The Inspiration

Art or rather inspiration for it can be found everywhere.
All we need is to discover it and frame it with our imagination.
Like this fragment of reality from a tiny place jammed between East and West somewhere on the coast of the Mediterranean.
No expanse of the sky, no imposing outlines of the ancient temple.
Only coarse surface of the wall and electric wires that flow from nowhere to converge at a point way beyond the edge…

Something is up

Do we paint what we are?
or what we think we are?
or what we think others should think we are?

I know that I do not think when I paint.
Does it mean that this is me....?
Dont think so :)

I've Met Chekhov in Manhattan

Skepticism could be an extension of prudence. It could also be a trait that forestalls any attempt at exploring new ideas or realities.
That said, skepticism was the prevailing feeling with which I had arrived at the Gene Frankel Theater to watch the new production of Chekhov’s “Ivanov” – just to be pleasantly surprised by the experience that had unfolded.
In fact, the use of the word “experience” is appropriate here, as you are not only watching the performance – you are a part of it to the extent that you are in a middle of the action and the actors are not hesitating to come close or even to bump you on occasion.
And the best part is that there is no stiffness or robotic adherence to the script.
The actors literally feed of each other creating ambiance not unlike the one you’d experience at home, while they keep every scene in balance from all the angles available to the audience sitting along the perimeter of the stage.
The individual acting is superb with no attempt at phony Russianness and yet perfectly believable.
Good Direction combined with imaginative and frugally effective stage and costume design help to make this experience truly complete.

To ALL my new friends, I've never met in person....

The world has changed in more ways than one.
When we were kids, we played outside yet we keep our own indoors.
We used to write (ink and paper and later typewrite) letters and our term reports.
The place of work was a physical location with everyone present.
And if there was a need to meet someone, we would meet that someone face to face and across the table.
I guess I could go on and on.

And then the Internet had arrived.
Today we can work, meet and conduct business without ever leaving the confines of our castles.
My store has no doors, no windows and anyone who comes in cannot touch any of the items on display.
They can look at the pictures, imagine the feeling of the weight and texture and, provided their monitors are properly adjusted, appreciate the color as well.
And when I set the store up, there is no passerby to stop to satisfy her curiosity and offer feedback I may or may not take in consideration.

I guess I felt a bit lonely and contrary to what I‘ve had expected from Internet – disconnected.

Your warm welcome had changed this feeling of being alone in a middle of the ocean with no shore insight.
You have given me the anchor to latch on to and I am grateful for that.
Of cause all we see are our virtual avatars floating in this hyperspace, but now I have a sense that behind those avatars there are people full of life, compassion, inspiration and hope.

Thank You all again

Nenni

Selling Your Jewelry Feels Good… For Most Part

Here is an interesting dilemma. You’d just spend all this time photographing your art work, writing the descriptions and uploading all this great stuff on to your store’s web page. Above all it had taken you forever to juggle all the product thumbnails in a way that your entire product or collection page looks balanced and appealing…
And when you are completely satisfied by the results, your regular “non web” customer walks in and buys most of those pieces on the spot leaving your storefront in complete disarray.
Don’t get me wrong, my hesitations were brief. But while rearranging my “storefront” at 1:00 AM that night, I did consider charging extra for all the non web purchases.


Just a couple of the pieces

Why I Paint

The moment of truth arrives unexpectedly yet quietly.
Like a breeze of warm hesitation blowing from the Mediterranean when the sun starts rolling down the western slope of the trajectory.
It is not a revelation, but an assertion of what you already know.
Every inspiration is fleeting and subsides with time.
But this knowledge is rooted deep in the darkest cavity of the unconsciousness.
It is as arcane as the elements themselves.
This intimate knowledge is persistent, but unaware of its accuracy or very existence.
And then it arrives….
Without shape, smell or sound that can be explained away or sounded out, it can only be described by means of no words or notes… Yet it wants to be revealed, it demands to be released from its eternal incarceration and to be judged and accepted for what it really is.

But what is it really? …

Pictures, Pictures.... It is all about Pictures

It’s been said that the more you know the more you have to learn.
Just about a month ago I was "oh so certain" that the solution to presenting my art on the web was found and all I would be needing from that point on would be to expand upon the concept both in size of portfolio and quality of photography required to convey the physical and emotional characteristics of my work. I believed that as long as the conceptual side had been taken care of, the rest will follow as a matter of fact.
Yet, every time I've made a step forward and was able to look back at the preceding stage with the sense of superiority of growth and self-fulfillment, I was also experiencing a certain jolt of apprehension that while overall feel and quality of presentation had improved dramatically – my pieces remained far better "live" then on the screen.
Am I too picky? Not really. In addition to my own vanity, my success of selling on the web will, to a considerable extend, be determined by how other people perceive my artwork in terms of dimension, weight and texture and while virtual world is becoming a rather densely populated planet, most of us continue to expect materially sound objects when interacting with the world not so digital.

Sinner

Last week I attended a new off Broadway production that took place at the Nuyorican Café situated smack in the heart of what once was an “Alphabet City”.
The fact that I dared to park my car east of “C” and was able to withdraw cash from the real bank ATM at the corner of “C” and 3rd is a testament enough to how far this area had progressed since the “bum slum” days of 1980’s when I was roaming this neighborhood in search of graffiti, decay and gang members to take pictures of – easy to find, but occasionally hard to photograph.
Yet unlike its surroundings Nuyorican has seen little change if at all.
In fact it stayed exactly the way it was, both in appearance and ambiance not-too-cozy as if the time had passed over touching nothing and not mending anything.
Still, one will not find a better spot for a medium scale Avant-garde production as its Eisensteinian interior offers ideal backdrop to any play of the genre.

The Sinner is written by Michael Swift, directed by Brett Ziebarth and brought to life by a very talented cast: Conor Brooke (priest), April Perez (woman) and Mike Berberich (man).
Action takes place in the present day New York City.
The main character, the priest (Conor Brooke) is a reserved and at times confused individual who is tormented by unresolved conflicts of his youth and somewhat passively pursues the occupation possibly not of his choosing.
Challenged by Man (Mike Berberich) and Woman (April Perez) to accept the world defined by their intensely subjective points of view, the hero begins his own search for the true meaning of life that takes him outside of the physical and emotional comfort zone provided by the Church and into the world where good bad and ugly are defined on a person by person basis rather than as a system of morality and behavior.
In the end hero returns home without conclusively resolving his quest for self-fulfillment, yet capable to better understand the confusion and the pain that permeates the world.
The play is dynamic, well directed and the cast performance is outstanding.
In fact I watched it twice in a row and had not missed a beat.

It was later at night that I began to develop some reservations regarding the story line itself.

Starting with the way the play had ended, I felt that the lack of clarity related to priest’s resulting attitude could probably be fine for a layman but hardly expected from the man of cloth, and while writer attempts to handle many controversies related to faith as a whole and Catholic Church in particular, the priest’s character never mounts a coherent or passionate defense on its behalf, somewhat denying the play a “conflict” that could have propelled it beyond the realm of specific issues and thus denying the “priest” a chance to act out his frustration in a more comprehensive and sophisticated manner.
In fact I thought that the Church had been excessively depicted as merely a business corporation where child molestation and hypocrisy are running amok.
While leaving the “priest” to strike his own balance, author invests Man and Woman with sufficiently grotesque, aggressive and very “actable” monologs (and dialogs).
At times I could see a glimpse of the Michoels’s "Tevie the Milkman" in Mike Berberich’s rendition of “Man”.
Yet when the dust settles you feel that those characters are not playing by the rules of the game and with all the energy vested in them have nothing to prove or apologize for. Without any apparent reason they denigrate the priest’s lifestyle and rituals, yet they never present a consistent position of their own. And while they eagerly talk about the worldly pleasures the priest could be missing and promote sex as one of the greatest gifts man could ever experience, they offer no substitute for the Church’s system of belief or behavior, and to confuse matter further depict sex as something dirty and lacking respect and hardly the experience that enlightens. Such inconsistency – intentional or not – should probably have invited hero's counteroffensive that never came.

Yet, all reservations aside, this is a wonderful play, very well performed, very well directed, and I guaranty that the intensity of performance will render all of the above mentioned concerns as irrelevant and subjective ramblings of a very picky individual.

From Kramer to Moini... and Back?

Artwork by Kramer (bottom) and Moini

Seating almost at the corner of Spring St. and 6Ave is a wonderful shop run by Roya Dorraudi. The window’s display is almost too lavish and extravagant for the street that hardly exhibits any glitter and where art (especially the one that shines) is not a commodity to be commonly thought.
Yet this is exactly what attracted my attention and enticed me to further explore an incredible fantasy created by Iradj Moini who’s Costume like Jewelry posses an irresistible aura of nostalgia and opulence.
I have to be honest and admit that I am a sucker for glitter created by likes of Kramer, Weiss or Miriam Heskel and while Moini's jewelry is not exactly costume, it is so close that it almost entirely it. And while Bakelite and Plastics are not prominently featured as artist’s material of choice, his images are quite a mixture of Retro and Modernity lost in the thick groves of Hollywood’s Utopia generously topped with Swarovski crystals.
So if you love theater and theatrics and are brave enough to schlep around Gotham as the magnet for the indiscriminate attention or are invited to a lavish reception at the Met this definitely is a place to commence your ultimate shopping spree.

Calder.... what would he be doing today?

I have asked myself that question a million times.

Could he be discovered by the taste makers of today?

Did he actually require a taste maker to discover his work?
I could bet that he just did what he did until his path crossed the ones of Louisa James, Marcel Duchamp and Mondrian.
Most of them just congregated about Montmartre.

The world was breaking apart and all the doors had flown of the hinges.
So here come the Mobiles…… hinges…. Get it?