Latest news with #Exhibitionist
Boston Globe
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Boston Globe
Cambridge writer Peter Mendelsund isn't afraid to make you feel bad
Advertisement His new book, (The characters partake in Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up Mendelsund will discuss both new releases in conversation with WBUR editor Tania Ralli at Advertisement Q. " Exhibitionist" — which is subtitled '1 Journal, 1 Depression, 100 Paintings' — is a unique book. How did you land on that structure? A. I had the opportunity to publish a hundred paintings as an art monograph, but I was tired of purely visual books. I was captioning it, and felt like, 'Oh this is so dull.' I started looking at the journals because I was working on the paintings at the same time I was writing my diary. Right around that moment, I had a conversation with my recently deceased mother in which she said, 'I hate memoirs; they're so exhibitionist.' As soon as I heard that word, I was like, these two things can be married, right? Because [the journal] is this deeply personal, personal book about guilt and shame, and to put it out into the world does feel so exhibitionist. She just said that word, and everything opened up. The thing I'm most proud of in this publication moment is the serendipity of this form. Q. Toward the end of your journal, you wonder if seeing all of the paintings in a show would help you understand what it was you were doing as an artist. Did you arrive at an understanding? A. None whatsoever. The whole thing is mysterious to me. I have no idea how any of it happened. The amazing thing is that whenever this book is talked about, the narrative is that art saved me or the recuperative power of art therapy. Advertisement I believe in that. It's extremely valuable. But in this case, that's not what happened. Art didn't save me. Art was something that just came out of me during this period. It kept my hands busy. When you're depressed, you have to be reminded to put food in you or get out of bed. It lubricated my joints. Quite literally. Also metaphorically, but it just meant that I could be distracted and my body would just do the things that bodies — undepressed bodies — do during the day. In the end, what saved me is a diagnosis, proper medication, a lot of therapy, and the love of my family and friends. Painting is just an interesting byproduct, like sweat or tears. Cambridge-based Peter Mendelsund's "Exhibitionist," a collection of journal entries and original art created during the Covid-19 pandemic. Provided Q. You mention having the idea for 'Weepers' in a journal entry in 'Exhibitionist.' Do you think of these books as being in conversation with each other? A. They speak to one another in so many ways. On the most obvious level, they're sad books. There's some sense of hope at the end of both, but these are both books that are contending with deep sorrow, family trauma, and national tragedies of various kinds. I don't think it's a stretch to think we're living through an age where the primary emotions are either anger or tremendous numbness, just a total lack of compassion. It seemed like there was never a better time for this idea of there being people who help other people feel things. Q. The most skilled weeper in 'Weepers,' the 'Kid,' arrives mysteriously and is almost too powerful — he gets people too in touch with their emotions. But, while central to the plot, there's very little about him in the book. How did you approach that? Advertisement A. One of the things about a miracle is that it's inexplicable. And this is a book about a miracle. So it needed to be inexplicable. I wanted him to be flat. I wanted him to be a cipher. And it just seemed absolutely crucial to me. There were moments where I tried to write more into his story, and it just didn't work. It made the miraculous less plausible. If you want origin stories, that's what the Marvel Cinematic Universe is for. People perform miracles, and it's explained exactly who they are and where they got their powers. I can totally understand how, as a reader, it would be frustrating not to know. Even writing it, it's frustrating for me not to know. But I don't really mind that. I like the challenge. I don't want to answer questions. I want to raise them. Q. The setting of 'Weepers'— a rural desert town in the Southwestern US —simultaneously feels very strange and very familiar. How did you think about it? A . It's a parable, but I could picture this place very clearly in my mind. Whether it's Arizona or Texas or New Mexico, I could see the environment. You have to be able to transpose whatever's happening into any milieu — that's what makes it an allegory — so I didn't want to be too specific. Anybody who's got their head screwed on right is mourning for the country, mourning for the planet. The machismo is also important. I wanted a place where it's not just consumptive atelier-living bohemians who are feeling sad. The weepers come from all walks of life and have all different kinds of temperaments. They're up against this traditional sense of normative American manhood. It seemed like the border was an appropriate place. Advertisement Interview was edited and condensed. Peter Mendelsund , Tuesday, 7 p.m. Porter Square Books, Cambridge Edition. 1815 Massachusetts Ave., Cambridge, . Bradley Babendir is a fiction writer and critic based in Somerville.
Mada
10-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Mada
Mario and Tamara
Mario. The Exhibitionist — the art journal, not a naked person flashing — once asked me to contribute an essay to their 'Curator's Favorites' series. I decided to write about Al-Nitaq, Cairo's foremost art festival, which took place twice in Downtown Cairo in 2000 and 2001 — a legendary event. I'll admit upfront that I'm an unreliable narrator, not because I wish to be duplicitous, but simply because I remember things as I lived them. Like relationships — everyone has their own story. My essay on Al-Nitaq was titled 'Have You Met Mario?' — a piece I had almost forgotten about until I was WhatsApping with a new friend a couple of weeks ago. 'How was your weekend?' 'I had dinner with friends the other night at Mazeej — the rooftop of what was formerly La Viennoise Hotel.' 'It's gentrification to the core,' I added, 'but it's nice.' My friend hadn't heard of Mazeej-qua-Viennoise, but it was a Saturday morning bursting with false optimism. He said: 'Same also — I'm at a brunch at Tamara Haus.' This was the first I'd ever heard of it, but my brain heard 'Tamara' and the first question that popped into my head was, 'Where the fuck is Mario?' I miss Mario — not the man himself, but the vibe. Mario was the appointed cultural attaché and later consul for the Italian Embassy in Cairo, but more importantly, he was a dilettante, a socialite, a painter, a writer, a huge flirt, somewhat of an Orientalist, comfortable with his sexuality, playful. He showed up in artists' work — as a persona, as himself. He appears as a homoerotic figure in the photography of Youssef Nabil. He starred as Mario in the epic Sandouk El Dounia by Lara Baladi, a kaleidoscopic manga-like figure among other fantastic personages in the monumental project that occupied the once upon a time Viennoise — poetically dilapidated, haunted, gorgeous, labyrinthine, dusty. The hotel was once part of Baladi's family estate, which now is owned by Al Ismaelia for Real Estate Investment — a company with assets throughout Downtown Cairo and a project focused on 'urban revitalization.' I remember it as one would a Berlin nightclub, feeling my way through a dark room. I met Mario during the opening night of the second edition of Al-Nitaq. I think of Mario as occupying this double position: a character in works of art, but also part of a support structure, culturally speaking — he presided over prime space in the Italian consulate in downtown, which doubled as an exhibition venue. My point here is not to enchant you with nostalgia but to make sense of the feeling — not cerebrally, but viscerally — of the impending revitalization-cum-gentrification of Downtown Cairo. It is not to mourn the disappearance of the kind of work that provides gentrification with its foundation (we're no better than Soho) — that grit, character and unhinged imagination, all of it unpredictable, messy, full of contested narratives, histories and infighting — of what was and what it is becoming. Tamara. So, a few days ago, I decided, with some trepidation, to visit Tamara Haus. I admit, every time I walk into an Ismaelia-touched property, my fight-or-flight gets activated, and I tend to freeze. Not because I am standing in the way of the tsunami of 'revitalization' but simply because I am still trying to get used to the fact that everything I know and value about the spaces that have been fundamental to Cairo's history of contemporary art — the kind that is actually relevant to the (art) world and has borne international (read 'star') artists such as Wael Shawky, Amal Kenawy, Anna Boghiguian, Hassan Khan and others — remains conspicuously absent from the new 'counterfeit' gentrified emerging scene of art, post coup. Anyway, I went to Tamara Haus. Approaching the building — situated right across from the historic Banque Misr. Neoclassical, the entrance: pristine pediment resting on decorative pilasters, minimalist deep-red brickwork striking in contrast, Marylebone. My eyes glaze upward as I enter. The dust and dawsha of the street recede — I don't register the peeling sign, الزهور: مكتبة السرعة، هدايا، أدوات مكتبة، خردوات, or the aging shop owner sitting at the foot of his shop, facing the street; he is my audience. Everything dims, and my first impression is a musky scent, which I later learn has a name: Al-Layl الليل. I feel like a transition shot in a film, both starring and filming at the same time. The impeccably dressed security steward greets me with quiet formality. I am embarking on an experience. I stand, attentive, taking in the statement that tells me what this is all about. There's a museological quality to the experience. I am lured in by the dark, the shine, luster, glistening — display cases unfolding. I stand at the threshold, and all I can see is… hippos. Toy hippos. Toy hippos in every color and material: basalt, wood, light marble, dark marble. They come in three sizes. They range in price from LE5,000 to LE16,000 (c. US$100–320). There are also two scents: Al-Layl and Al-Nahar. Night and Day. Nondescript, nice, pricey. I have a long conversation with the hippo boutique attendant, whose gaze I find hard to hold, because it feels like if we click our gaze together, the suspension of disbelief will crack, and Tamara will turn into a pumpkin. He hands me a very expensive brown paper brochure, and I sneak a chocolate piece from the counter (it's for the clientele, i.e., me) and then I head to the upper level to further explore the house. The sprawling space, which comprises several top-notch design houses — furniture, office, fabrics, etc. — is grand. This is not a free review, brand name dropping irrelevant at the moment. There are no visitors except me — assumed to belong, white-passing, wrapped in a camel coat, blending into the surroundings — and two elderly gentlemen, likely downtown locals, who, in this setting, stand out as foreign to the place against its beige high-fluting design. While we peruse in wonder, we acknowledge each other. Here and there, we pause, taking turns asking for prices. Occasionally, a couch is called out for LE350,000. 'It is leather,' is the response to our knowing nods. 'Really? But it looks like fabric.' Two of us reach to touch it — true, it looks like fabric but feels like suede. We are both impressed. I continue alone and ask about more prices — like at an art fair — I am reassured that I will receive the catalog price list on WhatsApp. Bless. The experience has symbolic and surreal moments. My brain is trying to make sense of everything all at once. There are so many kitsch details to note, the veneer of age-value, sprinkles of archival matter, antiques, shabby-chic (but only for flair). Old gramophones, TV screens, a leather burgundy suitcase strapped with belts, an old clunky dial-pad telephone, vintage typewriters (many), Singer machines (at least two), movie posters — thrown together for a composite vibe that cries early 20th century, au courant, as we try to evoke a present that is pre-1952. قول للزمان ارجع يا زمان. It is an invocation, literalized, dark cursive calligraphy on a light wall. I walk around and think to myself, this is an expensive coping mechanism. But in a way, it's not that different from what Al-Nitaq represented. A revolution has passed, and we're still here. And yet, here I was, in the core of Cairo, browsing high-end design, squinting at statements draped around phrases like 'sociopolitical injustice,' 'symbols of resistance,' and 'beacons of hope,' for real, for real, resistance as aesthetic. Tchai, a serene teahouse. A young dark-skinned server, warm and polite, alerts me that the glass of water I am about to drink is very special. 'Zamzam?' I joke, and he laughs. Later, I ask for his name. 'Karawan.' I blink. 'Karawan,' he repeats, '…أصل صوتي حلو' 'أغنيلك؟' He turns down the volume — just a little — on melancholic Armenian revival and hums in search of his own melody. Can I place the song? I hesitate… He helps me out: 'Asalah.' I tell myself to look it up later, but I forget. Trying to reconstruct the scene, I know this wasn't the song he sang, yet another one of hers that comes to mind is إغضب, lyrics by Nizar Qabbani: إغضبْ كما تشاءُ.. واجرحْ أحاسيسي كما تشاءُ.. حطّم أواني الزّهرِ والمرايا.. هدّدْ بحبِّ امرأةٍ سوايا.. I know you won't take me seriously when I say this, but I miss Mario. It's not fair. And it's not just about the vibe — these spaces form around the false promise of exorcising ennui, lulling us into distraction, pampering and entertaining, while art has lost all interest in speaking truth to power.
