J. Morrison’s got a bunny head, a jockstrap, and twenty-four days of printed matter under his belt.
Truth be told, J. Morrison is the first man to dance on top of me wearing a bunny head while in a jockstrap. “Soundtrack: 3 Movements,” Morrison’s latest performance, is no less humorous nor macabre. Part fun-house theater, part Brooklyn wet-dream, he swung back shots of whiskey, rolled about in crinkled paper and romped around to Britney Spears. The psycho-sexual is never far off in anything the artist does, a fact made clear in the recent exhibition he curated at Splatterpool in Greenpoint: I DREAM OF A THREESOME (with a Forget-me-not, Pansy, and a Bleeding Heart.) Participating artists were asked for three artworks that were divided and mixed up throughout the exhibition. The threesomes, as Morrison explains, were paired “in a dreamlike fantasy sequence.” With a careful eye, J. Morrison forms new statements and identities through these unique combinations. His hand was also integral in organizing 24 DAYS OF MATTER PRINTED, a live screenprinting project that was presented at Printed Matter in December. The daily sessions featured a rotating cast of twenty artists, each adding their own print to the others previously produced. Working under the theme of “self-portrait,” the artists printed their widely different images on a variety of media that included underwear and handkerchiefs.
Neal Medlyn gives us a reason to revisit the ’90s, and to delight without guilt in the pleasures of popular culture.
One Christmas when I was a wee freshman in high school, my older cousin surprised me with a large case chock full of CDs. A guest DJ had left it at the bar he worked at and decided to gift it to me. By teenage standards this should have been a treasure trove—Nirvana to Nine Inch Nails to Tori Amos, they were all there. Unfortunately, I was a late bloomer to music and didn’t quite appreciate what had fallen into my lap. What was unforgettable, however, was the awesome cover art for Insane Clown Posse’s The Great Milenko (1997). I popped in the CD and immediately popped it right out—and into the trash. Now, somewhere in a Staten Island landfill, a trove of ’90s music awaits a lucky treasure hunter.
Insane Clown Posse has once again resurfaced in my life. I recently went to see Neal Medlyn’s latest performance extravaganza at The Kitchen, aptly dubbed Wicked Clown Love. Full disclosure, I was a bit worried as the lights lowered: (1) I had never seen any of Medlyn’s performances and (2) I still knew nothing about Insane Clown Posse. Despite having become a staple of the downtown scene, I never managed to see one of Medlyn’s productions that are described as part parody, part karaoke, and part homage to pop music. Reviews have raved about his clever investigation into the nuances of the music industry, leaving my friends to tell me that “You have to see for yourself.” And, as it turns out, seeing is believing.
Sculptor Alexej Meschtschanow doctors furniture and everyday objects. In this interview he talks about the Bauhaus, the Balkans, and life as an expat in Berlin.
Alexej Meschtschanow studies the moment when everyday objects, no matter how functional or beautiful, lose their purpose and appeal. The young Ukrainian expat, now living and working in Berlin, is best known for sculptural interventions where he custom fits found furniture—chairs, dressers, buffets, doors—into metal fixtures. Steel piping may render these items useless, but it opens them to new signification that may not have been thought possible. Meschtschanow’s work is made with careful observation of the furniture’s forms and social functions: a crossbreed of dusty relics and prosthetic elements, as he reveals in this interview, allows viewers more “time and rigor” to handle history. After coming across his work, I was curious to know more about his process, his influences, and the city he calls home.
Harry Weil Your last name looks crazy for an English speaker to even attempt to pronounce.
Alexej Meschtschanow A single Cyrillic letter ‘щ’ is transliterated in German with ‘schtsch’. The Germans are very precise. So instead of a simple name I’ve got a password of ten consonants and three vowels. In the age of permanent research for digital information, it may be practical for the perfect attribution.