Artist Ai Weiwei Gives the Finger to Symbols of Authority Around the World

Artist Ai Wei­wei has been giv­ing the fin­ger to author­i­ty for most of his career in a fig­u­ra­tive sense, butting heads with Chi­nese cen­sors, and refus­ing to tame his mes­sage even after sev­er­al arrests, bans, and beat­ings. Fight­ing has been with him his entire life: his father, Ai Qing, a renowned poet, was declared a “class ene­my” in 1967 and sent to a forced labor camp, along with his fam­i­ly, when Ai Wei­wei was only 10 years old.

His pho­tog­ra­phy series, Study of Per­spec­tive (1995 to 2003)–which you can see in the video above–is a lit­er­al flip­ping of the bird to sym­bols of pow­er across the globe, from the White House to a nest of CCTV cam­eras, and makes explic­it the artist’s non-vio­lent form of dis­sent.

The video above is a mini-doc made for the first major Ai Wei­wei ret­ro­spec­tive in Greece, at The Muse­um of Cycladic Art, run­ning through Octo­ber 30, 2016. (It’s also his first exhi­bi­tion in an arche­o­log­i­cal muse­um.) Along with show­ing the artist giv­ing the fin­ger to author­i­ty, it high­lights Ai Weiwei’s recent works on the refugee cri­sis.

“The whole sit­u­a­tion is so des­per­ate,” he says, “because you don’t see human con­nec­tions in those events. It’s com­plete­ly cut off.”

In the past, Ai Wei­wei has wrapped the pil­lars of a Ger­man con­cert hall in life vests, cov­ered pre­vi­ous sculp­tures with gold­en ther­mal blan­kets, recre­at­ed the famous pho­to of the drowned Syr­i­an child on the shore, and has shut down his own shows over anti-refugee laws in Europe.

At a 2015 march in Lon­don, Ai Wei­wei and fel­low artist Anish Kapoor flipped the bird over on Kapoor’s Insta­gram account as an invi­ta­tion to the aware­ness-rais­ing protest. (They also told fel­low walk­ers to bring a sin­gle blan­ket as a sym­bol of the refugees’ sit­u­a­tion.)

The sparse nar­ra­tion by the artist may sound fatal­is­tic in the video, but he’s a man who knows the pow­er of protest. But he also knows the con­se­quences.

“What I have always been involved in is human rights,” he says. “The human strug­gle and the free­dom of speech. Those val­ues are not giv­en by any­body. It always comes through fight­ing and strug­gle. Because some­body has to defend it. And also, if just one per­son defends it, it ben­e­fits every­body.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The God­dess: A Clas­sic from the Gold­en Age of Chi­nese Cin­e­ma, Star­ring the Silent Film Icon Ruan Lingyu (1934)

The His­to­ry of the Seem­ing­ly Impos­si­ble Chi­nese Type­writer

The Syr­i­an Con­flict & The Euro­pean Refugee Cri­sis Explained in an Ani­mat­ed Primer

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Japanese Craftsman Spends His Life Trying to Recreate a Thousand-Year-Old Sword

West­ern cul­ture has long used swords, and the smithing there­of, as a sig­ni­fi­er of Japan­ese cul­ture. It evokes revered tra­di­tion, per­fec­tion­is­tic crafts­man­ship, and a capac­i­ty for vio­lence equal­ly impul­sive and for­mal­ized, all of which car­ry aspects of cliché and stereo­type to which East­ward-look­ing West­ern artists often fall vic­tim. I think of books like Jay McIn­er­ney’s Ran­som (“he took up his katana in its pol­ished lac­quer scab­bard, the weapon made by the great sword­smith Yasuku­ni of the Soshu Branch of the Saga­mi School,” etc.), although more seri­ous­ly unse­ri­ous cre­ators like Quentin Taran­ti­no, equip­ping the hero­ine of Kill Bill with a blade forged by a mas­ter named Hat­tori Hanzō, know how to have fun with it.

Taran­ti­no, true to schlock-cinephile form, named the char­ac­ter in hon­or of one played by ear­ly mar­tial-arts movie star Son­ny Chi­ba, a 16th-cen­tu­ry samu­rai and gen­uine his­tor­i­cal fig­ure. Though he got a lot of use out of his sword (his achieve­ments include help­ing the shogun Toku­gawa Ieya­su rise to rule over a unit­ed Japan), the real Hanzō did­n’t make them. Still, we need not look back into the mists of his­to­ry to find a mas­ter sword­smith, for they live and forge still today. Take, for exam­ple, Kore­hi­ra Watan­abe, sub­ject of the four-minute doc­u­men­tary above, one of Etsy’s Hand­made Por­traits series.

“Today, there are only 30 peo­ple, includ­ing me, who are mak­ing a liv­ing as a sword mak­er,” says the Hokkai­do-based Watan­abe. “When I was younger I was mak­ing swords just because I loved it, but as I got old­er I start­ed to think that I need to pass along the aes­thet­ics and soul of the Japan­ese peo­ple through my swords.” This he seems to have accom­plished against long odds, and in defi­ance of his prac­ti­cal-mind­ed fam­i­ly’s wish­es. “There are basi­cal­ly no instruc­tions left to make Koto,” swords from the Heian and Kamaku­ra peri­ods which last­ed from the year 794 to 1333. “It’s impos­si­ble to recre­ate the sword. How­ev­er, that’s the kind that attracts me, and I’ve been try­ing to recre­ate it for 40 years.”

But as many a mas­ter crafts­man of any nation­al­i­ty knows, striv­ing to come as close as pos­si­ble to the impos­si­ble holds a cer­tain appeal. It also pro­duces results: “I’ve final­ly suc­ceed­ed in mak­ing a few sim­i­lar to Koto,” pro­claims Watan­abe, but only with­in the past five years. A good deal of his atten­tion also looks to go not just into shap­ing swords, but shap­ing his suc­ces­sor. “I want my dis­ci­ple to sur­pass me as a sword mak­er,” a future for his stu­dent, and a future for the craft of sword­smithing itself, that he con­sid­ers it his duty to ensure. With just a frac­tion of his ded­i­ca­tion to swords — or just a frac­tion of Taran­ti­no’s ded­i­ca­tion to movies — just imag­ine the kinds of near-impos­si­ble we could all achieve.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Japan­ese Things Are Made in 309 Videos: Bam­boo Tea Whisks, Hina Dolls, Steel Balls & More

The Mak­ing of Japan­ese Hand­made Paper: A Short Film Doc­u­ments an 800-Year-Old Tra­di­tion

Watch a Japan­ese Crafts­man Lov­ing­ly Bring a Tat­tered Old Book Back to Near Mint Con­di­tion

The Art of Col­lo­type: See a Near Extinct Print­ing Tech­nique, as Lov­ing­ly Prac­ticed by a Japan­ese Mas­ter Crafts­man

Leg­endary Japan­ese Author Yukio Mishi­ma Mus­es About the Samu­rai Code (Which Inspired His Hap­less 1970 Coup Attempt)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Replica of an Algerian City, Made of Couscous: Now on Display at The Guggenheim

couscous

If you head over to The Guggen­heim in New York City, you’re bound to spend time immers­ing your­self in the Moholy-Nagy exhib­it that’s now on dis­play. It’s well worth your time. You can also take a side trip through a small­er exhi­bi­tion fea­tur­ing the work of Mid­dle East­ern and North African artists. And there you’ll dis­cov­er the work of Kad­er Attia, a French-Alger­ian artist whose work “reflects on the impact of West­ern soci­eties on their for­mer colo­nial coun­ter­parts.” Above, we have Atti­a’s repli­ca of an Alger­ian city (Ghardaïa) made out of cous­cous. The Tate explains the con­cep­tu­al thrust of the piece as fol­lows:

The instal­la­tion presents a mod­el of the Alger­ian town Ghardaïa made from cous cous, shown along­side pho­tographs of the Swiss-born archi­tect Le Cor­busier and the French archi­tect Fer­nand Pouil­lon, and a print of the UNESCO dec­la­ra­tion that the town is a World Her­itage site. Dur­ing the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry Ghardaïa was colonised by France, but the build­ings were not altered dur­ing this peri­od and remain char­ac­ter­is­tic of Moz­abite archi­tec­ture. Le Cor­busier vis­it­ed Ghardaïa in 1931, just three years after becom­ing a French cit­i­zen, and made sketch­es of the build­ings. These strong­ly resem­ble the style of mod­ernist archi­tec­ture he sub­se­quent­ly espoused in his trea­tise on urban plan­ning, La cité radieuse.

That a not­ed French archi­tect should take inspi­ra­tion from an Alger­ian town may not seem sig­nif­i­cant, how­ev­er, as Attia notes, ‘archi­tec­ture has first to do with pol­i­tics, with the polit­i­cal order.’ As Attia is a child of Alger­ian immi­grants and grew up part­ly in a Parisian ban­lieue, this state­ment seems par­tic­u­lar­ly res­o­nant. The use of cous cous as the mate­r­i­al to ‘build’ the mod­el is appro­pri­ate as it will pro­vide an approx­i­ma­tion of the town’s decay over time through­out the exhi­bi­tion, while rep­re­sent­ing one of the region’s most pop­u­lar foods – now a sta­ple of Euro­pean cui­sine.

By repli­cat­ing the town as an archi­tects’ mod­el in this way Attia shows the impact of his native cul­ture, which had oper­at­ed as a non-pow­er­ful host to colo­nial France, on their old colonis­ers, who went on to play host to the artist and his fam­i­ly. As well as high­light­ing the cul­tur­al impact of the colonised onto the colonis­er, revers­ing the nor­mal­ly report­ed direc­tion of influ­ence, this also reveals the com­plex­i­ty of hos­pi­tal­i­ty between peo­ple and nations which often relates to dis­pos­ses­sion and re-appro­pri­a­tion…

Atti­a’s cous­cous instal­la­tion is also on dis­play at The Tate. If you’re in Lon­don, pay them a vis­it.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Guggen­heim Puts Online 1600 Great Works of Mod­ern Art from 575 Artists

Rijksmu­se­um Dig­i­tizes & Makes Free Online 210,000 Works of Art, Mas­ter­pieces Includ­ed

The Nation­al Gallery Makes 25,000 Images of Art­work Freely Avail­able Online

Down­load 448 Free Art Books from The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art

Marina Abramović and Ulay’s Adventurous 1970s Performance Art Pieces

Mari­na Abramović, who in her over forty-year career has put her­self through count­less har­row­ing works of per­for­mance art — involv­ing knives, fire, unpre­scribed med­ica­tion, and ardu­ous­ly long peri­ods of motion­less­ness — does­n’t do things by half mea­sures. “Once you enter into the per­for­mance state,” she once said, “you can push your body to do things you absolute­ly could nev­er nor­mal­ly do.” It makes sense that she would con­nect with peo­ple who think and feel sim­i­lar­ly about the artis­tic poten­tial of endurance (or the endurance poten­tial of art), and no such con­nec­tion has had as dra­mat­ic an impact on her career as that with her fel­low per­for­mance artist Ulay.

After meet­ing in Ams­ter­dam in 1976, Abramović and Ulay entered into a twelve-year roman­tic rela­tion­ship and artis­tic col­lab­o­ra­tion that brought them togeth­er into what they for a time described as a “two-head­ed body.” In the form of this “col­lec­tive, androg­y­nous being,” says one blog devot­ed to Abramović’s work, they “ques­tioned the social­ly defined iden­ti­ties of both fem­i­nin­i­ty and mas­culin­i­ty, and encour­aged view­ers to par­tic­i­pate through their own explo­ration of gen­der rela­tion­ships.” At the top of the post, you can see a video of their 1977 piece Rela­tion in Time, which shows a cou­ple min­utes of the six­teen hours they spent tied togeth­er by their hair, nev­er mov­ing. The video just above shows a few moments of that same year’s Impon­der­abil­ia, in which they naked­ly formed a nar­row human cor­ri­dor through which every audi­ence mem­ber want­i­ng to enter the gallery must pass.

“ ‘We are kneel­ing face to face, press­ing our mouths togeth­er,” say Abramović and Ulay by way of intro­duc­tion to Breath­ing In/Breathing Out. “Our noses are blocked with cig­a­rette fil­ters.” This piece, which they also put on in their evi­dent­ly pro­duc­tive year of 1977, had them pass­ing one anoth­er’s breath back and forth, breath­ing noth­ing else, for as long as they found human­ly pos­si­ble. The fol­low­ing year’s AAA AAArather than begin­ning with mouth-to-mouth con­tact, cul­mi­nates in it: “Abramović and Ulay stand oppo­site of each oth­er and make long sounds with their mouths open. Grad­u­al­ly, they move clos­er and clos­er to one anoth­er, until even­tu­al­ly they are yelling direct­ly into each oth­er’s open mouths” in an “explo­ration of aggres­sion between phys­i­cal­ly present fig­ures.”

Back in 2013, we fea­tured a clip of Abramović’s The Artist Is Present, a much-pub­li­cized 2010 piece in which, for a total of 736 and a half hours, she sat silent­ly in the atri­um of New York’s Muse­um of Mod­ern Art, oppo­site a chair in which any­one who cared to could sit across from her. 1,545 peo­ple, some hav­ing stood in line overnight, seized the oppor­tu­ni­ty, one of the ear­li­est par­tic­i­pants being Ulay him­self. Alas, things have since soured. Ulay and Abramović have had a con­tract meant, accord­ing to The Guardian’s Noah Char­ney, “to man­age their joint oeu­vre.” It’s owned by Abramović with 20 per­cent of the prof­its for all “saleable work” derived from it going to Ulay. But last year, sus­pect­ing that the for­mer oth­er half of the “col­lec­tive, androg­y­nous being” has vio­lat­ed that con­tract and “is try­ing to write him out of art his­to­ry,” Ulay mount­ed the ulti­mate endurance test: a law­suit.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

In Touch­ing Video, Artist Mari­na Abramović & For­mer Lover Ulay Reunite After 22 Years Apart

Yoko Ono Lets Audi­ence Cut Up Her Clothes in Con­cep­tu­al Art Per­for­mance (Carnegie Hall, 1965)

Watch Chris Bur­den Get Shot for the Sake of Art (1971)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Wonderfully Offbeat Assignments That Artist John Baldessari Gave to His Art Students (1970)

baldessari assignment

In 1970, when con­cep­tu­al artist John Baldessari was teach­ing stu­dio art at the exper­i­men­tal CalArts cam­pus near Valen­cia, CA, the assign­ments he hand­ed out to his class were art in them­selves. Humor­ous, con­found­ing, some­times very spe­cif­ic but often like zen koans, the assign­ments must have come as a shock, espe­cial­ly to those stu­dents with a more tra­di­tion­al sense of what con­sti­tutes art.

They prob­a­bly didn’t know that Baldessari was ques­tion­ing art itself and in the mid­dle of a cri­sis. That year he had tak­en all his pre­vi­ous paint­ed work from 1953 — 1966 and cre­mat­ed it at a San Diego mor­tu­ary. He turned from paint­ing to pho­tog­ra­phy. And he expect­ed his stu­dents to rethink every­thing they thought they knew.

baldessari assignment 2

Look­ing back at his class assign­ments, which you can see here, here, and here, it’s like see­ing the seeds of ideas that were to be turned into whole careers by the likes of Cindy Sher­man, Wayne White, Komar & Melamid, and oth­ers.

Here’s a selec­tion of favorites:

  1. One per­son copies or makes up ran­dom cap­tions. Anoth­er per­son takes pho­tos. Match pho­tos to cap­tions.
  2. Defen­es­trate objects. Pho­to them in mid-air.
  3. Pho­to­graph backs of things, under­neaths of things, extreme fore­short­en­ings, unchar­ac­ter­is­tic views. Or trace them.
  4. Repaired or patched art. Recy­cled. Find some­thing bro­ken and dis­card­ed. Per­haps in a thrift store. Mend it.
  5. Imi­tate Baldessari in actions and speech.
  6. Pun­ish­ment: Write “I will not make any more art” / “I will not make any more bor­ing art” / “I will make good art” (or some­thing sim­i­lar) 1000 times on wall. (Appar­ent­ly, Baldessari pun­ished him­self.)

Some of these assign­ments are inten­tion­al­ly sil­ly. Some could pro­duce good work. But all are meant to wake the artist up to the pos­si­bil­i­ties of the form.

via Austin Kleon/CCA Wat­tis Insti­tute for Con­tem­po­rary Art

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Baldessari’s “I Will Not Make Any More Bor­ing Art”: A 1971 Con­cep­tu­al Art Piece/DIY Art Course

A Brief His­to­ry of John Baldessari, Nar­rat­ed by Tom Waits

Watch Chris Bur­den Get Shot for the Sake of Art (1971)

Metrop­o­lis II: Chris Burden’s Amaz­ing, Fre­net­ic Mini-City

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Download Alfred Stieglitz’s Proto-Dada Art Journal, 291, The First Art Magazine That Was Itself a Work of Art (1916)

291 Cover 1

You’ve like­ly heard a good deal recently—especially if you hang around these parts—about the 100th anniver­sary of Dada, sup­pos­ed­ly begun when poet and Cabaret Voltaire own­er Hugo Ball penned his man­i­festo in 1916 and began dis­sem­i­nat­ing the ideas of the nascent anti-art move­ment. This makes a con­ve­nient ori­gin sto­ry, as they say in the comics, and helps us con­tex­tu­al­ize the avant-garde explo­sion that fol­lowed. But, his­tor­i­cal­ly speak­ing, there is no such thing as cre­ation ex nihi­lo, and the begin­nings of Dada—before Ball coined the name—lie fur­ther back in time. (We might refer to the dis­tinc­tion Edward Said makes between a divine “ori­gin” and a sec­u­lar “begin­ning.”)

291 Cover 3

We could, as many do, sit­u­ate the begin­nings of Dada in the pre­vi­ous cen­tu­ry, in Alfred Jarry’s bizarre 1896 play Ubu Roi or Erik Satie’s min­i­mal­ist late 19th cen­tu­ry Gymno­pe­dies. We might also refer to an arts mag­a­zine in New York that pre­ced­ed Tris­tan Tzara’s Dada and Ball’s sin­gle issue Cabaret Voltaire. Edit­ed by famed pho­tog­ra­ph­er and art pro­mot­er Alfred Stieglitz, the jour­nal 291 ran for 12 issues between 1915 and 1916 and is known, writes Dada-Companion.com, as “the first expres­sion of the dada esthet­ic in the Unit­ed States; pro­to-dada, actu­al­ly, dada avant la let­tre, before dada had start­ed in Zürich in 1916.” Along with the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa, Ubuweb hosts the entire 12-issue print run, “a finan­cial fias­co” in its day, “fail­ing to sell more than eight sub­scrip­tions on vel­lum and a hun­dred on ordi­nary paper…. In the end Stieglitz sold the entire back­stock to a rag­pick­er for $5.80.”

291 Cover 2

Despite this inglo­ri­ous end, 291 is notable not only for its pro­to-dada status—and for fea­tur­ing the work of mod­ernists like Georges Braque, Guil­laume Apol­li­naire, and lat­er Dada and Sur­re­al­ist artist Fran­cis Picabia; the mag­a­zine also “occu­pies an inter­est­ing posi­tion among the jour­nals of mod­ernist art” as “the first mag­a­zine to style itself as a work of art in its own right.” You can get a sense of its artistry in the cov­ers you see here, and down­load every issue of the mag­a­zine at Ubuweb or at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa’s Inter­na­tion­al Dada Archive. You’ll also see the magazine’s unusu­al format—from odd lit­tle top­i­cal items of the sort you’d find in a local news­pa­per to fas­ci­nat­ing visu­al poet­ry like “Men­tal Reac­tions,” below, by Agnes Ernst Mey­er. What we can’t get from the dig­i­tal copies, unfor­tu­nate­ly, is the full sense of 291’s “dra­mat­ic form” in its “gigan­tic folio for­mat.”

291 Mental Reactions

The mod­ernist jour­nal “took its orig­i­nal inspi­ra­tion from Apollinaire’s Soirées de Paris,” a jour­nal found­ed in 1912 by the French poet and crit­ic and his friends, “empha­siz­ing caligram­mat­ic texts and an abstract­ed kind of satir­i­cal draw­ing.” And though 291 may have had a very lim­it­ed reach dur­ing its mate­r­i­al exis­tence, its influ­ence con­tin­ued into the era of Dada when Fran­cis Picabia styled his own jour­nal, 391, after Steiglitz’s pub­li­ca­tion. “Pub­lished 1917–1924 in Barcelona, New York, Zürich, and Paris in nine­teen issues,” writes Book­tryst, 391 helped Picabia dis­trib­ute his own take on Dada, until he denounced the move­ment in 1921 and “issued a per­son­al attack against [Sur­re­al­ist Andre Bre­ton] in the final issue.” The Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa also hosts dig­i­tal ver­sions of all 19 issues of Picabia’s 391, which you can view and down­load here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load All 8 Issues of Dada, the Arts Jour­nal That Pub­li­cized the Avant-Garde Move­ment a Cen­tu­ry Ago (1917–21)

Three Essen­tial Dadaist Films: Ground­break­ing Works by Hans Richter, Man Ray & Mar­cel Duchamp

The ABCs of Dada Explains the Anar­chic, Irra­tional “Anti-Art” Move­ment of Dadaism

Dada Was Born 100 Years Ago: Cel­e­brate the Avant-Garde Move­ment Launched by Hugo Ball on July 14, 1916

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

French Artist Creates Digital Street Art in the Sky

We humans are a quar­rel­some lot. But one thing that unites us is the time spent on our backs, gaz­ing at clouds for the plea­sure of iden­ti­fy­ing what­ev­er objects they may fleet­ing­ly resem­ble.

It’s a very relax­ing activ­i­ty.

I was sur­prised there’s an actu­al, med­ical name for it: parei­do­lia, defined by Mer­ri­am-Web­ster as “the ten­den­cy to per­ceive a spe­cif­ic, often mean­ing­ful, image in a ran­dom or ambigu­ous visu­al pat­tern.”

Thomas Lamadieu, the artist whose work is show­cased above, has a dif­fer­ent, but not whol­ly unre­lat­ed con­di­tion.

A pho­to post­ed by Art­zop® (@artzop) on

Most of us pre­fer to con­tem­plate the heav­ens in a bucol­ic set­ting. Lamadieu’s art com­pels him to look upwards from a more urban land­scape. The tops of the build­ings hem­ming him in sup­ply with irreg­u­lar­ly shaped frames, which he cap­tures using a fish eye lens. Lat­er, he fills them in with Microsoft Paint draw­ings, which fre­quent­ly fea­ture a beard­ed man whose t‑shirt is striped in sky blue. Neg­a­tive space, not Cray­ola, sup­plies the col­or here.

Think of it as street art in the sky.

Not every day can be a bril­liant azure, but it hard­ly mat­ters when even Lamadieu’s grayest views exhib­it a deter­mined play­ful­ness. It takes a very unique sort of eye to tease a pink nip­pled, stripe-limbed bun­ny from a steely UK sky.

Like many street artists, he takes a glob­al approach, trav­el­ing the world in search of giant unclaimed can­vas­es. His port­fo­lio con­tains vis­tas orig­i­nal­ly cap­tured in Hong Kong, South Korea, Ger­many, Spain, Aus­tria, Cana­da, Bel­gium, and the Unit­ed States, as well as his native France.

“The beard­ed man in my images stands for the sky itself,” he told The Inde­pen­dent, adding that his is a whol­ly sec­u­lar vision.

View a gallery of Lamadieu’s sky art here.

h/t to read­er Alan Gold­wass­er

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Google Puts Online 10,000 Works of Street Art from Across the Globe

The Cre­ativ­i­ty of Female Graf­fi­ti & Street Artists Will Be Cel­e­brat­ed in Street Hero­ines, a New Doc­u­men­tary

3D Street Art

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Download All 8 Issues of Dada, the Arts Journal That Publicized the Avant-Garde Movement a Century Ago (1917–21)

Dada_1_Jul_1917

Sur­re­al­ism, Dis­cor­dian­ism, Frank Zap­pa, Sit­u­a­tion­ism, punk rock, the Res­i­dents, Devo… the anar­chists of coun­ter­cul­ture in all their var­i­ous guis­es may nev­er have come into being—or into the being they did—were it not for an anti-art move­ment that called itself Dada. And like many of those anar­chist coun­ter­cul­tur­al move­ments and artists, Dada came about not as a play­ful exper­i­ment in “dis­rupt­ing” the art world for fun and profit—to use the cur­rent jargon—but as a polit­i­cal­ly-charged response to ratio­nal­ized vio­lence and com­pla­cent banal­i­ty. In this case, as a response to Euro­pean culture’s descent into the mass-mur­der of World War One, and to the domes­ti­ca­tion of the avant-garde’s many pro­lif­er­at­ing isms.

Dada_2_Dec_1917

The explic­it tenets of Dada, in their inten­tion­al­ly scram­bled way, were ecu­meni­cal, inter­na­tion­al, anti-elit­ist, and con­cerned with ques­tions of craft. “The hos­pi­tal­i­ty of the Swiss is some­thing to be pro­found­ly appre­ci­at­ed,” wrote poet Hugo Ball in his 1916 Dada man­i­festo, “And in ques­tions of aes­thet­ics the key is qual­i­ty.” Ball con­ceived Dada as a means of reach­ing back toward pri­mal ori­gins, “to show how artic­u­lat­ed lan­guage comes into being…. I shall be read­ing poems that are meant to dis­pense with con­ven­tion­al lan­guage, no less, and to have done with it.” Risk­ing a lapse into solip­sism, Ball sneered at “The word, the word, the word out­side your domain, your stuffi­ness, this laugh­able impo­tence, your stu­pen­dous smug­ness, out­side all the par­rotry of your self-evi­dent lim­it­ed­ness.” And yet, he con­clud­ed, “The word, gen­tle­men, is a pub­lic con­cern of the first impor­tance.”

Dada_7_Mar_1920

Two years lat­er, artist Tris­tan Tzara issued a more bil­ious Dada man­i­festo with sim­i­lar intent: “a need for inde­pen­dence… a dis­trust toward uni­ty.” At once intense­ly polit­i­cal and anti-the­o­ret­i­cal, he wrote, “Those who are with us pre­serve their free­dom…. Here we are drop­ping our anchor in fer­tile ground.” How right he was, we can say 100 years lat­er. “How­ev­er short-lived,” writes Corin­na da Fon­se­ca-Woll­heim in a New York Times cel­e­bra­tion of Dada’s 100th anniver­sary, “Dada con­sti­tutes some­thing like the Big Bang of Mod­ernism.” Both Ball and Tzara posi­tioned Dada as a col­lec­tive, inter­na­tion­al move­ment. As such, it need­ed a pub­li­ca­tion to both cen­tral­ize and spread its anti-estab­lish­ment mes­sages: thus Dada, the arts jour­nal, first pub­lished in 1917 and print­ing 8 issues in Zurich and Paris until 1921.

Dada_3_Dec_1918

Edit­ed by Tzara and includ­ing his man­i­festo in issue 3, the mag­a­zine “served to dis­tin­guish and define Dada in the many cities it infil­trat­ed,” writes the Art Insti­tute of Chica­go, “and allowed its major fig­ures to assert their pow­er and posi­tion.” Dada suc­ceed­ed a pre­vi­ous attempt by Ball at a jour­nal called Cabaret Voltaire—named for his Zurich theater—which sur­vived for one issue in 1917 before fold­ing, along with the first ver­sion of the cabaret. That year, Tzara, “an ambi­tious and skilled pro­mot­er… began a relent­less cam­paign to spread the ideas of Dada…. As Dada gained momen­tum, Tzara took on the role of a prophet by bom­bard­ing French and Ital­ian artists and writ­ers with let­ters about Dada’s activ­i­ties.” What­ev­er Dada was, it wasn’t shy about pro­mot­ing itself.

Janco Dada

The first issue (cov­er at the top), con­tained com­men­tary and poet­ry in French and Ital­ian, and art­work like that above by impor­tant Roman­ian Dada artist, archi­tect, and the­o­rist Mar­cel Jan­co. Issues 4 and 5 were pub­lished togeth­er as an anthol­o­gy, then World War I end­ed, and with trav­el again pos­si­ble, Tzara, sev­er­al Dada com­pa­tri­ots, and the jour­nal moved to Paris. The final issue, Num­ber 8, appeared in a trun­cat­ed form. You can down­load each issue as a PDF from Mono­skop or from Prince­ton University’s Blue Moun­tain Project, which also has an online view­er that allows you to pre­view each page before down­load­ing.

Dada_4-5_May_1919

Ball and Tzara were not the only assertive dis­sem­i­na­tors of Dada’s art and aims. The Art Insti­tute of Chica­go notes that in Berlin a “high­ly aggres­sive and polit­i­cal­ly involved Dada group” pub­lished its own short-lived jour­nal, Der Dada, from 1919–1920. Down­load all three issues of that pub­li­ca­tion from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dada Was Born 100 Years Ago: Cel­e­brate the Avant-Garde Move­ment Launched by Hugo Ball on July 14, 1916      

Hear the Exper­i­men­tal Music of the Dada Move­ment: Avant-Garde Sounds from a Cen­tu­ry Ago

Exten­sive Archive of Avant-Garde & Mod­ernist Mag­a­zines (1890–1939) Now Avail­able Online

Down­load 336 Issues of the Avant-Garde Mag­a­zine The Storm (1910–1932), Fea­tur­ing the Work of Kandin­sky, Klee, Moholy-Nagy & More

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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