A little preview of Peanut Butter and Jellyfish, a book for the youngsters I’m writing and illustrating with a nod to my time in Australia.  I can’t help but think “The dingoes ate my baby!” when I look at this one.

I have been on a boat for five days now with the Hard family living what we jokingly refer to as The Hard Life.  Food.  Beer.  Sun.  Sea.  Rinse and repeat.  A daily swim to the shore provides respite, albeit temporary, from the sweltering heat.  Jake and I attempt to capture the sea’s bounty.  Prawns keep disappearing from my hook, alas, for some it appears there is such thing as a free lunch.  I offer the words of Henry Miller to offset the pain of our fishing failures:

“I believe I really revered him for playing the role of “the failure.” The man knew how to make music of his failing and failures. In fact, he had the wit and the grace to make it seem as though, next to success, the best thing in life is to be a total failure.”

 

Dad chauffeurs Juanita and I to shore in our trusty orange dingy for a hike.  Of course we pick the hottest day of the year in a country known for, among other dangerous things, extreme heat.  Bleeding gum trees and eucalyptus offer shade but only miniscule relief from the heat.  I’ve worn proper hiking boots but couldn’t bear the thought of long pants.  Hopefully the snakes stay under rock rather than underfoot; everything in Australia can kill you, including the heat.

Juan and I climb though Ku-Ring-Gai Chase Park, increasingly short of breath and saturated with sweat.  I’d like to sit and rest for a bit but the snakiness of the terrain convinces me to wait for the perfect rock, crevasse and snake dwelling free.  Our fingers are showing signs of edema, on the fast track to heat stroke it appears.  Juanita’s sister and father completed the same trek earlier in the day, although the forest’s reported cool pockets have since been filled by the increasingly hot wind.  Like a blow dryer to the face, one could only describe it as fire starting weather.

Storm clouds gather as we make our decent, thunder punctuating with ominous tone. The idea of getting caught in the rain is a bit refreshing, but good sense and exhaustion expedite our return to the safety of the boat.  A short standoff with a goanna blocking our path delays and intrigues.  I guess it’s Australia’s answer to the Komodo dragon.  Though I don’t know much of its behavior, I’ll assume it’s a we don’t bother you, you don’t bother us kind of forest friend.

Back at the shore, we wave Dad and Jake over from their unsuccessful fishing grounds for a ride.  Juanita requests a detour on the return to our vessel- a pretty substantial cliff has been taunting her all day.  Still dizzy and unstable from the day’s hike I opt out of the adventure.  Admittedly, Juan is braver than I. A group of high school boys had been making the plunge earlier in the day, and even they paused with hesitation at the precipice.

Juan scales the cliff and makes the plunge to the applause of frat boys on a houseboat nearby.  Dozens of stingrays swim the shady waters below the cliff while Juanita summons magical energy to propel herself back to the boat.  I summon the energy to put on my suit and float with the assistance of our trusty inflatable croc, dipping my recently acquired dreadlocks in the salty sea bath.  Hygiene was not listed among priorities for this trip.  Three weeks on the road and I probably managed four showers.  Swimming counts for something right?

The winds shift direction and smoke wafts our way.  Indeed, it is fire starting weather.  A plume of gray smoke crests over the hill as the sun sets.  Ambulance chasing frat boys speed off in the direction of the fire to catch a closer look.  We, being of the more dignified sect of ambulance chasers, gather atop the boat with beers as the entertainment unfolds.  We watch for hours as the hills in front of us ignite.  Our once sparsely populated bay fills with refugees from the smoke.  By morning dozens of hastily anchored boats dot the exit to the main waterway.

And what became of the frat boys you might ask.  Some, perhaps in haste or drunkenness, may have forgotten to anchor all together.  We pass by their expertly parked boat with a bit of smug jeering and applause.  G’day mates!

A walkabout in Ngarua Caves revealed evidence of a Moa’s misstep and subsequent preservation in the caves below.

“It feels like those people who have a zoo in their backyard,” Jess pointed out as we donned our hardhats and joined the ranks of fannypacks for a tour (bumbags for those in the Southern Hemisphere).

The quirky old proprietor shared his passion for geology and prehistoric birds with a deadpan delivery that one couldn’t help but adore.  He was proud of his zoo in the backyard and it showed.  Someday I’ll lead a simple life as the owner of a roadside attraction. . .

A few more hours north we arrived at Wharariki Beach and the stunning campsite we’d make our home.  We passed up a few average camps along the way, but as with most things in life, were rewarded for the journey off the beaten path.  The holiday park was maintained by a red faced German in his early 30’s, likely a backpacker that decided to stay in Neverland to be king of the Lost Boys. Perhaps in an effort to seem cool, he ventured into American politics; seems everybody’s got an opinion these days.  Little did he know he was barking up the wrong tree with two ranch girls from flyover country.

An after dinner hike to the beach for sunset segued into a bit more wine than was necessary, and I soon found myself waxing poetic about Portland, microbrews and God knows what else with some bearded backpackers nostalgic for home.  Craving the illicit substance tobacco, I was directed to the firetruck where the German lived.  Yes, you heard me correctly, he lives in a firetruck.  Giggling and stumbling though the camp in the dark, embarrassed to wake a sleeping fireman, I crept around his residence to establish whether he was awake, then abandoned my mission and settled on bed over gangrene.

A prison of politeness, economics and engineering, our 747-400 lumbered across the Pacific – 13 hours to Auckland.  California law protects poultry against similar confinement.  I sat trapped by a tray table of half eaten swill, looking up with hopefulness every time a stewardess passed by, shifting restlessly until the refuse cart finally came to relieve me.  Committing to a free prefab meal is undoubtedly a commitment to one’s own entrapment.  Evidently, there is no free lunch after all.

Bourgeois as it may be, I am an advocate of exotic travel for those navigating the choppy waters of existential crises.  You’ve got a lot of time to think, for starters.

I left San Francisco with several things up in the air: the remnants of an old relationship failing to fade away gracefully, the realization that I may have to adjust my expectations for completion of the most ambitious project I’ve ever undertaken and a general dissatisfaction with the pace of artistic progression.

Is the art world covered in ampullea of Lorenzini, receptors of weakness and fear?  Is posturing a necessary component of creating one’s own mythology?  Are we all just using the internet as a vehicle for corroborating our own delusions?  We all sit here and blog on about our amazing work and how validating it is to have been included in a group show that actually cost us money to participate in.  An art career is a sinkhole.  And a sacrifice.

All things considered, I’m grateful to have a side job that allows ample time and resources to indulge in artmaking.  Nearly a decade of working in entertainment has garnered some insights that can be unilaterally applied to one’s expectations for their art practice.

Not only will you not make any money, you’ll have to spend money to get started.

Unless you live in Bulgaria or Brazil, chances are you’re never going to “get discovered.”  You’re going to put in hard time and progress quite slowly, with some inevitable setbacks along the way.

You will work with people who are sincere and inspiring, but they are few and far between.  The vast majority of those you encounter will be putting on airs or looking to get something from you (if you have little to offer, beware, many galleries have couches too).

Sometimes the best opportunities pay the lowest (or not at all).

Relationships matter.  Building genuine relationships will help you more than the dreaded “N” word (networking) and you may even be able to keep portions of your soul intact while you’re at it.

When you actually do make money, you’ll have to give a large percentage away in the form of commission and other expenditures.

Pumping yourself up on the internet may fool some, but unfortunately, you will still know the truth.  Very few of us are good enough liars to believe our own bullshit.

I came face to face with my bullshit high above Golden Bay, on a mountain top nestled against Abel Tasman National Park.  My friend Jess and I were at the Takaka market where we met some wonderful yogis (and not the Lululemon kind) who invited us to Kirtan at their ashram that evening. Sometimes what you need shows up when you’re not even looking.

Hand drawn map in tow, our station wagon wound up the mountain on increasingly sketchy roads, bottoming out on the various fords carving their way to the sea.  With each turn Jess and I proclaimed, “It’s got to be around the next bend, right?”  Over an hour of precarious one lane dirt road later, we arrived at our destination with a slight apprehension that we may be walking into a community rivaling The Beach given its remote location.

It was nearly dinnertime and we were invited to share their supper.  Sitting on the floor next to the girl from the market, whose Sanskrit name is something I’ll never recall, I was asked about my art practice.  Like any good bullshitter, I had my packaged elevator speech ready to go.  I looked into her piercing eyes, made all the more vibrant by her shaved head; funny, how you really see people when they have no obstructions.  There was no expectation or judgment in her eyes.  Spouting my canned spiel would have been fine, but I wasn’t necessary.  I had no reason to make myself sound good.

I accepted, and verbalized for the first time that I may not finish my project in the timeframe that I had planned.  What had seemed like such a large pill of pride to swallow went down surprisingly easy.  She looked on and listened intently, unphased by my admission of potential failure.  I’m sure they see their fair share of people on the brink of existential crisis at the ashram.  I had Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in my bag for hell’s sake.

Jess and I assumed dish duty in gratitude for our food and company before proceeding to Kirtan.  Jess, being a former Bali resident and yogi herself had been to Kirtan, while I walked in all but blind.

The only two children at the ashram chased us down asking lots of questions, and explaining that the flowers in their hair were for the young girl’s birthday.  Her brother, probably nine or ten, led off playing the harmonium and singing in a young but steady voice.  It was amazing to see how involved and joyful the boy was at an age where most would be afraid to be so open and uncool.

In many cultures, music is an integral part of spiritual practice.  I grew up singing in church myself, however, the difference in presence at the ashram was astounding.  Every single person who was there wanted to be there.  There were no children kicking the back of the pew, no sleeping old men, nor a resident bravado trying to outshine the group.  It was joyful and electric while also meditative and peaceful.  Group consciousness can be very powerful when the group is conscious.

We filed out without much pomp, as Mouna (golden silence) followed Kirtan.  Heading back down the mountain to the campsite at dusk, I felt the first inkling that I was on my way out of the first world quarterlife funk. . .

Following my Holiday travels, I’m embarking on an adventure in honor of my 27th birthday (here’s to you stupid curse!).  Off to Australia and New Zealand to see some old friends and get my Hobbit on.  As a former movie theatre employee (circa LOTR) and eternal geek, New Zealand is undoubtedly of legend.

I’ll also be touring Australia with the infamous street artist and philosopher extraordinaire Juanita and her family.  It’s been a year now since she left San Francisco for  Melbourne.

Upon my return I will be hitting the fundraising hard and looking for a new space to begin The Emperor Project.  Crazy it’s already been 9 months of planning!

A little chronology to catch you up on my inspiration for the show:

In 2006 I signed up for a PPO paying under $300 for a 2 month billing cycle.  By 2011, the same cycle cost me $930.  I finally left Anthem Blue Cross with my premium inching toward $500 a month.  I’m willing to commit funds to my own health, but $500 is a bit exorbitant if you ask me.  That could rent you a whole apartment in many parts of this country.

Frustrated, I began the insulting process of underwriting at new companies, willing to pay for my own coverage, if only anyone else would have me.  Each rejection was attributed to my various pre-existing conditions: acne, asthma, and the benign breast lump that pulled a pretty sick practical joke on a 20 year old unequipped for that kind of fear.

Cash in hand and no one would accept me.  Some free market system this was.

Offers streamed in from Anthem to pick up our bad relationship where we left off, like an abusive boyfriend reminding me that no one will ever love me but him.  All I had to do was pay the mounting thousands in missed premiums since we had called off our dysfunctional relationship.

Here I stand a year later, uninsured and praying I don’t get in a real accident, paying out of pocket for my annual lady visits, which frankly, were quite inexpensive compared to my former premiums.

Unfortunately, my story is not too uncommon.  My self employed pilates teacher is encountering the same type of scenario.  My sister and her husband are gangster -paying cash for the delivery of their new baby.  Seems more people are dissatisfied with their options than ever before.  Here’s hoping rhetoric is converted into real reform. . .

All things considered, I completed the installation with time to spare, and found myself content and proud of the outcome.  In the gallery by myself the night before the opening was like a cathedral, softly lit and quiet, save the goings on on the street outside (more on that later).

Unfortunately, I have a love hate relationship with showing my work.  If an installation hangs and no one sees it, did it ever exist?  After each big show it’s very anti-climactic for me.  Not really loss or disappointment, but a feeling of good riddance.  Like staying at Grandma’s too long.  Showing work is a necessary evil, but I’m finding I hate galleries, even the ones I run.

With a dreadful hangover and a deadline to vacate looming, I set out the day after to take the show down.  A parking ticket to top off the scent of last night’s swill, souring in the heat.  Burrito the size of my head from Taqueria Cancun gave me strength and absorbed the alcohol still swirling in my stomach as I climbed the scaffolding time and time again.  Drunk sweats.  Muttering.  Expletives.

Upon finishing the arduous task, I finally found some free time to detox from my bender into hipsterdom.  The DIY warehouse gallery on a crummy alley lined with syringes and human waste.  The male model slash DJ friend performing at the show.  Conceptual art made with homeless signs and health insurance bills.

It had all become too much.  I had to take a week off from the Mission, Four Barrels, my studio, the internet.

Time to reboot.

I spent the weekend doing the least cool things I can fathom.  Needed to feel like a loser again.  Drove down the coast by myself because I am not hip and I’m not afraid to be alone.  Discovered a secret beach.  Bought pumpkins from directly from the patch.  Offered to jump start a cowboy’s beat up old Ford.  Brought my farmstand goodies home and felt properly rehabbed from the previous week’s brush with hipness. . .

Teichert’s 2011 series Spare Any Change shifts the underground economy of panhandling into new context.  The signs, some painstakingly crafted by the original draftsmen, display a gamut of emotions.  From pride [I Hate to Ask & U Hate to Give], to desire [Hungry for My Wife in Shanghai], to the old classic, humor [Why Lie I Want Beer].  Despite being one of the wealthiest cities in America, San Francisco hosts between 7-10,000 urban campers each night.  Teichert set out on foot to buy the signs from their creators, in the process gaining insight into one of San Francisco’s omnipresent issues, which will be chronicled in an upcoming documentary short.

 Selected works were included in Los Angeles Art Association’s Open Show and the full series was showcased at Teichert’s solo exhibition National Anthem.  For slides of the full collection click here.

Hanging Spare Any Change in a second room at the gallery.  Enjoy a few snaps of the setup and wish me luck.  Sad irony to fall off scaffolding while assembling a piece about my lack of health insurance.

The Remedy is an epic installation recycling discarded toiletries. Having advertised it as epic I’m going to need an obscene amount.  Save your empty cosmetic containers for me pretty please (bats lashes). I’m happy to reimburse for shipping or coordinate a pickup if you’re in the San Francisco area.

Slated to open in 2014, The Emperor Project is a site specific installation dissecting society’s obsession with youth and perfection.  An army of “ideal women” will populate the dystopian landscape depicting a scene a future civilization may find from our time.

New York Foundation for the Arts has been helping artists like myself fulfill the financial needs of our projects through fiscal sponsorship since 1976.

NYFA’s fiscal program, Artspire, is a 501(c)3 dedicated to fostering the arts throughout the US. Donations made on behalf of The Emperor Project are fully tax deductible and grant reporting will be provided by NYFA as needed.

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Fake Mag is a conceptual artwork combining satire, bullshit and beautiful images in a charming cocktail of society’s fakest elements.  Part eBook, part undercover experiment, Fake delves into a darker shade of pop culture using social media and personal experience working as a fifth column in the fashion world.

Digital download of Fake Mag will be available Spring ’13 on the various ephemeral platforms.

An Introduction to Fake Mag

To Be Known for Nothing is Better Than Not to Be Known At All

Music Videos: The Epitome of Kitsch 

Follow Back Youngin’

The Follower Deficit 

A recent study by the Institute of Medicine pinpoints roughly thirty percent of medical costs as the result of waste and unchecked inefficiencies within the system.  The artist’s own insurance premiums increased more than 250% over the course of five years.

Teichert brings a human element to the heated healthcare debate, one that dominates political dialogue in this election year.  She, like many Americans, has become a bargaining chip in bitter partisan warfare.

The artist cites fear of mainstream galleries to enter into serious political dialog as her motivation to self produce the show.  “I felt that there really wasn’t a place for this kind of discourse within the established gallery system.  Dealers are only willing to support certain kinds of political expression; they’re comfortable with street art, they’re comfortable with Occupiers, yet they’re uncomfortable with me.  Dealers want women like me to make home décor for their clientele and to smile and look pretty at the opening.”

“No one expects me to have a voice.  In San Francisco, I am the counterculture.”

The exhibition also included works from her series Spare Any Change- homeless signs encased in resin as pop art jewels.  Selections from Spare Any Change were included in Los Angeles Art Association’s Annual survey by juror Charlie Manzo of Gagosian Gallery, New York.

I sat back and watched the base thing that was my feed with the same intensity one would watch Shark Week.  We all know how it will end, but there’s something forbidden and primal about seeing the weaker creatures devoured by a stronger, frighteningly sophisticated hunter.  Something sacred is about to be destroyed -life- and we can’t look away.  The same instinct that brings shameful satisfaction when we see a flounder reduced to chum, I hypothesize, is the instinct that compels us to watch Housewives berate one another and brings joy on the news of the latest pending Hollywood divorce.  Is my life truly any better or worse if Tom and Katie divorce?  Does watching Botoxed faces try to show emotion really have that much entertainment value? To the latter I answer yes.

After four months of Twitter obscurity, I tired of the redundancy of my followed.  Posts were the same repurposed spite and vanity, with some sincere sadness and low self esteem mixed in.  You’d have to have low self esteem to dedicate your time to imitating a celebrity with low self esteem.

A simple Google search for “How to get more Twitter followers” garnered 44,600,000 results.  Wow, in my amateur eagerness to engage with the Twittersphere I had already broken the number one rule: Never follow more people than are following you.  My 151 followers vs. 2000 followed, sent me unknowingly into the depths of loserdom, impossible to escape unless I unloaded some of my “friends.”

But don’t you worry, there’s a service for that.  For a mere $12 a month I am able to purge myself of the undesirables, and with fancy algorithmic minds put to their highest use, decide which Tweeters are most likely to raise my social status and which ones are to hit the bricks.  I can find out who I am following that is not following me back (everyone) and systematically remove them.  This service can also tell me who I am following that has a high ratio of follows to followers (losers) and those that are most popular.

There are dozens of services designed to help you manage your socializing and use your “influence” to manipulate the masses.  Some, for a higher fee will post things on your page that are engineered to make you cooler and gain more followers.  We are lucky to have some of Silicon Valley’s best minds working on these pressing modern issues.  How could I be sure that I was cool unless there was a way to measure it?  That brings us to Klout, “The Standard for Influence.”  Or in layman’s terms, a circle jerk seismograph.

“People have always had the power to influence others, and that power is being democratized with new social media tools. Klout’s mission is to provide insights into everyone’s influence.  We measure your influence based on your ability to drive action in social networks. We process this data on a daily basis to give you an updated Klout Score each morning.”     

Power.  Did ya hear that?  You can get a reading on your Power each morning.

So, the cardinal rule of becoming a Powerful Twitter Icon is that one cannot follow more people than are following them.  Here we are at an equation suited for the 112^th Congress.  The Follower Deficit.  How, I ask you, can we always follow less people than follow us and maintain a balanced follower budget?  Will the growth of Power keep up with influence inflation? Are we leaving the next generation of socializers worse off than we are?  Will there be any Power left for our children and our children’s children?  Would stronger regulation of the influence markets preserve the democracy of social power?  Is power a God given human right that we all deserve equal access to?  Should Congress legislate the redistribution of Power to make socializing fair for everyone?  Is the admiration of the uncool a signifier of success?  Do we need a constituency of losers in order to be cool?

I leave you with many unanswered questions and a bold alternative to social media metrics:  Klouchebag, the Ron Paul of the powermongering age. . .

Some gems of wisdom I’m compelled to share:

“Slovenly drawing will take years to correct.”

“The student often ruins his painting at this stage by overdoing the details.  He becomes a ‘noodler’ instead of a painter.”

“If it isn’t coming your way, don’t panic and shoot yourself.  Wait until tomorrow.”

“An old expression in painting- if you don’t know what color to make it use Yellow Ochre.”

“One of the pitfalls of drawing an Indian profile is that it may look as if it just rolled off the buffalo nickel.”

“Painting Orientals and Blacks: In order to paint an Oriental (anthropologically, a member of the yellow race), you have to add yellow to the basic flesh mixture of a white person.”

“A black person’s flesh color is a darker version than that of a white person.”

“More artists have committed suicide over drapery than anything else.”

“The traditional art of our civilization is realistic.”

“There’s nothing worse than a portrait of a man with an ear hanging nearby.”

“Poor drawings are often the result of laziness and lack of observation.”

“Many of the human figure forms are geometrically shaped.  The buttocks are sphere shaped.”

“An artist is creative: be original.  Do not become a computer or a sheep.  Have a contrary mind in order to be original, but do not become so original as to veer on the sensational.”

“Have some space around the head and figure to move and breathe.  Texans especially should have more room in the picture to stretch out.”

Is following back the peep equivalent of the proverbial reacharound?  Are followers the new currency?  I see dozens of requests to follow back youngin’ – endless campaigns for credibility or recognition.

Can we even fathom Tom Brokaw or Walter Cronkite engaging in a popularity contest with an interviewee?  I’ve been on Twitter for about two months now as part of my Fake research and what I have found has only reaffirmed my suspicions.  Aside from tweets from legitimate news sources and a few activist types, my feed is full of simple carbs.  Sugary, vapid, needy, and often outright mean encrypted messages bounce back and forth though cyberspace.  Trends like If I Had a Gun, Thoughts During Oral Sex and Head Butt That Hoe have caught my eye, among others.  Hoards of young people claw for compliments and blast one another publicly.

On Memorial Day one unfortunate fellow named Metta World Peace (I had to ask my interns but he’s apparently an NBA star with whom I was familiar from his time with the Kings under the clearly generic pseudonym of Ron Artest), posted a Happy Labor Day greeting out to the Twittersphere and found himself the fodder of a slew of sarcastic RTs to the point of trending.  The thing about instant gratification is it comes with a side of instant everything else.  Humiliation.  Criticism.  Shame.  Satire.  Whatever suits the occasion.

In Hal Niedzviecki”s 2009 book The Peep Diaries (City Lights Books), he dissects the overwhelming desire to be watched, loved, admired, KNOWN.

“Young people dabble in Peep without knowing what the implications of their actions will ultimately be.  Older generations, ponder phenomena like reality TV and social networking, wonder where seemingly unending narssicistic urge to self revelation comes from, and then suddenly find themselves with Facebook pages of their own.  Though there may be significant generational divides, we’re all part of Peep culture.  We’re all learning to love watching ourselves and our neighbors.  Peep’s power is that it is widespread and elusive.  It’s a whispered, hypnotic idea: You need to know.  You need to be known.  In peep we feel the cathartic release of confession, the allure and danger of gossip, and the timeless comfort of ritual.  When we peer in on each other, we experience the thrill of performance, the purge of the talking cure, the erotic frisson of forbidden sex.  Peep culture takes from all those but isn’t any of them.”   

Though our household never had cable growing up, there was inevitable exposure.  Music videos were a thing to consume only at a friend’s house. Later, during high school, a guilty pleasure I would sneak when the stern elderly couple I boarded with left me home alone- being sure to change the channel twice before shutting it off so not even a trace would be found by pressing the last button.  Music videos are, en mass, a little dirty and a little vapid.  Visual junk food, if you will.  I live alone now and have all the channels I could ever want, but somehow I still feel a bit guilty watching an hour or two of MTV or Fuse instead of the usual educational nonfiction and sophisticated dramas I typically favor.

Everything about the music video nails down the 3.5 min attention span of the American teenager.   Graphic images, fast cuts, sexy people, expensive things they don’t have.  Total sensory stimulation.  The ADD generation, indeed, may be a product of circumstance.  Life imitating art or art imitating life?

First, we are drawn in by the music we love, followed by a close second of visual kitch (who doesn’t want to live on a cotton candy cloud with Snoop Dogg?).  And last but not least, the two synergize to create the feeling of cool by association.  To listen to a certain artist is to adopt some of their swagger, to live vicariously though them.

The unremarkable semi-suburban boys I grew up with found something in Eminem that they could identify with, and of course that camaraderie was marked by the Eminent Emulation.  Piss blonde hair, baggy jeans and a wifebeater were the Shady uniform.  Ah wifebeater, that staple of the marginalized class, who are inclined to, if the moniker is to be deemed accurate, spousal abuse.  The male version of the tube top.  Often worn by those with something to show off, more notably by those with too much showing.

What’s the problem with a little skin anyhow?  Parents were revolted by Elvis’ gyrating genetalia and he was fully dressed.  Imagine what they’d think about Nikki Minaj’s big ol’ beez trap.  Who cares about the acting so long as everybody looks good?  And knows sign language dance moves.  Men ought to know every girl dreams of him signing the big three by pointing to his eye, then chest, then her.

That brings us to our worst offenders on the farthest end of the kitsch spectrum, K and J Pop, respectively.  For all of the corny synchronized dance sequences and matching outfits, there’s something fun and endearing about these little boy and girl bands.  Perhaps I’m secretly a pedophile.  Or a 13 year old girl.  They’ve almost pushed the kitsch envelope so far they transcend it.  Like Takashi Murakami and Jeff Koons, they’ve made kitsch pop their subject matter.  Not sure it’s intentional, but it makes their vids slightly more palatable than the über-serious dramatic expressions of American pop stars.  More on that later.

Here’s hoping a Ke$ha zombie eats me before I have to watch another one of her videos.

A washed up, wig wearing rockstar recruits a bus full of hopeful honeys all vying for the same, um, prize?  What exactly does one win at the end of this type of show?  Consummating their love with the object of obsession usually happens before the end of the game and isn’t limited to only one contestant.  What motivates them to swap saliva, among other things, with an aging, albeit notorious raconteur?  What are the rewards?  And what are the sacrifices?

A friend of a friend is on a VH1 reality show, Rock of Love, formatted as a raunchy homage to The Bachelor.  A precursor to The Jersey Shore.  The women dress like streetwalkers, ensembles punctuated with punches of neon and glitter.  A tactic to attract the central figure’s avian eye?  Tiny tank tops emblazoned with Playboy and Rockstar type propaganda stretched almost as tightly as the skin on their recently supersized titties.  Clear acrylic heels indiscreetly allude to the income sources of many of the contestants.  Spray tans and regrettable tattoos adorn the doodle pads they call bodies.  The only cultural complexity of the show is represented by yards of Indian hair, dyed and stitched to many a head, presumably including that of the golden calf, Brett Michaels. Not sure I could resist giving his rug a tug if I was within striking distance.  Rumor has it that the girls are asked to sign a contract stipulating that they do not infringe on the personal space of his ‘do.

Our bandana clad hero sets up predictable dates and challenges for the ladies while they imbibe a variety of intoxicants, replaying typical Look At Me! antics we’ve seen for years on late night infomercials for Girls Gone Wild.  Only this is VH1 and it’s prime time.  The game has changed.  Porno has been around for ages in its various forms, but it always had its place- dark peep shows and theatres, hotel rooms while on away on business, secret stashes under one’s bed.  This is front and center on basic cable.  No Skinemax subscription required.  Girls make out with one another, perform strip teases, and hook up with Michaels in a shameless fight for attention.

Fight for attention.  Fight for attention.  Fight for attention.  The unofficial mantra of the gold star generation.  The women of this show are my contemporaries- 80’s babies reared with the understanding that we are all unique and special snowflakes.  The generation of S’s on our report cards and participation ribbons for everybody regardless of performance.  I hated to see mediocrity rewarded with the same enthusiasm as superiority.  I was an exceptionally confident child when it came to my ability to out perform my competition, only problem was, the system was trying to phase out competition.  Everyone earned a gold star.  I wanted a meritocracy where being good at something meant something, where an adult would tell me I had done well because I had, not be cause they felt obligated to.

Somewhere along the line, the equality of it all became too much to handle.  We wanted to stand out.  We wanted recognition.  And for girls like my former roommate, she just wanted to be known, and it didn’t matter what for.  To be known for anything was better that not to be known at all.  Thousands of horny strangers awaiting your next post is something similar to celebrity- the feeling of instant validation every time you put up a new photo of your scantily clad ass.  Hundreds of comments can really get to your head.  You are valuable, people love you, it’s only fair to give them more of what they want.  And somewhere in the back of your mind rests the secret hope and inkling that this kind of buzz around your buns could attract someone who wants to snap you up and give you your own show.  Or at least invite you on theirs.

That’s the gamble Rock of Love girls took when signing up for a decidedly merit free competition. Something about their behavior and appearance would catch on and make them a star. The public would crave more of them and whatever spectacle entertainment value they provided.  Many of them purveyed their minor celebrities into paid nightclub appearances, spreads in men’s magazines and endorsements for the fledgling T-shirt company du jour.  Perhaps a few of them were sincerely “looking for love,” as the show’s premise dictated, but even then it couldn’t have been a real love, more of an infatuation with a sex symbol from the past, or a lust to be next to and part of something famous.  Something Known.  Love was the least likely thing to be fostered in such a gimmicky and selfish environment.  Lust, perhaps.  Vanity, for sure.  Venereal disease, quite possibly.  Respect, not likely.

Has this kind of attention become the new American Dream?  Is exploiting yourself for a quick buck the best course of action?  Where the hell do they go when the dust settles and the calls for appearances stop coming in?  I hope to track down and interview a few who were famous for nothing, and see how they feel about living the dream now.  The system was in its infancy back then and none of us knew what the long term effects of our behavior would be.  Passage of time has proven kinder to some than others.

Though I am not pointing a finger exclusively at advertisers, I feel a responsibility to set the record straight about the smoke and mirrors that are used industry wide to create unrealistic expectations.  We, as women, are comparative self-evaluators.  It is in our nature to find value in ourselves only as measured next to others.  Placing yourself against Giselle Bundchen in an analysis of self worth is fraught with the obvious risks.

Fake Magazine and its corresponding ecosystem, to use a Steve Jobs word, is a multiplatform conceptual artwork, a sociological investigation of the effects shallow cultural exchanges have on women, especially teens.  In order to reach my target audience, I am forced to speak the language of lol, omg, tots amazeballs and such.  Those of you who choose to follow this project on the various social media outlets, please accept this as a disclaimer.  I do not believe in many of the things I will be tweeting, and I am a bit more articulate than I may appear.  I am going undercover to recruit and gain the trust of those who need the message most.  Ultimately leading them to the culmination of this project- the magazine- which will be both digital and hard copy parodies of the serious world of fashion.

**

My recent expedition into the Twittersphere has revealed to me that it’s exponentially harder to be a tween today with all of this bullshit directly at your fingertips, unceremoniously crammed down your throat.  And I thought the pain of adolescence was more than I could bear in 1997.  These poor kids are doomed.

As a twenty six year old woman, I am capable of sifting through the chaff and taking what’s fed to me with a grain of salt.  But, to truly understand the life cycle of media interpretations, let’s turn the clock back fifteen years to an awkward junior high girl.  I was relatively sheltered, living in a small agricultural community, and there was no such thing as cyber bullying.  The worst we could do was scribble mean things in our pink spiral notebooks and hope the intended target got wind via telepathy.

I would send out for free copies of YM and Seventeen, which my mother did not approve of, and eagerly run to the mailbox hoping to intercept them before they were discovered.  At a slumber party with an older sister present, we may have even gotten our hands on a Cosmo, though we didn’t understand half of what it said, specifically when it came to the sex tips.  My parents though this was smut, which in retrospect, it is.  Well the Cosmo at least was way beyond our maturity levels.

We would cram into the bedroom of the hostess, painting our nails and enjoying the fumes, plotting how to become beautiful, and ultimately more Desired.  My two best friends were blessed with early womanhood, and as I watched them get male attention, I became increasingly incensed.  Jealousy and self-pity characterized these years, though I was the smartest kid in my class.  I aimed for perfection in everything, and frankly achieved it in all areas but one.  No quiz bowl championships, perfect report cards or wins at track meets could cure my insatiable longing to look like them.  To be desired by boys and envied by women.  To have BREASTS!!!  I dreamt of how much better my life would be if only my ironing board figure would fill out.  Then and only then, could I truly be satisfied.

High school started and my childhood friends moved on to other groups.  They began hanging out with the other girls who had boobs and knew what the letters BJ stood for.  I was left to my other pursuits of perfection because at least them I could control.  Gone were my tastes for the bubble gum girl groups of my youth.  In anger I tore down the free poster that came with the first album I ever bought: Britney Spears, Baby One More Time.  Her coy Lolita looks did nothing but piss me off because I knew men would never look at me the way they looked at her.  The thing I hated in her was the same thing I hated in my childhood friends: her sensuality, her womanliness.  I was a twig with a bobble head.  I was invisible to boys.  And I hated myself for it.

This period was marked by a shift in musical tastes, for the better if I may say so.  I ditched the sugary boy bands and slutty pop stars for a darker, heavier sound.  If I was going to be an outcast I may as well play the part.  Incubus, Red Hot Chili Peppers (when they were deep into brown and not even slightly peppy) and TOOL now filled my Napster burned CDs.  TOOL in particular made me feel enfranchised, it was elitist, intelligent and dark.  Everything I embraced as a result of my rejection by the mainstream cliques.  The wearers of belly shirts and havers of breasts.

Having failed miserably to garner attention from the popular boys, I directed my affections toward the cute burnout guys.  Though we were never “going out,” they at least acknowledged my existence and allowed me to give them my homework to copy.

**

But I digress, the point of my ramblings on adolescence is to identify that age group as the vulnerable recipients of the most distorted information.  Distilled down, the messages being transmitted every day in the media, are misinterpreted, or worse, religiously absorbed and taken as truth by these kids.  It may extend to an even younger demographic, but for all intents and purposes we’ll discuss this as it relates to the junior high crew.

These kids see the cast of some reality show act recklessly and get validated for it.  Ergo, reckless behavior is good.  A girl with no apparent redeeming qualities dresses provocatively and posts vapid tweets, gaining hundreds of thousands of followers.  Ergo, acting like a skank gets you attention.  You get my drift.  This may seem a little too black and white, but believe me, a thirteen year old girl isn’t exactly equipped to interpret nuance.  The girls in my school who mimicked Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears were lusted after. The girls like myself, who looked like the missing Hansen brother, were ignored.  Ergo, I believed that acting like a little slut was what gave certain girls their cache.

Back then, celebrity fetishizing was prevalent, but impersonation impossible.  The literal opportunity to Be a celebrity was not an option.  It occurred to me when first signing up for Twitter to follow all of the media hungry Kardashian types in order to put my finger on the pulse of this revolution.  When I searched Kim Kardashian, her official profile came up along with hoards of impersonators.  Here, I thought, lies the most grotesque form of flattery and direct byproduct of the uber-connected world.  So what did I do?  I followed them ALL.  In creating a fictional brand around Fakeness, a person so obsessed with celebrity that they actually pretend to be one is my target demographic.  What motivates someone to impersonate a celebrity?  Who are these people?  And how old are they?  Only way to find out is to go deep under cover.  I’m preparing to be the fifth column of the Fake world.  Let’s just say I’ll keep you abreast. . .

Interested applicants send a CV to info@ginateichert.com

Cheers, Gina

For more on the purpose behind this piece and a pseudo artist statement you can read this previous post.  I’m glad to finally have some space in my studio to get this hung and look forward to getting some feedback from my Open Studios guests.

Everything I Learned in Art School

]]> http://www.ginateichert.com/everything-i-learned-in-art-school-installation-view/feed/ 0 http://www.ginateichert.com/mission-open-studios-apr-1415/ http://www.ginateichert.com/mission-open-studios-apr-1415/#comments Thu, 05 Apr 2012 20:59:26 +0000 Gina Teichert http://www.ginateichert.com/?p=713 Open Studios weekend is fast approaching for us Mission artists.  Myself and many of my neighbors will be opening our doors to the public (and providing food, bev + art viewing) April 14 + 15.  In years passed it started at ten, though to be frank, not a lot of people around here are up by then on a weekend.  I’m pleased to inform you that it will take place from NOON to 6pm this year.  I’ve got a lot of work mid progress, and if anyone’s interested in what the artist’s lair looks like, feel free to swing by.  I promise it won’t be quite the gauntlet created by Dawn Kasper at the Whitney Biennial.

photo: ikono.org

My studio is a red and corrugated steel building located at 3150 18th Street Suite 552/554 called Activspace.  That address will get you to the corner of Treat and 18th, though the main entrance is located on Treat Ave (btw Harrison and Folsom) about halfway down the block.  If no one is manning the door you can gain building access by buzzing #552.  I’ll be sure to put some signs up to remind you of the number and I look forward to seeing you here.

Get a copy of the Open Studios Map Here.

Ai Wei Wei on Duchamp. Ya. Enough said.

Didn’t see a lot of painting at the fair, and even fewer paintings that I actually liked.  Of all the contemporary painters gaining some momentum, Kenhide Wiley takes the cake with his hybrid of modern imagery with traditional techniques and motifs.

Love this Leandro Erlich piece.

Carlos Garaicoa

Ai Wei Wei

Ivan Navarro’s infinite neon works saturated many booths at the fair.  I’m personally fond of the PLUNDER piece.

Ivan Navarro

Marina Abromovic staged this crystal mediation piece in addition to a few other performance works.

Aleksandra Mir, Wang Du

Douglas Coupland

HC Berg

Out of general curiosity, I had to check out The Art Students League, where my great grandmother Minerva studied a century ago.  The students happened to be having a show, and I drew the conclusion that the academic style of painting hasn’t changed much in 100 years.  Word to my Academy of Art friends- you’re definitely in the lead when it comes to the painstaking hyper realism you’re all into.

St. Patrick’s Cathedral

Alex looking like a kid in a candy store. . . 

Had to snap a shot of this after meeting my friend Luna’s stunning birthday present, a Burmese kitten named Eleanor.  She definitely runs shit around their place.

Carlos, Luna and I with the queen of the house, Eleanor, on the far left.

Red pants posse

A stay at the hotel come hostel- the Pod, began with a little laugh at the instructions in my room.  Initially, had planned on staying in a bunk room with shared bathrooms, though my spoiled side (and trauma of sharing with my siblings as a child) drove me to book a single room with my own bathroom, hooray!  The crowd at the hotel was pretty cool- Euro backpackers and other bargain hunters with a little higher standards than can be met by a proper hostel.

This one’s for you Juanita.  I know how you love the industrial areas on the way to the airport more than anything.

The dealers at The Armory Show reassured us once again that sex does indeed sell.  In context with the work

in his booth, one is forced to wonder what he’s looking at on that laptop. . .

I dug these empty arcade games- reminded me of a similar yet slightly more engaging work by Steve Lambert, Simmer Down Sprinter, where the player is supposed to do as little as possible to win the game.

Mike Bouchet

Takashi Murakami

Tony Oursler’s projected videos of blinking eyes returned the glances of many a well heeled conventioneer (and yes, that’s what an art fair is- acres of art and collapsable white walls).

Tony Oursler

I was rather intrigued with the mysterious magnetic substance in Sam Lewitt’s work called ferrofluid.  Will definitely report back on my experiments with it.

Sam Lewitt, Fluid Employment

After seeing the esoteric works of the Whitney Biennial, I feel as though my new projects are surprisingly grounded in comparison.  The broad umbrella of “mixed media” needs a bit of redefining to make room for all of the opportunities ready mades and relational aesthetics in various combinations provide.  I may not aspire to emulate the majority of the artists included in the Biennial, but I am encouraged by the institution’s readiness to embrace the eclectic and obscure.

Dawn Kasper’s This Could Be Something if I Let It -a validation of the cleanliness of both my home and studio. Photo: Art Observed

]]> http://www.ginateichert.com/whitney-biennial-2012/feed/ 0 http://www.ginateichert.com/off-to-new-york/ http://www.ginateichert.com/off-to-new-york/#comments Wed, 07 Mar 2012 05:27:47 +0000 Gina Teichert http://www.ginateichert.com/?p=577 My comrade in the arts Alex and I are headed to New York this week for the fabled Armory Show.  Bracing myself for an inundation of excitement and visual stimuli.  Will pop into the Whitney Biennial as well, so I will report back with lots of contemporary art chatter (read:gossip) and photos.  On that note, I’ll wish myself Bon Voyage!

I’ve returned home from a holiday in Idaho with the family and my lovely studio assistant Juanita where we showed her an American Christmas before sending her off home to Australia.

The snow was scarce; my suitcase full of ski clothes never saw the theatre of battle, but all in all it was a beautiful break from the sounds of the city and temperatures in the 60′s.

My father’s menagerie of farm animals keep the dude ranch packed with city girls and other urban thrill seekers who want to hold a newborn lamb.

Now back to the studio, ready to turn out some new work.  LAAA show closes this weekend for any of you in the Los Angeles area who’d like to catch it before it goes.

Casey Anthony’s courtroom antics and multiple personalities were just too good to resist.  Who’s next on the docket? Jon Corzine maybe. . .

He smiles

Hangovers dulled at Nickel Diner and a stumble into the Last Bookstore for a few bargain reads.  Dismayed pedestrians trying to navigate the inception course to MOCA- knew we should have gotten on that orange trolley instead of mocking the lazies who ride it.  Paid our respects and hit the road home.   Mmm pea soup.  Ahhhh Sleep.

Cupcakes for people who don’t own tiny dogs

Books alone are liberal and free

]]> http://www.ginateichert.com/laaa-post-script/feed/ 0 http://www.ginateichert.com/the-culmination-laaa/ http://www.ginateichert.com/the-culmination-laaa/#comments Tue, 13 Dec 2011 02:25:35 +0000 Gina Teichert http://www.ginateichert.com/?p=399 One short night’s sleep after Alex’s SF show, we loaded up the car and headed south once again.  Unfortunately my friends from Oceania don’t drive so the duty fell upon me.  I actually enjoy driving, with a little more sleep under my belt of course.  We arrived in time for a quick freshening and a stylishly late arrival; the gallery was already packed and in no time the temperature began to rise.  Though I’m not a smoker I spent a large portion of the evening outside, gazing into the little microcosm through the glass.  Perhaps the whole thing was a conceptual art piece that we had lured participants into with promise of pretty things to look at and free booze, whilst the artists stood outside and observed.

Received some encouraging feedback on my work and feel inspired to continue down the conceptual path.  Though I’m not exactly plotting to bottle my own excrement, I’m excited about my new work all the same.  I have half a dozen projects cooking that will see completion this spring.

Hungry Broke Smoke, Pregnant

Alex’s Shrine

Schadenfreude, Salvation, Ubermensch

imaGINAtion

On December 10, 2011, Los Angeles Art Association (LAAA) will present the 2011 Open Show, LAAA’s signature survey exhibition of the very best emerging contemporary artists of all media.

Distinct by design, LAAA’s annual Open Show has developed into one of the most potent survey exhibitions on the West Coast. The opening reception is 6 to 9p on December 10, 2011, and runs through January 6, 2012, at LAAA’s Gallery 825.

Open Show 2011

LAAA/Gallery 825

825 N. La Cienega Blvd.

Los Angeles, CA 90069

Reception:

Saturday, December 10, 6 to 9p

Exhibition dates:

December 10, 2011, to January 6, 2012

Juror:

Charlie Manzo, Gagosian Gallery, New York, NY

Waited out a lovely rainstorm today to get my lumber  back to the studio (hanging out of my trunk of course).

 I’ve started two new pieces, HEALTH and CARE to be shown as a diptych.  I’m not sure what kind of watchlists buying a couple thousand syringes online will land you on, but I’ll find out soon enough.