I’ve got some awesome news on that front.

The CDs have been assembled by Mars Pyramid and are on the way to Contrarian HQ. The inimitable Susan Norton has turned in the comic that comes with the purchase of the physical copy of the album. The liner notes have been written and the lyrics pieced together. All that’s left are the videos (and probably a podcast where I explain what a tremendous pain in the ass it is to do this stuff, but also why it’s fun and rewarding). Look for an official rollout within the next couple of weeks.

But it’s not all about me, me, me. I’ve decided, after six or so solo releases (at least two of which have been successful by modest standards), to put out some stuff by other artists.

Lux Eterna is the name of the label, and the next release will be from classically-trained experimental-Americana guitarist Mark G. Cooley, who has decided to go electric on his new recording. (Go ahead, scream “Judas!” — it always feels good.) So what does this as-yet-unnamed album sound like? Picture Discipline-era King Crimson as played by technicolor gnomes from another dimension and you’re almost there. There’s lots of cool shimmers and shudders for all you noise addicts, too. In other words, something for everyone.

Next, I hope to collaborate on a pop song cycle with Arthur Adams. I’ve long wanted to compose an album in tribute to weirdo rocket scientist Jack Whiteseide Parsons in which bygone California — in all of its bootstrapping, schizophrenic glory — serves as a musical lodestone. Last time I checked with Arthur, he was down. All the way down, even.

After (or perhaps before) that, I hope to release something from The Ten Thousand Things, whom readers will know as our resident Library Scientist, Wes Covey.

By the way, my short story “The Cove,” which was featured as a digital extra for my last record, Eldritch Musicks, is published in the latest edition of Fantastic Horror #16. You can read it online, even.

As you were.

I first read The Diary of Anne Frank in eighth grade. I suspect that’s the average age people read it in school, but I read it on my own. I’m not saying this to brag. I was simply a voracious reader who went to a truly awful junior high. During seventh and eighth grade, the teachers managed to not teach a single novel. Well, they taught abridged works (I maintain this does not count), but most of our our class time was spent on grammar.

At the end of eighth grade, when we were supposed to be learning about World War II, they had us practicing swing dance in the gym (this being the swing dancing craze of the late 1990s, and hey, swing dancing was popular during the ’40s so I suppose it’s somewhat justifiable…)

And in lieu of actually learning about anti-Semitism, Nazism and Anne Frank’s life, by, um, actually reading her diary, we did a lot of timelines about her life and Nazi Germany. Oh, and my teacher pronounced the “t” at the end of Margot Frank’s name.

So my mom took me to Annie’s Book Stop, the one bookstore in Rutland, VT, and actually a pretty good one, and we bought The Diary of Anne Frank. I read it, and, even though I obviously knew how it ended, I fervently hoped Anne would somehow escape. (I also fervently hope that isn’t a spoiler.)

Since it was first published, The Diary of Anne Frank has been adapted many times for movies in various countries and languages. Now, it’s getting the graphic novel treatment. According to Bust.com, “The Anne Frank House Museum in Amsterdam has launched the biography — with author Sid Jacobson and illustrator Ernie Colón — as a way to get a wider audience (AKA teenagers who won’t pick up anything without pictures or web links) to read the diary, mainly in an educational setting.”

The press around the new graphic novel is largely neutral or positive, although message boards are more charged, with people complaining about “kids these days” not reading to accusations of blasphemy (have they never heard of Maus?) to idiots taking a break from anti-government manifesto-writing/rifle-polishing to cast doubt on the original diary’s authenticity as well as that of the Holocaust… or maybe these trolls are actually Mel Gibson getting back to his anti-Semitic roots in between threatening his baby mama.

I think a graphic treatment of Anne Frank’s short but meaningful life makes sense. Look at the success of Art Spiegelman’s Maus and Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, about, respectively, the Holocaust and Islamic Revolution. And while some readers may be “over” this kind of literary-historic treatment, others continue to be moved by these works and are inspired to keep learning about the Shoah and Iran.

Whatever medium gets students learning is, to quote Martha Stewart, “a good thing.” Never Forget Anne!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=erbd9cZpxps

Thanks for the nightmare fodder, Chris Scarborough.

Every now and then, though, you stumble across a real gem. So with no further heraldry:

The Cunt Coloring Book, by Tee Corinne

Unfortunately, I did not find the book amidst our modest stacks. My director discovered it while looking for coloring sheets to help assisted living elderly folks maintain their motor skills. Lesson learned: search the internet for “adult coloring books” and you will find adult coloring books.

Here is a heartwarming photo project, made possible by the blog era. Everyone make art!

Musicians comment about the new heath care bill. I found Franz Nicolay‘s comments to be very relevant to my own life as a freelance artist. Lord help us.

Side note: I just wanted to mention that this video is extremely gay. And not in the “I’m-going-to-give-you-a-wedgie-you-can-use-for-earmuffs” kind of way, but a “this-video-has-a-penis-and-may-have-interest-in-touching-your-video’s-penis” kind of way. Particularly if your video happens to be wearing assless chaps. I mean super gay. Even for George Michael. It’s awesome.

W.A.G.E., meanwhile, offers information and support for artists who are tired (and hungry) of not getting paid to make the world more interesting. Musicians should pay attention to this, because fine art usually is a little ahead of the curve conceptually — in this case, in the practice of fucking over the creative element.

Working Class Magazine is a great little upstart out of the Lower East Side. I find it very personable and sophisticated at the same time. Keep up the good work, guys.

Meanwhile in Brooklyn, Ry Pepper lends her circumspect eye to arts and crafts reporting in her blog, Arts and Dafts. It’s anecdotal, practical, and warm-hearted. Very nice indeed.

If you want to remember how basic is the need for humans to participate in acts of beauty, you may want to refer to this report from the UK’s Daily Mail to witness what may be the oldest living artistic genre known to man. It will take your breath away, I imagine.

I know that this here love letter sure did it for me. My Beloved, you are the apogee of enchantment.

…But this guy ain’t no chopped liver.

Much Love, y’all.

Okay, obviously some of these photos were taken in Manhattan, but it is interesting to see how many pictures one can take on a single theme, and within four blocks. I love New York.

Anyways, I would like to tell you about my inspiration here. In college, I had a wonderful 20th Century Art History professor, Stephen Myers, who really turned me on to some previously under-appreciated movements in modern art. While I always found De Stjl to be aesthetically pleasant, before Professor Myers’ fine tutelage, I hardly grasped the sociological commentary, much less it’s spiritual underpinnings:

Proponents of De Stijl sought to express a new utopian ideal of spiritual harmony and order. They advocated pure abstraction and universality by a reduction to the essentials of form and colour; they simplified visual compositions to the vertical and horizontal directions, and used only primary colors along with black and white.

According to Professor Myers, Mondrian was the first artist to request that gallery walls be painted white while exhibiting his work. The idea was that the viewer would be able to imagine the parallel and perpendicular lines of his paintings extending into infinity, creating a meditative atmosphere which preceded the works of Kandinsky, Klee, Rothko, etc.

(Side note: I was recently asked to participate in an informal personality test, in which I described my feelings of being in a white room. I said I would find it peaceful yet dull. The white room, apparently, represents death.)

While Cubism aimed to represent three dimensions simultaneously on a two-dimensional plane, De Stjl was shooting for the fourth dimension and beyond. At the same time, further east, in what was soon to become the Soviet Republic, a movement called Suprematism was evolving. Founded by Kazimir Malevich and his peers, Suprematism sought to replace the lush Russian Orthodox icons found in most households with simplified shapes such as perfect squares and circles, painted as carefully as a Tibetan sand painting, an illuminated manuscript or a rich traditional needlepoint.

While Malevich participated closely in the cultural movement surrounding the Russian Revolution, creating propaganda and populist design for everyday use, he soon found himself alienated from the new regime:

This development in artistic expression came about when Russia was in a revolutionary state, ideas were in ferment, and the old order was being swept away. As the new order became established, and Stalinism took hold from 1924 on, the state began limiting the freedom of artists. From the late 1920s the Russian avant-garde experienced direct and harsh criticism from the authorities and in 1934 the doctrine of Socialist Realism became official policy, and prohibited abstraction and divergence of artistic expression.

While Suprematism directly influenced the Bauhaus and other user-friendly schools of high design, Malevich himself did not fare so well. Persecuted by his government, yet unwilling to leave his beloved homeland, Malevich spent the rest of his days designing his own tomb. Although he may be less well-known than those he influenced (and remarkably more subtle in his execution of his ideas), his presence is certainly felt to this day. His clean design aesthetic has become a part of our everyday lives, the new icon lovingly stored in the corner of the kitchen.

I began to think of Malevich and Mondrian upon reading the following passage from Wilhelm‘s translation of the I Ching (Hexagram 2, The Receptive), so I will leave you with that:

Six in the second place means:
Straight, square, great.
WIthout purpose,
Yet nothing remains unfurthered.

The symbol of heaven is the circle, and that of earth is the square. Thus squareness is a primary quality of the earth. On the other hand, movement in a straight line, as well as magnitude, is a primary quality of the Creative. But all square things have their origin in a straight line and in turn from solid bodies. In mathematics, when we discriminate between lines, planes and solids, we find that rectangular planes result from straight lines, and cubic magnitudes from rectangular planes. The Receptive accommodates itself to the qualities of the Creative and makes them its own. Thus a square develops out of a straight line and a cube out of a square. this is compliance with the laws of the Creative; nothing is taken away, nothing added. Therefore the Receptive has no need of a special purpose of its own, nor of any effort; yet everything turns out as it should.

Well well, Mr. Richardson, the cat’s out of the bag. Looks like you’ll have to put the snake back in the basket. As of this post, Terry Richardson, fashion photog/enfant terrible has been involved in enough controversy that his Wikipedia page is one long scandal sheet. Hardly any references to his work or style remain, and frankly, isn’t it about time?

By now, the bleached-out, candid-style photography popularized by the likes of Dash Snow have fully permeated the culture, particularly fashion photography. While such sordid images initially had an impact of shock and unexpected intimacy, the tenderness has been subsumed by all-too-common depictions of torporific female subjection. There is nothing intimate about a 100 foot billboard of a barely-legal teen in her underpants on Houston Street, or another fucking nude chick in Vice. It’s boring, bloodless, colorless. If you’re so excited about people who (look like they) use heroin, just join a rock band and write the obligatory smack song for your third album.

In the meantime, is anyone surprised that Richardson has been accused of lewd conduct in his professional life? While some defend his sexual harassment as an occupational hazard, others are sane enough to realize that this behavior is a clear demonstration of Richardson’s abuse of power, not to mention sheer douchebaggery.

Jezebel reports:

Frankly, “creep” seems inadequate to the task of describing Richardson’s behavior. While it’s important to note that Peck [ed note: Jamie Peck, fashion model] does not imply that she didn’t consent to what went on with Richardson, it is troubling that she describes “zooming out” during their encounter. The environment she writes about at the studio, where she is surrounded by Richardson and his assistants, all armed with cameras (and, apparently, towels), all cheering her along, and all acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a photographer to interrupt a shoot and demand a hand job from his model, is even more troubling. “Inappropriate” and “unprofessional” don’t even begin to cover it. Given the power differential that exists between Richardson, who is old, wealthy, regarded as an artist, and vastly influential, and most of his model subjects, can the consent of these women even be said to be freely given? Richardson is a guy who publishes books with Taschen, hangs out with celebrities, and photographs the President. Peck was a “nerdy as hell” college freshman when she met him. Most professional models are even younger.

To those who would argue that any nude shoot carries an implied risk of lewd behavior on the part of the photographer, or that models should be aware of Richardson’s oeuvre and avoid him if they don’t like working in a sexualized environment, I say: Bullshit. Nudity is common in fashion, and when the clothes come off, it doesn’t denote a holiday from the responsibilities of maintaining a safe working environment. When I modeled, I shot both topless and implied nude with a variety of photographers — in fact, my first editorial shoot, for Italian Glamour, was topless — and never was I sexually harassed on a set. Nor did I expect, or feel that I deserved, to be simply because of the kind of work I was there to do. Instead, I expected those around me to not violate my dignity at work. Peck agrees that Richardson’s behavior is exceptional, and crosses some clear lines. “Of all the fine folks I’ve frolicked au naturel for, he’s the only one who’s left me feeling like I needed to take two showers.”

It’s not terribly surprising that Peck, who describes herself as “not a model, just a vain girl with nice tits who likes to pose for the occasional cheesecake photo,” is more comfortable speaking out about her experiences with Richardson than many professional models. Rie Rasmussen is one notable, and courageous, exception, but the fact of Richardson’s immense power within the industry, his long-standing relationships with both influential magazines like Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and Vogue Paris, and commercial clients like Miu Miu, Gucci, and Sisley, makes it difficult for most working models to openly criticize him. Pointing out the wrongfulness of his behavior risks hurting you more than it will him. And so agencies continue sending their young charges to castings with him, in the hopes of him giving one a big break. And so magazine editors who would never for a moment consider leaving their teenage daughters alone with someone like Terry Richardson continue booking him for shoots with other people’s teenage daughters.

Remind any of you music industry professionals of the unspoken gag rule surrounding the recent Ticketmaster/LiveNation merger? But I digress….

The fact is that women can be professional models, as well as sexy and provocative, without being exploited. And personally, I would prefer fashion to return to an aesthetic that’s not so overtly sexually exploitative and downright depressing. We’re all broke now, for Pete’s sake. Bring on the color, the richness, the lushness and the joy, please! I really miss seeing pictures of women having fun and engaging in vibrant behavior — I can relate to that. Is this why I haven’t gone shopping for so many years? Does poly-cotton no longer apply to people with self-esteem?

At the very least, please let it be the end of an era in which the visual environment is ruled by a guy like this:

“(Richardson) spoke in the effeminate tones of someone trying very hard not to come off as sexually threatening despite the fact that he was basically walking around in a hipster pedophile costume.”

Gross. But unfortunately, at present, sadly ubiquitous. Here’s hoping that it won’t be for much longer.

Thanks to my photographer friend Jesse Untracht-Oakner for thrilling me to this story.

Hello lovelies!

While you may be used to seeing kids around Halloween raising funds for UNICEF, this year for Valentine’s Day, please consider sending your loved ones the fruits of my picture-making labors to support needy children around the world. UNICEF is an organization which has helped countless women and children stricken by poverty, famine, and disaster, and in the wake of the horrific earthquakes in Haiti, they need our help more than ever.

I have created a PDF book called “Epistle: Love Letters to the Visual Environment.” It is a collection of eight pages from my collage book, all along the themes of romance, sweetness, delight, and whole-heartedness. Volume One is called “Doo-Wop,” and is appropriate for anyone who likes jukeboxes.

A PayPal donation can be made here:

http://nortonanalog.blogspot.com/2010/02/valentines-day-fundraiser-for-unicef.html

Please donate $5 or more, and your loved one will receive a link to download this PDF book in their inbox on Valentine’s Day, knowing that your affection for them has been forwarded to children in need. 80% of all proceeds will go directly to UNICEF.

Send me a request at nortonanalog@gmail.com. Include your e-mail address, the recipient’s e-mail address, and, if you wish, a personal greeting of up to 100 characters (leave blank if you wish to remain a secret admirer!).

For more information about UNICEF, visit the link below:

http://www.unicef.org/

This morning I awoke to a head full of thoughts — not an unfamiliar phenomenon, I must say. During coffee, something drew me to an online collection of interview snippets about/with Syd Barrett — the late psych-pop acid casualty and leader of the original Pink Floyd. Actually, I know exactly how I got there — I caught a random blog comment concerning Floyd’s onetime manager Peter Jenner, a fellow I happen to know (somewhat) personally and whom I like an awful lot. Summary: there was of fascinating stuff on this page, laid out in forensic detail. Check it out if you have the interest.

After that, I decided to vacuum the house, which for some reason always lubricates my synapses. The soundtrack to this chore was, of course, Piper at the Gates of Dawn. I started thinking about influences, aesthetics and all sorts of other things. I realized that most artists never fully transcend their influences, but the best of us steal flame from our forebears’ fire — Prometheus style — which in turn illuminates our own creative path. This is a natural tradition, as old as art itself, though it does have a tendency to muddy the business side of things from time to time.

Personally, I have begun to retreat from the au courant, the now, the hip, in order to focus more fully on my own craft. And that’s exactly what it is: a craft. Somewhere between a practical trade and extrasensory perception. Some equate it with spirituality, others magic, others don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. My point is this: there’s a time to soak up influences and check your vocabulary against the common tongue, and there’s a time to put aside distractions and simply go about your business. And that’s where I’m currently at.

On the aesthetic side, I’m comfortable in the knowledge that whatever art I produce will naturally be informed by my influences and previous experimentation. Perhaps I actually have learned some lessons — like, it might seem like a cool idea to put Beach Boys harmonies on a Swans-type cut, but it really doesn’t come out all that that well! Of course, I reserve the right to be contrarian. Meaning that, that even when popular taste matches my own inclinations I could — out of temperament or pique — reject an approach that might otherwise suit me. For example, I refuse to chase the current neo-shoegaze/indie-psych movement around hoping to catch a wink. Firstly, I’m too old for that, and the whippersnappers would have me terribly out of breath. Secondly, I think that a lot of today’s expression lacks clarity of vision. Where is your gestalt? What about your work screams out to be heard? So much of the new psych-gaze stuff sounds as shiftless and non-committal as the generation that produced it. Give me danger, give me drama, give me noise, give me melody, give me sensuality. Look, I’m as moon-addled as the next guy, with a profound love of being enveloped in puffy wafts of sound. But The Goddess requires a Consort, and he better be ready to fucking throw down.

Even approaching midlife, I’m game.

Back to influences (and Syd) for a second. It’s clear to me — and anyone with ears — that Robyn Hitchcock is hugely influenced by Barrett. But Robyn’s done the gentlemanly thing and taken part of Syd inside himself, consumed him, if you will. This is the noble tradition that I spoke of earlier. I swallowed Jimmy Page, for example. (And he tasted like velvet dragons!)

Who did you have for breakfast?

As I get older, it becomes more important for me to create. Not out of vanity or the sense that I’ve got to “leave something behind,” but rather because life is indeed short and I abhor waste. Talent should be refined, tested, refined, tested, refined, tested until you run out of breath. If you’re a creator, anyway. If you’re an accountant (and there’s nothing wrong with that), your path and purpose is different. As it should be.

The craft continues to inform, particularly as one gets bolder about embodying it in all parts of one’s life. I am no longer intimidated by the “marketplace.” What marketplace? I engage where appropriate. I consider my (admittedly limited) audience. I challenge myself to find new ways for my ideas to be formulated and disseminated. I trust my instincts, yet work hard at perfecting my ideas. And I hopefully get better.

Perhaps you take a similar approach. If so, I raise my glass of mid-morning Scotch.