Monday, March 29, 2010
Critique #3
The painting is How Do You Like Your Eggs? by alias Banksy, an anonymous British graffitist and now full time artist. If features a woman dressed in full Islamic burka, holding a frying pan with a single egg and a spatula, as well as wearing an apron with the image of a woman in scantily clad lingerie.
The entire aesthetic of the piece is focused on contrast, both visually and allegorically. The dark blues of the burka and headdress is chiaroscuro with the red and bright colors of the apron. The backdrop is a light orange, which helps make the dark blue hue stand out even moreso. The medium is acrylic on canvas with very soft textures.
The painting is a statement on the oppression of women in two separate societies; one which forces woman to cover themselves, and another which forces them to be a sexual object. In both cases, the women are defined into a strict system where they are still the servants of men. It is a criticism of two separate societies and views and uses contrast to enhance said criticism.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Museums
1. Israeli Cartoon Museum
a. The Israeli Cartoon Museum is a currently unopened museum in the Holon province of Israel, featuring mainly political cartoons and illustrations, which often feature biting and humorous comedy commenting on current political debates.
b. http://www.cartoonmuseum.org.il/
2. Andy Warhol Museum – Wild Raspberries Exhibit
a. The Andy Warhol Museum is currently featuring the Wild Raspberries exhibit, which features many humor illustrations with text written by Suzie Frankfurt.
b. http://www.warhol.org/museum_info/pdfs/PR_WildRaspberries.pdf
3. Mark Twain Museum
a. The Mark Twain Museum is dedicated to the works of Mark Twain, famous American humorist and satirist whose works include The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn as well as many other short stories.
b. http://www.marktwainmuseum.org/
4. Museum of Broadcast Communications – Richard Pryor Exhibit
a. The Museum of Broadcast Communications is currently featuring a Richard Pryor exhibit, honoring the comedian Richard Pryor, who focused on racial humor and criticizing current race relations and society as a whole.
5. Museum of Humor
a. The Museum of Humor, referred to as El Museo de Humor, is located in Spain and focuses on humorous artists and painters.
b. http://vello.vieiros.com/museohumor/museum.html
a. The Israeli Cartoon Museum is a currently unopened museum in the Holon province of Israel, featuring mainly political cartoons and illustrations, which often feature biting and humorous comedy commenting on current political debates.
b. http://www.cartoonmuseum.org.il/
2. Andy Warhol Museum – Wild Raspberries Exhibit
a. The Andy Warhol Museum is currently featuring the Wild Raspberries exhibit, which features many humor illustrations with text written by Suzie Frankfurt.
b. http://www.warhol.org/museum_info/pdfs/PR_WildRaspberries.pdf
3. Mark Twain Museum
a. The Mark Twain Museum is dedicated to the works of Mark Twain, famous American humorist and satirist whose works include The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn as well as many other short stories.
b. http://www.marktwainmuseum.org/
4. Museum of Broadcast Communications – Richard Pryor Exhibit
a. The Museum of Broadcast Communications is currently featuring a Richard Pryor exhibit, honoring the comedian Richard Pryor, who focused on racial humor and criticizing current race relations and society as a whole.
5. Museum of Humor
a. The Museum of Humor, referred to as El Museo de Humor, is located in Spain and focuses on humorous artists and painters.
b. http://vello.vieiros.com/museohumor/museum.html
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Eulogy from Graham Chapman's Funeral
"Graham Chapman, co-author of the 'Parrot Sketch,' is no more.
He has ceased to be, bereft of life, he rests in peace, he has kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it, breathed his last, and gone to meet the Great Head of Light Entertainment in the sky, and I guess that we're all thinking how sad it is that a man of such talent, such capability and kindness, of such intelligence should now be so suddenly spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he'd achieved many of the things of which he was capable, and before he'd had enough fun.
Well, I feel that I should say, "Nonsense. Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard! I hope he fries. "
And the reason I think I should say this is, he would never forgive me if I didn't, if I threw away this opportunity to shock you all on his behalf. Anything for him but mindless good taste. I could hear him whispering in my ear last night as I was writing this:
"Alright, Cleese, you're very proud of being the first person to ever say 'shit' on television. If this service is really for me, just for starters, I want you to be the first person ever at a British memorial service to say 'fuck'!"
You see, the trouble is, I can't. If he were here with me now I would probably have the courage, because he always emboldened me. But the truth is, I lack his balls, his splendid defiance. And so I'll have to content myself instead with saying 'Betty Mardsen...'
But bolder and less inhibited spirits than me follow today. Jones and Idle, Gilliam and Palin. Heaven knows what the next hour will bring in Graham's name. Trousers dropping, blasphemers on pogo sticks, spectacular displays of high-speed farting, synchronized incest. One of the four is planning to stuff a dead ocelot and a 1922 Remington typewriter up his own arse to the sound of the second movement of Elgar's cello concerto. And that's in the first half.
Because you see, Gray would have wanted it this way. Really. Anything for him but mindless good taste. And that's what I'll always remember about him---apart, of course, from his Olympian extravagance. He was the prince of bad taste. He loved to shock. In fact, Gray, more than anyone I knew, embodied and symbolized all that was most offensive and juvenile in Monty Python. And his delight in shocking people led him on to greater and greater feats. I like to think of him as the pioneering beacon that beat the path along which fainter spirits could follow.
Some memories. I remember writing the undertaker speech with him, and him suggesting the punch line, 'All right, we'll eat her, but if you feel bad about it afterwords, we'll dig a grave and you can throw up into it.' I remember discovering in 1969, when we wrote every day at the flat where Connie Booth and I lived, that he'd recently discovered the game of printing four-letter words on neat little squares of paper, and then quietly placing them at strategic points around our flat, forcing Connie and me into frantic last minute paper chases whenever we were expecting important guests.
I remember him at BBC parties crawling around on all fours, rubbing himself affectionately against the legs of gray-suited executives, and delicately nibbling the more appetizing female calves. Mrs. Eric Morecambe remembers that too.
I remember his being invited to speak at the Oxford union, and entering the chamber dressed as a carrot---a full length orange tapering costume with a large, bright green sprig as a hat----and then, when his turn came to speak, refusing to do so. He just stood there, literally speechless, for twenty minutes, smiling beatifically. The only time in world history that a totally silent man has succeeded in inciting a riot.
I remember Graham receiving a Sun newspaper TV award from Reggie Maudling. Who else! And taking the trophy falling to the ground and crawling all the way back to his table, screaming loudly, as loudly as he could. And if you remember Gray, that was very loud indeed.
It is magnificent, isn't it? You see, the thing about shock... is not that it upsets some people, I think; I think that it gives others a momentary joy of liberation, as we realized in that instant that the social rules that constrict our lives so terribly are not actually very important.
Well, Gray can't do that for us anymore. He's gone. He is an ex-Chapman. All we have of him now is our memories. But it will be some time before they fade."
- John Cleese, during the funeral of Monty Python star Graham Chapman.
He has ceased to be, bereft of life, he rests in peace, he has kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it, breathed his last, and gone to meet the Great Head of Light Entertainment in the sky, and I guess that we're all thinking how sad it is that a man of such talent, such capability and kindness, of such intelligence should now be so suddenly spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he'd achieved many of the things of which he was capable, and before he'd had enough fun.
Well, I feel that I should say, "Nonsense. Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard! I hope he fries. "
And the reason I think I should say this is, he would never forgive me if I didn't, if I threw away this opportunity to shock you all on his behalf. Anything for him but mindless good taste. I could hear him whispering in my ear last night as I was writing this:
"Alright, Cleese, you're very proud of being the first person to ever say 'shit' on television. If this service is really for me, just for starters, I want you to be the first person ever at a British memorial service to say 'fuck'!"
You see, the trouble is, I can't. If he were here with me now I would probably have the courage, because he always emboldened me. But the truth is, I lack his balls, his splendid defiance. And so I'll have to content myself instead with saying 'Betty Mardsen...'
But bolder and less inhibited spirits than me follow today. Jones and Idle, Gilliam and Palin. Heaven knows what the next hour will bring in Graham's name. Trousers dropping, blasphemers on pogo sticks, spectacular displays of high-speed farting, synchronized incest. One of the four is planning to stuff a dead ocelot and a 1922 Remington typewriter up his own arse to the sound of the second movement of Elgar's cello concerto. And that's in the first half.
Because you see, Gray would have wanted it this way. Really. Anything for him but mindless good taste. And that's what I'll always remember about him---apart, of course, from his Olympian extravagance. He was the prince of bad taste. He loved to shock. In fact, Gray, more than anyone I knew, embodied and symbolized all that was most offensive and juvenile in Monty Python. And his delight in shocking people led him on to greater and greater feats. I like to think of him as the pioneering beacon that beat the path along which fainter spirits could follow.
Some memories. I remember writing the undertaker speech with him, and him suggesting the punch line, 'All right, we'll eat her, but if you feel bad about it afterwords, we'll dig a grave and you can throw up into it.' I remember discovering in 1969, when we wrote every day at the flat where Connie Booth and I lived, that he'd recently discovered the game of printing four-letter words on neat little squares of paper, and then quietly placing them at strategic points around our flat, forcing Connie and me into frantic last minute paper chases whenever we were expecting important guests.
I remember him at BBC parties crawling around on all fours, rubbing himself affectionately against the legs of gray-suited executives, and delicately nibbling the more appetizing female calves. Mrs. Eric Morecambe remembers that too.
I remember his being invited to speak at the Oxford union, and entering the chamber dressed as a carrot---a full length orange tapering costume with a large, bright green sprig as a hat----and then, when his turn came to speak, refusing to do so. He just stood there, literally speechless, for twenty minutes, smiling beatifically. The only time in world history that a totally silent man has succeeded in inciting a riot.
I remember Graham receiving a Sun newspaper TV award from Reggie Maudling. Who else! And taking the trophy falling to the ground and crawling all the way back to his table, screaming loudly, as loudly as he could. And if you remember Gray, that was very loud indeed.
It is magnificent, isn't it? You see, the thing about shock... is not that it upsets some people, I think; I think that it gives others a momentary joy of liberation, as we realized in that instant that the social rules that constrict our lives so terribly are not actually very important.
Well, Gray can't do that for us anymore. He's gone. He is an ex-Chapman. All we have of him now is our memories. But it will be some time before they fade."
- John Cleese, during the funeral of Monty Python star Graham Chapman.
Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life
Some things in life are bad
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse.
When you're chewing on life's gristle
Don't grumble, give a whistle
And this'll help things turn out for the best...
And...always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the light side of life...
If life seems jolly rotten
There's something you've forgotten
And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing.
When you're feeling in the dumps
Don't be silly chumps
Just purse your lips and whistle - that's the thing.
And...always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the light side of life...
For life is quite absurd
And death's the final word
You must always face the curtain with a bow.
Forget about your sin - give the audience a grin
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow.
So always look on the bright side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath
Life's a piece of shit
When you look at it
Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true.
You'll see it's all a show
Keep 'em laughing as you go
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.
And always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the right side of life...
(Come on guys, cheer up!)
Always look on the bright side of life...
Always look on the bright side of life...
(Worse things happen at sea, you know.)
Always look on the bright side of life...
(I mean - what have you got to lose?)
(You know, you come from nothing - you're going back to nothing.
What have you lost? Nothing!)
Always look on the right side of life...
"And that's another thing they don't like on airlines. Jokes. 'You can't joke about a bomb!' Well, why is it just jokes? What about a riddle? How about a limerick? A bomb anecdote? You know, no punch line, just a really cute story. Or, what if you wanted to remark, not really as a joke, but more as an ironic musing? Are they prepared to make that distinction? Why, I think not! And besides, who's to say what's funny?
Airport security is a stupid idea, it's a waste of money, and it's only there for one reason; to make people feel safe, to give the illusion of safety.
Because they know they can't make airplanes completely safe. Too many people have access. You notice the drug smugglers don't seem to have a lot of trouble getting their little packages on board, do they?
No, and God bless them, too.
Oh, and by the way, an airplane flight shouldn't be completely safe. You need a little danger in your life. Take a fuckin' chance once and a while, will ya? What are you gonna do, play with your prick for another 30 years? What, are you gonna read People magazine and eat at Wendy's until the end of time? Take a fuckin' chance.
And besides, even if we did make airports completely safe, the terrorists would simply find other places that are crowded; porn shops, crack houses, titty bars, and gang bangs. You know, entertainment venues.
The odds of you being killed by a terrorist are practically 0. So, I say relax and enjoy the show." - George Carlin
Outside Of A Small Circle Of Friends
Look outside the window, there's a woman being grabbed,
They've dragged her to the bushes and now she's being stabbed,
Maybe we should call the cops and try to stop the pain,
But monopoly is so much fun, I'd hate to blow the game,
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody,
Outside of a small circle of friends.
Riding down the highway, yes, my back is getting stiff,
Thirteen cars are piled up, they're hanging on a cliff,
Maybe we should pull them back with our towing chain,
But we gotta move and we might get sued and it looks like it's gonna rain,
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody,
Outside of a small circle of friends.
Sweating in the ghetto with the colored and the poor,
The rats have joined the babies who are sleeping on the floor,
Now wouldn't it be a riot if they really blew their tops?
But they got too much already and besides we got the cops,
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody.
Outside of a small circle of friends.
Oh there's a dirty paper using sex to make a sale,
The supreme court was so upset, they sent him off to jail,
Maybe we should help the fiend and take away his fine,
But we're busy reading playboy and the Sunday New York Times,
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody,
Outside of a small circle of friends.
Smoking marijuana is more fun than drinking beer,
But a friend of ours was captured and they gave him thirty years,
Maybe we should raise our voices, ask somebody why,
But demonstrations are a drag, besides we're much too high,
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody,
Outside of a small circle.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Color Of Magic
"It has been remarked before that those who are sensitive to the radiations in the far octarine - the eighth color, the pigment of the Imagination - can see things that others cannot.
Thus it was that Rincewind, hurrying through the crowded, flare-lit evening bazaars of Morpork with the Luggage trundling behind him, jostled a tall dark figure, turned to deliver a few suitable curses, and beheld Death.
It had to be Death. No one else went around with empty eye sockets and, of course, the scythe over one shoulder was another clue. As Rincewind stared in horror a courting couple, laughing at some private joke, walked straight through the apparition without appearing to notice it.
Death, insofar as it was possible in a face with no movable features, looked surprised.
RINCEWIND? Death said, in tones as deep and heavy as the slamming of leaden doors, far underground.
"Um," said Rincewind, trying to back away from that eyeless stare.
BUT WHY ARE YOU HERE? (Boom, boom went crypt lids, in the worm haunted fastnesses under old mountains . . . )
"Um, why not?" said Rincewind. "Anyway, I'm sure you've got lots to do, so if you'll just-"
I WAS SURPRISED THAT YOU JOSTLED ME, RINCEWIND, FOR I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT WITH THEE THIS VERY NIGHT.
"Oh no, not-"
OF COURSE, WHAT'S SO BLOODY VEXING ABOUT THE WHOLE BUSINESS IS THAT I WAS EXPECTING TO MEET THEE IN PSEPHOPOLOLIS.
"But that's five hundred miles away!"
YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME. THE WHOLE SYSTEM'S GOT SCREWED UP AGAIN, I CAN SEE. LOOK, THERE'S NO CHANCE OF YOU-?
Rincewind backed away, hands spread protectively in front of him. The dried fish salesman on a nearby stall watched this madman with interest.
"Not a chance!"
I COULD LEND YOU A VERY FAST HORSE.
"No!"
IT WON'T HURT A BIT.
"No!" Rince wind turned and ran. Death watched him go, and shrugged bitterly.
SOD YOU, THEN, Death said. He turned, and noticed the fish salesman. With a snarl Death reached out a bony finger and stopped the man's heart, but he didn't take much pride in it.
The Death remembered what was due to happen later that night. It would not be true to say that Death smiled, because in any case His features were perforce frozen in a calcareous grin. But He hummed a little tun, cheery as a plague pit, and - pausing only to extract the life from a passing mayfly, and one ninth of the lives from a cat cowering under the fish stall (all cats can see into the octarine) - Death turned on His heel and set off towards the Broken Drum."
- Terry Pratchet, The Color Of Magic, 1989.
Websites
http://www.funsulting.com/h_january_2002_newsletter.php
http://www.aath.org/articles/art_klein01.html
http://www.holocaust-trc.org/holocaust_humor.htm
http://www.sho.com/site/dexter
http://www.fxnetworks.com/shows/originals/sunny/
http://www.nytimes.com/1987/10/21/business/old-jokes-strike-resonant-chord.html?pagewanted=1
http://www.georgecarlin.com/
http://www.richardpryor.com/0/4107/0/1239/
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/08/how_to_tell_a_good_recession_j.html
http://www.real-depression-help.com/depression-jokes.html
http://www.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=1820
http://citizentom.com/2008/09/25/the-great-humorist-of-the-depression-era/
http://www.aath.org/articles/art_klein01.html
http://www.holocaust-trc.org/holocaust_humor.htm
http://www.sho.com/site/dexter
http://www.fxnetworks.com/shows/originals/sunny/
http://www.nytimes.com/1987/10/21/business/old-jokes-strike-resonant-chord.html?pagewanted=1
http://www.georgecarlin.com/
http://www.richardpryor.com/0/4107/0/1239/
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/08/how_to_tell_a_good_recession_j.html
http://www.real-depression-help.com/depression-jokes.html
http://www.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=1820
http://citizentom.com/2008/09/25/the-great-humorist-of-the-depression-era/
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Dr. Strangelove; or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb
"Survival kit contents check. In them you'll find: one forty-five caliber automatic; two boxes of ammunition; four days' concentrated emergency rations; one drug issue containing antibiotics, morphine, vitamin pills, pep pills, sleeping pills, tranquilizer pills; one miniature combination Russian phrase book and Bible; one hundred dollars in rubles; one hundred dollars in gold; nine packs of chewing gum; one issue of prophylactics; three lipsticks; three pair of nylon stockings. Shoot, a fella' could have a pretty good weekend in Vegas with all that stuff. "
Criticism
"Through a brilliant use of interlocking characters, themes and phrases, Alexie crafts The Business of Fancydancing's 40 poems and five stories into a seamless, searing tribute to the people of the Spokane and Coeur d'Alene reservations.
Alexie's writing builds upon the naked realism and ironic wonder of Blackfeet/Gros Ventre writer James Welch ...[and] adds a surrealist twist to convey comparable irony in his poem "Evolution" ... By the end of the poem, Buffalo Bill has taken "everything the Indians have to offer" and then changes the shop's sign from pawn dealer to 'THE MUSEUM OF NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURES.'"
- Kadwick, Kent "In a Review of The Business of FancyDancing and Old Shirts & New Skins"
Alexie's writing builds upon the naked realism and ironic wonder of Blackfeet/Gros Ventre writer James Welch ...[and] adds a surrealist twist to convey comparable irony in his poem "Evolution" ... By the end of the poem, Buffalo Bill has taken "everything the Indians have to offer" and then changes the shop's sign from pawn dealer to 'THE MUSEUM OF NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURES.'"
- Kadwick, Kent "In a Review of The Business of FancyDancing and Old Shirts & New Skins"
In Bruges
Ken, walking out with a gun to shoot Ray, whose back is turned. Ray then lifts up gun to own head.
Ken: What the fuck are you doing, Ray?
Ray jumps.
Ray: What the fuck are you doing?
Ken sticks pistol behind his back
Ken: Nothing.
Ray: Oh, my God... you were gonna kill me.
Ken: No, I wa - You were gonna kill yourself!
Ray: Well... I'm allowed.
Ken: No, you're not!
Ray: What? I'm not allowed, and you are? How's that fair?
Evolution
Buffalo Bill opens a pawn shop on the reservation
right across the border from the liquor store
and he stays open 24 hours a day,7 days a week
and the Indians come running in with jewelry
television sets, a VCR, a full-length beaded buckskin outfit
it took Inez Muse 12 years to finish. Buffalo Bill
takes everything the Indians have to offer, keeps it
all cataloged and filed in a storage room. The Indians
pawn their hands, saving the thumbs for last, they pawn
their skeletons, falling endlessly from the skin
and when the last Indian has pawned everything
but his heart, Buffalo Bill takes that for twenty bucks
closes up the pawn shop, paints a new sign over the old
calls his venture THE MUSEUM OF NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURES
charges the Indians five bucks a head to enter.
- Sherman Alexie
right across the border from the liquor store
and he stays open 24 hours a day,7 days a week
and the Indians come running in with jewelry
television sets, a VCR, a full-length beaded buckskin outfit
it took Inez Muse 12 years to finish. Buffalo Bill
takes everything the Indians have to offer, keeps it
all cataloged and filed in a storage room. The Indians
pawn their hands, saving the thumbs for last, they pawn
their skeletons, falling endlessly from the skin
and when the last Indian has pawned everything
but his heart, Buffalo Bill takes that for twenty bucks
closes up the pawn shop, paints a new sign over the old
calls his venture THE MUSEUM OF NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURES
charges the Indians five bucks a head to enter.
- Sherman Alexie