JULHO, edição#03, tema:
Pouco separa o Borough Market, em Londres, do Ver-o-Peso, em Belém. Nada nos aproxima tanto quanto um mercado, público. Para tocar, encostar, esbarrar, tomar com as mãos. O tato, o olfato, o paladar, a visão, todos conjugados –os nossos e os dos demais, provocando a sensação caótica e excitante de dividir este espaço, público. Mas o que somos, dentro, senão o que somos, fora? Somos este caos que o cheiro, o toque, o gosto provocam. Somos o que vemos. O resto é apenas líquido que escorre pelas pedras do nosso mercado e que, mais tarde, será lavado.
I want to find a balance between the grace of the visible plant and the mechanics of its growth engine, the roots. I like the idea that this amazing object could not exist without the inelegant tangle that is just out of sight. It is a reminder that everything of beauty or value requires a certain amount “ugliness” to come to fruition. [via]
The queue is one of the everyday occurrences that Ondák has worked repeatedly with. For the duration of his exhibition at the Kölnischer Kunstverein in 2003, for example, he arranged with associates of the institute for a line of people to form outside the main entrance between 4.00 and 4.30 pm (Good Feelings in Good Times, 2003). The result was quite a sight. With no clue as to its purpose, passers-by couldn’t help but wonder what had prompted it. Were people queuing for some spectacular event – the opening of a major art exhibition maybe – or were they just waiting for something more ordinary, like cinema tickets? Or perhaps something more basic was on offer, such as free food. By teasing out this moment of ambiguity, Ondák accentuated how the simple practice of standing in line points to the limits of social normality: it epitomizes unspoken social contracts that ensure the steady flow of daily life, but at the same time it can indicate the breakdown of the very normality it is meant to sustain. The act of waiting in line blurs not only the perimeters of time but also those of space. A queue marks the threshold between outside and inside, a symbolic boundary that (as every bouncer knows) constitutes the difference between exclusion and inclusion, frustration and fulfilment, impotence and power.
Tickets, Please (2002), at the Spala Gallery in Prague, involved a different way of questioning conventional boundaries. A replica of the ticket desk in the entrance hall was installed on the first floor. The usual ticket-seller worked upstairs, while his young grandson took his place at the regular desk downstairs. Each of them asked for half the price of the entrance fee. The visitor would cross the symbolic entrance into the exhibition only to encounter it once again upstairs. Above all, though, the situation of the grandson sharing his grandfather’s job evokes the idea of a family trade handed down from generation to generation. The effect is to emphasize how alien the idea of inheriting on your profession has become today. Could it be that we young, flexible, creative types work so hard today because we are greedily trying to accomplish in the course of a single lifetime what had previously been the work of several generations?
SK Parking (2001) deals with cross-border traffic. For two months seven Skodas with Slovakian number plates were parked behind the Secession building in Vienna. Ondák asked friends to lend him their cars and reimbursed them from his exhibition budget; he then made the one-hour drive from Bratislava to Vienna in the car with them. Any vehicle parked in a semi-secluded place for a longish time and with no owner in sight can attract attention these days. Moreover, in the Austrian capital the sight of these foreign cars prompted the imagination to explore the foggy area between prejudice and experience that shapes our perception of the vibrant black market economy. The work gestures towards this sensitive issue, but unlike most media coverage, it does not make a scandal out of it. After all, we are only talking about a few parked cars.
Ondák understands Conceptual art as a method to implement a concept into reality in the form of a social contract. What comes out of these transactions is neither a product nor profit, but the potential for other views of reality to emerge.
Quando me deparei com essas T-shirts cortadas de acordo com as letras do alfabeto, comecei a pesquisar mais e me apaixonar pelo designer japonês Hiroaki Ohya. Formado pela Bunka Fashion College, faz parte da equipe do Miyake Design Studio desde então. Seu projeto que mais me chamou atenção foi o OHYA THE WIZARD OF JEANZ, uma série de 21 livros que se transformam em roupas quando desdobrados. Inspirado no filme de 1939 The Wizard of Oz, o projeto ganhou grande projeção internacional.
Vale ler um pouco mais sobre o que ele compartilha dessa criação e sua relação com o “descartável”, muito lindo!
In a 2001 interview with JS’ Kjeld Duits, Ohya explained that he was inspired by an old biography of President Lincoln that he found at a New York flea market. For someone working in the fleeting fashion world, it was a revelation. “With a book,” he said, “you can see something from fifty years ago the way it was fifty years ago. My creations however vanish within half a year. Especially in Japan it is ‘produce, throw away, produce, throw away.’ I had the feeling that I was creating household garbage.
That feeling he expressed in Wizard. The denim is made of polyester. It is fake. Fake too, are the buttons, pockets, stitches and most of the other details of each fashion item. They have been printed. Fake at the bat of an eye. [via]