Der Unglaubliche Hulk

Does anyone else think there is something weird going on with this ad?

Kung Fu Bowling

At times in Deutschland, normally mundane activities are given a sparkling new cache by virtue of their very "Otherness". I guess it's just a function of being a stranger in a strange land. Even seeing a crappy film can be imbued with a sense of adventure, whereas at home I would be shaking my fists in righteous indignation. Zum Beispiel, this week I accompanied my roommate to a showing of Kung Fu Panda. Now, I had never seen a Pixar film, and had no intention of ever seeing one -- my idea of escapism is psychological realism on the order of say, Fassbinder. But for some reason I decided to go, as "research".

Normalerweise, we see films in the original tongue, but the English version was sold out, so on we soldiered to the Deutsch version, which was fine with me. It's good for me to flex the Deutsch muscles. Plus, no Jack Black! No Dustin Hoffman! Thank Fortuna for sparing me these hammy American irritants. (Of course, even without the voice, who else could the titular porcine panda be patterned after but Black the Crack?) Besides, the German cast did just fine in their respective roles, thank you very much. I hadn't known it, but I guess in foreign versions of big budget Hollywood animated films there are two sets of credits at film's end, the first featuring the actors dubbing the second language, which means the credits roll on forever. These were actual name actors out of Germany, including one Cosma Shiva Hagen, daughter of my favorite German punk singer, Nina Hagen (a household name in Deutschland, this goddess is now a spokesperson for some kind of German yoghurt pops)! I can still hear Nina shrilly ululating the refrain of "Cosma Shiva" from the classic album "Nunsexmonkrock": "Cos-ma Shivaaaa! Galax-inaaaa!". If only my mother had celebrated my birth in such an artful way. But then, I wasn't conceived in a California earthquake during an alien invasion.

Anyway, on Donnerstag my friend Berndt invited me to gay Bowling. This plebian sport is not something I would endeavor to undertake on a Thursday night back home, but I found the idea of doing it with a bunch of schwules German boys too delightful to resist. What comprises gay bowling, you might ask? It's nothing so salacious or felch-tastic as all that, although it sounds it. At first it seemed completely harmless --the only difference between homo and hetero bowling was that every time you scored a strike, you got a free shot of really bad schnapps. Oh, and the blaring of the likes of Kylie and Nikki French, among the other usual suspects, over the sound system (It reminded me of the old Quentin Crisp quote about disco music being a high price to pay for one's sexual orientation, but fortunately I don't not like it).

Well, the joke was on me. First of all, I failed to answer some trivia question correctly (I hardly think it was fair, since it was all in German) so I was forced to lie on my stomach in the bowling lane and bowl that way. Oh, the humiliation. What next? Being forced at gunpoint to shoot ping pong balls out my ass? The announcer handed me a shot of the rancid-but-effective schnapps as a token, he told the crowd, of the "Deutsch-Amerikanisch Freundschaft." How prescient, what with Barack Obama's upcoming visit and all. Then I won a bottle of Sekt (think really cheap champagne) for being the schlechtest player. Actually, there was one guy who played worse than I, by a margin of two points. The top and bottom (no pun intended) three players received Flasches of sekt. My team also won a bottle of the same for worst team, and I'm pretty sure it was down to me. Guess I'll have to come back next week to work on my technique.

Pop Art Paradise

Having assiduously studied the works of Andy Warhol over the years, and having seen exhibits in Chicago and London, I can say that nothing quite prepares you for the Sammlung Marx Collection on display in at the Hamburger Banhof, a majestic former train station which now houses works by Warhol, Lichtenstein, Cindy Sherman, Cy Twombly (fraud), Robert Rauschenberg, Bjork hubby Matthew Barney and others. Perhaps it is the novelty of contextual analysis used here. For example, the Warhol paintings are preceded by a mid-20th century painting of the Virgin Mary, to illustrate how East European Catholic iconography shaped Warhol's use of celebrity images, for example Marilyn, in the same way (the same technique is used by placing a Picasso next to works by Lichtenstein). To be honest, I had never thought about the connection.

The shock could be compounded by the sheer magnitude of the paintings on a human scale (as you can see here with the Mao). And the effect of the Hammer and Sickle paintings has more resonance in the former East Berlin than in New York or London, obviously.

This inspired me to revisit an article I wrote last year which examines the depth, belied by trademark surface Warhol naivete, of these paintings:

“Pop-aganda”

The personal is political, or in the case of Warhol’s work, I would modify the axiom to “the impersonal is political,” in that he took everyday, common household items and used them in an alchemical process to make (in effect) political or iconographic statements. The altered maxim is certainly apropos of Warhol’s Hammer and Sickle Paintings, in which the once controversial symbols were transmuted through Andy’s artistic process, the vagaries of history and the progressive impotence of the symbol -- which Arthur Danto contrasts with the still-potent swastika -- into those of a homey, apple-pie, American style capitalism. The works are:

In the aggregate celebration of a form of life in which he believed fervently, even to the point of subverting the once-feared Communist emblem by finding a way to bring into it the form of life it was thought to endanger. To deconstruct the emblem of an opposing political system and recreate it as a still life is exactly to drain it of life.

The emblem, in Warhol’s work, is certainly drained of life. And it is given new life artistically in a process I would argue is markedly different to that which yields art in the case of Brillo Boxes. They are both conceptual pieces, but Hammer and Sickle requires a more traditional definition of aesthetics, since, though its recognizance (implements he “just picked up on Canal St.”) and “line of beauty” do draw the eye in (as in the Brillo work), and Warhol uses his training as a commercial artist to cram in all sorts of concealed effects on the viewer, it requires a certain amount of education or awareness of the two economic systems to fully “get” the work.

One of Danto’s rationales for the Italian capitalists’ embrasure of the paintings is that the “aesthetization” of these “dread symbols” would be a trophy not unlike the “shrunken heads of his enemies” to their owner. Conversely, the Communists would have seen this work, superficially, as a validation of their political system. The common denominator, from Warhol’s vantage point, was of course, money. So capitalism wins out in the end, and the meaning of those symbols becomes attenuated, outdated and eventually lost. After all, post-Industrial revolution, what function would these items serve other than, as Danto points out, hardware items for the home? Therein lies the subversion of the paintings.

Danto gives us Hegel’s famous quote: “When philosophy paints its gray in gray, then has a form of life grown old.” If philosophy is the changing consciousness of the history of art, this is made manifest in the Hammer and Sickle paintings. These paintings were based on symbols which, at that historical moment, were losing their original power to shock. The subversion exists in Warhol’s use of ordinary brand-name hardware tools, which not only neutered them, but gloried in the political system which was anathema to them.

Now let us apply the same historical phenomenon from the Hegel quote to the Brillo pad boxes. The industrial capacity to build the boxes, according to Danto, was only generated about a year before the work came out. Brillo pads themselves had scarcely been in households that long, so it was very of-the-moment. The art world plainly could not have been ready for such a foray into “commercialism” before that historical moment, either.

The concept of the Hammer and Sickle paintings is heightened and complicated by the intellectual caché imparted by the history of the symbols. We can contrast this with the Brillo pads, which appeal to a primitive, democratic sense of beauty in the everyday. If there was any political statement in this latter work, it is the proverbial enigma wrapped in a riddle. Most people in America have used or seen Brillo pads; to riff on The Philosophy of Andy Warhol , it is likely these folks include the President and Elizabeth Taylor. Though most people in America at that time were aware of jingoistic terms such as “Pinko Commies” or “Red Menace”, I don’t believe most would have cottoned to the florid political connotations behind it, which Danto describes in detail on p. 180: the original symbols struck a delicate balance between the implications of power/force and unity in their evocation of the crossed swords used in heraldic code. Many Americans, if they were to see the original communist logo, would have a gut level reaction, which is what Warhol’s art is about, but by including brand names and separating the two implements, thereby neutering them, he magically changes this feeling into a warmer familiarity. The warm familiarity of capitalism! The magic lies in the fact that he is using the subliminal techniques of advertising to make a statement on these self-same techniques, but the resulting enigma is partly found in the fact that Andy himself would probably never admit to any such intent! His purported ignorance of this merely plays into the notion that in a capitalist society, consumers don’t know why they want what they want, they just want it, and in many cases that fact is contingent on packaging. This also precipitates the “gut level” reaction in “Brillo Boxes.”

The intent in “Brillo Boxes” is obfuscated due to the fact that the boxes themselves are actually factory items, so there may be a “hidden” political agenda there, but I think Danto is more obsessed with it for that very reason. He confesses that the nature of their aesthetic completely eludes him. I’m guessing he considers “Brillo” the more radical (certainly the more seminal) of the two. He even states that the Hammer and Sickle still lives are apolitical. The Brillo Boxes have been elevated to iconographic status, whereas the hammer and sickle have been brought down from their original place as icons . The nadir of this “bringing down” would be exemplified in Paulette Goddard’s request for a pin of the icons (p. 182).

Great Moments from the Annals of Pop

As many of you know, I am a firm believer in Noel Coward's axiom (I paraphrase) "There is nothing so potent as cheap music." I was feeling a bit gloomy the other day, then I gave this timeless nugget a spin and presto! The gloom was punctured.

Like with many disco songs, the admittedly kitsch, bubblegum surfaces contained therein obfuscate subversive lyrics dealing with adult themes, creating in effect a pop operetta of sorts, a tragic mini-masterpiece of paranoia and insecurity. It's a perfect synthesis of raw pop emotionalism and storytelling. The singer's bushy eyebrows and slightly raspy voice add to the sense of androgyny vital to all great pop moments, and harken back to a pre-Christina Uglyarea era of less-processed pulchritude.

Fact File: Laura Branigan was backup singer for Leonard Cohen!

The Last Radical Lifestyle Choice

"Of all the sexual aberrations, chastity is the strangest" -- Anatole France

A petite middle-aged female lies swinging in a market stall, trying out a leather sling. Well-built and well-oiled German men with beer brand labels tattooed on their pectorals hand out drink tickets. Carefree kids laugh, scream and run about while their parents munch bratwurst and Eis (ice cream, even in winter a Deutsch favorite). Men dressed as nuns act out an array of vaudeville schtick. A tattooed butch man in chaps sits cooling himself off with an oversize Geisha girl fan. And lording it over the whole affair, in spirit anyway, an openly gay mayor, Klaus Wowereit, whose motto is "“Ich bin schwul – und das ist auch gut so." ("I am gay, and that's not a bad thing.")

My German pals and I sweep through the streets of the Schöneberg district of Berlin, absorbing the sensations of the annual Christopher Street Day Strassenfest, the Deutsche permutation of gay pride. One thing is apparent: gay culture here is nothing if not inclusive. There is a studied nonchalance to this acceptance; it's not jaded, but insouciant, good-natured and welcomes just about every persuasion this side of NAMBLA.

The attitude towards different orientations and gender identities here in general is so laissez-faire that the gay pride festivities might be redundant if they weren't so much fun. This attitude is manifested in a large banner strung across a tinsel-studded stage, reading "Sexualität Demokratie," and it also encompasses (gasp!) -- families, and their redefinition under any rubric. Although gays cannot legally wed in Germany, and adoption is difficult for any couple, gay or straight, there is a tacit unquestioned acceptance of gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender people of all ages and stripes as normal.

Contrasted with the histrionic chest-thumping and identity-mongering of North American queer tribes, I feel as if I've gone down the rabbit hole, noshed on the caterpillar's proffered mushroom and am now experiencing lysergic visions of Utopia. Outside the colossal neo-classical gay club Goya, identical skater boy "twins" roll around kissing and cuddling on a patch of grass, looking like this year's over-the-top auditions for a particularly provocative edition of the A & F catalog. Like the Peppermint Schnapps swigged from the bottle by a group of lei-sporting baby dykes and their straight male pals, it all goes down smooth here in Berlin. Today -- hell, every day in this city -- revealing leather shorts are to Motzstrasse as suits are to Wall Street. Even the Turkish merchants from Kreuzberg have decamped their stalls here, and it all adds to the communal, multicultural spirit.

Eccentricity is the order of the day, normalcy is relative. As my roommate Jan and I make our progression through the streets -- which follows a temporal arc music-wise from 80's kitsch classics to jittery 90's techno -- I don't see anything particularly new, simply new modes of expression of the age-old desire to be oneself. At one intersection a few desultory dancers shuffle their feet to Schläger music (cheesy German oldies). The music ceases and an addled looking old longhair in a kilt fashioned from leather fringe makes announcements from a microphone -- wait, that's no microphone, he's merely pantomiming , clenched fist poking at the air, spinning around to the Karaoke DJ in his mind. We collapse in gales of laughter and head down an arterial street.

As we penetrate the next sector of the Strassenfest, an attractive female twentysomething thrusts a pamphlet into my hand, the pink cover of which reads: "Asexualität: nicht jeder steht auf sex." Translation: "Asexuality: not everyone is into sex."

Jan crumples his pamphlet, a dubious gift, into my palm, shooting me an amused glance.

"The asexual woman was very pretty," he observes.

"What a waste!" I say, unable to resist the urge to facilely invert (no pun intended) the old cliche about gay men.

Glib remarks aside, the tract inside essays a paradoxically passionate, but vague, explanation of this lifestyle. It's a plea for understanding on the part of society 's latest “category” of pariah, the citizen who chooses to live ohne Sex. Pertinent questions are answered. A few myths are exploded, but the reality seems nebulous. It's more of an opportunity to say "We exist." We explore hitherto unanswered questions, for example, does asexuality necessarily mean abstinence or a solitary lifestyle? The answer to both is unequivocally "Nein."

The mind reels at this assertion, giving rise to yet further questions. Does this mean that asexuals will be splitting off into ideological factions, for example "True asexuals" and "Asexuals who have sex" (AHS)? Will there be infighting among said factions (remember the plushies and furries a few years back)? Is asexuality simply a matter of choice?

What about the advent of "anti-fetish" wear such as coke bottle glasses, braces, hearing aids and pocket protectors? Will this yield to the appearance on the catwalks of watered-down versions of "asexual chic" featuring faux dowdy and dumpy models, causing friction between "serious asexuals" and "mere poseurs"? Will some be accused of hewing to stereotypes? Today, at least, the asexual tribe chose an emissary who doesn't fit the mold.

Seems to me the important thing to these people isn't simply being acknowledged as a sexual orientation, but to be given a platform to define themselves and to express the valid point that in a society so oversaturated with sex, we can be damning of those who choose not to have their life revolve around it. In fact, according to the pamphlet, asexual Volk are often approached by concerned family members, the assumption being they need clinical treatment, both psychological and physical.

The most poignant section in the asexual lit poses the question: "What does an asexual relationship look like?" A whole litany of virtuous non-sexual traits is given, including security, understanding and emotional intimacy. It's true that many of these characteristics have been left behind in the ever-expanding quest for sexual liberation, ironically, placing them perhaps further out of reach for the sexual "outlaw" (even this phrase seems quaint now, when everything is permissible). The catch is that none of these things seem particularly desirable on their own when sex is taken out of the equation in a relationship. Therein lies the conundrum of the asexual "Partnerschaft."

The more I thought about it, I reckoned that this movement could be considered, in theory, a logical conclusion to the sexual revolution, drawing full circle the tendency to push the envelope further with ever more leather, rubber, uniforms and all manner of polymorphous perversity. Not that sex -- kinky or vanilla -- and love are mutually exclusive. But, in a city where Colt butt plugs the size of infants are displayed proudly in boutique windows, and where a sex museum stands cheek by jowl with one of the major train stations (Zoologischer Garten), a declaration of asexuality is an inherently radical act, perhaps the ultimate perversion. The problem is that it is only a few paces out of the starting gate from radical act to blithe public indifference. Hence the bemused stares, rather than judgmental looks, of passers-by who have seen it all.

Then there is the elusiveness of the asexual herself. The more I read about asexuals, the less of a grip I had on the definition. It kept slipping through my fingers like mercury, going this way and that. The literature states that many studies have been done in the last year, but statistically anyway, the asexual seems to be a bit of a cipher. In a society where everything has a label, and labels are often used as a means of control, this could be a most subversive quality.

In the end, though, it's really all about freedom of choice and upholding the principles of a sexual democracy. Something tells me -- in Berlin, at least -- there will always be a place at the table for whatever version of "asexual" one chooses to be, as long as the asexual isn't harming anyone while not doing it.

Hall of Mirrors

About a millenium ago (just before the millenium actually: 1999) I posed as a model for a great Surrealist-style collage piece (part of a dream sequence) by my old friend, artist Mina Luxa. It was based on a Northern Renaissance rendering of the Deposition by Van Der Weben. This is me (right) standing next to a copy, which I stumbled on nearly ten years later in the Bode Museum in Berlin. The original is in the Prado in Madrid. On the left is the original work of Mina...ironically in the series was arranged as if I had stepped into the painting, and here it looks as if I have. Certainly added to the martyr complex I had at the time. In fact, for a while I thought I was Jesus Christ...

City of Ruins

I recently discovered not far from my Friedrichshain digs an enormous old abandoned Kraftwerk, or power station (exterior shot in the previous post), which could double as a horror movie set. The place is unglaublich, or unbelievable. This ruin (and potential squat) now plays host to a thousand graffiti artists, the curious and the daring (gay porn is filmed here, too). The inner sanctum can only be accessed by a small hole in the outer wall through which one must propel oneself after a dicey ascent over stacked concrete blocks. Once inside one encounters a labyrinth of staircases, cavernous filthy rooms and one elevator shaft straight from hell.

After much debate, curiosity won out and Jan and I were on our way up. Once up there, we made some new friends, and I took about 75 pics.