artMovingProjects Blog

Sopa Pipa Protest

2012-01-19T08:46:00.000-08:00

We are shutting down.

Makes no sense at all Husker Du

2011-12-23T06:39:00.000-08:00

eat your robot

2011-12-22T13:55:00.001-08:00

http://www.tommoody.us/archives/2011/12/21/my-robot-can-eat-your-robot/

Michael Richards 911 memorial

2011-12-05T12:41:00.000-08:00

scrape book to write any memories one might have.
I met Michael in the Aim program at the Bronx Museum. As far as I know he was the only artist to die in the collapse of the towers. I went to the memorial yesterday and after probing a screened guide found his name. We got there during daylight and at first i was awed by the enormous absence the enormous square hole created. As it got dark and I started to search the names for my lost friend a whole new experience was created. The light from behind the water grew interference patterns that climbed up the cascades. Michael was a really great artist that was included in an early artMoving show in 1995. R.I.P.
Grant

"Play Station" & "BYOB" @ Postmasters

2011-12-04T10:00:00.000-08:00

December 8 - 22, 2011 opening Thursday, December 8, 2011 6-8pm*  

PLAY STATION

curated by MARCIN RAMOCKI AND PAUL SLOCUM

*BYOB: Bring Your Own Beamer:
Games Edition on Thursday, December 8

PARTICIPATING ARTISTS:
MIKE BERADINO
MAURO CEOLIN
MARY FLANAGAN
TRAVIS HALLENBECK
JEREMIAH JOHNSON
ERNESTO KLAR
JOE MCKAY
JASON ROHRER
RAFAËL ROZENDAAL

EDDO STERN
CJ YEH

clockwise from top left: Mary Flanagan, Eddo Stern, Rafael Rozendaal, Jason Rohrer

Postmasters has the pleasure to present “Play Station”: a collection of 12 game and play related pieces by 12 digital artists from all over the world. We would call them "interactive", except nobody likes that word anymore... We would call them "fun and exciting", but that would sound contrived and corporate… We would call them "post-video-game", but that would sound offensively academic. So we will not say anything about them except that you can play with them all you want at Postmasters Gallery from December 8th through 22nd.

Featuring recent playable art projects by MIKE BERADINO, MAURO CEOLIN, MARY FLANAGAN, TRAVIS HALLENBECK, JEREMIAH JOHNSON, ERNESTO KLAR, JOE MCKAY, JASON ROHRER, RAFAËL ROZENDAAL, EDDO STERN and CJ YEH, plus bonus selected objects from PAUL SLOCUM'S early videogame collection.

Not interactive and fun enough for you? On December 8th during the opening, the exhibition will be supplemented by Bring Your Own Beamer: Games Edition. BYOB is a series of one-night-exhibitions started by Rafaël Rozendaal where artists come together Salon-style with their video projectors. For this iteration of BYOB, we are asking participants to bring their projector with interesting and unusual video games to show and play. This BYOB event is open to anyone with a projector. If you would like to participate RSVP to BYOBgamesedition@gmail.com with some information about what you plan to show on your beamer.

Ken Butler

2011-12-03T06:48:00.000-08:00

Opening reception Sunday 1-4 ... http://islipartmuseum.org/

_____________________________________________________

KB performing live for a film being shot at Jalopy this Monday 1-4

They requested an audience ... come by and be in a movie!!!

(We'd like Ken Butler to play a variety of instruments from his set, that get increasingly inventive. Including a couple of his stringed creations ('anxious objects'), the ax, bicycle wheel, umbrella, toothbrush, and his skull (or other body parts!)

We may ask him to go through 30+ minutes of his set)

Paper Chain Productions LLC

paperchainproductions@gmail.com

www.facebook.com/paperchainproductions

JALOPY THEATRE

315 Columbia Street in Brooklyn (between Red Hook and Carroll Gardens)

http://www.jalopy.biz/

REVOLUTION

2011-11-15T10:43:00.001-08:00

Pick

2011-11-14T10:45:00.001-08:00

Issue #3:
TELEFONE SEM FIO: Word-Things of Augusto de Campos Revisited

November 4 - December 17, 2011

Opening Reception, Friday, November 4, 6- 9 pm

@ EFA Project Space

323 W. 39th St., 2nd fl. (b/t 8th & 9th Ave.)

A collaboration between Telephone and EFA Project Space
with Ugly Duckling Presse

Poets: Jean-Sébastien Baillat, Jen Bervin, Ray Bianchi, Macgregor Card, Nico Pam Dick, Kenneth Goldsmith, Thessia Machado, Benjamin Moreno, Charles Perrone,Steve Savage, and Edwin Torres.

Artists: Angela Lain & Rafael Detanico, Bibi Calderaro, Deric Carner, Brendan Fernandes, Rossana Martinez, Tom Moody, Trong Gia Nguyen, Jennifer Schmidt, Dannielle Tegeder, and Andrea Van Der Straeten.

Curated by: Sharmila Cohen and Paul Legault for Telephone; Michelle Levy for EFA Project Space

Beyond the pop

2011-10-23T07:55:00.000-07:00

Beyond the pop

Low Anthem rises high but remains grounded

By Jed Gottlieb
Friday, October 21, 2011 - Updated 2 days ago
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A fat chunk of modern pop music resembles fast food. It may be tasty to the ears, but it’s mass produced without creativity and leaves you hungry for something real.

The Low Anthem is something real.

The Providence band — which plays and films a live DVD tonight at the Somerville Theatre — performs its strange and sublime folk rock on antique pipe organs, rusty singing saws, battered guitars and other odd instruments. It has recorded albums in a house heated by wood stove in January on Block Island and at ex-Providence mayor Buddy Cianci’s long-shuttered pasta sauce factory.

But as the Low Anthem transitions from local favorites to a global touring sensation, the band is determined to never serve fans a Big Mac.

“We know we have to face the reality we’re in,” singer/multi-instrumentalist Ben Knox Miller said. “We know we can’t hand-make our CDs anymore. But we can still try to do things differently, to never repeat ourselves.”

In 2008, when a Low Anthem gig attracted 60 people at Cambridge’s Toad, the band spent a month hand-painting 7,000 CD covers — a personal touch impossible to keep up with now that the band is playing to 100,000 fans a year.

“We have more than 40 songs for two albums, but they will be more than albums,” Miller said. “They’ll be a story, a picture book and a set of sculptures. It’s going to be a full multimedia project.”

The planned 16 sculptures are based on a piece Miller saw at the Burning Man festival. His hope is that strobe lights and spinning pieces will make the installation look like a primitive stop-motion animation film.

So far Miller only has blueprints, but he hopes to eventually bring the piece on tour. Actually, he hopes the piece gives the Low Anthem a reason to tour again. After spending the better part of three years on the road playing from Golden Gate Park to Oslo, Norway to Mass MoCA, the band struggles to keep its live show fresh.

“When we began, we were petrified of our audience,” Miller said. “Just now have we started to open our eyes and look around. We’ve gotten comfortable interacting with our audience, and all the smoke and mirrors disappeared. We want to rebuild some smoke and mirrors, maybe literally with this installation.”

The band may not play a single show in 2012 after wrapping up a tour of Canada in February — another unique quirk, the Low Anthem jumped at the chance to play Edmonton, Saskatoon and Quebec City in the dead of winter. The group may never tour again, although Miller says that’s unlikely.

“The goal is to spend the year on all-new projects,” Miller said. “If these projects go smoothly, we might be out on the road next year.”

Then Miller laughed.

“If we run into the problems ... well, who knows what will happen?” he added. “I know I just need to get back to working with my hands, back to building something.”

The Low Anthem, at the Somerville Theatre, tonight. Tickets: $19; ticketmaster.com.

-— jgottlieb@bostonherald.com

Is That Warhol Fake? Even His Foundation Isn't Sure

By KELLY CROW

How can you tell if an Andy Warhol silkscreen is the real thing or a fake? Even the Pop master's own art foundation has given up trying to tell the difference.

The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts said Wednesday that in coming months it plans to shut down its authentication board—the only independent arbiter of the legitimacy of Warhol works that turn up on the art market.

The six members of the authentication board, which include museum curators from San Francisco and Denver, will issue rulings for its remaining caseload of about 175 possible Warhols before closing up shop for good, said Michael Straus, chairman of the foundation's board.

Nick Rhodes

Joe Simon, who sued over his purported Warhol "Self-Portrait," above.

Mr. Straus said a recent string of costly legal disputes with collectors contesting the board's findings influenced the board's decision to give up its role as the "final word" on the late artist's creative output.

One of the highest-profile disputes involved a London filmmaker, Joe Simon, who sued the board four years ago after it refused to vouch for his purported Warhol "Self-Portrait."

By the time Mr. Simon dropped his suit last November, the artist's foundation had spent more than $7 million defending the board's ruling, with help from major law firms like Boies, Schiller & Flexner.

With the authentication board winding down, the roughly $500,000 a year it spent on travel and research expenses will be reallocated. Mr. Straus said the foundation plans to devote more of its efforts and money to making arts grants. It has already spent more than $206 million on such grants since its founding in 1987, three months after Warhol's death.

"We'd rather our money go to artists, not lawyers," Mr. Straus added.

Beginning Thursday, collectors who unearth a possible Warhol will need to seek out a Warhol scholar of their own, or consult the artist's official record of known works logged in the foundation's archives. Auction houses and Warhol-savvy dealers also can appraise and vouch for the legitimacy of works, but they may have a financial interest in finding them genuine.

Jose Mugrabi, a major dealer and collector who owns at least 800 Warhols, called the board's dissolution "totally irresponsible." He said there are still "hundreds" of Warhols in existence that have yet to be tracked down and authenticated by scholars. He said at least 100 of the Warhols before the board now belong to him.

"I have to sit down," Mr. Mugrabi said when informed of the board's vote. "They have an obligation to finish their job."

Auction-house specialists from Sotheby's and Christie's were more sanguine. Sotheby's expert Tobias Meyer said he will simply resell works that are already logged in the archival records. Brett Gorvy, an expert at Christie's, part of Christie's International PLC, said any fakes that roll onto the marketplace in coming months "will be easy to spot."

In part because high Warhol prices can feed the frenzy for other contemporary artists, collectors and dealers have long paid close attention to his prices. The Pittsburgh-born artist created about 8,000 paintings and sculptures between 1952 and his death in 1987, and they turn up at auction so consistently— about 200 works a year—that they have become a bellwether for the entire $25 billion art market.

Four years ago, a collector paid Christie's a record $71.7 million for a 1963 work, "Green Car Crash." Last year, about $337 million of Warhols changed hands at auction—more than just about any artist aside from Pablo Picasso, whose auction tally for the year topped $385.4 million, according to Artnet, a New York firm that tracks auction sales.

Mr. Simon, the filmmaker with the rejected Warhol, said he "isn't surprised by" the board's dissolution but hasn't decided whether to seek other Warhol scholars to vouch for his silkscreen.

Camp Kinderland

2011-10-13T09:11:00.000-07:00

Camp Kinderland

Camp Kinderland and the Kinderland Kindershule

are going to Zuccotti Park to join Occupy Wall Street.
Come with us!

Saturday, October 15th - 3:00 PM

Meet at the northwest corner of Zuccotti Park
(Church and Liberty Streets)

Look for the big yellow banner. We're planning to do some singing and hope you'll come down to add your voice. We'll have guitars and songsheets--later in the week we'll try to send a link so you can print your own.

See you Saturday, October 15th

3:00 PM

NW Corner Zuccotti Park

at Church and Liberty

Call for Artists: Wall Street Occupennial!

2011-10-06T05:55:00.000-07:00

Art Fag City

by Whitney Kimball on October 5, 2011 · 0 comments

Liberty Plaza general assembly meeting

Art is mobilizing! The Wall Street Occupennial is gathering proposals, volunteers, and donations in order to hold a series of art events related to Occupy Wall Street. They are currently archiving all occupation-related art projects on the Occupennial’s tumblr page, and apparently an upcoming exhibition will take place outdoors, across from the New York Stock Exchange.

Picks

2011-09-28T06:23:00.000-07:00

Exit Art Rico Gatson
David Zwirner Lisa Yuskavage

Here presents an excellent compare and contrast lesson from the Yale School of Art,
and the differences of commercial and nonprofit venue. I think the clues are self-evident in the websites although as these are both mates will make the trip or should I say voyage. Rock On!
Some thoughts- both shows and artists are content heavy although that is not what is discussed,
perhaps in rejection of the heavy formalist critique that was served in art school in the late 80's.
Lisa's shows, I always over hear some apprehensive painter utter, "well at least she can paint"
With Rico it is unstated but admiration for flawless surface and perfect joinery can not be denied. Gatson's work and this show plays with the abstraction of race, personal and cultural experience. Yuskavage narratives deal with the offering of female sexuality, seduction, and the abject, though the body and landscape as object and space. In both cases paint, flatness, the sublime, and spiritual is paired against the unspeakable, flowers in ass holes, or portrait of the clan. It's like love me even though I smell bad. Some of us do.

Zoe Sheehan Saldana

2011-09-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

Breaking

2011-09-14T08:14:00.001-07:00

The Andy Warhol self-portrait

Addison Thompson's case against the Andy Warhol Foundation is thrown out. Update he found the above piece and after looking it at three times and many factually incorrect deductions The Andy Warhol Foundation refused authentication.
We think it is a Andy Warhol, Phillip Pearslstein saw it thought it was without a doubt,
Paddy Johnson also agreed. The Judge's statements "this will not be heard in my court"............

PICK

2011-09-14T07:04:00.000-07:00

Vibrating Body

New assemblage works by Ken Butler

September 10 – October 9, 2011 opening reception Sat. September 10, 6-9 pm

Sideshow Gallery presents “Vibrating Body”, an exhibition of diverse assemblage works on panel by artist-musician Ken Butler. Echoing his hybrid instruments and collages, these new works further abstract and transform the human-figure-instrument-body iconography he is known for and push it further into the realm of mechanical bio-structure and cybernetics, implying a sacred altar-like space and referencing the cycle of deformation and re-formation.

Constructed primarily from consumer detritus, social discards, and vernacular urban flotsam and jetsam, these works become inter-woven cyphers of the new resonant technological “body” of modern existence, with it’s ever-complex “control systems” to regulate desire, at times referencing traumatic memories and turbulent meanings.

Sideshow Gallery 319 Bedford Ave. Williamsburg, Brooklyn http://www.sideshowgallery.com/index.html

"Red Track Record", assemblage, 60"x 40" x 3", 2011

Characterized by his obsessive desire to re-order the world around him, Butler’s multi-disciplinary creations can be difficult to describe as they bridge visual art, design, performance, and life itself in unusual ways. Ever the urban bricoleur, the artist is a resourceful problem-solver committed to exploring and re-configuring our relationships to the objects around us.

Conrad Schnitzler (1937–2011)

2011-09-10T09:50:00.000-07:00

via frieze/Tom Moody

August 20, 2011 by Geeta Dayal

Photos of Conrad Schnitzler, taken by Ken Montgomery in Schnitzler's Berlin apartment, 1983; all photographs courtesy: Ken Montgomery

In the early 1960s, Conrad Schnitzler met Joseph Beuys in a bar in Düsseldorf. Beuys was at the start of his legendary run as a professor of ‘monumental sculpture’ at Düsseldorf’s Kunstakademie. Schnitzler was a sailor, who specialized in fixing the engines of merchant ships in nearby ports. Beuys took a liking to Schnitzler, inviting him to be one of his students. Schnitzler enrolled at the Kunstakademie, but dropped out a year or two later, much to Beuys’ dismay. If, as Beuys famously entreated, ‘everybody is an artist’, why did he have to go to school to be one? Schnitzler travelled for a few years, making metal sculptures and performance art. Then he took the metal sculptures he built during his time with Beuys, which he had covered in stark planes of black and white paint, dragged them all to a grassy field, and left them there.

Schnitzler during his days as a performance artist, c.1979.

Schnitzler made his way to Berlin, where he made the transition from sculpture to electronic music. But Conrad Schnitzler – or ‘Con’, as he liked to call himself – never liked to be called a musician; he preferred to use terms such as ‘intermedia artist’. He didn’t really align himself with other artists, either; despite associating with many prominent members of Fluxus, including Al Hansen, he never called himself a Fluxus artist. In 1968, Schnitzler established the legendary Zodiak Free Arts Lab on the Hallesches Ufer in Kreuzberg, the cradle for Berlin’s budding Krautrock scene, but he rarely talked about it in retrospect. He was a founding member of Kluster – the roots of which would become the group Cluster, a few years later – and of Tangerine Dream, but left both groups soon after forming them. Despite releasing nearly 100 records over the course of his career, he never once signed a record contract. In the 1970s, he released a string of increasingly impressive solo records, but at the seeming height of his powers, in the early 1980s, he grew increasingly reclusive, rarely leaving his home in the outskirts of Berlin. In a statement Schnitzler penned in 2001, he wrote: ‘I never leave my hometown. I do l’art pour l’art. I don’t need popularity. I don’t like to answer questions.’

Schnitzler’s refusal to align himself with any group – whether it be a label, a band, a movement – stemmed, in part, from his memories of being a child in Germany during the time of the Third Reich. ‘Because of being a young child during World War II, he had an extreme aversion to any groups getting together to promote anything,’ says his old friend and collaborator Ken ‘GenKen’ Montgomery. Schnitzler was also too individualistic, too idiosyncratic, to be content in any group for very long. ‘He was someone who couldn’t submit to any rules,’ remembers his longtime friend Wolfgang Seidel, who was the drummer, for a time, in the outspoken leftist rock band Ton Steine Scherben. Seidel met Schnitzler in 1969, first playing with him in the loose collective known as Eruption, before going on to collaborate with him on many other albums, often under the name Wolf Sequenza. ‘On one side he was eager to create new things,’ says Seidel, ‘but he had no interest in doing so according to rules defined by someone else, by tradition, or by a market [...] in sculpture, you’re in a long tradition, which for Conrad wasn’t so attractive. But this new music was a field that was very, very open, in that day. He never stopped being someone who worked in fine arts. His little studio was somehow a sculpture. He built everything – he built the furniture. Everything was created with some sort of master plan in his mind. The ideas he had, like the suit with the built-in cassette players, and the helmet with a loudspeaker in it – normal musicians would never have these ideas.’

Schnitzler was part German and part Italian, and sometimes said that he owed his rational, mathematical side to his German father and his feisty, passionate side to his Italian mother. There was Conrad Schnitzler, the friendly, cheerful family man who cared deeply for his wife and three children. Then there was Conrad Schnitzler, the avant-garde performance artist with a speaker mounted on his head, who once punched a journalist at the Venice Biennale for asking him a stupid question. When I corresponded with him, in 2008, he first told me that he had no time to answer questions, and then sent me an email that was nearly 30 pages long. In it was a long letter, along with artist statements he had written, clippings, memories from his childhood, detailed lists of equipment he was using, extended essays and lists of his favorite artists and musicians. In the letter, which was sad and poetic, he told me that he knew his life was ending, and that he had no interest in the past; he was always searching for a new beginning. ‘I live for today,’ he told me.

Schnitzler had a radical, sculptural approach to sound, an approach that descended from his time with Beuys and his time spent toiling in factories and engine rooms. During his days as a sailor in West Germany, Schnitzler listened to the radio at night, tuning into the likes of Stockhausen and Nono on Herbert Eimert’s pioneering Neue Musik broadcasts. He drew connections between the music he heard on the radio and the music of the ship engines. ‘He knew the sound of the ship’s engine so intimately, every creak and sound that the engine made,’ says Montgomery. ‘He knew by listening what he had to do to fix it. When the ships would dock in the ports – when they’d shut down for the night – they would have their foghorn signal. I remember him talking about standing on the deck of the ship and hearing this, when the ship would shut down. Basically, it was this fantastic sonic experience for him that was coming from all directions.’ Over the course of his life, Schnitzler tried to recapture that experience of being on the deck of a ship, making music that felt like it was coming from all sides. In his studio, which he painted black, he surrounded himself with speakers.

In the mid-1960s, Schnitzler met Hans-Joachim Roedelius, who became his bandmate in Kluster a few years later. ‘He was like a father to his child to me in Berlin when I was in a miserable situation,’ remembers Roedelius. ‘He motivated me to become an artist.’ Roedelius stayed with Schnitzler’s family for a while. ‘We worked together to earn our living in Berlin,’ says Roedelius, ‘as well as in Corsica, where we worked as roofers building bungalows in a camp for nudists in the mountains.’ Schnitzler’s first musical project, which also involved Roedelius, was called Geräusche, which translates as ‘Noises’ – one can only imagine what they sounded like, because no recordings exist. In 1968, Roedelius and the collective he aligned himself with at the time, Human Being, helped Schnitzler start the Zodiak Free Arts Lab, but Schnitzler was the heart of the project. ‘Con started the Zodiak by himself,’ says Roedelius. ‘We (at the time ‘Human Being’) got involved, but the main activity to find and rent the rooms of this venue came from him. I was in Paris when Con called me to come and help renovate the venue, and when I arrived everything was almost ready, but the Human Being guys (Boris Schaak and Elke Lixfield, mainly) helped Con to do the work.’

Schnitzler photographed with two Buddha statuettes on his knees c.1982

The Zodiak was, like many of the things Con did before or since, painted white and black. ‘It was two rooms,’ recalls Seidel. ‘One was white – when you entered, you walked into a white room. At the entrance there were several pinball machines and TV sets. And there was just a white room with furniture that was taken from everywhere [...] the second room was completely black, and had no furniture at all; it had four scaffolds painted black that could be used for sitting down or could be used for stages.’

The Zodiak wasn’t just a performance space, though many key performances happened there. The white room was designed to be the space where communication happened, where like minds collided. Kluster – and by extension Cluster – rose from the Zodiak; fellow member Dieter Moebius, an art student in Berlin who was then working as a cook, met Roedelius and Schnitzler there. In 1969, Kluster played a marathon 12-hour concert in an art gallery above a shopping center in Berlin. It was a crazy stunt, but it worked; the gallery was crowded all night, according to Roedelius. ‘The 12-hour concert was Con’s idea, a great idea,’ says Roedelius. ‘The 12 hours were the loudest 12 hours of my life!’ remembers Moebius.

Moebius and Roedelius soon splintered off to form Cluster, exploring softer, more melodic avenues than their noisier predecessor. Schnitzler remained resolutely anti-commercial, but the issues between them were more aesthetic than financial. ‘In the beginning, it was no problem to work together,’ says Moebius. ‘We split because he really was making very harsh sounds, not because he didn’t want to make money.’

‘He said he wanted to break up their sound,’ says Montgomery. ‘He came with a bunch of metal pots and he put microphones in, and he put stones in them, and was connecting them to tape delay, and he was playing a lot of noise and trying to play louder than them, and making it more like a factory or the engine of the ship. He was trying to make a cacophony, or noise, and they were trying to play an organ, or a guitar riff, or whatever.’

Though the Zodiak itself was short-lived, the mythic status of the space only grew with time. Schnitzler didn’t really talk about it. ‘Con never said “Oh, I started the Zodiak club,” says Montgomery. ‘He was really into starting things and not taking credit for it. He’s notorious for getting major labels interested in his music and then just being like “Oh, forget it, I’d rather do it for a friend.”’

Schnitzler was also briefly in Tangerine Dream, appearing on the album Electronic Meditation, released in 1970. One of the instruments that Schnitzler played during his short stint in that band was a metal cup, which he filled with shards of glass. Schnitzler’s distaste for conventional melodies and instrumentation ran deep, back to his childhood. Schnitzler’s father played music, according to Seidel, but whenever young Conrad tried to play an instrument, his father would grab the instrument from his hands to show him how to play it properly.

In the early 1970s, Schnitzler found his instrument of choice – the newly released EMS Synthi A, a portable analogue synthesizer that fit in a briefcase. It was essentially a slightly cheaper VCS3, the synthesizer that Brian Eno was using with Roxy Music at the same time. Schnitzler initiated a ‘colour series’ of records, beginning with Schwarz (Black), a 1971 recording with Kluster, sometimes also confusingly titled Eruption, and proceeding to solo territory with Rot (Red, 1973), Blau (Blue, 1974), Grün (Green, 1981), and Gelb (Yellow, 1981). ‘I really love the colour records, especially Rot,’ says Keith Fullerton Whitman, who released his own tribute to Rot in 2000. ‘It’s very unusual. It was rhythmic, but it didn’t adhere to this pulse-oriented Berlin school thing; it was still very free. I think it was the first time I heard all these unsynchronized rhythms going at once, and it made perfect sense; it wasn’t this random crossing of things. A very schizophrenic record, in a way that I could really relate to at the time.’

Schnitzler playing his self-built cassette tape organ the ‘Kassettenorgel’, c.1985

The peak of Conrad Schnitzler’s solo work in the 1970s, and one of the great peaks of his career, was the album Con, produced by Peter Baumann and released in 1978. Also known as Ballet Statique (Static Ballet), the album was the most elegant statement realized by Schnitzler, and still stands as a timeless work of electronic music.

In 1979, Schnitzler served a brief but influential two-week appointment as an art teacher at Hamburg’s Hochschule für Bildende Künste. Thomas Fehlmann, who had recently started a band with some of his art-school compatriots called Palais Schaumburg, was one of Schnitzler’s students. ‘He set up a little studio in his room and invited everybody to come along,’ recalls Fehlmann. ‘I was really interested in this idea of a studio, and of electronic music making. I found him to be a really open person […] it wasn’t electronics only, or exclusively. It was, ‘Let’s see how we can get these guys who usually make photos or paint or make films to make music.’ We collected quite a few recordings after his two-week stint in Hamburg, and we decided to make a record.’ That record was Das ist Schönheit (This is Beauty), a double LP that featured several current or future members of Palais Schaumburg, including Fehlmann, Holger Hiller, and Walter Thielsch – along with many others.

In the 1980s, Schnitzler became more reclusive. He continued to churn out albums at an astonishing rate. Each album was different from the last; each was on a different label. His 1980 record Auf Dem Schwarzen Kanal was a mangled new wave 12-inch released on the major label RCA. ‘With that RCA record in 1980, he didn’t get paid a cent,’ says Montgomery. ‘Because when he went in the room to sign the contract, he wouldn’t sign the contract. He would say, ‘Here’s my music. If you make money, give me some money.’ He didn’t sign the contract, so he didn’t get money.’

The theatrical cover featured Schnitzler in full black and white face paint. The look was au courant for the time – in make-up, he bore a striking resemblance to Klaus Nomi – but it was a long-running part of Schnitzler’s whole aesthetic. Schnitzler would paint his whole studio black – the floors, the ceilings – and only wear white. Or he would paint his entire apartment white, and only wear black.

Music was catching up to where Conrad Schnitzler had been in the flower-power 1960s, with industrial groups such as Throbbing Gristle in England and Einstürzende Neubauten in Germany. Put Auf Dem Schwarzen Kanal on side by side with the Neue Deutsche Welle groups of the time, such as DAF, and it seems less strange. Schnitzler was already bored with this, coming up with fantastical new visions of what to do with his music, like playing at Yankee Stadium with 50,000 cassette players in the audience. He wanted to do cassette concerts with trees, too, perhaps inspired by Beuys’ 7,000 Oaks project for Documenta 7 in Kassel in 1982.

Schnitzler at Generator gallery, New York, pointing to the ‘NOW PLAYING’ sign, 1989

In 1989, Schnitzler ventured to New York City, in a rare stateside appearance, to visit Montgomery at his space, Generator, a gallery dedicated to sound art. But Schnitzler didn’t advertise his arrival. ‘When Con came to New York, he didn’t say he was going to do a concert or that he was going to perform,’ says Montgomery. ‘I just put an ad in the Village Voice, saying that Conrad Schnitzler will be at Generator on this particular night. He was just entertaining people, talking, telling stories [...] occasionally someone would say, ‘When are you going to play?’ He had a sign on the wall that said ‘NOW PLAYING’. When anyone would ask, he would get his conductor’s wand and point it to the sign that said ‘NOW PLAYING’. This went on ‘til midnight. At midnight, he put a black bandanna on his head and sat in the corner and wouldn’t speak to anybody. And when everybody finally left, he just took off the bandanna.’

Schnitzler continued to make records through the next two decades, up until four days before his death. He inserted himself more heavily into the production and distribution process, self-releasing his own CD-Rs. Shortly before he died of cancer on August 4, he initiated the ‘Global Living Project’, sending strands of his hair to far-flung geographic locations throughout the world. ‘I send my DNA (my hair) to different places in the world,’ he wrote. ‘This means I’m all over the world. I’m everywhere, even when I’ll be dead. Nobody must come to my grave in Berlin. My friends can visit me in the whole world now.’

Schnitzler’s decision to send his hair around the world made cosmic sense; it fit in perfectly with his life’s work. ‘There is this Fluxus idea of little boxes of things that you leave as an artist,’ remarks Seidel. ‘No big paintings in galleries – just little boxes of things. The idea to separate the art and the artist is something that goes back a long way in Conrad’s way of working [...] musicians want to perform on stage, and in the end, get the applause. But Conrad created music that could be performed without him. These hundreds of solo tracks he made – for cassette and then on CD – that could be mixed and combined by someone else […] Conrad gave people all these tracks that they could combine how they like it. Conrad’s idea was to have people in different countries on every continent who get supplied by him with these solo tracks, to be able to perform his music all the time, in a different way.’

In Schnitzler’s life, everything was integrated. ‘It’s not haphazard,’ says Montgomery. ‘The way he makes his records, the way he makes his covers, his apartment. His life, and every decision in it, was part of his art. He really lived the way Joseph Beuys taught […] he breathed and lived art.’

About the author

Geeta Dayal is the author of Another Green World (Continuum, 2009), a book on Brian Eno, and is currently at work on a new book on the history of electronic music.

John Bailey Band

2011-06-25T06:17:00.000-07:00

www.cdbaby.com/cd/johnbailey

Nico by Micha Namenwirth 5

2011-06-16T11:03:00.000-07:00

From now on Uncle Jan is going to kick me in the butt

During the winter of 1940-1941 there was ice. Not far from us, opposite the apartments then being built, was the end of a canal which ran all the way to Ouderkerk on the Amstel.

During the summer season, a small boat, piled high with fruits and vegetables, occasionally sailed there. During the winter season, the water was frozen solid. Then small stands, selling pea soup or anise milk, were erected on the ice, and young and old skated on the canal. Often we skated together underneath small bridges … further and further, all the while holding on to a long stick.

I wore wooden Dutch skates strapped to my shoes. I wasn’t very skilled yet, got cold quickly and sniffled all day long.

Nontheless one day I was allowed to skate to Ouderkerk together with John. We departed together, but after a while he was gone. He was particularly good at skating and had probably joined one group or another, perhaps holding on to a stick, setting off at a high tempo for Ouderkerk.

I struggled ahead off and on, ate pea soup, took off my skates, tied them on again, all the while suffering from the cold. That whole day I didn’t see John at all, but no matter what, I had to reach Ouderkerk.

When my brother returned home, he received a proper dressing down for not having remained with me as promised. All the while I was still on the endless return trip to Amsterdam. It had turned dark. The booths had disappeared and so had most of the skaters.

Mom and dad were terribly worried, imagining the very worst - their youngest son drowned, frozen, arrested. I continued scraping on and on, however, blubbering. And then I arrived home. My parents and my brother were so relieved.

Just as our tom-cat had done, I pretended all this was perfectly normal - it had been fun, spending the whole day making the round trip to Ouderkerk.

The longer we lived in Amsterdam, the more dangerous it became. The business was now managed by a person appointed by the Germans. For that reason, in the late-summer of 1941 we moved to Zeist - at the center of the country - for Jews were no longer allowed to live near the coast.

I am sitting in my easy chair, reading a few letters from Leeuwarden:

Aunt Mies

Dear mom and dad,

Saturday, Unce Jan, Aunt Mies and I made a trip to Groningen. First we went shopping, then we had a drink in a hotel-resoraunt [restaurant], Uncle Jan had a beer, Aunt Mies coffee and I lemonade. Then we went somewhere else to eat - mashed potatoes, meat gravy (really delicious), purslane and pudding. It was a beautiful stadsion [station].

And later on we had another refreshment somewhere else, Aunt Mies and I took a bottle of lemonade, Uncle Jan a glass of gin.

Sunday, Aunt Mies’ parents are visiting. A boy in our class has his birthday on the second day of Whitsuntide. He has invited a bunch of kids, including me. Then we will play in a grotto. I will be a koiboi [cowboy], and there will be indians. I don’t know yet whether Aunt Mies will permit me to attend. Bye! from Nico Nanning. Bye!

Dear John,

You better read that letter addressed to mom and dad as well. I don’t have to wear that brace anymore. Our teacher had to leave for a while, then we had another teacher. Soon, I am going to have my jig-saw repaired. I don’t believe a little blade will cost a whole lot. What do you think? Then I am going to make something for you. What, I don’t know as yet. I’m going to quit right now. Bye, N. Bye! NN, from your own brother.

Uncle Jan

Dear mom and dad,

Last week we had fish, two days running. One fish had a green bone. I already got my report-card. Aunt Mies and Uncle Jan gave me a guilder. Today we are visiting the Doornbos family, friends of Aunt Mies and Oom Jan. I’m sitting now in Uncle Jan Doornbos’ room. My grades have improved by 1,75 points . Let’s say, 2 points. I received your letter today.

Bye! from Nico Nanning

Arithmetic 7

Writing 7-

Dutch 7+

Geography 7

History -

Diligence 8

Behavior 8

Order/Neatness 8

Absences 2

Reading 7+

Dear mom and dad,

The day I went to Stiens, I had a punctured tire. We had the tire repaired and were ready to leave, when it blew up again. Now you can inflate the tire, but after fifteen minutes it’s flat again. I will be getting new tires, one or two, I’m not sure. I’m also not certain whether they are the right size. Good, isn’t it? They are supposed to be tires from before the war, real good ones.

Is the wish-list okay?

Two friends of mine (Kees and Jan Stout) and I hiked to ‘Stania State’ in Venkerk, three hours walking, ten miles away, sandwiches along, leaving at a quarter to nine, back at six. Stania State is a very large forest.

Our morning maid and the cleaning lady have a week of vacation, and the other cleaning lady hardly ever comes. Therefore I helped cleaning up the washed dishes. I saw a play, ‘Paddertje, the cabin-boy of Michiel Adriaanszoon de Ruiter’. It was beautiful. Yesterday it rained, there was a thunderstorm. Bye! Nico Nanning

P.S. Aunt Mies asked me to tell you, that I am drinking buttermilk all the time, because it helps my eczema.

Dear John,

I watched the play, ‘Paddertje, the cabin-boy of Michiel Adriaanszoon de

Ruiter (of Vlissingen)’. It was very compelling. And now I’m asking for the book for my birthday, although I’m afraid it’s no longer in the stores. I am getting new tires, from before the war, although I am not sure if they fit. When my present tires are inflated, they empty after a quarter of an hour. The front tire isn’t quite as bad. Is it equally hot at your place? Probably I don’t even have to ask. Here everybody is suffocating. Bye! Nico Nanning

*****

I am reflecting a bit on those letters: the lemonade in Groningen, the meat gravy and the fish with green bones. Eating and drinking clearly was terribly important during the war.

Bicycle tires too. After a few years, tires were no longer available. First people rode on solid tires, later on wooden strips, and still later on the rims alone.

When I was living in Leeuwarden, Aunt Mies was expecting lady visitors one afternoon. She had kept a few genuine chocolate bars from way back, neatly separated into individual pieces and displayed in a silver bowl. These pieces were waiting for the visitors.

I walked by once or twice. The sight made my mouth water. Did Aunt Mies plan to give me a piece? Possibly yes, possibly no. I could have asked, although there were no signs indicating that the chocolate was intended for me.

The temptation was considerable. I took one piece and stuck it in my mouth. Aunt Mies, however, a champion at arithmetic, noticed at once that something was missing. I got a proper dressing down.

Reflecting after all these years, I think she should have given me a piece, or at least have said something.

Later I discovered that I was allergic to chocolate. As it was, I suffered from eczema, a kind of itch which started in Leeuwarden.

*****

I’m thinking back to Nico’s most recent visit, our talk about the war and the ice cream cone with three scoops.

It’s my time to go shopping, so I grab my things and take my leave of Bobby. The entrance gate is open. To my surprise Nico is standing behind the entrance door, half-hidden, peeking into our court-yard.

‘What are you doing here?’

A bit shy he responded: ‘I was curious to see where you actually lived.’

Although Nico’s visit wasn’t particularly timely, I was glad to see him. ‘If it suits you, you may come along.’

He was indeed interested. We walked to my dependable steed and drove together to the next village.

‘What a lovely car,’ he exclaimed, ‘brandnew and shiny. That must have cost a lot of money.’

‘Not really,’ I answered. ‘It’s pretty old, but on the island distances are limited.’

‘Where are we in fact?’ he inquired.

‘We are on one of the Canary Islands. It belongs to Spain and is situated not far from the African coast.’

‘Africa?’ he asked. ‘But that’s terribly far. How do you get here?’

‘With a plane … and then a ferry.’

Nico seemed surprised. ‘Have you flown here yourself?’

‘Yes, often.’

‘Incredible.’

He recounted English and American war planes flying over and the German fighter planes bombarding Rotterdam. ‘I have seen many burning planes come down after being hit by anti-aircraft guns. But flying myself, no, I have never done that. I’d love to, though.’

We got out of the car to do our shopping.

Nico’s eyes popped as he saw all the delicious products being offered for sale.

I bought him a large orange and a few bananas. He didn’t require encouragement. The fruit was gone in the wink of an eye.

When we were back in the car, Nico returned to our earlier conversation.

‘You said that Germans aren’t more evil than other people,’ he remarked. ‘And yet they invaded the Netherlands, arresting Jewish boys. The English and the Americans haven’t done that.’

‘True, but one cannot condemn the entire German nation for that.’

‘Yes but ...’

Nothing more, even though he clearly disagreed with me.

Having bought everything Bobby had asked me to, I took Nico to the large park atop the island. We walked around in the rain forest. He was astonished at the many strange plants and trees.

I told him about horizontal rain - how clouds blow across the ocean, leaving moisture high above the island without actual rain - and about the ‘Guanches’ as well, the people who lived here before the Spaniards conquered the islands: ‘They lived in caves and had a king.’

As we returned to the car, Nico wanted to know what had happened to the Guanches.

‘They disappeared,’ I replied.

‘Exterminated?’

He viewed me anxiously.

‘I’m afraid so. No one knows exactly what happened. Apparently they fought like lions.’

On the way home, Nico returned to the subject. ‘Why were those poor Guanches exterminated? What had they done wrong?’

I made a remark about how things used to be, but Nico interrupted me angrily: ‘Used to be?! It’s still the same. Now it’s the Jews ...’

‘Don’t exaggerate, not everyone ...’ but Nico refused to listen.

He was angry and sad.

When we had returned to our village, I asked whether he would like to join me. This time around, he didn’t feel like it.

Zeist

It was a lot more fun living in Zeist than in Amsterdam. At the time, Zeist was no more than a large village. We occupied half a villa at the edge of a forest. The house was white, with a rainwater barrel in front. At one end of our street lay the so-called ‘stuifheuvel’, a fairly high sand hill, at the other end two ponds, ideal for skating in wintertime. Our garden was basically a stretch of pine forest. Between the village and our house lay the ‘Zeister Woods’, divided by a stream. There was plenty of space for playing.

Emerging from our garden we stepped directly into nature. We often hunted for mushrooms, accompanied by our dog Rodo, a cocker spaniel. Although we were in the middle of the war, our life in Zeist felt more peaceful than it had in Amsterdam. We lived there for only a little over a year, but it seemed much longer.

Quite a few Jews had moved to Zeist and become our friends, including the Mazurs, the Meyers, the Schussheims and the Cahens. Jules and Frie Cahen had four kids: Gideon and Abel, Ruth and Judith. Their younger son, Abel, became my first real friend. We played together in the forest, jumped across streams, made pipes from acorns and straw, then used them to smoke pulverized willow catkins.

Abel’s father was an engineer who had been employed by Philips (Norelco) in Eindhoven and later by the Dutch Railroad System. We vistited them often, usually by bike.

One day my dad had bought splendid new bikes for all of us, a true luxury during wartime. We parked the new bicycles in the Cahen’s front yard against a hedge and locked them securely. However, when we returned from our enjoyable visit, the bikes were gone.

Abel’s dad looked for dynamo torches (flashlights with batteries were no longer available); then we followed the tracks the thieves had left. It reminded me of that procession, long ago, on the Veluwe. Now too, it was pitch dark and the lights produced by the dynamo torches resembled Chinese lanterns. It was spooky again, though not as frightening as earlier. By now I was quite a bit older and in the company of my best friend. The search came to nothing. We never saw those beautiful bikes again.

During that period dad no longer went to work, so he had more leisure time to spend with us. We played soccer and hiked. During the winter there was snow. We owned a fairly large sled, which could be steered. There were hills in the forest. I recall all four of us going sledding together. We whizzed downhill, only to climb up again. Alone, or with a partner, on our bellies or on our bottoms, we tried desperately to remain upright, taking care not to crash into a tree.

For a while John and I attended the public school in Zeist. One of the teachers was a certain Anton Lingeman, someone who remained our friend long afterwards. He was in the resistance movement and made a giant contribution, assisting the many Jewish families in Zeist to survive the war. The time came when we were no longer permitted to attend that school, so that my parents, together with other Jewish families, were forced to establish a school of their own.

Now that wasn’t simple at all. A building had to be located, as well as teachers, school desks, textbooks … One female teacher traveled daily from Amsterdam. The other was George and Zula Mazur’s son. The Mazurs who were Viennese, became intimate friends of my family’s. If I am not mistaken, Peter had just entered the University to study Physics. I remember visiting him much later in Brussels, when he was working on a doctorate with Professor Prigogine of the Université Libre de Bruxelles (the Free University of Brussels), where my two Antwerp cousins, Judith and Evelyne, went to school as well. At that time, of course, I had no idea that I would later be working for that institution myself. Peter remained all his life a Physics Professor at the University of Leyden. Our Jewish school in Zeist became a convivial place, where we remained until we had to go into hiding. Though I was only eight years old, it was already my third school.

Since Jews were no longer allowed to attend public performances, mom and dad organized private concerts at our home. Mother had a good friend who was a professional pianist. She was friends with a young violinist. The two formed a duo devoted to classical chamber music. During the afternoon they presented a concert for the young people. At night they performed for the grown-ups.

Although John and I were supposed to be sleeping, the two of us would be secretly sitting on the staircase, listening to the grown-up music: sonatas by Mozart and Beethoven. We had become somewhat familiar with that kind of music since father owned a wonderful collection of historical recordings with Yehudi and Hepzibah Menuhin, Simon Goldberg and Lilly Kraus. These discs, and the live performances in particular, left an unforgettable impression and contributed directly to my later choice of profession.

Daddy was active in the affairs of the Jewish community in Zeist. He was President of the local ‘Joodse Raad’ (Jewish Council). That was an organization created to assist the Jewish community in the face of persecution and exclusion. At the time, mother always spoke of the Jewish Council in reverential tones, and I was extremely proud of my father. He assisted people in obtaining false identity papers, and addresses where they could go into hiding.

False papers were a frequent topic of whispering about the house. It was practically impossible to survive the war without an identity card. Such a document was required in order to obtain ration-cards. Almost all food-stuffs were rationed. Without a ration-card, no food.

Daddy knew resistance fighters such as Anton Lingeman, who broke into the town hall to steal cards, seals, ink and stamps. Then another person would fashion false identity cards out of these elements.

After the war it became known that the Jewish Council of Amsterdam, and possibly also elsewhere in the Netherlands, had played a problematic role during the war. Mediating between the invader and the Jewish community, was later judged to have been a form of collaboration. I don’t believe that things took place in Zeist which couldn’t pass muster - I never heard anything of that nature - but I do know that, afterwards, the Jewish Council was a topic which was rarely mentioned at home. That subject had become tabu.

I recall John and me being angry that only middle class Jews could afford false identity papers. Somehow or other we had heard, or understood, that poor Jews, the proletariat, were totally helpless, without a glimmer of hope of surviving the war without some money. This upset us and, as young as we were, we participated in furious debates on this issue. And yet, we profited without protest from dad’s investments. Without these savings, Nico wouldn’t have written his letters and Micha couldn’t have compiled a little book from them.

Around that time it became apparent that John was suffering from diabetes. We believed that the illness was caused by one jolt or another. At home we often speculated about what might have precipitated John’s condition.

Annie, who had joined us in Zeist, tumbled down the staircase one day. Fortunately she suffered only a light concussion, but my brother took it hard, convinced that his rough-housing had been responsible for her fall.

And then there was the incident with the drain cover. Together with a lot of other children we were playing field hockey in our street. As goal posts we used the iron covers of the sewer system, between the street and the sidewalk. At a given moment a goal was scored, but the ball had disappeared into the sewer … gone! In order to retrieve the ball, the heavy iron cover had to be lifted. Together with a few big strong kids, my brother raised the iron lid. Quite a few children were standing about. Someone must have accidentally jarred the thing, for it fell down suddenly, right on top of John’s middle finger. I still remember his face, ashen, and obviously the finger was bleeding profusely.

In truth, no one could be certain why and how the diabetes started. In my opinion, it was a combination of the persecution of the Jews, Annie’s tumble and the shock of the sewer grate.

Insulin had been discovered only recently. Without it John wouldn’t have survived. Throughout the war, it remained a difficult task to locate the prescribed dose. Unknown people, resistance fighters, would come by, late in the evening or in the middle of the night, to drop little packages.

But despite this medication, John was often seriously ill. At times matters went awry and he had to be admitted to a hospital. His presence in those hospitals made me jealous. Why wasn’t I admitted as well?

John’s illness demanded a great deal of attention. It preoccupied the minds of my parents, especially my mother’s and it’s possible that, because of it, John received more attention than I did.

Many decades later, when my mother was in her eighties, and John had died, she confessed to having felt terribly guilty that she accorded more time and love to her firstborn child than to me. She didn’t use those exact words, but that’s what it boiled down to. I hadn’t experienced it that way, as far as I can recall. I wasn’t jealous of my brother, with the exception of those hospital stays of course.

Later, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I had to be hospitalized myself for an appendix operation. It was a terrible experience and I was relieved when I was allowed to go home. After that I never longed for hospitals again.

While we lived in Zeist, relatives and friends regularly came on farewell visits. Having them stay over with us was lots of fun, but sad as well, since nobody knew whether we would ever see one another again. We were in celebration mode, enjoying the occasion until we suddenly realized that we were at war and that, as Jews, we were in danger. At such moments, everyone would turn silent and somber - one could have heard a pin drop.

Despite such moments of gloom, I recall Zeist as a paradise between Amsterdam and the period of hiding. But it had to end. The danger was clearly approaching. I recall whispering about acquaintances who had been arrested. Others had gone underground.

I remember burying our silver-ware next to the garage. Other objects found a temporary home with non-Jewish friends.

And then decision-time had arrived. We were all standing in the living room, my parents, my brother and I. Everyone realized that we were facing a decisive moment, the beginning of a farewell. Then mother spoke:

It’s becoming too dangerous to remain here. Daddy has obtained false identity papers. We no longer are called ‘Namenwirth’. Our new name is ‘Nanning’. You must forget the past, that you once were called ‘Micha’, that you used to be a Jewish boy. Remember well, now you are Nico Nanning.

One evening, after we had already gone to sleep, John and I had to get up and dress. It was pitch dark. In total silence we were taken to Childrens’ Home ‘Zonnestraal’ (Sunray). Our period of hiding had begun.

*****

I pick up the pile of letters and start reading them. Where had I left off?

Dear John,

Are you disappointed that I can’t come? Did you like the story mom made up? I’m going to copy a passage from a very nice book. You ought to read it in the letter I wrote to mom and dad. It’s an old fairy tale, told and rhymed again. It’s a lot of fun. Why don’t I send you a snippet? The Green Police [‘die grüne Polizei’] has visited us too. Best read about it in another letter. Bye! from Nico

Tim and Tom had their birthday tomorrow

A great night

Tim and Tom, two goblins, had their birthday tomorrow. They were twins. So they invited Squirrel and Rabbit, together with their families. They ate as much as they possibly could of the cookies and pretzels. The squirrels had acorns and beech-nuts, the rabbits sprouts and marzipan. Aren’t those delicious? They shook paws, then danced for hours. Night fell. It was as though they were dancing on fragile China. It was time to go home. Once they arrived there, they had to admit that, never before, had they enjoyed a night like that.

Sunday, Dear mom and dad,

Thanks so much for that wonderful story. I enjoyed it a lot. I am inventing a story of my own, or rather, I am not writing it myself, really, but am copying it from a book. I am in the process of copying the entire book, all thirty three pages. It’s called, ‘About a magic fish’. It’s all poetry. I am writing it down on a note-pad. Maybe I’ll send you the beginning. I can’t send all of it now, because I don’t consider it neat enough.

Die grüne Polizei

Most of those Green Police men have left. They were here too. They wanted to know, whether we had a radio (no), how many people were living here (two and a child). Then they departed. How far they went, I don’t now exactly. All I heard was the whirring of a motor and talking in German outside. I’m disappointed I can’t join you, but that’s the way it is. Bye, Nico

Monday

P.S. This afternoon I will be swimming with Gerie and Kerstie Toxopeus. And if the weather clears up, I am allowed to go biking with my friends as well. This morning, I toured around the block with Jan and Lottie van der Vlis and Wiets Eebels. Bye! your Nico

Thanks a million for the three guilders. Aunt Mies says: ‘We’ll dissipate them’. Is that okay?

Leeuwarden, June 25th 1943

Dear Johnny,

Congratulations with your birthday. Aunt Mies bought the book for me. I have approximately sixty cents left. I have to save like crazy to be able to return the money. I have been to Appelscha with Aunt Mies and Uncle Jan. ‘Het oog in het zeel’ (The eye in the web) appears a nice book to me. I hope that we may celebrate your next birthday together again. Congratulated that you passed your exams. I am not writing very neatly, since this letter has to be mailed soon.

Uncle Jan’s ear hurts. He went to see a doctor at twelve thirty, returning only at a quarter to four. I haven’t heard yet what’s causing the pain. Probably he’ll come up soon, so that I can ask him. Hopefully he won’t get ill.

I am curious whether I will be promoted in school. In exactly one week holidays will start. I’m going to ask when this letter has to be mailed. It was beautiful in Appelscha. I’ll draw how it was. On the way back I was carrying a garden chair, a bag containing a tin can, a pair of shoes, a jar of jam and a bunch of honeysuckle in my hand. This is how I looked. The drawing will follow later. Bye, yours, Nico Nanning

Uncle Jan has, as we call it, the mumps.

Congratulations with your birthday

June 1943

Dear mom and dad,

My congratulations for John’s birthday. Aunt Mies told me to write something about our visit to Appelscha. Did John like the book? Did he get a lot of presents or not? I have difficulty keeping everything straight when the paper isn’t lined.

At Appelscha

We took the train to Heerenveen and went from there by bus to Appelscha. There were three children. Vroukje must be roughly sixteen years old, Annie eighteen and yet another of twenty to twenty one years. We took several hikes in the forest and in the dunes too. There was a lot of fishing going on. We got an egg almost each morning and porridge two to three times a day. We bicycled to Oosterwolde, where I drank lemonade; Uncle Jan and Aunt Mies had coffee. When returning home (we had bought a stool in Oosterwolde), I carried a bag with a tin can, shoes, jam, the stool, in addition to a bunch of honeysuckle. This is what I looked like. Bye! from Nico Nanning

Dear mom and dad,

Many thanks for the wonderful story. You asked if I considered them too childish, but I find them beautiful, not childish at all (I’m not sure whether ‘childish’ (kinderachtig) is one word or two). This morning I received a postcard from Miss Algra, my piano teacher. Aunt Mies tried to fool me recently by telling me that I would return to Zeist, but I figured out that it couldn’t be true. I’m making progress in swimming. Yesterday, I learned to move with hands and legs together, for at first you have to be able to swim with your legs alone. In a week I can swim somewhat.

Mom, you should write a book. You are good at it. Yesterday and the day before, and three days ago, it was impossibly hot here.

Bye, from Nico Nanning, Bye!

July 15^th 1943

Dear mom and dad,

I was promoted to the fourth grade. My report card remained the same. That’s because we had new teachers all the time and therefore they don’t know what marks to give. And yet, quite a few pupils lost ground, but not a single one improved (their grades). It’s unusually busy in town, but I’m hanged if I know why. There is shooting and a lot of noise.

We have six weeks of summer vacation. The other schools only four. The weather is fine now. Lately I borrow books from Kees Stout, who is in the fourth grade. Now I got a book from the library. It’s called ‘Air Pirates’, and a wonderful book. I will be in fourth grade myself. There I’ll study fractions. Now we are done with cubic measures such as cubic feet. For the piano I got a new score, Duvernoy, pronounced as ‘Duvernwa’.

P.S. Unexpectedly, my jigsaw works again. Bye! from your NN (N. Nanning)

Dear John,

I am permitted to swim every day. The pool is quite beautiful, a paddling-pool and then it continues diagonally down. Outside, everyone is screaming and pushing, for a boy has touched a girl and now she doesn’t want to come with him.

Bye, Nico

P.S. When do mom and dad have their birthdays? Bye!

Dear mom and dad,

I am allowed to go swimming every day. That sulscition [subscription] is for daily swimming and I have a student card as well. I’ll draw the swimming pool. I’m going to frame one thing, a print. I keep those stories and pictures I received in the folder formerly used for writing paper. I still have to swim with my legs alone.

Each swimming lesson takes approximately a quarter of an hour. My fountain pen was empty. Aunt Mies suggested that I write with pencil, but I don’t know how to do it, for it hardly shows on this paper. Drawing the swimming pool won’t be easy.

P.S. I had to start all over again with my swimming, for I had forgotten everything. Bye!

Dear John,

Today we have fine weather here, I hope that it will stay that way. All the boys here cut airplanes out of wood and then have them painted (or sprayed). They take the examples from a little book, ‘Boys of twelve to thirteen years old’. It isn’t bad, but almost all of them have a bandage round one finger, or even two, as with Gerrie Heeringa or Jan Post. Jan Post has easily twenty five planes. Do you know how long it takes before a bulb which has been put in a pot, shows up?

Have your new bike tires been installed or didn’t you get new tires? My bike has been totally refurbished, a new gear-case, a new lock, completely spruced up. Please let mom and dad know about that, for I forgot to write them about it. Or show them this letter, since I wrote about different things to you than to them.

Daddy has his birthday soon, doesn’t he? Only 16 more days. I plan to give him, oups, I better not write that, it should remain a surprise. We have a dog here, ‘Katie’. This Monday he is leaving again. He belongs to a family that’s on a trip to Apeldoorn, and now the dog is with us as long as they are gone. That family is called ‘Vahl’ (pronounced as ‘vaal’). Bye, Nico

July 8^th 1943

Hello dad, hello mom,

I’m going to sleep. It’s eight o’clock. Sleep well, bye! Nico N.

P.S. Aunt Mies said that, today, I drank as much as two quarts of milk, if it hasn’t been more than that. Bye!

P.S. Many thanks for that great bicycle tire. Bye! Nico N.

P.S. Aunt Mies told me that this letter is far too short. For that reason I’ll add on to it.

Thank you for the lovely story about that dream. It was beautiful and thanks for the letter. I will try to answer your questions. I’m not all that eager to return to school, although it’s fun to go to school. That tire hasn’t been put on my bike as yet, because I have a cold. I can’t use the bicycle now anyhow. Did John get a tire as well? Today I am allowed to go swimming again for the first time. The weather here isn’t anything to write home about. That’s the reason I helped with vacuum cleaning, picking the withered flowers in the garden, etc. On the piano I like to play songs from ‘If you know how to sing, sing with us’. With a single hand. Bye!

*****

Those Green Police, that’s a story! It happened in the middle of the night. I had been sleeping for hours when the noise awoke me. Outside one could hear slamming doors, boots on the sidewalk, the roaring of loud orders in German. They rang our bell too. I was aware how dangerous this could be. I was trembling in my bed. What a difference with Tim and Tom: ‘When they were home, they said they never had experienced a wonderful night like that’.

Aunt Mies did not come up to find out if I was awake. I didn’t go down either. No one consoled me, no one cuddled me, even though I was very frightened.

‘I’m disappointed I can’t join you, but that’s the way it is’.

‘I hope that we may celebrate your next birthday together again’.

The short vacation in Appelscha was fun. ‘An egg almost each morning and porridge two to three times a day’. I enjoyed it a lot, those eggs and the porridge. But so much porridge?

I clearly recall the walks in the forest, the house in Appelscha where we stayed as well and the voices of the three daughters I had trouble understanding. I don’t believe they spoke Frisian, but it wasn’t Dutch either, at least not the Dutch I was used to.

Those wooden planes in bright colors I remember too. They were shiny and finely finished. The war had a hold on us there as well. Tin solders, weapons, airplanes, anything connected to the war fascinated us. That war was all-consuming and had us in its grip for many years.

A matter that impressed me greatly were bicycles carrying a small metal plate that read ‘OZO’. I have no idea what function that plate had. Most boys I knew interpreted that mysterious lettering as ‘Oranje Zal Overwinnen’ (Orange Shall Conquer), whispering those words to one another. That was our contribution to the resistance movement. But then there were a few pessimists or friends of the Nazis, who read in this secret message the words, ‘Oranje Zal Ondergaan’ (Orange Shall Perish).

‘If you know how to sing, sing with us’ is a blue book containing patriotic songs. It’s still sitting in my cupboard here. Mother played the piano part. John and I sang along lustily. What I loved above anything else were the Beggars Songs from the period of the Eighty Years War (the Geuzenliederen), the ‘Wilhelmus’ (the Dutch national anthem) being one of them.

And then the milk. Uncle Jan had bought a whole lot of milk from a farmer. All that milk barely fitted in the largest pot we had. It had to be boiled and it was my job to watch the operation, although I could hardly look over the brim of the pot. As soon as the milk started boiling, I was to turn off the gas. Clearly, the milk should not boil over. But it took forever. No end was in sight. I was quite attentive, watched the pot all the time and continued to watch as, finally, the milk began to turn lukewarm, then warm … and at last hot.

I continued to observe what was going on. Yet I must have become distracted for just a second and at that moment exactly, the milk started to boil over. Not a whole lot, but enough to infuriate Uncle Jan.

I was unhappy and felt wronged. Does a person who has tried so hard deserve to be bullied? Of course I shouldn’t have let the milk boil over, that was obvious. On the other hand, it took so long. Can a person be attentive without interruption, especially when that person isn’t yet nine years old?

*****

Here on the island I frequently visit a farmer who grows organic vegetables. He lives above the beach of La Caleta. It’s one of the most beautiful spots around, affording a splendid view of the island of Tenerife and the mighty volcano El Teide. The ocean waves incessantly wash ashore, breaking against the cliffs. When the weather is good, it’s a perfect location for swimming. The water never cools off entirely. There isn’t a real sandy beach, although there are areas of black sand with stones. Thus one must always be careful not to stub one’s toe when entering the water.

After I had bought vegetables, I drove to the small parking area above the beach.

Nico was waiting for me on the stairs, so we descended together to where the fishing boats are moored and where a rock jetty extends out into the ocean. We climbed over the cliffs to a spot directly above the water. The sea was crystal-clear.

I handed Nico a paper bag containing a cheese sandwich, a piece of rice cake and an apple. He was ready for it and finished it off in a moment.

When he was done, I asked whether he would like to go swimming with me.

He wanted to, but considered it a bit frightening since he wasn’t a true swimmer yet. He was still taking lessons. We therefore took off our shoes and socks. I rolled up my long pants and then we were ready to go wading.

Nico enjoyed the water, at times walking fairly far into the sea, then running back hurriedly so as not to get soaked. He never had enough and he might be there still, if I hadn’t insisted that we call it a day.

I returned to my former spot. After a while, Nico sat down near me.

There was nobody else at the beach.

Gazing into space, he inquired whether there had been Guanches at La Galeta.

I simply didn’t know.

Then he asked softly: ‘Why are Jews being persecuted?’

Yes, what is the reason? That’s not a simple question. It required some reflection.

Then I told Nico about a people who very long ago looked after sheep. ‘They didn’t have a country of their own and moved from place to place. Like other tribes around them, they served a multitude of deities. But there came a time when they honored only one God. He led them to the promised land, assuring them that they were his chosen people. From then on they inhabited their own country, building a temple in Jerusalem. However, powerful nations lived close by. They fought wars. The Jews were enslaved and taken to Babylon, to Egypt. Again and again they returned.’

‘Moses led them back from Egypt,’ Nico knew.

‘After their temple was destroyed, they rebuilt it,’ I continued.

‘And when the oil had gone, God helped the lamps to burn without oil. That’s why we celebrate Hanukah,’ declared Nico.

I regarded Nico admiringly. ‘You have understood it well. And still later, the Romans conquered their homeland,’ I picked up the story. ‘From then on, the great exodus started. The Jews dispersed across the globe. They were blamed for the death of Jesus Christ. They were said to be proud, claiming to be God’s chosen people. They were persecuted, forced to live separately in ghetto s. They weren’t allowed to do this or that. The majority was poor.

Some assimilated and became Christians or Muslims. Many were forced to do so. Others adhered to their faith and tradition. Where possible they built synagogues, trying to maintain Jewish communities. But again and again there were progroms.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s comparable to what happened in Holland during the war. The Jews were arrested, dislodged or killed, their possessions confiscated. They were forced to start again somewhere else, until the same thing began all over again. But the majority, like bonpapa and bonmama, obstinately held fast to their beliefs and traditions. They maintained their courage, in part because God had promised that the Messiah would come, leading them back to the promised land.’

‘I don’t understand it,’ Nico said. ‘Why is this necessary?’

‘There is such a thing as anti-Semitism,’ I replied, ‘a deep-rooted suspicion, even hatred of Jews. It has been around for a long time. After a while, though, Jews were allowed to participate more than in the past. They were free to live where they wished, study in schools and universities, practice any profession they chose. Then too many Jews remained poor, but others were successful in business, as artists and scientists, as physicians and lawyers.

This gave rise to jealousy, to the feeling that strangers were taking away the best jobs.

There were many anti-Semites in Germany, but also in France, in England, even in the Netherlands.’

‘That Jewish officer in France was falsely accused,’ Nico reminded me.

‘Dreyfus?’

‘Yes, Dreyfus.’

Boy oh boy, I said to myself, that Nico is quite knowledgeable, considering that he’s only a little fellow.

‘However, in Germany,’ I continued, ‘the Nazis grabbed power by exploiting xenophobia, hatred of Jews in particular. They went much further than most, not only hating Jews, but exterminating them as well.’

Nico looked away. He was pale. ‘Incredible,’ he said, ‘people doing things like that.’

I put an arm around his shoulder to console him. He felt tense. Of course he did, in the middle of the war!

‘Are you coming?’ I enquired.

‘Yes, I would like to.’

There were quite a few steps and it took a while before we arrived at the parking lot.

Then we drove home.

Nico was surprised that the road was so poorly maintained. We jolted through pits and hollows. We climbed up the mountain, driving close by deep precipices.

Nico was a bit worried, looking anxiously out the window.

I had to concentrate, especially when passing an oncoming car. There was barely enough room to pass one another on this narrow road.

‘Have you ever experienced a thing like this?’ I asked, but the bird had flown.

On the way

The children’s home was only two streets away from us. We had walked or biked by it numerous times. It was a large, white building on the edge of the woods. We knew quite a few kids from the village school who lived there. Their parents had jobs abroad or were divorced. Other kids had been naughty. Whenever my brother or I had gone too far, father used to say: ‘You better be careful, if you keep this up, you will end up in “Huize Zonnestraal” (Sun Ray House).’

And now we were there.

The place was bursting with regular residents, in addition to crowds of Jewish kids who lived there, not because they had been naughty, but because their parents hoped they would be safer there than at home. However, it wasn’t safe there at all. Among other reasons, the regular boys and girls chatted at school about all their new friends who remained all day back at the children’s home.

And there were so many Nazi collaborators. We knew exactly where they lived. The children’s home was separated from the road by a high hedge, containing huge holes, so that we were convinced that the whole town could see us, ready to denounce us to the police.

Fortunately our stay in the home was of short duration, for it was far from pleasant there. Mrs. Kramer, Uncle Jan’s sister, directed the institution. Because there were so many of us, she couldn’t handle it. An atmosphere of panic prevailed.

Many children were so nervous and lonely that they peed in their beds at night. Early in the morning the offenders were pushed into an ice-cold shower. Their screaming was hard to take. The medicine didn’t work, though, for it was the same old story day in, day out.

So many kids were living there at the time that not everyone fit into the dining hall. For that reason John and I had our meals at a long table, placed in a side-aisle. Since there wasn’t enough staff, no grown-up sat at our table. High in the wall above our dining table, a small window was usually open. The food was atrocious. We didn’t enjoy it at all and yet we had to empty our plates. The larger boys refused, and when the meal was particularly unsavory, they threw their spinach, blue potatoes and old bread through that window into the yard. Their aim was excellent.

One day Mrs. Kramer wanted to talk to me, I have forgotten about what. We wandered a bit through the woods and then past the house. Suddenly she discovered a high mountain which never used to be there. She investigated and so discovered the spinach, the potatoes, yesterday’s pudding and the porridge of the day before. She was rather angry of course. The big boys were punished and a matron joined us at meals. From then on all plates had to be emptied, like it or not.

Every once in a while we talked to our parents through the hedge, convincing them how dangerous it was at Sun Ray House. Mother realized that things couldn’t continue this way.

One night she fetched my brother and me. Later that same week the Nazis raided ‘Huize Zonnestraal’. All the Jewish kids were picked up and the management arrested as well. Mrs. Kramer’s closest collaborator was taken to a concentration camp. She did not survive the war. The same is probably true for most of the Jewish children.

Meanwhile I was taken to family Meyer in Huis ter Heide, not far from Zeist. Hans and Leni Meyer had fled Germany together with their two daughters and resided in the Netherlands for several years.

Aunt Leni had embraced Judaism when she married Uncle Hans, but the moment Jews were threatened, she concealed her conversion. For that reason she and her daughters were left undisturbed for the duration of the war.

At home we often talked about Aunt Leni’s relatives in Hamburg. Apparently some of her sisters, and possibly brothers as well, were philo-Semitic, while several others were markedly pro-Nazi. That situation must have occurred frequently in Germany. It reminds me somewhat of the war in Vietnam, much later, when there often were serious conflicts within one and the same family.

Uncle Hans was hidden in his own home. For years he continued to live undetected in his own bedroom. Even though German officers were quartered in his house, sleeping on the same floor as he, they never noticed that someone else was living there, even though Aunt Leni brought him his meals three times a day.

When I stayed with them (‘lived in hiding’ might be a better term), Uncle Hans’ parents lived there too, unusually sweet people. They didn’t trust the situation in Holland and tried therefore to escape to Switzerland, for that country was still neutral. There they would be safe. Alas they were intercepted on the way and were never heard from again.

And then there was a girl named ‘Joke’. She and I slept together in a double bed. It was autumn 1942. I had just turned eight.

Joke longed deeply for her father and mother. During the daytime she was quite friendly. At night, however, when we were in bed, she started to cry, whimper, sniffle ... It began when we went to sleep and didn’t stop. I was able neither to talk to her, nor console her. I could have used some solace myself. It was the same story, night after night. Silently, I listened from my half of the bed to the immense suffering rising from the other. Under those circumstances sleeping was out of the question.

Still there was some consolation in the form of Uncle Hans’ and Aunt Leni’s younger daughter ‘Roesje’. I was madly in love with her. She was of rare beauty. I thought she was very nice as well. I revealed nothing of my violent emotions of course. Her image, however, was indelibly printed on my mind, accompanying me to Leeuwarden and to all the other locations where I lived during and long after the war. Roesje was my mascot, my secret partner, my guide, my refuge. It’s not that I was constantly thinking of her, but she was always there, as a last resort, when I needed her in moments of loneliness and despair.

This adolescent love left deep furrows in my soul, for it isn’t easy to be so in love when one is barely eight years old. At that age, it is so hard to express one’s feelings, and yet true love presupposes that such feelings are shared. Or am I mistaken?

I did boast about my girl friend, acting as if I were an old hand at matters of love. I recall being with a group of boys and girls taking the very first steps on the slippery path of love. They kissed one another, although they weren’t quite sure how this should be done. I presented myself as an experienced lover and gave a detailed demonstration. Each girl was professionally kissed on the mouth, though I had never even shaken hands with my Roesje, let alone kissed her. My self-assurance made a deep impression. I was flattered to be sure, but deep in my heart I knew how ridiculous all this was. Undoubtedly I would have preferred, if only for a moment, to sit next to Roesje, the unattainable.

The stay at Huis ter Heide didn’t last long either, at most a few months. I didn’t attend school, amusing myself by playing. I have always loved play, preferably with friends but, if necessary, by myself. I would throw a tennisball against a wall repeatedly, catching it, throwing it again, catching it once again, hours on end without interruption. As long as I could play, I was never really unhappy or lonely.

What I liked best, was playing in the street with my friends - soccer, baseball, field-hockey, in addition to running and bicycle racing. During the winter season ponds were usually frozen over, so that practically each winter there was an opportunity to go skating. Ice hockey was quite popular too. We used sticks we made ourselves, or regular field-hockey sticks. Real ice-hockey skates and sticks were a luxury unknown. When at play, I inhabited a world of my own, oblivious that there was a war going on.

And yet I was underground. My name was Nico Nanning and, though the people I lived with meant well, they couldn’t replace my own parents.

While I was staying at Huis ter Heide, father searched for a hiding place for me. By then John had moved in with the Schuitemaker family in Oosterbeek near Arnhem. My parents lived temporarily in a boarding house on the Veluwe (a region in central Holland), until they joined John at the Schuitemaker home. Fortunately the Kramer family agreed to accept me. That’s how I came to live in Leeuwarden.

Speaking of hiding places, many Jews and others who were forced into hiding, went underground in the sense that they couldn’t be seen in public. They were hiding in backrooms, sheds, basements or attics. For a variety of reasons they weren’t free to show themselves, usually because they lacked false papers.

I was hidden insofar that I had a new name, concealing my true status, but luckily I didn’t have to spend the war years concealed in a hiding place. I went outside, played with other children and attended school. This was possible thanks to the fake identity cards father had secured.

*****

The weather is splendid. I’m sitting in a garden chair in the sun, reading a few more letters:

I am almost out of writing paper

Leeuwarden, August 15^th 1943

Dear mom and dad,

I am almost out of writing paper. Therefore Uncle Jan gave me some of these sheets. Now I can make some progress again. They are nice, don’t you think so? Still old quality paper! We have fairly good weather today. Is it like that at your place?

I borrowed a book from a friend, ‘Doctor Doolittle’s garden’. I own that book too, don’t I? Kees Stout lends these books to me. The day after tomorrow, school and piano lessons start again. I really have to practice the piano, for Aunt Mies worries that I’ll have forgotten everything when I show up at the piano lesson. I am curious how things will be in the fourth grade. Next time I go swimming (Monday in fact), I am allowed to try it without the swimming-belt. According to the bath-superintendant, things move forward quickly from then on.

I framed a picture. I’m not sure if it has been sent already. It’s made from the tinsel I used for Uncle Jan’s birthday (to decorate his chair). I cut it like this and the side strips like that. I am planning to buy bulbs for Aunt Mies, which I’ll put in a pot. Do you expect the flowers to appear before September 15^th?

Not so long ago daddy claimed that he would have those stories printed in a book. Was that a joke? Or was he serious? Well, I’m going to stop. Bye! Nico Nanning

I have to press down fiercely, otherwise it’s invisible

Dear John,

I can swim reasonably well now without the flotation belt. In school we study fractions and history, geography, reading, language (verbs), physical education and physics. For the piano lessons we are using Dick Wittingsohn, A. Loeschhorn, Diabelli, Duvernoy and the scales, together with that thing that goes tick-tack with the scale of E flat, for the third time.

We founded a club, ‘The Club of All-rounders’. Roel Grijdanus is President, Eddie is Treasurer (his family name I don’t know, for the club isn’t in existence yet). I am Substitute and Jan van der Vlis and Roel Burg are regular members.

It hurts my hand and I have to press down fiercely, otherwise it’s invisible. My fountain pen was filled when I started this letter and now the thing is empty again. Well, I am stopping now.

Greetings from your brother.

Dear mom and dad,

My congratulaions with your birthday. What did daddy get? Did my present arrive on time? I have a lot of pimples on my body. As long as I have a single sore, I’m not allowed to swim, for it might get infected.

We founded a club, ‘The Club of All-rounders’. Roel Gredanijs [Grijdanus] (I am unsure how to spell it) is Captain, Kees Stout Secretary, Eddie ... Treasurer, I am Substitute, Jan van der Vlis and Roel Burg regular members. It’s a club for hiking. biking and fishing. I have been asked to write a poem for it.

For my birthday I would love to have a compass. It’s Sunday and the weather is not so terrific. I can swim now without swimming-belt, keeping abreast pretty well. In school we learn fractions and verbs. Fractions aren’t very difficult, really.

Roughly three times a week Uncle Jan plays tennis, also this morning. I will write a poem now (composed myself or copied, I’m not sure yet). Do you like your present? My fountain pen empties so quickly. After finishing a single letter, the thing is empty again, and my watch (the part showing the numbers) doesn’t move forwards or backwards anymore.. Like so, it’s supposed to move up and down. I am going to write a letter to John. Are you having nice or bad weather? Bye, your Nico Nanning

It’s supposed to move up and down

Dear John,

It’s miserable weather here, the same in Oosterbeek? How was daddy’s birthday? Soon it will be my birthday, followed by Mrs. Kramer’s and then there will be a baby. Time flies. At school we are doing fractions and verbs, nothing to it. I don’t even have to think while doing them.

Monday there will be shooting exercises.

It’s time for me to undress. That’s the reason this letter won’t be very long. The baby carriage for sale at the Oosterbeek store isn’t worth it, I take it. It’s Sunday today and terribly dull weather. My print collection keeps growing. Are you guys still collecting stamps or what?

I am no longer a member of the club. One of the boys was trying to make me swallow a snail and so I had to leave, no longer allowed to play with them. Okay, I am going to stop. A while ago a stray bullet fell on a thatch roof. The fire was great.

See you, Nico

( If anyone whats to finish Nico put their email in comment thread and i will send word file)

Nico by Micha Namenwirth 4

2011-06-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

Kitty-kat

Well, bye! Nico

I climb to our bench high above the village, musing a bit there. These scrambling expeditions are getting to be too much for me. A while ago I went to see a doctor to complain about pain in the region of my heart. After examining me, the doctor said that it wasn’t too bad and prescribed pills I should take when I didn’t feel well. I’m taking one now.

*****

Why had that fountain pen emptied so quickly? When it happened again, I went secretly to Uncle Jan’s study. There was an inkstand on his desk. The pen was quickly filled, but I was clumsy and spilled some ink. Instead of explaining what had happened, so that the mess could be cleared up, I remained silent and said nothing at all.
Of course Uncle Jan soon discovered the ink spot on his desk. He was angry and gave me a few sharp blows. I cried, although deep in my heart I had to admit that he was right. And now, many years later, it’s striking that I kept quiet about all this in my letters to my parents.

*****

Where is Nico? Why hasn’t he shown up yet?
I look about me, enjoying the view. How wonderful to be here!
My thoughts go back to the time when Nico suddenly appeared, sitting next to me. Wasn’t he coming back? Hadn’t we agreed to talk about the war?
I was about to consider what I would tell him, when he suddenly appeared.
‘Wonderful you’ve come,’ I said.
Nico was in high spirits. He was still wearing his warm clothes: blue shorts, black-checkered shirt, red tie and dark-blue sweater with long sleeves ...
He appeared a little vain, didn’t he?
‘Shall I talk about the war?’
Yes, that would be fine.
I cleared my throat, ‘hmm, hmmm,’ reflected for a moment, and then began:
‘There always have been wars.’
‘Why?’ Nico inquired.
‘Possibly out of boredom, greed, revenge, anger, lust for power … People are capable of everything, both the best and the worst. They build splendid cities, create wonderful works of art, to, in the end, smash them all to pieces.’
‘Kids do the same,’ said Nico, ‘on the beach.’
‘That’s true,’ I replied. ‘Kids do the same on the beach, but there it doesn’t have quite the same impact.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Nico sighed.
‘Every war involves a whole lot of sadness,’ I continued.
Nico and I stared into one another’s eyes. We knew what we were talking about.
‘And why the Germans?’
‘Well yes,’ said I, ‘why the Germans? Germany is a beautiful country and its inhabitants are industrious and disciplined. It’s a civilized country, and yet … As England and France
were powerful, parceling out large chunks of the world among themselves, Germany remained for an extended period of time a collection of tiny countries, hardly playing a role in world politics. After Germany had become a single powerful nation, however, it wished to participate in international affairs. It was envious, wishing to enlarge its power. Thus the First World War broke out, a terrible war, costing the lives of millions of people.
In the end, Germany and her partners lost that war. Since there had been so many victims and since the damage done was so considerable, the Allied Forces decided to punish the Germans for all the misery that war had caused. As a consequence there was great poverty and bitterness in the land, and a climate was created that allowed sinister characters, such as Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels and Göring, to grab power. They were cunning and cruel, engaging the German people in a disastrous adventure - the Second Warld War. Some Germans opposed dictatorship, hate among peoples and a senseless war. Others supported the Nazis, acclaiming them. The majority endured submissively.’
‘Are Germans evil people?’ Nico enquired.
I hesitated, knowing full well how difficult it is to forgive one’s enemies in the middle of a war. ‘What has happened,’ I said, ‘is unforgivable. Many Germans were cowardly, failed to reflect and let events overtake them. But asserting that Germans are more evil than other nations, no, I don’t believe that. Many Dutch citizens weren’t particularly heroic either. Many collaborated with the enemy, benefitting from the opportunity. Others were passive, accepting the new reality, going along with the others. It shouldn’t have been that way, but unfortunately, that was the way it was.’
‘Germany didn’t have a democratic tradition,’ I proceeded. ‘People had been taught to obey blindly. Obedience was a quality which was highly valued. So most were obedient, even when what was being asked of them was outrageous.’
‘But why did they have to attack the Netherlands?’
I admitted that invading a small country was unfair and mean. ‘It was part of a political strategy,’ I explained, ‘to enlarge power - more land, people, and money. However, greed usually turns against the conquerer. He swallows more than he can digest. Eventually all wars come to an end.’

I observed Nico. He looked dejected. The time had arrived for another subject. ‘How is school coming along?’
‘Alright,’ he replied, but he clearly didn’t feel like conversing any further.
Then I had a luminous idea. ‘Come with me to the main street, down in the village. There is a sandwich shop that sells ice cream.’
Nico agreed that this was a good idea.

We therefore descended the trail together, slowly, because of my heart.
Having arrived below, we ordered an ice cream cone with three scoops.
Nico selected strawberry-, raspberry-, and vanilla-ice cream.
He began to lick like a madman, for it had been so long ago since he had tasted such delicious ice cream.
Between one lick and the next, he thanked me.

Then I realized that I should introduce Nico to my acquaintances in the café. ‘This is Nico,’ I said, but those present looked at me as though I had gone out of my mind.
They hadn’t seen Nico at all. Meanwhile he had disappeared.

Amsterdam

In the summer of 1940 we moved to Amsterdam to a top floor apartment in the ‘Rivierenbuurt’ (a neighborhood named after rivers). It was a busy street, but close by there was major construction going on that provided a perfect location for playing. Still I had trouble getting used to the big city.
Amsterdam was very different from Rotterdam. The Maas Street where we now lived felt different from the Van Beuningen Street in Blijdorp. Amsterdam was a whole lot busier, fuller, darker, more nervous.
Especially striking was the large Jewish population. Sometimes we visited the ghetto on the other side of the Amstel River, to buy kosher pickles and other Jewish delicacies. That section of the city was poor and run-down. It resembled the Antwerp of bonpapa and bonmama. One saw people walking about in old-fashioned clothing, with beards and ‘pijes’ (sideburns), ‘talles’(prayer shawls) under their coats, hats or yammulkas on their heads (for religious Jewish men keep their heads covered at all times). Speaking a strange language, they went about their business. The ghetto struck me as a lively place.
I knew that I was somehow connected to these people, that a shared past tied us together. And yet I was so different. Or was I?

I can remember quite a few details - the ‘Grachtengordel’ (Canal Ring), Rembrandt Square where Uncle Paul owned a building, Amstel Street and ‘Magere Brug’ (the Lean Bridge), the river, ‘Paleis op de Dam’ (the Palace on the Dam Square). The image of the movie house ‘De Uitkijk’, on the Prinsengracht is also printed on my brain, though I have no idea whether I visited the theater at that time. My memory isn’t entirely reliable, I must admit. Since we returned to Amsterdam after the war, it is entirely possible that images, sounds and smells I believe I can recall from the war years, in fact go back to post-war experiences.

In September 1940 I went to school for the first time. In honor of this important event mother had bought new clothes which she piled high on a chair, ready to be worn. I was tossing about in my bed, at once proud to be a real pupil and scared for the unknown.
Accompanied by my big brother I bicycled to school. Since we were no longer allowed to attend a ‘regular’ school, we joined a Jewish school. It was located in ‘de Pijp’, then a lower class quarter between our neighborhood and the old city.
In Blijdorp John had been a pupil of a Dalton School, a modern institution housed in a brand-new building displaying a lot of glass, light and color. The Jewish school had an old-fashioned feel: an old and somber building, antique furniture, slate pencils and slates, ‘Aap, Noot, Mies’ and ‘Ot and Sien’ (historical didactic tools).
It took getting used to. I had never been in the company of so many Jewish people. Everyone was Jewish: all the pupils, all the teachers, everybody. The mood at school was excited, nervous, alienating. It was as though we were constantly waiting for something to happen. And though the school radiated unease, I enjoyed attending … up to a point.

But the Amsterdam interlude wasn’t entirely enjoyable. Although we weren’t directly threatened yet, the imminent danger was palpable. My parents and brother reassured me. I lived at home, nevertheless realizing that an unpleasant future awaited us. People whispered about concentration camps, looking grim, not all the time of course, but frequently.
Jews were encouraged to give themselves up voluntarily. Supposedly they would be taken to labor camps where they would lead a comfortable life in a kind of summer camp. Similar to Zus en Pien on the Veluwe? Dad had finally learned his lesson, convinced that the Nazis could not be trusted. I still remember discussions at home between my parents and a young couple who were about to answer the call. Mom and dad failed to convince their young friends. They voluntarily courted disaster, departing happily, rucksacks on their backs. Of course we never saw them again.

The German occupiers were anxious to avert panic, so they pretended to mean well. The persecution of the Jews wasn’t inaugurated all of a sudden, but introduced step by step. I recall the posters in fearful letters, again and again announcing new restrictions: Jews were no longer permitted to do this, to do that. Slowly but surely the noose was tightened.
By then we were ordered to wear the Star of David. This was a yellow and black piece of cloth that Jews were obliged to pin to their chests. The intent was to isolate us, to clip our wings and to break our will.
Usually we refused to wear the star. Yet I recall once when John and I were visiting our grandparents in The Hague, traveled by train and, that day, we had attached the thing to our lapels. We meant this as an act of rebellion: we are Jews and we are proud of it. It clearly was a silly thing to do. We never did it again.

It is said that grandfather made a fortune several times in his life, only to lose it again each time. The family constantly moved from Rotterdam to The Hague, from The Hague to Scheveningen and then back to The Hague again, each residence a reflection of the relative prosperity of the moment. As a consequence mother developed a life-long passion for The Hague.
At the beginning of the war granddad must have been reasonably wealthy, for my grandparents lived in a stately house, apparently not affected by events. Their front door was opened by a butler in a red and white striped coat. The billiard room at the entrance to the hallway was filled with cigar smoke: grandfather was playing billiards by himself. There one day a wasp stung me so badly in the hollow of my knee, that I had to be taken to a physician.

For a short while my Aunt Bap stayed with us in Amsterdam. I was happy that she had come, for I loved her dearly. She and I were ill at the same time, lying in bed in adjacent rooms. I was playing with a cotton monkey. The door connecting our rooms was open and my aunt was trying to teach me to count in French: un, deux, trois … Whether I was too ill or preferred playing with my monkey, I failed repeatedly in reciting the long sequence from one to twenty without error. It was decided then and there that I was stupid, incapable of learning anything. There was no end to the teasing and that didn’t sit well with me.

We owned a tom-cat who loved sitting on the window sill, watching the bustle down in the street below. One day he tumbled down. Since I adored my pussy cat, I ran downstairs after him, convinced I would find a dead cat. But he was alive and kicking, and acted as if nothing had happened, falling down three storeys, miowed lustily and rubbed himself against my leg. Very carefully I carried him upstairs, asking myself if we, too, would like the tom-cat land safely on our feet.

Nico by Micha Namenwirth 3

2011-05-28T13:38:00.000-07:00

What you see here is a fighting knight

*****

I am sitting at my desk, going over the letters again. Those first letters, dealing with the Marquess of Carabas, were written after Nico had lived for many months with the family Kramer in Leeuwarden. Between Christmas 1942 and May 1943 quite a few letters must have been written, but there is no trace of them. Probably mother was afraid to hold on to them. After all, it was a dangerous time. Had my parents been arrested, those letters might have endangered my life too.

I don’t recall much about the trip to Leeuwarden, other than that I was by myself. It was freezing so that, very soon after my arrival, I went skating on a pond close to my new home. It was lonely, for I didn’t know a soul.

I clearly remember the first day of school: unknown children and a cheerless old building in an unfamiliar city. But the teacher had drawn, in colored chalk, a splendid Santa Claus and Black Peter on the blackboard (Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet are endearing characters from Dutch folklore, celebrated on December 5^th). It must have been November or December 1942. I was eight years old and a third grader.

Why did I produce such a weird sentence? ‘The people here inquire why you don’t ask Mrs. Kramer if your mother could come and see you for a short while.’

Why didn’t Nico simply write: ‘Mommy, I miss you. Why don’t you visit me here?’

Was he putting a brave face on it? Was he hiding his loneliness, how much he longed to be with his mother?

*****

I put the letters away and decided to go for a stroll, from our alley to the main street, and from there directly into the cliffs. After ascending for a quarter of an hour, one comes to a level stretch with a bench. From there one has a splendid view of our village, the ocean and the large island across the water, boasting the enormous volcano El Teide which dominates the entire region. Snow crowns its summit.

Clambering up the rocks proved hard. I was breathing heavily, feeling some discomfort around the heart.

Finally I reached my goal! Contented, I sat down on my bench. Nico’s image forced itself upon me, so long ago, and so far from home. He must have been putting a brave face on it, for sure, not about to admit how he really felt.

The climb, and the manifold memories, had made me sleepy. I closed my eyes, visualizing Nico in my mind. How small he was, wearing long stockings and short pants. He had an ugly pair of glasses on his nose, but otherwise made a pleasant impression.

I opened my eyes and could scarcely believe what I was seeing ... Nico was sitting next to me on the bench, looking around him in utter surprise at the palm- and orange trees, cacti … and me.

Then he asked: ‘Do you speak Dutch?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That’s lucky. My name is Nico.’

‘I am Micha,’ I replied politely.

Nico blushed and turned ashen, not knowing what to make of it. He recalled his mother’s admonition: ‘You have to forget everything about your past, that you were called Micha once, that you used to be a Jewish boy.’

I reassured him: ‘There’s no reason to worry. I won’t betray you. You and I are one and the same person.’

Frowning, Nico looked at me. ‘But that’s impossible. How can it be?’

I didn’t know myself what to think of it. ‘You are Nico, I am Micha. Let’s leave it at that.’

But Nico didn’t allow himself to be put off. He hesitated and then continued: ‘So you are what I will become and I am what you were?’

I eyed him admiringly. Then a grin appeared on his face. A heavy weight seemed to drop off his shoulders. ‘So I will not be rounded up.’

‘Right you are. You, your brother, your father and your mother, all of you will survive the war.’

Nico stared into space. Then he asked: ‘Did many people die?’

‘Terribly many,’ I replied.

‘Soldiers?’ he wanted to know.

‘Indeed, soldiers, but civilians as well.’

‘Jewish people?’ he asked so softly that I could hardly understand him, scared apparently that someone else would overhear.

‘Quite a few.’

‘How ... and why?’ he inquired.

‘That’s a long story,’ I said. ‘Next time you visit me, I’ll tell you about it.’

Silently we sat on our bench.

We observed one another furtively, each making sure that the other hadn’t left.

How was it possible?

After a while I closed my eyes. When I reopened them, he was gone.

War

Recalling the pre-war period, I see a motley procession of individuals pass in review - relatives, friends, acquaintances, including quite a few children. Many of those I knew back then have disappeared - emigrated or picked up. Few ever returned.

Mother had two brothers - Uncle Jacques and Uncle Max.

Jacques was the oldest. Having inherited grandmother’s nervousness, he was excitable and unpredictable; a born actor, talker and salesman. Years later I accompanied him on a business trip. Every shopkeeper we visited was afraid of him, scared of being persuaded to buy things they didn’t really need. One merchant in a quiet village street somewhere in the heart of Holland, hastily closed his front door and curtains the moment he noticed Uncle Jacques, simply to avoid temptation.

Jacques was married to Stien. She was a darling, but my parents maintained a certain distance - often though not always - probably because she was a practicing Christian. Ridiculous! They had three children who were indeed raised as Christians. Sim, the oldest, was named for granddaddy Monasch. My name was Simon too, actually Simon Michael, but since there was a Simon in the extended family already, they called me ‘Micha’. And then there were cousins Corrie and Eddie.

With the exception of certain inexplicable periods of rapprochement, our relationship with Uncle Jacques’ family always remained on the cool side. I suspect that there had been arguments in the family business, differences of approach, conflicting personalities. And indeed, Jacques and daddy were rather diferent.

Father was reserved and rational, his brother-in-law highly emotional, spontaneous, and probably not always as sensible as he should be. I always liked Jacques and his kin, regretting that we maintained such limited contacts. All were extremely affectionate when we did get together. Later, I tried to make overtures, but it wasn’t easy to sustain a closer relationship against my parents’ wishes. But was it against the wishes of both my parents? In truth, mother’s attitude was ambivalent. She maintained a certain solidarity with dad, but missed the regular contact with her own relatives. This was true, in a sense, for Uncle Max’s family as well.

Max was quite a bit younger and less outspoken than Jacques; he got along a little better with dad. Immediately prior to the ourbreak of the war, he married Minnie. They had a single child, Cousin Lon. Uncle Max was a romantic figure, at least in my eyes. He imagined himself to be a great athlete, a soccer player supreme, a runner, a long-distance swimmer, God knows what, telling us colorful stories about sports achievements which, in all likelihood, reflected little more than wishful thinking. He had a pleasant singing voice, and played the violin, in everything displaying a certain bravura.

Like grandfather and Uncle Jacques, he radiated cordiality and warmth … similar to mother for that matter. This was lacking in my father and the Namenwirth clan in general. They were more introverted, reflective, reserved. At home it was often said: ‘He is a real Namenwirth,’ or, ‘She is a real Monasch.’

Micha was supposed to be a real Namenwirth. I have always considered that statement to be an injustice. In my opinion I was neither one nor the other. And why not? Why couldn’t I be both a Namenwirth and a Monasch? But not everyone in our family agreed, and probably I am more of a real Namenwirth than a real Monasch. Too bad really, for I admired my grandfather Simon Monasch and would have liked to be even more like him than I am.

We frequently had visitors. I remember excited conversations, laughter, tasty food and drink. There was the Slijper family. He was a lawyer. Until recently she had been a judge in Germany and, like so many others, had to flee the Nazis. We saw a lot of Bap and Norbert Loeser. He had come over from Germany as well. Bap was a cousin of my mother’s and probably her closest friend. Very special was Uncle Paul. He wasn’t a real uncle, more a legacy uncle. Paul and Lena Colin were a bit older than my parents. His real name was ‘Witjas’ and he came originally from the city of Antwerp. Having emigrated to Amsterdam as a diamond polisher, he had become a professional cabaret artist, member for many years of the, at the time, famous cabaret company of Jean-Louis Pisuisse. Paul sang entertaining songs, accompanying himself on the guitar. During a very long period, he remained a key figure in our family life.

There was lively conversation during meals, primarily by mother. When John and I weren’t supposed to understand what was being said, my parents switched to German or French. At times, they forgot, however, so that we heard stories about a certain friend of mother’s who, having become pregnant, had been forced to marry at an early age, only to divorce her husband soon afterwards. Amazing world!

We owned a 16 mm filmprojector and I remember watching children’s and nature films, often together with visitors I can no longer identify. It was, in any case, magnificent!

It was often said that, as a small child, I sang in the children’s choir of Jacob Hamel - at that time a celebrity – although, I must admit, I can’t recall a thing about it.

Before the war my parents conversed primarily in German. Daddy had been born in Cologne. Why, nobody seems to know, for the Namenwirth family normally lived in Antwerp, Belgium. I have no idea what brought them to the Rhineland.

During the First World War, Rabbi Namenwirth and his family resided in Gotha, in Sachsen. They were officially stateless, somehow or other convinced that it was safer to live in Germany than in occupied Belgium.

Daddy often talked about their extreme poverty. He knew German perfectly, although the extent of his formal training was rather limited. Primary school, that was all. He was a typical autodidact, who had accumulated quite a bit of knowledg through independent study and reading. Particularly interested in music, he was well-informed, enjoying concerts of classical music and his extensive record collection.

It is said that as a young man he had communist sympathies. As he grew older and became more successful, however, he moved considerably to the right. He voted for a conservative political party, always defending conservative viewpoints, which provoked fierce arguments with John and me.

Mother grew up in a more leftist, emancipating milieu. She tended to remain silent when political topics were discussed at home. For years she refused even to acknowledge for which party she had voted.

As a young person she had been sent to a boarding school in Detmold, in Germany. There she developed a passion for the theater and learned German. Later - that must have been in the twenties - she was au pair with a Jewish physician and his family in Manchester. That visit must have made a great impression on her, for she kept reminiscing about it throughout her life.

Although many things must have happened in the pre-war years that I don’t recall, I do remember Santa Claus (the same Sinterklaas I mentioned before). Naturally I believed in this holy man, but not entirely. This is why.

There was a barber in our neighborhood. In his shop he had a white cup board with little shelves containing presents. If I managed to suppress my tears, not whining too much while my hair was being cut, the barber gave me one of these treasures.

Santa Claus visited that barber year after year to discover which boys and girls had silently endured the torment. These courageous children received surprises.

One day, while my hair was being cut in one of those high chairs, and Santa Claus was sitting quietly in his own corner, a different Santa Claus appeared in the street. That Sinterklaas was coarse and mean. He entered the barber shop and began fighting with my Sinterklaas. We children didn’t know what was happening - two Santas? – and we burst out crying in a chorus.

My belief in Santa Claus was tested again when John divulged that the whole thing was a scam, deceit by grown-ups. When the doorbell rang each Sinterklaas night, said John, it was our own daddy who tossed the ginger-nuts into the hallway, not Black Peter as I had always assumed. To check this out we went under cover, and indeed, it was father pretending to be Zwarte Piet. Of course I was disappointed; but what the heck, gingerbread nuts are always tasty!

Each summer when my parents went on vacation together, they sent John and me to a kind of summer home for little children on the Veluwe, a largely undeveloped area in the center of the country. It was run by friends of the family, Zus and Pien. Generally speaking it was fun there, although I was rather young to be so far from home. At times I longed for my mom and dad. In a sense my stay at that summer camp proved to be a preparation for the period of hiding.

An event which made a lasting impression upon me was a procession that took place late at night. It was pitch dark. The strapping lads marched at the rear, carrying Chinese lanterns. They emitted horrible noises, such as are made by phantoms and witches. I was terrified, sure that I would perish.

My brother, who usually supported me, was one of the teasers this time. Never before had I been so afraid. But I didn’t complain, didn’t say anything, never told my parents.

Fortunately I wasn’t entirely on my own during this fearful episode. ‘Aunt’ Pien had a daughter named ‘Staart’, who must have been a few years older than John, and much older than me. She was a motherly figure who consoled me then, and again later. Sometimes she visited us at home, and then too, she always protected me.

Though I have had a lifelong tendency to keep silent when it would be wiser to speak out, I have often run into individuals who appeared just in time to help me. Staart was one of them.

These pre-war years were peaceful, generally speaking. All in all I felt comfortable and secure within the little world that surrounded me.

And yet the Second World War was threatening.

The Netherlands had remained neutral during World War I, and many hoped that history would repeat itself. There was no certainty, however.

Daddy had tickets in his pocket, ready to take the boat to America in case things went wrong. He too hoped, perhaps against his better judgment, that Holland would again get off scot-free. The tickets were never used.

I remember talk about National Socialists, Dutch people admiring Adolf Hitler. He was the leader of the Fascists who had come to power in Germany. They were convinced of the superiority of the German people. They wished to conquer the world, meanwhile eradicating everyone they considered inferior, which included Jews, Gypsies, and persons with a mental or physical handicap.

Long before the war erupted, the persecution of Jews had started in Germany and Austria. Jews lost their civil rights, their possessions were confiscated, they were arrested and sent to concentration camps.

Some of them managed to get away and fled abroad. Everywhere in the world they sought refuge.

The Jewish families which had come to the Netherlands counted on the continued neutrality of that country, hoping to be safe there. Thus we met quite a few German and Austrian Jews. They became my parents’ friends. Their children became friends of John and mine.

Czechoslovakia and Poland had already been conquered. Then England and France declared war on Germany. It was the lull before the storm. People in our neighborhood piled bales of straw, improvised air-raid shelters and engaged in food-hoarding. They prepared themselves for the inevitable.

And despite daddy’s fervent hopes, the war did come. The German forces invaded the Netherlands.

In May 1940 Rotterdam was bombed. From Blijdorp we could see the bombardment: flames, smoke, noise, smell, chaos ...

At first, father was convinced that these were just exercises, until reality could no longer be denied.

As we stood watching the inferno, the family business was burning down. The next day the staff rushed over to our house with half burnt ledgers, detailing the firm’s income and expenditures. Day after day they worked to save as much of the bookkeeping data as possible.

After the big fire, there was no longer a business for my father and uncles to go to in Rotterdam. Since there was a branch in Amsterdam, soon after the bombardment we moved there. I don’t recall any details of the move, although the tension of that time, the uncertainty, the fright haven’t entirely disappeared. In any case, our innocent, harmonious existence in the large children’s room with the many brown bears had ended.

*****

I am sitting at my desk, reading a few letters from Leeuwarden:

Monday, June 7^th 1943

Dear mom and dad,

I’m sitting in Uncle Jan’s office. Uncle Jan is working away busily. I better not bother him, asking for ink. That’s why I am using a pencil. I actually prefer pencil to pen. It’s not more beautiful, but a lot thinner. I feel like drawing, so I am hurrying to finish this letter. What you see here is a figting knight. As he was fighting, he fell backwards.

Bye! From Nico Nanning

Aunt Mies’ parents visited us for a few days. Bye! your Nico

Leeuwarden, Monday 1943

Dear mom and dad,

The weather isn’t very nice here. Today it’s okay, but yesterday it was quite unpleasant, cold and constant rain. I therefore dressed in warm clothes. Woolen underwear, one of those blue shorts, a black-checkered shirt, a red tie and that dark-blue sweater with long sleeves, the one with that small zipper. Aunt Mies has been to that ‘ kokoer hipiek’ [concours hippique - horse-show]. I was supposed to go with her, but I had, and still have, a cold. I was therefore not allowed to go. Fortunately, I don’t have to stay in bed. I am not permitted to swim either. How do you like the portrait? I would enjoy having a few more books: ‘The Soccer Club’, ‘The Camp in the Dunes 2’, ‘The Beach Castle’, ‘The Boy from the Circus’, ‘Merry John to the City’, ‘From Merry John’s Youth’ and ‘All aboard for Mexico’. Bye! Nico N.

Nico by Micha Namenwirth 2

2011-05-25T20:16:00.000-07:00

For Beth and Robyn

Blijdorp

Who could forget a conversation like that? It was the Summer of 1942 in the middle of the war. We were standing in the living room of our house in Zeist - my parents, my brother and I. Nobody was laughing or even talking. Everyone knew that we were facing a fateful moment. My mother spoke:

It’s becoming too dangerous to remain here or to stay together. We must separate. Daddy has managed to get false identity papers. Our name is no longer ‘Namenwirth’. It is ‘Nanning’. Remember! Nanning. You have to forget that you were once named ‘Micha’ and that you were a Jewish child. Daddy is mining engineer Nanning, on temporary leave. Don’t forget, from now on you are Nico Nanning.

Not yet eight years old, and about to go into hiding, Nico understood perfectly well the importance of remembering that new name, of not divulging anything about Micha and his Jewish past, of learning to stand on his two own feet. Yes, he was afraid. Soon he would be on his own, without mother, father or big brother, in a dangerous and hostile world where Jewish boys were rounded up without mercy. He didn’t know exactly what they did with them, but it was clear that it wouldn’t be good.

*****

Mother spoke these words approximately sixty years ago. It feels as though it were yesterday. I am no longer a youngster and have been retired for a while. My wife Bobby and I live on an island in the Atlantic Ocean.

I hear the waves as they pound the coast. What a wonderful spot! There is every reason to be contented in the here and the now.

Why then recall the past? Why resurrect history?

For years I have been Micha again, and almost nobody knows that once my name was Nico. But that boy who was given a new name and forced to survive alone far from home, that boy refuses to go away. He lives inside me.

*****

Soon after my birth in Hillegersberg, we moved to Blijdorp, at the time a new and modern suburb of Rotterdam. Our apartment building was close to the zoo. Our flat was spacious and agreeable, light and colorful.

I can still visualize the children’s room with its blue sofa and numerous brown bears.

Annie, our nanny, lived with us and was a central figure in my life.

So was John, who was three years older. He used big words and went to school. I looked up to him, convinced that he knew everything.

Mom and dad were very important too, but in a different way. They clearly belonged to an older generation. Annie was in between. My parents were more distant, and then again, not really. It’s hard to explain. I clung to them, admired them, and yet was fully aware that they were grown-ups, and I only a small boy.

My world consisted of the apartment, the street and the surrounding neighborhood.

Once in a while I walked to my grandparents’ flat, my maternal grandma and grandpa. There wasn’t much traffic yet at that time, and the walk – down the street, across the square with the pond - was reasonably safe. Too small to reach the bell myself, I would ask a passer-by to ring the bell for me.

My grandparents’ refrigerator was reliably stocked with bowls of mixed fruit. Something more delicious than that I could hardly imagine.

Grandma usually sat at the window. She was blind, though at times she could see a little and would recognize my dark curls and grey-blue eyes. She was a large, plump woman: bright ánd nervous. When she had bouts of hysteria – which happened quite frequently - she took valium drops in a glass of water. Once in a while she would have a fainting-spel. That shook me up considerably.

Granddaddy was a jovial man, good-natured, generous, optimistic: he took life in stride. He was retired, but enjoyed once in a while visiting the business in the inner city of Rotterdam. Large rolls of carpet and linoleum were everywhere. He had founded the firm, but when father, and mother’s two brothers, had mastered the trade, he retired and spent his days playing billiards and smoking large cigars. Granddad didn’t go out a lot; he would have been reluctant to leave grandma alone.

Mother adored her father - that was obvious – but she didn’t get along with her mother. It was a frequent topic of conversation at home. Apparently it had always been that way and never changed.

Both my maternal grandparents had a Dutch provincial background: grandpa was born in Gouda, grandma in Schoonhoven. Though conscious of their Jewish heritage, this wasn’t a dominant factor in their lives. Both came from families that weren’t particularly poor. Yet, since there were numerous siblings, each had to work for what he or she got.

Grandfather was proud of his humble beginnings as a chocolate salesman. Once when grandpa was courting and hoped to impress my grandmother, the two of them are said to have consumed all of his samples. I never heard how the story ended.

Grandmother’s relatives must have been a dash more respectable than granddaddy’s, for she

always spoke somewhat condescendingly about the Monasch clan. I frequently heard stories told during meals about various great-uncles and great-aunts who had met with misfortune in their lives. One of granddaddy’s brothers was said to have been a musician who succumbed to syphilis in Sweden. An aunt must have been involved in a love affair, for she became pregnant and had to be hidden somewhere in the vast expanses of Germany.

I remember several of my grandparents’ bothers and sisters who played a role in my life: Uncle Elie from Brussels, Aunt Marjan who was a fervent socialist, and Aunt Saar who always carried peppermints in her handbag.

Especially endearing was Aunt Sel who, fed up with Europe after the Second World War, emigrated at an advanced age to the United States. She was grandmother’s cousin though, not her sister.

What I enjoyed most back then, were movies, music of course, and Chinese restaurants.

As far as Chinese food goes, the story was told over and over how Micha used to love ‘kroepoep’ (a corruption of ‘kroepoek’, shrimp crackers), always followed by the tale of sambal. Apparently I insisted on having sambal when we ate out. I must have been very young. My parents tried to dissuade me, but I was determind. Since I kept insisting, I was finally permitted to give it a try. I must have taken far too large a portion of the spicy substance, for tears welled up in my eyes and I turned crimson and ashen by turns, but I didn’t yield. They say I even claimed to have enjoyed the sambal.

One day it had snowed a lot. We owned a small sled. Daddy took the car out of the garage and said we could tie our sled to the rear bumper. The car belonged to the business in fact. We didn’t own a private car until later. As we were working away, we were soon surrounded by neighboring kids pulling their own sleds. And thus, in the end, dad pulled a complete procession of sleds through our street. John and I sat together on our sled, relishing the event, proud of our dad.

And then there were excursions. Although the traffic was light, perhaps even because the traffic was light, father wasn’t paying attention and drove smack into some sort of pole. I still remember the large, empty square, and hear the thud again, followed by the crunch of breaking glass.

Often we made trips to Belgium. Daddy had grown up in Antwerp, and several relatives were still living there. It was a different world. John and I couldn’t even talk to our Antwerp grandparents, for they spoke Yiddish and French, languages we didn’t know.

To us, bonmama and bonpapa looked peculiar. Grandmother was very sweet for sure. Granddaddy wore a longish black coat and a stiff hat He had a full beard and gave wet kisses. Early in the morning he made breakfast for himself in the kitchen, before going to the synagogue where he remained the entire day, studying and talking with other men in black coats.

Though bonpapa and bonmama loved me dearly, the distance between us was considerable. They belonged to a world that was foreign to me. My Dutch grandparents seemed a lot nearer. They were Jews as well, but Dutchmen first, and outwardly not distinct from their non-Jewish neighbors, or hardly.

Daddy had grown up in that Jewish world, diligently studying the Jewish religion. But in the course of the years, he began to resent the bitter poverty, the hanging on to tradition, and eventually he ran off.

He often told us how he had moved to the Netherlands where he met mother. Apparently he was conducting a chorus in which she participated. The choral group can’t have amounted to much, however, for mother wasn’t much of a singer. She did play the piano a little, and always encouraged John and me to go further in the world of music than she had. She loved the theater more than music, admiring art with a capital A and intellect with a capital I, without being an artist or an intellectual herself. Neither were her parents, but she came from a family of bright people, though she didn’t think of herself in that way.

Father and mother were Zionists who considered the creation of a Jewish state more important than the Jewish faith. Nevertheless, before the war, every Friday night there was a religious service at our home, with candles, sweet wine, and home-baked bread. Daddy recited Hebrew prayers. It was quite beautiful. We celebrated the Jewish holdays at home too.

Daddy retained an ambiguous relationship to religion throughout his life. Before the war he prayed each morning. Then he would unpack a silken bag, put a yamulka on his head, wrap himself in a prayer shawl and tie a peculiar black box to his forearm. Then he muttered prayers, while making those seemingly convulsive movements - downwards and upwards - made famous by the pious men who pray at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. Often I secretly watched father, never understanding why he was praying - it seemed foreign to his opinions and lifestyle.

And yet, this was his background, this was the world he grew up in. But his daddy - my bonpapa who was a kind of rabbi - didn’t earn a penny during his entire life. He chose instead to study, pray and debate. As a consequence, the family was totally impoverished. In order to have something to eat, bonmama did the laundry at strangers’ homes. My father thought that his dear mother was shamefully abused and reproached his father for having abolished his family’s welfare for his religious convictions.

I often heard it said that bonmama sprang from a wealthy family somewhere in the East, and that she married bonpapa Namenwirth only because it was the tradition among rich Jewish families to marry off at least one daughter to a promising student.

Daddy adored his mother and hated his father, just the opposite of my mom’s situation. After the war, I never saw the silken bag again. Apparently the war had killed what remained of dad’s religious faith.

All four of my grandparents died long ago, and relatively recently my own parents and brother died as well, first John, then daddy.

Mother, who couldn’t live by herself anymore since, just like her own mom, she had become blind, insisted on moving to a home for the elderly. Thus I had to clear out her apartment. It was loaded with objects having a long history.

During the clean-up, I encountered piles of letters my brother and I had written in the course of the years. In that stack of papers, I found many letters that Nico Nanning had written many years ago from his hiding place. Mother had preserved as many as possible. I took these war letters with me to our house on the island, where they remained unread in a drawer. One day I started reading them, and the more I read, the more curious I became to get to know Nico Nanning better, that boy who closely resembles me and doesn’t all the same.

*****

Leeuwarden, P.C. Hooftstraat 2

May 12^th 1943

Dear mom and dad,

How are you doing? This Sunday I have been to a play about Puss in Boots. It was wonderful. At first we saw the father of the Marquess of Carabas who was lying in bed, dying. There was a cat and three young men. The father was to be buried. He had said: ‘The mill is for my eldest son Klaas. The second son gets the donkey, and my youngest son Dirk the cat.’ Dirk was angry and said: ‘What am I to do with you, cat?’ The pussy was called Mina. ‘Be satisfied,’ the cat said, for he had started to walk on two legs and began to speak: ‘You’ll be surprised what I am capable of.’ And what did the clever animal do? He … caught a rabbit and took it to his boss. Dirk said: ‘Well done,’ and ate the rabbit. Then the curtain closed. The three acts that followed I will describe in the next three letters, one act per letter.

After sitting there for an hour or so, I got a stomach ache. Back home I went to bed with a hot-water bottle. After a while Uncle Jan came to see me. He put ‘Fiks’ into my nose, and something else as well. Sunday afternoon and Monday morning (and afternoon) I stayed home. Tuesday I returned to school. Yesterday evening I picked violets. The tulips are almost finished. The lilacs are in bloom as well. Soon I will be getting my report card. The third grade teacher is about to get married to notary Molenaar. We have a new teacher, although I haven’t met her yet. So we had to bring 25 to 50 pennies to school for the lady teacher who was getting married. Bye! From Nico Nanning

P.S. Auntie Mies is still ill. I’ll draw her as she is lying in bed.

First letter

and then the next letter:

Dear mom and dad,

I received the sweater and am wearing it now. Many thanks for the belt too (I am wearing that one as well). A while back I put together that little duck. Aunt Mies is out of bed again.

Puss in Boots, second act:

Once during a lovely summer’s day, the cat roamed by the King’s palace. There he overheard that the King was about to go for a ride with the Princess. He ran to his boss, saying: ‘Quickly undress and jump into the water. We’ll see what happens later.’ The cat’s owner did as he was told (though reluctantly). When the King passed, the cat called out: ‘Help, help, my master, the Marquess of Carabas is drowning.’ Then the cat lamented: ‘Robbers must have been at work, for all his clothes are gone.’ The King ordered that new ones be produced. And then the curtain closed.

‘Help! My master, the Marquess of Carabas is drowning.’

Soon I’ll have a new report card! The people here inquire: ‘Why don’t you ask Mrs. Kramer if your mother could come and see you, for a short while, at least, as long as she goes out shopping as much as Mrs. Kramer does.’ Bye! From your Nico Nanning

P.C. Hooftstraat 2 at Leeuwarden, Holland, Friesland

*****

Nico by Micha Namenwirth

2011-05-25T13:48:00.000-07:00

This is a story told by my uncle of the second world war. It will be posted in sections over the course of the week.

NICO

[by]

Micha Namenwirth

Agulo-Valle Gran Rey-Mt. Horeb, 2001-2009

This text was translated from the

original Dutch into English

by the author of Nico

with the invaluable help of Marion.

2011-05-06T10:19:00.000-07:00

Andy Warhol

2011-04-29T06:21:00.000-07:00

via: Addison Thomson

Piss Christ

2011-04-25T19:22:00.000-07:00

Attack on 'blasphemous' art work fires debate on role of religion in France

• Intruders vandalise photo day after Christian protest
• Exhibitor blames Sarkozy speech for inflaming issue

Angelique Chrisafis in Paris
guardian.co.uk, Monday 18 April 2011 20.00 BST
Article history

Andres Serrano's Piss Christ has been destroyed by Christian protesters in Avignon, France, after weeks of protests.

When New York artist Andres Serrano plunged a plastic crucifix into a glass of his own urine and photographed it in 1987 under the title Piss Christ, he said he was making a statement on the misuse of religion.

Controversy has followed the work ever since, but reached an unprecedented peak on Palm Sunday when it was attacked with hammers and destroyed after an "anti-blasphemy" campaign by French Catholic fundamentalists in the southern city of Avignon.

The violent slashing of the picture, and another Serrano photograph of a meditating nun, has plunged secular France into soul-searching about Christian fundamentalism and Nicolas Sarkozy's use of religious populism in his bid for re-election next year.

It also marks a return to an old standoff between Serrano and the religious right that dates back more than 20 years, to Reagan-era Republicanism in the US.

The photograph, full title Immersion (Piss Christ), was made in 1987 as part of Serrano's series showing religious objects submerged in fluids such as blood and milk. In 1989, rightwing Christian senators' criticism of Piss Christ led to a heated US debate on public arts funding. Republican Jesse Helms told the senate Serrano was "not an artist. He's a jerk."

Serrano defended his photograph as a criticism of the "billion-dollar Christ-for-profit industry" and a "condemnation of those who abuse the teachings of Christ for their own ignoble ends". It was vandalised in Australia, and neo-Nazis ransacked a Serrano show in Sweden in 2007.

The photograph had been shown in France several times without incident. For four months, it has hung in the exhibition I Believe in Miracles, to mark 10 years of art-dealer Yvon Lambert's personal collection in his 18th-century mansion gallery in Avignon. The show is due to end next month, but two weeks ago a concerted protest campaign began.

Civitas, a lobby group that says it aims to re-Christianize France, launched an online petition and mobilised other fundamentalist groups. The staunchly conservative archbishop of Vaucluse, Jean-Pierre Cattenoz, called Piss Christ "odious" and said he wanted this "trash" taken off the gallery walls. Last week the gallery complained of "extremist harassment" by fundamentalist Christian groups who wanted the work banned in France.

Lambert, one of France's best known art dealers, complained he was being "persecuted" by extremists who had sent him tens of thousands of complaint emails and bombarded the museum with spam. He likened the atmosphere to "a return to the middle ages".

On Saturday, around 1,000 Christian protesters marched through Avignon to the gallery. The protest group included a regional councillor for the extreme-right Front National, which recently scored well in the Vaucluse area in local elections. The gallery immediately stepped up security, putting plexiglass in front of the photograph and assigning two gallery guards to stand in front of it.

But on Palm Sunday morning, four people in sunglasses aged between 18 and 25 entered the exhibition just after it opened at 11am. One took a hammer out of his sock and threatened the guards with it. A guard grabbed another man around the waist but within seconds the group managed to take a hammer to the plexiglass screen and slash the photograph with another sharp object, thought to be a screwdriver or ice-pick. They also smashed another work, which showed the hands of a meditating nun.

The gallery director, Eric Mézil, said it would reopen with the destroyed works on show "so people can see what barbarians can do". He said there had been a kind of "inquisition" against the art work.

In a statement, he said the movement against Piss Christ had started at the time of President Nicolas Sarkozy's ruling UMP party's controversial debate on religion and secularism in France. At a record low in the polls before next year's presidential election, Sarkozy has been accused of using anti-Muslim and extreme-right rhetoric to appeal to voters and counter the rise of the Front National.

Asked by the daily Libération why the Piss Christ protest had happened now, Mézil pointed to Sarkozy's speech in March lauding "the Christian heritage of France" at Puy-en-Velay, where the first Crusades were preached.

He said: "Clearly we saw in Saturday's demonstration that a Catholic fringe wanted to take the president at his word, with extremely violent appeals." He said there was a climate of tension, with protesters insulting museum staff of north African origin. One guard said he heard: "I'm going to pour donkey piss on the Qur'an." An email to the museum talked about "plunging the diary of Anne Frank in urine".

The French culture minister, Frédéric Mitterrand, condemned the vandalism as an attack on the fundamental freedoms of creation and expression, but recognised that the art work could shock audiences.

The secretary general of Civitas, Alan Escada, told Le Dauphiné Libéré paper: "I don't support or condemn what happened," adding that the attack on the picture "reflects an understandable exasperation" with the museum.

A police complaint has been filed by the gallery and the guards.

www.artfagcity.com/2011/04/25/the-false-promise-of-the-internet-feeds-the-resurrection-of-piss-christ/#comments

Williamsburg2000 (Part 3)

2011-04-02T07:57:00.000-07:00

Bob Seng and Lisa Hein
Ken Butler
Ellie murphy

Williamsburg2000 (Part 2)

2011-04-01T14:20:00.001-07:00

Meredith Allen, Carol Saft and Iggy

Timothy Greenfield-Sanders "Brooklyn Art Dealers"

Williamsburg2000 (Part 1)

2011-04-01T13:02:00.000-07:00

Joe Amhrein
William Powhida
Eric Heist
Ward Shelly (detail)
Loren Munk

WILIAMSBURG2000
A group exhibition of 50+ pioneer artists of that era
curated by Larry Walczak
ART 101
101 Grand St., Williamsburg, Bklyn, NY 11211
718-302-2242 | art101brooklyn.com
March 12 through April 17th, 2011
gallery hours: Friday–Sunday, 1–6pm
Opening reception: Saturday, March 12th, 6–9pm

Austin Thomas Studio

2011-03-11T15:23:00.000-08:00

Austin Thomas studying working drawings with fabricator for Moore Street Market
Julie Torres in Austin's studio at The Elizabeth Foundation

Brooklyn DIY Film Anthology March 9th

2011-03-03T13:56:00.000-08:00

"Brooklyn DIY" will be screening at Anthology Film Archives, March 09 at 8.15 pm.

32 Second Avenue (at 2nd St.)
New York, NY 10003 USA

Q&A after the movie.

http://anthologyfilmarchives.org/film_screenings/calendar?view=list&month=3&year=2011#showing-37066

http://brooklyndiy.com

NewFilmmakers travels to Williamsburg.

FEATURE PRESENTATION:

Marcin Ramocki
BROOKLYN DIY
2009, 75 minutes, video.
A long-overdue examination of the creative renaissance in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
Edit: Jessie Stead
Cinematography: Lalo Molina
Associate Producers: Carlton Bright, Jason Roque
Assistant Director: Jessie Stead
Production Assistants: Zoe Willoughby, Jenine Orzechowski
Sound Mix: Chris Burke

Featuring interviews with: Joe Amrhein, Daniel Aycock, Mike Ballou, Ken Butler, Don Carroll, Lauren Cornell, Ebon Fisher, Matt Freedman & Jude Talllichet, Jillian Mcdonald, Aron Namenwirth & Nancy Horowitz, Sarah Schmerler, Ward Shelley, Amy Sillman, Becky Smith, Larry Tee, Conrad Ventur and Eric Z.

Special appearances by: Medea, Gene Pool, Adam Simon, Brian & Leon Dewan, Brian Conley, Charles Beronio, Mike Smith, Lexy Grey, Golden Triangle, Tim Spelios and many more.
Ramocki’s film captures life in a utopian universe made by artists, for artists, with its inevitable decline in the face of real-estate development, gentrification, and the post-September-11 market collapse.

–Wednesday, March 9, Feature Presentation at 8:15.

**

About Anthology Film Archives: Founded in 1970, Anthology's mission is to preserve, exhibit, and promote public and scholarly understanding of independent, classic, and avant-gardecinema. Anthology screens more than 900 film and video programs per year, publishes books and catalogs annually, and has preserved more than 800 films to date.

Directions: Anthology is at 32 Second Ave. at 2nd St. Subway: F to 2nd Ave; 6 to Bleecker. Tickets: $9 general; $8 Essential Cinema (free for members); $7 for students, seniors, & children (12 & under); $6 AFA members.

Web: http://www.anthologyfilmarchives.org
Twitter: http://twitter.com/anthologyfilm
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AnthologyFilm:

Ken Butler Live (Hogar Closing)

2011-02-24T09:18:00.000-08:00

Friends ..........I was just invited to perform THIS SATURDAY the 26th for the closing party of the Hogar Collection at 362 Grand.......sorry to see it close! ......hope to see you there .......not sure what time I go on, etc..........KB


	The Hogar Collection 362 Grand Street, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY 11211 tel.718.388.5022 info@hogarcollection.com www.hogarcollection.com

Beat Night

2011-02-12T05:12:00.001-08:00

POSTER BY ANDREW HURST

JASON ANDREW + NORTE MAARpresents:

BEAT NITE

Bushwick Art Spaces Stay Open Late

Friday, February 18, 6-10PM

BUSHWICK, BROOKLYN�Jason Andrew + Norte Maar bring back the late night with the fifth installment of BEAT NITE: Bushwick Art Spaces Stay Open Late, Friday, February 18, 6-10PM. This bi-annual night is half art stroll, half bar crawl, where selected art spaces from the legit galleries to the DIY apartment spaces stay open late for each other and the public welcoming the public to see real art in real time, one night only. Each of the ten spaces will host new art and offer true neighborhood hospitality in the form of drinks and music in what has become the signature party of all parties with art above all else. This episode of BEAT NITE is sponsored by HYPERALLERGIC.COM.

Participating art spaces include among others: English Kills, Centotto, Fortress to Solitude, Famous Accounts, and re-installation by Austin Thomas of the apartment gallery that started it all, Norte Maar. The night also featuring the closing party for current show at Centotto and the celebration of the opening of a brand new space Curbs and Stoops (566 Johnson Ave).

Don't miss the official after party at THE BODEGA (24 Saint Nicolas Ave) where DJ Scot Bowman will spin the town tunes and host Jason Andrew (aka Paddy Johnson�s muscled Cyborg) will take off his shirt at 11:30PM.

Bushwick is the place to make art from the ghetto to the glamour. Artists have found solace in the supportive neighborhood made up of emerging and established artists, choreographers, writers, alternative spaces and reputable galleries. Putting the spit on the art world where community means more than commerce join Jason Andrew + Norte Maar for this event where the art is real and the people making it are to.

MORE INFO: 646-361-8512

+++++
DOWN LOAD MAP
(COMING SOON)
+++++

:FEATURED TRACKS

NORTE MAAR

83 Wyckoff Avenue, #1B Brooklyn, NY 11237

www.nortemaar.org

on exhibit:

MARK IT!: a group show of artists at the beginning of a new project including: Paul D'Agostino, Lars Kremer, Aron Namenwirth, Cathy Quinlan, Julie Torres, and Audra Wolowiec. Organized by Austin Thomas to celebrate her public art project for the Historic Moore Street Market in Bushwick.

ARCH COLLECTIVE

18 Wyckoff Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11237

www.arch-nyc.com

on exhibit:

IMAGINARY ARMS: MAN DIES: Joe Strasser, Grover Watts, Joseph O�Neal, Clark Russell, and Jeremy McDaniel. Curated by Max Demetrio and Jason R. Jensen.

CENTOTTO

250 Moore Street, Brooklyn, NY 11206

http://centotto.com/

on exhibit: PORTFOLIO X APPUNTI: new work by Zane Wilson.

CURBS AND STOOPS

566 Johnson Avenue, Brooklyn, NY 11206

www.curbsandstoops.com

on exhibit: GRAND OPENING! Featuring new works by resident artists Jonathan Chapline, Rachel Labine, and others to be announced. Also live music and beverages provided by Dogfishhead Craft Brewed Ales.

ENGLISH KILLS

114 Forrest Street, ground flr Brooklyn, NY 11206

www.englishkillsartgallery.com

on exhibit: STEVEN THOMPSON: new work.

FAMOUS ACCOUNTANTS

1673 Gates Avenue, Ridgewood, NY 11285

http://famousaccountants.wordpress.com/

on exhibit:

Obsession: The Book of Revelation from the Koran, an installation by Meg Hitchcock.

LAUNDROMAT

70 Wyckoff Avenue, #1J, Brooklyn, NY 11237

http://laundromatgallery.blogspot.com/

on exhibit:

NEW LOCATION NEW EXHIBIT: New works by Alexa Hoyer and Walsh Hansen.

STOREFRONT

16 Wilson Avenue, Brooklyn, NY 11237

www.storefrontbk.com

on exhibit:

MARY JUDGE: Pop-Oculus

and in the back room: WAVELENGTH: new work by Judith Braun, Maureen McQuillan, and Suzanna Starr.

SUGAR

449 Troutman Street, #3-5 Brooklyn, NY 11237

www.sugarbushwick.com

on exhibit:

VISCERAL LOGIC: new work by Erika Keck and Throwhite.

Mark It!

2011-02-06T07:16:00.000-08:00

Lars Kremer

Mark it! @ Norte Maar

Opening: Friday, February 18, 6 - 10 PM

Norte Maar 83 Wyckoff Avenue, #1BBrooklyn, NY 11237 USA

Hours by appointment 646-361-8512

“Mark it” presents a group of artists at the beginning of new projects including; Paul D'Agostino, Lars Kremer, Aron Namenwirth, Cathy Nan Quilian, Julie Torres, and Audra Wolowiec

organized by Austin Thomas to celebrate the beginning of a new public art project for the Historic Moore Street Market in Brooklyn

Beat nite Bushwick, galleries stay open late organized by Jason Andrew and Norte Maar sponsored by Hyperallergic

Austin Thomas Hosts ‘Hippie Potluck’ at Hyperallergic

2011-01-29T05:23:00.000-08:00

by Hrag Vartanian on January 19, 2011
0 Comments

by Hrag Vartanian on January 19, 2011

If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to our site feed or subscribe to our newsletter. Thanks for visiting!

A patron saint of the Brooklyn art world's DIY, Austin Thomas is coming to Hyperallergic HQ to share her good vibes & nurturing of ideas with all who come. Thanks to artist Tamara Gonzales for the use of her painting as a background.

On Monday, January 24, starting at 7pm, Austin Thomas will be hosting an informal “Hippie Potluck” at Hyperallergic HQ and we’re calling it “Covered Dishes & Current Affairs.”

Attendees are invited to bring a covered dish for the potluck and join in the roundtable discussion about issues of importance to New York’s vibrant art community, which consists of artists, critics, curators, bloggers, writers, collectors, gallerists, art handlers, hanger-on’ers, groupies, and fans.

Check out: Rob Sevo

We had an in depth conversation about some things i have been thinking about involving the relationship or lack there of in the creative process of music and fine art.

Art Lies

2011-01-11T16:06:00.000-08:00

New Media and the Gallery

Paul Slocum

Galleries understandably dwell on the romance of the unique object. My house is filled with items that demonstrate my sympathy, but as I read about first-graders carrying laptops to school, I wonder how the object is going to weigh against virtual art experiences for the next generation of art viewers? As an early adopter and longtime professional user of computers, I think the shift has already happened for me. Many of my most rewarding art experiences come from the Internet and other virtual mediums, while the gallery grows curiously stale. Like contemporary art for many, virtual is an acquired taste.

For decades, probably longer, some in the art world have known that a number of the greatest artworks exist outside the carefully laid boundaries of fine art. So, the art world (me and my own gallery included) gave asylum to other art forms through things like bands playing in the gallery and movies screening on the walls, even though the acoustics in the gallery are bad and the seating is never appropriate for films. Advance one generation to new media art and we’re installing computers and monitors in the gallery when most of the people attending have the same equipment at home. Maybe the future of the physical new media gallery is simply a clubhouse so the artists can meet up while art is exchanged online?

The results of transplanting digital artists to the gallery space have been as expected. Some new media work translates well to the gallery, some doesn’t. Some artists have the aptitude to thrive in the commercial art environment, others fail and retreat to the Internet. A few successful high-profile exhibitions like Breaking and Entering: Art and the Video Game at Pace Wildenstein (now The Pace Gallery) and Rhizome ArtBase 101 at the New Museum (both in 2005) demonstrated that new media artists are capable artists in real life—not just hippie computer nerds. As a result, new media has edged its way into the archive of art history—museums acquired some pieces and Cory Arcangel made the cover of Artforum. But despite a bit of critical success, most new media artists I know have found it extremely difficult to make a living with their artwork in the commercial art system. Granted, it is difficult to make a living as an artist at all, but traditionally, with a certain level of critical success, exposure, museum shows, etc., you expect a meager living. Not that anyone is surprised, though: for $2,000, the gallery offers you a painting or a CD-ROM containing a file that they could send you in an email attachment. It’s understandably difficult for collectors to make this transition, and this is probably why my gallery only ever lost money.

But many of the differences between a JPEG and a painting are illusion if you experience the work wholly. At the level of theory and physics, both are just optical information suspended in a fragile medium, coded by elementary particles on a canvas or on a hard-drive platter. The detailed physical processes behind seeing a painting and seeing a JPEG described mathematically are both absurdly complex. Beyond the subtleties of how each is stylized by its technology or nostalgic spin, the most effective difference between JPEG and painting technology is the economy of duplication and transmission. Because the JPEG’s economy of endless duplicates does not fit well into the art-world’s market of rare objects, gallerists may compensate by converting the file into an editioned giclée print, a more tangible form of object with real-life copyright protection.

New media artist Leo Villareal risking the appearance of "selling out" in the Yale Alumni Magazine, September/October 2010; courtesy the author

So, why can’t we just sell the file online? Not as a conceptual art project, but as an attempt at a new model of putting food on the table through selling art. We’re expending a lot of energy translating this digital stuff to the gallery, while almost every other content industry sells files on the Internet: software, movies, music, books, games. Consider the concept of selling art online like software or music, or using free Internet art to sell advertising or merch. Whether or not the market is too small for this depends on your definition of the boundaries of art, because the masses clearly already buy some forms of very art-like digital content over the Internet through the iTunes Store and Netflix.

It seems like Internet commerce for Internet artists should be a natural extension. If we as Net artists know so much about the Internet—its aesthetics, its social systems, its hidden worlds—then shouldn’t we be able to at least manipulate it enough to grift a simple living with our practice? Yet many artists I know, myself included, have idealistic tendencies and have really latched onto these Internet philosophies of freedom (as in both speech and beer). Giving away the work online makes it difficult to sell online. I do love the idea of universal access to information, but I don’t think I can continue to place such a huge gulf between free and really cheap. Isn’t it all just a gradient where you find your place? Keep in mind that the commercial art world only does really expensive.

An image-conscious artist who has overcome the free mentality may then balk at the risk (or appearance) of selling out when mixing art and Internet commerce. A commercial place like the Internet is surrounded by commercial temptations, and without the established business etiquette of the art market, it’s difficult for “sell-out” accusers or accused to even consistently define selling out. All this could be dangerous for artists who plan to keep a foot in the traditional art world. Even if an artist avoids the sell-out trap, the art industry seems to handicap credibility on art delivered in mass-produced forms, making the effort less fruitful. It’s a shitty road!

Long term, the art world is just a massive pile of artifacts related to artworks produced throughout history, including writing, visual documentation, sales records, the artworks themselves, memories, every perceivable piece of substance related to art. The Google PageRank-like formula that the art world uses to determine the significance of artworks within this pile largely considers the textual records, but it clearly also places heavy emphasis on the sales records. New media art may eventually find its market, but since it currently has not, its prominence in the art archive may depend on those in the field writing avidly about the unique experiences they’re having with art, computers and the Internet. New media artists are pouring themselves online every day to see a fuller picture, and they must report back often lest others miss out on the astonishing beauty of the Internet.

Studio visits

2011-01-08T14:12:00.001-08:00

Bill Stone with functional sculpture

Rico Gatson's new work in studio.

Lisa Hein and Bob Seng

2010-12-31T12:01:00.001-08:00

"Calendar"

lighting animation in two independent loops

10' x 8' x 3'

Whenever your holidays hit -- stay lit!

Lisa Hein and Bob Seng

dusk to midnight daily thru feb 13

gridspace

112 rogers ave at sterling

http://gridspace.org/about-2/

thanks to ian burns and macdowell colony

http://www.heinseng.com/

AFC Fund raiser

2010-12-22T16:37:00.001-08:00

What can readers do to make Lynda Benglis’ dildo grow into her mistletoe? Give to the Art Fag City end of year fundraising campaign! I need $5,000 to continue running the blog full time in the upcoming year, so I’m asking readers for their support so I can make this happen.

Thanks to Ms. Benglis AFC has an aggressively eye-catching dick for a fundraising “thermometer”. The beauty of independent publishing is that you can enjoy it because it’s not censored by some “larger” editorial vision. I used this image because it illustrates my commitment to promoting the value of emerging art and ensuring we all share in the satisfaction of engaging in art and the fine art community.

I want to continue doing this and with your help I can. As in year’s past, the blog operates with non-profit sponsorship so all donations are tax deductible. Finally, for those donors with a competitive edge, AFC has a pot sweetener: This year, the highest donor will receive their choice of print by Michael Smith or Phillip Niemeyer. Both are fantastic prints and worth their weight in donation gold!

Image Credit: Lynda Benglis in her 1974 advertisement in ArtForum promoting her upcoming show at Paula Cooper Gallery. The mistletoe is an AFC addition.

_____________________________
Paddy Johnson
Editor

ART FAG
CITY

http://www.artfagcity.com
http://www.twitter.com/artfagcity

Clare Amory Benefit

2010-12-16T15:46:00.000-08:00

Lisa Yuskavage Sarah with Branch, 2004 Watercolor and graphite on paper
Paper: 14.75" x 12.125"Framed: 22.125" x 19.25" x 1.5" Signed, dated lower left $30,000

From: James Fuentes Gallery

Clare Amory is fighting Stage IV cancer. We have helped organize an art benefit for Clare to help ease her cost of living whilst fighting this disease.

Works can be viewed online but also, thanks to David Zwiner Gallery, are available for viewing in person on Sunday, December 20, 12-8pm, at 533 West 19th Street.

Info on the works for sale can be found here: link

For sales inquires please contact Becky or James at info@jamesfuentes.com or 212.577.1201.

Moore Street Market

2010-12-11T06:41:00.000-08:00

Lars Kremer and Austin Thomas checking out the space at Moore Street Market.

David Brody (straight from studio)

2010-11-24T17:48:00.000-08:00

Contemporary Art

2010-11-08T08:56:00.000-08:00

Contemporary Art: Art Contemporary with Itself

By Jean Baudrillard / Translated by Chris Turner

This essay was originally published as part of Jean Baudrillard's "Le Pacte de lucidité ou l'intelligence du Mal" (2004), translated into English in 2005 as "The Intelligence of Evil or the Lucidity Pact".

The adventure of modern art is over. Contemporary art is contemporary only with itself. It no longer knows any transcendence either towards past or future; its only reality is that of its operation in real time and its confusion with that reality.
Nothing now distinguishes it from the technical, promotional, media, digital operation. There is no transcendence, no divergence any more, nothing of another scene: merely a specular play with the contemporary world as it takes place. It is in this that contemporary art is worthless: between it and the world, there is a zero-sum equation.
Quite apart from that shameful complicity in which creators and consumers commune wordlessly in the examination of strange, inexplicable objects that refer only to themselves and to the idea of art, the true conspiracy lies in this complicity that art forges with itself, its collusion with the real, through which it becomes complicit in that Integral Reality, of which it is now merely the image-feedback.
There is no longer any differential of art. There is only the integral calculus of reality. Art is now merely an idea prostituted in its realization.

Modernity was the golden age of a deconstruction of reality into its simple elements, of a detailed analytics, first of impressionism, then of abstraction, experimentally open to all the aspects of perception, of sensibility, of the structure of the object and the dismemberment of forms.
The paradox of abstraction is that, by "liberating" the object from the constraints of the figural to yield it up to the pure play of form, it shackled it to an idea of a hidden structure, of an objectivity more rigorous and radical than that of resemblance. It sought to set aside the mask of resemblance and of the figure in order to accede to the analytic truth of the object. Under the banner of abstraction, we moved paradoxically towards more reality, towards an unveiling of the "elementary structures" of objectality, that is to say, towards something more real than the real.
Conversely, under the banner of a general aestheticization, art invaded the whole field of reality.

The end of this history saw the banality of art merge with the banality of the real world -- Duchamp's act, with its automatic transference of the object, being the inaugural (and ironic) gesture in this process. The transference of all reality into aesthetics, which has become one of the dimensions of generalized exchange...
All this under the banner of a simultaneous liberation of art and the real world.
This "liberation" has in fact consisted in indexing the two to each other -- a chiasmus lethal to both.
The transference of art, become a useless function, into a reality that is now integral, since it has absorbed everything that denied, exceeded or transfigured it. The impossible exchange of this Integral Reality for anything else whatever. Given this, it can only exchange itself for itself or, in other words, repeat itself ad infinitum.

What could miraculously reassure us today about the essence of art? Art is quite simply what is at issue in the world of art, in that desperately self-obsessed artistic community. The "creative" act doubles up on itself and is now nothing more than a sign of its own operation -- the painter's true subject is no longer what he paints but the very fact that he paints. He paints the fact that he paints. At least in that way the idea of art remains intact.

This is merely one of the sides of the conspiracy.
The other side is that of the spectator who, for want of understanding anything whatever most of the time, consumes his own culture at one remove. He literally consumes the fact that he understands nothing and that there is no necessity in all this except the imperative of culture, of being a part of the integrated circuit of culture. But culture is itself merely an epiphenomenon of global circulation.
The idea of art has become rarefied and minimal, leading ultimately to conceptual art, where it ends in the non-exhibition of non-works in non-galleries -- the apotheosis of art as a non-event. As a corollary, the consumer circulates in all this in order to experience his non-enjoyment of the works.

At the extreme point of a conceptual, minimalist logic, art ought quite simply to fade away. At that point, it would doubtless become what it is: a false problem, and every aesthetic theory would be a false solution.
And yet it is the case that there is all the more need to speak about it because there is nothing to say. The movement of the democratization of art has paradoxically merely strengthened the privileged status of the idea of art, culminating in this banal tautology of "art is art", it being possible for everything to find its place in this circular definition.
As Marshall McLuhan has it, "We have now become aware of the possibility of arranging the entire human environment as a work of art".¹

The revolutionary idea of contemporary art was that any object, any detail or fragment of the material world, could exert the same strange attraction and pose the same insoluble questions as were reserved in the past for a few rare aristocratic forms known as works of art.
That is where true democracy lay: not in the accession of everyone to aesthetic enjoyment, but in the transaesthetic advent of a world in which every object would, without distinction, have its fifteen minutes of fame (particularly objects without distinction). All objects are equivalent, everything is a work of genius. With, as a corollary, the transformation of art and of the work itself into an object, without illusion or transcendence, a purely conceptual acting-out, generative of deconstructed objects which deconstruct us in their turn.
No longer any face, any gaze, any human countenance or body in all this -- organs without bodies, flows, molecules, the fractal. The relation to the "artwork" is of the order of contamination, of contagion: you hook up to it, absorb or immerse yourself in it, exactly as in flows and networks. Metonymic sequence, chain reaction.
No longer any real object in all this: in the ready-made it is no longer the object that's there, but the idea of the object, and we no longer find pleasure here in art, but in the idea of art. We are wholly in ideology.
And, ultimately, the twofold curse of modern and contemporary art is summed up in the "ready-made": the curse of an immersion in the real and banality, and that of a conceptual absorption in the idea of art.

"... that absurd sculpture by Picasso, with its stalks and leaves of metal; neither wings, nor victory, just a testimony, a vestige -- the idea, nothing more, of a work of art. Very similar to the other ideas and vestiges that inspire our existence -- not apples, but the idea, the reconstruction by the pomologist of what apples used to be -- not ice-cream, but the idea, the memory of something delicious, made from substitutes, from starch, glucose and other chemicals -- not sex, but the idea or evocation of sex -- the same with love, belief, thought and the rest..."²

Art, in its form, signifies nothing. It is merely a sign pointing towards absence.
But what becomes of this perspective of emptiness and absence in a contemporary universe that is already totally emptied of its meaning and reality?
Art can now only align itself with the general insignificance and indifference. It no longer has any privileged status. It no longer has any other final destination than this fluid universe of communication, the networks and interaction.
Transmitter and receiver merging in the same loop: all transmitters, all receivers. Each subject interacting with itself, doomed to express itself without any longer having time to listen to the other.
The Net and the networks clearly increase this possibility of transmitting for oneself in a closed circuit, everyone going at it with their virtual performances and contributing to the general asphyxia.

This is why, where art is concerned, the most interesting thing would be to infiltrate the spongiform encephalon of the modern spectator. For this is where the mystery lies today: in the brain of the receiver, at the nerve centre of this servility before "works of art". What is the secret of it?
In the complicity between the mortification "creative artists" inflict on objects and themselves, and the mortification consumers inflict on themselves and their mental faculties.
Tolerance for the worst of things has clearly increased considerably as a function of this general state of complicity.

Interface and performance -- these are the two current leitmotifs.
In performance, all the forms of expression merge -- the plastic arts, photography, video, installation, the interactive screen. This vertical and horizontal, aesthetic and commercial diversification is henceforth part of the work, the original core of which cannot be located.
A (non-)event like The Matrix illustrates this perfectly: this is the very archetype of the global installation, of the total global fact: not just the film, which is, in a way, the alibi, but the spin-offs, the simultaneous projection at all points of the globe and the millions of spectators themselves who are inextricably part of it. We are all, from a global, interactive point of view, the actors in this global total fact.

Photography has the selfsame problem when we undertake to multi-mediatize it by adding to it all the resources of montage, collage, the digital and CGI, etc. This opening-up to the infinite, this deregulation, is, literally, the death of photography by its elevation to the stage of performance.
In this universal mix, each register loses its specificity -- just as each individual loses his sovereignty in interaction and the networks -- just as the real and the image, art and reality lose their respective energy by ceasing to be differential poles.

Since the nineteenth century, it has been art's claim that it is useless. It has prided itself on this (which was not the case in classical art, where, in a world that was not yet either real or objective, the question of usefulness did not even arise).
Extending this principle, it is enough to elevate any object to uselessness to turn it into a work of art. This is precisely what the "ready-made" does, when it simply withdraws an object from its function, without changing it in any way, and thereby turns it into a gallery piece. It is enough to turn the real itself into a useless function to make it an art object, prey to the devouring aesthetic of banality.
Similarly, old objects, being obsolete and hence useless, automatically acquire an aesthetic aura. Their being distant from us in time is the equivalent of Duchamp's artistic act; they too become "ready-mades", nostalgic vestiges resuscitated in our museum universe.
We might extrapolate this aesthetic transfiguration to the whole of material production. As soon as it reaches a threshold where it is no longer exchanged in terms of social wealth, it becomes something like a giant Surrealist object, in the grip of a devouring aesthetic, and everywhere takes its place in a kind of virtual museum. And so we have the museumification, like a "ready-made", of the whole technical environment in the form of industrial wasteland.

The logic of uselessness could not but lead contemporary art to a predilection for waste, which is itself useless by definition. Through waste, the figuration of waste, the obsession with waste, art fiercely proclaims its uselessness. It demonstrates its non-use-value, its non-exchange-value at the same time as selling itself very dear.
There is a misconception here. Uselessness has no value in itself. It is a secondary symptom and, by sacrificing its aims to this negative quality, art goes completely off track, into a gratuitousness that is itself useless. It is the same scenario, more or less, as that of nullity, of the claim to non-meaning, insignificance and banality, which attests to a redoubled aesthetic pretension.
Anti-art strives, in all its forms, to escape the aesthetic dimension. But since the "ready-made" has annexed banality itself, all that is finished. The innocence of non-meaning, of the non-figurative, of abjection and dissidence, is finished.
All these things, which contemporary art would like to be, or return to, merely reinforce the inexorably aesthetic character of this anti-art.

Art has always denied itself. But once it did so through excess, thrilling to the play of its disappearance. Today it denies itself by default -- worse, it denies its own death.
It immerses itself in reality, instead of being the agent of the symbolic murder of that same reality, instead of being the magical operator of its disappearance.
And the paradox is that the closer it gets to this phenomenal confusion, this nullity as art, the greater credit and value it is accorded, to the extent that, to paraphrase Canetti, we have reached a point where nothing is beautiful or ugly any more; we passed that point without realizing it and, since we cannot get back to that blind spot, we can only persevere in the current destruction of art.

Lastly, what purpose does this useless function serve?
From what, by its very uselessness, does it deliver us?
Like politicians, who deliver us from the wearisome responsibility of power, contemporary art, by its incoherent artifice, delivers us from the ascendancy of meaning by providing us with the spectacle of non-sense. This explains its proliferation: independently of any aesthetic value, it is assured of prospering by dint of its very insignificance and emptiness. Just as the politician endures in the absence of any representativeness or credibility.

So art and the art market flourish precisely in proportion to their decay: they are the modern charnel-houses of culture and the simulacrum.

It is absurd, then, to say that contemporary art is worthless and that there's no point to it, since that is its vital function: to illustrate our uselessness and absurdity. Or, more accurately, to make that decay its stock in trade, while exorcizing it as spectacle.

If, as some have proposed, the function of art was to make life more interesting than art, then we have to give up that illusion. One gets the impression that a large part of current art participates in an enterprise of deterrence, a work of mourning for the image and the imaginary, a -- mostly failed -- work of aesthetic mourning that leads to a general melancholia of the artistic sphere, which seems to survive its own demise by recycling its history and its relics.

But neither art nor aesthetics is alone in being doomed to this melancholy destiny of living not beyond their means, but beyond their ends.

Twitter with Marcin Ramocki

2010-10-31T08:22:00.000-07:00

From: Marcin Ramocki:( http://twitter.com/59tweetthesis/ ) tomorrow, Sunday (10.31) between 2-3pm EST!

On the 493 anniversary of Martin Luther's "Disputatio pro declaratione virtutis indulgentiarum" I'll be tweeting

my text "59 twitter theses: light hearted disputation concerning artistic practice in the era of social media".

My piece was conceived as a companion for the exhibition "Future Is Not What It Used To Be" (11.11 – 26.12.2010), curated by Magda Sawon (Postmasters Gallery) at The Center of Contemporary Art Zamek Ujazdowski in Warsaw. The final text will become one of the catalogue essays for the show.

"59 twitter theses" is an attempt to open up a conversation about artistic practices in the age of social apps.

The text will be permanently left on Twitter.

From: Tom Moody
Tonight!

DUMP.FM PRESENTS IRHELL
October 30 - October 31, 10:00pm-???

Halloween parties in Mexico City and Brooklyn will be connected through dump.fm.

Visuals by Thunderhorse // Performances by Anamanaguchi, Nullsleep, Gatekeeper, Brenmar, Physical Therapy, Jon Lynn (Unsolved Mysteries), Laurel Halo, Magick Mountain, DJ Brother Ladypantz, Oscouro, Flash Porno

319 SCHOLES is at 319 Scholes Street in Brooklyn, NY (map)
the image above was dumped by lucy.

I am a dung beetle hole

2010-10-05T11:10:00.000-07:00

John Illig Mixed media very very large 2010

An example where pictures do not do justice. Went over to artists studio/ blown away!

artMovingProjects Blog

Sopa Pipa Protest

Makes no sense at all Husker Du

eat your robot

Michael Richards 911 memorial

"Play Station" & "BYOB" @ Postmasters

Ken Butler

REVOLUTION

Pick

Issue #3:TELEFONE SEM FIO: Word-Things of Augusto de Campos Revisited

Beyond the pop

Beyond the pop

Low Anthem rises high but remains grounded

More on Warhol Self-Portrait

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204618704576641623099797998.html

Is That Warhol Fake? Even His Foundation Isn't Sure

By KELLY CROW

Camp Kinderland

Call for Artists: Wall Street Occupennial!

Art Fag City

Picks

Zoe Sheehan Saldana

Breaking

PICK

Conrad Schnitzler (1937–2011)

About the author

John Bailey Band

Nico by Micha Namenwirth 5

Nico by Micha Namenwirth 4

Nico by Micha Namenwirth 3

Nico by Micha Namenwirth 2

Nico by Micha Namenwirth

Andy Warhol

Piss Christ

Attack on 'blasphemous' art work fires debate on role of religion in France

Williamsburg2000 (Part 3)

Williamsburg2000 (Part 2)

Williamsburg2000 (Part 1)

Austin Thomas Studio

Brooklyn DIY Film Anthology March 9th

Ken Butler Live (Hogar Closing)

Beat Night

:FEATURED TRACKS

Mark It!

Austin Thomas Hosts ‘Hippie Potluck’ at Hyperallergic

Art Lies

New Media and the Gallery

Paul Slocum

Studio visits

Lisa Hein and Bob Seng

AFC Fund raiser

Clare Amory Benefit

Moore Street Market

David Brody (straight from studio)

Contemporary Art

Contemporary Art: Art Contemporary with Itself

Twitter with Marcin Ramocki

I am a dung beetle hole

Issue #3:
TELEFONE SEM FIO: Word-Things of Augusto de Campos Revisited