In a earlier, simpler time I would describe Ron Pippin’s work as “steampunk” for featuring as it does, bits and baubles comprised of brass and glass, replete with olde looking labels. No! That is wrong. We don’t do that anymore.

That said, Pippin’s work is bad-ass, featuring as it does evil looking machinery bonded to animals, turning them into bizarre and beautiful biomechanoids; cyborg mammals found wandering through steel forests. His portfolio also happens to feature a fair number of complex and mysterious specimen boxes which one can never have too many of.

Nature is a cruel, twisted bitch; the overseer of a vast menagerie of strange and awful things. These creatures were put on this Earth to inhabit our nightmares. Witness then, the horrible distended jaws of the appropriately named Slingjaw Wrasse, filmed in excruciating slow motion so that one may fully appreciate the powerful thrust of this fish’s disgusting (or, perhaps, just lazy?) eating habits. Yes, for now they are feeding on insects, but it is only a matter of time (or a matter of a massive dose of radiation) before they develop a taste for the human brain. Evolution will take care of the rest, no doubt bestowing upon them appendages not unlike our own legs, allowing them to walk upon the land — looking every bit like a Hieronymus Bosch creation come to life — if only for long enough to crack open the soft, eggshell-like skull of a child and slurp out its contents like so much jelly. Mark my words: The time is nigh; best to wipe them out while they can only swim!

Hypothetically…

If there is indeed a heaven, treatment and Hasil Adkins and Lux Interior are hanging out together on some leopard-print porch swing up there, how much do you want to bet they play “rock, paper, shotgun” every morning to decide who gets the honor of guardian angel duty for this fella?

Today the FAM presents David Lynch’s 1970 short film, The Grandmother. The heart warming story of a boy who — neglected and abused by his family — grows a kindly old lady to provide with the affection he craves. A silent film, the characters interact with abstract soundtrack cues. It’s strange and undeniably artsy; artsy enough to be mistaken as a parody of an artsy movie. And yet, whether for its brevity or Lynch’s youth, it is most certainly one of his most straightforwardly discernible films, devoid of the extraneous imagery woven throughout his later films, confounding and misdirecting the audience at every opportunity. Whether that is counted as being a good thing or not depends, I suppose, on how much of a David Lynch fan you are.

Graham Annable’s work exemplifies the best in animation. Devoid of dialogue, his films rely solely on the ability of their characters to convey emotion; their stories told with moving images, sometimes in conjunction with music. It’s animation distilled down to its most basic elements, devoid of the extra trappings that at best get in the way of story and at worst promotes plain old laziness.

In other words, Annable’s work is really good. You should take a look.

Hollis Hawthorne, Bay Area, 2008. (Photo by Alicia Sanguiliano, I think? If not, just let me know and I’ll update.)

Incredible, joyful news: Hollis Hawthorne has fully emerged from her coma.

Many of you will recall an urgent plea that went up on Coilhouse exactly a year ago, to the day, titled Performer/Cyclist Hollis Hawthorne Needs Our Help. Hollis, a lion-hearted young woman from the bay area performing arts/activist community, was traveling through India by motorcycle with her beau, Harrison, when tragedy struck– a driving accident left her bleeding out from severe head trauma in the middle of a busy road while Harrison frantically performed CPR to keep her alive. Twenty minutes passed before some good Samaritans stopped to pick them up and drove her to a hospital.

Hollis was in a vegetative state, thousands of miles from home and in dire need of highly specialized medical care– care unavailable to her in Chennai. Time was of the essence, but Hollis’ mother (who had rushed to her side) was told that they would have to pay $150,000 up front for medical transport from India to the States– an impossibly huge sum of money. As an uninsured American traveling abroad, Hollis was stranded.

“For the Love of Hollis” benefit in Portland, March 2009. Photo by Brooke Dillon.

Horrified word quickly spread online. If the internet were truly as cynical or callous a place as they say, people could have easily have dismissed Hollis for making a “reckless” choice to travel without insurance. But hey, guess what? Humanity prevailed. Turns out there really is something to this idea of a global tribe! Thousands of donations began pouring in from all over the world for this feisty, foundering girl we could all relate to. A dollar here, ten dollars there, it quickly added up. Across the country, massive benefits were held by concerned friends and strangers alike– auctions and raffles and kissing booths, dance performances, marching band processions, puppet shows. It was an incalculably huge and steady outpouring of support coming from every direction, “for Hollis, the doer, the mover, the shaker, the dancer, the muse, the generous, the dumpster queen, the friend.”

Meanwhile, her chart was reviewed and accepted by Stanford Medical–one of the best hospitals in the world– as a charity case. After three long, anxious weeks, $100k was raised. Hollis was able to return to California in a discount air ambulance. Her community rejoiced and folks flocked to visit Hollis at her bedside, to talk and cuddle, trying to coax her back from oblivion. But her fight, and her kin’s 24-7 vigil at her side, was only beginning. On March 24, 2009, Harrison wrote:

What does it mean to be in a coma? What does it mean to wake up? What defines consciousness? Where are the lines between ‘coma’, ‘persistent vegetative state’, ‘minimally conscious’ and ‘fully conscious’?  Hollis waxes and wanes between these and nobody can really say what’s going on behind the surface of her eyes.  I do know this; Hollis is beating all the odds.

Ever since the story broke, I’ve been checking in on Hollis’ progress via Friends of Hollis Hawthorne and Help Holli Heal. The latter is a site updated regularly by Hollis’ devoted mother, Diane, who has stayed with her daughter through this entire harrowing post-accident ordeal, sleeping on a cot beside her, holding her hand in the dark. Diane’s entries are rarely anything less than three-hanky tearjerkers! But her tone has remained steadfastly hopeful.

Hollis, healing up. (Photos via The Hindu, Eliza S., Angela Mae, Diane Allison.)

Eventually, Hollis was moved from Stanford to a rehab facility near Diane’s home in Nashville, TN. Loyal friends still visit as often as they can. Continuing benefits to help pay her overwhelming medical bills have been held as recently as last month. (If you want to donate, click here.) With the help of doctors, healers, medications and physical therapy, Hollis has shown slow but steady improvements these past few months. She has been fighting very, very hard.

There is so much love surrounding this girl. So many people –family and friends and strangers alike– are rooting for her. Why? Because any number of us could just as easily have wound up in a similarly nightmarish predicament, had our luck been different. Because a situation like hers reminds us just how easy it is to give, and to care. Because all of us weirdos, us wanderers, we’re in this together. Because she is luminous and we cannot afford to lose her:

Photo by Kyle Hailey.

And now, finally, she is waking up. Harrison, who visited her last week, just posted this update:

HOLLIS IS NOT AT ALL IN A COMA ANYMORE!!! Yes! You read that correctly! Scream, shout, jump up and down! Have a shot! Dance! Kiss somebody! It’s the real deal, seen it with mine own two eyes! She is awake and talking and present and brilliant and amazing!

The folks over at A Journey Round My Skull were so kind as to scan a 1923 copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination, illustrated by Harry Clarke. Clarke, an accomplished turn of the century stained glass artist and illustrator, relished anatomy and minutiae, obsessively rendering every refined cheekbone, elongated toe, hair follicle and fabric fold. I spent at least an hour poring over this Flickr set in wonderment, pausing to view each hyper-detailed image at high resolution.

Though Clarke was Aubrey Beardsley’s contemporary, and they share a fondness of stylization and monochrome, I think he surpasses mister B. not only with the amount of detail packed into his illustrations, but also with the darkness radiating from each plate. There is something inherently unhinged about these characters and a certain demonic unrest dances behind their thin, sallow faces, even in moments of outward tranquility. These haunted faces, fragile silhouettes,  and rich patterns have earned Harry Clarke a spot among my top favorite illustrators of all time, right next to Von Bayros and, of course, uncle Vania. Hit the jump for a few more.

Hot on the heels of some gentlemanly debate on Coilhouse (see Ross’s most recent edition of FAM) concerning hipstery snark, cynicism and Tim Burton’s waning cultural relevance, comes this sad but true (and hilarious) skit from College Humor:

Thanks for the heads up, Karen! I’m a diehard fan of Burton’s pre 00s films, but I still peed my (stripey, spooky) pantaloons.

Larry Cassidy, Section 25 frontman. Photo by Yeled.

Ugh. Larry Cassidy, a driving force behind Section 25 –the criminally under-appreciated, completely fucking wonderful post-punk/electronic group from Blackpool, England– has died, age 56. Cause of death is unknown at this time.

Produced early on by Ian Curtis, and sidelined somewhat by their label Factory Records in favor of more “iconic” bands, Section 25 never quite climbed out from underneath Joy Division’s long shadow, which is a shame. They had a haunting, punk/electronic/ambient sound that was unquestionably unique. As musician/writer  John Robb recently said in an obit for his old friend Cassidy last week:

[Section 25] were organised and had invented their own sound- a deceptively doomy, powerful, stripped down, bass driven, dissonant, post-punk that combined the nihilism of the times with Larry’s art school cool…

Section 25’s records stand the test of time and they deserve to be re-appraised– please don’t put them down as JD copyists, because they were anything but. They captured the darkness of the period and were psychedelic renegades with freaky music that they somehow shoehorned into a tough disco punk of their own– they were making this sound before Joy Division appeared, and I know that because they were doing it on our local Blackpool circuit.

Another great lost genius- maybe Larry Cassidy’s sad death will wake everyone up to how great his band was.

Indeed, and I sincerely hope that’s true, because Section 25 deserves a whole lot of love and recognition. Quickly culled from YouTube, here’s a sampling of their beautiful songs.

Caitlin Hackett’s work is a lush stew of the beautiful, grotesque, and fantastic; pulling from a wide spectrum of myths and fairy tales. Mostly rendered with ballpoint pens and watercolors, it exhibits a level of detail that I find irresistible.

via Phantasmaphile