ART HEIST

2 October 2009

In these days of uncertainty about the stock and real estate markets, what better “hedge” than the art world. But value is really about what someone will pay for a given commodity, and who can judge the motivations of the buyer? It seems that art “theft” has become an increasingly prevalent occupation, but what do you do with the goods after the heist? It's not like you can take them to the fence. And of course, value is all about perception, whether it’s a legal transaction or not, meaning that it’s set by the ignorant majority (the nouveau riche looking to match the couch). The name becomes the meter of value, and thus Lautrec is worth more than Lissitsky, and far better to invest a lot in a mediocre work of the brand name, than a little in an excellent piece by an unknown. Of course, we only know when the market bottomed in retrospect.

Read about the Pebble Beach Art Heist.

Drinking Water

28 September 09

The recent article about drinking water in the NY Times was illuminating and troubling; an occulted legacy of the Bush administrations. We have been so lucky in this country with our seemingly bottomless water resource, which of course has led to squandering. And the Bush cabal set about dismantling regulations and oversight, a combination that has led to a precarious future. One of the examples cited was in West Virginia, where coal companies have been permitted to dispose of coal slurry (the highly toxic mixture of chemicals and water used to wash coal) in old mine shafts. Lo and behold, suddenly the neighbors are getting skin rashes when they shower and diseases if they drink the water. Of course one sympathizes with these people, but my immediate question is: how did they vote? Bush came in with the promise to do exactly what he did: dismantle regulation and get government off the back of business. Wake up. Another coal related water travesty in WV is the permitting of coal companies to dump the mountain-top that is removed in “mountain-top removal mining” into the valley adjacent, thus burying the stream there. In an era of increasing water scarcity, we are letting these mining operations bury pristine streams. Go figure.

Read the story.

DAVID

30 August 2009

What happened in Florence? Between 1450 and 1550, the world changed, and our way of seeing and representing the world would never be the same. In the Third Man, Graham Greene wrote, "You know what the fellow said - in Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace - and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock." Standing in front of Michaelangelo’s David is a lesson in humility, and not because he is so large… It’s the perfection that staggers, and the artistic license taken by the artist. Interestingly, though created by an Italian, the face is clearly Greek (reminds one of operas written in Italian by Germans). His head is too large, but it feels right; our man knew that it would be viewed with awe from below. The shoulders and torso I would kill for, the arms too. But the hands struck me the most - far too large for the rest of the body, but captivatingly perfect: these are the hands that slew the monster Goliath. His posture is relaxed with immeasurable grace and strength, but of course, he had just killed the beast that had terrorized the army, and he was just a boy. Of course the real grace and genius was that of the artist, the man who knew he was a god, the best in the world, able to create something so beautiful and perfect that 500 years later, we marvel, knowing that nothing will ever equal it. What drove this revolution in a town in the middle of Italy? How did Michaelangelo come to be?

TIME Magazine

I have a piece in TIME Magazine, August 31 issue - out tomorrow, newsstands next week... check it out!

HOPKINS

I can’t imagine the burden of being known and pursued wherever one goes. A walk down the street becomes like stepping out of the tent in the Canadian far north. The “fans” like mosquitoes, immediately swarm, wanting any possible memento of their brush with celebrity; in lieu of blood they will take autographs, photos of themselves with the star, and of course the best would be some personal item like the lock of Galadriel's hair, so treasured by Gimli. It is a pleasure to meet someone at the top of their game that still remembers the humility of the regular folk. Of course, as the photographer trying to do a portrait, the immediate attention from the passersby made photographs impossible.

Anthony Hopkins related to me a story of growing up in Wales, going to see a famous singer, who spurned him and his father, to the great shame of the patriarch, and the effect it had on his relation to his fans. And I found him to be constantly gracious. The only time I was able to get a good photo, was a moment outside the Il Borro Vineyard when noone was around, and of course there is only one good frame: Anthony Hopknins, on the direction of the photographer, leaning on the Maserati (loaned in hopes of association with the celebrity.)

Of course, I can’t deny that having a portrait of the actor won’t hurt my portfolio... and the circle goes round.

HUBBERTS PEAK

31 July 2009

I was talking to a farmer as he delivered his boutique organic vegetables to Angelika’s (my favorite restaurant), telling him about my tar sands trip to which he remarked that the tar sands completely blasted Hubberts peak, the concept we hoped would save the planet, out of the water. For those who don’t know it, the theory is one about the diminishing discovery, followed by production and thus scarcity of oil and the corresponding price increase and drop in consumption. Devout readers of this tome know that the tar sands extraction process is environmentally devastating on many levels, and on my recent trip I discovered that it’s profitable at about $50 a barrel (according to my source). And there is a lot of it up there under the Albertan Boreal Forest.

MCMURRAY JUNKYARD

30 July 2009

From what I could tell at a distance, the dogs were friendly. Did that give me the liberty to traverse the junkyard completely, alone? As the total anti-materialist photographer (is that an oxymoron?), what could be more idyllic than a junkyard? But I had a flat tire and an appointment with a group of Cree first nation elders, and was in no mood to be exploring a junkyard looking for a Toyota with a particular size tire. To make the story shorter in the telling, John, the tire man, finally came to my rescue, and no Toyotas with 195-15 tires did he find either, at which point he suggested we go look through the large rows of tires that were standing at his work station, something I had opined upon arrival. The first one he found had rot around the edges (he really did know his stuff) but the second one had more tread than the tire I had cut. Yes it was my fault, the Toyota simply was not sturdy enough to jump the curb off the highway. The squeaky new factory prefab housing surrounded by grassless dirt (tar sands topsoil removed prior to strip mining the bitumen filled sand below?) was too appealing a picture. The signs with their promises of cheap schooling and easy commutes, prices the same paid in Toronto or Boston, painted a picture not dissimilar to the gold rush towns of California in the good old days. But halcyon days are back in Fort McMurray, 1600 miles north of Edmonton thanks to the tar sands. Unless you live downstream.

But let’s face it. As long as there is demand (that means us), these resources will be extracted, at whatever cost necessary. And do you really think the needs of a small minority group will be considered versus all that money to be made? I hope so.