Ultrasound

Under African Skies, Joe Berlinger’s documentary about the making of Paul Simon’s Graceland album, opened in New York and Los Angeles this week, and I was lucky enough to get to see it twice. The film is exhilarating and heartwarming as it explores the cultural phenomenon of one of the greatest albums ever made, and the stories of the South African musicians who played both on the album and the world tour that followed. Even if it merely focused on the music, it would still blow away any documentary about the making of an album, but it also has another, more potent, layer. It is entirely framed within a political argument that was seething at the time – an argument that as a child of the 80s, I was blissfully unaware of when I first grew to love the music on the record. I want to break with my usual musings on my own art to discuss my thoughts on the film in this post. Warning: spoilers below, if you have not seen the film please, please, go see it – it is absolutely wonderful.

In the mid-80s, Paul Simon became obsessed with South African music, but rather than round up accomplished musicians in New York to replicate the sound for his new album, he decided to travel to South Africa to collaborate with the masters. The problem was that he did this in violation of the United Nations’ boycott of South Africa’s apartheid government, and at a particularly inopportune moment for the liberation struggle. The documentary is speckled with images and videos of protests and furious confrontations that arose after Graceland’s release, and its backdrop is a tense discussion between Paul Simon and Dali Tambo, the founder of Artists Against Apartheid, which runs throughout the film.

During the film, arguments are made on both sides. Dali Tambo and Wally Serote continually reiterate how problematic it was for Paul Simon to flagrantly violate the cultural boycott, and how important it was to keep the racist regime isolated. Simon’s camp makes the argument that as artists they should have been allowed a pass, that he meant no harm, and that it was a wonderful life-changing experience for everyone involved in the project – a point that is hammered into the audience through intensely emotional scenes of oppressed musicians finally tasting freedom. Even though the film is primarily about celebrating the music that resulted from the collaboration, the film tries to be as neutral as possible in its presentation of the debate. Though it is abundantly clear that even 25 years later, Simon remains deeply hurt by the criticism, the film concludes with a “reconciliation” – a handshake and hug – where Paul Simon acknowledges his mistakes and apologizes for any harm he caused, and Dali Tambo professes that he and his organization hold no grudge, the music was brilliant, and that Simon was merely caught up in the whirlpool of a political struggle. The viewer is left without a clear resolution or opinion and the general conclusion is that it remains a complex issue with no clear correct answer…he was probably wrong to do it, but we’re glad he did because the music was so good.

However, I don’t think of this as a grey issue where the truth lies somewhere in between. Even though Paul Simon didn’t set out to specifically violate the boycott, I think he was right to do what he did, and wrong to apologize for it – mainly because I question the idea of a cultural boycott in the first place. This is something that the film doesn’t do – it merely dances around whether Simon was right to break it and the implications of making an exception for him. I’m of the opinion that the cultural boycott was not just wrong, but misguided and counter-productive.

History is brimming with examples of art making a difference in political struggles. Art is and will always be one of the most potent forces that drives people to change. It moves the human soul in a deeper and more profound way than any rational argument has a hope of doing. From Beaumarchais’ Marriage of Figaro to Stowe’s Uncle Tom to Bob Marley’s anthems, art has changed opinions and incited and inspired protest. Could you even imagine the anti-Vietnam-war movement without the soundtrack of the 60s to fan the flames? While Ellen DeGeneres would probably take issue with Joe Biden’s recent quip about Will and Grace’s supreme influence on public opinion about gay people, the point remains valid. Art inspires change. To censor your most powerful weapon in a protest is to shoot yourself in the foot – and that’s what the ANC and Artist Against Apartheid did. Isolating a morally corrupt regime is effective – there is no doubt about that. But while a trade boycott may hurt the regime as it is intended, a cultural boycott hurts the liberation movement because it prevents the most influential and moving voices from making themselves heard to a wider audience, with the result that it actually shields the regime from people who would have been moved to support the movement in other corners of the world.

Paul Simon’s visit and subsequent world tour were subjected to intense criticism and vitriol because the dogma of a cultural boycott went unquestioned. Since the heavyweights of the liberation struggle decreed that art should be treated no different from trade in the isolation of the regime, any violation was perceived as pro-apartheid. But the ANC could not possibly have been ignorant of the fact that within South Africa, artists were integral to the anti-apartheid movement. Throughout the history of segregation, protest music gave black South Africans hope and courage to continue and eventually win the fight – which is what makes the restriction on their creative expression even more damning. Artist Against Apartheid and the ANC should accept the blame, not just for the harm their cultural boycott did to the muted artists of South Africa, but for making it harder for their cause to garner support all over the world. Thankfully, an unlikely and unwilling revolutionary emerged in a diminutive New Yorker. Paul Simon, who started out largely apathetic to the cause and unconcerned with the struggle, eventually ended up taking grave personal risks for his art and on the behalf of the musicians who helped him achieve the zenith of his career. He confronted the boycott, and won. And the world is a better place because of Graceland.

Been having a bit of an obsession with red recently. After painting a wall in my apartment burgundy, I had a bunch of leftover paint, so that’s how I began this canvas. It’s a big one – 5 feet long, 4 feet high.

It’s been a few years since I painted Sensuality and I’ve always wanted to create more works in that slimy soft style. That was the original idea with this one but I decided to go with red instead of orange as the base. The female form in Sensuality emerged after an improvisation, but for this one I decided to chalk some in from the start and work around them. As you can see from the photos I took as it was progressing, at the start the figures were much more loosely defined and distorted. But as the composition started to fill in, I began to have more fun with creating better defined female forms so I just went with it. The painting ended up racier that I had originally intended too…not that that’s a bad thing.

A couple more things I’d like to say about this painting. First of all, I’m not 100% sure that I’m done. It could be complete as it is now, but it might need a couple of finishing touches still. I like the monochrome red, but it’s hard not to feel like it’s lacking something. Also I cannot for the life of me figure out how to capture the richness of the color on film. I’ve tried a bunch of different cameras and settings and different types of lighting, but I still haven’t been able to reproduce the colors to my liking. I’ve had the same trouble with a couple of other painting where red is dominant – most notably Lasya. If anyone has any ideas, please let me know.

An explosion of light comes crackling through the branches as a trumpet Lilly heralds the dawning of a new age.  Below, crumbling idols are the vestiges of the old, and above, the trees’ vibrant greens are the fountains of the new.  Yet while the reason of the new age supersedes the superstition of the old, it is built on what came before.  Roots tread a fine line between absorbing age-old wisdom from the ancient rocks that they depend on for support, and breaking apart their decaying remnants.  The flower carries within it a potent symbol of the new age, its stamens poised to pollinate the world with the new science of medicine that has doubled lifespans within merely a handful of generations.

As with much of my work, the inspiration for this narrative didn’t emerge until very late in its evolution.  A forest scene emerged after a quick improvisation, and as I teased out some gnarly tree trunks, I felt that ancient temples were an appropriate addition to the scene.

The sky over the canopy started out orange, but it was too jarring for me, so it became a calmer blue.  The blue inspired the sunlight and the lens flare, and very soon a long green vine twisted its way out of the canopy and into the bell of a flower.

It wasn’t until I added the stamens, which turned to yellow pills, that the inspiration for the name and the theme of this piece struck me.  Maybe it was in my subconscious all along, but it didn’t fully materialize until the end.

In many ways the revolution of evidence-based medicine is the age of reason’s greatest accomplishment – underscored by the fact that if I’d lived in the era before it, I’d either be dead or very close to dying by this point in my life.

The saxophone player and bassist in this painting emerged in a very rough form after a hurried improvisation, only to be abandoned for more than year. When I took it up again I had a very specific concept I wanted to get down on the canvas.

“The Quartet” is an attempt to visually depict how the average listener perceives a live band. The solo instrument – in this case the saxophone – is the object of focus for the listener, and hence is rendered in crisp detail. Things get fuzzier when you move beyond it. The bass is definitely there … prominent, but not particularly clear – almost a silhouette. The piano is far away in the background, really faint, hard to make out. It really is all about that saxophone. Didn’t even realize there was a fourth musician.

Toccata is one of my earliest works, and also one of the largest canvases I have ever attempted. It was started and completed on a dreary winter Saturday in 1994 and hasn’t really been touched much since. While I love it conceptually, I’ve never been completely satisfied with the execution of it, and to be honest I’m a bit embarrassed by how raw it is – never had a chance to refine or clean up the rough edges at the time, and it’s a bit too late now.

Toccata was an attempt to paint a piece of music – a seven and a half minute instrumental by the same name based on the Fourth Movement of Alberto Ginastera’s 1st Piano Concerto, arranged by Keith Emerson and performed by Emerson Lake and Palmer. It’s a very complex, meandering, experimental track – packed with synthesized sounds and loops, morphing from dramatically violent passages to calm spacey sections and even features an epic drum solo that starts with gongs, tubular bells and timpani and ends with electronic drum loops. I listened to it on repeat while painting until the batteries ran out on my discman, then took a break for lunch, bought new batteries, and went back to listening to it until I was done late at night. Needless to say, I haven’t listened to it much since then. I started with a very violent and explosive underpainting – in synch with the music. As I refined it, I inserted elements that I was hearing. I wanted it to have depth and deep space, and to invoke sounds in the ears of the viewer. I did some questionable things like stick pieces of dried paint from the inside of paint cans to the canvas. I didn’t stop to think much – the music was too overbearing to allow for it. When I left that evening I didn’t return to the studio until Monday afternoon, when it was to be critiqued by the class.

Toccata clips by khusroks

When I saw it again on Monday, I remember being impressed but at the same time disappointed by what I had created. The critique was particularly contentious. I was attacked on the grounds that a depiction of music shouldn’t have recognizable forms (clock, bell, etc.) but should be more abstract – indeed most people who tackled that assignment produced works similar to Kandinski’s compositions. I countered that recognizable sounds instantly conjure up recognizable forms (e.g. the sound of a dog barking makes you think of a dog) and my piece of music – a short section of which was played for the class – was rife with recognizable sounds that ended up being depicted on the canvas.  I don’t think the consensus was with me and I remember leaving that critique feeling like I might just dump it or start from scratch and paint over it. I’m glad I didn’t.

Regardless of its flaws, I do think Toccata is a particularly affecting piece of mine. There’s no doubt that its size has an impact on the viewer, and it’s probably the piece that I’ve heard more people cite as their favorite of my works.

The canvas on which Atlas ended up started out as a painting called “Improv in C-minor”. Even though I did take a photograph of it, it was never complete in my mind and at one point I decided to try adding some translucent layers to it – completely ruined it, got mad at myself for messing it up and then just painted the whole thing red. That was the end of that.

The red canvas sat around for a while, then I doodled some black paint on it, and again ignored it for a couple of years. There were a few failed attempts to create something interesting with plain black on a red background, that ended up being nixed with a big black ball. Finally Atlas emerged, carrying the ball and the painting finally had a direction.

OK, so now here was Atlas carrying a big black ball. The question of what should go in the ball was posed to a few friends. My friend Leslie suggested a tree – that seemed promising, so I set to work. The green wasn’t showing up too well on the black, so I decided to chalk it out with white first, as I often do when starting to paint on a dark background. All of a sudden the branches started to look like neurons and so I began to work on a brain instead. The brain took some refining and re-working. I abandoned early attempts to make it translucent in favor of a more fleshy feel.

The name Atlas Drugged came from my neighbor at the time, Alex – they were literally the first words out of his mouth when he saw it, and it stuck.