#Their current window piece has the worst composition and not even in an interesting way

[teaboot]

I haven't done art professionally in years but there's this fancy gallery down the street that often has the worst art I've ever seen on display for thousands of dollars and it makes me so angry that I wanna create better but then I get home and I. Don't

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Woven Skull

Image Credit: Edel Doherty

In 2008, the core trio that make up Woven Skull began gathering together in the home of two of the members, set deep in the bogs and forests of County Leitrim: an empty, sparse area in the northwest of Ireland known for its myths of shee, tales of lake monsters, and calls of otherworldly beings in the still of the night. Several years experimenting with combinations of instrumentation, kitchen utensils, seashells, footsteps, chimes, recordings of cats purring and frogs mating led to their current sound which combines densely propulsive guitar, distorted mandola and endless cyclical rhythms. Woven Skull strip and scrape what they can out of minimal instrumentation to teeter on the brink of total sonic meltdown creating engulfing, raw primal drones and damaged rock manoeuvres. This sound draws on the influences of the combined backgrounds of the trio with Aonghus (guitar) and Willie (percussion) born and bred in Dublin and Natalia (mandola) born in Ukraine and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. Of their most recent LP, Isaac Olson wrote that it was, “More serious than Sun City Girls and more playful than Bardo Pond... a great introduction to your new favorite cult band.”

A selection of sounds that we brought to listen to in the van during our last tour.

Agathe Max—Gypsy In a Church (Greasy Trucker Records)

A Gypsy In A Church by Agathe Max

Agathe Max and I first met when we shared a bill at a Baba Yaga's Hut gig in London. She was with her duo Mésangeand I became completely bewitched by her playing. Live, whether with a band or on her own, Agathe creates a mesh of violin magic mixed through a mastery of pedals. No action seems superfluous. Her violin bow might thump off the neck during a section that is fed into a loop and you wonder if it was maybe an accident only to find that the build up of the rhythm created by that slight thump singularly drives the whole next passage. It is meticulous. The Gypsy in a Churchalbum is Agathe solo and acoustic with two long improvised tracks. It came out on cassette in 2016 on Bristol's Greasy Trucker Records. Side A is recorded in Bristol in St. Thomas's church and Side B is from St. Leonard's in London. The spaces creep into the recordings. It makes good driving music because you get lost in time as the violin bounces around the church walls and suddenly the day has faded, twilight is spilling across the sky and and that night's venue is just around the corner. (Natalia)

Patrick Farmer & David Lacey—Pell-Mell the Prolix (caduc. Recordings)

Pell-Mell the Prolix by Patrick Farmer & David Lacey

A really tightly structured, interruptive and continually surprising concrète-ish composition by this duo of percussionists. Beautiful wood-block and dub segments deserve a mention. I found ‘Pell Mell’ to be more accessible than their earlier recording ‘Pictures of Men’ (equally worth checking out but perhaps more dense and angular in places). Ephemera of personal obsessions lumber up against indistinguishable rumblings, a passage is carved between the figurative and the unknowable. (Aonghus)

Chrissy Zebby Tembo & Ngazi Family—My Ancestors (Mississippi Records)

When you're stuck in traffic on the M1 between Brighton and any other part of the UK and you start to wonder why in the hell did we come to this country on a bank holiday, it's time to fire up the dashboard kettle, make a press pot of joe and throw on some Classic 'Zamrock' from 1974. This is hard rock coming straight outta Zambia, thankfully made available on vinyl at an affordable price courtesy of Mississippi Recordsin Portland, Oregon. This has become one of my Desert Island records. Sabbath infused riffs dipped in some 13th Floor Elevators psych with an explosiveness that's purely African. Before you know it, three tightly packed lanes of English Midlands holiday makers turns into three lanes with one else around. (Willie)

Tadlaouia—moul el koutchi rouicha et tadlaouia

I like to play the same albums both in the shower and in the van. I'm not quite sure why. Maybe these activities send me into the same zone? This tape gets a lot of listens in both places. I love the melding of Tadlaouia's voice with Mohamed Rouicha's string playing action. I know nothing of Tadlaouia aside from this album but I keep on eye out cause I’d love to hear more. I picked this tape up at a stall stacked floor to ceiling with cassettes. I choose it purely based on the cover. It coulda gone either way but sure, look at that shimmer in her smile. You know it's gonna be gold. (Natalia)

Angharad Davies, Tisha Mukarji & Dimitra Lazaridou-Chatzigoga—Outwash (Another Timbre)

Three super-focused improvisations for violin, piano and zither. Shimmering drones and creaks set against more melodic playing. Moves slowly from one area to another, acoustic instruments sound like electronics and at other times like themselves. Angharad Davies played at the same festival as us a few years back, performing a piece which consisted of her bowing a single tone while gradually unwinding the string accompanied by a really subtle tape element (or that’s what my hazy memory tells me), ruled! (Aonghus)

Miles Davis—On The Corner (Columbia Records)

Raw minimalist soul funk jazz. Totally stripped down. Enough hi-hats and trumpet wah wah pedal to keep you fuzzed out and yer head boppin'. It is such a ballsy record. But then again, Miles could get away with anything. Perfect for a morning drive on tour to get the brain aligned when you don't know what the day will bring. (Willie)

Creedence Clearwater Revival —”Sinister Purpose”

When in a vortex of stalled traffic that makes me feel like my life is melting into nothing in front of me, I like to put Sinister Purposeby Creedence on repeat (though, in fairness, any Creedence will do). Everything always just seems better then. And should the traffic never end and the van never move again, well at least there's Jon Fogarty to sound out our impending demise. (Natalia)

Bob Dylan—Self Portrait (Columbia)

Listen on Spotify

I’ve been listening to ‘Self Portrait’ a lot over the past while. I’m not hugely knowledgeable about Dylan even though I’ve heard a lot of the oeuvre over the years. A cursory google before I wrote this text tells me it’s regarded as one of his worst... not so sure about that. Opens with the sublime “All the Tired Horses”... Dylan himself not singing on it kinda blew me away as an idea for an opener when I first heard the album. Gets into weird country crooning... his version of “Days of 49” is another highlight. Things get patchy and weird but whatever... the “Blue Moon” cover is pretty funny. I’m second-guessing myself having just seen all the negativity surrounding it and started to spin “Blonde on Blonde” just to check... nah... I still think it’s good! (Aonghus)

Samandtheplants—Flaming Liar (Them There)

Flaming Liar by Samandtheplants

A few different names and guises flock from the incredible studio of musician, artist and producer Sam Mcloughlin. This album as samandtheplantsis such an absolute joy that you can have it on repeat for hours and it gets more interesting. Two disc set of almost purely vocals and harmonium. Very lo-fi, raw and total magic. Sam's Lancashire accent coming through and adding a genuine feel to the recordings as real English folk music without it sounding too twee or dated. I'd advise anyone to go looking for Sam Mcloughlin's work, including his sound sculpture work and his N. Racker project. (Willie)

‘Fort Evil Fruit’ Cassette Label

We here at Woven Skull are all big fans of Fort Evil Fruit. Label boss Paul has a keen ear for what's what. It's handy to stock up on all the newest FEF releases before a tour and gradually listen through them while zoning out on the revolving landscape outside the window. One of my favorite things that came out on the label in the last few years was Crevice’s debut album. The trio from Cork all play in a variety of other bands and solo projects, run labels, have radio shows and add to the general awesomeness of Cork City. Roslyn Steer's vocals on Black Box kept swirling around inside my brain for weeks after first hearing this so listener beware! It’s catchy business. (Natalia)

[thesecretsantaofdoriangray]

Two Birds in Flight

My (@thisblogislit-erature) gift is for @queersandcommies! One of the things you wanted was “Something in London where Dorian is nice to Basil,” so I wrote this. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you like it!

Word count: 2,007

Sunlight streamed into the studio through the open window, illuminating the pages of the, admittedly, rather dull novel that Dorian Gray was only pretending to be interested in while his friend worked on his newest masterpiece.

Dorian raised his head and watched as Basil Hallward delicately swept his brush across his canvas, an entire forest sprouting from the tip of the paintbrush. Despite only knowing him for a couple of weeks, Basil had begun to invite Dorian over nearly every day while he was painting, and even though Dorian had come to admire Basil’s skills immensely, he still had not grown completely comfortable with basically doing nothing in the studio while Basil worked. But as long as his company made him happy, Dorian did not mind too much.

Dorian stood, placing the book down, and crossed to the piano. He passed his hand over the smooth ivory keys, sat down, and began to sift through Basil’s collection of music, finally settling on a selection of Liszt’s compositions.

He started off quiet, so as not to startle Basil, watching to see if he had any reaction to the music. Basil’s concentration did not break from his work, as Dorian expected. He never understood why Basil was always so insistent on his presence while he was working, since he never paid attention to anything other than his art. Perhaps he really did enjoy Dorian’s company as much as he said he did. His adoration was still something Dorian had not quite gotten used to. His grandfather had been distant at best, cruel at worst, the Radleys, his current guardians, left him to his own devices, and everyone else he considered himself close to really did not know much about him besides any of the awful, twisted rumors about his mother that they might have heard and foolishly believed. Basil’s attention was unprecedented, but not entirely off-putting. Even, perhaps, a bit … pleasant. Yes, Dorian admitted to himself, he really did like Basil’s friendship towards him. It was definitely something he could get used to.

He played the final notes of Liszt’s piece, the soft ending chord fading as he reached to turn the page for the next song.

“That was beautiful, Dorian.”

Dorian turned and saw Basil looking at him, a smile on his face. “I am not used to music being played while I paint, but it was quite lovely. Almost as lovely as yourself.”

Dorian laughed, stood, and strode over to Basil. “Stop, that cannot possibly be true. Have you finished your picture yet? As much as you like my being here, I cannot entertain myself by reading dusty old novels and playing piano for hours at a time when I know there is someone perfectly capable of entertaining me himself right here in the room.” He sat down on the bench next to the artist.

Basil shook his head at Dorian. “It is the truth, Dorian, and you should know it.” He turned back to his picture, brushing the most delicate leaves onto the top of a tree. “And you know I have to get this painting finished by the end of the week. I have no time to entertain anyone, even you, despite how much I want to. I do want you here, however, because you … inspire me, shall I say. You give life to my art. Without you, my art would be nothing. I would be nothing. I apologize for boring you, but please know that I need you here, or else … I might as well be dead.”

Dorian hesitated, then laughed. “You are so dramatic Basil! Sometimes I think you would have suited the theatre better than painting. Then I remember that, in a way, are they not the same thing? Or, at the very least, closely connected?”

“How do you mean?” Basil asked, most of his focus still on the picture.

“Well, they are both art, despite being different kinds of art. Still, in painting you act out a life you want to live through a stagnant medium, and in acting you paint the life you are told to live through a wandering medium,” Dorian rambled, not fully aware of what he was saying, transfixed by the small strokes of the brush against the canvas.

Basil stopped and looked at Dorian, his usually warm copper eyes darkened with … was that suspicion?

“What?” Dorian asked, suddenly defensive, that horrible feeling he used to always get when his grandfather would accuse him of something he had nothing to do with creeping back into his chest. That tight, hot feeling of indignation mixed with shame.

“Nothing, it is just … that sounds so much like something another friend of mine would say,” Basil said, his voice hesitant.

“Oh? Who is this other friend of yours?”

Basil scoffed, turning his head back to the picture. “No one you should ever concern yourself with, Dorian. You are too good to associate with him.”

“And you are not?”

“I am used to his poisonous personality and theories. Someone like you, someone so pure, should not even be in the same room as him, let alone start a friendship. I am sorry I spoke of this friend, and I ask that you forget I ever so much as mentioned him. Can you do that for me? Please?”

Dorian, a bit disappointed at Basil’s insistency, but trusting nonetheless, replied, “Yes, yes, of course, if you are so adamant about it. My curiosity is piqued, however. If I ever do get the chance to meet this mysterious friend of yours, I am not sure if I would be able to turn down the opportunity.” At that, Basil furrowed his brow and tightened his lips. “Oh come now, dear Basil, I am not being serious. Since you don’t want me to meet him, I won’t.”

“Thank you.” Basil took his brush away from the picture and contemplated it for a moment. “What do you think of it so far?” he asked, swirling his brush in a glass of water and cleaning it off on a paint-stained cloth.

Dorian gazed at the painting. The limbs of the trees stretched out, tangling together and reaching towards the heavens. The verdant grass was swept to one side, pushed down by a breeze frozen forever in the paint. The sky was the color of a shining aquamarine, dotted with wisps of clouds. He pointed to the top right corner of the canvas.

“I think you could add something right here.”

Basil stared at the spot for a moment, then dipped his brush in the same dark brown he had used for the trees. In a couple of short, precise strokes, he had given life to two birds, flying above the treetops.

“Is that the right ‘something’?” he asked.

Dorian smiled. “It is the perfect something. Why only two, though?”

“Well,” Basil said, turning to meet Dorian’s clear azure eyes, the same color as the painting’s sky, “there are only two of us, are there not?”

Dorian’s face grew warm and he ducked his head, trying to hide his smile, his heart fluttering like the birds’ wings would have, if they had been real. “Is that what you think of us as? Two birds in flight?”

“Yes,” Basil nodded, “and I hope neither of us ever lands.”

~~~

Two weeks later, Dorian arrived outside of Basil’s door, a near daily tradition now. As he waited for Parker to let him in, he drummed his fingers on the package he held impatiently.

Ever since that day when Basil added the two birds to his painting, Dorian had been consumed with the desire to get the perfect gift for him. After all the kindness Basil had given him, he felt like he had to give some back in the slightest way. He had agonized for days over what would be the perfect item, and as soon as he had decided on it, he felt as if the day it was ready could not have come soon enough. He had scoured London for the best person to make it, and would not accept it until it was the perfect embodiment of what Basil’s kindness had felt like to him.

Parker opened the door and led Dorian to the studio, like usual. Once he entered, Basil stood up to greet him as he took off his hat, his gilded curls falling over his forehead.

“Good afternoon, Dorian,” Basil said with a smile. “Parker brought our drinks just before you arrived. Would you like to go out to the garden?”

“That would be wonderful,” Dorian replied, taking the drink Basil handed him.

Once outside, they sat on the bench on the opposite end of the garden from the giant flowering lilac bush, the heady scent drifting towards them on a soft breeze. After taking a sip of his drink, Basil commented, “I finally got someone to come down and hang up that landscape in my room. I am glad I did not give it to Agnew. I needed something on the wall in there. It is strange how, despite being an artist, I have very little art on the walls of my own home.”

“Why didn’t you give it to Agnew? You were offered a great sum of money for it.”

Basil shrugged. “The money is not what is most important to me anymore. I am paid now in memories, most of which contain you.” A red blush crept into Basil’s cheeks as Dorian tried to fight back his smile. “You were what made that painting good. I didn’t want to give it up for something I already have.” The two looked at each other and smiled. Basil’s eyes drifted down to the package sitting in Dorian’s lap. “May I ask what you have there?”

Dorian’s smile grew wider. “It is interesting that you brought up that painting, because … well, I had wanted to get you something … to thank you for being a wonderful friend … anyway, here you go.” He placed the package in Basil’s hands.

Basil slowly tore open the paper and slid out a leather-bound book. He turned it over and gasped lightly.

“Two birds in flight!” he exclaimed softly. He lifted the cover and flipped through. Each page was an empty white sheet, ready to be filled with drawings.

“Oh, Dorian, it is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you so much,” Basil sighed, clasping the book to his chest and smiling at Dorian.

Dorian smiled back. “I am happy you like it. I just hope you know how much our friendship means to me.”

Basil’s smile softened, and he placed his hand on top of Dorian’s “I certainly hope it does. It means more to me than you will ever know.”

“What do you think will be the first thing you will draw in here?” Dorian asked, tracing the wing of one of the birds.

Basil’s eyes followed Dorian’s finger, then traveled up his arm and finally rested on his face, taking in each detail, as elegant as a Greek sculpture. His mouth curled in a small smile. “I think I have an idea.” He looked back down at the sketchbook. Images of Dorian dressed in the costumes of the ancients filled his mind, and he longed to spill them onto the pages. “Yes, I have some ideas. But for today, all I want to do is be with you.”

“I like that plan very much,” Dorian assented. Across the yard, the lilac bush rustled, and two birds burst from the top of it and soared into the sky. Dorian leapt up from the bench. “Just like us!” he cried, nearly spilling his drink in his excitement.

Basil laughed, clutching the book and watching Dorian’s sparkling eyes and flushed, happy countenance. Dorian turned to Basil, beaming at his friend’s joy. No, he thought, I don’t believe either of us will ever land.

[patriotnewsblogger-blog]

The Fleeting Glory of <em>Trump</em> Magazine

New Post has been published on http://www.therightnewsnetwork.com/the-fleeting-glory-of-trump-magazine/

The Fleeting Glory of Trump Magazine

TRUMP: The Complete Collection, edited by Denis Kitchen, Dark Horse Books, 184 pages, $29.99

Trump—the title of which, I feel compelled to point out, has nothing to do with the current POTUS—was an illustrated satirical magazine edited by Mad founder Harvey Kurtzman and published by Playboy‘s Hugh Hefner. Both men were young, very ambitious, and perhaps a little too idealistic. Thanks partly to a storm of unforeseen business woes that almost destroyed the Playboy empire and partly to Kurtzman and Hefner’s generosity toward their contributors, the publication lasted for only two issues, one released in 1956 and the other in 1957. The result, on display in a new collection edited and annotated by Denis Kitchen, was a tragic might-have-been.

Kurtzman is best known for founding Mad, which started out as a full-color comic book satirizing other comics. As one of only two staff editors at the EC Comics company, Kurtzman was expected to write every word of the titles he edited; prior to Mad he ran the imprint’s war titles, which often featured anti–war messages. Thanks to his obsessive determination to get all his facts straight, he routinely fell into “research holes.” Mad was supposed to be a relatively easy job for him, but he soon started obsessing over it too, especially as he started to run out of comic characters to spoof and began to expand his targets into the worlds of film, TV, advertising, and literature.

Mad was a surprise hit, and it soon attracted attention from outside the marginalized, lowbrow comics world, with Kurtzman becoming a cause célèbre among humorists of all kinds. This, combined with a new industry-wide self-censorship policy (known as the Comics Code) that was threatening EC Comics’ very existence, convinced Kurtzman to ask his publisher, William Gaines, to convert Mad from a kiddie comic to an adult humor magazine. Gaines agreed, and Mad became not just more popular than ever but, eventually, a cultural institution. All this sudden and unexpected attention went to Kurtzman’s head, and he soon began making outrageous demands that the publisher wouldn’t have agreed to under any circumstances, such as 51 percent ownership of Gaines’ own company. But Kurtzman thought he had an ace in the hole: Hugh Hefner.

Like most men of that era, Kurtzman was fascinated by Playboy, with its unprecedented mixture of pornography, high-end production values, and intellectual aspirations (or pretensions, take your pick). And Hefner, who had been an unsuccessful cartoonist, was equally fascinated by what Kurtzman was doing with Mad, specifically in the way he would deconstruct—in a very pre-postmodernist fashion—his targets. Kurtzman’s commercial purpose was simply to mine humor from his subjects, but if in so doing he also revealed some heaping doses of hypocrisy and greed behind the mass media’s messages, then so much the better. (It should be noted here that Kurtzman’s parents were Communists. While he never shared their political beliefs, he certainly was raised to view American culture with a cynical eye.)

This approach appealed to Hefner’s own self-image as an observant Hip Outsider, and the two men were soon conspiring with each other to create a satirical publication that would put all others to shame, sparing no expense in the process.

Content-wise, Trump wasn’t much different than the early “adult” version of Mad that Kurtzman had only just started at EC. Kurtzman also took the cream of EC’s stable of artists with him, primarily the incomparable threesome of Will Elder, Jack Davis, and Wally Wood, as well as a young Al Jaffee. (Wood quickly returned to Mad when he learned he wasn’t allowed to work for both publications, while Davis and Jaffee were welcomed back after Trump folded. Jaffee still works there 60 years later.) What separated Trump from Mad was the former’s determination to be a demonstrably “adult” publication, which meant it included (possibly at Hefner’s insistence) a lot of semi-clad young women in the art; the only nod to modesty was a rule against exposed nipples. Mad, meanwhile, slipped back into appealing to a more adolescent audience. This noticeable difference in the sexual maturity of the respective magazines’ intended readerships was recreated 15 years later with the arrival of National Lampoon.

One highly ambitious feature from the first issue was an elaborate take-off of Life magazine’s illustrated panoramas of various stages of human development over specific time periods. Trump‘s version imagined what archeologists would make of our own culture, a million years in the future, as they study such “art objects” as fire hydrants and coke bottles and marvel over such “fertility goddesses” as Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell. Being a fold-out feature, it also teased readers into thinking they were opening a Playboy centerfold by inserting a partial photo of a nude model just as you begin to turn the page.

This feature in particular represents the noticeable difference between Trump and Mad in terms of production. The former was printed on slick magazine paper rather than cheap newsprint, and it featured a lot of full-color art in its interiors—hand-colored art at that, which was unheard-of in comic books up until then. So while Kurtzman was generous with his artists, he also was quite demanding, expecting them to turn in the very best quality work they were capable of. Thus, the otherwise slapdashy (but always excellent) Jack Davis employed a far more time-consuming cross-hatching technique instead of his usual water-color approach, with stunning results.

Even more stunning are the incredibly detailed painted illustrations by Kurtzman’s childhood friend and lifelong collaborator, Will Elder. Their collaborations in the early Mads still stand out as that publication’s most remarkable achievements, and with Trump it was obvious that both men saw this as a golden opportunity to strut their stuff. There’s something almost harrowing in the way they would employ a Sistine Chapel–like effort simply to make fun of, say, Howdy Doody or Coca-Cola, and their work in this collection is worth the cover price alone. But Kurtzman and Elder’s obsessive, laborious approach was also why Trump (like the Kurtzman-era Mad) was rarely completed by deadline time. You have to wonder how two artists with such an it’s-done-when-it’s-done-and-damn-the-distributors attitude wound up working in the world of periodicals to begin with. Such prima donnas are more likely to be fine artists—though it’s unlikely that these two would have been welcomed in that world either.

Kitchen’s collection includes not just the complete run of Trump but also (mostly) unfinished work on what would have been the third issue of the magazine. And there are examples of work in progress from the two existing issues, which serves as a window into Harvey Kurtzman’s perfectionist mind. As was the case with the early Mads, he not only wrote and edited almost every feature but also roughed out and/or laid out each piece in great detail. The artists were expected to remain faithful to these blueprints. His sense of timing and composition is flawless, and has served as a go-to model of sorts for visual satirists ever since. The only shame in all of this is the relative lack of Kurtzman’s own finished art, since he was convinced the public didn’t care for it. (His stock response to anyone who complimented his art was “yeah, you and my mother.”) His drawing style was highly expressive and energetic, and he employed it to great effect in dramatic stories as well as humorous ones.

In a sense, Kurtzman’s entry into the world of Hefner was both the best and the worst thing that ever happened to him. Yes, it resulted in Trump, but the ultimate differences between the two men—one an unflinching realist, the other a peddler of fantasies—were bound to come to a head at some point. Still, they liked and respected each other, and they continued to work together for decades afterward on the long-running Playboy comic Little Annie Fanny. But that aforementioned conflict of sensibilities always hung over this feature, with one man attempting to enlighten the reader while the other was primarily interested in titillating him.

Kurtzman’s later career consisted mainly of various failed or aborted projects. But this never diminished the impact his early work—including Trump—has had on almost everyone in the comedy world ever since, whether they know it or not. He sure has inspired the hell out of me. He is one of America’s all-time greatest artists, and he deserves to be a household name.

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