Who is Paula Walrus


06/17/2009, 2:34 am
Filed under: Literature

This past weekend I had the privilege of attending an amazing event…an event so large that droves of  people migrated from all over the country just to sneak a peak of a red carpet which was studded with stars such as: Bono (along with his sunglass wardrobe), Matthew McConaughey (forgetting to bring a shirt, or a brain), Oprah (along with her ego), and even Tom Cruise (along with his cover-up, Katie Holmes). Okay okay, maybe these guys weren’t there (as if I cared), and maybe the event wasn’t really that big at all. What I attended was a barbeque festival which is annually held in a quaint town nestled in the foothills of the blue ridge mountains. Now that I have you on the edge of your seat I’d like to tell you a few things that I learned at this festival: spiders are always scary, cops are still dicks, and apparently rattails are still in style (were they ever?).

On the topic of spiders…I am a huge pussy. I have always been and will always be terrified of spiders, no matter what the hell their benefit to nature is. Upon traveling up to the barbeque festival, this city boy came into a close encounter with a black widow (spawn of the devil). My friends who live in the festivals hometown had captured the largest black widow in southeastern America…and probably the world. Since the spider had become captive to a group of continually buzzed twenty year olds, I gained the courage to try and feed the spider a moth. As I slowly slid open the bottom of the spiders transparent pyramid of a jail, I carefully placed the moth near the spider. The bottom of the “bug catcher” suddenly betrayed me and almost let the spider out! As anti-climactic as it gets, I quickly closed the insect prison and immediately changed my underwear.

Note to nature lovers/animal freaks/hippies: the spider was never intentionally harmed…but did die

Note to self: don’t ever drink and play with deadly spiders again

As a general consensus, cops get a bad rap. They needlessly distribute speeding tickets, grow horrible mustaches, and eat an extraordinary amount of doughnuts and coffee (or so I’ve seen in cartoons). Of course I understand that they do serve a purpose (Reno 911) and help keep the peace (Rodney King riots…anyone?), but a certain undercover cop at the barbeque festival adhered flawlessly to the stereotypical portrayal of a cop in dick-mode. While I and some friends were casually drinking at the festival, he (robo-cop) confronted us and asked to see our id’s. This was no problem for any of us except one person…who was under twenty-one. He performed his job exquisitely (using pathetic intimidation) and kindly shoved her out of the festival. I know I am bitching about something that has most likely happened to most everybody who will read this…that’s why I’m bitching. (a plea for sympathy…)

Note to underage drinkers: don’t drink…or better yet, drink really fast so they don’t catch you drinking and then drive away so you don’t get charged with drunk in public.

Note to self: drink a lot so you forget about being under twenty-one.

Rat tails meld into southern pride as well as the Confederate flag, tobacco, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Due to the lack of competition (mullet remains the only mainstream rival), the rat tail has amazingly made its way into 2009. Being a frequent attendee of southern events (BBQ festivals, hillbilly hoedowns, sibling speed dating, and spittoon  sharing’s) I have become a connoisseur of mullets. But I noticed at this barbeque festival that the rat tail has made a valiant comeback and will continually thrive in the south along with Jeff Foxworthy and The Dukes of Hazard. I myself have never grown a rattail and have no intentions of doing so, but there are certain rules to adhere to when growing the symbol of the south: keep it clean, shoulder length is ideal, never be caught drinking any foreign beer, and of course, wear it with pride.

Note to potential rattail owners: don’t copy Dog the Bounty Hunter’s rattail unless you’re going to shamelessly kick ass like him.

Note to self: never be associated with a hairstyle named after a rodent appendage.

In deserved respect though, the barbeque festival was filled with friendly people who were brimming with hospitality. The unrevealed location was scenic and welcoming and I cannot wait for my next pilgrimage to this festival to chow down on some barbeque and wash it down with a beer (the southern Baptist’s communion).

-Uncle Pauly, writer for Paula Walrus



We found Uncle Pauly!
06/08/2009, 3:24 am
Filed under: Literature

The following article is the start of a new series of writings from a long lost member of the Walrus family. His submissions will range in all topics and of course all articles will be open to discussion…enjoy!

As a belated follow-up, there seems to be a trend in the opinion’s expressing discomfort of the current American culture…articles such as Sarah Nardi’s “What is the New Aesthetic” and Douglas Haddow’s “Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization” portray a bleak outlook on America today and the attitudes which the youth have harbored within the past decade. As Nardi expresses her displeasure with the direction which present-day art is heading, Haddow criticizes the hipster movement, or lack thereof. The source of unhappiness within both of these factions of American culture may be summed up with the statement which Nardi expresses at the end of her article, “We will be content to live in a world of appearances, virtual successes, and hollow forms.” Nardi and Haddow do not stand alone in their thought that much of the American culture is void of character, confidence, and individuality. The hipster movement, as observed in Haddow’s article, is a false culture that is wholly based on consumerism; which is a tough accusation to deny. But this is not a horrible crime which recently emerged through the hipster movement, for ninety-nine percent of minor cultures (such as punk, hip-hop, hipster…) quickly retreat to consumerism in their futile attempts to solely portray the American culture as a whole. Consumerism is an integral part of the American culture due to its close ties to capitalism. This correlation is meant to defend the hipsters against this consumerism argument which Haddow makes (Douglas Haddow is a writer for Adbuster’s….Adbuster’s, as cool as their magazine may be, stealthily promotes the exact same consumerism which is supposedly plaguing hipster’s). The truth is, consumerism is everywhere in a capitalistic society! That is how families make money! That is how this country progresses!

Okay…so Haddow is wrong in blaming consumerism. Yet he makes a valid argument that the hipster movement has no motive, no drive behind it. Hipsters across the country nonchalantly cast the “fuck you” attitude in any direction they please, uncaring…and unable to find their reason for existence. Beatniks of the 1950’s became motivated in moving away from mainstream culture to explore America and experience societies…the flower children on the 1960’s wanted liberation and unification through love, politically charged by the Vietnam war…the hipster’s are different. Beatniks and hippies were part of countercultures, ie. attempting to get away from American culture, and in doing so, became a rich and vital part of American culture. Hipsters lack substance, therefore lack the ingredient required for acceptance into American culture.

Of course, even this shallowness cannot be blamed wholly towards the hipster movement. The present day American attitude is corrupted with dollar signs, political scandals, religious uncertainty, and a blinding focus on the bottom-line. As James Joyce described Ireland, the American culture is in a state of “moral paralysis”. These kids ranging from ages 16-30 who fly the hipster flag have grown up in a society that has lost its values, and has replaced hope with cynicism. This could very well be blamed on the captains of industry who rule the capitalistic world and adhere to the gods of mammon over their own mothers…the exact same people who have profited off of the exact same capitalistic economy which I promoted earlier in this article.

The lack of motivation which the hipster movement often portrays is derived from a lack of direction from the American leaders. This article is riddled with contradictions and loopholes…due to the fact that there is no end to this pathetic “blame game”, and the American culture, just as its economy, is cyclical by nature and will rebound. Having hope in the hipster movement is just as important as have hope in the economy… If we hold on to the attitudes of Nardi and Haddow, we will become a lost culture.

“We are a defeated generation, resigned to the hypocrisy of those before us…” – Douglas Haddow

A note to the reader: IF THIS BECOMES OUR ATTITUDE, IF WE DO IN FACT RESIGN…WE GIVE UP!!! WE ARE IN THIS TOGETHER–HIPSTERS, JOCKS, JUNKIES, ARTISTS, BUSINESSMEN, PRIESTS, POETS, LABORERS, TEACHERS, STUDENTS, JAILERS, GAS STATION ATTENDANTS, FARMERS, BUTCHERS, BAKERS, CANDLESTICK MAKERS, PLUMBERS, STAY-AT-HOME MOMS, SCAD STUDENTS, THE HOMELESS, THE JOBLESS, THE MONEY-LESS, PIMPS, WHORES, YOU, ME, BLACKS, WHITES, JEWS, NATIVE AMERICANS, GARBAGE MEN, THE PRESIDENT, HOMOSEXUALS, HETEROSEXUALS, BISEXUALS…ALL OF US!!!

Individuality is only possible with unity. Therefore, reader, do me a favor: take into consideration your own actions first, then worry about others. Then constantly remind yourself of your specific significance while humbly keeping in mind your general insignificance. Then read Whitman’s Song of Myself.

- Uncle Pauly, writer for Paula Walrus



What is the New Aesthetic?
06/06/2009, 12:37 am
Filed under: Literature

Found this article on adbusters, it is insanely interesting and applies to all the viewers on Paula Walrus and SCAD. It was written by Sarah Nardi.

http://www.stockpicksexpert.com/Data/Sites/1/Stock%20Picks%20Expert/Art/Art%20Investment-Damien%20Hirst-For%20The%20Love%20of%20God%20.jpg

In September, just as the full scope of the financial crisis was beginning to come into focus, Sotheby’s was preparing for one of the most ambitious art auctions in recent history. The audacity of the London sale – 223 new artworks by British phenom Damien Hirst – was underscored by the morning’s financial news: Lehman Brothers had declared bankruptcy in New York. As one titan of commerce fell, another, on the other side of the Atlantic, was rising.

When the final gavel came down, Hirst had brought in more than $200 million, decimating the previous record for sales by a single artist, which was held by Picasso at a mere $20 million. The world was in awe. How could an artist, even one who had proven so commercially viable as Hirst, defy a dawning financial crisis that was widely expected to be unlike any since the Great Depression? Prolific Hirst collector and market maker Jose Mugrabi offered a New York Times reporter a prescient explanation: “When the empires fall – Roman, Greek – all that’s left is the art.”

Hirst and a cadre of other hip, young artists made millionaires by a grossly over-inflated market represent the apex of a commercial age in which the notions of art and commodity became inextricably tangled. What went up on the auction blocks in September was more than artwork – it was the last vestiges of a bloated consumer empire. As financial institutions failed and 60 years of consumer confidence began to crumble beneath our feet, collectors – well-trained in the art of speculation – rushed to snatch up the relics of a dying age. The last bits of art as we know it.

All aesthetic movements are born, in some sense, of rupture. Abstractionism grew out of the carnage of WWI and abstract expressionism out of the carnage of WWII. Mid-century consumer culture marked a distinct break from the anxiety of previous decades and brought with it the idea that art had become too exclusionary and esoteric. Pop art promptly sprang from the void, speaking to the alienated masses in a language they could understand. With pop art and its most recognizable figure, Andy Warhol, a tradition of fetishizing not only art as object, but artist as celebrity, began. Speculators began to enter the market en masse, throwing money behind their bet for the art world’s Next Big Thing. Investors like Mugrabi used wealth and influence to control markets, exerting tight control over supply and demand. As a result, prices skyrocketed – and artists became rock stars. Galleries began to mine graduate schools hoping to discover a nascent Hirst or Jeff Koons. Chelsea felt more and more like Wall Street.


Art today is just one big clusterfuck of artists doing what will get them paid, what will get them laid or what will get them famous.

But then the bottom fell out. And as it continues to fall out of markets everywhere, we are confronted with the rupture that will define our age. Suddenly we’re left to peer out across the chasm that separates real wealth from perceived wealth, inherent value from inflated hype.

And we’re left to wonder – what new aesthetic will spring from the void?

“It’s impossible to define a new aesthetic movement because movements really no longer exist,” says Erik Plambeck, a recent art school grad living in Southern California. “Art today is just one big clusterfuck of artists doing what will get them paid, what will get them laid or what will get them famous.”

“If anything can be said to be an aesthetic movement right now,” he continues “it’s Facebook and blogging – that’s exactly what’s happening in contemporary art. Individuals use generic templates and hope to somehow achieve a sense of acceptance and community. They’re helplessly trying to define their influence by counting how many friends they have.”

Asked if the financial crisis could somehow have a purifying effect on art by moving us away from a formula that concentrates primary importance on money and fame, Plambeck is resolute:

“No, absolutely not. No matter what happens, we’ll never get away from the galleries and museums. They’re never going to stop lining up outside grad schools to find some 25-year-old to give a solo show.” <

Plambeck plans to attend grad school next year.

Marc Schiller, curator of the New York-based Wooster Collective – a website that chronicles street art around the world – is more optimistic. According to Schiller, we already have evidence of a burgeoning movement, the first real defining aesthetic of a new age.

He sees street art growing out of a resistance to the proliferation of mass media advertising worldwide and emerging as a counterblow to the capitalist obsession with private property and development.

So is it a cohesive, insurrectionary aesthetic movement?

“Not every act of street art is necessarily one of protest,” explains Schiller. “But every act carries with it the risk of arrest and no one will take that risk without some sense of purpose and deeper motivation.”

“The artists may not be able to articulate it,” he continues, “but there is a common theme and it’s absolutely socialist in nature.”

What have our contemporary artists been giving us? For the most part, they’ve given us objects and empty forms – golden calves and diamond skulls.

This is a fundamental point. Underlying any viable aesthetic movement is a broader philosophy, a loosely unifying worldview that connects the artists working within it. In the aftermath of WWI, Mondrian and the modernists weren’t just painting blocks of primary color, they were retreating from a physical world that had ceased to make sense into a realm of pure abstraction. They were pursuing the development of a universal language through which to express fundamental truths. And when the “war to end all wars” was succeeded by another, the abstract expressionists retreated even further from the external world, turning inward to search the collective unconscious for some sense of existential certitude.

What have our contemporary artists been giving us? For the most part, they’ve given us objects and empty forms – golden calves and diamond skulls. It’s the economic substructure of art – the underlying network of critics, curators, collectors and tenured academics – that has been imbuing our art with its meaning … and value.

Like everything else in our crumbling financial reality, the art we have lauded as the best of our age has been exposed for what it is – a number on a page that doesn’t represent any real wealth, an object on a pedestal that doesn’t represent any real meaning.

We can’t explore the possibility of developing a new aesthetic until we answer the question of what, if anything, will be the unifying philosophy of our age. If, as Plambeck has suggested, we are destined to be a culture that measures success through a tally of Facebook friends and blog hits, then we have no impetus to collectively tap an undercurrent of meaning and truth. We will be content to live in a world of appearances, virtual successes and hollow forms.

But then again, maybe that’s a bit too pessimistic. Celebrated writer and critic Dave Hickey sees things differently. He has stood as a sentinel in the art world for decades and offers a sage observation on its rise and fall: “Good artists will make love among the ruins” he vows. “Good art will always take us by surprise.”



The following is from a recent Adbusters article by Douglas Haddow (We want to hear your comments.)
05/11/2009, 2:51 am
Filed under: Literature

Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization

I‘m sipping a scummy pint of cloudy beer in the back of a trendy dive bar turned nightclub in the heart of the city’s heroin district. In front of me stand a gang of hippiesh grunge-punk types, who crowd around each other and collectively scoff at the smoking laws by sneaking puffs of “fuck-you,” reveling in their perceived rebellion as the haggard, staggering staff look on without the slightest concern.

The “DJ” is keystroking a selection of MP3s off his MacBook, making a mix that sounds like he took a hatchet to a collection of yesteryear billboard hits, from DMX to Dolly Parton, but mashed up with a jittery techno backbeat.

“So… this is a hipster party?” I ask the girl sitting next to me. She’s wearing big dangling earrings, an American Apparel V-neck tee, non-prescription eyeglasses and an inappropriately warm wool coat.

“Yeah, just look around you, 99 percent of the people here are total hipsters!”

“Are you a hipster?”

“Fuck no,” she says, laughing back the last of her glass before she hops off to the dance floor.

Ever since the Allies bombed the Axis into submission, Western civilization has had a succession of counter-culture movements that have energetically challenged the status quo. Each successive decade of the post-war era has seen it smash social standards, riot and fight to revolutionize every aspect of music, art, government and civil society.

But after punk was plasticized and hip hop lost its impetus for social change, all of the formerly dominant streams of “counter-culture” have merged together. Now, one mutating, trans-Atlantic melting pot of styles, tastes and behavior has come to define the generally indefinable idea of the ”Hipster.”

An artificial appropriation of different styles from different eras, the hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture lost in the superficiality of its past and unable to create any new meaning. Not only is it unsustainable, it is suicidal. While previous youth movements have challenged the dysfunction and decadence of their elders, today we have the “hipster” – a youth subculture that mirrors the doomed shallowness of mainstream society.

ake a stroll down the street in any major North American or European city and you’ll be sure to see a speckle of fashion-conscious twentysomethings hanging about and sporting a number of predictable stylistic trademarks: skinny jeans, cotton spandex leggings, fixed-gear bikes, vintage flannel, fake eyeglasses and a keffiyeh – initially sported by Jewish students and Western protesters to express solidarity with Palestinians, the keffiyeh has become a completely meaningless hipster cliché fashion accessory.The American Apparel V-neck shirt, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and Parliament cigarettes are symbols and icons of working or revolutionary classes that have been appropriated by hipsterdom and drained of meaning. Ten years ago, a man wearing a plain V-neck tee and drinking a Pabst would never be accused of being a trend-follower. But in 2008, such things have become shameless clichés of a class of individuals that seek to escape their own wealth and privilege by immersing themselves in the aesthetic of the working class.

This obsession with “street-cred” reaches its apex of absurdity as hipsters have recently and wholeheartedly adopted the fixed-gear bike as the only acceptable form of transportation – only to have brakes installed on a piece of machinery that is defined by its lack thereof.

Lovers of apathy and irony, hipsters are connected through a global network of blogs and shops that push forth a global vision of fashion-informed aesthetics. Loosely associated with some form of creative output, they attend art parties, take lo-fi pictures with analog cameras, ride their bikes to night clubs and sweat it up at nouveau disco-coke parties. The hipster tends to religiously blog about their daily exploits, usually while leafing through generation-defining magazines like Vice, Another Magazine and Wallpaper. This cursory and stylized lifestyle has made the hipster almost universally loathed.

“These hipster zombies… are the idols of the style pages, the darlings of viral marketers and the marks of predatory real-estate agents,” wrote Christian Lorentzen in a Time Out New York article entitled ‘Why the Hipster Must Die.’ “And they must be buried for cool to be reborn.”

With nothing to defend, uphold or even embrace, the idea of “hipsterdom” is left wide open for attack. And yet, it is this ironic lack of authenticity that has allowed hipsterdom to grow into a global phenomenon that is set to consume the very core of Western counterculture. Most critics make a point of attacking the hipster’s lack of individuality, but it is this stubborn obfuscation that distinguishes them from their predecessors, while allowing hipsterdom to easily blend in and mutate other social movements, sub-cultures and lifestyles.

***

Standing outside an art-party next to a neat row of locked-up fixed-gear bikes, I come across a couple girls who exemplify hipster homogeneity. I ask one of the girls if her being at an art party and wearing fake eyeglasses, leggings and a flannel shirt makes her a hipster.

“I’m not comfortable with that term,” she replies.

Her friend adds, with just a flicker of menace in her eyes, “Yeah, I don’t know, you shouldn’t use that word, it’s just…”

“Offensive?”

“No… it’s just, well… if you don’t know why then you just shouldn’t even use it.”

“Ok, so what are you girls doing tonight after this party?”

“Ummm… We’re going to the after-party.”

***

Gavin McInnes, one of the founders of Vice, who recently left the magazine, is considered to be one of hipsterdom’s primary architects. But, in contrast to the majority of concerned media-types, McInnes, whose “Dos and Don’ts” commentary defined the rules of hipster fashion for over a decade, is more critical of those doing the criticizing.

“I’ve always found that word ["hipster"] is used with such disdain, like it’s always used by chubby bloggers who aren’t getting laid anymore and are bored, and they’re just so mad at these young kids for going out and getting wasted and having fun and being fashionable,” he says. “I’m dubious of these hypotheses because they always smell of an agenda.”

Punks wear their tattered threads and studded leather jackets with honor, priding themselves on their innovative and cheap methods of self-expression and rebellion. B-boys and b-girls announce themselves to anyone within earshot with baggy gear and boomboxes. But it is rare, if not impossible, to find an individual who will proclaim themself a proud hipster. It’s an odd dance of self-identity – adamantly denying your existence while wearing clearly defined symbols that proclaims it.

***

“He’s 17 and he lives for the scene!” a girl whispers in my ear as I sneak a photo of a young kid dancing up against a wall in a dimly lit corner of the after-party. He’s got a flipped-out, do-it-yourself haircut, skin-tight jeans, leather jacket, a vintage punk tee and some popping high tops.

“Shoot me,” he demands, walking up, cigarette in mouth, striking a pose and exhaling. He hits a few different angles with a firmly unimpressed expression and then gets a bit giddy when I show him the results.

“Rad, thanks,” he says, re-focusing on the music and submerging himself back into the sweaty funk of the crowd where he resumes a jittery head bobble with a little bit of a twitch.

The dance floor at a hipster party looks like it should be surrounded by quotation marks. While punk, disco and hip hop all had immersion, intimate and energetic dance styles that liberated the dancer from his/her mental states – be it the head-spinning b-boy or violent thrashings of a live punk show – the hipster has more of a joke dance. A faux shrug shuffle that mocks the very idea of dancing or, at its best, illustrates a non-committal fear of expression typified in a weird twitch/ironic twist. The dancers are too self-aware to let themselves feel any form of liberation; they shuffle along, shrugging themselves into oblivion.

Perhaps the true motivation behind this deliberate nonchalance is an attempt to attract the attention of the ever-present party photographers, who swim through the crowd like neon sharks, flashing little blasts of phosphorescent ecstasy whenever they spot someone worth momentarily immortalizing.

Noticing a few flickers of light splash out from the club bathroom, I peep in only to find one such photographer taking part in an impromptu soft-core porno shoot. Two girls and a guy are taking off their clothes and striking poses for a set of grimy glamour shots. It’s all grins and smirks until another girl pokes her head inside and screeches, “You’re not some club kid in New York in the nineties. This shit is so hipster!” – which sparks a bit of a catfight, causing me to beat a hasty retreat.

In many ways, the lifestyle promoted by hipsterdom is highly ritualized. Many of the party-goers who are subject to the photoblogger’s snapshots no doubt crawl out of bed the next afternoon and immediately re-experience the previous night’s debauchery. Red-eyed and bleary, they sit hunched over their laptops, wading through a sea of similarity to find their own (momentarily) thrilling instant of perfected hipster-ness.

What they may or may not know is that “cool-hunters” will also be skulking the same sites, taking note of how they dress and what they consume. These marketers and party-promoters get paid to co-opt youth culture and then re-sell it back at a profit. In the end, hipsters are sold what they think they invent and are spoon-fed their pre-packaged cultural livelihood.

Hipsterdom is the first “counterculture” to be born under the advertising industry’s microscope, leaving it open to constant manipulation but also forcing its participants to continually shift their interests and affiliations. Less a subculture, the hipster is a consumer group – using their capital to purchase empty authenticity and rebellion. But the moment a trend, band, sound, style or feeling gains too much exposure, it is suddenly looked upon with disdain. Hipsters cannot afford to maintain any cultural loyalties or affiliations for fear they will lose relevance.

An amalgamation of its own history, the youth of the West are left with consuming cool rather that creating it. The cultural zeitgeists of the past have always been sparked by furious indignation and are reactionary movements. But the hipster’s self-involved and isolated maintenance does nothing to feed cultural evolution. Western civilization’s well has run dry. The only way to avoid hitting the colossus of societal failure that looms over the horizon is for the kids to abandon this vain existence and start over.

“If you don’t give a damn, we don’t give a fuck!” chants an emcee before his incitements are abruptly cut short when the power plug is pulled and the lights snapped on.

Dawn breaks and the last of the after-after-parties begin to spill into the streets. The hipsters are falling out, rubbing their eyes and scanning the surrounding landscape for the way back from which they came. Some hop on their fixed-gear bikes, some call for cabs, while a few of us hop a fence and cut through the industrial wasteland of a nearby condo development.

The half-built condos tower above us like foreboding monoliths of our yuppie futures. I take a look at one of the girls wearing a bright pink keffiyah and carrying a Polaroid camera and think, “If only we carried rocks instead of cameras, we’d look like revolutionaries.” But instead we ignore the weapons that lie at our feet – oblivious to our own impending demise.

We are a lost generation, desperately clinging to anything that feels real, but too afraid to become it ourselves. We are a defeated generation, resigned to the hypocrisy of those before us, who once sang songs of rebellion and now sell them back to us. We are the last generation, a culmination of all previous things, destroyed by the vapidity that surrounds us. The hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture so detached and disconnected that it has stopped giving birth to anything new.