Duchamp is a Jerk

It saddens me a little bit that my life is so consumed by school right now that every social activity must be blogged for posterity, or at least as proof of my leaving Hyde Park. Saturday night, after attending a BBQ at a friend's house on the north side, I met my roommate at the Sox/35th Red Line stop in Bridgeport. We hopped on the 35 Bus to Iron Street, where we walked a block on a deserted brick road punctuated by waterlogged potholes and lined with old warehouses.

Awaiting us at 3636 S. Iron Street, a dark warehouse building, was Version Fest, a "festival focused on emerging art, technology, and social activism." I'd wanted to go because the festival seemed to have a special place in its heart for street art and other urban ephemera that might have some impact on the things I've been thinking about for my thesis. We found the side door, paid our $5, and entered.

The ground floor was, well, interesting. It was populated by hopelessly self-obsessed hipsters sipping PBRs. (side note: when did hipster fashion take a turn toward the 80s? All the gold-threaded lace tights and legwarmers and–gasp–neon leggings.) Our normal clothes rendered us invisible. The hopelessly self-obsessed hipsters never even saw us walking through the art. I found most of the ground floor art poorly thought out and moderately executed. A few notable exceptions included a huge, acrylic, tent-like dome. Images of trash–cigarettes, crushed Negro Modelo cans, wadded up paper–were printed all over the acrylic. I'm not sure how the artist made it; it looked like the image had been hand-painted and then mass-reproduced. The reproduction was done in very muted colors, but the pixelation was pop art-esque, like Roy Lichenstein's comic books.

Another interesting piece was a little wooden cabin, maybe three feet high, wedged into a corner. Cedar chips spilled out of its front door. Its lit interior revealed a number of paintings hanging on the wall, crude renditions of girls and birds. Again, there weren't any labels or other explanatory text, so I don't know anything more. But I liked it.

We wandered up to the fourth floor, which promised "Urban Gardening." This art, even though I didn't love all of it, was much more carefully thought out. Photos of recent immigration rallies, instructions for making your own sidewalk stencil (best one: map of the world with an arrow pointing to the USA with the words, "not an island"), live action silk-screening, and free stickers proclaiming "You Are Beautiful." And, of course, more hopelessly self-obsessed hipsters sipping PBRs.

On both the ground floor and the fourth floor, a group called Go! Postal had set up shop. They had created a little scene meant to look like a post office. But they had rubber stamps. And how! I was like a little kid, stamping everything in sight (including my hand–"Duchamp is a Jerk"–and my roommate's hand–"X RATED"). Singing cowgirls, abstract designs, stars cut from rubber erasers (genius!), "Art? Yes or No", and all other manner of rubberized ridiculousness. I'm pretty sure the Go! Postal people had some point to all of this, but really, it was like being set loose during arts and crafts hour.

Another artist had recycled street signs into urban swings. He chopped up the signs, nailed them to a wooden board, and secured them to the ceiling with rope and other fancy hardware. I think I might still be high from all the swinging–seriously, it's the best therapy ever. Totally worth the rope burn on my hands. I highly recommend you find a playground one night soon and touch the stars with your toes.

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current book: Mrs. Fucking Dalloway and her motherfuckin' party. I think the pages are laced with opium, as it puts me to sleep everytime I crack open its spine.
current music: Talk To Her soundtrack. It's heartbreaking until Caetano Veloso sings "Cuccuruccu Paloma," which explodes with hope and bittersweetness and everything in between. The cello is this beautiful, sad voice underscoring Veloso's words. Get your tissue handy and download it immediately.
current socks: I wore flip-flops today, which left blisters on the tops of my feet. Hmph.