ebogjonson.com's art archivepurty pictures things and such. with particular emphasis on stuff I have seen in LA
March 25, 2007
michiko yao 004
I'm not really qualified to explain it, but what I've seen of Michiko's work is about global images of Japanese womanhood, the funny field effect you get when domesticity and and fantasy and cuteness and active rebellions all get mashed together and projected across borders.
Posted by ebogjonson at 7:43 PM | Permalink
michiko yao 003
Michiko and Ingrid at LAAA / Gallery 825 in Hollywood, where some of Michiko's work was showing.
Posted by ebogjonson at 6:01 PM | Permalink
March 24, 2007
michiko yao 002
Among other things, Michiko paints tatami mats.
Posted by ebogjonson at 11:23 PM | Permalink
March 18, 2007
lady art 004
Not the best angle on this one, but you get the idea
Posted by ebogjonson at 5:23 PM | Permalink
lady art 003
Ingrid standing next to one of her paintings, to give you a sense of scale
Posted by ebogjonson at 4:54 PM | Permalink
lady art 002
Another piece going in the lady's thesis show.
Posted by ebogjonson at 4:36 PM | Permalink
lady art 001
Spent the day hanging some of the lady's thesis show work. These strike me as being crosses between cornrows, astronomical drawings and fireworks.
Posted by ebogjonson at 1:47 PM | Permalink
March 1, 2007
Tempest was one of my favorite games growing up (along with Robotron.) There's something terrifying about it: the vector-graphics are chilly, frighteningly minimal, and the combination of crescendo and crashing during gameplay suggested to me that there were horrors worse than losing. Like playing forever, for example, finding yourself eternally pitted against nameless, implacable, completely schematic enemies. Denied rest or aid.
My love of Robotron, with its similarly stripped down, unwinnable and burdensome mandate to save the last human family, strikes me now as being a way to work through a mix of domestic and social condundrums. These ranged from the ways I didn't fit into my own family, to the pressure I felt as the black kid at the white school to love the white people around me as desperately as possible. Our pluckly, loyal, traitorous little hero (radioactive mutant? Alien? Only wikipedia knows for sure.) inevitably gives his life holding what seems to be his own kind back as long as possible, this while the idiotic last family he's defending (sworn to defend? drafted? coerced?) bumbles stupidly about, blind to both their own peril and his heroism until (of course!) they turn on him at the drop of a hat.
Although I don't remember these as simultaneous events, I read Soul on Ice about the same time Robotron came out (1982), which maybe explains why I would often make a perverse, completely opaque point of only saving the blond mother, leaving the dad and the son what I imagined were just deserts. The white kids at school had, of course, not read Cleaver (neither had the black kids back home, for that matter), so they just thought I was being typically weird. But playing that way always cracked me the fuck up, the desire to rescue/run-away-with white women while whole generations of white men disappear around you adolescent racial fantasy at its finest. "Insurrectionary act," indeed!
Posted by ebogjonson at 9:49 PM | Permalink