The Art of Photography

OvationTV just completed a week-long series called "The Art of Photography." Included is an interview with Gregory Crewdson, best known for elaborately staged, surreal scenes of American homes and neighborhoods. Also in the series are pieces on the history of photography and the current marketplace, whole episodes on David LaChapelle and Cindy Sherman, and additional interviews with Jeff Wall, Andreas Gursky, and China's leading photographer Wang Qingsong. A lot of cool stuff!

Living Proof of a Dying Dream

This is an experimental short that I made with Didi using all still photographs. I got the title from a line in a William Elliott Whitmore song, one that I have forgotten the title of. Initially I was going to use it for my next book, only I don't know when that's going to be finished, and it seemed to fit here. The soundtrack is Can's "I Want More." Hope you enjoy.

from Rob Simons on Vimeo.

Mister Lonely

Mister Lonely is the new film by Harmony Korine, the mad genius behind two of experimental cinema's most daring and innovative classics: Gummo and Julien Donkey-Boy. Starring Samantha Morton (Morvern Callar), Diego Luna (Y Tu Mamá También), director Werner Herzog, Anita Pallenberg (former wife of Keith Richards) and magician David Blaine, it's set in the world of celebrity impersonators. Opens this month in the UK, and, I imagine, a few months later here in the States. Can't wait.

The Hunger

I'll Tell You Of Every Dream

Work It Out

Take Me to the Water

I Let the Beast In Again

This morning at about 2:00 am there was a loud smash below my window. When I looked down there was a guy half-submerged in the passenger window of a Honda, lifting the stereo. For a second I played the voyeur role, intoxicated by the crime. Then I opened my window and said, hey, asshole, I see you. So the robber yanked one last time and ran off with the part. About ten minutes later the owner of the car, a guy about my age, returned from North Beach with his buddies to discover the carnage. Obviously, he was pissed.

I couldn't go back to bed right away so I sat there, thinking. First I was like, why didn't you get involved? I mean you could have chased him down. You've certainly had it happen before, twice in the span of three weeks, although that was like fifteen years ago and I probably deserved it. Then I was like, in an era of iPods and digital cameras, who steals a car radio? Is there even a market for this sort of thing? Do they still make those detachable faces to make it harder for thieves? Finally, I thought about the victim. In a bizarre moment of reverse sympathy, I began to consider whether the guy deserved it. Who knows, really? He might be a douchebag and this could have been some kind of karmic justice and I almost interfered with the natural order of things. I mean, sometimes bad things do happen to bad people, right?

Then I wondered why my mind always did this, going against the grain, against conventional wisdom, just because, really. It certainly makes it difficult to go through life this way.

So I popped three advil, rubbed one out, and went back to bed.

Introducing Night Dog

The Tearing of the Gown

Last night around 9:00 there was a loud crash in the kitchen. I assumed it was our cat but came out to check anyway, just to be sure. From the hallway it looked like a chair had turned over. Then I could make out Jennifer's body. I ran to her, panicked. It took about 5 minutes to get her lucid, the whole time wondering if I should call an ambulance. My other housemate explained that she's been doing this for the past week; that the paramedics would do nothing but bill us an arm and a leg if I called. That route had already been explored. So we carried her to bed.

An hour later the same thing happened, only this time it was much louder, and she was on the bathroom floor flopping like a fish. At first she thought she was in New York; then she was calling for a woman, Charlene, that neither of us knew. Then she thought she was in her apartment on Union Street, only she hasn't lived there for close to fourteen years. Finally she asked about her dead cat, Daphney. Her legs kept kicking and I could feel a bump on her head. Worried that she might have suffered a concussion, I took her to the ER.

I've heard horror stories about St. Francis but when we walked in, everything seemed clean, and, better yet, there was nobody in the lobby. This was a good sign. I spent fifteen minutes with the damn soda machine, losing two bucks in the process with no Snapple to show for it. This drove me insane. Then we were brought to the back. There was a woman screaming as loud as anyone I've ever heard in the next room. We were sure she was having a baby. Then she began cursing, demanding her one phone call, only to be explained that this wasn't jail. She screamed for her three children, her dead parents, and then wanted to be released. She yelled that she wasn't black, just mulatto. The hospital staff, cynical and cuntish already, had no sympathy and laughed at her plight. I felt bad for everyone involved. The problem was, this woman didn't shut up, and Jennifer and I could barely hear ourselves over the commotion, let alone describe what happened to the nurse. It was like we were in a Denis Johnson story, only there was nothing beautiful about the suffering.

Finally the doctor came in. After a hard line of questioning, he finally gave her a shot for the pain (she had smacked her body four separate times that day and was pretty banged up) and then sent us on our way, not before reminding us that inner city hospitals are the worst places for solving real health problems, as least the ones that don't involve heart attacks or gunshot wounds.

I was in bed by 4:00 am but couldn't sleep much the rest of the way.

Here I am at work now, knowing damn well that she can't stand up without having another one, that she can't even go to the bathroom without something happening, and there's nothing I or anyone else can do about it. You hear the phrase 'it is what it is' tossed about, and it's a bad cliché, not to mention terribly annoying, only in this situation, it fits. You want to think that people can recover from tragedy - I mean what else are you supposed to believe? - but there comes a time when the writing is on the wall.

This story isn't gonna end well.

Seeing Darkness

1. Today at lunch I passed through Union Square, hoping the weather was still sunny and the girls would be out in abundance. Unfortunately, it's now overcast, bordering on rain, and instead of attractive women in sun-dresses there were a bunch of indie kids in trucker hats and megaphones, preaching to the Asian and European tourists about the alleged 911 Inside Job. (Google just insured that I'll be added to over 100 enemy lists by morning.) Now, I could care less how these guys spend their time or what they choose to obsess about. I just don't understand why every hipster has to look like Bonnie Prince Billy. The guy has spent his whole career cultivating this authentic folk slash punk Americana, I mean he's an icon of everything beautiful and haunting about indie music, and here are all these douches imitating his look. It's a sad commentary, crafting one's look to fit in (especially grown men), sadder than the need to cling to certain conspiracy stories that will never see the light of day.

2. There's a guy who I see in my neighborhood, this little elderly Chinese fella, and I've never been able to figure out what his deal is. He walks down my block picking up cans and plastic bottles, the whole time making these crazy smacking sounds with his mouth, to the point where if you're crossing paths with him you know to give him some space, worried that he might turn Cujo on you. The thing is, he's hunch-backed, I mean profoundly hunch-backed, and he's tiny, about 4' 7", and he's always wearing the same blue-grey ski jacket, even when it's scorching hot, and the same NY Giants baseball cap, only instead of covering his whole head it rests casually at the very top, like the slightest gush of wind would send it into the abyss forever. Ordinarily, I wouldn't think anything of it, I mean there are thousands of trippers in the city, but each night, if I take the long way home and walk down Polk to Jackson, I see him standing in the same doorway of this deserted building, his shoulders crooked, his head down, surrounded by a nest of old newspapers and graffiti. At first I assumed he was waiting there, like he had just rung the bell. Then I realized he was in the same position every night, and suddenly it donned on me that he was sleeping, that this dude lives on that fuckin' porch and doesn't move all night. Him being homeless and perhaps retarded, that's tragic. But the fact that he sleeps standing up, the fact that nobody ever comes out of that building, the fact that my house-mates didn't know what I was talking about a few minutes ago when I brought it up - although they've lived in the same place for thirteen years, this all seems odd to me, like I'm suddenly in the middle of a scene from Donnie Darko, only there's no bunny rabbit, and no "Killing Moon" on the soundtrack.

Then again, what do I know?

To Cure A Weakling

My boss is on vacation for the next month. Outside of supporting the sales staff downstairs by taking photographs and periodically updating our web site, I have nothing to work on. No projects. No responsibilities. Our next exhibition 3 months away, our advertising budget slashed (hence my lack of print work), my immediate supervisors nowhere to be found, I find myself staring at this huge screen, wondering what to do.

Common sense tells me, hey, why don't you finish your photography update? Why don't you finish the outline to your script? Why don't you convert your grad school films to digital and compress them into little Quicktime shorts for youtube? Why don't you read your favorite short story, Pacazo, by Roy Kesey, immersing yourself in the tight prose, hoping that the beautiful lyricism will rub off in some magical way?

There needs to be some kind of routine here, a disciplined, efficient approach to the craft of writing, one that will lead to both a renaissance of inspiration and will also provide some clarity to my existential paralysis. And it must happen soon. And when I say soon, I mean right this very minute.

(*Turns up Aphex Twin.)

Cover me. I'm going in.

Remember Me

Saw British Sea Power Saturday night at Bottom of the Hill, the second great NoisePop show I've attended in four days. These guys are nothing short of amazing live, with the sort of stage presence of a Joy Division or Kaiser Chiefs. It was even more special to witness it in such an intimate venue, where, fifteen feet from the stage, you can really get a sense of the personality of the band. Check out "Remember Me" below: