viggo mortensen

Viggo's art mangled for your desktop

Upon perusing my pages here, I realized that I neglected to post my mangled Viggo wallpapers. The first is my personal favorite. Enjoy. :)

The above link to the 1024x768 wallpapers which are 150k-ish in size.

2 new Aragorn wallpapers

Here are the my two newest LOTR wallpapers, created from publicity photos by the wonderful Pierre Vinet. Did I mention I met him? Delightful man. :)

The above link to the 1024x768 wallpapers which are 150k-ish in size.

Viggo Again

I saw Viggo again this past Thursday at the Virgin Megastore Sign Language book signing. There were a couple things about the event itself that annoyed me, like the 5 people ahead of me that swelled into 25 as their friends arrived, and people like the book store owner who brought 12 copies of the same LOTR book to be signed, but all in all it was an enjoyable day.
I took a moment to ask Viggo a question about his art that had been pressing on me. I will paraphrase the exchange for you. :)
Mingis: ... "is there ever a point in your painting where you say, okay, this is finished? I can stop now?"
Viggo:"Yes. Uh, yes. Well... no... yes. *laugh* Yes. Yes. *pause* And then I go back to it again anyway. *laugh*
Mingis: ... "I always felt that the paintings were constantly... changing."
Viggo: [overlapping] "Changing? *laugh* Yeah."

Sign Language closes in L.A.

Today is the last day of the Sign Language exhibit at Track 16. Unfortunately I will be unable to make it today, as I have been highjacked and am being forced at parent-point to see the stage version of the Lion King. I managed to stop by yesterday for an hour before closing to say goodbye to the works that have inspired me and captured my imagination over these past months.
Ten visits to this wonderfully alive collection I have made. All the paintings but one, Kissinger Dream (my present favorite) have been purchased. Roughly half the photographs have been purchased as well. I remind myself of the Buddhist principle of impermanence: nothing lasts forever, and all things come to an end, eventually. I can only hope my memories prove to be more durable, and that they lose less of their color over the years than their real world counterparts are likely to do.
Track 16 is my gallery. I own it. I imagine the man who actually owns it (forgive me for forgetting his name, and their website is woefully inadeqate so it cannot be found there) will be surprised to discover this, but life is full of surprises. I may have said it already, and if you know me at all then you know this to be true, but I am very much a creature of habit. I find a thing, whatever it may be, that grabs me and I devour it. I saturate myself with it, in whatever ways I can. Track 16 housed an exhibit (two if you count Vinet, which I most surely should) that I loved and so it has become a sort of home. A comfortable place to go and view beautiful things. I will be back there. I will return to see new things, I will smile and say hello to the gallery employees, and I will walk through Track 16's rooms with the feeling that it and I have a bond.
The next exhibit at Track 16 is titled "messy fingers" and is a showing of the works of CalArts graduates. It runs only April 6th through 13th. Don't expect anyone famous. Don't think you'll be rubbing elbows with your chosen sex god/goddess. Just expect to see new things, and maybe find a little inspiration. I'll see you there. :)

No more Cesare for Viggo

I haven't the foggiest notion what Viggo was thinking when he opted to do the Disney film Hidalgo over the role as Cesare in Borgia. Ananova reports that Ewan McGregor has taken the role in Viggo's stead. Personally, Cesare Borgia seems infinitely more interesting than the Disney-made (read:evil) man and his horse story. I can only hope this decision was not entirely his own, and that Ewan McBastard did some role stealing.

Sign Language visit #9

I went back to Track 16 yesterday after a two week absence. It was good to be back amongst these works. I spent some time chatting with the beautiful young man who works there. It seems I was not as inconspicous as I thought, and it was noticed that I had not been around. He is doing well. If you happen to visit Track 16, take a moment to say hello to him. He's quite a nice fellow.
Thanks to Perilous I had a digital camera at my disposal, and was able to take some pictures of the details I've written about in my reviews. Some of them came out very well, and you can expect to see them in the next week. Others were not so good, and so I will have to try again on my next visit.

Here is a low quality image of the poem in question:

Hopefully I will be bringing a better quality image to you in the not too distant future.

Viggo notes

Viggo Mortensen is rumoured to be cast as Cesare Borgia, Lucretia Borgia's brother, in an upcoming film which begins shooting this summer. What a role! Cesare was the man that Machiavelli modeled his politcal hero after. I eagerly await this film's release.
On another Viggo note, it appears that Sign Language will be traveling to New York and the Robert Mann Gallery in mid April. He will also be having a signing at a Virgin Megastore while he is there.
I want to go. :) It's been ages since I've been back home, and of course I've been wanting to go back since 9-11.

Viggo Mortensen Self-Portrait translation

Thanks to AnaM who responded to my call for a translation of the poem on Viggo Mortensen's Self-Portrait:
rough translation:

I charge in the jungle
like the monkeys
with their teeth
perfect and yellow
without being afraid
of any tiger

Sign Language pt. 5: Litle Things

I have been taking a lot of time on the little things. I am delighted to find a single photograph, cut in pieces, peer at me from three different paintings. A tiny shred of what looks like linoleum tries to elude me behind white paint, but I recognize it just the same. There are trees everywhere, but none in I Am Married To Nature. I find myself constantly wondering, how does he ever stop?

Everywhere there are things going on. These paintings are alive, fluid, they are moving. I feel as though they have only paused, restless underneath and wanting to continue their changing. In a way it's like the photography: the scene changes, and what we see is just a fraction of a moment that stretches both forward and backwards in time.

There are little red dots next to many of the photos and paintings now. Received Pronunciation. Kormak. Volsung. Elendil. The photos of Elijah and Dominic have been scooped up too, not surprisingly. These red dots are the lucky marks of the ones who get to take them home. Each one I notice is a little sadness. I know when this exhibit is over, they are gone from me forever. I've always known this. But still, I think that someone will get to bring these works into their homes, their lives, and my only mark is their memory of my eyes on them. Will they remember me? Will they stare out from their paint and remnants to remember the girl that was so fascinated by them? I sit in my car, reluctant to leave, feeling the pressure of the art calling to me through walls. This exhibit is alive. These are all the works of one man, and so, these walls hold pieces of the mind of that man. Blurs of chaos, and yet order, mixing, one changing the other, endlessly. A thought may linger, and be focused on, but the mind doesn't stop moving. Other thoughts, feelings, some conflicting and some in step, are always there, crowding. That is what these paintings, and many of the snapshots, are to me. The inside of a mind in motion. Not in its fullness, because no one, perhaps even ourselves, can encompass the entirety of a mind. It is a place we visit, a resource we use, and some of us explore, but is it truly our own?

Everything is in motion. How does he stop? Where does he put down the brush and say alright, I can do no more here, let's move on? Is there a treasure trove, a sea, a forest of canvasses somewhere, each straining for his attention, reaching out for the artist to return and explore the thoughts and ideas more? Is there never a point where anything is considered done, only put aside, neglected for the new focus, and forgotten? They always crowd my mind. When I enter this place, I am pulled in all directions. There is so much to see, individually, and still the whole body calls me. I wander from image to image, being pulled by as word, or a color, or who knows what. I pause to spend time with one, , all the while others call to me.

And one day they will all be gone. All I will have is my memories, a few postcards, and some computer images. None of them do justice to the originals. None of them really capture the mood of this place; pensive, questing, passionate.

The way things and words are painted over, covered, rubbed out, pushed aside, there is a sense here that no one thing is important, no one thing should be singled out over the others. They all belong together, these little things; mismatched, mingling, contrasting and cooperating, to create this vibe, this air of discovery.

Sign Language pt. 4: Some Words

On my 7th and most recent visit I decided to spend some time on the words in Viggo's art. It is so easy to get lost in the details; in a painted over and faded photograph, in a piece of fabric stretched across hidden images, in whirlpools of color drawing my attention ever inward. I have of course read what I am able to in these paintings before, but my attention is inevitably drawn elsewhere, and true to the moment, I follow it where it goes. Not this time. I grabbed my favorite writing pen, picked up a small assignment book from the local drugstore, and headed out.

From Involves Nudity and Some Weeping:
Across the top of this painting is a fragment of a sentence: "Hence obscure the artist's truth". Below it, filling the entire canvas, is what appears to be a letter written either to or just about Viggo, by an unknown person. The writing seems to be in Viggo's hand, and reads as follows:

Unfortunately I have not had the pleasure of meeting Viggo Mortensen, but during our exchange of notes, comments, and images I suggested that his work shows an attitude towards living. His reply was a laconic but potentially curious "What's an attitude?" I failed to reply, so let me now make an attempt to explain what I mean. We are, or serve as, the nexus points through which things pass; we're a place for sensations, images, meanings, words, people, and objects to come together. We constantly filter these facts, impressions, events, and emotions, endlessly selecting, and in many ways we ourselves are the result of those selections - whether hysterical, lazy, indifferent, passionate, etc. Yet what makes us select this image over that image as significant? This order over that order as somehow telling? This person over that person? This act over that one? This moment of attention over the myriad of others? Most of us have not time to put a backbone behind our eye and we come to...

From Self-portrait:
The painting titled Self-portrait is a small square canvas with a photo fragment of Viggo's mouth on it. There is a tiny piece of light blue paper, just a shred, to the right and below the photo. It reads like a toxic yet colorful poison: I believe it is the piece of the wrapping of a tube of paint. The only discernible words in Viggo's hand appear to be a poem perhaps, in some latin tongue.

:rough translation by AnaM in parentheses (Thanks Ana!_
me cago la selva (I charge in the jungle)
como los monos (like the monkeys)
con sus dientes (with their teeth)
perfectos y amarillos (perfect and yellow)
sin tenerle mied (without being afraid)
a ningun tigre (of any tiger)

From Reading Richter:
There are words everywhere on this painting. There is a full train of thought handwritten here, in places painted over, muted, obscured, or illegibly scrawled. I stood in front of that painting for a while, scribbling furiously, staring, and cursing my occasional inability to understand. In the below text wherever (?) is found, I was unable to decipher the word or words written.

The painting always has reality. You can touch the paint, it has presence but it always yields a (?).
I don't work at random, but in a more planned way, in the sense that I let a (?) (?) by chance, that connect it, and go on.
So you start all over again, and again, until it's right, and then it looks (?)(?)(?) successful. But unfortunately if you have to take the long way round every time, g (?) painting and go on so. Most of the time, we (?) to salve our (?) by painting a tree so we let nature take its course. We have never yet been able to do anything else.
(?) does not become (?) important.

SHOOT, CREATE, NEW
I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY

There is no excuse whatever for (?) accepting what one (?). I don't believe in the absolute picture. There can be approximating to believe, one (?)

From OH:
There are several clusters of poetry on the painting titled OH in addition to a typewritten page which has been torn and placed in several spots. These pages, and the images painted over them, obscure parts of the poetry, but the general feeling is there, I believe, of questing.

To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labor.

The impulse to re-work
The refusal to leave
well-enough alone
can take (?)
of creative paralysis
a state defiantly
empty of short-term
hope. the driving force
behind such incessant
tampering with (?)
thought to be (?)
justified, only endure

and who knows, it may be the golden path.

Sign Language pt. 3: The Last, Quiet Room

Though most of my attention has been on the paintings at the Sign Language exhibit, there are a few photographs that I keep returning to. At the back of the last, little room, framed in the doorway on approach, are four photographs whose color is so rich I smile every time I see them.

The first are of some tall grasses, mostly rich green with some of the brown that you only see in overwatered plants, on ground that is rolling and dimpled. There is no sky in the picture; the photo is taken from an angle so steep it makes me wonder where the artist kept his feet. Across these tiny rolling hills, from bottom to top corner are two intertwined bright blue thick outdoor cables. I look at it and forget that it's not natural, that it doesn't belong there. It's one world touching another, and yet it's subtle, because the colors blend into each other. It might be of Midgewater Marshes or Chris' back yard, but it doesn't matter because right there, those grasses are wild, raw, and untamed. They bear no outward marks of what we call civilization but for the blue snaking through them.

To photo to the right of this is a bright contrast of a dirt lane running through golden wheat colored grasses. Whether by nature or by process, the sun is so strong on the scene that it has a washed sepiatone quality to it. The colors are all gold and sunlight. Looking at it I can't help but feel warm. Ever step outside on a clear day, close your eyes and just feel the sun dance its fingers across your skin, through your hair, wrap itself around you? This is a snapshot of that moment.

Underneath is a photo titled Where We Met. It is a picture of the ground, bright green, lived on, walked on, played on. It could be the local rugby field, or a popular section of park. There's a dirty brown puddle that seems to punctuate the spot; where we first met. The sense is that this place is special because of the life that was lived here, that any place can be special if your heart is in it.

The last is of the base of a palm plant. On the bulbous bottom before the layers of thick leaf stretch upward, are names, dates, and scratchings of people who had been there. Etched into the center of the heart of the plant in large, bold letters is what looks like Hi Geek. I don't think it really says that, but the leaf has scarred over, and I can't tell for sure. I like Hi Geek. I can feel this picture waving hello to me when I approach the room.

I am reading a torn piece of paper attached in two spots to a painting titled OH. It's about the Taliban. It is from a single typewritten page, torn in several pieces. The part I am reading has a sentence that begins discussing the abuses against women, and then is abruptly torn. It is also upside down.

So am I, as I read it. I am feeling comfortable here, at Track 16. I can't seem to help myself. It is feeling familiar to me, this place, the more time I spend here. During these visits I have hunkered down and simply stared at paintings for stretches of time. I've been nose close to them, laughed, smiled, frowned, and bent myself double to view them from odd angles. I've watched people drift in and out, some of them really looking at the works, others glancing over them. I get the sense that each one of us is trying to understand something here, in our own way. The art we're presented with seems to be reaching out, asking questions of everything it touches.

"What do you like about the art?" another man asks me. This seems be a theme on my recurring visits here. Each time, someone has asked me this question in some form or other. Each time my answers are different, as I am continually exploring the question myself.

Sign Language pt. 2: Lost

I went back to Track 16 the first Tuesday after the opening. It wasn't exactly a plan; I'd finished some work and figured I could spend an hour at the exhibit and still make it home before rush hour. I knew I'd make it back at least one more time, so I figured I'd go directly to Received Pronunciation and spend some more time with it.

Outside the entry I took a breath and a pause, preparing myself to enter this world of art. I looked up, took a step in, and found myself faced with Viggo Mortensen himself at the front desk. Thrilled as I was, this was too unexpected. I walked quickly to the second room and Received Pronunciation.

Which was presently being filmed. I've found that crewpersons tend to be friendly, so I asked the man at the camera what he was filming for. An interview with Viggo Mortensen for E! tv he replied. I thanked him, crouched down comfortably in the center of the room, and proceeded to direct all my focus on 4 photographs titled Lost.

Apparently Viggo and a friend got lost in the forest one night, and tried to find their way back to civilization with only the use of his camera flash. These 4 photographs were the ones that survived, along with them, from that night.

Though these were photographs, they reminded me strongly of Japanese calligraphic drawings I'd seen. Perhaps you've seen the type; stokes from a single brush on browned parchment, of suggested mountains and foliage.

I rested there for maybe 10 minutes, just absorbing these four photographs, when the most wonderful thing happened. Viggo and the film crew passed by me headed toward the further room, where they began their interview. The gallery was not designed, apparently, for its acoustics. I couldn't make out words, at least not many; but what I heard was like music, or more like a Gregorian chant heard across an open courtyard. It was the unintelligible rhythm of Viggo's voice, echoing off the gallery walls, a fairly constant stream of sounds that could not be mistaken from any other sound for the voice of the artist.

This was the live soundtrack to which I enjoyed my 2nd viewing. I spent quite some time examining Received Pronunciation from different angles and distances. The right half of the painting is occupied by Tengwar written in Viggo's hand, complete with numerical references. A photo of a forest, perhaps Chetwood Forest, sits at the bottom, half painted upon with a continuing of the roots into the base of the painting. This tree, and parts of it, are in a number of Viggo's paintings.

Adjacent to this painting is Karen Blixen's Birds. I found my eyes being drawn to it again and again. I don't understand it; there are names and words on it that might be birds, I don't know. The paint starts strong and bold in the upper corner, but then begins to drip down like spots on a windshield the morning after the sprinklers hit it. It cascades in a sort of waterfall, drawing my eyes ever downward. So much in fact, that I did not notice the big behind on top until my 3rd visit.

The interview was moving into the room in which I'd sequestered myself. I felt obliged to move along, back to the first room. And there was Kormak in NY. I was looking at this painting up close, seeing what it was made up of, when I realized I was eye level with what seemed written in pencil: 11th September 2001. Just above this and to the left was a small beaten photograph of the city. It wasn't the immediately identifiable photo of the NYC skyline containing the Twin Towers or the Empire State Building, yet just the same it looked like home to me. You see, I am a New Yorker, born and bred. No matter where else I may live in my life, for whatever duration, I will always be a New Yorker. I remembered that I had read Viggo was born in NY. I wondered if he felt this way as well. I wanted to ask him what this painting meant to him. A little later I found myself back at Blixen when I overheard a women I'd spoken to earlier ask him about one of his photographs, and if he was from the place where it was taken. He replied, "No, I'm a New Yorker." My question was answered.

I left a little while after the interview was over. I'd be back. I was hooked and I didn't even know why. On the reception desk was a box of postcards, 5 different paintings from the exhibit. I grabbed one of Received Pronunciation and screwed up the courage to ask Viggo to sign it for me. I told him it was my favorite, which wasn't untrue. I thanked him for sharing his art with us, and told him I'd been to the opening but didn't get to see much of anything. "Yeah. I don't think anyone got to see much that night." he replied, and I got the sense that maybe he was a little disappointed. In what exactly I couldn't guess. I did ask him where the fabric came from. "Sean Bean, he played Boromir in the film, it was part of the inside of his coat."

I smiled and made some stupid comment about how I had guessed it was a film remnant. I had more questions I wanted to ask him about his art. What it meant. What he felt. Just things. But I didn't want to bother him any further. I may have lost that opportunity, but the works themselves can still tell me things. I will pull from them everything I can, until they are gone from me forever.

Sign Language pt. 1: Looking Back On The Opening

Before the opening of the Sign Language exhibit I had done my research and seen a number of the pieces that would be on display, as well as some from previous exhibits. I had an idea of what to expect, if if such a thing is possible. If I had hated it, I'd never have gone. Right off the paintings seemed interesting to me. Here was something to see. There were stories here if I could find them.

I couldn't see much of anything opening night. According to one report, 1500 people showed up to see Sign Language its opening weekend. It felt like all of them were there that Saturday evening at 6pm.

I went with my best friend. We first toured the Stereo exhibit by Alan Rathe, which is in the main room upon entering the gallery. This was the only place where there was any real hope of walking. The entryway to the first of the rooms of the Sign Language exhibit were clogged with well manicured and highly scented persons clutching plastic cups of wine. Refusing to become a trout heading for spawning ground, I waited for the flow of people to change. My friend opted to wait outside. I understand she had a time of her own, out there, watching high heeled and underfed vixens sucking up to bodyguards and wondering aloud where Aragorn was. Maybe she'll tell us one day.

I waited patiently by the entry, catching a glimpse here and there of a piece over the sea of heads. Watching the people move. And then an opening presented itself.

Many of the paintings had photographs and assorted bits pasted to them. A little brass cogwheel, paper clippings, a partly painted over piece of photograph. Words were scratched into the paint, written over in marker, and faded behind bursts of color.The piece that most stuck with me until my next visit, and was the focus of much of my attention when I did make it back was titled Received Pronunciation. On it is a piece of black patterned velvet, a beautiful piece of fabric with Celtic style designs on it.

I made my way as best I could through the exhibit. I resigned myself to accepting that this night's experience wouldn't be one of art contemplation, but that the crowd was part of the display for this visit. I watched one scraggly man chat up three different well-polished young women, at the end giving each one his card while the lady flushed as she promised to pose for his photography. I stood by and listened to numerous conversations between small groups of women discussing how beautiful the artist was. I watched young boys running slalom through half interested visitors. A man asked me what I thought of a painting I was trying to admire, and we had a brief discussion about Viggo's use of color.

I stayed about 45 minutes. My friend was waiting for me in my in my car by that time, having given up utterly her attempt at viewing art this night. When I left, I thought I left because she was waiting for me, and I didn't want to keep her too long alone. Looking back, I realize that I left because the madness of the opening would have been much easier to bear with her company.

I knew I'd be back, that we'd be back. In short glimpses I saw colors and textures I wanted to examine. There were things here, I felt, for me to learn, if I could only see them. And I would try.