Home is where I want to be Pick me up and turn me round I feel numb - born with a weak heart I guess I must be having fun The less we say about it the better Make it up as we go along Feet on the ground Head in the sky It's ok I know nothing's wrong . . nothing
Hi yo I got plenty of time Hi yo you got light in your eyes And you're standing here beside me I love the passing of time Never for money Always for love Cover up and say goodnight . . . say goodnight
Home - is where I want to be But I guess I'm already there I come home - she lifted up her wings Guess that this must be the place I can't tell one from another Did I find you, or you find me? There was a time Before we were born If someone asks, this is where I'll be . . . where I'll be
Hi yo We drift in and out Hi yo sing into my mouth Out of all those kinds of people You got a face with a view I'm just an animal looking for a home Share the same space for a minute or two And you love me till my heart stops Love me till I'm dead Eyes that light up, eyes look through you Cover up the blank spots Hit me on the head Ah ooh
Murals were big in the sixties and seventies. Why is that? Was it Sol LeWit trickling down into economies of forms? Or was it an interest in identity politics - the mexican muralists? My local theater had a figurative doozie. I allways remember staring at the elbow poking a face in the eye. It was actually pretty trippy.
Sorry if thats too autobiographical and has nothing to do with the work. Tough noogies.
Beyond that its like a disco - or a rollerink - or any arena, really. The side of a cinderblock wall, sanitized with some abstract stripes. A semi side with logo.
All point towards the wall, which is built, brick by brick, but is perceived as a whole.
I think they paint houses with patterns in nigeria - look it up.
I wish they did that here. Its better than using pre-fab siding in a patchwork of "postmodernist" pretention.
But paint is too wild style for easy marketability. Rather reefer to the historical nature of the neighborhood regrade than embrace it or hybridize it wholesale.
I like the relationship between this piece and the one below, some of the same color themes going on, the large shape at the bottom almost functions as a landscape with the smaller shapes above it. It sort of fits with a similiar usage of space between the two.
To hold the TV to my lips, the air so packed with cash, Then carry it up flights of stairs and drop it in the vacant lot, To lose my train of thought and fall into your arms tracks, And watch beneath the eyelids every passing dot
Donald is generally giving us a picture of a landscape remapped via Friedrich Froebel, zig-zag waving us across the sky. In a sense this image does have a lot to do with Crow. Donald's exteriors are built from visceral substances of the mind, though oblige us in the same way we look out at things: the top is where we expect it to be, the basement below our feet. Crow's, of course, are more gastric--interiors that have been superimposed onto the canvas. And then again on-top walls, windows, dressers and chairs--something else is going on via la' pancreas.
What it does show, with both artists, is that abstraction is not a thing in itself, but a transition into one's interiority, drawing the outside in, wherein it might be at one time the wave, or the tablecloth--gently tugged from one corner in, in hope not to disturb things unnecessarily. Though the sounds of crashing silverware cups and squawking gulls tell us otherwise--perhaps a forewarning that the quick pull is sometimes better, as is the big crash!
17 comments:
Odili Donald @
Jack Shainman gallery
513 West 20th Street
NYC
did he drop the odita?
he had some nice big wall pieces, like murals, in a show here last year. they worked well within the architecture of the space...
Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb - born with a weak heart
I guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's ok I know nothing's wrong . . nothing
Hi yo I got plenty of time
Hi yo you got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up and say goodnight . . . say goodnight
Home - is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home - she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time Before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be . . . where I'll be
Hi yo We drift in and out
Hi yo sing into my mouth
Out of all those kinds of people
You got a face with a view
I'm just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I'm dead
Eyes that light up, eyes look through you
Cover up the blank spots
Hit me on the head Ah ooh
Murals were big in the sixties and seventies. Why is that? Was it Sol LeWit trickling down into economies of forms? Or was it an interest in identity politics - the mexican muralists? My local theater had a figurative doozie. I allways remember staring at the elbow poking a face in the eye. It was actually pretty trippy.
Sorry if thats too autobiographical and has nothing to do with the work. Tough noogies.
Beyond that its like a disco - or a rollerink - or any arena, really. The side of a cinderblock wall, sanitized with some abstract stripes. A semi side with logo.
All point towards the wall, which is built, brick by brick, but is perceived as a whole.
I think they paint houses with patterns in nigeria - look it up.
I wish they did that here. Its better than using pre-fab siding in a patchwork of "postmodernist" pretention.
But paint is too wild style for easy marketability. Rather reefer to the historical nature of the neighborhood regrade than embrace it or hybridize it wholesale.
Like a detail of a Bridget Riley or something.
something therapeutic about this-would like to see in some kind of health care setting,low key cheeriness
I always think it's from the 50s,for a minute,tho-
I like the relationship between this piece and the one below, some of the same color themes going on, the large shape at the bottom almost functions as a landscape with the smaller shapes above it. It sort of fits with a similiar usage of space between the two.
Interesting...
To clarify, I meant that the bottom third correlates with the ground in Crow's painting. Hope that makes some sense.
Like wandering in a desert of obscene jungian synchronicity.
I say zig, you say zag, but its basicly a jazz joint. Allways has been. Allways will be.
Like a jive turkey magnet.
Naive Melody by The Talking Heads.
It feels naive and melodious. It hums.
It's not carpet, not sand, not a pigmented clay wall, not Flintstones vitamins mashed up and made into watercolor.
I'd sit next to it for a while if I could.
To hold the TV to my lips, the air so packed with cash,
Then carry it up flights of stairs and drop it in the vacant lot,
To lose my train of thought and fall into your arms tracks,
And watch beneath the eyelids every passing dot
This thing hasn't generated a lot of comments, it seems. I never take this as a good sign.
Personally it bores me to tears.
Donald is generally giving us a picture of a landscape remapped via Friedrich Froebel, zig-zag waving us across the sky.
In a sense this image does have a lot to do with Crow.
Donald's exteriors are built from visceral substances of the mind, though oblige us in the same way we look out at things: the top is where we expect it to be, the basement below our feet.
Crow's, of course, are more gastric--interiors that have been superimposed onto the canvas. And then again on-top walls, windows, dressers and chairs--something else is going on via la' pancreas.
What it does show, with both artists, is that abstraction is not a thing in itself, but a transition into one's interiority, drawing the outside in, wherein it might be at one time the wave, or the tablecloth--gently tugged from one corner in, in hope not to disturb things unnecessarily. Though the sounds of crashing silverware cups and squawking gulls tell us otherwise--perhaps a forewarning that the quick pull is sometimes better, as is the big crash!
Like a detail of a Bridget Riley or something
no, nothing like Bridget Riley.
I'd say Karl Benjamin and Helen Lundeberg. My fave is Dutch Light, 2004.
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