsor forensic criminology classes and a department at Harvard. She ended up working for a police department, training police officers. To do that she made incredibly detailed 1/12th scale dollhouse murder scenes.
S: This book is The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death, which was the name of her project.
G: (flipping through the book) Oh my God.
Continue reading “Dark Dollhouses”
The Sacred Heart: An Atlas of the Body Seen Through Invasive Surgery by Max Aguilera-Hellweg. Bulfinch Press, 1997. 9780821223772. 128pp.
Gene: This is a Wow, but it’s also potentially an Ick. What I love about sharing books with you is that I’m digging into books that I’ve kept for a long time and asking myself why I’ve kept them, and if they’re worth hanging on to. This book freaks me out.
G: It’s photographs of surgery. I’ve looked at it so many times, but so quickly, that I didn’t realize before the other day that a lot of the pictures are of the same surgery. I never read the essay before (I did a little this time) because the photos take over my brain and then I have to stop looking at it. Continue reading “The Big Book of Surgery”
Sequential Drawings by Richard McGuire. Pantheon Books, 2016. 9781101871591.
Spot illustrations from the pages of The New Yorker by the author of the graphic novel Here. Some are groups of related objects, others sequential. Luc Sante, in his introduction, points out that “McGuire has a special gift for endowing inanimate objects with personalities. He accomplishes this with the most minimal means.” In “Three Friends” a parking meter on a bent post looks like Munch’s The Scream. “Rock, Paper, Scissors” stresses violence as well as cooperation. (The entire sequence can be seen at the top of this GQ review.) “Flamingo Umbrella” starts with irritation but ends with pure delight. “Pigeon” is my favorite sequence — the birds’ poses perfectly express their ridiculousness.
The beautifully minimalist illustrations seem designed to remind me both that anything can be represented via a few simple lines and that creating such pleasing drawings requires a level of skill few possess.
And, you know, if you know a comics geek like me, there could be no better Valentine’s Day gift than this.
Art of Atari by Tim Lapetino. Dynamite Entertainment, 2016. 9781524101039. 352 pp.
Gene: My birthday was last month, and I’m very nostalgic for old video games again. So I built myself a MAME emulator in a Raspberry Pi computer so that I can carry it around easily. I’m a little embarrassed, but not enough to not tell you about it apparently. But this book fits in perfectly with that —
G: I don’t normally like video game art books, but this is Art of Atari, and it focuses on the art of the Atari 2600. [There are other Atari systems’ / games’ art in there, too.] I never though the box art was done by hand.
G: Atari had a lot of in-house artists. The book has the history of the company, a lot about industrial design, an introduction by Ernie Cline (who wrote Ready Player One), and a lot of Atari’s advertising art that I remember from comic books.
S: And this is back when the ad art was three billion times nicer than anything you would ever see on a video game screen.
G: Right! Here’s one for Breakout. It’s the game with the little bar across the bottom that would hit the ball up to the top and knock out a square, like a tooth, and you had to use it to destroy the rows of blocks on top.
S: One person destructo Pong. My mother played that for hours on the Commodore 64.
G: That is totally what they should have called it. That game’s art is my favorite, bar none. They were trying to figure out how to pitch it. My least favorite art is from licensed games. There was a Pigs in Space video game. The box has a photo on it from the show and it just looks sad.
Continue reading “ARTari”
Keith Haring: The Boy Who Just Kept Drawing by Kay A. Haring, illustrated by Robert Neubecker. Dial Books for Young Readers, 2017. 9780525428190.
When Keith was a little kid, he drew all the time. He drew with his family. He drew in the margins of his schoolwork. As a teen, he listened to loud music in his room and drew. He even sold his bike to buy art supplies. He went to art school and then moved to New York. He drew on everything: walls, posters he stuck on lamp posts, and on blank black paper panels on subway walls in chalk. Even after he was recognized by the art world, he kept putting his art where people could see it for free or buy it cheaply. He painted a huge mural on a children’s hospital in France and he opened a shop where people could buy his art on buttons and T-shirts. As Keith explained it, “I draw all the time because there are many spaces to fill. I give my drawings away to help make the world a better place. I draw everywhere because EVERYONE needs art!” (This is the part of the book where I got weepy.)
The story is told by Keith’s sister, Kay, and she includes some great anecdotes about Keith’s childhood. The scenes depicted in the illustrations include reproductions of Keith’s art back to when he was in second grade! The picture of his big gallery show is a who’s who of influential people in the 70s art scene in New York — it’s like Where’s Waldo? for art nerds. (Hey, it’s Klaus Nomi! Look, there’s Basquiat! Is that Lou Reed?) I liked that it was a story that would be really appealing to kids, with the positive message to keep on drawing, and an inspirational story about a tremendously caring and creative person who died too young. There’s great additional material in the back about Keith’s family, career, the Keith Haring Foundation, and information about all of his art that appears in the illustrations. I will definitely be telling all of the art teachers I know about this one.