friday, 28 november... a night you'd be a fool to miss. director, cameron jamie, made his uk debut. with him, the melvins to perform a dark and entrancing soundtrack.
kranky klaus... the first of three films to be shown, was by far my favorite. the film featured santa and his punishing reindeer, visiting both the good and bad. kranky klaus handed out gifts for the good. the children were merry and smiling... and when they least expected, punishment came for the bad. the team of reindeer entered the room... prancing and snarling only to beat the unsuspecting people into an oblivion.
following was spookhouse. this one wasn't so bad. detroit suburbs on holloween. strict film footage of the public gone gruesome. loads of fake blood and cardboard graves. spookhouse presented the "normal" american family as it truly behaves on my favorite of holidays... only it made it seem as if the death obsessed behavior was, on average, an everyday occurrence. very clever, indeed.
finally was bb... a documentary style film based on teenaged wanna-be wrestlers duking it out in some various back yard. i didn't particularly care for this one. perhaps my lack of interest in wrestling may have something to do with it... maybe not.
overall, i felt the films were a bit repetitive. the ideas behind them were interesting and entertaining... but once you got the point, the film ceased to develop past its initial burst. based on the content of the films and a band like the melvins, you would expect the film to have been much darker. instead, they seemed to be more like cheesie amateur films.
i really enjoy the concept and applaud both cameron jamie and the melvins for their efforts, however, i really feel if harmony korine would have tapped into this project, it would have been spectacular. korine captures an energy and essence that embodies humor and darkness all in one tight package. bra-mahfukin-go to the melvins. excellent performance... and no complaints.

a few weeks ago, i went to this amazing gallery set up in london’s old city hall… not something you’d see everyday. intimidating variations between big open spaces and smaller, more intimate rooms. the building’s structure and separate rooms allowed me to sneak a couple photos… so i share what little of this intriguing experience i can through a couple shit images and a slightly descriptive narrative.

several artists were featured within the saatchi gallery. some of the pieces presented remain in the gallery at all times. among these are a sculpture of an artist's face and a model of the human body [kinda like something you'd see in science class and make fun of its ass or better yet, detach the breast and stick in someone's chair when they're not looking]. each of these pieces are about twenty times the size of what they would be in reality. nothing too pleasing to the eye... personally.

so now on to the good shit. as you enter the gallery, there are probably six different aquariums dedicated to miniature manipulated army men, symbolic of wwii. some of the scenes are pretty gruesome. two and three headed bodies... plastic men with double the arms. skeletons. vultures. death. carnage. really interesting and seemingly time consuming.

we move on further still. next is an odd hallway. there appears to be a man at the end of it, sitting on the floor. he looks as if he's just been jogging. an older fellow... balding and worn.
as you approach, you notice he's not moving... closer still you begin to stare. obviously this guys a fake... but it's such a life-like sculpture you find yourself questioning if perhaps this guy really is alive...like one of those whackie people that make their money by rolling in the dirt and standing completely still all day. frightening, really.
realistic sculptures like the old man were randomly placed throughout the gallery. sloppie tourists, a janitor, some crazy lady with a crossed-eye. people you'd definetely call on someone in a friendly game of THAT'S YOUR BOYFRIEND. very nicely done. realistic right down to the arm hair and viens. these guys were amongst may favorites.

meet fuckface... no really... that's the title of this piece. this and the photo of the children at the start were created by the chapman brothers. these guys dish out a nice piece of work. i really wish i would have been able to sneak more photos. truly amazing. sculptures of manipulated children with asshole's for mouths. good times. you might wanna scope them out online if you're into it. i'm sure it would be worth it.

finally... the last piece that really touched me was the oil room. i have no idea what the actual name of this one was... but i will never forget it. before you enter the room, there are warnings... keep your hands close to your body... be sure to mind loose clothing and/or articles. i thought something crazy was going to attack me as i entered by the seriousness of the threats.
the only thing that grabbed me as i entered the room was the scent. oil... for sure... i don't know how many billions of gallons it might have been... but the room was full of it.
a path was set so that the viewer could walk to the end and pier into the mirrored sea. i got vertago and nearly passed out. it feel like you were on the cusp of some strange demension. ceiling to ceiling with only you in between. bueno. simple, yet truly powerful.
i wish i had more to offer. the paintings and photographs were really nice as well... but something about those sculptures really touched me. if you don't live in the land of marsh paintings and regurgitated ideas... support your art scene. really.

october 22, 2oo3, singer/song writer elliott smith stabbed himself in the chest and died at a los angeles medical center hours later. i found out from one mr. carter westerbrook... who is always in the know.
stabbing yourself in the chest is pretty hardcore. it's not the simple overdose or a slit of the wrist. he must have really hated himself. it's hard to understand... someone you admire... who has amazing talent... despising themselves so much, they plunge a knife into their chest.
smith has been known to have numerous drug problems since the beginning of time. a lot of his songs mention drug use and often times seemed to be his inspiration. perhaps this is where his motive lies.
a friend of mine used to want to marry elliott smith... despite her lesbianism. she saw him play about a year ago and vowed never to buy another one of his records ever again. he fumbled on stage and eventually fucked off, only after slobbering and forgetting nearly all the lyrics in his performance.
pressure and distorted thoughts. one thing leads to another, i guess. after so many years using, it's easy to imagine becoming bitter and self-loathing. it just seems like such a waste. his records have changed my life. perhaps that was his sacrifice to the world. who knows? he will be missed.