Sunday, July 06, 2014

The Skull Show - Bedford Gallery, Walnut Creek, CA - 2014

Do you like skulls? How about art? Do you like skulls as represented by artists from multiple disciplines across time and space? Then, make your way to delightful Walnut Creek, California where the Bedford Gallery is curating the skull show to end all skull shows. What could be more universally relevant than a skull? We've all got one, that's for sure. Celebrate your skull from June 12th to August 31st. Contemplate the artful possibilities of the cranium, while reflecting on our impending mortal plane. It's refreshing, morbid and terrifying all at once.

A sampling of skulls, most of which are for sale, but not at bargain-rate prices. Skulls are precious and don't come cheap, ya know. Here's a few skulls that caught my eye. The exhibit itself is really extensive (90 artists) and afterwards you'll feel like you just toured a freaky psychedelic mausoleum. You'll contemplate some deep issues, is my guess, and then you'll laugh it off and get yourself a chocolate milkshake or something to celebrate life. But the show will linger in your consciousness, won't it. Yes, it will.

Eye-catching, isn't it?

Laurel Skye - Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride (2014)

Derik Van Beers - Angel Headed Hipsters / Thanks Allen (2012)

Maureen Shields - a collection of ceramic plates with skulls (2014)

Molly Hatch - Spk Outa Turn and Don't Gotta Listen (2012)

Andy Stattmiller - He-Man Master of the Universe nesting dolls (2014)

Pete Hickok - I Wish This Night Would Never End (2012)

Jim Skull - Mr. Smith (2008)

Fred Einaudi - Patriot (2008)

Noah Scalin - selections from the Skull-A-Day project

Ester Hernandez - Sun Mad (1981)

Here's a detail from Enrique Chagoya's My Tattoos (2012). What I found interesting about this was that I have this particular tattoo myself, or at least a similar one. Chagoya added the skull in the dragon's mouth and played with the original image, which I found many years ago in A Coloring Book of Incas, Aztecs & Mayas and Other Precolumbian Peoples, published by Bellerophon Books in 1988.

Here's my tattoo, from the early 90s, when all us girls were starting to get them. I got mine at Lyle Tuttle's shop in San Francisco. The artist, whose name escapes me, had plenty of Precolumbian artwork going up his arm, including a very fine Olmec head. This convinced me to hire him. The image is a mystery to me because out of all the illustrations in my coloring book, it's the only one that's unlabeled. It's also tiny-sized, printed in the corner of a page of Mayan ball players, as if an after-thought. Where did it come from? Does anyone out there know? Enrique Chagoya and I want answers.

 Chagoya's My Tattoos monotype in full:

A final skull in this post.  Joshua Harker's Crania Geodesica skull installation with light-projection mapping. It really belongs in the dark at a dance party with techno music. But I put some She Mob music over it, because the song is live, it's called Party, and I think it's appropriate. Maybe this will get its proper environment during the Bedford's Arts & Craft Beer event on July 31st, 6 - 8 pm. 'Til then...


Saturday, June 28, 2014

Brady Bunch Fashion Spread - Marcia's Fair Opponent

We're on a 70s-era roll around here. I'm going to keep it going with a Brady Bunch episode that's always haunted me. I don't sit around thinking about the Brady Bunch too often, but back in my youth, I was fairly obsessed with the show. There's something about coming from a small family (me, with one brother) that attracts kids to larger families. And the Brady Bunch was such a large and cheerful group.

They looked somewhat groovy and very Southern California cool, if polyester and garish colors can be cool (they were for a moment there), but their demeanor was Gee Whiz! It's all going to be OK within the next 20 minutes! What a comforting feeling that is during childhood. And I will say this, no matter how cornball or dopey the plotlines could get, the Bradys had charm in abundance. And chemistry. They seemed to genuinely get along, at least for the most part.

This episode from the third season, My Fair Opponent, was a Marcia story. Out of all the Bradys, Marcia and Greg were the ones I least related to. They were way older than me (I was around Susan Olsen's [Cindy's] age), and way too confident for my anxiety-ridden liking. Marcia in particular was the height of perfection for 70s teen girlhood in Any-Suburb, USA. She had that California girlish demeanor down cold. She was the kind of girl who might say hi to me in the hallways of high school, but only if no one else was walking in her sight-line, and she had witnesses, so if I said "hi," she would be forced to acknowledge me. But only then.

No, I don't think about the Bradys much at all.

Mrs. Brady says c'mon in to the 70s—the Dacron's fine!

We begin this episode with an unusual establishing shot of the Brady house—from the left. An almost sinister quality to this angle, with the ominously dark foreground foliage.

Anyway, Marcia is angry. Really angry. How angry? This angry:

Don't make Marcia mad

Some popular girls at school have nominated Molly Weber as Fillmore Junior High's banquet night hostess. And Molly's a total loser, so they think it's funny. Since Marcia usually focuses on all things Marcia—which includes clothes, boys she likes and school activities—to see her this riled up over a social injustice is kind of a character-changing moment.

She decides to give Molly a makeover, My Fair Lady style, but in a kind, sensitive fashion, not just bulldoze over her, like some kind of mini-skirted Henry Higgins. Sounds good. As Molly enters the Brady compound, we see Marcia has her work cut out for her.

Molly is not only clinically shy, but clumsy and obviously parented by repressed people, living in a time wrinkle from the early 50s. She serves not only as Marcia's project, but to highlight how groovy the Brady-girl style is, at least in comparison. Molly can't understand why she was nominated as banquet hostess and even good-natured Peter Brady judges her a "wipe-out" (although, not to her face, which isn't very realistic for middle-schoolers—in my experience). The Brady-girl bedroom decor is a blend of little-girlishness with Go Ask Alice.

Marcia offers to work on Molly's demeanor to win the coveted title of banquet hostess. Thereby follows the "improvement montage," which entails Molly balancing a book on her head for a stately walk, learning to greet people with "poise and dignity," hemming her horrible dress to mini-skirt height, and submitting to Marcia's painful hair-styling technique.

And just like that—POW-Zingo! Molly's a knockout in a granny-square crochet vest.

The Brady boys are impressed. Greg says he's going to "wipe her back in," which is some kind of dialogue writing, Bernie Kahn, author of this episode. Meanwhile, Bobby's about to pop a gasket.

Molly does an aggressive meet-&-greet with Mike Brady, which really wasn't in Marcia's lesson plan. This is our first indication (or just bad blocking by director Peter Baldwin) that something isn't quite right about this new Molly.

So it turns out Marcia's an alternate nominee for banquet hostess and is called upon to fulfill her duties. After much tribulation, she decides to drop out of the race so Molly can win, even though being banquet hostess is "a great honor." She talks it over with Carol and I just included this shot to highlight their matching fabric patterns on the ugliest couch in the Western Hemisphere, to show they are simpatico, even if their formal living room needs work.

BUT THEN Jan excitedly reports to Marcia the news that there's a new guest of honor for banquet night—Colonel Dick Whitfield, THE ASTRONAUT! Marcia is all, "You mean it's not going to be the principal?" A principal being honored by a middle-school banquet hostess isn't weird at all. That's generally how it was done in the 70s.

Anyway, I always thought Eve Plumb was an attractive girl, but someone in wardrobe must have hated her because, yellow and taupe? This is not a flattering combination in any era. Or maybe Marcia was always supposed to the "the together one" with Jan the wanna-be, trailing behind. Doesn't Marcia look smart in her acrylic ensemble? It isn't fair! - as Jan often said.

Though it's a great sacrifice, Marcia tells Molly she's dropping out, Molly gets all this attitude, first making Marcia acknowledge her smart ensemble, with a twirl no less.

And then smugly claiming it would have been a close race. When Marcia says waddaya mean, a close race? Molly basically calls her a chicken for dropping out of the race. When Marcia points out that Molly had a little help getting this far in the 8th-grade society pages, Molly counters with, "It doesn't make any difference how I got there. The point is that I've ARRIVED." She then flounces away after some mythical popular off-screen girl, calling out, "Hey Sally, wait up!"

Smug Molly

This is the part of the story that freaked me out as a child. Why was Molly being such a stone cold beotch? I wondered (or words to that effect). Why wasn't she grateful to Marcia for all her help? Marcia made her! Out of the goodness of her heart, as narcissistic as it was. What about sisterhood-is-beautiful? Underneath Molly's introverted, awkward exterior lurked the heart of a jerkwad. This scared me. Maybe lots of people were secretly jerkwads. How could I tell? What if I helped someone out, someone meek and vulnerable, and they turned on me, like Molly did to Marcia. I didn't have a lot of defenses prepared for this potential (and extremely unrealistic) scenario.

Greg explains it all, telling Jan, "That's a female for you—can't trust them as far as you can throw them. And they have the brains of a goony bird!" Jan's all agreeing with him (because it's low-self-esteem Jan), but then realizes, "Hey, I'm one of them." But Greg makes exceptions for sisters. Again—great writing, Bernie Kahn. Way to go. Life lessons here.

So Marcia's pride kicks in (as always) and she decides to give Molly THE RUN OF HER LIFE. Because after all, it's a great honor, and also: guest of honor, Dick Whitfield, THE ASTRONAUT.

Mike and Carol are chillin' in their uncomfortable and ugly family room when Marcia asks for formal dance lessons. I think Carol would have made a great 18th-century lady—she sings, she dances, she does needlepoint and makes lunches with Alice—she has all the skills. And look at her lounge in that jumpsuit. She's great.

R.I.P, Robert Reed and Ann B. Davis. This was a charming scene for everyone involved.

The race is on. It's down to the final speeches. Since Marcia helped Molly write her speech, Marcia has to make do with a not-so-strong second attempt. It's a close race all right. It comes down to the speeches.

Smug Molly, AGAIN

As we fade back to the Brady household, Marcia is super-dubious about her bitter defeat. Molly gives no acknowledgement of Marcia's speech-writing help. Marcia now knows what it feels like to be a ghost-writer. She's even turning into a ghost—see below. And once again, my younger self was appalled. There's no justice!

But as is the case, especially concerning Marcia, everything works out in the end. Molly explains to the principal about Marcia helping her and she and Dick Whitfield visit the Brady household to personally deliver the good news: Marcia and Molly will be BANQUET CO-HOSTESSES. Marcia is in a tizzy because after all, he is AN ASTRONAUT. And who wouldn't want to co-hostess with a backstabbing manipulator who probably has a borderline personality disorder? Fun!

I have a theory that Florence Henderson might have, perhaps inadvertently—she is very charming after all—caught the eye of the wardrobe mistress's significant other at one point. This may have caused some dissension What is the basis of this theory? Her wardrobe, of course. Meanwhile, Robert Reed is completely stylin' in his pink turtleneck. Did you catch Susan Olsen's post on her TV Dad? It's very touching and appropriate for Pride Weekend. Susan Olsen rules.

And so we bid farewell to the 70s. That strange decade with its blend of uptight morality, loose social mores, man-made fabrics, and questionable decor schemes. Until we reminisce again.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Behold--Wacky Packages from the near-distant past (1974 or thereabouts)

This tiny shoebox from my Mom's closet (technically my brother's former closet, now the parental gym room), has been such a wealth of memories this week. First we explored toys of 1974 through a Kenner rebate booklet. Then we delighted in the sights and sounds of the original Battlestar Galactica, via a couple of absurd trading cards.

And now, the pièce de résistance—my brother's Wacky Pack collection. I had a collection too but it might have been incorporated herein, or perhaps it's in ANOTHER shoebox in my former closet (we can hope). I just remember having more than what I've posted here (mostly from Series 9, it would appear). Also, with one exception, I left out dated humor, which would mostly entail the making fun of the homeless, once known as "bums" and "hobos." (See sample below: Uncle Bum's convicted rice is prefered (sic) by panhandlers, freeloaders and hobos in jails. Net Sentence: 30 Days)

Not much commentary. What could I add? Wacky Packs were an obsession for us. And I thank my Mom for hanging onto these collectible stickers for FORTY YEARS now. We can't seem to throw these out, however dopey they are. As I read through these once more, I kept thinking, these are so dumb, so, so dumb. And yet by the seventh card, I was giggling. By the tenth, I was laughing out loud. Pure and simple, satirical consumer products, drawn by future underground legends including Art Spiegelman, Kim Deitch, Bill Griffiths and Drew Friedman, were tonic to me.

The 70s were not an easy decade for avoiding consumerism. Some families fled to the wilderness, but there was no escape. We were a generation saturated by advertising and now we're drowning in it. And if marketing geniuses have their way, we can only drown further. Drown and drown again!

We might as well poke fun at it.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Battlestar Galactica 1978 - Android Sisters Musical Moment

I found a couple of classic Battlestar Galactica trading cards in a shoe box in my Mom's closet this week. This would be the 1978 Star-Wars-ripoff TV show that my brother watched religiously. If you told me back then that this would be remade into a prestigious cable show with a cult following all these years later, I definitely would have scoffed at you. SCOFFED, I say!

Because, geez, take a look at the original (if you haven't already in your youth). First a card:

Look at the circuitry, the digital readouts, a heart-rate monitor(?), the WIRES. So many wires. This is to be our space-opera future? Even for the late 1970s, in a dystopian future with cobbled-together technology remnants among a rebel fleet, this is a disappointing and very low-budget vision. The back explains it all:

OK, let's ponder this as a creative entity: Scientist Winkler. That's the best the writers could do. It demonstrates a real lack of imagination to name your archetype scientist-guy as Scientist Winkler. How'd you like to type that out (probably on a typewriter, no doubt) over and over again during his story arcs...

Scientist Winkler replaces a battery pack. 

Scientist Winkler readies an explanation as to why Docking Bay 27 is on the fritz. 

Scientist Winkler takes it on the chin. 

I'm tired of it already. And what is a daggit? I can't remember because I'm old and this series is all a blur to me, but fur, wiring, metal and love, gives us clue. Let's take a look at Muffit the daggit.

The stuff of nightmares. Muffit in action at 4:40 (and you might as well check out some of the outtakes because absurdity abounds).

This series layered on the cheese, hardcore, as evidenced by the following seemingly endless clip of a major space battle. With plenty of pshew! pshew! laser shots, glowing engine exhaust, and fireballs—none of which would occur in the vacuum of oxygen-less space, this is the stuff of beige-clad, blown-dry, chrome-robot-with-floating-red-eyes, 1970s dreams.

But I came here today to share something genuinely special: The Android Sisters. I do vaguely remember these talented ladies of the futuristic nightclub circuit, and I think you can see why.


Good question

So anyway, I hope this video never gets pulled. It's that good. The future of live entertainment, today.

And in case you want a closer listen to the Android Sisters' hit, It's Love, Love, Love, the Internet provides. Warning: something in the production of this—probably too much flanger—actually made me nauseous. But don't let that stop you.