Tetherd Cow Ahead

Camera Toss (The Blog) is pretty much exactly what it says – a blog about, and by, people who take pictures by throwing their cameras up in the air. It is linked to copious numbers of Flickr sets of images that are gorgeous, inspiring, bizarre and even funny.

The blog describes itself as “A showcase photo-blog for the best of camera tossing and general musings on this form of abstract photography.”

Personally, I would not be using my digital camera for these kinds of shenannigans, but apparently some cavalier people are happy to do so. There are some shots from cheap ‘toy’ cameras that use (gasp) film, which I think might be more in my line.

I notice there are no stereoscopic entries. Perhaps it’s time for me to get out my old Kodak Stereo Realistâ„¢ and get a-tossin’.

Go take a look at the site and you’ll see things like this, this and this.

The musings about dreams over at Jill Writes got me to thinking about my dreams and the one recurring dream that I have.

It’s not so much a recurring dream, as a recurring circumstance, because the details of the dream always vary, but the basic structure is always the same:

I’m in a room with a group of people. It’s always a sunny, open room, with big windows on one side. Sometimes it seems like a classroom, sometimes the beautiful home of some friends. Once it was a lighthouse. There’s often a lot of wood – wooden floors, wooden window frames. Everyone is chatting, happy. I am happy too. Sometimes we are eating or drinking, like a party. Then, something passes in front of the sun and the shadow darkens the room. An awful fear falls upon me. I turn to see an enormous tidal wave, huge, towering over us, coming slowly towards us. I know with utter certainty that it will fall on us and crush us and drown us all, and that this is the end and nothing can be done about it.

And that’s it. I always wake up. I’ve had this dream many times, perhaps a dozen, and I can’t relate it to anything in my waking life.

And in another first for The Cow, we’re blogging in real time to report, as promised, on the Michelangelo’s Cafe experience, and whether they can really deliver ‘The Taste of Art’.

6:47pm: I phone in my order for a Chilli Prawns pizza from the ‘Gourmet’ section of the Michelangelo’s menu. I want to point out here that when it comes to pizzas my inclination would usually be to stick with the stock-standard ‘pizza’ type pizza. All this ‘gourmet’ stuff smacks a bit too much of gilding the lily to me. Nevertheless, we’re assessing ‘The Taste of Art’ here, so I’m pulling out all the stops. The guy who takes my order (I like to think it is Michelangelo himself even if he doesn’t have an Italian accent and doesn’t laugh at my joke regarding my ‘refined palette’) is polite and efficient. So far so good. He says my pizza will be delivered within the hour.

7:12pm: I pour myself a glass of Milkwood Shiraz from the vineyards of central Victoria.

7:16pm: I notice that the Michelangelo’s takeaway menu spells Caesar Salad as ‘Ceaser Salad’. This is not encouraging coming from Classical Italians.

7:17pm: Further scrutiny of the menu reveals that the Chicken Dinners @ $15 come in the variations ‘Medici’, ‘Isaiah’ and ‘David’. There are also pizzas of the ‘Eden’ and ‘Adam’ variety. This vague thematic thread would probably be tolerable if it were not for the fact that elsewhere in the menu we have the ‘Hot Mamma’, the ‘Barnyard’, the ‘Tandoori’, the ‘Mexican’ and the ‘Aussie’.

7:17:30pm: I feel slightly nervous.

7:17:32pm: And then slightly nauseous.

7:21pm: The Michalangelo pizza delivery guy arrives. I know this is definitely not Michelangelo because he is not wearing a smock nor spattered with paint. Nevertheless, he is speedy and has arrived well within the time promised. He doesn’t laugh at my ‘I’m a starving artist’ joke.

7:22pm: I photograph the pizza for The Cow.

7:23pm: I scoff a few slices of the Chilli Prawns pizza.

7:40pm: You know, I really wanted Michelangelo to prove me wrong. No, really. I wanted to be able to say to you “Well, Michelangelo promised the Pieta of pizzas, and, even though I was skeptical, dammit I have to take my beret off to him. I have to eat humble pizza. I have to give credit where it’s due”. I wanted to be able to say “When you’re next in Sydney, y’know, there’s a little place I must take you to, it’s not fancy but crikey, can they sculpt you up a pizza. Not just any pizza mind you, but a work of art!”

Sadly, I cannot say any of these things. The Michelangelo Chilli Prawns pizza is guilty of the most appalling crime any foodstuff, let alone work of art, can commit. It is dull. There is nothing remotely challenging or even interesting about it. If you want to talk art, this is the Ken Done of pizzas.

9:09pm: I fail to think of a witty quip for the end of this post, having been drained of all inspiration by the vacuum of creativity inflicted on me by Michelangelo and his cronies, and retire to my garret to put another layer of paint on the dead chickens. No-one understands me.

This flyer from my letterbox today.

Oh dear. Where does one start? The Ye Olde English font? (Oh, you know, it’s way back whenever, when writing was, like, all flowery an’ that…) The most unappealing image of a pizza you could possibly make (the onion still looks raw for crying out loud)? The fact that one of the most moving images in the history of human creation, the act of God and Adam poised reaching out to one another but not ever touching, is being used to sell pizza? (Maybe the idea is that God and Adam have just freshly tossed the salami and onions from on high?)

Or should we focus upon that little phrase, squeezed in almost as an afterthought: the taste of art?

Could it be that we are meant to infer that Michelangelo’s Café will create for you the Sistine Chapel Ceiling of pizzas? God help us all.

Perhaps I’m being unfair? Righty-ho, I will rise to the challenge and take it upon myself to personally assess the alleged magnificence of Michelangelo’s pizzas, with a dutiful and comprehensive report back here on The Cow in due course. That should keep everyone glued to my blog for a few days.

In the meantime, let us ponder the taste of art. I’m offering these suggestions for business opportunities for aspiring restaurateurs-cum-artists, along with tips for promotional material:

★Picasso’s (Tapas – flyer features ‘Guernica’ and a dish of paella)
★Pollock’s (Diner – flyer with ‘Blue Poles’ & plate of scrambled eggs)
★Degas’ (Creperie – flyer: ballet dancers & Crepes Suzette)
★Duchamp’s (Noodles – flyer: pic of a urinal & plate of sardines)
★Mondrian’s (Waffle House. No brainer…)
★Hirst’s (Steakhouse – cowhide flyer w. pic of jar of formaldehyde)
★Monet’s (Bagels – ‘Poppies’ + poppyseed bagel)
★Calder’s (Mobile Meal Delivery Service)
★Warhol’s Soup Kitchen…

Oh I tire. Over to you, dear readers…

For the last week or so I have been gallery-sitting my exhibition biologika, a collection of images made from mathematical algorithms, at a little gallery in Sydney’s Surry Hills. This is the first time I’ve done anything like this and it makes for extremely interesting interaction with the general public. I’ve decided that people who come into art galleries (or at least into my exhibition – I have to make it clear that my experience of gallery watching is based strictly on a sample of one) can be defined by a few major classes:

1. The Nice Normal People: These make up the greatest proportion of visitors and they usually enter shyly, say hello, look at the pieces, ask a few reasonable questions, say thanks and leave. A subset of the Nice Normal People I like to call the Very Nice Normal People, and these are the ones who do all the above including actually buying something. For the purposes of this post, this group is also the least interesting though, so moving on we come to…

2. The Serial Gallery Visitors: I can now spot these types instantly at the door. They walk into the gallery very purposefully, often with a bag full of shopping or laundry. This indicates that they are not so much visiting to view the work, as idling away a few minutes while on their way to or from doing something MUCH more important (possibly stopping to visit every other gallery in their path, one speculates). It appears that what’s hanging on the walls is incidental to their visit – they mostly want to come in and impart some kind of wisdom, usually in the form of letting me know how much they know about this kind of thing. Often they will let drop that yes, they could do this too, if they really cared to spend their valuable time in such a way. They will take whatever informational material has been provided with no intention at all of ever looking at it again. Then there are…

3. The Tyre Kickers: These people have many of the characteristics of the SGV with their own unique affectation of attempting to give the illusion that they might buy something. They look seriously at the price list and ask questions about the framing and the care of the works. They might move purposefully between two particular pieces, clucking and shaking their heads as if the decision about which one to take is the toughest thing they’ve had to do all year. But they just can’t decide so they leave, promising to come back tomorrow with a cheque… They never return. They are not quite as bad as…

4. The Undiscovered Artists: These make a cursory circuit of the work, but only just enough to give them an excuse for being here because what they really want to do is tell me all about their own artistic efforts in excruciating detail. Unfortunately they are usually incredibly boring. In some cases, they “just happen to have some photographs” of their work with them, “would you like to have a look?” (Really. This has happened twice, I kid you not). This of course confirms my worst fears and I am stuck nodding and smiling, listening to how they’re “going to get an exhibition up soon, you should come along!” and wishing that a War of the Worlds style alien invasion would start up in the street outside. I aso get…

5. The Loons: These can take all kinds of forms, from the obvious Tourette’s Sufferers to the ostensibly normal-appearing punters who reveal their thin grasp on reality only after they have snagged me in conversation. Sample exchange:

Loon: Wow, these are incredible. Did you do these?
Me: Yes, I did, I’m glad you like them.
Loon: So, how are these done then?
Me: There are some information sheets just there by the door, if you’d like to read about them.
Loon (reads information sheet which explains how the works are made): So, how are these done then?
Me (patiently): They’re made with mathematical systems.
Loon: Right. So how are they done then?
Me (realising too late that I have engaged with loon): Do you know anything about mathematics?
Loon: Nah, man. I hate maths.
Me: Ah, OK, well, it’s a bit hard to explain then. It’s not important, as long as you enjoy them…
Loon: OK. So how are they done?

I prefer the Tourette’s Sufferers because at least you know where you stand from the get go.

biologika Online Gallery [Link]
Some Photos from the Launch [Link]
Fine Art Quality Limited Edition Prints in my shop! Save a starving artist today! [Link]

A few memorable lines from the last 2 weeks:

Man with Untidy Hair (I have just explained in fairly broad terms how one of the works is made): Oh it’s no good. I have to go and have a coffee and an anti-depressant.

Nonchalant Young Man with Acne: Yeah, I do stuff like this all the time in Photoshop.

Man with Baseball Cap: I really love that domed effect on all of these. (It’s impossible to know what he means by this – there is no discernable ‘domed’ effect).

Dishevelled Man: I’ve seen everything in this gallery since it opened and this is the only thing that deserves to be called art.

Drunk and Threatening Man: I’ve come in to rob you. Have you got any money? (Pauses) Ha! I’m just kidding, I wasn’t really going to rob you.

Girl with Badly Bleached Short Hair (to companion, knowledgeably): Oh yeah, this is all those fractuals an’ that.

My new digital image exhibition opens at blank_space gallery in Sydney on June 30 and runs until July 13. Come and be part of the Opening Night illuminati or drop in any day between 11am and 6pm and save me from going stark raving bonkers. Make sure you tell me you heard about it on The Cow:

Opening Night
Thursday, June 30
6-8pm
blank_space
374 Crown St
Surry Hills
Sydney

biologika online [Link]