Archive for the ‘prehistoria’ Category

Lillian Schwartz

In art&technology, computer animation, computer art, prehistoria, wywiady on 21 lipca 2009 at 11:26 am

Pixillation – niezwykle wciągające połaczenie obrazów generowanych komputerowo i muzyki

Jeszcze krótki wpis na temat Lillian Schwartz. Jest to artystka, której warto poświęcić chwilę uwagi, ponieważ jest jedną z pionierek animacji komputerowej. Według mnie do jej najlepszych prac należy „Pixillation” z 1970 roku. Poniżej jej wypowiedź z książki „Artist and Computer”, film dokumentalny z jej udziałem oraz kilka linków do filmów zrealizowanych przez artystkę.

„The Artist and the Computer” cz. 1


Film wydaje mi się ciekawy przede wszystkim ze względu na to, że artystka opowiada w nim o sztuce komputerowej nie w oderwaniu od tego, co działo się na gruncie sztuki, ale jako o kolejnym ogniwie w jej rozwoju. Zatem nie izoluje sztuki komputerowej, ale stara się pokazać, że jej pojawinie się było związane z dynamika rozwoju sztuki jako takiej.

„The art of any period is the result of the background factors of that age plus the personalities of its creative artists.”—Bernard Myers ..Modern Art In The Making

I, Lillian Schwartz, (1927-…) am a native of Cincinnati, Ohio and a graduate of the College of Nursing & Health of the University of Cincinnati.

I studied free-hand drawing at the University in 1948–1949, oil painting in St. Louis, Missouri, watercolors and woodcuts in Fukuoka, Japan and finally came to the New York area in the 50’s and continued to study art.

An intense interest in new materials and its effects on continued stimulus to the creative process during the growth of a work of art led me to be aware of and to incorporate existing technology into my work.

I met and began working with Ken Knowlton, a computer scientist, in 1969, following the ‚MACHINE’ exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. The international organization of Experiments in Art and Technology (E.A.T.) was founded „to try to establish a better working relationship among artists, engineers and industry.”

In line with that purpose E.A.T. agreed to arrange a competition in connection with the ‚MACHINE’ exhibit. About 200 works were submitted. Of these, nine works were selected by Pontus Hulten, the director of the show, for inclusion in the exhibition.

My sculpture ‚Proxima Centauri’ and ‚Studies in Perception 1,’ a graphic, by Harmon and Knowlton were two of the exhibits.

The show catalogue describes ‚Proxima Centauri’ as, „Changing patterns appear on the surface of a white translucent dome, which at times seem to become a gelatinous mass that shakes, breathes, and then returns to still images. As the spectator approaches the sculpture, the dome throws off a red glow while slowly sinking into the base and thus inviting the viewer to come still closer to observe this phenomenon. The dome is now resting inside the base. Peering down into the rectangle, the viewer sees the spectacle of a series of abstract pictures focused on the globe…”

The catalogue writes about ‚Studies in Perception 1’ … „Computer graphics were created for utilitarian purposes. Among the uses are to study the field of view seen from the pilot’s seat in an airplane, or to analyze a flat image in order to manipulate graphic data. The characteristics of the computer at the moment are strikingly shown in ‚computer art.’ The computer can act as an intelligent being: process information, obey intricate rules, manipulate symbols, and even learn by experience. But since it is not capable of initiating concepts, it cannot be truly creative; it has no access to imagination, intuition, and emotion.” The last sentence can be applied to any medium but the previous sentence describes a medium that can process information, obey rules, and even learn by experience!

The awesomeness of such a tool places the artist in quite a humble position. There is a necessary kind of readjustment for the artist for here is a medium that may take some of the burdens from the artist. To find the real justification for the use of the computer by a painter would be to shift the emphasis by stimulating a new angle of approach; to may be relieve the formal elements of some of the conscious emphases which are necessary and place more stress on content.

With such a medium we now have the means of displaying, in its constituent parts, images which possess simultaneously a number of dimensions.

To handle such a tool I find it necessary to break down these specific dimensions.

First, there are the more or less limited formal factors, such as line, tone value, and color. And, secondly, if the computer is used in filmmaking a knowledge of the craft of film.

As an example, when the artist considers line it is usually thought of as being a matter of simple properties such as length, angles, focal distance, and thickness. But measuring the characteristics of line by using a computer is of quite a different nature.

The associative properties once used by the non-computer artist no longer correspond to the direct will of the artist.

To perform the simple act of drawing a line over a page, exerting pressure on the pencil, charcoal or other instrument to change the thickness of the line or the direction becomes a major task in programming.

All rules concerning the use of the line must be well thought out in advance. With proper flexibility in a program one can accept or reject. The rewards eventually come when these lines can be positioned as desired. The artist can then contemplate the positions of these lines as drawn with any other medium but—with the computer an instruction can rotate the lines, join them, multiply them, or whatever instruction has been previously built into the program.

From this point, given mastery of the medium, the structure can be assured foundations of such strength that it is able to reach out into dimensions far removed from one’s expectations.

It is no easy task for the artist to live with too much freedom in her medium. Great care must be given to the selectivity of these elements. Speaking from my own experience, it depends on my mood at the time of editing images into their final film form that decisions as to which of the many elements are brought out of their general order, out of their appointed array, and raised together to a new order and form. It seems clearer that the results of this medium may well fall into direct ascendancy of the hieratic forms of Seurat and the mosaics of Byzantium. The artists in India also worked from set Sudras. Even among the more recent artists Delacroix, Cezanne, and Matisse, the same desire for system and regularity for an ordered universe seem to dominate.

Artists must express their own creative character in the technology of their era in order to find their own historical and individual level.

The computer has also assisted me in the visualization of sculpture in three dimensions. Programs can be used to rotate sculptures, to view them stereoscopically, to place in a given site—all before any execution has taken place.

For the artist newly exposed to using the computer it is not unlike Stephen Leacock’s hero, who jumped to his horse and dashed madly off in all directions.

Watchung, New Jersey 
November 1975

„UFO’s” 1971

Tutaj znajduje się link do strony artystki:

wystawa prac Caldera w Whitney Museum w NY

In kinetic art, prehistoria, Uncategorized, wystawy on 16 grudnia 2008 at 9:49 pm

Calder at Play: Finding Whimsy in Simple Wire

by Holland Cotter, NY Times

Is art basically glorified child’s play, extending into adulthood, through a lifetime, picking up ideas and gaining finesse as it goes? That’s one way to think of “Alexander Calder: The Paris Years, 1926-1933” at the Whitney Museum of American Art. Few exhibitions have focused so intently on one artist’s child within. It’s a Peter Pan syndrome show.

It’s also a large show, with a chunky, charming catalog. Yet it feels intimate and light, not to say lightweight. Gallery by gallery, it’s as suspenseful and insubstantial as a magic act: what will the artist pull from his sleeve next? The story it tells is like a Kids R Us version of early 20th-century Modernism, with a grown-up surprise at the end.

Calder didn’t start out with ambitions to be an artist; if anything, he was pulled in the opposite direction. He watched his father, a professional sculptor, fret over commissions and struggle with money. So when it came time for college the young Calder chose an engineering school in New Jersey over art school.

But of course he was an artist, a natural. He may just not have known at first what that meant. Even as a child he was astonishingly inventive. The tiny figure of a rocking-horse-style bird shaped from brass sheeting is, for economy of form and conceptual daring, one of the more radical works in the show. He made it when he was 11.

He made stuff all the time. He was one of those people with nonstop eyes and hands: every scrap of stray matter was a candidate for transformation. Give him some wire, clothespins and a scrap of cloth and, presto chango, you had a bird or a cow or a circus clown: nothing, then something, which is what magic is.

There’s a hyperactive pace to his early career. While working at engineering jobs after college, he was also drawing like crazy and designing toys. In 1923 he enrolled at the Art Students League to study painting; John Sloan and George Luks were his teachers. At the same time he took on illustrating gigs for publications like The New Yorker and The National Police Gazette.

His academic drawings from the time are gauche and ordinary. The staying-still-in-a-studio they required obviously cramped his style. Much fresher is the dashed-off, manic-looking magazine work. And his Ash Can School-type paintings of New York scenes — a drunken party; a trip to the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus — have a gawky spark of life. Then there are his pen-and-ink drawings of zoo animals. They’re in a different category, almost by a different artist, one more relaxed and assured. Often done as one continuous line, they are like an effortlessly sophisticated form of penmanship. So are some of the openwork sculptures of bent and twisted wire that he began to experiment with at this time.

In 1926, with all these balls in the air, he suddenly moved to Paris, because motion for him was a stimulant and because he felt that Paris was the hot place to be, which it was. With its crowded cafes, charged thinking, endless talking and jumpy personalities, the city was hyperkinetic. Calder fell in love with it. And, although he continued to return to New York for long stretches, he made Paris his home base for seven years.

His wire sculpture took off there. Several examples in the form of portrait heads are the first thing you see when you step off the elevator on the Whitney’s fourth floor. They’re an arresting sight, in a gently wow-inspiring way. Wows were what Calder was after, along with chuckles and satisfied ahs. He was a showman, a performer. “See what I can do, right before your eyes, without even trying?” his art seems to say.

For his purposes industrial steel wire was an ideal medium. It was cheap, malleable, portable and equally adaptable to precision work and doodling, which to him were almost the same thing. Wire was like three-dimensional ink; it was a means of combining drawing and sculpture in space.

In the Paris years he used it for portraiture. His first subject was a star he admired from afar, Josephine Baker. She was the toast of the town in the 1920s. One look at film clips of her dancing a semi-nude Charleston tells you why. Calder made five small Baker figures; four are in the show. With their tiny heads, spiraling breasts and long, long single-strand legs, they catch something of the image Baker wanted to project: that of an ethnographic specimen come to irrepressibly self-amused life.

He made other figures too, of the tennis champion Helen Wills, of John D. Rockefeller playing golf. They are the work of a pop illustrator, clever but nothing special. But for people he actually knew, portrait heads were the form of choice. Of the 18 examples in the show, most depict people Calder had met in avant-garde circles in Paris, including celebrity friends like Edgard Varèse, Joan Miró and Alice Prin, the multitasking muse better known as Kiki de Montparnasse. You can see why Calder did these likenesses: they were an attention-getting novelty; they advertised his skill; they gave him a pretext to network.

They also look as if they were fun to make. One of the attractive features of Calder’s art from this period is its gee-I-could-do-that unpretentiousness. At the same time each is a fabulous little virtuosic feat, abstract but exacting. Set on bases or freely suspended, and casting subtle shadows — Jennifer Tipton, the theatrical lightning designer, was in charge of illumination — the portraits have the wit and refinement that will show up again in Calder’s first abstract sculptures.Refinement is not a quality associated with the famously funky tabletop assemblage known as Calder’s Circus. A prime draw of the Whitney’s permanent collection, it has rarely been off view since the museum acquired it 25 years ago. But it gets a rethinking here.Up to now it has been exhibited as a compact, one-ring affair with its many tiny handmade figures — clowns, acrobats, animal trainers and so on — doing all the varied things they do at once. The show’s curators, Joan Simon of the Whitney and Brigitte Leal of the Centre Pompidou in Paris, have separated the components into individual acts meant to be seen as taking place sequentially, a format that corresponds to the way Calder himself presented the work in live performances.

You can see him giving one in a 1955 film by Jean Painlevé, which is in the show. Calder introduces the figures silently one by one, manipulating them and activating the low-tech mechanisms (cranks, pull-strings, air hoses) that animate their activities. If, like me, you’ve always found Calder’s Circus a little too cute for comfort, the film may change your mind.

When at one point Calder slowly and carefully removes layer after layer of hand-sewn costumes from one clown figure until he arrives at what looks like a skeleton, it’s hard to known whether you’re seeing a circus or a medieval morality play. No wonder the original Paris performances pulled in the savvy audiences they did. Jean Cocteau,Marcel Duchamp and Piet Mondrianwere among the many vanguard types who sat on crates and watched with rapt attention.

The Whitney show’s real shock comes a bit later, though, in the last three galleries, when Calder the polymath entertainer becomes Calder the Modern sculptor. The shift happened almost literally overnight. In October 1930 he visited Mondrian’s Paris studio; instantly he became an abstract artist. And for some people Calder starts to become interesting only at this point. No more Kikis and tennis players. Now everything is floating circles and curving lines anchored by balls in space.

But two things stayed constant: motion and play. For conservation reasons only one sculpture in the Whitney show is now motorized as intended; others can be seen in action on film. And action is the essence in a piece like “Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere” (1932-33), which consists of two suspended wooden balls and, set out on the gallery floor, a wooden box, four wine bottles, a can and a gong.

Nothing much, right? Until — as seen on film — the balls, attached to a motorized bar, start to move in a slow circle, hitting a bottle, then the can, then the gong. Music! (Varèse loved this piece.) Yet move a bottle an inch or two this way or that and the performance changes. Turn on a fan or open a window and you could create a new score. The game Calder is playing is a finely tuned, verging on magical, game of chance. And it really is a game. And it really is play.

Artist and Computer, Ruth Leavitt, 1976

In archeologia mediów, computer animation, computer art, prehistoria, Uncategorized on 23 listopada 2008 at 6:39 pm


Nowa zdobycz internetowa, pod adresem

dostępna jest cała książka, niestety podzielona na rozdziały, zatem do czytania w sieci, ale warto się pomęczyć, bo to dość klasyczna pozycja, szczególnie cenna ze względu na ilustracje.

Spis treści: Table of Contents

Title Page
Ann H. Murray
Robert Mallary
Aldo Giorgini
Aaron Marcus
Colette and Charles Bangert
Ben F. Laposky
Leslie Mezei
Tony Longson
Peter Struycken
Edward Ihnatowicz
Vera Molnar
Laurence Press
Manuel Barbadillo
Patsy Scala
William J. Kolomyjec
Edward Zajec
Edward Manning
Duane M. Palyka
Kenneth Knowlton
Joseph Scala
Karen E. Huff
Miljenenko Horvat
John Whitney
Herbert W. Franke
Charles Csuri
Christopher William Tyler
Manfred Mohr
Ruth Leavitt
Kurt F. Lauckner
Vicky Chaet
Lillian Schwartz
Larry Elin
Hiroshi Kawano
Roger Vilder
Jacques Palumbo

Jak zwykle polecam :)

The Museum of Jurassic Technology, czyli prehistoria…

In prehistoria, wystawy on 5 października 2008 at 12:21 am

Ostatnio dzięki mojemu ulubionemu blogowi trafiłam na zupełnie zakręconą stronę – The Museum of Jurassic Technology, które znajduje się w Los Angeles. Jak głosi wstępna informacje umieszczona na ich stronie, jest to instytucja o charakterze edukacyjnym „dedicated to the advancement of knowledge and the public appreciation of the Lower Jurassic”.

Więcej informacji o muzeum na „we make money not art”:

Natomiast strona muzeum znajduje się pod adresem:

Na stronie można zobaczyć stałe ekspozycje oraz wystawy czasowe, ale moim zdaniem najlepsza, szczególnie w kontekście archeologii, jest ta poświęcona A. Kircherowi (1602 – 1680), jednemu z najwybitniejszych umysłów (jak to brzmi!) XVII wieku ( obok wielu innych równie wielkich umysłów jak Leibniz, Newton, czy Kartezjusz). Kircher zajmował się wszystkim – od geografii, poprzez kompozycję, egiptologię i geologię do historii – ale przede wszystkim był wynalazcą i to nie byle jakim. Pozostawił po sobie setki planów, książek i rękopisów.

Jeśli kogoś zainteresuje Kircher to polecam również książkę Anthony Graftona pod tytułem „Magic and Technology in Early Modern Europe”

i jeszcze jedna jedna książka należąca do kategorii „dziwna lektura”, jeszcze tego nie czytałam, ale Zielinski powołuje się na to kilka razy pisząc o G. B. della Porcie: