Saturday, March 13, 2010

death in the house

fall 2000, nyc


It feels to me like there has been a death in this house. Across the room the dog is sleeping on the couch. She has yet to come home. Occasionally he gets up and paces the room disoriented. He must feel something is up; from when he sleeps between the two of them to the odd silences in the place right now. He is in a temporary studio a few blocks away installing a new stereo system. He will be using it to crank out an edition of sculptures. This place has evacuated like a warzone.

It has been two days that I have known and I haven't yet seen her. I was able to tell him that I am sorry but I have yet to go up to her, put my arms around her and give her a long embrace. What she is doing now must be the most difficult decision of her life, and although it will open up new avenues of freedom and power for her it will feel like they've been carved through her. Now she must feel aimless and homeless, as if awakening from an amputation she has done herself.

I am in my head wondering what it is like in her head. Foolishly wondering when will be the last time we will ever make love, or if that time is already in the ever receeding past. And still, each night, the presence of a body beside me, dead to me but breathing. Monstrous... No words can describe it. It's like murdered time draped over you, spooning you from memory or instinct.


Imagine not being able to afford having children, ever.

On the subject of Alice Neel and her work, September 2000

This short piece was written in response to the Whitney Museum's amazing Alice Neel retrospective- one of the greatest art shows I have ever seen. An inexhaustable feast for the soul, I think I saw it a total of three times, each time falling in love with a different artist. Alice Neel was a phenomenon that you catch in smudges of simple unadorned paint. Like my favourite artists (Yoko Ono, Emily Dickinson, Alice Munro, Raymond Carver, David Hammons, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Herzog, Gibbons, Johnson, Mike Smith, Twain, Cassavettes, Dylan... ), Alice Neel's works are totally conventional. Their power is the freedom negotiated with oil paint and the spirit between artist and model. So ancient, and yet so new!

this is the first public "printing"
ps forgive my spelling y'all. where's the spellcheck?


on the subject of alice neel and her work, september 2000, nyc

I saw the Alice Neel retrospective at the Whitney yesterday and it reminded me of my project. Stubborn, quirky, defiant, tenacious, elegant, soulful. I found it very overwhelming and indescribably complex.

I thought it appropriate to situate the show next to Barbara Kruger's work- a great contrast. Kruger is like an institution- mammoth and undeniable. Her work adopts a tone which is perhaps most appropriate to our age, and yet, especially walking through the Alice Neel show below it, I feel it gives me nothing.

I need nourishment. Food is not just a necessity but sexy and delicious. Barbara Kruger is McDonalds next to Alice Neel's culinary art. There is unfathomable strength in this observation and attitude. Cause what is life without these minutes? That is what an Alice Neel painting shows me- the minutes between the sitter and the maker. Pearls. All the harshness and savor and mystery you can muster honored, cupped, exploited and delivered onto a surface and presented in public. Easy to forget and essential to affirm.


A thought: me walking down the street with my child. I will call it my child - I will fight for it, care for it, protect it, respect it, challenge, cajole, and love it and yet there are worlds between me and it that are unbridgeable in difference. My own skin new and foreign as one snowflake to another. We're walking together down the street with an invisible canyon between us. And this is not only lamentable but precious and miraculous.

I also see this looking at a painting by Alice Neel.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

hello with snow

Hello all-

I've been writing on art sporadically and decided to share!

What is here is not necessarily polished or finished

I just wanted to give it a home and allow feedback

I learn from your comments and i appreciate them!

To start I am going to post my reaction to michael snow's recent snow exhibition at the power plant in toronto

I say reaction instead of review.

This is not a review
it is more like a poem
and tribute

i called it kid snow
for a show that was so fresh and pure

jason p schiedel


Who is MS?

Electricity. Shimmering thought.

Cascading waves of sensation. A tumbling effect. Dizzy and palpitating.

I see the music first. Quadrupled from above. Tender father.

His crotch is close to the keyboard. Above his fingers comb the keys, brushing. Crescendos of notes, and nonsense; a pattern. The patterns are mesmerizing- terrifying at first. Yet so humble. The gentle effortless flow of a practice that appears like child’s play.

Playing with space and ears and skin. Covering you with endless delight that bristles.

The speakers are over the chamber where the sound comes out. You can look deep into a hole from where the sound emanates. The contradiction of a full absence. Thank you!

Curtains flap in Solar Breath like eyelids, like membranes filled with light, snapping shut, sticking like flypaper. Only to release, relax, and float upon the breeze. Only to happen on rare occasions.

But this is common too: the simple cabin, the sound of food being eaten with muted conversation. Intimate. Two people enjoying the summer air. Perhaps they have made love. Knives tinkle on the plates, and I think I can hear them swallow.

I am encased in an organism through Solar Breath, composed of information. I do not know what this means. The windows are “like” my eyes, the curtains “like” my breath, the voices are the company I keep, represented in the slice of a day that happens like no other day and is nothing and precious and all there is. This is what it’s like to be awake.

The table with the food. The one about the waiter. How plain and procedural. Like Kafka’s beetle with an apple lodged in his back and dust bunnies clinging to his feet getting tangled one in the other. And funny too. The way it goes! Here I love the grace of the reversal. All the shame rinsed away…

The fuckups sucked up. Only to begin again.

That is not something I can speak about. Which is funny because it is composed of words. Each registers in my brain as a sensation. Interior regions pulsing electricity. Expanding. To follow it does make me laugh and cry and I am thankful to the author. It’s sad I can’t say more because it is the greatest work in the exhibition- or the more apparently brilliant because its work is entirely mental- though it admits to being part of the tradition of painting

Is That a conceptual painting? Kind of, if paintings are poems too.

That is always more than one thing.

Is not everything more than one thing?

Is everything a poem?

(This is Michael Snow.)

Now I’m dancing.

It’s passing like wind.

Jason Schiedel

London, Ontario, Feb 2010