AIB - MFA Coelynn McIninch

Shooting Blind

2009-02-26T23:49:00.002-05:00

http://www.seeingwithphotography.com/swpc_home.html

They have no sight.
They make images.
They paint with light and wait for some one else to describe the image back to them.
Then they paint the image into their mind . . .with words.

To know so completely that there is something wonderful there and to never see it or touch it.

When faith lies in the stutter of emotion, from the voice of a stranger.

I am still mesmerized . . .

mental dump

2009-02-26T23:34:00.002-05:00

Interactions with intangible technologies are altering our faith in the mind body link and weakening our hold on the physical.

Advances in science have given us answers to many of life’s mysteries.
Omniscience is stagnation, an end to creativity and an end to learning.

Expansion of the self beyond the physical body has weakened the link to the flesh that houses it.
Dislocation from the physical makes us all ghosts in nature and gods in the machine.

Where do we go when the power goes out?

When we detached our self and launched the psyche into a universe where we are in total control of all actions and appearances without age, deterioration or physical risk we tend toward hubris?

When you are a god, why do you need religion?

Anonymity is safety

Is language a substitute for human interaction and sensory clues?

Can images replace words?

Can words replace images?

Are words images?

lifeless

2009-01-30T16:46:00.005-05:00

I can feel you but I can't touch you.

The nothing box

2009-01-30T16:07:00.006-05:00

This is a nothing box.

There is nothing special about the box itself
It's just wood
Its empty . . .and not
There is something in it
You cannot see it
You cannot hold it
It has no color
It has no shape

It is sound
the sounds of my memories
maybe they are familiar to you

people react to the nothing box in the most peculiar ways

When it chirps, they are surprised
When it ticks, they hold it suspiciously
When it sounds like water, they hold to one ear like a shell at the ocean.
When it purrs, they cuddle it

There is nothing special about the box itself.
It is just wood.
It is empty . . .and not

Coe's apples

2009-01-30T17:21:00.004-05:00

This was a mental exercise with a hint of Joseph Kosuth: ie. 3and 1 chairs.

Mine was more a 4 ways apple.

1- Hyper-real / Photoshop version on the wall.
2- Video montage with pretty lighting and just a slight mist of glistening water droplets.
3- Audio of the apple being eaten.

All 3 digitally captured/altered and rendered

4- is the actual rotting remnant of the first 3 in a museum display box.

Presentation was not the main concern here, just the idea to play with and ponder.

Mental Architecture 2

2009-01-30T17:00:00.004-05:00

Vague, symmetrical
like the perfect memory
of a perfect face

or the easy calculations
of a virtual space
either way . . .
your choice

Mental architecture

2009-01-30T16:56:00.002-05:00

Implied structure. In cyberspace and mental space who needs walls? At least we know the floor will always be in the same place?

Post residency re-cap

2009-01-30T14:31:00.004-05:00

On the live-vellum -
the consensus is . . .

1) the sensual glowing screen of vellum should be made as a horizontal plane
2) to make it more accessible
3) to isolate the focus of the viewer (as they look down, the surrounding space disappears)
4) projecting on the same cloth it was shot on is poetic (death/re-animation/etc.) but frankly, it looks like shit.
5) the video is too slow now and probably needs a bit more side lighting to increase the shadows.
I'm working on the possibility of projecting from below and hiding the technology as much as possible.
Other than that . ..
It is still fascinating to watch.

peace

2009-01-28T21:30:00.003-05:00

the cold
the dark
the gentle rest of a universe in transition

the pause in thought that occurs when you are waiting for something to happen
while listening for confirmation of something whispered
the border between existence and the abyss
a richness that we naively call the void

It is the sum of all possibility
when all is removed and you can almost feel the hum of eternity as is slows
to a standstill
just before changing direction

It is that solitude that gives me peace

Quote for the Week 1/28/09

2009-01-28T21:26:00.001-05:00

"The heart of magic is illusion and without the cooperation of gullible men, there would be no magic at all"
-still can't find the source but its in this pile somewhere!

BUGS!

2008-10-18T20:58:00.005-04:00

update

2008-10-18T20:56:00.001-04:00

Moon city

I have a stand for this . . . .
It is still fighting me but I will post it once I have tamed physics . . . .

bits

2008-10-18T20:47:00.004-04:00

This chair was in the trash at a state housing facility.
The man who owned it died and the family didn't want to keep it.
It barely holds MY weight but he must have kept it for some reason.
It was made in the 40's.

I like to imagine what the man looked like who owned this chair and what caused each of the marks on it's surface.

I covered the seat with butterflies because they remind me of an old storyteller I used to see in Harvard Square when I was young.
His name is Brother Blue and he is always covered in Butterflies.
http://www.brotherblue.com/

My white cube

2008-09-12T21:45:00.002-04:00

Much easier to design an installation when you have your own portable white cube.
(That's my little helper Edna in there)

Ooooooooo Shiny

2008-09-12T21:41:00.002-04:00

Like liquid silver ......

Moon houses

2008-09-12T21:13:00.004-04:00

Accidental magic is the best kind. It always seems to sneak up on you when you are looking for something else entirely. And if you are not looking at all . . . .it will pass on by without a care. . . .

from Sticky Sublime - Beckley

2008-09-12T21:03:00.002-04:00

"To acknowledge the sublime is to admit that there is something, God or nature, that defines and transcends human culture and what it means to be human."

Lee Walton ICA

2008-04-13T10:56:00.005-04:00

http://www.leewalton.com/index.html

I happened across Lee Walton's site by accident and the world got a little smaller.

I signed on to his mailing list and ended up joining in on one of his live performances that was staged at the ICA.

The project:

"Collaborating with the Teen Arts Council at the ICA and students from the Art Institute of Boston, a series of postcards have been made and will be available to the spectators. These postcards will be the "key" to witnessing the performances that would otherwise go unnoticed."
link to the project web page

As you can see, I got card #8 and a spiffy blue sweater.

The card reads:

"Today, at precisely 2pm, a person wearing this sweater will be outside the museum looking in. She will have an orange in her pocket."

Arno Minkkinen

2008-04-13T10:46:00.007-04:00

http://www.arnorafaelminkkinen.org/

Talking with Arno is always a joy. He has such a simple gentle humor that is both poetic and profound. I have met him on several occasions but, this is the first time I have heard him speak about his work.

More Later . . .

just for fun

2008-05-13T20:37:00.002-04:00

touch

2008-05-07T21:00:00.006-04:00

I just learned a bit of Final Cut Pro and quick time

This is the diffusion test w/o the vellum:
I find this one a bit creepy . . .

Just hands - this was supposed to be about touch but seems to go way beyond
into issues of voyeurism surveillance, eroticism and sexual ambiguity . . .
Let me know what you think. . .

"The Curator" by Miller Williams

2008-04-29T22:31:00.004-04:00

it just occurred to me . . .@10:30 pm . . .how much this poem has in common with everything that has been tumbling through my head.

Read it first, mull it over, come back for my reasons why it draws me in.

The Curator

by Miller Williams

We thought it would come, we thought the Germans would come,

were almost certain they would. I was thirty-two,

the youngest assistant curator in the country.

I had some good ideas in those days.

Well, what we did was this. We had boxes

precisely built to every size of canvas.

We put the boxes in the basement and waited.

When word came that the Germans were coming in,

we got each painting put in the proper box

and out of Leningrad in less than a week.

They were stored somewhere in southern Russia.

But what we did, you see, besides the boxes

waiting in the basement, which was fine,

a grand idea, you’ll agree, and it saved the art—

but what we did was leave the frames hanging,

so after the war it would be a simple thing

to put the paintings back where they belonged.

Nothing will seem surprised or sad again

compared to those imperious, vacant frames.

Well, the staff stayed on to clean the rubble

after the daily bombardments. We didn’t dream—

You know it lasted nine hundred days.

Much of the roof was lost and snow would lie

sometimes a foot deep on this very floor,

but the walls stood firm and hardly a frame fell.

Here is the story, now, that I want to tell you.

Early one day, a dark December morning,

we came on three young soldiers waiting outside,

pacing and swinging their arms against the cold.

They told us this: in three homes far from here

all dreamed of one day coming to Leningrad

to see the Hermitage, as they supposed

every Soviet citizen dreamed of doing.

Now they had been sent to defend the city,

a turn of fortune the three could hardly believe.

I had to tell them there was nothing to see

but hundreds and hundreds of frames where the paintings had hung.

“Please, sir,” one of them said, “let us see them.”

And so we did. It didn’t seem any stranger

than all of us being here in the first place,

inside such a building, strolling in snow.

We led them around most of the major rooms,

what they could take the time for, wall by wall.

Now and then we stopped and tried to tell them

part of what they would see if they saw the paintings.

I told them how those colors would come together,

described a brushstroke here, a dollop there,

mentioned a model and why she seemed to pout

and why this painter got the roses wrong.

The next day a dozen waited for us,

then thirty or more, gathered in twos and threes.

Each of us took a group in a different direction:

Castagno, Caravaggio, Brueghel, Cezanne, Matisse,

Orozco, Manet, da Vinci, Goya, Vermeer,

Picasso, Uccello, your Whistler, Wood, and Gropper.

We pointed to more details about the paintings,

I venture to say, than if we had had them there,

some unexpected use of line or light,

balance or movement, facing the cluster of faces

the same way we’d done it every morning

before the war, but then we didn’t pay

so much attention to what we talked about.

People could see for themselves. As a matter of fact

we’d sometimes said our lines as if they were learned

out of a book, with hardly a look at the paintings.

But now the guide and the listeners paid attention

to everything—the simple differences

between the first and post-impressionists,

romantic and heroic, shade and shadow.

Maybe this was a way to forget the war

a little while. Maybe more than that.

Whatever it was, the people continued to come.

It came to be called The Unseen Collection.

Here. Here is the story I want to tell you.

Slowly, blind people began to come.

A few at first then more of them every morning,

some led and some alone, some swaying a little.

They leaned and listened hard, they screwed their faces,

they seemed to shift their eyes, those that had them,

to see better what was being said.

And a cock of the head. My God, they paid attention.

After the siege was lifted and the Germans left

and the roof was fixed and the paintings were in their places,

the blind never came again. Not like before.

This seems strange, but what I think it was,

they couldn’t see the paintings anymore.

They could still have listened, but the lectures became

a little matter-of-fact. What can I say?

Confluences come when they will and they go away.

2008-04-21T16:29:00.002-04:00

Here's vellum and video (not my video, just a test)

vague material

2008-04-13T11:45:00.009-04:00

In my search for tangibility I found a vellum that feels like human skin.
Sensual and Creepy

So I brought it home and played with it for a bit.
Then I added to it a bit.
Then I played with it a bit more.

This is a vellum backing with maple leaves punched out of vellum and acetate glued to the surface.

This is what happens when it is lit from behind.

This is what happens when it is lit from behind without the stupid florescent lights that are the bane of my creative existence!

I am really enjoying the translucent nature of the materials and am working on projecting video through the back.

More on that later . . .

tangibility

2008-04-13T13:39:00.007-04:00

I think I have pinned down what bothers me about technology and this web thing that I'm dumping coded information into.

It's all about the senses and empathy.

I can sun feel on my skin - but it does not touch me
I can feel music in my bones - but it does not touch me
I can smell a storm coming - but it does not touch me ('till it rains)
I can see colors - but they don't touch me

(Ok . . . scientifically we can argue for radiation, vibration of particles in the air and stuff like that but I'm trying to be poetic here so don't spoil it.)

I can shoot pictures with my digital camera - but the image has never touched the object (it's just a translation, not an imprint)

I can "chat" all I want - without body language, intonation, or sight.

There is distance there that I can't control or overcome.Direct interaction is important to me and now I find myself in a world full of distance and intangible possessions and interactions.
Here's few:

Diary = blog
Sketchbook = Photoshop
Photo Album = Snapfish
Slide show = Powerpoint
Books = ebook
letters = email
record = Mp3
Newspaper = MSNBC etc.

Crowds of people all in there own little worlds isolated - but not

I can connect myself to the four corners of the earth (funny, it being round and all) and still walk and chew gum at the same time. (or drive and drink a coolatta at the same time:)

I'm not so sure how I feel about this technological omnipresence thing. Suddenly my sense of self is located in all different places.

Here's an old question: Am I my physical body or the sum of all my cognitive connections and mediated translations?

Do I really need to be connected to everyone and everything? -No
Does it really matter if I know everything that is going on all over the world? -No
Do I really need to know who's winning on America Idol? -No
Will the world still carry on without me if I shut my cell phone off for a day? -Yes

So why do we get so disjointed when we are disconnected?
Maybe it's because we aren't really connected so we keep logging-in, tunning-in, and calling-in hoping for something more tangible but we sign-off, click-off and hang-up feeling unsatisfied by what was received.
Just blatantly mediated and translated brushes with the world.

More later