Can I Get An Amen? (2004, 34.3MB, 18:08 min.)
from Nate Harrison.
This documentation of an installation by Nate Harrison,
includes an in depth lecture on the history of a single breakbeat.
It follows this small fragment of a song from its origin in a 60’s soul
recording through the invention of house and contemporary hip-hop.
It also speaks very eloquently on the important issues of copyright in
remix culture. This is fascinating to listen to.
By Mica
Roundabout (n/d, 5MB, 35 sec.)
Found in the inspiration section of VJ Forums.
After the Fall (2011, 44 MB, 1:01 min)
Antenna (2011, 65 MB, 57 secs)
Two very different and very beautiful movies from Alan Sondheim.
Things That Flow (2011, 175 MB, 4:00 min)
Doing what it says on the can, and doing it elegantly
and with understatement and grace, a new pastoral (although
that’s not quite the word because the urban, or at least the mechanical,
usually intrudes into the idyll in some way) from Edward Picot.
Recap (trailer) (2006, 7.18MB, 1:12 min)
Says Rick Silva:
‘Recap is a remix of the cult classic graffiti movie
Wild Style (1982) where every piece of graffiti in
the original film has been digitally crossed out and tagged over
with the Recap tag.’
The full piece is available on DVD as an 82 minute video loop.
I find this piece intriguing. I’m pretty friendly to formalism –
it’s amazing what beauty & interest a good algorithm
(in the broadest sense) can deliver.
But here Rick Silva seems to have taken steps to eliminate
…perhaps too strong…rather…to render difficult…
the emergence (partly because the original looks so great,
haven’t seen it, so even the trailer is, for me, quite irritating,
because by definition it covers up [and maybe this
is the point – I think the setting & hence the mode of viewing
probably make a huge difference – I could see this working
brilliantly in a gallery where one takes in some of it & moves
on, digesting, but I think I would rather have extensive dental
work than sit & watch it as movie] what
I long to see.) of casual beauty.
Good though!
I don’t mean to be negative!
Better than bland of course, anytime!
Home Movies (2007, 11.9MB, 1:10 min)
Money at the Situation (2007, 6.5MB, 37 sec)
Assured & capable micro movie making from Bill Shackelford in 2007.
In the case of Home Movies, more: beautiful, poetic
& singular, using only the artefact laden footage around cuts in
his grandfather’s 8mm home movies from the 50s & 60s.
Bravo!
Interview with Ubermorgen (2011, 41 MB, 6:51 min)
In Berlin, DAM Gallery presented two projects by the artist duo Ubermorgen.com.
The show featured a temporary WOPPOW flagship store featuring fashion with bullet
holes as trademarks and the Deephorizon project that presents oil paintings that are
directly linked to the BP oil spill. On the occasion of the opening of the exhibition,
VernissageTV met with ubermorgen.com
Found Art (West Village) Unmonumental 503 (2011, 48 MB, 35 secs)
Found Art (Chelsea) Unmonumental 504 (2011, 43 MB, 32 secs)
Two more gems from Joy Garnett’s splendid Unmonumental
project on Flickr.
Food Terror (2008, 73MB, 4:36 min)
More from Manchester’s Doodlebug.
This one is particularly splendid and
meal times will never be the same again.
Here’s the text Michael Barnes-Wynters sent me but
I don’t really know what it means:
Doodlebug Presents…25/10/08 at Contact feat.
Ronald fraser-munro’s RFM-UNPLUCKED. manc. poet
amanda milligan’s ‘mz.milly does…’ debut outting
with ‘On Becoming a Human Being’ (AV mix).
a sneak preview of Urbis’s Black Panther artist
Emory Douglas expo. French guerilla photgrapher
JR’s ‘Women are Heroes’ plus Terrorist’s FOOD TERROR mix.
I think we’re watching that last item.
Anyway, it’s great.
More soon.
Minivan on Fire (2007, 12.6MB, 32 sec)
So…I wrote the comment below in 2004 about the poem (below)
by poet-artist-programmer-polymath Lewis LaCook
but it fits the movie making too, I think.
The poem I reproduce here because it’s great &
because I can.
…*such* great work Lewis.
There’s the delirious and gorgeous imagery that has
always been such an attractive component of your work,
but here also (and did I not notice it so much before
or has it been slowly crystallizing?) a rigorous,
almost steely control of the materials.
The sense of storytelling, the incorporation of
dialogue, the confidence to mix the heady stuff with
the almost prosaic…
a complete pleasure…
michael
— Lewis LaCook wrote:
I had this feeling that I was
worth loving, and you let me
have it: a month of solid
silence and invisibility, and you’ve
forgotten me now, I’m sure:
haven’t even taken the movies back.
I feel I might’ve excited you. True,
you said, “You’re mischievous,
undermining, it gets you hot
to be bad,” with the heroin
of your eyes pushing through me,
“I need all your attention.”
Client status: Connected.
In cramped shoes I’m
transparent on milk
ice: sliding over islands, mortar,
crystals lateral with morphine
lapsed into strings,
stillness; my lace.
Cerebral, but rebellious.
The secret to rolling a great joint
is to roll it tight enough to smoke well
but loose enough to let any left-
over stems elude piercing the paper.
I feel it might be exciting
to feel loved. Someone rubs me
until I blossum. Until it
rains on my tongue. This is free.
There are only so many
kinds of sense. One in which
you’re thick, surrendered
to golds and reds, wear glasses
and have supper with your
mother. Meanwhile, outside
our encampment, fat
velvet fires rescue air from
almost total transparency.
I suck up files from a remote
location for work. Wake up
with my eyes already sunk,
jerk off: get high. Client status:
Connected. A tartly-intelligent
girl with her hand on my belly.
She says she likes it too much.
She has all my attention.
Character sets legitimize
where the pre-dawn wind
plies from you in heavy draughts
your childhood, your child, rubber
nipples: reading under a passive
milk of electric, not walls.
They hug cattle before they
shoot them in the brain.
I sleep past waking.
Everyone will be infinitely home soon.
I was dreaming in blush sundaes,
before, though: we are the wasps
that would rather sting themselves
to death, if that means we escape
a natural terminal port: we’re
those literal motherfuckers
who will not hover, but sparkler
and cackle like it’s all that’s
holding us down. I hate the royal
we. Dreaming about licking
the heart of red, the pith of gold,
cleaning you of stalwart
impurities. Ever feel
like you’re just marking a beat
in a line. Smoke orally
inflates the room. Filtration
flirts with purity the way eightball
chicks glom to money;
it makes them feel loved. Even
common houseplants know
where the sun is, swoon and go
limp when she’s gone. I’m still
waiting for that Saturday you promised me
not thinking about me at all not thinking about
you at all not thinking about you at all.