Saturday night, I braved the streets of bohemian Brooklyn on a weekend, and saw ‘art’. Contemporary, of course.
I left early, because in a room of starving artists all i could think about was rare hamburgers.
All i got from going out,was a reminder of why i don’t go out and a 2 hour conversation on why most contemporary art is bullshit and how mindless the artists of our time are.
I blame it people who don’t have ability to properly understand Fellini films and Guerrilla art.
He has spread bad art like AIDS.
Sunday, I had one of those days where i sincerely thought it was Monday. It screwed up my entire schedule. Really. I woke up an hour early to drive to work an hour early, avoiding my favorite neighborhood coffee shop in fear of being late. It felt post apocalyptic. Misty not rainy. 8:30 AM and not one car on the BQE. When i showed up to Dumbo it still took me 10 minutes to realize it was the wrong day, and we open an hour later on the weekends. It gave me a reason to walk around the city before the Art Under The Bridge festival got into full effect, on its last day.
Warehouses of gallery spaces with videos of screeching transgenders, red finger paint in white rooms, and dicks. The streets were also filled with performances, installations, and music made by holding down a key of a Casio keytar for 5 seconds too long. I tried to understand it, but eventually tried to avoid it and just take photos of the neighborhood.
After going through my shots, i realized that some of it was part of the festival, and actually held some interest to me.
Where giant monsters roam Dumbo! Working collaboratively with schoolchildren from PS8, artist Kylin O’Brien crafted massive creatures to serve as guardians and a commentary on collective fears. With Bey Redding-O’Brien (age 8), Madison Kendall (age 8) and Maya Kendall (age 5) drawing their monsters to be painted in large scale across the alley ways of Brooklyn.
John Bonafede has a pile of potatoes descend through a window, later to be consumed and taken away in the bellies of the audience in a borderless installation and performance, Sustenance
Chris Kinsler’s faceless, footless figures are trapped in the anonymous actions of everyday life. Participants interacting with Persona non Grata momentarily lend every piece a personality and reason for its existence.