a hundred avatars
a hundred avatars
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milstil:


HOW ARTISTS MUST DRESS
Artists must first of all distinguish themselves from members of the adjacent professional classes typically present at art world events: dealers, critics, curators, and caterers. They must second of all take care not to look like artists. This double negation founds the generative logic of artists’ fashion.
The relationship between an artist’s work and attire should not take the form of a direct visual analogy. A stripe painter may not wear stripes.
The relationship between an artist’s work and attire should function in the manner of a dialectic, in which the discrepancy between the personal appearance of the artist and the appearance of her work is resolved into a higher conceptual unity. An artist’s attire should open her work to a wider range of interpretive possibilities.
The artist’s sartorial choices are subject to the same hermeneutic operations as are his work. When dressing, an artist should imagine a five-paragraph review of his clothes—the attitudes and intentions they reveal, their topicality, their relationship to history, the extent to which they challenge or endorse, subvert or affirm dominant forms of fashion—written by a critic he detests.
Communicating an attitude of complete indifference to one’s personal appearance is only achievable through a process of self-reflexive critique bordering on the obsessive. Artists who are in reality oblivious to how they dress never achieve this effect.
Whereas a dealer must signal, in wardrobe, a sympathy to the tastes and tendencies of the collector class, an artist is under no obligation to endorse these. Rather, the task of the artist with regard to fashion is to interrogate the relationship between cost and value as it pertains to clothing, and, by analogy, to artworks.
An artist compensates for a limited wardrobe budget by making creative and entertaining clothing choices, much in the way that a dog compensates for a lack of speech through vigorous barking.
Artists are not only permitted but are in fact required to be underdressed at formal institutional functions. But egregious slovenliness without regard to context is a childish ploy, easily seen through.
An artist may dress like a member of the proletariat, but shouldn’t imagine he’s fooling anyone.
The affluent artist may make a gesture of class solidarity by dressing poorly. She is advised to keep in mind that, at an art opening, the best way to spot an heiress is to look for a destitute schizophrenic. Middle-class or working-class artists, the destitute, and the schizophrenic can use this principle to their social advantage.
The extension of fashion into the violation of norms of personal hygiene and basic grooming constitutes the final arena for radicalism in artists’ fashion. Brave, fragrant souls! You will be admired from a distance.

Yuppie eh, artsy scum monday. Excerpt from I Like Your Work: Art and Etiquette, an essay on a (linen tote) bag from 2009, by Roger White (via). I Like Your Work: Art and Etiquette is Paper Monument’s first (satirical) pamphlet on the social mores of the contemporary art scene, the sometimes serious and sometimes not-so-serious topic of manners in the art world. In their own words:

The art world is now both socially professional and professionally social. Curators visit artists’ studios; collectors, dealers, and journalists assemble for a reception and reconvene later for dinner; everyone goes to parties. We exchange introductions and small talk; art is bought and sold; careers (and friendships) brighten or fade. In each situation, certain behaviors are expected while others are silently discouraged. Sometimes, what’s appropriate in the real world would be catastrophic in the art world, and vice versa. 
Making these distinctions on the spot can be nerve-wracking and disastrous. So we asked ourselves: What is the place of etiquette in art? How do social mores establish our communities, mediate our critical discussions, and frame our experience of art? If we were to transcribe these unspoken laws, what would they look like? What happens when the rules are broken?

As this is a blog supposedly about clothes and stuff I obviously choose to focus on the threads. The threads of the New York contempary artist - but native Neapolitan with aristo roots - Franceso Clemente. I took a not-so-random picture of Clemente by Robert Mapplethorne from 1985 (via). Now if you did not spot the bespoke Neapolitan suit by the lines, draped chest, lapel roll and extended front darts, there are three possibilities: a) you’re an absolute #menswear beginner, why are you readin’ this blog? There are no 101s here..  b) you’re actually more interesed in the portrait, compostion, lighting etc, in that case hooray! you overcame the fashionisto blogger OCD, you might acutally recover someday. c) Clemente’s hipster stubble distracts you to the point of rage, don’t worry this is in all likeliness the only correct response to this image. But for the sake of pretense, let us at least describe and critique, firstly the attitudes and intentions Francesco’s suit and tie reveal, secondly, their topicality, thirdly their relationship to history, the extent to which they challenge or endorse, subvert or affirm dominant forms of fashion. I’m not sure, but here’s my working theory: Clemente is goddamn yuppie-artist-in-a-way-too-nice-glenplaid-single-breasted suit. In case you happen to give a fuck (you belong to category b, or fancy yourself belonging) here is the caption from Tate Modern that goes with the portrait:

Francesco Clemente is an Italian painter born in Naples in 1952. At the time this photograph was taken, he lived part of the time in New York, Rome and Madras. Clemente came to the fore internationally in the late 1970s and 1980s, when expressive, figurative painting became popular again. Here, Mapplethorpe has photographed Clemente standing in front of one of his own paintings. With arms outstretched and head set against a halo-like form in his painting, Clemente looks like his namesake, Saint Francis (Francesco) of Assisi, receiving the stigmata.

And some self referential links to wrap up, to end this too-lengthy post in signature milstil style. There are some other posts on this blog featuring prominent post WWII painters as subjects, here is one on socklessness and Enzo Cucchi, and one on the trending #too-short-outerwear thingey and Andy Warhol, und hier kann man ein post finden about Gherard Richter and padded shoulders. 
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This kid is going places 
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photojojo:

Recently, New York City-based photographer Daniel Zvereff acquired some of the last remaining stock of Kodak Aerochrome film. 
Daniel brought the ultra-rare film to the icy arctic, transforming the sea of white into hues of magenta, purple, and blue. 
The Arctic Captured With Rare Kodak Aerochrome
photojojo:

Recently, New York City-based photographer Daniel Zvereff acquired some of the last remaining stock of Kodak Aerochrome film. 
Daniel brought the ultra-rare film to the icy arctic, transforming the sea of white into hues of magenta, purple, and blue. 
The Arctic Captured With Rare Kodak Aerochrome
photojojo:

Recently, New York City-based photographer Daniel Zvereff acquired some of the last remaining stock of Kodak Aerochrome film. 
Daniel brought the ultra-rare film to the icy arctic, transforming the sea of white into hues of magenta, purple, and blue. 
The Arctic Captured With Rare Kodak Aerochrome
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ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
ilovecharts:

howstuffworks:m1ssred:
chemical reaction
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nybg:

jtotheizzoe:

How Does Your Garden Grew?
The first person to slice open a plant stem and view it under a microscope must have been rightly confused.
These days every kindergartner can grasp the basic architecture of a plant. Probably thanks to celery sticks, come to think of it, dipped in colored water, transporting the dyes up their stalk. We’ve all been there, right? It’s thanks to xylem and phloem, that intricate biological plumbing cool enough to make Roman aqueduct engineers jealous. But in the mid-17th century, when men were just beginning to point their telescopes down from the sky toward the micro-universe, the inside of a plant must have been quite a wondrous shock.
Nehemiah Grew was one of those 17th century explorers, unlocking new tiny worlds (joining men like Hooke and van Leeuwenhoek). He had great hair, to go with great curiosity, which he applied to fields ranging from philosophy to science (the curiosity, not the hair). There were fewer boundaries around the subjects people studied back then. I think we should get back to that. Anyway …
Grew approached plant anatomy with the belief that all living things were built and organized from similar ingredients, and from a similar toolbox. Our organs, our fluids, all had a mirror in the plant world, and vice versa. He wasn’t totally right about that, but he wasn’t totally off either (although it would take the dawn of genetics before we really appreciated the details).
Nehemiah Grew’s 1682 work The Anatomy of Plants secured his place as the father of plant anatomy. Public Domain Review has a superb look at his philosophy and science, and the early plant illustrations that helped our knowledge grow. Or Grew.

We’ve got a first edition of The Anatomy of Plants in our Library's rare book room. It's quite a throwback considering how often we marvel at microscopic plant imagery on Tumblr. It also puts the phrase “handle with kid gloves” into an entirely more nerve-wracking context. —MN
nybg:

jtotheizzoe:

How Does Your Garden Grew?
The first person to slice open a plant stem and view it under a microscope must have been rightly confused.
These days every kindergartner can grasp the basic architecture of a plant. Probably thanks to celery sticks, come to think of it, dipped in colored water, transporting the dyes up their stalk. We’ve all been there, right? It’s thanks to xylem and phloem, that intricate biological plumbing cool enough to make Roman aqueduct engineers jealous. But in the mid-17th century, when men were just beginning to point their telescopes down from the sky toward the micro-universe, the inside of a plant must have been quite a wondrous shock.
Nehemiah Grew was one of those 17th century explorers, unlocking new tiny worlds (joining men like Hooke and van Leeuwenhoek). He had great hair, to go with great curiosity, which he applied to fields ranging from philosophy to science (the curiosity, not the hair). There were fewer boundaries around the subjects people studied back then. I think we should get back to that. Anyway …
Grew approached plant anatomy with the belief that all living things were built and organized from similar ingredients, and from a similar toolbox. Our organs, our fluids, all had a mirror in the plant world, and vice versa. He wasn’t totally right about that, but he wasn’t totally off either (although it would take the dawn of genetics before we really appreciated the details).
Nehemiah Grew’s 1682 work The Anatomy of Plants secured his place as the father of plant anatomy. Public Domain Review has a superb look at his philosophy and science, and the early plant illustrations that helped our knowledge grow. Or Grew.

We’ve got a first edition of The Anatomy of Plants in our Library's rare book room. It's quite a throwback considering how often we marvel at microscopic plant imagery on Tumblr. It also puts the phrase “handle with kid gloves” into an entirely more nerve-wracking context. —MN
nybg:

jtotheizzoe:

How Does Your Garden Grew?
The first person to slice open a plant stem and view it under a microscope must have been rightly confused.
These days every kindergartner can grasp the basic architecture of a plant. Probably thanks to celery sticks, come to think of it, dipped in colored water, transporting the dyes up their stalk. We’ve all been there, right? It’s thanks to xylem and phloem, that intricate biological plumbing cool enough to make Roman aqueduct engineers jealous. But in the mid-17th century, when men were just beginning to point their telescopes down from the sky toward the micro-universe, the inside of a plant must have been quite a wondrous shock.
Nehemiah Grew was one of those 17th century explorers, unlocking new tiny worlds (joining men like Hooke and van Leeuwenhoek). He had great hair, to go with great curiosity, which he applied to fields ranging from philosophy to science (the curiosity, not the hair). There were fewer boundaries around the subjects people studied back then. I think we should get back to that. Anyway …
Grew approached plant anatomy with the belief that all living things were built and organized from similar ingredients, and from a similar toolbox. Our organs, our fluids, all had a mirror in the plant world, and vice versa. He wasn’t totally right about that, but he wasn’t totally off either (although it would take the dawn of genetics before we really appreciated the details).
Nehemiah Grew’s 1682 work The Anatomy of Plants secured his place as the father of plant anatomy. Public Domain Review has a superb look at his philosophy and science, and the early plant illustrations that helped our knowledge grow. Or Grew.

We’ve got a first edition of The Anatomy of Plants in our Library's rare book room. It's quite a throwback considering how often we marvel at microscopic plant imagery on Tumblr. It also puts the phrase “handle with kid gloves” into an entirely more nerve-wracking context. —MN
nybg:

jtotheizzoe:

How Does Your Garden Grew?
The first person to slice open a plant stem and view it under a microscope must have been rightly confused.
These days every kindergartner can grasp the basic architecture of a plant. Probably thanks to celery sticks, come to think of it, dipped in colored water, transporting the dyes up their stalk. We’ve all been there, right? It’s thanks to xylem and phloem, that intricate biological plumbing cool enough to make Roman aqueduct engineers jealous. But in the mid-17th century, when men were just beginning to point their telescopes down from the sky toward the micro-universe, the inside of a plant must have been quite a wondrous shock.
Nehemiah Grew was one of those 17th century explorers, unlocking new tiny worlds (joining men like Hooke and van Leeuwenhoek). He had great hair, to go with great curiosity, which he applied to fields ranging from philosophy to science (the curiosity, not the hair). There were fewer boundaries around the subjects people studied back then. I think we should get back to that. Anyway …
Grew approached plant anatomy with the belief that all living things were built and organized from similar ingredients, and from a similar toolbox. Our organs, our fluids, all had a mirror in the plant world, and vice versa. He wasn’t totally right about that, but he wasn’t totally off either (although it would take the dawn of genetics before we really appreciated the details).
Nehemiah Grew’s 1682 work The Anatomy of Plants secured his place as the father of plant anatomy. Public Domain Review has a superb look at his philosophy and science, and the early plant illustrations that helped our knowledge grow. Or Grew.

We’ve got a first edition of The Anatomy of Plants in our Library's rare book room. It's quite a throwback considering how often we marvel at microscopic plant imagery on Tumblr. It also puts the phrase “handle with kid gloves” into an entirely more nerve-wracking context. —MN
nybg:

jtotheizzoe:

How Does Your Garden Grew?
The first person to slice open a plant stem and view it under a microscope must have been rightly confused.
These days every kindergartner can grasp the basic architecture of a plant. Probably thanks to celery sticks, come to think of it, dipped in colored water, transporting the dyes up their stalk. We’ve all been there, right? It’s thanks to xylem and phloem, that intricate biological plumbing cool enough to make Roman aqueduct engineers jealous. But in the mid-17th century, when men were just beginning to point their telescopes down from the sky toward the micro-universe, the inside of a plant must have been quite a wondrous shock.
Nehemiah Grew was one of those 17th century explorers, unlocking new tiny worlds (joining men like Hooke and van Leeuwenhoek). He had great hair, to go with great curiosity, which he applied to fields ranging from philosophy to science (the curiosity, not the hair). There were fewer boundaries around the subjects people studied back then. I think we should get back to that. Anyway …
Grew approached plant anatomy with the belief that all living things were built and organized from similar ingredients, and from a similar toolbox. Our organs, our fluids, all had a mirror in the plant world, and vice versa. He wasn’t totally right about that, but he wasn’t totally off either (although it would take the dawn of genetics before we really appreciated the details).
Nehemiah Grew’s 1682 work The Anatomy of Plants secured his place as the father of plant anatomy. Public Domain Review has a superb look at his philosophy and science, and the early plant illustrations that helped our knowledge grow. Or Grew.

We’ve got a first edition of The Anatomy of Plants in our Library's rare book room. It's quite a throwback considering how often we marvel at microscopic plant imagery on Tumblr. It also puts the phrase “handle with kid gloves” into an entirely more nerve-wracking context. —MN
nybg:

jtotheizzoe:

How Does Your Garden Grew?
The first person to slice open a plant stem and view it under a microscope must have been rightly confused.
These days every kindergartner can grasp the basic architecture of a plant. Probably thanks to celery sticks, come to think of it, dipped in colored water, transporting the dyes up their stalk. We’ve all been there, right? It’s thanks to xylem and phloem, that intricate biological plumbing cool enough to make Roman aqueduct engineers jealous. But in the mid-17th century, when men were just beginning to point their telescopes down from the sky toward the micro-universe, the inside of a plant must have been quite a wondrous shock.
Nehemiah Grew was one of those 17th century explorers, unlocking new tiny worlds (joining men like Hooke and van Leeuwenhoek). He had great hair, to go with great curiosity, which he applied to fields ranging from philosophy to science (the curiosity, not the hair). There were fewer boundaries around the subjects people studied back then. I think we should get back to that. Anyway …
Grew approached plant anatomy with the belief that all living things were built and organized from similar ingredients, and from a similar toolbox. Our organs, our fluids, all had a mirror in the plant world, and vice versa. He wasn’t totally right about that, but he wasn’t totally off either (although it would take the dawn of genetics before we really appreciated the details).
Nehemiah Grew’s 1682 work The Anatomy of Plants secured his place as the father of plant anatomy. Public Domain Review has a superb look at his philosophy and science, and the early plant illustrations that helped our knowledge grow. Or Grew.

We’ve got a first edition of The Anatomy of Plants in our Library's rare book room. It's quite a throwback considering how often we marvel at microscopic plant imagery on Tumblr. It also puts the phrase “handle with kid gloves” into an entirely more nerve-wracking context. —MN
nybg:

jtotheizzoe:

How Does Your Garden Grew?
The first person to slice open a plant stem and view it under a microscope must have been rightly confused.
These days every kindergartner can grasp the basic architecture of a plant. Probably thanks to celery sticks, come to think of it, dipped in colored water, transporting the dyes up their stalk. We’ve all been there, right? It’s thanks to xylem and phloem, that intricate biological plumbing cool enough to make Roman aqueduct engineers jealous. But in the mid-17th century, when men were just beginning to point their telescopes down from the sky toward the micro-universe, the inside of a plant must have been quite a wondrous shock.
Nehemiah Grew was one of those 17th century explorers, unlocking new tiny worlds (joining men like Hooke and van Leeuwenhoek). He had great hair, to go with great curiosity, which he applied to fields ranging from philosophy to science (the curiosity, not the hair). There were fewer boundaries around the subjects people studied back then. I think we should get back to that. Anyway …
Grew approached plant anatomy with the belief that all living things were built and organized from similar ingredients, and from a similar toolbox. Our organs, our fluids, all had a mirror in the plant world, and vice versa. He wasn’t totally right about that, but he wasn’t totally off either (although it would take the dawn of genetics before we really appreciated the details).
Nehemiah Grew’s 1682 work The Anatomy of Plants secured his place as the father of plant anatomy. Public Domain Review has a superb look at his philosophy and science, and the early plant illustrations that helped our knowledge grow. Or Grew.

We’ve got a first edition of The Anatomy of Plants in our Library's rare book room. It's quite a throwback considering how often we marvel at microscopic plant imagery on Tumblr. It also puts the phrase “handle with kid gloves” into an entirely more nerve-wracking context. —MN
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astronomynerd:

Happy birthday Carl Sagan!

(Taken from the I Fucking Love Science Facebook page)
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oessa:

+35° 1’ 7.67”, +135° 40’ 49.48”