Not a whole lot of credits in IMDB. I’m wondering if “Beyond the Bermuda Triangle” counts as genre. (Fred MacMurray? On a totally unrelated note, I just picked up the 4K/UHD package of “Double Indemnity” during the Criterion 50% off sale, and am looking forward to watching it soon. I’ve never seen it, but I keep hearing it is one of the great noir films.)
Michael Swanwick posted a nice tribute to Claes Oldenburg on his blog.
It was a bad weekend for SF writers. Lawrence sent me two obits:
Eric Flint. I’ve heard good things about his “1632” books, but haven’t read any of them.
Claes Oldenburg, visual artist. His thing seems to have been making huge versions of everyday objects.
Gerald Shargel, criminal lawyer. He defended a lot of Mob guys, including Gotti.
The lanky, bearded lawyer got so close to some Mafia clients that a federal district judge, I. Leo Glasser, removed him from representing one mob figure after prosecutors accused him of serving as “house counsel” to an organized crime family, an allegation he denied.
Mr. Gotti himself also got upset with Mr. Shargel, for being too talkative to reporters. The mob boss was caught on a wiretap warning his lawyer: “I’m gonna show him a better way than the elevator out of his office” (which was on the 32nd floor).
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Lily Safra. I probably wouldn’t have said anything about this at all, were it not for all the stuff in the obit about the death of husband number four, Edmond J. Safra. (Archive.is link for those who can’t read it otherwise.)
Hershel “Woody” Williams, big damn hero and Medal of Honor recipient. He was 98.
His Medal of Honor citation:
According to the paper of record, he was “the last survivor among the 472 servicemen who were awarded the Medal of Honor for extraordinary bravery in World War II and the oldest living recipient of the medal”.
Margaret Keane, the painter of big-eyed children.
In 1970, on a trip to San Francisco, Ms. Keane told a reporter that her former husband had painted none of the big-eyed waifs, and offered to prove it with a demonstration of their respective painting abilities in Union Square. The media splash drew crowds. Ms. Keane arrived with paints and easel. But Mr. Keane did not show up, and he continued to play the part of the successful artist.
In 1986, Ms. Keane raised another dramatic “paint-off” challenge — this time in a Honolulu court, where she had brought a defamation suit against Mr. Keane for falsely claiming that he had painted her work. Her lawyers argued that a painting demonstration was the only way to settle the case. A judge agreed.
In less than an hour, Ms. Keane executed a big-eyed urchin. Mr. Keane, who represented himself in the case, said he had a sore shoulder and could not lift his arm to paint.
Ian McDonald, co-founder of King Crimson and Foreigner.
(Hattip: Lawrence.)
Lars Eighner. I’m not sure how many people outside of Austin recognize that name. For those long time Austinites, this should be a blast from the past.
Mr. Eighner lost his job and spent three years homeless on the streets of Austin with his dog. He wrote periodically for the “Austin Chronicle”, and eventually published Travels With Lizbeth about that experience. He published two other books after that, but those were less successful.
I’m going to put this last obit behind a jump. I’m noting it because it’s a sad sundae with chopped sad and a sad cherry on top.
Damien Hirst has done other works than “The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living“.
One of those was a diamond encrusted skull called “For the Love of God”.
Hirst has claimed for a while now that he sold the work for $100 million in 2007.
Turns out…
In a profile published in the New York Times on the occasion of his first New York show in four years, Hirst said the work, titled For the Love of God and allegedly made from more than 8,600 diamonds, was sitting in a storage facility in Hatton Garden, London’s jewelry district.
According to Hirst, he still owns the bauble in partnership with his gallery, White Cube, and a group of unnamed investors.
More:
In the recent Hirst New York Times profile, the newspaper took at face value the artist’s claim that he sold around 80 new works for between $750,000 and $3.5 million each.
“We could have sold many, many more,” Larry Gagosian told the Times. “People were literally begging to buy these paintings.”
ArtNet article. Some people have told me they have trouble with this link, so here’s an archive.is version.
Eddie Basinski has passed away at the age of 99. He was the second oldest former major league baseball player.
Interestingly, Mr. Basinski was also a trained classical violin player.
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Saousoalii Siavii Jr., former defensive tackle with the Kansas City Chiefs. This is an odd one: he died in custody at Leavenworth.
Terry Teachout, critic, blogger, playwright, cultural commentator, and biographer, passed away yesterday.
“About Last Night” blog. WSJ (through archive.is). National Review.
I wrote briefly about him and his blog when his wife died. I was still an irregular follower – I tried to check in once a week – but I knew he had found a new love and was excited about that. This seems especially unfair.
I never met Mr. Teachout, though I would have liked to. He seems like one of those good decent people whose passing leaves a void in the world.
Edited to add: tribute from Rod Dreher.
Took kids to a dinosaur park. At souvenir shop, Liam was eyeing a paint set.
Clerk: Great choice! I did that triceratops.
Me: That’s really excellent, how do you say in Japanese, dry brushing?
Clerk: *startles*
Clerk: 40k?
Me: Fantasy.
Clerk: The Emperor protects, bro.— Patrick McKenzie (@patio11) December 28, 2021
Explained:
Two men having a chance encounter in the presence of art supplies discovered they had a mutual interest in painting fantastic army men despite being born approximately 8 time zones and 14 time zones away from where those army men are from, respectively.
— Patrick McKenzie (@patio11) December 29, 2021
Runner-up:
And from Liam (4 years old) demonstrating that the only important thing in art is picking up the brush: pic.twitter.com/LfwOzqm06c
— Patrick McKenzie (@patio11) December 29, 2021
I value and highly esteem all of the people who comment here.
(Except Eric from talk to customer dot com or whatever it is today. He can die in a fire.)
If I don’t respond to your comment, it isn’t because I don’t like you. It may be because I don’t have time. It may be because you said what needed to be said and responding “Mega dittos, Rush!” would be as superfluous as painting a mustache on the Mona Lisa.
(You know, if you’re going to put a button on your page that says “Order Oil Painting Reproduction”, when I push that button…take me to the page where I can actually order an oil painting reproduction of that specific piece, not your generic art page.)
(Of course, the original wasn’t an oil painting anyway, so an oil painting reproduction would be odd.)
(“1940, Paris
Color reproduction, made by Duchamp from original version
Stolen in 1981 and never recovered”
Yet another piece to add to the “decorate my house with reproductions of stolen art” list.)
But I digress.
Anyway, thank you to all my valued commenters, especially the ones who have been commenting over the past week or so. This isn’t prompted by anything in particular or any specific complaints. Just wanted to get this on the hysterical record.
This could be an obit watch, too, but I thought I’d go in this direction.
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Mr. Apple went on to work in neon, enchanting some reviewers like Robert Pincus-Witten of Artforum magazine, who described Mr. Apple’s rainbows as “sensuous neon impersonations.” But city inspectors were not charmed. In 1966, when Mr. Apple was 27, they unplugged a show of his at the Pepsi Gallery, in the lobby of the Pepsi-Cola Building at Park Avenue and 59th Street, saying the pieces weren’t wired to code.
The show’s opening had been so well attended that it caused a traffic jam. One attendee was Tom Wolfe, who later panned Mr. Apple’s pieces in New York Magazine — “they’re limp … they splutter,” he wrote. (Mr. Wolfe was writing about the artistry of commercial neon sign makers and poking fun at the art world in the process.)
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Their art-making methods — Mr. Apple went through a tidying phase, washing windows, scrubbing floor tiles and vacuuming up the dirt on his studio’s roof — were not always well received. His “Roof Dirt” piece, which came in the form of an invitation in 1971, prompted John Canaday of The New York Times to write that it “belongs to an area of art‐related activity in which nothing but the word of the artists makes the difference between a put‐on and a seriously offered project.”
Mr. Apple then turned to less festive practices, like saving tissues from his nosebleeds and toilet paper from his bathroom activities. When this work was included in a solo show at the Serpentine Gallery in London, some objected, and the police shut it down. But Mr. Apple was no prankster. He was deadly serious about his work, which, besides meticulously documenting his bodily processes, often included renovation and redecorating suggestions to institutions like the Guggenheim. (He proposed getting rid of its planters; the museum ignored him.)
Back home in New Zealand, to which he returned for good in 1990, Mr. Apple began exploring, in a variety of work, ideas about the transactional nature of the art market, branding practices, mapping and scientific advances. Among the works was an apple cast from pure gold, Billy Apple coffee and tea (for sale in galleries only) and the “immortalization” of cells from his own body, which are now stored at the American Type Culture Collection and the School of Biological Sciences at the University of Auckland.
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I feel like he’s been getting the tributes he deserves, and don’t really have much to add to those. Other than: what a career.
Hash Halper. No, you never heard of him: this is one of those kind of obits the NYT does well.
Sometime around 2014, little hearts drawn in chalk mysteriously began appearing on the streets of downtown Manhattan. Some materialized in clusters on sidewalks, while others cascaded along blocks. The hearts inevitably faded away, but for New Yorkers who encountered them, they offered a respite from the harshness of city life.
At least that was the intention of their creator, a street artist named Hash Halper, who started drawing the hearts as a gesture of affection for a woman he was dating. The relationship didn’t last, but the hearts made him feel better, so he kept drawing them. Mr. Halper soon began spreading the healing properties of his hearts, calling himself New York Romantic.
“A heart makes you feel good when you’re not feeling good,” Mr. Halper told Channel 7’s “Eyewitness News” in 2018. “And a heart makes you feel great when you’re feeling great.”
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Tall and shaggy-haired, Mr. Halper could be seen wearing stylish hats or a red suit covered in hearts while he planted himself on streets for hours, bringing his hearts into existence with pieces of pink, blue and yellow chalk and a swift swoop of his hand. Over time, he became something of a downtown folk hero, cherished for his ability to conjure up positivity with a humble shard of chalk.
Once, when he learned that a woman was having a rough time with her romantic life, he began chalking hearts outside her workplace; she met someone special a few weeks later.
But:
He grappled with sobriety. When he had jobs, he didn’t hold them for long. He was at times homeless and would sleep on the benches of Washington Square Park or the couches of friends. His family had paid his rent over the past year in an apartment on Broome Street that he shared with roommates.
“He didn’t tell people that he was troubled because it was dissonant with his public persona,” his brother Omkar Lewis said. “He was the heart guy, so he couldn’t reveal his problems to the world, because he was the guy carrying other people’s pain.”
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According to his family, he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge on June 11th. He was 41.
The number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-TALK (8255). If you live outside of the United States or are looking for other help, TVTropes has a good page of additional resources.