Blog.

Category

Currently showing posts tagged decomP

  • Michael Tanzer. A shout-out. On what would have been his 77th birthday.

    I want to take a moment to recognize that June 3rd would have been my father Michael Tanzer's 77th birthday. He is missed and he is loved and he was a great artist who went mostly unrecognized during his lifetime. With that in mind, I want to draw your attention to both a piece I wrote about him titled PaintWriteDeathLifeArt (Sketches from a life in art), that ran in decomP way back in 2007, and is briefly excerpted below, but an academic article about his life and work as well, which is titled Michael Tanzer: An Artist Searching for His Routes by the late UCLA art historian and long-time family friend Dr. Albert Boime.
     
    "My father Michael Tanzer was a lot of things. Painter. Teacher. Activist. Raconteur. Filmmaker. New Yorker. High-school dropout. Tough guy. He was also a man who had regrets, someone who died much too young from a twisted form of cancer, an artist who never quite achieved what he hoped to, and a guy who never cried, not until the end anyway."

  • Michael Tanzer. A shout-out. On what would have been his 76th birthday.

    I want to take a moment to recognize that June 3rd would have been my father Michael Tanzer's 76th birthday. He is missed and he is loved and he was a great artist who went mostly unrecognized during his lifetime. With that in mind, I want to draw your attention to both a piece I wrote about him titled PaintWriteDeathLifeArt (Sketches from a life in art), that ran in decomP way back in 2007, and is briefly excerpted below, but an academic article about his life and work as well, which is titled Michael Tanzer: An Artist Searching for His Routes by the late UCLA art historian and long-time family friend Dr. Albert Boime.
     
    "My father Michael Tanzer was a lot of things. Painter. Teacher. Activist. Raconteur. Filmmaker. New Yorker. High-school dropout. Tough guy. He was also a man who had regrets, someone who died much too young from a twisted form of cancer, an artist who never quite achieved what he hoped to, and a guy who never cried, not until the end anyway."

  • Michael Tanzer. A shout-out. On what would have been his 75th birthday.

    I want to take a moment to recognize that June 3rd would have been my father Michael Tanzer's 75th birthday. He is missed and he is loved and he was a great artist who went mostly unrecognized during his lifetime. With that in mind, I want to draw your attention to both a piece I wrote about him titled PaintWriteDeathLifeArt (Sketches from a life in art), that ran in decomP way back in 2007, and is briefly excerpted below, but an academic article about his life and work as well, which is titled Michael Tanzer: An Artist Searching for His Routes by the late UCLA art historian and long-time family friend Albert Boime.

     
    "My father Michael Tanzer was a lot of things. Painter. Teacher. Activist. Raconteur. Filmmaker. New Yorker. High-school dropout. Tough guy. He was also a man who had regrets, someone who died much too young from a twisted form of cancer, an artist who never quite achieved what he hoped to, and a guy who never cried, not until the end anyway."
  • "Like a sensibility in the process of maturing, like an experiment in form." A quite thoughtful, and quite appreciated, SEX AND DEATH review from the decomP.

    Quite thoughtful and quite appreciated indeed. Also, quite happy to share some decomP excerpt. Cool? Word.

    "Tanzer’s book doesn’t read to me like an homage to the tradition of normative ennui so much as an examination of it. As a writer (who, maybe, as fate would have it, finds himself in the very demographic the normative ennui genre speaks to and speaks of—who finds himself composed by, as longtime consumer of, such myths), Tanzer approaches normative ennui as a question: Do we abandon such stories altogether, move on in the wake of so much ink spilled and narcissistic voices indulged, or do we recognize the human reality made manifest in this genre, but tell it slant this time, more wisely, without buying into any bullshit heroics or some aging-he-man model—of character or of narrator or, to return again to Phillip Roth’s ham-fistedly-named Everyman, of the reader, feeling his oats as he cuddles up with a pricey hardback that reaffirms his take on the world?"