Let me clarify further: I did not necessarily use it improperly, but, better, I used it in haste. Were I to know that I would be walking in the East Village on a crisp, cold day, and coming upon the mostly complete superstructure of Charles Gwathmey’s “Sculpture for Living” in Astor Place, I would have held on dearly for a week further, thus affording myself the occasion to relish it’s all-too-elegant propriety. For those still unclear on its appeal to me, a snippet:
3 : sickeningly unpleasant : of a kind that makes one queasy : NAUSEATING, REVOLTING {utterly bilious weather} {with clapboards painted red and bilious yellow — Sinclair Lewis} — “bilious.” Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, Unabridged. Merriam-Webster, 2002. (27 Feb. 2005)
I find it so useful, since it allows a paronomastic construction with the certain to be employed “billowing” in the lesser lights of critical reflection that will delude themselves into finding good things to say about this abomination.
But let’s pretend this is a New Yorker profile: I will interject a vaguely related anecdote from times past that will eventually, after too long a detour, return us to the overarching premise.
A friend moved here some years back, not many many years, but a while ago. He made the dutiful phonecalls to nameplate firms, and ones that might actually be hiring (it wasn’t always that you got to fall out of bed and into the hands of a developer willing to pay for you to vomit all over our streetscape). When he spoke to an associate at Gwathmey/Siegel, he was told their ideal profile for a new hire was someone “really good at CAD and willing to work for $6/hr.” My friend chuckled appropriately, until he realized the associate was dead serious. Later, he heard tales from people working there (the juiciest of which I can’t report, unfortunately, since they might well be libelous) including that Charlie used to bring his wolfhounds to the office, and once, being told by an underling that one had done its business, looked up, and said distractedly, “Oh? Can you take care of that?” Which leads me to say (can you see it coming? can you?): one would hope his staff has grown enough that he can dispatch them to clean up the shit he’s taken on Astor Place. That his last major work was nicknamed the toilet tank makes it all the more ironic (whammo! sign me up, Remnick!).
In case you’ve been living under a rock — or in denial, which is more likely — the Cooper Union traded part of Manhattan for a shiny trinket courtesy of Charles Gwathmey (gory details), who delivered what looks like a parody of a first-year studio project: a squared-off base, rationalized for high impact retail, surmounted by a completely featureless and banal curvy shaft of residential, topped by another rectilinear form, as arbitrary and unattractive as the rest. At least it’s consistent: ugly from top to bottom.
I remember back in the day when my distaste for his work was malformed and juvenile. I used to think his formal explorations seemed facile and unconsidered, compared to those of his contemporaries, such as Hejduk and Eisenman, who were doing work that was superficially similar. But, being green and lacking an academic pedigree of any kind, I figured my confusion was simply a lack of sensitivity or discernment.
Now, years later, my for distaste his work, highly polished and juvenile, and lacking any credentials whatsover, is tempered by understanding that he is a high-class hack with a bulletproof rolodex. Coasting along on second homes that dot the eastern end of Long Island with no distinction whatsoever, I struggle to name anything he has done in the past twenty years of note, save the aforementioned addition to the Guggenheim (which they found necessary to gussy up with a shard from the golden boy of sinew).
Perhaps someone will rise in his defence and list some for me. Perhaps that same person can try to use logic and reason to detail the virtues of his Sculpture for Living. Perhaps I should actually bother to craft an argument. But it’s like complaining about American Idol or Fox News: it’s barely worth mentioning, let alone expending precious brain cells that could be better used as fodder for alcohol or playing solitare. So, my apologies for taking your time in the course of an unnecessarily elaborate warning: stay away from Astor Place. For, um, I guess, ever.
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I have to apologize: I used the adjective bilious improperly last week.
Let me clarify further: I did not necessarily use it improperly, but, better, I used it in haste. Were I to know that I would be walking in the East Village on a crisp, cold day, and coming upon the mostly complete superstructure of Charles Gwathmey’s “Sculpture for Living” in Astor Place, I would have held on dearly for a week further, thus affording myself the occasion to relish it’s all-too-elegant propriety. For those still unclear on its appeal to me, a snippet:
I find it so useful, since it allows a paronomastic construction with the certain to be employed “billowing” in the lesser lights of critical reflection that will delude themselves into finding good things to say about this abomination.
But let’s pretend this is a New Yorker profile: I will interject a vaguely related anecdote from times past that will eventually, after too long a detour, return us to the overarching premise. A friend moved here some years back, not many many years, but a while ago. He made the dutiful phonecalls to nameplate firms, and ones that might actually be hiring (it wasn’t always that you got to fall out of bed and into the hands of a developer willing to pay for you to vomit all over our streetscape). When he spoke to an associate at Gwathmey/Siegel, he was told their ideal profile for a new hire was someone “really good at CAD and willing to work for $6/hr.” My friend chuckled appropriately, until he realized the associate was dead serious. Later, he heard tales from people working there (the juiciest of which I can’t report, unfortunately, since they might well be libelous) including that Charlie used to bring his wolfhounds to the office, and once, being told by an underling that one had done its business, looked up, and said distractedly, “Oh? Can you take care of that?” Which leads me to say (can you see it coming? can you?): one would hope his staff has grown enough that he can dispatch them to clean up the shit he’s taken on Astor Place. That his last major work was nicknamed the toilet tank makes it all the more ironic (whammo! sign me up, Remnick!). In case you’ve been living under a rock — or in denial, which is more likely — the Cooper Union traded part of Manhattan for a shiny trinket courtesy of Charles Gwathmey (gory details), who delivered what looks like a parody of a first-year studio project: a squared-off base, rationalized for high impact retail, surmounted by a completely featureless and banal curvy shaft of residential, topped by another rectilinear form, as arbitrary and unattractive as the rest. At least it’s consistent: ugly from top to bottom. I remember back in the day when my distaste for his work was malformed and juvenile. I used to think his formal explorations seemed facile and unconsidered, compared to those of his contemporaries, such as Hejduk and Eisenman, who were doing work that was superficially similar. But, being green and lacking an academic pedigree of any kind, I figured my confusion was simply a lack of sensitivity or discernment. Now, years later, my for distaste his work, highly polished and juvenile, and lacking any credentials whatsover, is tempered by understanding that he is a high-class hack with a bulletproof rolodex. Coasting along on second homes that dot the eastern end of Long Island with no distinction whatsoever, I struggle to name anything he has done in the past twenty years of note, save the aforementioned addition to the Guggenheim (which they found necessary to gussy up with a shard from the golden boy of sinew). Perhaps someone will rise in his defence and list some for me. Perhaps that same person can try to use logic and reason to detail the virtues of his Sculpture for Living. Perhaps I should actually bother to craft an argument. But it’s like complaining about American Idol or Fox News: it’s barely worth mentioning, let alone expending precious brain cells that could be better used as fodder for alcohol or playing solitare. So, my apologies for taking your time in the course of an unnecessarily elaborate warning: stay away from Astor Place. For, um, I guess, ever.