This fountain has since been used a myriad times in a myriad ways as model. The readymade, so easy to spin, morphed into conceptual art of various sorts, and craft or technical prowess within the high arts was told to go stand in the corner with it’s dunce cap on until further notice.

But Dada is nihilistic. It did what it meant to do – whatever that was. It’s still trying to achieve it’s (unsought for) goal of bringing art back down to earth. But most of those who began the movement are no longer alive and their viewpoint of the world no longer really applies.

Down with Dada!!

Much artwork is affective because of its semiotic elements. Much of what constitutes the existence of art is how its symbols affect our state of mind. Art can be considered a semiotic language in and of itself.

Binder clips are from office supply stores. If you hang with binder clips a black and white large format photograph depicting a sullen man half obscured by burnt film markings and other similar dark accouterments, the dark grotesque feeling you might wish to convey will be slightly inflicted with remembrances of that last shopping trip you made for bic pens, copy paper and a thumb drive.

I’ve heard artists say, in exasperation, that they don’t care if their work looks bad, gets stolen {wait…I think I said that once}, falls of the wall and breaks or is badly lit. Hearing that has always given me the impression that the artist does not care for his own work or is unsure of it. Perhaps they are too wiped out to deal with making it look presentable, especially since most artists can barely afford the time or money it takes to properly present a work of art. Artists become exhausted!

Ask for help! As a curator, I can’t afford to put your work up on the walls looking cheap. I’d prefer to find a professional solution to displaying your work. Otherwise, you’re wasting everyone’s time, including your own.

Check out this article on Artsy Shark for some opinions on displaying artwork.

The story is a tale of horror and sororicide rather than a tale of faery tales and magic, a trend that repeats itself a few times in the book.

For your enjoyment:

Once upon a time there were two king’s daughters who lived in a bower near the bonny mill dams of Binnorie. And Sir William came wooing the eldest and won her love, and plighted troth with glove and with ring. But after a time he looked upon the youngest, with her cherry cheeks and golden hair, and his love went out to her until he cared no longer for the eldest one. So she hated her sister for taking away Sir William’s love, and day by day her hate grew and grew and she plotted and she planned how to get rid of her.

So one fine morning, fair and clear, she said to her sister, “Let us go and see our father’s boats come in at the bonny mill stream of Binnorie.” So they went there hand in hand. And when they came to the river’s bank the youngest got upon a stone to watch for the beaching of the boats. And her sister, coming behind her, caught her round the waist and dashed her into the rushing mill stream of Binnorie.

“Oh sister, sister, reach me your hand!” she cried, as she floated away, “and you shall have half of all I’ve got or shall get.”

“No, sister, I’ll reach you no hand of mine, for I am the heir to all your land. Shame on me if I touch her hand that has come ‘twixt me and my own heart’s love.”

“Oh sister, oh sister, then reach me your glove!” she cried, as she floated further away, “and you shall have your William again.”

“Sink on,” cried the cruel princess, “no hand or glove of mine you’ll touch. Sweet William will be all mine when you are sunk beneath the bonny mill stream of Binnorie.” And she turned and went home to the king’s castle.

And the princess floated down the mill stream, sometimes swimming and sometimes sinking, until she came near the mill. Now the miller’s daughter was cooking that day, and needed water for her cooking. And as she went to draw it from the stream, she saw something floating towards the mill dam, and she called out, “Father! father! draw your dam. There’s something white — a merrymaid or a milk white swan — coming down the stream.” So the miller hastened to the dam and stopped the heavy cruel mill wheels. And then they took out the princess and laid her on the bank.

Fair and beautiful she looked as she lay there. In her golden hair were pearls and precious stones; you could not see her waist for her golden girdle, and the golden fringe of her white dress came down over her lily feet. But she was drowned, drowned!

And as she lay there in her beauty a famous harper passed by the mill dam of Binnorie, and saw her sweet pale face. And though he traveled on far away he never forgot that face, and after many days he came back to the bonny mill stream of Binnorie. But then all he could find of her where they had put her to rest were her bones and her golden hair. So he made a harp out of her breast bone and her hair, and traveled on up the hill from the mill dam of Binnorie, until he came to the castle of the king her father.

That night they were all gathered in the castle hall to hear the great harper: king and queen, their daughter and son, Sir William, and all their court. And first the harper sang to his old harp, making them joy and be glad, or sorrow and weep just as he liked. But while he sang he put the harp he had made that day on a stone in the hall. And presently it began to sing by itself, low and clear, and the harper stopped and all were hushed.

And this was what the harp sung:

Oh yonder sits my father, the king,
Binnorie, oh Binnorie;
And yonder sits my mother, the queen;
By the bony mill dams o’ Binnorie. And yonder stands my brother Hugh,
Binnorie, oh Binnorie;
And by him, my William, false and true;
By the bonny mill dams o’ Binnorie.

Then they all wondered, and the harper told them how he had seen the princess lying drowned on the bank near the bonny mill dams o’ Binnorie, and how he had afterwards made this harp out of her hair and breast bone. Just then the harp began singing again, and this was what it sang out loud and clear:

And there sits my sister who drownèd me
By the bonny mill dams o’ Binnorie.

And the harp snapped and broke, and never sang more.

If you want me to love your artwork, you need only to let your texture cause my tongue to tingle with the memory of succulence or cause my nose to twitch at your color palette.

For the mixes of the senses are titillating, and any lover is welcome.

The way the arts are currently socially perceived is quite young.

The need for those immersed in the high-arts to differentiate an illustration from an artwork was not necessary until the artist (as opposed to the illustrator) suddenly found it necessary to give himself a purpose. The camera and other technology is largely at fault in having taken work from some of history’s lesser draftsmen, leaving soulful artists with no career path on which to walk.

The artist is well-known for having an unquenchable desire to create and/or express. Whether the results of this desire are interesting, with merit or pleasing is beside the point. The desire to be an artist is like some women’s desire to have children. It is packed with emotion and drive; there is no stopping it.

Those of us who have this desire at heart do not have to have this explained to them. Those who do not harbor this need will never understand and are completely incapable of any kind of sympathy (empathy, yes). This is not a deficiency on their part, however; any kind of close-mindedness towards art is a deficiency riddled in assumption, and tainted by arrogant tendencies enacted by a large portion of artist spokesmen over the past few hundred years.

Or, could it have been public sensation that caused the need to differentiate between the artist-as-worker and artist-as-genius?

Could we find that the fault lay heaviest upon the shoulders of the Dadaists who, innocently enough, tried to wake the bourgeoisie into self-realization only to call too much attention (and place too much importance) on their art work? Or does the fault lay on the art historians for impressing upon us the glory and celebrity of the Renaissance artists?

Whatever the source or fault, the current face of the arts is quite pallid because of a collective knowledge has been largely dropped.

What is this knowledge?

Why has it been dropped?

‘Inanimate Alice’ tells the story of Alice, a young girl growing up in the first half of the 21st century, and her imaginary digital friend, Brad.

Over ten episodes, each a self contained story, we see Alice grow from an eight year old living with her parents in a remote region of Northern China to a talented mid-twenties animator and designer with the biggest games company in the world.

Episode 4 synopsis:

As we left Moscow on that plane I had no idea where we were going. It turns out my Mum and Dad had no idea either. We moved around. We stayed with friends. It took a while but finally we landed on our feet.

Sort of.

“And now I am going to die!”

Attempting to impress my friends on the way home from school, I climb a rickety staircase outside an abandoned factory.

When it collapses beneath me, I hang on by my fingernails and haul myself up onto a ledge. But then I get stuck. There’s no way down. And I can’t go up. The only way out is through the scary factory, half-demolished and very dangerous. Can you help me? Can you find the way out?

My friends (I have friends now – yeah!!) love the stories I create; they want to tell their own, so I came up with a simple little tool to help them. It’s called iStori.es – all you have to do is load up your photos, add some words, music and sound effects and BOOM! you have your own interactive story….in minutes.

If you’re a student, go tell your teacher to check out http://www.iStori.es – it’s very educational! Hehe…

See you in Hometown, Episode 4 on http://www.inanimatealice.com.

Yours – Alice

The Antagonist Movement has been fueling my art career now for almost a year. Not only have they given me terrific opportunities to exhibit my work in their own shows, but they have introduced me to others who are curating and collecting, or who own their own galleries.

The Antagonists are, themselves, in a growing state in their plans to show outside of New York. They ambitiously started in the art mecca, Berlin, this past October. Recently, they branched out not too far away in the humble state of Rhode Island in the Dead Cat Gallery located in Providence, the home of RISD, the Rhode Island School of Design.

My Birthday Trunk installation is on view until mid-June.