International Paneling/November 2023
Image by Horster
The Stress/Mental Health Connection
by Leo Kuelbs
St. Paul
Since “the end” of the pandemic, a slightly warped version of what was reality has revealed itself. Almost everyone has a deepening dependency on questionable information delivered digitally, as well as exposure to yet another war. Impossible to ignore, is inflation, which has seemingly doubled (or more) the average cost of living.
It’s within this environment that anecdotal evidence of increased mental health distress has been popping up like daisies in the springtime. From this perspective, I am privy to about half a dozen folks whose behavior slipped into something strange, though not altogether unforeseeable, in the past few months. Talking to people in various parts of the USA and Europe, I have gathered that this phenomenon is larger than any one place. One wonders if the ambient stress of life these days is taking a pretty severe toll on those not set up to deal with it.
And just how is it possible to prepare yourself for these types of seismic bad vibe earthquakes?
And just how is it possible to prepare yourself for these types of seismic bad vibe earthquakes? I don’t know, get your basic living situation—place, job, finances—sorted, I guess. Maybe steer clear of current or impending hot spots. But pretty much everywhere is a potential hot spot these days.
There’s not much else to say about this, as it seems to be happening in real time. Thus, we do not have much in the way of perspective yet. As for me, I have learned to let go of folks that get weird and turn away. I am grateful for this. Having been around mental illness a fair amount over the years, I realized that some problems are for family and/or world of medicine. Not friends or colleagues. Financial stress piled on top of everything else the world is serving up these days can push people over the edge. Also, somehow being stuck in the dissonant zone between online and actual identity can further aggravate and provide space for identity-related issues to take root.
Getting out of the way of the mental illness train is recommended whenever possible. Choosing your battles and managing your personal resources, especially of energy and stability, are crucial. Sustain those that sustain you.
Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the song “Bastards of Young,” and Paul Westerberg’s lyric, “The ones that love us best are the ones we lay to rest; and visit their graves on holidays, at best. The ones who love us least, are the ones we’ll die to please. If it’s any consolation, I don’t begin to understand it.” In the end, I am grateful for the needy ones who just go away, and leave me the energy to support those family who are friends, and those friends who are family. Whew! Winter is next!
Video Shorty of the Month: Erika Eichenseer’s German Fairy Tale Time!
Regensburg-based, Erika Eichenseer has been a key representative of the collected works of Frank Xaver von Schönwerth for the past several years. Von Schönwerth collected works from Germany’s Upper Palatinate area as the industrial revolution was taking shape in the first half of the 19th century. Erika discovered the archive and has tapped its 500+ stories as educational aids for kids.
Since then, the works have been translated into multiple languages, several books have been published, and the works also served as a basis for the Digital Fairy Tales series, which is currently in its ninth incarnation. For more info, check the link below!
This scary tale is presented for your Autumnal holiday pleasure. It’s the story of the beggar and his stockings—as well as a hungry, mischevious cat. Sit back and enjoy this old tale as told by one of the best storytellers in the world!
POETRY PLACE
by Paul Ilechko
Lamberville, NJ
Image by Juliane Pieper
After the Fall
Something is clearly broken
announced the doctor did you fall
were you seen tumbling from a height
collapsing into a heap of bones
and skin what remains besides
a carcass with shattered femurs
I fail to understand what you expect
from me your injuries are beyond repair
but I knew better examining myself
in mirrors that reflected other mirrors
a glassy encirclement of 360 visibility
and thus I ignored his diagnosis
floating for now in a river of sand
a self-directed period of healing time
finding myself in possession of a collection
of tools I had never been taught to use
the sun is blazing down today
an unseasonable heat
and so I drag myself to the nearest shade
by the time the weather cools
I will be walking again
ice in my veins and an umbrella
against the rain no longer willing
to be categorized by my condition.
Image by ANANI
NFTs: Expensive Electronic Waste
by Dirk Lehr
Berlin
I still remember when I was asked what I thought about NFTs. Whether this will establish itself as a new art genre or just an artificial hype about something new and unknown.
It was at the very beginning of the NFT era, when most people didn't know what blockchain meant and had only heard of cryptocurrencies peripherally. My answer was that I don't give NFT much of a chance, at least as far as an established art genre is concerned. Art has something to do with physical experience, with direct encounters and discussions. Even if it's just about aesthetics, a work's physical presence and interaction with the viewer and its surroundings is essential. There are reasons why art fairs attract tens of thousands of visitors and why long queues sometimes form in front of museums. Art is a social medium.
Then the rush was over and the box office collapse revealed that most people had invested in nothing other than fantasies fueled by hopes.
I was ridiculed for being old and conservative. I simply wouldn't understand such new art genres. What is there not to understand about that? If video art and moving image art are already a niche product, why should mere image files be given much greater appreciation? I experienced the new economy when all you had to do was say „dot com“ and banks would literally throw money at you. This worked well until word got around about what a browser actually was and that websites were nothing more than promotion tools. Then the rush was over and the box office collapse revealed that most people had invested in nothing other than fantasies fueled by hopes.
A caller who asked me whether he should invest in NFTs was apparently similarly motivated. Whether I had heard of it before, it was now on everyone's lips and probably the new hot thing. He is considering buying NFTs. That said it all. In September, a study made the rounds that 95% of all NFTs had become virtually worthless. ARTNews, for example, headlined “Your NFTs are totally worthless,” citing the report “The Evolving Landscape of the NFT Market” from dappGambl, a community of experts in finance and blockchain technology.
ARTnet writes: “Upon analysis of 73,257 NFT collections, the authors found that 69,795 have a market cap of zero Ether (ETH), the second most-popular cryptocurrency behind Bitcoin. In practical terms, that means 95 percent of NFTs wouldn’t fetch a penny today.”
Perhaps many people have woken up and asked themselves what is so extraordinary or electrifying about owning an image file. What is the use of a certificate? What can you actually do with an image file? At least you can still use a video game. But an image file?
And the many free riders who have bought into the NFT hype? File snippets of image files of physically existing works of art were sold, accompanied by a blockchain certificate. Others sold image files of their photo artwork or paintings under the NFT flag. There has already been a dilution of what is meant by NFTs before the market could find a common denominator on how to define original NFT art and what are mere derivatives or pure merchandising. It felt like you could make an NFT out of anything. This couldn't go well. At best, this implosion can be understood as a reset to initiate a cleansing and renewal process, at the end of which those who actually see NFT as a new art form remain. However, I have little hope that this will ultimately interest more than just one inner circle.
Meanwhile…Below the Dam…
What’s the Deal with American Football?
by Leo Kuelbs
There are a few good reasons why I continue to watch American football. Mainly, it provides a connection to the past, to my father, who died many years back. Sundays and Monday nights, we would gather around the tv and be party to our father’s dynamic emotional displays. If the score was in our favor, life was good. Not so, otherwise. It could be until Tuesday, that the grumpiness and bad vibes lingered; often after an aggressive display of agitation.
But, somehow, these experiences also provided a means by which to communicate with those of a different generation, or total background. If there was nothing else to talk about and/or in order to avoid political collisions, football could be turned to as common ground. And if you knew when to complain or praise—all the better! You could smooth over any rough patches for up to about 30 minutes. After that, you might want to be moving on.
These days, football is obviously a violent, dumb mega-business. And it’s uses for bridging divides are getting a little more difficult to use. Battles over who kneels for the National Anthem or Budweiser beer’s support of transgender folks has jumped up into the collective consciousness. The NFL has done a good job limiting football being used a greater political tool, as soccer has fallen prey to (Hungary comes to mind)./. But it is a slippery slope and we are sliding down it, for sure.
Those guys need to get paid a lot of money because at any moment, a random injury could end one’s life’s work. In this way, it also cheapens everything from coaching, planning, training, and quality of play.
As a practical matter, the sheer dumbness of football is also a turn-off. Those guys need to get paid a lot of money because at any moment, a random injury could end one’s life’s work. In this way, it also cheapens everything from coaching, planning, training, and quality of play. There’s a brutal randomness to it that is beginning to kill the whole vibe for me. I mean, everything can end with one injury—a complete collapse, as happened last year in one of the later playoff games when the quarterback’s shoulder was wrecked and the backup was also injured. Turn the channel!
We also now have legalized gambling! Have you known anyone addicted to gambling? It’s pretty awful. And now, we can all partake! Fantasy football, I guess, is another way people can get together—especially work colleagues, etc. Maybe that’s a good thing. But fantasy football to sports betting is a short road, paved with fun ads featuring Jamie Foxx! Hey, not everyone that uses is an alcoholic, drug addict, etc. But the manner in which football has recently rooted itself into gambling clearly strengthens its position against anyone pushing against its general dumbness.
Lastly, many players and some coaches have complained that racism has been and still is a big part of the professional football (and basketball?) universe. There are easy analogies that can be drawn to dramatic effect here. I can see these parallels, but I can also see that playing professional football is a dream for many from many backgrounds. And that dream—which so few can measure up to—can be loaded with dough. Everyone involved seems to do so willingly. In the end, from the players to the coaches, the gamblers to the casual viewers—everyone has their price for going along with the mega-wealthy owners and their own particular world views and social structures-- which we all are a little part of.
3 Questions with Sea of Daisies’ Chantelle Fuoco!
Not only does she produce music, soundtracks, and work in the entertainment industry—but she also hosts the wonderful “What the Hell, Chantelle?” on Youtube! Ladies and Gentleman, from Sea of Daisies, it’s Chantelle Joy Fouco!
The Questions:
1. Hello There, Chantelle! Can you give us a little bit of background on your creative and arts-related pursuits? As well as your connection(s) to the film and entertainment industries..?
2. Sea of Daisies has done a lot of great stuff. There’s one record I know of and lots of soundtracks. Can you tell us more about some of these projects and where Sea of Daisies is coming from, sonically and conceptually?
3. What the Hell, Chantelle is your new online show. Can you tell us about that? Also, what else is coming up?
Plus: BONUS QUESTION! What are some things in the larger world that you are looking forward to?
Artist in focus: Photo artist Andreas Zimmermann
Andreas Zimmermann, 2021, Plaid Green, fine art print, aluboard, 180x150cm (7)
by Dirk Lehr
Berlin
The works of the Düsseldorf based photo artist Andreas Zimmermann can be located in Op Art. This is a predominantly European art movement that emerged after World War II and deals with optical illusions, visual irritation and the suggestion of movement and space. After World War II, artists turned to abstraction in response to the Nazi abuse of the figurative image in art, particularly the human image. At the time, the Nazis confiscated works and marked them as degenerate art because the objects depicted, such as people, cities or nature, did not correspond to their propaganda image.
Andreas Zimmermann, F-7 gold, 2019, fine art print, aluboard, 130x100 cm
As a result, after the end of World War II, figuration in the visual arts was virtually taboo. Accordingly, non-figurative art movements dominated, such as Informel in Germany, Abstract Expressionism in the USA and also Op Art, primarily in Europe. Op Art had its peak in the 1960s and 1970s. Its best-known representatives include, for example, Victor Vasarely, Getulio Alviani, Julio Le Parc and Bridget Riley. At the end of the 1970s, this art movement went “out of fashion” and fell into oblivion. It was only rediscovered a few years ago. The large number of exhibitions and steadily rising auction prices today reflect their importance in art history. At the same time, a new generation of artists, including Andreas Zimmermann, began to take an interest in optical deception and illusion in art. Using the tools of their generation, such as computers and digital photography, they explore the possibilities of Op Art anew and place them in the context of the present. Zimmermann’;s works oscillate between abstraction and object, sculpture and photography, analogue and digital. They play with the perception of the human eye, set memory processes in motion and demand the physical cooperation of the viewer by having to change the distance to the picture in order to be able to grasp the picture.
In his works, Zimmermann deals with the children’s toy LEGO, a system for imitating reality. In his early works, the artist was concerned with the recognizable depiction of buildings and cityscapes. They were often based on photos of real buildings as a template, which Zimmermann reproduced with the help of LEGO building blocks. However, the artist did not limit himself to a reconstruction. His views are more than mere architectural models or modern city portraits. Rather, in his handling of the system, the artist demonstrates that a formal rule automatically produces an aesthetic structure, no matter how unmotivated it may be. All that is required is that you follow them systematically. While in the past the representational was in the foreground and the digitally mounted construction results only revealed their abstract structures on closer inspection, Zimmermann reverses this rule in his more recent works. They are initially recognizable as abstract construction results in which systematic arrangements dominate. The viewer sees a rhythmic structure that seems to stretch into infinity in perspective. Only through the visual dissection of the pictorial elements do spaces and perspectives come to light, which can be deciphered as architectural structures with the help of memory processes. The process of creating his pictorial constructions has remained unchanged. Zimmermann also uses LEGO bricks to build models for his new works, which he gradually photographs. He then puts together up to a few hundred individual shots on the computer until a structure emerges that, either in its entirety or because of the sum of its individual parts, is reminiscent of cityscapes. The building block system that is constitutive of the LEGO system finds its logical continuation in the computer-aided processing by Zimmermann. The limitation of the possibilities within a system, the scarcity of resources and the transfer of the analogue medium LEGO into that of digital photography form the motivation for the artist to explore such a system in order to generate knowledge gains.
Fall in Minneapolis
by Mark Bailey
Image by Tom Rotenberg
Minneapolis
Here in Minneapolis, fall is in full swing. Coffee shops are serving pumpkin cake and scarves are becoming more common. Yesterday, sitting in the sun on a third floor balcony, surrounded by the colorful foliage of maples and elms preparing to lose their leaves, a small bug flew into my ear. And for a brief moment, I was distracted from the madness that's engulfing the world.
I stopped thinking about my stepmother in Tel Aviv, responding to air raid sirens by going to a bomb shelter. I stopped thinking about the implications of the US national debt effectively doubling this year. I stopped thinking about the crowd of people living in tents outside my local library. I stopped thinking about all of it.
While setting these thoughts down for a moment was relieving, it produced no great insight, nor anything profound. But it did invite me to notice where I was placing my attention. And my attention was focused on troubling matters far removed from my everyday life.
Fixating on troubling matters isn't unusual for me. I'm a news editor for an information service that highlights corruption and cover-ups. My job is to make sure that the misdeeds of tyrants are communicated clearly and succinctly. The work forces me to look at lots of ugliness. It isn't always so easy to look away from the ugliness at the end of the day.
Sometimes the best move isn't to look away. It is instead to look more deeply into the troubling subject.
Sometimes the best move isn't to look away. It is instead to look more deeply into the troubling subject. To explore all of its contours and then put it into a broader perspective. To harbor uncomfortable complexities without trying to do anything about them.
Part of putting ugliness into perspective is simply to recognize everything else that's going on. Terrible things do happen but they're relatively rare. Beauty is everywhere. So too is progress, in both a social and technological sense. The digital revolution is propelling us into a future with amazing potential.
Oftentimes, the process of putting things into perspective is more social than personal. We can make better sense of things together than we can make by ourselves. The more complicated the world gets, the more important social sensemaking becomes. In my own life, I could be a little better about making space for this.
Touch
We were drinking, tequila, I think. “Do you miss her?” he asked.
Image and text by Stu Spence
Sydney
We were drinking, tequila, I think. “Do you miss her?” he asked—a question he wouldn’t have asked five shots ago. He looked towards the guy grilling the steaks, like that might take the edge off his question.
“Maybe,” I said, breaking bits off a soggy beer coaster. Neither of us were looking at each other, now. Men talked like gunfighters before a fight. “I’m gettin’…,” he said as he stood up, more to himself than to me. He teetered a little, reaching for his wallet, and missing the pocket a few times in the process. The Everly Brothers were singing ‘Cathy’s Clown’ from somewhere over past the bar.
“I miss touching,” I said.
“Huh?” He’d walked a couple of steps, then stopped, wondering if maybe he’d tuned into someone else’s conversation.
“I miss touching.”
I could feel my insides collapsing in, like one of those sinkholes in a highway you see on the news. He swayed a little, squinting into the smoke and noise. A pool ball cracked over in the far corner, a man’s voice screamed ‘Oh yes!’ and the Everlys sang on, Don't want your love anymore Don't want your kisses, that's for sure He wanted to understand his friend, but this kind of intimacy had never been part of their setup. Tomorrow he’d probably regret it.
“You mean you miss her touchin’ you, or do you miss touchin’ her?” I already knew the answer before he asked it.
“Yup.”
The Bleeding Building Next Door
Image by Horster
by Leo Kuelbs
circa 2003
Not far from the old burial mounds and the remains of a famous, spiritual cave which was filled by St Paul’s white settlers, another old warehouse awaited a new life. The stout structure was built in the 1800s to store sugar that would later make its way up or down the Mississippi. The plans for renovation had been in the works for years and no one thought they would come to pass. While the developers plotted, they recruited dozens of desperate artists to fill the sagging units. The nasty old warehouse was once again filled with life. Sculptors and painters conversed in the hallways. Dancers danced and photographers developed in their red-light darkrooms. The motley fascicle of artists was happy to make do with the slapdash, temporary repairs, uneven floors and peeling paint. For several years, the old warehouse was even an arts epicenter in old St. Paul.
Then the move-out news came. Though the would-be Picassos and Cindy Shermans had known they were just the first wave of the gentrification process, they were angry and now felt used. As they packed up their paints and easels, chemicals, and photographic equipment, they grumbled and cursed the super who stood, arms folded, as they loaded back out into the unfriendly world. “It’s not my fault,” the redneck project-super would say. “It ain’t my place.” A dancer flashed him a dirty glare. “Besides, you knew this was comin.’ I’m sorry. I really am.” His worthless apologies did not soothe the wayward artists who faded unwillingly into another chapter past in the story of the old warehouse.
Everything had to be redone, walls tuck-pointed, floors were reinforced with concrete, new walls were put in place and new electrical service was added too. But the improvements had unplanned consequences. Numerous and puzzling electrical problems were sorted through, plumbing lines turned out to be rotten and had to be replaced and many of the appliances turned out to be returns purchased on the cheap. Asbestos-filled cracks were discovered in otherwise sturdy joists and the offending substance had to be removed from each individual beam at great expense. Every new problem had a price tag and the budget swelled and groaned under the weight of the unforeseen troubles. The city got in on the act and made the developers and architect redo plans and take out finished work, as they reinterpreted the ever-changing building codes. The rough trip went on for over a year and the various players patiently rode the waves of constant inconveniences and interruptions.
Eventually the electrical troubles were solved, the joists healed and the floors shiny and bright. Soon the sales model would be ready to show the hungry gentrifiers waiting for their chance at urban living. The tension generated by all the surprises had forged an alliance of mutual exasperation between the developers, the super and all the others involved in the work. But now, when any of those involved saw each other, they had hopeful smiles and easy-going words on their lips. Even the developers and their lawyer were breathing easier. Sure, the over-runs were awful, but the way property values were going up, they would make it all back and much more. Maybe the deal wasn’t doomed after all.
Then the building cracked.
Phones rang all over St. Paul. SUVs rushed to the site one early Saturday, called by the super, to observe a gnarled crack running from the cellar to the freshly painted ceilings of the upper units.
The architect bent down to get a closer look, the engineer squinted and shook his head in disbelief and confusion, and the lawyer wrung his hands in despair. There were no ready answers to this latest and greatest catastrophe. “You know, some people say this whole part of town is under a curse,” the super told the group.
“I believe it,” replied the defeated lawyer.
Donuts were purchased; coffee was consumed—for several weeks. Maybe the old footings, down deep in the moist old ground were rotten; maybe new footings would be necessary. “How much would that cost?” the lawyer asked the engineer. “A lot. But I can’t imagine what else it could be. We’re probably going to have to get down there to see.”
“He’s right, you know,” the architect added in support of the engineer. “But maybe… No. Never mind.”
“What? Let’s hear it. Anything is better than this. I’m open to anything,” the lawyer said.
“Well,” the architect went on, “Maybe since the building is so close to the Mississippi, maybe it’s not on firm ground. Maybe the building just, sort of, floats on that old muck,” he made a floating motion with his hands. ‘We should look at the footings, but if we did a soil test, we could maybe see what kind of ground we’re on.”
“What if you’re right? Would we still have to replace the footings?”
“As long as the footings are good, the building is safe. Sometimes buildings settle. The crack may not be dangerous if the footings are still solid. If the soil is just soft, we should be okay.”
“Even with the city,” added the engineer.
The soil tests were done and it came to pass that the architect was right. But there’s more.
The following month, the phones rang again and another emergency session was called. This time, a thick, black liquid was dripping from the ceilings in most of the units. The stuff smelled sweet as it slid slowly down on itself like little brown stalagmites. It was dark, like the sealant they’d put under the flooring concrete, but that was tar; this was black and sticky—like tar—but more viscous. The superstitious super joked to a friend saying the newly finished floors were highways in and out of the astral plane and this was the goo that lubricated the spiritual transitions.
The usual crew was dumbfounded. What now? The old warehouse was bleeding unapologetically on everybody and everything. The developer’s lawyer again wrung his hands while the engineer and the super collected a sample of the mysterious liquid for a lab analysis. “God, I can’t believe this is happening. What do I tell the developers this time?” wondered the lawyer.
“Tell ‘em the building is cursed!” the super offered. “I don’t think this place wants to be changed. I ain’t seen anything like this…”
“Tell ‘em the building is cursed!” the super offered. “I don’t think this place wants to be changed. I ain’t seen anything like this,” he added as he stood staring at the drippings with an open mouth.
Since the model furnishings were covered in dark, random splatters, showing the place would have to again be put off. Spouses, children and office mates laughed in wonder as the various parties described the situation. Everyone waited for the lab results, wondering if the concrete world of science could solve this mystery.
It was a nervous time. Only the finishing work remained, but until the bleeding stopped, what was the point? It would just need an expensive cleaning. Also, no one’s bids had factored in supernatural activities. And insurance? Act of God, sure. But this? Whose act was it anyway?
Again, the phones rang and the spouses, children and co-workers craned their necks to hear the latest. “The super isn’t saying anything until we meet tomorrow,” the architect told a curious onlooker. “But he says he has answers.”
The super walked to the miniature tar pit, crouched down and asked, “Do you guys want to know what this is?” Before anyone could answer, he swiped a finger full of the stuff and stuck it in his mouth. “Mmmm, it’s good,” he said, “Try some.”
“Quite screwing around!” said the lawyer.
“It’s molasses! Seriously, go ahead. It’s fine. It ain’t gonna kill ya! This place was a sugar warehouse, remember?”
The architect looked at the engineer, then smiles turned to laughter and finally to cautious tastes of the goo—which was good.
“The weight of the concrete must have forced it out,” said the architect. “Mmm, this really is sweet.”
“I agree. Maybe we should sell tickets. We could call this place ‘Molasses Manor.’ What do you think?” asked the engineer, enjoying his own finger load.
“I think we bleed it dry and fast,” the lawyer said. Then he smiled too. He was happy to know that the curse was only old sugar.