Alex Israel: Art as Lorem Ipsum

"gettyimages", by J.A. Gosham,
depicting Alex Israel.

Alex Israel’s exhibition “Fins” just recently ended on July 28 at the Gagosian gallery in Rome. “Fins” features an installation of sleek plastic surfboard fins presented as sculptures. The fin imagery evokes a rather rudimentary cross-lingual pun on the French “end” referencing the “Finish Fetish” that typified 1960s Southern California artwork in which artists (among them Judy Chicago) used industrial processes and materials such as fiberglass and resin to create glossy finishes for their abstract art. 

As an added bonus, Isreal has garnished the installation with text written by ChatGPT and other large-language model programs. ChatGPT even wrote his press release. Herein, Isreal (or rather ChatGPT) commented that “A.I. has become a medium in and of itself. By using A.I. to generate the press release, I’m commenting on the intersection between technology, art, and media.”

Seriously, this is all it takes to make it in art? All I need is some scrounged-up surfboard pieces and some text from ChatGPT? I really don’t want to sound like a philistine here, as I much prefer conceptual art to Marvel movies, but I’m not especially impressed by what Israel brings to the table. I can handle the surfboard fins, but the utilization of ChatGPT as if it’s some profound commentary isn’t very inspiring. The cheap pun on “fin” offends my sensibilities almost as much as the use of AI for generating the text. All told, Israel seems like the fine art equivalent of Lorem Ipsum. Regardless, his work graces the permanent collections of MOMA and the Guggenheim. Regardless, “Fins” caught plenty of buzz and brought in a sophisticated, well-dressed audience.

I don’t think it’s unfair to call Israel’s artistic ability into question. He’s also dipped his toe into filmmaking. His first and only film, 2017’s SPF-18, centres upon a host of surfing teenagers, one of whom is debating between art school and a life of surfing. Apparently, these effete existential debates didn’t resonate with the viewing masses, as the film boasts a 3.3 rating on IMDB. One IMDB reviewer writes “I'm pretty sure this movie was written by a 13 year old girl with rich parents who could bank roll [sic] the entire thing.” This comment is partly in error, as SPF-18's co-writers, one of whom is Israel, are both grown men. However, the reviewer tenders a tenable hypothesis about how this picture got made—namely, that its creator came from wealth. Packed with scenic locations, a gorgeous cast, and celebrity cameos from Pamela Anderson and Keanu Reeves, SPF-18 took resources, no matter how bad it is. Those same resources also powered “Fins.” The secret, then, to Israel’s success and international appeal in the art world would appear to be assets, along with a dose of beauty and expensive clothing, rather than talent of any sort.

If I'm being honest, I'm willing to bet I've got more artistry in my little finger than Alex Israel has in his entire trim, fit body. In the time it takes Alex Israel to get out of bed and prepare avocado toast, I've probably had more legitimately creative thoughts than he has in a year.  But because I'm flabby, shabbily dressed, and don't have rich parents, most or all of my works will never be seen by more than a few semi-interested friends in my hometown on the plains. If I was better dressed and moneyed, all I'd have to do is hoard surfboard fins and hit up ChatGPT, and I'd be an internationally successful artist. No wonder so many people in the backwater where I live dismiss art (not that the studio-wrought, IP-driven drivel they prefer in movies is much better). It really goes to show how much “fine art” and “aesthetic sensibilities” are intertwined with wealth and a vision of upper-classness.

But I don’t think art necessarily takes money for everyone, or at least not a ton of money. Give me $5000 dollars—hell, $1000 dollars—and I could make a film that gets at least a 4 on IMDB. Fin.

Fatburger's Triumvirate of Plant-Based Burgers: A Review

Fatburger stands out among fast-food purveyors in that it offers more than one vegetarian option. Indeed, Fatburger boasts a whopping three non-meat burgers: the Veggie Burger, the California Veggie, and the Impossible Fatburger. So, just recently, I was determined to undertake a small feat of consumption by ingesting all three of Fatburger's plant-based offerings in order to determine for myself which one was the best.

First, I need to offer some brief notes on methodology. I ordered all three burgers with the full spectrum of toppings. Also, I consumed all three burgers simultaneously, going back and forth between each one. I did this in order to avoid bias based on hunger, or eventual lack thereof. Had I eaten the burgers in sequence, being full would likely have factored into my judgement of whatever burger I had consumed last. In a similar spirit, I will now evaluate the burgers in no particular order.

The standard "Veggie Burger" offers what Fatburger describes as a "real" veggie patty and is topped with mustard, relish, onion, pickles, tomato, fresh-cut lettuce, and mayonnaise. The veggie patty struck me as serviceable but somewhat undistinguished with respect to other comparable patties. That said, the patty accentuated the actual vegetables, particularly the lettuce and tomato, very capably.

The "California Veggie" is once again based around the veggie patty as per the standard veggie, and is topped with guacamole, double Swiss, tomato, lettuce, mayo and, for an extra charge, a fried egg. Needless to say, there's a lot going on with this burger. I added to the chaos by opting for the fried egg topping, which some might argue disqualifies this burger from constituting a properly vegetarian dish. Regardless of that, we'll take the broadest definition of "vegetarian" here. I quite enjoyed the tasty disarray of this burger, with its multifarious flavor and texture sensations provided by the guacamole, the Swiss cheese, and the egg.

The "Impossible Fatburger" distinguishes itself from the other non-meat burgers by way of its "Impossible" plant-based patty, not to mention its toasted Brioche bun. This burger is topped with "crisp lettuce" and "ripe tomato", as per the menu's description, as well as cheese, red onion, pickles, relish, mustard, and mayo. The Brioche Bun added a touch of panache to the plant-based experience, and it worked well texturally with the Impossible patty.

All told, I enjoyed all three burgers, and was full beyond satisfaction upon finishing them. That said, I can make a clear discernment in quality. The bronze medal goes to the standard Veggie Burger. It compares favorably to most burger joints' veggie offerings, but it is rather milquetoast relative to Fatburger's other options. The silver medal goes to the California Veggie. It offers so much in terms of taste and texture, though it does make quite a mess. The gold must go, then, to the Impossible Fatburger. The Impossible patty has its charms, though I wouldn't say it's appreciably better than the "real" veggie. To my tastes, the toasted Brioche bun sets the Impossible Fatburger apart as the frontrunner. It makes for a classier eating experience than the California Veggie, and so it takes first place. (I guess I did, in the preceding paragraphs, present these burgers in order, after all.)

These judgments aside, there is not a weak burger in the Fatburger veggie-option bunch, and I'd order them all again. Curiously enough, the California Veggie will probably be my go-to going forward. Admittedly, I enjoy the messy eating experience, and the sheer sensory assault of the guacamole, double Swiss, and the runny egg atop it all. But don't take this as a reversal of my position: the Impossible Fatburger is the better-tasting, tidier, and classier option.

Vault of Christmas

It's astounding how printed material can be so closely soldered to a time in your life. 

Take for instance Christmas Holidays in Grade 4, 1992 through to New Year's 1993. Back then, they had these reprints of the old EC Comics, like Vault of Horror and Tales from the Crypt. Gladstone was doing them, the same company that published Uncle Scrooge and Donald Duck reprints. Well, for Christmas, I had got Vault of Horror number four, I believe it was by that enumeration, a double issue that had maybe Haunt of Fear as the back half. That was my Christmas gift, I think, just that one lousy issue. But that issue was fantastic. I mean, that issue was my Christmas Holiday from 1992 to the first few days of 1993. 

I can still remember the cover, a classy antebellum dame looking on in horror at some creature we can only imagine, because our perspective is from behind a rotted hand resting on a bannister. And the inside of that comic book, well, it delineated the very parameters of that holiday period—of that time and space. I spent most of that time in my parents' cabin in the woods, with its coal-oil lamps and its wood-heating and no electricity. The space of that confining cabin became the spaces described within the eight stories that spanned those two issues. 

There was the story of a man who, in his rise up the corporate ladder in the soap factory, had thrown his ever-hectoring boss into a vat of soap. Now, as he showered before a big date with a classy gal (a consequence of his inflated status), one of the bars of soap, apparently possessed by the murdered boss, slips away from the murderer and clogs the shower drain, leading to a death by drowning. I was in that shower all throughout that holiday. 

In another story, four or five Russian people in a sleigh are trying to escape pursuit by wolves. They finally decide that one of them has to be thrown to the canines to allow the others to escape. It's sort of a trolley problem as conceived by the Crypt Keeper. And for that whole holiday, I daresay I was in that sled. The narrow confines of the cabin were expanded by that well-thumbed EC reprint. There's no conclusion to that wolf story, so I can offer no real spoiler alert here, because we never get to see who volunteered to go over the side, or who was forcibly chosen by the group. So there are as many endings written in your mind as there were Russians in that sleigh. 

And so this comic book expands the space of this one story times five, multiplying the conceptual space into something much more expansive. You read it over and over again and the possibilities multiply. As such, my minimal little winter world, the four walls that seemed perpetual throughout my childhood, began to expand. Stories stretched space and time. Perhaps the expansiveness of narrative made that reprieve from school seem a little bit longer. I wouldn't have much wanted to go back to school. 

It was that year that I was really coming to terms with how much I wasn't getting done. I had this baseless, paranoid thought that I might fail grade four, just because I hadn't finished a few worksheets. I guess that's the first time I realized I was lagging behind in my effort to do things my best, and also that I was feeling the strain doing assignments I didn't really see the point of. I never wanted, at least from that point on, to be someone who did busy work and was driven by tasks. 

I see, then, why I gravitated to stories, because they could expand not only space that wasn't there but also time I felt like I didn't have. Seconds and minutes and hours never seemed long enough. Stories opened up new spaces of possibility; the interpretations of a narrative could stack the potentialities. Stories could fold time up in heaps, creating a strata of pocket universes. I wouldn't have been able to explain it then, and I can only vaguely intimate it now. Stories, or at least the best ones, have a multidimensional quality to them. 

I am glad I have had some limited opportunity to tell stories of my own. I hope I can compound those potentialities for other people through my writing. By giving up some of their time to read my works, I hope I can actually make some time for the reader, insofar as we collaborate in utilizing that extraordinary capacity imagination has of being able to multiply what can be, such that the present always seems so full. So while people might deride the EC Comics as corny and far too often predicated on cheap moral lessons (all of them wrapped in gore and gristle), I see them, when at their best, as fantastic stories that compound possibilities. They set the imagination going, and, if you let them, they may just keep it rolling on mercilessly. 

Take it from me—I can look back into Vault of Horror Gladstone reprint number four and I'm back on the cusp of 1992 and 1993, ten years old, in a cabin in the hard nadir of winter wondering about what happened to those Russians in the back of that sleigh, and at the same time experiencing all five possible fates.

The Eyes of Laura Mars (1978)

The Eyes of Laura Mars should be of obvious interest to slasher-flick historians. Written by John Carpenter and released just before his masterpiece Halloween, it represents a sort of spiritual prequel to Michael Myers' first movement. To wit, Laura Mars utilizes first-person perspectives to capture stalk-and-slash sequences, the very same that were perfected in Halloween. These sequences mark the central gimmick of the film, as the eponymous Laura Mars can see murders through the eyes of a killer on account of some unexplained psychic mind-meld. All told, this is among the least slasher-like of the proto-slasher films (that is, those films that predate the inception of the "slasher cycle" in 1978 with the aforementioned Halloween), and is probably better classified as a psionic whodunnit noir flick. The Eyes of Laura Mars seems almost giallo-like at times, blending Manhattan chic with late-70s NYC grime. The peerless Faye Dunaway, fresh off her deranged Oscar-winning performance in Network, turns in a serviceable performance as the titular character. A unrecognizably young Tommy Lee Jones delivers a solid supporting role as the detective investigating the murders. Raul Julia, the eventual M. Bison, plays Mars' alcoholic and histrionic ex-husband, while Brad Dourif, the eventual voice of Chucky, serves as her sketchy limo driver. This all-star lineup comes to comprise the prime suspects as more and more of the cast gets knocked off in murder-mystery fashion. Without offering any spoilers, I'll note that the killer turns out to be the person you least suspect (or, if you're into game theory, it's perhaps the person you most suspect, as inverting all expectations is a matter of course for game theorists). What really sets The Eyes of Laura Mars apart is its soundtrack, most notably a lengthy sequence backed by Michael Zaeger's disco classic "Let's All Chant." The arrangement is orchestral (at least by disco standards), juxtaposing jarringly with the vapid lyrics. This fits the uneasiness of both the 70s New York backdrop and Mars' confounding cognitive affliction exceedingly well. In the end, the visual and sonic experience offered by The Eyes of Laura Mars allows the film to hold up as a worthy period-piece for both slasher and noir fans alike.