Tag Archives: DISJECTA

Secrecy surrounding Portland’s Appendix Project Space raises suspicions

Ooooooh, are those sculptures made of natural materials???

Think DK Row broke a scandal wide open with his article about YU?  Check out what the Dobbz dug up, bitches.

An ambitious independent alternative space in Northeast Portland has the local arts community buzzing.

More than twenty people showed up on Last Thursday to Appendix Project Space, an alternative gallery that aims to attract twenty-something no names from areas as exotic as Philadelphia.

The crowd chugged margaritas and tallboys inside the garage-turned gallery.  Supporters point out that Appendix Project Space could be the catalyst to get people to stop pretending that PLACE at Pioneer Place Mall is even remotely interesting.

But already, the cracks are showing.

Appendix Project Space is soliciting donations, with plans to spend nearly $130 this year on paint, spackle and mudding tape.  Its five officers, four local to Portland and one living on the east coast, are planning to launch a several hundred dollar campaign to renovate their garage even further — a garage that they do not own.

Yet they’re cagey on almost every aspect of the project, from their relationship with their landlord to the artists that they intend to pursue.  The officers also appear to be skirting city and state rules — selling beers and cocktails at openings, for example, though the city lists it for use only as a place to park your car.

Appendix has not been cited for any rule violation, nor is it under any investigation.  But other local arts leaders are growing suspicious, questioning Appendix’s finances, long-term stability, and the fact that I think two of them are fucking.

“Are two of them fucking?  I don’t know,” said Sam Korman, founder of the now defunct Car Hole Gallery.  “But when you make your garage into a  gallery, you have to prepare yourself for public scrutiny.”

The risk to the public?  Appendix could spend up to $45 repainting the drywall that they’ve installed in their garage only to get evicted, robbing the public of any benefit.  Rules violations could prompt their landlord to insist on a costly removal of the drywall because I don’t think they asked him if it was OK to put it there in the first place.  Secrecy denies drunk fucks on Alberta the chance to scrutinize where the dollar they spent on their beer actually goes.

Further, beer drinkers have little reassurance that Appendix will keep getting kegs donated.  And at a time when everybody has realized that Widmer gives out free kegs like it ain’t no thing, it’s getting harder and harder to get them to commit the beer.

Other people who own garages and drink beer, especially, emphasize that positive vibes are essential.  Having the door open is key to getting bros to drop in and also drink beer.

“The whole concept is that you don’t have to pay to party,” said Carlos Gonzalez, a performance artist and major clubber. “So you should get a lot of beer so that you can party longer for free.”

Interview cut short

Many garages have tried since a few years ago to establish a national-level contemporary “gallery” in Portland, but none could find good art to show.

Among them: Car Hole Gallery, which closed; I can’t think of any other ones but I bet there are more.

Appendix Project Space entered the scene in 2008, founded by Joshua Pavlacky, a blond guy; his buddy from undergrad, Zachary Davis; and probably somebody else who was a woman.  They recruited Travis Fitzgerald, 24, a fucker with two years of life experience outside of a BFA program  who moved here from New Jersey and also happens to be the heir to the fortune of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Pavlacky, Davis and Fitzgerald recruited Ben Young and Maggie Casey at some point and they are now all the officers and probably roommates.  They’ve boasted about the credibility of the space’s location near Alberta, and have outlined plans to raise $65 for renovations — plus more after that to pay their rent.

Beyond that, the details are hard to come by.  Asked for an interview, Fitzgerald, Appendix’s executive director, said he would speak for the group.  At an April meeting, he would not share specifics on who lives in which room inside the house, which person takes care of the electric bill, the rent paid for each room, donations of kegs by Widmer, artists or other details.  At a follow-up interview in May, he listened to two questions before cutting the meeting short and limiting further communication to email.

A form filed last year for food stamps by Fitzgerald listed his rent as $325 per month, and Davis’s and Casey’s at $375 apiece for 2010.  But which one of them cuts the ultimate check for the landlord is still unanswered; the group this week asked their landlord for a one-week extension on payment for the overall rent.

Changes at Appendix

Other issues surround the garage.  Joshua Pavlacky originally found the house on Craigslist in 2008 in the “rentals” section.  He paid the original rent of $1025, then sublet his own room back to himself for only $200 the first month.  Reasons are unclear.

Pavlacky left the house and moved to Philadelphia last year, and Davis received the honor of “House Don” and took over.  Davis, a member of the Wesleyan College alumni group in the Pacific Northwest, which is a bunch of liberal arts pussies who drive hybrid cars, could not be reached for this story and did not respond to a poke that I sent him on Facebook.

Fitzgerald said that Appendix pays $1o a year to host their domain for their website, but that Davis has twice now paid that amount and not been reimbursed by Maggie Casey.  Otherwise, he declined to discuss Davis’ role or to even name him.  “As we have made clear, Appendix’s webmaster wishes to remain anonymous,” he wrote in an email.

Meanwhile, Ben Young runs a fabrication studio and Fitzgerald sometimes plays a piano in their living room.  The two artists have listed Appendix as their home, and the building appeared on Last Thursday in May to contain living quarters.  Under IRS rules that prohibit using a nonprofit for personal gain, they are required to pay fair-market rent.

Appendix’s leaders also have a kitchen in their kitchen and a bookshelf someplace else, and Appendix paid Portland artists nothing last year to show in their space.

But the city has no records of Fitzgerald actually receiving the food stamps for which he applied, and this bums some people out because he dresses really well and it makes you wonder how he prioritizes his money, right?  The artists, a bunch of liberal fucks, referred all questions to Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald, by email, sidestepped questions and did not give pecifics.  Asked about rent and living arrangements, for instance, he wrote: “Davis and Young’s studio/offices are Appendix offices to carry out work for Appendix.  Appendix has recently invited some people over for dinner to make sure that they have friends.”

 ”Now is the time”

Arts supporters are left to wonder.

“I don’t feel like they invite enough people over for their dinners, or even know how to cook to be honest,” said Korman, the Car Hole founder.

Jeff Jahn, a Portland critic for his own blog, hadn’t heard of Appendix before but mentioned that “Appendix” is a tennis company that makes really solid balls.

But Israel Lund, a prominent popular guy, is an Appendix supporter and among those excited about the possibility of maybe getting another solo show in 2012.

“I think Portland is at a really important point of great cultural promise,” he said, “and now is the time to fulfill it.”

– Tanner Dobson

WATERSPORTS: The Life Perverted with Sam Korman

 

I didn't get pissed on, but I sure got pissed off.

Sam Korman‘s most recent curatorial endeavor involves a bunch of sickwad artists, a crab fishing boat, and a required drive through the Hell-on-Earth dockworker community that is Linnton, OR.  This place stunk the unholy stink of Union Labor, which seeped into my pickup truck and nearly asphyxiated me with the boney, God-hating hands of Karl Marx himself.  Luckily, I’d brought along a scratch-off lottery ticket and a sixer of Budweiser, both of which warded off the Nancypants Communist aura of this stretch of Highway 30 quite nicely.  I made it a point to slug down all six Buds before arriving at the show.  And as I suckled down the last drop of each, I heaved it mightily from my truck window and shattered it through dark storefront windows no doubt acting as concealing fronts for various Anarcho-Gay political organizations.  Make no mistake, dear reader, Linnton is the face of liberal darkness.  It makes the Weather Underground look like Guantanamo Fucking Baywatch.  

Before I take Korman’s candy ass to task though, I’ll give the boy some points for staging an art exhibition outside of the Pearl Necklace District (or his garage).  I’d heard about this exhibition through the grapevine and I have to admit that I was curious.  Tanner Dobson is all a-fucking-bout Deadliest Catch, so the opportunity to spend some time on a real crab fishing vessel sounded tight as Catholic pussy. However, upon arrival to the exhibition I am sad to report, it became quickly apparent that this was another bunch of Bobos who’d somehow scored access to something that they didn’t possess the faculties to actually comprehend.  I thought maybe they’d possibly hang a few nice paintings of sea animals around the boat to really up the fishing vibe, but instead they turned the entire deck into a goddamned white cube that looked exactly like every other art gallery I’ve ever visited.

Which prompts me to wonder, why the fuck did you make us drive all the fucking way out here, you fucking dick farmers?

 

Who the fuck are these two people?

Perhaps I’m being a little unfair here.  This is not entirely Korman’s doing. Apparently, the boat itself is part of a collective called Labrador/12128.  It consists of four artists, who are (in genderohierarchical order):

Kyle John Thompson

Lewis George Feuer

Caitlin Ducey 

Zoe (they didn’t provide a last name for Zoe, and when I clicked on her name the link took me to a subpage of the United States Navy’s website that talked about why sailors like to have cats aboard their ships.  This struck me as an attempt at irony that was supposed to indicate that sailors were gay, which is fucking bullshit and so I’m not going to give her the dignity of even addressing the fact that she did this – from now on.)

There isn’t really a whole lot of information on their home page that illuminates how exactly these Trustafarians managed to get their grimy little mitts on the boat, but a little bird told me that one of their relatives used to actually use it but that it had been docked for years.  Apparently, between benders tripping on pot and getting tattooed, this flannel-clad young man slipped his relative a roofie and somehow walked away with a giant fucking crab boat for a studio.  How exactly Korman got into the mix is unclear, but I think I remember something about him smooshing butts with one of the chicks involved at some point.  Let me know if this is inaccurate – I hate one-sided, slanted journalism.

 

This came up when I Googled "Marina Way, Portland" and I have no idea if this is in Oregon or Maine.

Anywhooooo, upon turning off of Highway 30 onto Marina Way, my truck rumbled over gravel and I whipped into a small parking lot filled with Subarus sporting “Life is Good” and “Endless This War” stickers.  What?  Dog is your co-pilot?  Go fuck yourself.  I hopped out of the truck, and as the dust from my wicked skid-parking job cleared, I saw the leviathan ship known as the Labrador. Through a rickety fence gate I sauntered and proceeded down a questionable wooden ramp towards the docks below.  This wooden pathway wound through several unoccupied boats of various calibers, ultimately ending at a metal staircase that allowed ascension to the deck of the Labrador herself. Several of the exhibition attendees shot me icy glances as they realized that people besides vegan denimphiles actually exist in this city.  I ignored their glances and maneuvered through the smell of American Spirit cigarettes and bicycle grease towards Mr. Korman.

 

Korman has indicated to me on several occasions that this is his favorite photo of himself and that it should always be used for promotional purposes.

 We exchanged pleasantries (he’d invited me a couple of months back to participate in a Derek Franklin tribute show for which I provided a sporting roast of the little modernist hobbit).  While the two of us don’t see eye-to-eye politically, socially, artistically or religiously, there exists a strange camaraderie between us that is difficult to explain.  Part of what I do like about Korman is that he puts quite a bit of effort into the accompanying documents for his exhibitions. The “catalogues,” for lack of an actually applicable term, are sincere and thoughtful – probably more so than the art contained in the actual shows.  

The group that he’d put together for this show was refreshingly undiverse.  Every artist participating was a male, and it’s my understanding that only one was gay and I think one might be like half-Hispanic or something.  For this, I’ll give Korman a thumbs-up.  I’m so sick of going to exhibitions where there has to be one black artist, one lesbian, one Asian and one guy with Cerebral Palsy. Curators:  This is Portland, not San Franfuckingfrisco.  Gawd.

Contributing parties to the visual work included Chase Biado (the young-gun who makes time-based work), Jeffry Mitchell (the old-gun who makes inoffensive ceramics), Carl Klimt (the token MFA student), Justin Swinburne (never heard of you), Alex Felton (the bleach guy) and Philip Iosca (the guy who likes guys).  The announcements for the show also advertised a performance by Matthew Green at 8pm.

I drilled Korman for a bit, asking him when exactly Matthew Green intended to perform and disappoint me.  ”I’m not sure,” Korman replied.  ”He told me that he wouldn’t be here, but that something would be happening at 8.”  

“You mean that nothing would be happening at 8?” I asked.

“Probably.  He hasn’t returned any of my phone calls or texts for over a week.”

Green’s previous performances have very often been intentionally anti-climactic, asking the viewer to examine his own expectations when experiencing art.  These performances ask us if we are viewing art with the hope of being entertained or experiencing some kind of grand pay-off.  He did one last year where he turned off all of the lights in ROCKSBOX Fine Art and then led the audience from outside through the labyrinthian underground gallery.  It was literally pitch black and people were herding like blind cows through the cement corridors.  We all gathered, packed like sardines in a crushed tin box, in the central space of the gallery.  Whispers and giggles swirled around the room and then it all fell to a silent hush as a Bic lighter ignited by Green danced flickering in front of us.  Then he turned on the light.

There isn’t another part.  That’s what he did.

It sounded to me like there wasn’t going to be any discernible happening courtesy of Green aboard the Labrador.  And I’m guessing that was his intention.  But guess what, Matthew Green – A BABY COULD DO THAT!!!

Let’s get to the artists who make things.  Chase Biado contributed a really fucking weird video that looked like he does a lot of drugs.  Actually, Chase Biado just simply looks like he does a lot of drugs.  Did you ever watch the scrambled porn channel as a baby, jerking your neck this way and that trying to locate one neon-green-tinted areola to bust a nut all over?  It was very similar to that, but with a grinding, abstract industrial soundtrack that I think he taped of two robots buttfucking.  This was one of those video pieces that doesn’t have any recognizable imagery or sounds that is supposed to make you feel dumb.  I wanted to punch it in the tummy.  Chase Biado is definitely one young Portland artist to watch (around your fucking wallet).  

You know how a lot of people hate contemporary art?  This is why:

 

Some guy actually picked this up and put it on the table with the beers.

Philip Iosca pissed into a Squirt bottle and then put it on the floor.  Do you get it? The show is called WATERSPORTS, the soda is called “Squirt” and the bottle is full of peeeeeeeeeeeee!  This type of sickwad grossfest nonsense is why the National Endowment for the Arts disappeared.  At least Iosca didn’t put Jesus Christ inside of it.

In order to prove himself to be an “interdisciplinary” artist, Iosca also contributed this Satanic travesty to the exhibition:

 

This is why you can't get married.

Last week, I told you a little bit about an abstract painting show currently up at Pacific Northwest College of Art that featured some work by Alex Felton and some guy named Cain & Abel or something.  These are pieces of black fabric (soooo metal) with bleach splattered on them.  I don’t exactly understand how the collaborative process in these pieces actually works – did you each take a turn splattering bleach on them?  And if so, fucking why?  Now you have to split the sales money, you hosers.  They’d exhibited these pieces before up at DISJECTA in the Vestibule, so I was pleased to see Felton contribute something a little different for this show.  In fact, I think Felton’s piece easily stole the show.

FUCK YES, FELTON. FUCK YES.

Jeffry Mitchell made some ceramic things and hung them on the wall.  There was a print also of a candy ribbon.  I’m not sure what else I can honestly say about his pieces.  One of them was green and one was white, I think.  And there was a bowl and then like an elephant and I think the print was framed.  But not matted. Yeah, it was just hanging in the frame – no matte.  As for Justin Swinburne, he made a big black picture that was framed, too.  I heard somebody remark, “That’s his thing.”  

 

Hippies everywhere are bawling their crusty eyes out.

Finally, Carl Klimt’s quiet piece in the corner was refreshingly unchallenging.  I liked it because it was made of sawdust, which is crazy because you don’t usually think of sawdust as being able to make a shape.  I mean, it’s usually just in a pile and so it’s really weird to see it not that way.  Klimt made a huge sawdust cube at the PNCA MFA in Visual Studies exhibition Stray Fires a couple of months back, but it was behind a barrier made of huge plastic sheets which prevented me from getting too close to it.  Because the floor on the Labrador was made out of plywood, every time that I walked by this recent piece by Klimt, some of the sawdust shook off and it cracked a bit from the vibrations.  Local designer Rob Halverson and I spent some time jumping up and down on the floor near it and giggling as it fell apart.  If interactive art was more like this, people might give a fucking shit for once.

What this exhibition ultimately means for the artists who participated or for Korman is up for debate.  Actually, it’s not.  I’m just kidding.  It doesn’t mean anything ultimately or even microscopically.  The turnout was good, but I’m guessing that’s because you have to go to your friends’ show so that they come to yours.  An easy way to solve this problem and provide everybody more time to go bowling or to read would be if everybody just stopped having exhibitions.  But then I’d be out of a job.  So don’t do that.  But do stop having so fucking many. It’s getting out of hand, Portland.    

 

Artist Profile: FUTURE_DEATH_TOLL

Banks Violette is a douche.

By now, most of you in Portland have probably seen an exhibition or performance by FUTURE_DEATH_TOLL.  Oh, you haven’t?  Fuck you.  For the uninitiated, FDT describes itself as a “throbbing mezz of noize that eats technology and shits performance art.”  In my opinion, virtually all performance artists shit performance art regardless of what they eat, but there’s something a bit more interesting about these boys and I aim to prove it.  This past Sunday, I had the pleasure of meeting the boys at the horseshoe pits in Laurelhurst Park.  We shared some  blaze-orange sodas and played an intense round of bocce ball to boot.  What I learned was that not everybody making art in Portland is a fucking pussy… in fact, some of them might even be considered men with dicks and balls.

Tanner Dobson & FUTURE_DEATH_TOLL / April 2010

First of all, let’s address their primary influence: SLIPKNOT.  Both FDT and SLIPKNOT are from states known for a ubiquity of corn (Nebraska and Iowa, respectively).  Further, both groups have a major hard-on for group aesthetics.  But while SLIPKNOT‘s members all wear gay masks that look like prop rejects from Saw IV, FDT takes a more classy approach, donning blaze-orange do-rags over their faces.  And there are considerably fewer members of which to speak involved with FDT.  By this critic’s estimate, there are something like thirty-seven members in the band SLIPKNOT (thirty-two of whom are percussionists of some sort).  But FDT keeps it intimate, limiting their membership to resemble the great power-trios of rock history.  The parallels to the power-trio are not lost on these boys either.  When I asked them what they considered to be their favorite Rush song, they replied in unison: “Besides Tom Sawyer?  Definitely Closer to the Heart.”  You can’t fake that kind of synchronicity; these horse farmers are the real deal.  And I’d like to also point out that while SLIPKNOT focuses on making commercial pop-metal thinly veiled as Midwest Doom for rural retards, FDT‘s sound is considerably more abstract and improvisational.  You can listen to a few of their compositions here.

Looks like a recipe for Social Practice!

FDT‘s members met in an undergraduate sculpture class at University of Nebraska, Lincoln sometime in the mid-oughts.  When I first arrived to the park on Sunday, we sat down for a bit and discussed their history and what brought them to Portland.  I attempted some tough, straight-from-the-hip questions at first, but they were giving me obnoxious responses bragging about how Nebraska is the Kool-Aid state.  To say that they suffer from a collective case of ADHD would be a massive understatement akin to claiming that Pedro from the first season of The Real World suffered from the common cold.  Strangely though, as they began to sip their blaze-orange sodas, their focus increased ten fold and our interview really grew wings.

Nebraska City, where they called home before Portland, wasn’t exactly a culturally rich town.  Apparently, the boys spent a lot of time traveling outside of the state to do exhibitions and performances in places like Chicago and Denver.  But they don’t necessarily consider themselves to have been a touring band at any point, or a band at all for that matter.  Rather, they’re a tight-knit and compact artist collective whose diverse interests allow them to navigate adeptly between sound, sculpture, video, performance and technology raping.  But they’re savvy and understand the marketability of a smaller, oranger SLIPKNOT.  You see, FDT has produced what some might call albums and also CD/DVD combos that feature abstract sound compositions, manipulated digital video, and documentation of their performances.  One might assume that this means that they have some kind of background as Ebay Powersellers or some shit, but they don’t.

DAVE / ED / TODD

It’s not really my place to identify these enigmatic gentlemen by name, but their website does, so fuck ‘em.  Before moving to Portland, Todd Robert Beaty claims that he worked as an “Oats Preparator” at a farm in Nebraska.  The other two members of FDT quickly point out that Todd actually shoveled manure.  I find this to be a very American job and therefore commendable.  David Ian Griess worked in landscaping, which is actually more Mexican than American, but is still a man’s job, so I’ll give him two points for the sweaty balls.  And finally, Edward G. Sharp was a web developer, which makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever if you’ve actually visited the aesthetic atrocity that is their website.  When I asked them why they decided to move from Nebraska, which many consider to truly be God’s country, Todd quickly responded, “All of America is God’s country.”  Fuckin’ A, Todd, fuckin’ A.  I had a feeling I was really going to like these guys.

While we crushed our blaze-orange sodas, I started to prod a little deeper into what makes FDT tick.  One of my favorite blindside questions to ask people during interviews is, “What do you think about painting?”  I posed this to the boys, and Edward promptly responded, “Well, there’s a lot of it.”  After Todd’s insightful comment about America being the Lord’s land, I figured that these boys were on the level.  My suspicion was validated by Edward G. Sharp’s response to my intentionally vague question.  It was, well… sharp.  Their reluctance to align themselves with any particular art movement was something I wanted to know more about, especially after we’d just dragged painting out of its house and fucked it in the street.  “We witness events in the world and then translate them into a visual experience,” said David.  The others nodded in agreement.  It would seem then that FDT isn’t interested in limitations resulting from a given medium or political agenda.

I asked them about their personal politics and they remained reticent… until I mentioned President Obama.  “What is he? Mr. Moneybags?” quipped David back at me.  Once again, a sly smile crept over the face of this critic as I realized that a powerful meeting of the minds was presently occurring, not unlike some kind of underground Freemason workshop.  We bantered back and forth about all the art currently being made in Portland, and I brought up a few other collectives who’ve also been receiving some attention: the Oregon Painting Society and Paintallica.  It had always seemed to me that Portland artists are made of big, fat vaginas and never have the audacity to publicly shit on one another… and I wanted scandal.

“Would FUTURE_DEATH_TOLL be willing to start a public feud with Jason Traeger and the rest of Oregon Painting Society?” I asked.  Smirks and silence.  I was baiting FDT into talking shit, but they weren’t biting.  I rephrased the question, “Would FUTURE_DEATH_TOLL be willing to engage in a public rumble with Oregon Painting Society to establish the alpha-collective in Portland?”  They liked this much better.  Immediately, they perked up and began to ask specifics like whether or not weapons would be allowed and where the location of the fight might be.  Mulling this over for a minute, I concocted a scenario that I thought would make an even playing field for the two groups.

“The fight will take place on a weekend evening at DISJECTA during an exhibition of large scale sculptures by Jenene Nagy.  You can use any of her sculptures in the fight, but other than that it is all fisticuffs.”  They all concurred that they would waste the living shit out of Oregon Painting Society, which seemed pretty obvious to me because several of the members of OPS are girls.  Todd insisted that his signature move would be an elbow drop out of the massive rafters at DISJECTA that would crush the spines of any dwelling below.  David and Edward suggested carving ad hoc shivs out of pieces of Nagy’s work to cut bitches.  It sounded like FDT were no strangers to a good, healthy rumble.

“When you break someone’s nose,” said Todd, “you learn a lot about them.”  I couldn’t agree more.  Edward brought up the fact that if the fight were a more conceptual contest, like who could get into the Tate Modern first, then FDT would have already lost.  “Well,” pointed out David, “they haven’t actually traveled there yet.  We could still beat them to it.”  Todd and Edward agreed, then claiming they they, like psychotic members of PETA, intended to show up to the opening at the Tate with buckets of blaze-orange paint that they would throw all over OPS’s exhibition.  We were considering at this point debating a battle between FDT and Paintallica, but then we realized that nobody gives a fuck about Paintallica.

Officially 500 times more interesting than spraypainted, cardboard totem poles.

Our talk shifted into a more esoteric realm after the fight conversation.  We discussed the salaries of undercover police officers, which they insist are remarkably high (“Look at Eddie Murphey’s Detroit Lions letter jacket in Beveriy Hills Cop“).  We waxed philosophical about Shaq’s recent curatorial effort in New York (“Fuck that.  Shaq should just set up like a million backboards and hang all of the art he owns on them and then slam dunk on every one to shatter the backboards and the art”).  We talked briefly about why it is unwise to fuck with Juggalos (“Juggalos cut off people’s buttholes”) and if they are a legitimate sub-culture (“Have you ever seen a Juggalo co-op?”).  We also debated the validity of musical theater and I asked them point-blank what the best musical of all time was (“None of them.  There’s not even one.  Well, Cats was cool”).

My balls were yellow.

After this chat, we mounted up and got down and dirty on a game of bocce ball.  I must say, this was my first experience ever and the boys were more than willing to teach me the ropes.  We were playing with a vintage bocce set that Edward’s grandmother had given him as a child, so I felt especially bad after I chucked one of the balls and it smashed into an aluminum fence pole, tearing a chunk from it and spitting yellow particle board all over the grass of the park.  Edward though was more than polite, acknowledging the accident although I suspect his non confrontational nature was more a result of him tripping balls on pot.  We were having such a good time that halfway through we realized that we weren’t even keeping score anymore.  After the game, we sat down near the restrooms and enjoyed another blaze-orange soda.  The cool, sweet beverage was like Christ’s tongue slipping down my throat.  I’d worked up a bit of a sweat, and I noticed that they were also glistening in the mid-afternoon sunlight.  It must have been a spectacular sight to behold for all in the park – a handsome group of young American men cooling off after hot talk and even hotter play.  FDT has my stamp of approval, something reserved for a very select few.

I’d encourage you to mark your calendars and check them out.  They’ll be at Performance Works Northwest on Friday, April 30th and Saturday, May 1st alongside Weird Fiction.  And you can catch them performing on First Friday, May 7th at Worksound Gallery.  Don’t make them have to ask, “Where are the fans?” ever again.

SEE MORE VIDEOS: FUTURE_DEATH_TOLL ON VIMEO

Artist Profile: Damien Gilley

Oh, you drink? Who cares.

A while back, I promised to post audio from a telephone interview that I did with Portland-based artist and curator Damien Gilley.  We did indeed have a conversation, but then I realized that I don’t know how to post mp3 files via WordPress.  If anybody’s got advice on how to do that, hit me up at tannerdobson@gmail.com.  Gilley is part of PORTLAND2010 and has shown quite a bit in the last few years around town.  He’s known for taping lines on walls.  On the phone, he told me that his work functions as a “critique of Capitalism,” which is about as interesting these days as queer photography examining identity and gender.  Nonetheless, he’s a prominent fixture and a model for young artists on how to get this city to put your balls in its mouth and hum.  For three years, Gilley’s also run the successful non-profit gallery IGLOO at Everett Station and done some curating at other venues like DISJECTA.  While I try to figure out how the fuck to post an audio file, I sent Gilley some simple questions and he was kind enough to answer.  Check it out.

Name: Damien Gilley

Age: 32

Education:
MFA Portland State University, BFA University of Nevada Las Vegas

Height: 5’9″

Weight: 145

Nationality: American

Shoe Size: 9.5

Zodiac Sign:
Gemini

Sexual Orientation: Excited

Favorite Food:
Fish Tacos

Represented by _________ Gallery: None

Favorite Kind of Art: Immersive Installation

Least Favorite Kind of Art: Hippie-Folk Abstraction

You went to Portland State, what the fuck is this Social Practice shit everybody’s always talking about in Portland?

The program is interesting, usually involving the public or non-artists in a project. It actually don’t have many rules, and hence is a bit radical and refreshing.

If somebody paid you $1,000,000, would you quit making art for the rest of your life?

No way! I would try my best to not work anymore, so I could make more artwork.

Whiskey or beer? Both. Together.

How long have you been running IGLOO Gallery? 3 years

Do you curate the exhibitions for the most part, or do you work with guest curators?

I curate the most, but love others to guest curate and have had many people do it.

Does Portland art matter?

Of course, every locality matters. Even Michigan.

Who is the best minority artist in Portland?

Brad Adkins

Who is the best white artist in Portland?

Victor Maldonado

Which one of them is better?

They collaborate now as one, so we will call them Bradonaldo.

If you had to compare www.portlandart.net to one 1970s prog-rock band, which would it be and why?

Asia, because the cover of Asia’s self-titled album has a dragon swatting a volleyball in the ocean, and it reminds me of tennis.

Banksy, sucker or savior?

I don’t really care. I find him interesting. Like fish tacos.

What is the worst thing that you’ve ever done at your own gallery after a First Thursday?

Invited people in with striped tights.

Who would win in a fight, Bruce Conkle or Bruce Guenther?

Conkle drops Guenther in 2nd round with a body punch.

A doctor tells you that you have three days to live and that you must complete a show in that time to exhibit as a pre-death retrospective.  What five works of your own do you choose, and where do you exhibit it?

That is the stupidest question, I can’t show 5 works man they are all gone!

How can we fix Portland art? People should stop whining about it.

DISJECTA – Portland2010 Biennial

Contrary to popular belief, this is not an advertisement in the Portland Mercury for a show at Holocene.

As I mentioned a few posts back, while I was away visiting New York, Portland-based curator Cris Moss threw together the arts equivalent of “NOW! That’s What I Call Music! #33″ in the form of a Portland Biennial.  The last Biennial in this city was three years ago, which makes perfect sense for a city full of artists too stoned to remember how to bike to their own openings.  Moss assembled a who’s-who of Portland’s art community, focusing on individuals who’ve shown prolifically over the last couple of years.  Now, I know that using the word “prolific” to describe showing in Portland might be gay, but my therapist told me that I should start trying to align myself more closely with the rest of Portland’s art critics and always say something nice about an artist no matter what.

In any case, I’ve got the list here of the artists included in the Biennial, and I’ve taken the liberty of matching each of them up with a musical artist on “NOW! That’s What I Call Music! #33″ that sums up their practice.  Here’s the list:

Melody Owen (Ke$ha)

Bruce Conkle & Marne Lucas (Jeezy & Rhianna)

David Corbett (Train)

Sean Healy (Adam Lambert)

Tahni Holt (Lady Gaga)

Crystal Schenk & Shelby Davis (Young Money featuring Lloyd)

Holly Andres (Taylor Swift)

Corey Arnold (Kris Allen)

Pat Boas (Lady Antebellum)

John Brodie (Jason Derulo)

David Eckard (Iyaz)

Damien Gilley (Snoop Dogg)

Jenene Nagy (Agnes)

Oregon Painting Society (Jay-Z featuring Sean Paul & Lil’ John)

Stephen Slappe (Owl City)

Heidi Schwegler (Jaicko)

Kartz Ucci (Daughtry)

Moooooooooooooo.

The first openings of the who-the-fuck-cares-how-long exhibition series took place at ROCKSBOX Fine Art and DISJECTA.  The reason for this was that both places are very fond of using all capital letters and so Moss thought they’d be natural spots to kick off the festivities.  Nothing says, “Drink free beer and ignore art” more than a gallery name in all caps.  Did I go to these openings?  No, I was in New York and busy looking at shit that is relevant.  Have I gone to DISJECTA or ROCKSBOX to see these shows?  No.  But herein lies the beauty of the blogosphere; I don’t even need to leave my laptop to write this review!  I stole all of the pictures from Lisa Radon and I’m going to just use her descriptions of them as the foundation of my entire critique of the DISJECTA opening!  For those of you outside of Portland reading this, don’t fret – this is totally standard practice here.

The image above shows work by Crystal Schenk, and I believe that the title of this piece is called, “A Supermarket in Portland where Marc Swanson Works.”  It’s a comment on the shift in grocery store culture to the two-tiered, stubbier shopping carts that seem to have overtaken Safeways across the country.  By affixing stained glass to this archaic version of a utilitarian shopping device, Schenk behooves the viewer to ask his or herself, are groceries divine?  Can the supermarket experience be a contemporary substitute for dying faith in America?  While Radon’s review seemed to interpret the work on the wall as a comment on art as commodity (Damien Hirst), I personally see it as an attack on the typically hetero-male-driven world of rodeos.

Sean Healy's "Mexican Parking Spot," 2009.

Sean Healy’s performance piece consisted of stealing a car in front of the entire audience the night of the opening.  He somehow managed to get away with no problems, and still had time to paint the cinder blocks on his way out.   Several of the people in attendance at the opening have complimented Healy for his ability to maneuver a Ford Mustang through an entire exhibition unnoticed.  We’re going to be seeing more from this guy in the future.  I’ve also heard that he smoked a fuck-ton of cigs and then made a painting or something with them.  Good luck trading your art for chemo, bro.

Dat's a big twuck!

Schenk also had a collaborative piece at DISJECTA done with Shelby Davis.  It’s called “Untitled (Ghost-Truck for Jerry Saltz).”  They made this out at Milepost5 (which used to show art) during a residency there this past fall.  I’m trying to figure out if they’re dating or not ’cause Schenk got it goin’ on.  Rumor has it that Healey, drunk on the success of his car stunt, tried to escape a second time in this giant motherfucker but was physically detained by DISJECTA’s Bryan Sureth until authorities arrived.  Later, the two met for mojitos across the street at Dancin’ Bare Strip Club, shared a tuna salad sandwich and laughed it off.  God, men are so predictable!

Does it smell like patchouli in here?

Let’s get one thing straight: Bruce Conkle and Marne Lucas love drugs.  This piece, “Dank Alchemy,” explores visual manifestations of Allman Brothers Band riffs coupled with DVD out-takes from “The Dark Crystal.”  The last time I spoke with Conkle, he insisted to me that ABB’s “Mountain Jam 1 & 2″ sync up with “The Dark Crystal” irrefutably from 00:46:22 to 01:21:34.  I’m guessing that the stuff on the back wall is aluminum foil, which would be pronounced differently in England.  Perhaps the oddest story that I’ve heard about the DISJECTA opening that night was when a group of twenty-odd Arizona State University sorority girls showed up and crowded under the tanning bed, only moving when asked by Marne to kindly fuck off.

Oh, you do sculpture?

David Corbett made a black thing that sat on the floor.

So there you have it.  DISJECTA showed a bunch of stuff, people got drunk as shit and went home together, and I bet a bunch of them tripped on pot after they left the opening.  I don’t even know what is up at ROCKSBOX, except that it involves the people from Ditch Projects – which probably means that it’s kind of punk rock and esoteric at the same time.