Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: armani, art, chanel, coffee and cigarettes, dash snow, death, dies, graffiti, heroin, hong kong, irak, mafia, mario sorrenti, muse, nyc, overdose, sacer, stephen marche, street art, ZEVS
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So Dash Snow aka Saker Irak died of an overdose recently, RIP. Some say he’s already being Basquiatised, and probably not a minute too soon. Stephen Marche fittingly points out in a fairly caustic article, “Basquiat’s hedonism fuelled his creativity, but for Snow hedonism was the creativity.” He’s already not one, but two four letter words and surely an adjective (or more fittingly, adverb) can’t be far off? Photos aside I couldn’t dig much of his art but as a person(a) he’s fascinating – for me maybe the ultimate embodiment of the downtown art scene today. |
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Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: adbusters, consumerism, dash snow, decline of western civillisation, doom, hipster holocaust, m.i.a.
When did dot.coms become dot.cons? Who beat the beatniks into conservative consumerism? And who made adbusters – with their $50 *nobrand* black-dot-anticonsumerist sneakers – the token cultural messiah du jour anyway? Douglas Haddow is a smart, smart man (of course). And this article, Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization is kind of incredible, in a disdainfully self referential soul crushing kind of way.
The dance floor at a hipster party looks like it should be surrounded by quotation marks.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: art, coke, collage, dash snow, headspace, hipster holocaust, kerouac, new york
Or, how to create pastiches in which Downtown New York feels collectively better about itself. Rejuvinates its art scene in sperm smeared increments and poloroid flashes? Just like gentrification! Dash Snow! Yeah, progress to exclamatory/ejaculatory punctuation now. I really do want to like him for his work and not just the persona and the collateral Dash Snow Effect. Or the whole Dash as Samo as Another Four Letter Appendage business. Maybe it’s a microcosmic contemporary version of Andy Warhol and his whole downtown Factory scene? I do really dig a lot of the latter’s work though.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: ☭☭☭, childhood, dash snow, die fetten jahre sind vorbei, endings, every heart is a revolutionary cell, poloroids
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Sometimes when I think of poloroids I think of dash snow and the amazing photo below by Dave Schubert. But sometimes poloroids can also be lovely. Or the shots from the very first Antifrat gig that fell on something hot and are warped, transience like that particular guitar! +bass! +drums! + girlpower! incarnation of the band. And later on, ditto with the Sparkplugs, albeit on a different stage. I think the first time I ever came into contact with poloroids actually was when I was far littler than now, at the Wafi centre’s annual it’s-Christmastime-you-should-be-buying-more extravaganza, replete with air-imported pine tree and fake snow. Of the smilingly sit/struggle with all the dignity of a very small person on Santa’s lap for posterity kind, even though you’re really far too large (in your head) to be doing so.
Soon, though polaroids may go the way of polar bears, Santa’s reindeers and all things once-wintry once global warming’s karmic punchline kicks in. This is saddening.
[ more dash snow: a bag of blow and some love to go | RIP dash snow | the decline of western civillisation | the poloroid years are over ]
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When (if) I grow up I think I would like to be Dash Snow, please. This guy fascinates me no end. Privilege begets plastic begets privilege? There’s an interesting NY Mag article here
And because notoriety is crucial to something much larger than graffiti culture, Dash Snow is becoming a kind of sensation. Young people poured out onto Joey Ramone Place waiting to get into his last show at Rivington Arms gallery. He had a piece in the Whitney Biennial—a picture of a dog licking his lips in a pile of trash and several other Polaroids. You may not be able to find him, but you can hear his name, that zooming syllable—Dash!—punctuating conversations in Chelsea galleries and Lower East Side coke parties and Miami art fairs and the offices of underground newspapers in Copenhagen and Berlin, like a kind of supercool international Morse code. Because the art world loves infamy. Downtown New York City loves infamy—needs it, in fact, to exist.
His work is pretty uncompellingly eh; I can’t decide if I love or loathe him. Or rather, the idea of him. Such moneyed finesse, channeling of collective self loathing and careful paranoia. Perhaps the pinnacle of what late stage capitalism and the dying throes of western civilisation can only become.Gawker does it in particularly breathless installments.
