Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview

meredith3low Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

Portland’s Meredith Dittmar is opening a new solo show, Now You See It, Now You Don’t, at FIFTY24MX Gallery opening this December 10th. If you are in Mexico City….

Meredith Dittmar (Massachusets, 1974)  is an artist living and playing in Portland OR. Born near Boston Mass, she grew up in a world of pet pigs, horses, hay-forts and spy games. Follow this with an education in computer science, a career in interactive design, a compulsive need to create, and a drive to Seek and you get the major elements of her person and work.

Dittmar’s human-animal-plant-energy amalgams contain threads of common elements and colors to express deep levels of union across themes of biology, technology, and consciousness. Her characters are frequently involved in quiet expressive moments, or lounge facing their audience so they can share their inner space. Dittmar believes it is this space we recognize in ourselves, and through convening in that space, the interconnectedness of all things is revealed. She sees the act of spontaneous artistic creation as part of a larger practice of being present, and a way to better understand herself and reality.

meredith1low 605x440 Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

meredith5low Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

meredith4low Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

meredith2low Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

m6low 605x436 Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

m5 low 605x423 Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

m4b 605x864 Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

flyer low 605x758 Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

flyermeredith Meredith Dittmar @ FIFTY24MX Gallery Preview meredith dittmar FIFTY24SF Gallery fifty24mx

Put me in the dark for like 30 minutes, then just flash that camera

Screen shot 2011 09 12 at 4.00.18 PM 605x418 Put me in the dark for like 30 minutes, then just flash that camera ulf lundin Photography from darkness

This is what Ulf Lundin does. Puts his subjects in the dark for about a half-hour, then shoots a photo of them with flash when they aren’t expecting it. Look at those eyes! Lundin’s statement about the project reads: “The light in the portraits are traditionally set, but still they are quite different to traditional photography portraiture. There is a romantic impression that the photographer should capture the true personality of the person in front of him. In the series “From Darkness” it is the opposite. The people rather looks like if they are from a vax cabinette. Or are they even dead? They don’t communicate with the viewer or the photographer (if You could say that there is any?). It is as if they are shut down, parked in stand by-mode. Since there is nobody watching them they have ceased existing socially.”

Screen shot 2011 09 12 at 4.00.01 PM 605x420 Put me in the dark for like 30 minutes, then just flash that camera ulf lundin Photography from darkness

via juxtapoz

From The Citrus Report

Posted By The Citrus Report

Notes From A Quiet Crucifixion, Part VI

On hiatus for a week while preparing for his Noise Pop performance, Jason Jaworski’s Notes From A Quiet Crucifixion series is back with a new installment of images, text and songs.

*     *     *

It was the same in this moment as it had been the night previous. I wrapped my forearm in the blanket I had been using these several nights to keep myself warm and with my hand shielded with fabric I shattered the pane of glass in front of me, easing my right forearm into the the square space of fractured glass, releasing the latch and hook from its place and with careful footing, began to enter the room.
I knock and call out for awhile. There is no one here. I am alone. A farmhouse in West Germany- laying down on what is, for the first time, a comfortable surface for me to sleep on. I take my shoes off for a brief moment and see in them things that would have made me shudder a week ago but now seem normal to my situation- large gashes from my feet’s flesh rubbing up against the wall of my shoes at a constant forming blisters and those blisters having been broken and that flesh having run together with the lining of my socks to form a strange consistency of part lint, part dead skin and part coagulated blood. I clean my feet the best I can and sit down once more, my hands running on continuously and continuously running through. I can see my breath in this space. I lay down on the floor, bag underneath my head acting as a pillow but resembling much more the harder surfaces of a sea animal’s carapace. I stare for a moment, studying the undulation of my breath and the immutable space which separates myself from the ceiling and the sky shimmering starless beyond me.
It is not long before images and dreams start to swim within me.

*     *     *

I see the people around me see themselves and I see them as if they were here but know that they are not. They are staring at me and staring at me they begin to come into the room that I am occupying. I see other things, distant things and distant memories once far from myself but now encroaching towards my inner self and coming inside myself. It is a curious thing to be alone for so long and to have no interaction whatsoever with the world around you in a verbal realm and instead experiencing everything through the lens of your eyes. Everything that I saw today was burned into my memory- things wild, boring, banal and mundane, beautiful things and lonely things- from the crowd of trees that I see above me as I fall asleep shivering, to the moments of inarguable grandeur of a sky converging downward with hands of cloud dripping and gripping through the rays of a morning sun’s chatter, to those distant stars and their imagery blinking back at me through thousand’s of years’ late light- a silver trigonometry shaping algorithms and equations that I cannot read coherently or decipher, but whose words and conversation I hear and experience fully.
The night is one of those things that makes one think of the world outside of themselves. The sun is gone, having traveled to some other hemisphere and as the earth turns, one’s thoughts gravitate to those plains of persons and people that have affected oneself. I think of my mother a great deal, the parting conversations we had and how long ago it all seemed. Those days were a different life and everything that I’d experienced then was from then and everything I was seeing was being sought out and kept from me. I think of my sister, arms flailing and running around with veins impure and filled with a poison that would later provide the means and basis for a schism between her character and herself. There is no heroine to heroin and this truth is something I will learn later but is a sentence that fits in now with this paragraph and this sentence closing out said paragraph.


The moon high and distant with incalculable light and shimmer. On golden days in my youth I used to run across the street and travel down the border, crossing over to Mexico and collecting forgotten items while running through a random conjecture of errands both asked of me and thought up from me. As a child my leg was split open when my age had yet to reach two digits. I remember looking down and seeing a red stream dripping crimson with rivulets bold in both color and movement. The sharpening pain that comes immediately upon recognizing a wound, my hands reaching for it and finding a metal nail dug into my joint. We were skating at a construction site a mile out from our house. It seemed like the right thing to do: I pulled out the nail and in agony began to scream. I don’t remember much after that, woke up in the hospital, a mother beside me half-angry / half-hopeful and a father smiling and supporting anything and everyone around him.
I see my father in visions in Germany now. I am under the trees, thoughts of a mother and sister having ran through my head previously. Now: a man so perfect for the woman he met and so distant. The family he has and had raised and his children, one a future junkie and the other a future vagrant, both smiling back at him through the glass of a frame he holds in his hand before sleeping, the photograph we are in having been taken more than a decade ago. What is the womb and why is it that we are constantly chasing it? I see it, the walls of flesh surrounding me; they seem to be less agreeable to me than anything else. With a blade fashioned from a festooned memory, I cut around and free myself, a liquid from my mother washing my body out and the light bouncing onto my eyes being the first I see before blinking. A slap and another and then I come to-

A man over me, hands by his waist, screaming something in German.
I am in the real world now.
A blurred image upon awakening then and a blurred image now upon trying to remember.
He is screaming to me in German while I slowly sift through a rolodex of dream imagery I’d just catalogued and experienced- mother, sister, childhood, father. Light moving quicker now and shadows talking louder. We move in and I come back: gashes on my feet, glass around my torso and a stranger whose house I’ve broken into for shelter and warmth standing over me screaming in a language I cannot comprehend.
I look back at him, still screaming and the light behind him from an afternoon sun perfectly outlining in shadow the flakes of spit frothing and tossing their way outside his mouth and onto and around my person.
I reach for the list of German phrases in my pocket from Frank and as my hand makes its way into the cave of fabric around my waist, his foot, covered in shoe and shoe covered in mud, lands itself promptly upon the portions of my wrist left outside my pocket.
He is screaming louder now and further particles of spit fly from his mouth down onto the spaces around me, their portions and running around resembling the vivisections of atoms with their unique nuclei and electrons and so on spinning continuously and constantly but never on or along the same plane.
He reaches into the pocket I was going for and pulls out the list of phrases gentle in their wording, lines of monologue such as:
“It is cold, is there a place for me to stay here?”
“Can I work for you?”
“I am hungry, I have no food and no money, but I can work an honest job to the best of my ability.”
Phrases similar, about a dozen in that same vein on the paper in ink which now rests in his hand.
The man, realizing that I am not a thief, lifts his shoe off of my wrist and extends a hand.
“English,” he says, “that is all that you speak?”
I nod, wiping fragments of earth and mud off of my palm from his foot.
“Don’t have money, little work. Molly, my wife, is cooking. Can have food, need to fix glass though. Glass you broke, right?”
I confirm that I broke the window through a conversation and dialect much slower and less syllabic than my normal speech, thinking it easier for him to understand me.
He nods and blinks his eyes while I do the same.
Leaving for a moment, he comes back with a blanket.
“Sleep. Food, when ready, I let you know, then you wake up, fix glass and then we eat.”
A thousand words run through my head and I choose two, “thank you.”

*     *     *

From The Citrus Report

Posted By The Citrus Report

Tiffany Dawns Photographs

Where do you live?
Cincinnati Ohio

What do you take pictures of?
I take photos of a variety of things so my work flow is divided up by specific projects. Currently I am in a transitional state. For the past 6months I have been focusing on creating portraits that rely on the interaction between the person being photographed and the space in which they live. Some of it borders fashion but I like to consider them lifestyle portraits.

What are your influences?
I believe in being involved in your local art community and looking at new work that other artists are producing as much as you can. There are a also few blogs that I look at daily such as Tim Barbers and Aaron Feaver’s feaverish fashion photography blog

Where do you see yourself in five years?
I like to take each moment for what it is and not think too far ahead. All I can tell you right now is that 2011 is pretty dope and in 5 yrs… I hope for my name to be recognizable

What makes you happy?

Posted from Battle at 3 A.M.

Notes From A Quiet Crucifixion – V

A flint of metal is easing its way into my flesh. I wake up- spinning around completely, my hand in my pocket and that hand gripping the grip of a blade I was holding while staring at a man who was staring at me while I attempted to stay awake but was unable to. I wake up and search my surroundings for any attempts or attacks on my person. I lift and pull out the inch of metal that has entered my thigh in the form of a knife. A pool of platelets and oxygenated blood linger in a spectrum of red around my body. It is the only color which stands out in this room, the majority of the furnishings surrounding me in dull and washed out browns and blues; hues of an indifferent yellow clinging to the molding along the top portions of wall above me.
From the window it looks as though the moon is moving. I retract the blade and place it in my other pocket after making a small incision in the bed-sheet around me and tying a portion of fabric around my wound, the blood starting to stop its exit from my person.
Once I realize that I am alone, I sit down and do everything that I can to recall every moment previous to my passing out.

*     *     *

The rain has stopped; the flame from a candle coughs out a coruscate chatter with the shadows around me. His gaze is still tied to me. A coagulate sequin of wax dots the floor in an unknown pattern which I attempt to decipher in order to stay awake- each fragment of wax a small planet whose inhabitants I imagine microbial / microbic.
We are now staring at each other, the light coming in in small slits and slivers: yellow ribbons of refraction dancing on the floor.
I see him in the doorway, watch him still. He has begun to take off his jacket. He throws it on the floor with the same nonchalance he had previously exhibited with his speech. I think of the rain that brought me here. I think of every instance and every moment previous to this and how, they too, prepared for my person to be here.


He is still smiling. Still staring.

I stare at him, closing my eyes as much as I can while still being able to see, still gripping the handle to the blade in my pocket with one arm, the other dug into the axilla of my right arm and shoulder. Every instance when I’m drifting off to sleep I pull a hair out from my body in order to keep myself awake. My eyes feeling the entirety of the room around me weighing in on top of them before shutting- the left one first, my mind telling me to open it, that I’ll open it in a moment, then the right eyelid- every blink moving from being a blip to an extended second, minute and then- shut and closed.

*     *     *

I wake up dully, a flint of metal easing its way into my flesh. I clench my mouth in inhalation and exhale, mimicking, though not attempting to, the sounds of a snake hissing while extracting the blade. I turn around- there is no one in the doorway.
He’s gone.

I get up and feel my way around the room. My eyes catch the frame of a window to my left- dew drops pearling to fall along the glass and its surface. I fell asleep. I fell asleep and came to with a wave of terror more tangible than anything around me. I feel around my body and through an improvised inspection of my entire person make sure that there are no other wounds on my body other than that from the blade.
Limping, I waddle through the corridors of hallway as quietly as I can and come back to the kitchen. No one is here. I look around the room, dig through all the cabinets of the kitchen and take what I can – a few bills and bread – before leaving.

From there, I step out of the house and start running as fast as I can with a wounded leg, the path before me a trail of dirt eventually bleeding into the street and the street bleeding out into different phrases of dawn- the sun and sky talking back and forth with their spittle of light like liquid rippling in puddles along the freeway, that great eye in the sky panning and pulling out its separate lenses from a camera to reveal an aerial view unseen by me of all the coming encounters and conundrums that will eventually befall me on my continual journey on foot from Frankfurt to Paris.

*     *     *

A car passes slowly. A child a few feet tall staring through the glass directly at me with palms on the pane of a window and fingers drawing shapes through the perspiration of collected heat and odor. Every instinct that can speak to me is telling me that this is a dream but it is not. I look closer and see the child stare at me further- no longer drawing the shapes of sky on the windows around him, his face remaining as still and expressionless as Infanta Margarita’s figure in Velasquez’ Las Meninas.
We share the spaces of a lifetime in our stare before the car accelerates completely, its body rounding the corner and his figure disappearing completely from my view.

“I am now alone on earth, no longer having any brother, neighbor, friend, or society other than myself.”  – Jean Jacques-Rousseau

– Jason Jaworski

San Francisco, CA – 2011

From The Citrus Report

Posted By The Citrus Report

Notes From A Quiet Crucifixion: II

Posted from The Citrus Report

I left as soon as I could. Graduated half-a-year early and through a modicum of different jobs (some legal, some questionable) I saved up enough for a ticket to Frankfurt, with a final destination a few hundred miles away in Paris. Some people stay their whole lives in their place of birth, that home feeling like home forever. Ever since I was a child I always wondered what was out there. My window pressed against the backyard of our neighborhood and beyond it the border to another country. And similar to the ways in which every moment, however fleeting, is simultaneously sacred, I’ve never felt at home anywhere, although my home is everywhere. Every street, alley and pathway is a home for those still moving. In youth we do things that cannot and will not ever be returned to in our adult states. It is the lack of knowledge, the naiveté of a person that makes them do the outlandish things that they would not normally do.

This is not a text to ruminate over what could or should have been, but what was and is. Leaving one’s home in order to journey out to a city whose myth has been built up in one’s head is something I did and something I still do. This was that first trip, where every mistake, memory and memory of a mistake feels all the more ripe and real for it was the first, that first.

*     *     *

The plane is pulling out of its gate. This is a mistake. The plane is pulling out of its gate and all I can think to think of is that this is a mistake.
It is a few years after the new century and I am leaving the country.
The plane is moving along the tarmac and persons small in size from the view of the window are waving orange-lighted wands through the January rain of a San Diego airfield. Children far off behind glass, though still visible, put their hands against the windows of the terminal. Some, too small to see over their seats, crane their necks upwards. A small boy I was talking to while waiting for the plane to arrive is talking to his father a few rows ahead about how he just likes to think of the planes as animals, large birds with metal wings spreading out into the distances and separate spaces of sky.
The plane is leaving. I sit down in my seat, sandwiched between two women who will eventually get up and move over to the other aisle to be replaced by a large man. I dig through my pockets, pulling out a scrap of paper containing a diagram of a map I traced off the screen of my father’s computer. The wrinkles in the paper accurately resemble the terrain I am to later encounter. A large black line runs its way through the center of two adjoining shapes drawn to represent Germany and France, the black line being the route I intend to take. I run my finger along the line and gaze out the window as we take off, the wheels retracting beneath the plane and the several thousand pounds of persons surrounding me being shuttled off to the contents of a different continent.

My eyes begin to feel heavy. I trace shapes along the surface of the window, still scared that this journey might be the end of me.

While staring at the ceiling I find a follicle of hair floating by amongst all the other particles in the plane. I follow its path with my eyes until it eventually lands on the headrest of a seat a row across from me.     The air is light in here, every person vaguely familiar and every face seeming to have fractions of my father’s. I’m walking around for awhile, going across the main cabin before I look down and realize that I’m not walking, but gliding slowly, my legs feeling as if they were treading through a foot’s depth of water with little to no waves. It takes me a moment to realize that I am dreaming. I push forward to the other side of the cabin which has begun to form itself into the interior of a large bus.

We are on a freeway and I am running now, my legs moving frantically in the air as my body slowly turns in its free-form floating. I reach up and push past the roof, seeing the sun and swimming towards it in the sea of sky. Images of strangers push past me and I see faces distant though familiar, congregating in the corners of different tufts of cloud, their breaths rising and falling with the wind. I am swimming still, further and farther, attempting to reach a place within me, within this dreamworld, that I am still uncertain of. I feel the ground beneath me and look down- the world is such a small place and from above I see its cities as small structures, their streets and buildings making out shapes, isotopes and algorithms whose exact nature I am still trying to grapple. I stare down, still rising somehow, and look at the earth as its surfaces turn to night, the sun on the other side of the sphere and the buildings lighting up in small spots and spaces- an organism tinctured with a drop of dye. I see the city and in the windows I see microscopic silhouettes standing, moving or merging with others. I gather enough of my thoughts to bring something new to me and in the darkness a light emerges and in the shadows figures writhe forth. I see their heads, faces smeared completely, as if molded together with a butter knife. Slowly, their bodies begin to fall apart and the walls start to spin. I jump up, my arms reaching for another place, passing the sky and eventually entering the nebulous spaces of space. I move farther, heading towards the sun, and by the time I enter its perimeter I feel the weight of every planet pushing against me, the heat from all around surrounding and mounting upon me as if its texture were something real and to be measured-

My eyes open slowly.
I awaken to a voice over the speaker announcing our imminent arrival.
I find my face to be pressed against the glass/plastic of the window. A man sitting next to me is spilling over and leaning against my back. The sounds of separate echoes from headphones whirl around in the windless cabin. I gently place the man back in his seat while stepping over him to reach the bathroom, raising my arms and placing my palms against the overhead compartments so as to keep my balance. I wash the sleep out of my face, stare into the mirror for a bit and bring myself out of the dream- remnants of that world still clinging to several portions of my mind.
I bring my seat up, putting away several things that were on my lap, and stare out the window, wondering thoughts that seemed precious during the moment but escape me now as to their content.

The plane moves back and forth, rocking gently in a small pocket of turbulence before arching slightly and landing- the man next to me snoring loudly throughout the entire arrival. As soon as we reach the ground he wakes up and a large wave of “holy fuck” starts to wash over me as the separate realities of my true reality come together; different rivers running through a delta to eventually meet at the same body of water.

I get off the plane, my legs shaking beneath me. I pretend to wait for a bag that I know I do not have. Around my waist is a jacket I have worn since childhood. My shoulders cling to the straps of a backpack and in my hands are two bags and in my pockets every strip, bit and morsel of money I have- $37.86. Unsure of where to go, not knowing this country, its language, or any of the inhabitants- I look up around me, surrounded by the unfamiliar architecture of the Frankfurt airport. The people around me seem foreign- nothing familiar and nothing seeming to be similar to anything that I’ve seen before. I move my hands in my pockets and hold onto what I have, realizing several facts that, to this day, echo out to me a reflection of how asinine my actions were at the time. I had officially arrived in a place that I did not know, with a language I could not speak, in winter, and without a home, person or place to stay at or with.

I walked for the better half of five minutes before sitting down, studying the faces of all the people around me, seeing families leave and come together. So much connection and disparity within the walls of one place.

Planes are taking off behind me as I lean back in a faux-leather chair while children place their hands on the glass of the terminal much the same way as they do in San Diego. I open a book and begin reading, unsure of what it is that I am to do. No one knows I’m here and even if I wanted to go back I couldn’t- I can’t afford to.

A small child sitting in the seat next to me starts to shake his leg frantically. I turn to him and his eyes reach mine. We stare for a brief second before he asks me if I’m waiting for the flight. His father is sleeping next to him.
I tell him that I’m not sure, but that I’m waiting for something. My eyes lean back in their seat and I catch the image, always beautiful, of a bird caught amongst the structure of the ceiling. Where do these birds come from? I stare at it and for a moment feel more attune with it than anything or anyone on the entirety of the planet. I start to long for things and persons that I do not know and haven’t yet experienced. I miss her.
Planes continue to turn out and move around me like dots amongst the clusters of cloud outside. I see them take off and land, their fuselages containing so much flesh, so many persons- each having within them an entire world and lifetime of memories. I become obsessed with the idea briefly before backing off and again catching the bird in flight inside the terminal. It stops on a small section of steel jutting out from a column which extends its way down to the floor. I think of her again, this person I have not yet met. I see her, see myself, and come to the realization that I am by myself and with no one and nobody else. The bird leaves its stoop and flies off, hanging amongst the crowd of the food court before disappearing completely.

The plane pulled out of its gate and all I could think to think of was that this was a mistake.

Jason Jaworski
Los Angeles, CA – 2011

Posted By The Citrus Report

Sega x Toylet x Japan = Sense

Posted from The Citrus Report

If you are in a urinal in Tokyo, taking a pee, you want to play a pissing game. According to Wired, “Sega has announced that it’s testing consoles called “Toylets” in urinals around Tokyo. The novel hardware asks the user to strategically vary the strength and location of his urine stream to play a series of games.”

Wow, of course. If you aren’t dating a blow-up doll, you might as well play peeing games in a public bathroom. You can even compete with the person who peed in the urinal before you. That is just so, so bad.

More at Wired.

Posted By The Citrus Report