Opposed to Being Shot

Just published 11:49 am

Americans Opposed to Being Shot Seek Representation in Washington

By Andy Borowitz

Borowitz Report

Share

Tweet

Credit PHOTOGRAPH BY ANDREW HARRER / BLOOMBERG VIA GETTY IMAGES

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report) – Americans who are opposed to being shot, a constituency that has historically failed to find representation in Washington, is making a new effort to make its controversial ideas heard in the nation’s capital.

“When you bring up the idea of not wanting to be shot with members of Congress, there’s always been pushback,” Carol Foyler, founder of the lobbying group Americans Opposed to Being Shot, said. “Their reaction has been, basically, ‘Not being shot: who’s going to support something like that?’”

Foyler, however, believes that the right to not be shot, much like women’s right to vote, the right to same-sex marriage, and other rights that were deemed controversial in their day, may be an idea whose time has finally come.

“For years, we’ve been talking about the right to not be shot and people have been looking at us like we’re out of our minds,” she said. “But recent polls show that a vast majority of Americans, in fact, do not want to be shot.”

While Foyler and other anti-being-shot activists believe that Washington may finally be receptive to their radical ideas, Wayne LaPierre, the executive vice-president of the National Rifle Association, is doubtful. “People who don’t want to be shot are a very narrow interest group,” he said.

Art vs. Farm

Art Fairs and County Fairs and Their Affairs

By Kristen Dodge

Oct. 2, 2015

Illustration by Nicole Vidor

Kristen Dodge ran the eponymous DODGEgallery on Rivington Street between 2010 and 2014, when she closed shop and moved with her husband, Darren, to Kinderhook, New York, where they live surrounded by art in a contemporary barn that is itself surrounded by the makings of a small farm. This is the debut of Art vs. Farm, her new column on Artspace chronicling her observations on the intersections of these seemingly polar, living subjects.

I remember trying not to gape at the bald, gender-bending couple sauntering past in drag like Siamese twins at a carnival. This was my first experience at an art fair. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. The bright fluorescent lights, maze of white walls, and parade of proud visitors were fresh and exhilarating. Carts of pink bubbly rolled by alongside snakeskin heels, a fabric VW Beatle sagged with string tassels, and simulated cigarette butts littered a corner like spent confetti. My eyes took in everything. I remember buying a small, flat woodcarving that was segmented into thirds, each part a severed section of an animal: the scull of a skunk, the torso of a donkey, and the ass of a fox. Everything made perfect sense.

But that was a long time ago, before art fairs became a relentless necessity. It’s not a secret that fairs are one of the reasons I closed my gallery, in its former iteration. The more ambitious we were, the more fairs we had to do. From a practical perspective, it was too taxing for us to spend most of our resources applying to, participating in, and recovering from fairs. They had also become routinely uninspiring to me, with few exceptions. During my last experience at an art fair I reverted to a two-year old: Blah blah blah blah. Can we GO now? When are we leaving? I ignored all of the ‘important’ people I knew, or knew I should know, and limited conversation to snacks and sneakers. That was the day I decided to close the gallery. It was one of the first times in my life when I moved swiftly away from, rather than toward, something with uncompromising conviction.

Last summer I fell in love with fairs again. But instead of pandering to people who subscribe to their own exceptionalism (I’m not an exception), I was accosted by carnies at the Columbia County Fair. "C’mon! Step right up! Win a prize!" There was a rodeo, tractor pull, and lawn-mower race. All were exhilarating and rough. Parents of young children were unfazed by toxic air baths exploding from custom-fucked engines. Instead of champagne and cheese plates, our snack options included grease, ass, and onions. We ate Greek gyros served by Mexicans who didn’t reject my bastardized translations. Someone in line flinched and told me that these people don’t speak Spanish. Greek people serve Greek food. And Artforum is for people who write for Artforum.

We skipped the Budweiser tent and went straight for the children’s magic show. The beating sun and mediocre tricks didn’t dissuade my deep and vocal enthusiasm. I stopped volunteering when I realized my primary competition was the kid with Down syndrome kneeling behind me. At the end of the show they were selling magic wand kits, which were significantly lighter and less expensive than a Phaidon monograph. We wandered into the cattle, goat, and sheep barns, passing each stall where animals were treated to fresh hay, affectionate petting, and lengthy naps. This was nothing like groomed gallerists standing in high heels for extraordinary lengths of time without food or water.
We also enjoyed the exhibition of workers humming skillfully away at dead trades. There were alabaster Amish sisters spinning white wool on wood wheels, and bearded blacksmiths burning and beating dusky metal. The barn was full of working hands—thick hands, slight hands, dirty hands, and delicate hands. I thought about the difference between hands at work on a trade and hands at work on art. One necessarily repeats to master and produce, and the other repeats to master and deviates to create. Both can be inventive, both can be repetitive. The worst-case scenarios, however, are when a tradesperson has no skill and an artist avoids change. What I began to see at many art fairs was that time limitations, production demands, and artist branding worked against creativity.

Back to the county fair. We hopped onto a ride that I had been on many times as a kid. I call it "The Pirate Ship." To maximize the effects of increasing velocity, it’s best to sit at the end where you think you might die. A handful of other fairgoers joined us. I worried about the insubstantial safety bar and the small girl sitting a few rows ahead. The ship began to rock back and forth, higher and higher, and soon there was a maniacal outburst of screaming, laughing, and crying. I was slow to realize that the noise was all coming from me.

’90s Films by ’80s Art Stars

Film October 2015

When SoHo Met Hollywood: Revisiting ’90s Films by ’80s Art Stars

By Andrew Marzoni Posted 09/30/15 10:00 am

On the directing careers of Schnabel, Salle, Sherman, and Longo

(From left) Jeffrey Wright, David Bowie, Gary Oldman, and Dennis Hopper starring in Julian Schnabel’s 1996 film, Basquiat.

COURTESY MIRAMAX

David Salle begins his Artforum review of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007) by comparing the film’s director—Salle’s contemporary, Julian Schnabel—to Orson Welles. Salle, writing shortly after the film’s release, declares Schnabel, “an American painter working in France,” the first to “make good” on Welles’s experiments with techniques that “heighten audience awareness of the special relationship between the teller and the tale that is fundamental to movies.” In The Diving Bell and the Butterfly Salle’s buddy Schnabel “successfully fuses an aesthetic descended from Maya Deren and Stan Brakhage, on the one hand, and Mikhail Kalatozov and Andrei Tarkovsky, on the other, with a satisfying narrative story.”

At the dawn of the 1980s Schnabel and Salle, with Jean-Michel Basquiat, Eric Fischl, and other young artists represented by the Mary Boone Gallery, “made a big echo,” as Salle puts it, “at least along West Broadway.” Boone’s incubator of Neo-Expressionism capitalized on a resurgent interest in the purchasable objet d’art following the conceptual 1970s and a favorable economic climate, giving birth to the first contemporary art market boom. Though the excesses of Reagan’s decade trickled fame and fortune down upon the heads of Schnabel, Salle, Cindy Sherman, Robert Longo, and others, by the mid-1990s Basquiat was dead, the market had crashed, and Salle was already describing himself to Janet Malcolm in the New Yorker as “someone who is no longer current … irrelevant after having been relevant.”

Meanwhile, Hollywood cynicism was failing to attract audiences. In the early 1990s the blockbuster of the George Lucas/Steven Spielberg model that had bankrolled Hollywood for a decade was facing a momentary crisis, while independent films from directors such as David Lynch, Steven Soderbergh, and Kevin Smith were, surprisingly, filling seats. This resulted in an indie boom not unlike the art market boom of the 1980s, the apex of which was the release of Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction in 1994—the same year that Salle told Malcolm he was “irrelevant.”

The brief directing careers in the 1990s of the core group of art stars from the ’80s—Longo, Salle, Schnabel, and Sherman—was a matter of both artistic restlessness and the revitalization of lagging careers in a different, but likeminded industry. (Sherman, it must be noted, avoided the critical backlash that had briefly deflated her male peers, and was at the top of her game when she made her only narrative movie.) Salle was first out of the gate. In 1995, with the financial backing of Martin Scorsese, he directed his first and last feature film. Tellingly, Search and Destroy, an adaptation of the Howard Korder play of the same name, is about a has-been who doesn’t know anything about movies trying to make a movie. His object is money, not art.

Martin Mirkheim (Griffin Dunne) is a down-on-his-luck business type obsessed with the quasi-Nietzschean philosophy of a television self-help guru, Dr. Luther Waxling (Dennis Hopper). After an accountant (Scorsese) informs Martin that he owes the state of Florida $147,956, Martin hatches a scheme to make a film adaptation of Waxling’s novel Daniel Strong. Martin finds a potential backer in Kim Ulander (Christopher Walken), another Waxling acolyte, who describes himself as a “market analyst based in New York,” but might actually be a cocaine dealer.

Martin steals the heart of Waxling’s secretary, Marie (Illeana Douglas), who also happens to be a screenwriter at work on a horror script. In a double-exposed montage reminiscent of the collage aesthetic of Salle’s paintings, Martin and Marie run away to New York, where their eccentric criminal exploits arrive at Hollywood’s favorite destination: murder. In the final moments of Search and Destroy the audience sees a clip from Dead World, the film-within-the-film, written and directed by Marie and produced by Martin. Impressed, Waxling sells Martin the rights to Daniel Strong—but not without a warning: “The intellectuals hated it…it’s basically an adventure story.”

The same could be said of Salle’s film, whose only intellectual interest resides in Salle’s role as a Hollywood dilettante directing a movie about a Hollywood dilettante. While one can read Salle’s protagonist as a portrait of the artist, he is also the object of Salle’s critique: “That is a fantastic painting,” Martin says of Alex Katz’s Roof (1989), which adorns the wall of Kim’s office. But the audience knows that Martin knows nothing of art. He and Kim are phonies, wannabe gangsters: a sly reference, perhaps, to what the critic Robert Hughes called “the yuppie market,” which bought up Salle and his friends’ paintings in the 1980s. (This character would be explored further in the faux-murderous Patrick Bateman, as played by Christian Bale in Mary Harron’s American Psycho, 2000, upon whose walls hang Longo’s “Men in the Cities.”) When, at the end of Salle’s film, Martin acknowledges that the movie he produced is nobody’s “cup of tea” and Marie is already at work on the sequel, it is as much an indictment of the whims of the art market as it is a critique of Hollywood’s bottom line.

Carol Kane starring as Dorine Douglas in Cindy Sherman’s 1997 film, Office Killer.

COURTESY MIRAMAX

Though backed by Hollywood royalty, Search and Destroy was a truly independent project, distributed by October Films. Sherman’s Office Killer (1997) and Schnabel’s Basquiat (1996), on the other hand, were Miramax productions. None of these films did terribly well at the box office, but they were all made with relatively small budgets—in Schnabel’s case, self-financed, using his paintings as collateral.

Longo’s contribution to American cinema, however, stands out as a cautionary tale of Hollywood decadence. His leap to the medium of film was less radical than his contemporaries’: by the late 1980s he was directing music videos for the likes of New Order, R.E.M., and Megadeth, pioneering the overdetermined symbolism that would be MTV’s calling card throughout the 1990s. Roger Ebert describes Longo’s feature debut, Johnny Mnemonic (1995), as “one of the great goofy gestures of recent cinema, a movie that doesn’t deserve one nanosecond of serious analysis but has a kind of idiotic grandeur that makes you almost forgive it.”

The film came about when Longo, a cyberpunk fan, contacted William Gibson about collaborating on an adaptation of Gibson’s 1981 short story of the same name. Longo’s idea was to make “an arty 1½-million-dollar movie,” as he told Wired’s Rogier van Bakel. Ultimately, Johnny Mnemonic “became a 30-million-dollar movie,” Longo said, “because we couldn’t get a million and a half.”

Though the ineffably bad performances by Keanu Reeves, as the title character, a “courier” of the future whose memory has been replaced with an 80-gigabyte hard drive; and Ice-T, the face-tattooed leader of a luddite revolutionary cell, certainly contribute to Johnny Mnemonic’s many problems, the blame should rest with Gibson’s convoluted script and Longo’s amateurish direction. The film recouped less than three-quarters of its budget in the domestic market. Neither Longo nor Gibson would go on to make another film.

Like Longo’s film, Sherman’s Office Killer failed financially, grossing less than $40,000. As the title suggests, Office Killer follows a painfully awkward and underappreciated copy editor, Dorine Douglas (Carol Kane), as she murders nearly all of her coworkers at the magazine Constant Consumer, including several reporters (David Thornton, Jeanne Tripplehorn), an IT guy (Michael Imperioli), and the editor-in-chief, an Arianna Huffington caricature (Barbara Sukowa, Longo’s wife). Only Molly Ringwald’s character, a low-level office worker, manages to survive. (The film had the opposite effect on Ringwald’s career: her next two movies were made for television.)

Dorine does not simply murder her coworkers. She collects the corpses in the basement of her mother’s house, where she dresses them up, poses them, and engages them in fantastical role play—not unlike what Sherman does in her photographic work. As Roberta Smith noted in the New York Times, Office Killer was released in conjunction with Sherman’s retrospective at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, in 1997, and the movie itself “is almost a Sherman retrospective.” The noirish mood of the film evokes “Untitled Film Stills, 1977–1980”—the work that made Sherman famous, and which was purchased by MoMA in the same year that Office Killer was released.

Even Office Killer’s gore is beautiful, bringing to mind Sherman’s “Untitled Horrors” series and reminding the viewer of her indebtedness to cinema. That the film is skillfully shot and its script, with dialogue by Todd Haynes, consistently clever is less significant than the fact that Office Killer seems more like an artist’s statement than a movie. While Search and Destroy can be read as Salle’s expression of dissatisfaction with the art world, Office Killer is Sherman’s playful description of her work and process. As Dorine does away with her officemates, preferring to work alone, so too does Sherman, who turned away from the collaborative art of filmmaking toward the quiet of her own studio: like Longo and Salle’s efforts, Office Killer was Sherman’s first and last attempt as a Hollywood filmmaker.

Keanu Reeves starring in the title role of Robert Longo’s 1995 film, Johnny Mnemonic.

COURTESY METRO PICTURES

Collaboration was a new headache for the artists who trespassed onto film sets, with their catering crews and colonies of electricians. Talking to Marina Abramovic for Interview in 2014, video artist Marco Brambilla discussed the career move he made in 2000, leaving Hollywood after having directed two features: the wildly successful blockbuster Demolition Man (1993), and the post-Clueless Alicia Silverstone vanity project, Excess Baggage (1997). In Hollywood, Brambilla told Abramovic, “it’s very collaborative. … It is hard to make something personal that you feel strongly about.” It was in experimental film that Brambilla found a medium “much more personal and relevant.”

Schnabel alone appears to see the films he’s made as the product of his own, singular vision rather than a team effort. In the catalogue for his 2010 exhibition at the Art Gallery of Ontario, Schnabel told David Moos, “van Gogh wrote letters, but I don’t really have letters. I had movies. That was my form of writing.”

Though each of Schnabel’s films follows the life of an individual whose voice was once oppressed or muted completely, these subjects are always overshadowed by the persona of the artist himself. Take his first film, Basquiat. In a cast of celebrities portraying real-life figures—Jeffrey Wright as the title character, David Bowie as Andy Warhol, Hopper as Bruno Bischofberger, Parker Posey as Boone—Gary Oldman plays Albert Milo, one of only a few fictional characters. And yet, when Basquiat is served a spaghetti dinner in Milo’s house, the savvy viewer realizes that Milo’s house is actually Schnabel’s, as are Milo’s paintings, Milo’s children, and everything else down to the bathrobe and pajamas. It becomes clear that Milo is not, in fact, an invention, and that Basquiat is not, in fact, “really about” anyone except for Schnabel. As Wright’s Basquiat wonders at Milo’s paintings and takes an avuncular interest in Milo’s daughter, the viewer feels as though Basquiat has risen from the grave only to applaud his Dr. Frankenstein. Even the Basquiat paintings that appear in Schnabel’s film are Schnabel’s: Basquiat’s family did not extend the rights to use his paintings in the film, so Schnabel painted them himself.

All of Schnabel’s films are either adapted from memoirs (Cuban poet Reinaldo Arenas’s became 2000’s Before Night Falls, French Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby’s became The Diving Bell and the Butterfly) or focused on the life of an individual with whom Schnabel has had a close personal relationship. In addition to Basquiat, this includes Schnabel’s “best friend,” Lou Reed (the subject of his 2007 concert film, Berlin), and his former girlfriend Rula Jebreal, who wrote the screenplay for Miral (2010), a film based on her childhood in Jerusalem.

While the signatures of Salle and Longo are washed out in their films—perhaps the result of a collaborative process that buried the mark they had already made on gallery walls—Schnabel’s egotism gives his films a singular flavor. Even when they miss the mark, his films are never generic: it is impossible to forget who it is behind the camera. Orson Welles once said that “a film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet,” a statement that says as much about its speaker as it does its subject. Despite a weak script that avoids conflict, a lack of visual inventiveness, and poorly developed characters, Basquiat, as a first film, contains the bravado of the plate paintings that made Schnabel’s career, a brashness sorely lacking in the films of his fellow artists who found themselves lost when they had to ask someone else to help them hold the brush.

Andrew Marzoni is a Marion L. Brittain Postdoctoral Fellow in the School of Literature, Media, and Communication at the Georgia Institute of Technology.

A version of this story originally appeared in the October 2015 issue of ARTnews on page 36 under the title “When SoHo Met Hollywood.”

Copyright 2015, ARTnews Ltd, 40 W 25th Street, 6th Floor, New York, N.Y. 10010. All rights reserved.

Nightclub Goddess

Books October 2015

A Nightclub Goddess Dishes on Her Life: Grace Jones Finally Wrote Her Memoirs

By Hannah Ghorashi Posted 09/28/15 10:00 am

 669  39  0  726

COURTESY GALLERY BOOKS

The title of Grace Jones’s memoir, I’ll Never Write My Memoirs (Gallery Books), is lifted from the first line of her song “The Art Groupie,” off side two of her fifth album, Nightclubbing. You can’t go through life without breaking promises, Jones explains in the book, quite sensibly, before promising an account told with an intimacy comparable to sex. Yet her memoir makes no attempt to dispel the myth of Grace Jones, offering repetitively cosmic descriptions and campy crescendos of syntax along with a bold, and frequently gracious, account of her childhood, her career, her lovers, and her family, as well as slightly non-sequitur topics, such as her opinion of plastic surgery. (“No, I fucking haven’t [had work done]!”) She only shies away a little from discussing her infamous interview with British television personality Russell Harty during which she repeatedly hit him in the face, believing he was ignoring her. Flannery O’Connor wrote, “Accepting oneself does not preclude an attempt to become better.” In a similar vein, Jones writes, “These are my memories. My moods. My moments. My mistakes. It’s a book, and it has a cover. So I can do what I want.”
She did not always have such freedom, however, and in fact started out with even less than most. Before she was an all-around cultural tour de force, grinning with a razor-sharp rabidity Miley Cyrus could only dream of mastering, she was a Pentecostal preacher’s daughter in Spanish Town, Jamaica. Despite an unhappy childhood, Jones was lively and tomboyish and vain, with a zeal for crocheting. “I wasn’t supposed to play with my brothers,” she writes. “I was meant to stay put and crochet. I loved to crochet; I used to crochet until the skin came off my fingers and then I would put on a bandage and keep going.” Her parents immigrated to Syracuse, New York, and left her and her siblings with their grandmother and step-grandfather, whom they called Mas P. A combination of the family’s religious rigor and Mas P’s extreme and persistent physical abuse (“It was all about the Bible and beatings”) left Jones with a lifelong taste for rebellion and a nonclinical case of split personalities.
She has been, by turns, a singer, supermodel, actress, music producer, acid-loving hippie, vamp, diva, go-go dancer, close friend of Andy Warhol and Keith Haring’s, artist, Bond girl, fashion plate, nightlife icon across four time zones, devil, and alien. She is American, Jamaican, French, and a touch Scandinavian. She was a muse to Kenzo, Issey Miyake, and Alaïa; a performer tempering a minimalist aesthetic with maximal appetites; a woman; a man. “I am disco but I am also dada,” Jones writes. She sums up an entire era’s hedonism in one tidy reminiscence:

I would have the very best coke, and let it breathe like a fine wine, pile it up and put it under a gold dome on a silver platter, with a gold spoon. Then I would have the Quaalude room, the marijuana room, the Marianne Cocoa Puff room [cocaine-laced marijuana, named for Marianne Faithfull], with music in each room to match the high or the low…. I would let people do what they wanted as long as they didn’t die. That was the number one rule.

Yet, Jones has never felt a sense of belonging to a specific time or physical age. “[The way I would] manipulate age and time was through imagery,” she writes. “I was stretched, fractured, crushed, expanded, liquefied. I am a sensualist but I am also a surrealist.” Epitomizing this is one of the most endearing passages in the book, in which she describes her first orgasm: “I remember there was a before orgasm, and an after orgasm, but the other details remain fuzzy…. It’s like…hold your breath, close your eyes…AAAAGHGAAASGGHHFHAAAGHGGH…”
It’s not hard to see why Warhol was so enamored with her. One might describe Jones’s account of her life as Warholian, in that it glaringly lacks any self-doubt or hindsight, though perhaps that’s not a deliberate omission. Her genius rests instead in her unambiguous exteriority, in her awareness of her movement through time and space, in her charisma and understanding of her own spectacle—an uncommon gift in the age of the selfie. Introspection is, seemingly for Jones, inferior to the wisdom of gut instinct. She’s not a funny person—icons can’t afford to be self-deprecating—though moments of self-awareness peek through, such as when she confesses that she’s always wanted to try stand-up comedy. “I’ll bring my whip in case no one laughs,” she adds.
Jones may not be self-critical, but she has plenty of despairing advice for a new generation of singers and copycats including Rihanna, Jessie Ware, FKA twigs, Rita Ora, Miley Cyrus, the late Sasha Fierce, and Lady Gaga. “Everybody wants to be somebody,” she writes openly to “Doris,” a thinly veiled pseudonym for Lady Gaga. “Fame doesn’t make you somebody. You are already somebody. Fame is the worst part of this.” This would perhaps have been easier to take literally several decades ago, though it reads in the present as a recommended philosophy. Another of Jones’s self-imposed rules: never marry, a mantra complicated by the fact that she had a thing for her bodyguards, a proclivity that notably resulted in Dolph Lundgren’s acting career. She eventually married another of her bodyguards, Atila Altaunbay, but after he put a knife to her throat one night in a fit of jealousy, that relationship was over, as she states frankly, simply because it had to be. They’re still technically married. It’s not that Jones doesn’t believe in marriage; she simply doesn’t believe in divorce.
Nor does she believe in being on time, apparently. She is, like Marilyn Monroe, famous for serial lateness, and has taken anywhere from six hours to several extra days to appear at an engagement; as with Monroe’s, her performances are worth the wait. In fact, Jones embraces her tardiness, even regards it as a business matter—crowds like to be kept waiting, it builds up anticipation. But her lateness is also an aspect of her sense of brash, unapologetic entitlement. “I don’t think the flowers should [cost] more than me,” she writes. “I should be the big, unusual flower.” Her self-empowerment throughout her memoir has an irrefutable logic. “I want to fuck every man [that I sleep with] in the ass at least once,” she writes. “Every guy needs to be penetrated at least once.” (At one point Jones recounts, dubiously, that Orson Welles once told her on a talk show, “Grace, you rape an audience,” and that he “meant it in a good way.”) Unsurprisingly, she hates when people call her a diva: “Where’s the exclusivity? Every singer given a few weeks on a talent show is called a diva these days!… and of course the word is usually [used to describe] an apparently erratic female whose temperamental qualities, survival instincts, and dedication to perfection are seen as [self-indulgent] weaknesses.”
One of Jones’s fears, shared by many celebrity entertainers, is the idea of becoming a cartoon, a has-been selling out in denial. Rather than submitting to one of Lady Gaga’s numerous invitations to collaborate, she prefers to exist as a fantastic memory in the public mind. Anyway, she assures the reader, she’ll be reincarnated after her death. “You can find images of me from centuries ago. Faces that look like mine carved in wood from Ancient Egypt, Roman times, the Igbo tribe of southern Nigeria, and sixteenth-century Jamaica, fierce enough to turn people pale.” I don’t doubt she’s right.
Hannah Ghorashi is on the editorial staff of ARTnews.
A version of this story originally appeared in the October 2015 issue of ARTnews on page 18 under the title “A Nightclub Goddess Dishes on Her Life.”

Copyright 2015, ARTnews Ltd, 40 W 25th Street, 6th Floor, New York, N.Y. 10010. All rights reserved.

War on Stuff

Today 12:01 pm

Jeb Bush Declares War on Stuff

By Andy Borowitz

Credit PHOTOGRAPH BY GENE J. PUSKAR / AP 

DES MOINES (The Borowitz Report)—Hoping to stem the fallout from his comment in the aftermath of the Oregon rampage that “stuff happens,” former Florida governor Jeb Bush said today that as President he would declare an ambitious “war on stuff.”

“Make no mistake: I will not sit idly by when stuff happens if there’s stuff we can do about that stuff,” Bush told supporters in Iowa. “In a Bush Administration there will be a zero-tolerance policy on stuff.”

Pressed for specifics, Bush said that, in addition to preventing stuff from happening, he would also “work tirelessly to stop junk.”

“If I see junk happening that will harm the American people, I will not put up with that junk,” he said, adding for emphasis, “or stuff.”

Citing an example, he said that as President he would demand that Russian President Putin stop “the junk he is doing in Syria.”

“I would be like, ‘If you think you can do that kind of junk and we’re just going to lay back and not do stuff about it, you are sorely mistaken about that stuff,’ ” he said.

Striking a resolute tone at the conclusion of his speech, Bush told his supporters: “Read my lips: no junk stuff.”

Andy Borowitz is a New York Times best-selling author and a comedian who has written for The New Yorker since 1998. He writes the Borowitz Report for newyorker.com.

Borowitz Report

... então obrigadinho, oh pá!!!

... Fernando Santos salienta a desilusão que já sentiu de alguns que o visitaram. “Os turistas chegam e [perguntam] ‘isto aqui é que são as galerias? Onde existe o tal soul?’”. Mesmo admitindo que “a Miguel Bombarda está anunciada como um grande polo de cultura” considera que, na prática, isso “é mentira”. “Não podemos chamar hoje à rua das galerias um polo cultural forte. Os turistas que vêm de países com uma forte componente cultural – ingleses, franceses, americanos, ou de outros países que dão valor à cultura e trabalham bem essa área – chegam aqui e isto não é nada”, explica Fernando O Santo...

http://jpn.up.pt/2015/05/22/cultura-turismo-arte-na-rua-miguel-bombarda/

Aurora Lima sabe e diz...

http://jpn.up.pt/2015/05/22/cultura-turismo-arte-na-rua-miguel-bombarda/


Com a chegada do bom tempo, as ruas do Porto enchem e as galerias de arte de Miguel Bombarda também. O JPN foi saber mais acerca de quem visita estes espaços.


No entanto, Aurora Lima, colaboradora da galeria Vantag, lamenta que, mesmo nesses dias, muitos dos visitantes “gostam é de ver e ser vistos e, portanto, ficam fora das galerias a passear de um lado para o outro”. “Poucos se dignam a entrar, a ver com olhos de ver e a ter um contacto com o que se faz aqui. Há pessoas que olham só de fora e que acham que uma exposição se vê de fora”, critica, acrescentando que esses visitantes “nem compram nem apreciam”.


E quem mais visita as galerias de Miguel Bombarda? Os estrangeiros. “Temos tido mais estrangeiros do que portugueses, sem dúvida. Muitos franceses e holandeses.”, admite Aurora Lima.


Para além dos turistas, Aurora Lima tenta também “cativar outro tipo de clientes, como os colecionadores, o que já é um pouco mais difícil neste momento.” Explica que “nunca foi um bem de primeira necessidade mas agora, até mesmo a nível de investimento, decresce um bocadinho.” Ainda assim, garante que “quem realmente gosta, compra. Quem tem esse poder de compra – sempre teve – continua a comprar e não discute sequer o preço.”