Ceci n'est pas une pipe.
Friday, February 9, 2007 at 10:39PM 
I generally wouldn't consider myself an 'arty' person, being unable to sketch out any figure even vaguely resembling any object that belongs in the physical realm of reality. And I am most definitely incapable of distinguishing a Raphael from a Picasso, much less a Dali from a Magritte. So imagine my consternation when I learned that I had to visit an art exhibit at LACMA with my class, attendance absolutely compulsory.
I proceeded to take everything that happened on Thursday as a sign from the gods that I should feign fatal illness--even sudden death and swift resurrection, if need be--in order to avoid that dreaded trip. A broken nail, a wrong order of coffee at Trojan Grounds, our ride that refused to shift into reverse gear... believe me, I tried.
But I ended up at LACMA with my classmates anyway, along with throngs of other college students. (LACMA held a College Night on February 8, which offered free entrance to all college students from 8-10 pm along with a reception in their central court. Free food!) Large motifs of pipes and a man in a bowler hat greeted us everywhere, and before I knew it, I was slapped with a "See it at LACMA!" sticker and ushered into a room.
I'd been curious to find out what, if anything, lay behind that ubiquitous pipe and its enigmatic tagline, "This is not a pipe." What could it possibly mean? That the picture of a pipe, which clearly appeared to be a regular tobacco pipe, was not representative of a pipe? That it was a tobacco pipe, but not a plumber's pipe? That it wasn't a pipe, just because the artist labeled it so? Was it making a statement about meaning, labeling, impression, visualization... what was it about?
As it turned out, the answer surprised--no, delighted--me, and sent tingly sensations down my spine! Who'd have thought that I, the biggest art-moron on earth, would have found something of such intense interest in an art museum? The picture of a pipe is not a pipe, precisely because it is a picture of a pipe. It is nothing more than a visual representation of the object itself.
And... ...? So where's the punchline in that, I hear you asking. But that's exactly what Plato said about art, that it's an imitation of reality! And Aristotle! And Kant! And there was even an exhibit of Foucault's paper on Magritte's pipe! Do you sense how excited the philosophy-geek in me is! Viewing an art exhibit could actually be an intellectual experience for me, instead of the stumbling-about-in-the-dark-like-an-ignoramus that I'd anticipated!
For the rest of you who're interested in the very art of it, however, here's a brief overview. The exhibition features not only Magritte's works, but those of other modern artists that have been influenced by, or referenced his works. The layout is pretty cool as well, as the works by other artists (such as Martin Kippenberger, Andy Warhol, Vija Celmins, etc.) are interspersed among Magritte's, so you can visualize their similarities with the pieces placed side-by-side.
The exhibition also follows Magritte through his various changes in artistic style and content, ranging from his Surrealist works, which saw him juxtaposing random and often contradictory elements that defied the conventions of reality, to his later method of meshing together less-random objects in an attempt to highlight the relationship between them. He also explored the relationship between seemingly conflicting words and images, challenged traditional ideas of "good" painting during his vache period, and questioned social influences on the subject of individualism and identity.
No, it wasn't too bad after all, was it? In fact, it was even worth that half a minute of indignity when three of us had to hop out of the backseat to push the car out of the driveway of a parking structure, with the rest of the world watching and judging us for the stupid college kids that we were.
Lessons learnt:
- Don't fear the unknown! Plunge headlong into the unknown!
- Figure out how to drive stick before venturing out into the menacing streets of LA in your friend's car.
Magritte and Contemporary Art The Treachery of Images Los Angeles County Museum of Art November 19 - March 4
As revealed to me at Cdbaby.com, Yosef’s story is an epic journey through the shadows of middle-life drudgery. Yosef had lost it all in 2001. His home, his family: it all went down the drain in a flash. He doesn’t elaborate as to how he lost it all, or what “all� meant (did his wife pass away? did she dump him?), but we’re told that he succumbed to alcoholism afterwards.
One day, as he was driving down an unnamed freeway and feeling morbidly depressed, his eyes went out suddenly. It was as if someone reached into Yosef’s brain and flicked a lightswitch off. And there he was, driving down Highway 666 without the slightest notion of direction. After cruising unharmed for a miraculous three minutes, despair sank its teeth into Yosef and he called out to a higher being for salvation. And wouldn’t you know it, he inexplicably regained his eyesight and pulled into the nearest 7-11. You can interpret this in many ways. But for Yosef, it meant he needed to pull his shit together and write an album titled Magistic Soul (apparently, it also meant he had to buy a King Arthur ensemble from the Dollar Store).
I read Yosef’s story and thought it was the strangest thing because the same thing happened to me…except in reverse. My story began with Magistic Soul. I popped it into my CD player while driving through the neighborhood. Two songs in, I went blind. Somehow I managed to get home, but when I got there I found that my wife and children had left me.
Ok, I feel bad for putting the guy down like this. Yosef is actually a decent musician. He practically “[wrote] and arranged� the entire album himself, plus he’s pretty deft on classical guitar. I’m not sure where his roots are grounded but the old fashioned stuff is actually enjoyable. It’s when he starts “modernizing� himself, with porno-basslines and Phil Collins-inspired lyrics, that he becomes that wedding singer everyone feels embarrassed for.
I originally thought that End of the Week was a “best of� compilation because the songs were written over a 15 year span (as indicated on the back of the CD). But after some thinking, I realized that it just meant Pat took 15 years to write this album. Sure, there’s a whopping 21 tracks. But then again, they’re usually less than 2 minutes long and sound as if they were recorded in a bathroom with a hand-me-down guitar and a Yamaha keyboard. Plus the lyrics are sparse and repetitious. I think Fritchey fans are feeling let down, even more so than the Guns N’ Roses followers who are waiting 10 years just to find out how shitty Chinese Democracy is. And what’s with the album cover? Pat explains himself on Myspace: “i had to duck or bumped my head on the end of the week.� Sure Pat, sure.
Pat falls in love:
You only get so many days out of the year to ice skate outside in downtown Los Angeles, so why wouldn't you? Can't you just picture yourself and your date circling around each other while David Brighton's Bowie, a David Bowie impersonator, serenades you sweetly? (December 22 only!)
Even if bad cover bands are not your idea of winter romance, and I don't know why they wouldn't be, you can always make the trip on any other winter's night.
I think I'd like to get as many friends as possible to join me for a night skate under skyscrapers. It would be just like being at home, except with more smog and taller buildings. Sure, you could go during the day, but I think you really need those night lights to make it all worth your while. Afterwards, warm up (or cool down, depending on your skating intensity) with a fine beverage at your local downtown bar or cafe.
The hours and information are here: