Saturday, 31 October 2015

The Sigh

The Satanic Verses

"How to win the darling's love, mister, without a sigh?"

Wednesday, 30 September 2015

現代 Haiku September 2015

By Rory A.A. Hinton

Marilyn Dead

September 2015

September 01, 2015
Caved in
Case closed.
Open up

September 02, 2015
Daily help
Her helping.
Made it

September 03, 2015
Online trading
Academy again.
New analysis

September 04, 2015
Rump pump
Dump chump.
Money power

September 05, 2015
Pushing change
Forward motion.
Distant triangle

September 06, 2015
Vodka plate
Tech tonics.
Eat elsewhere

September 07, 2015
Samber arrears
Ugly headlong.
No protection

September 08, 2015
Other man
Read flag.
Either or

September 09, 2015
Birth day
Old news.
New day

September 10, 2015
Day trading
Futures mentor.
Deep leverage

September 11, 2015
Remember ever
Never forget.
Free falling

September 12, 2015
One step
Closer two.
Strange city

September 13, 2015
Unfaithful stomach
Ache history.
No secrets

September 14, 2015
Green algae
Ladder water.
Last text

September 15, 2015
Financial letter
Writing frustration.
Legal ignorance

September 16, 2015
Flat tire
Rim burn.
So sick

September 17, 2015
Speed killed
Pussy cat.
Dog too

September 18, 2015
Three days
Ago anon.
Draws blank

September 19, 2015
Texas stand
Off again.
Dodge dodge

September 20, 2015
Four teen
Age her.
Beautiful boy

September 21, 2015
Just give
More time.
Worth wait

September 22, 2015
Fade too
Black away.
Polo man

September 23, 2015
Distantly touched
Sincerely written.
Her gift

September 24, 2015
Game plan
Ahead curve.
Empty love

September 25, 2015
Learning lost
Love lessons.
Life lined

September 26, 2015
Alien venus
Envy knot.
Her bullet

September 27, 2015
Life wasted
Space craft.
Stay away

September 28, 2015
Long lost
Love last.
Land lust

September 29, 2015
Know want
Take mine.
Never boring

September 30, 2015
No on
Off yes.
Get it

Monday, 31 August 2015

現代 Haiku August 2015

by Rory A.A. Hinton

Heidegger's Pump

August 2015

August 01, 2015
Come in
Come in.
Come on

August 02, 2015
Up next
Steps down.
Gain full

August 03, 2015
South border
Business bound.
Private pride

August 04, 2015
Eat less
Move less.
One way

August 05, 2015
White Walt
Whitman wit.
Singing myself

August 06, 2015
International business
Machine revisited.
Astronomical odds

August 07, 2015
Reasonable offer
Rejected outright.
Next year

August 08, 2015
Another success
Full interview.
A choice

August 09, 2015
Another interview
Full success.
Next steps

August 10, 2015
Full fathom
Five filled.
Fight fair

August 11, 2015
One million
Dollars trader.
Still time

August 12, 2015
Future skeleton
Remains uncertain.
Water everywhere

August 13, 2015
Third interview
Finished success.
Human resource

August 14, 2015
Up next
Week end.
Still distant

August 15, 2015
I’m mortal
Poems read.
Every morning

August 16, 2015
Left alone
Now again.
Long drive

August 17, 2015
Late night
Vodka run.
Half left

August 18, 2015
Making java
Script words.
American stories

August 19, 2015
Long lost
Found girl.
Summer tan

August 20, 2015
Better late
Bracelet worn.
So thankful

August 21, 2015
Not reacting
Too negative.
Calm response

August 22, 2015
Night question
Answer time.
Another week

August 23, 2015
Notorious big
Small papa.
North coast

August 24, 2015
Never satisfied
Customer loved.
Eye candy

August 25, 2015
Waiting world
Change place.
Another week

August 26, 2015
Soft whimper
Whisper strong.
Making sounds

August 27, 2015
Security day
Trade analysis.
Luxury found

August 28, 2015
Pictures love
Letters sent.
Quick fix

August 29, 2015
Patiently waiting
Again gained.
No word

August 30, 2015
Private whats
App texting.
Left alone

August 31, 2015
Pattern day
Trading puts.
Pump dump

Monday, 27 July 2015

Absolute Clarity

George Falconer

"A few times in my life I've had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think, and things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything, they fade. I have lived my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present, and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be." (George Falconer, A Single Man, 2009).

Tom Ford. A Single Man. The Weinstein Company. 2009. 

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

Musik Und Geld

Herbert Von Karajan

"From the beginning of my career I told myself, among other things, that I didn't want to take orders from anybody. I have now reached a position where I can do what I choose to do and from the financial point of view this amounts to freedom in choosing the best artistic material available without being concerned about the cost. To me, money in itself has no attraction. But insofar as it allows me to achieve my artistic aims, money is important." (Herbert Von Karajan).

Sunday, 28 June 2015

Measured Tension

"Yes, Ms. Francon."

"She heard, in the measured tension of his words, that it was harder for him to speak them than for her to listen. So she listened. 'You must learn not to be afraid of the world. Not to be held by it as you are now. Never to be hurt by it as you were in that courtroom. I must let you learn it. I can't help you. You must find your own way. When you have, you'll come back to me. They won't destroy me, Dominique. And they won't destroy you. You'll win, because you've chosen the hardest way of fighting for your freedom from the world. I'll wait for you. I love you. I'm saying this now for all of the years we will have to wait. I love you, Dominique.' Then he kissed her and let her go." (The Fountainhead, pp. 376-377).

Ayn Rand. The Fountainhead. Signet. 1952

Sunday, 7 June 2015

I Know A Woman

by Rory A.A. Hinton

I know a woman
Who I see
Naked, but not
With my naked eye.
I've seen embodied ghosts
Dressed to kill me,
With their dull stilettoed knives
Sticking out from under
Shallow branded pockets.
Eye spy in my house of love,
Lusting for the nakedly real
This woman makes me feel,
So much more than lazy
Landed lovers drowning
Underneath the frozen pools
Of my unattainable eyes.

I know a woman
Who can swim,
Late at night under
The exotic theater lights
Of a cool pooled moon.
How I howl at her
Moonstruck full
Fathom five, six, seven, eight ...
Sinking down for the count
Below her moist surface
Tension staring me blind.
I remain the bottom feeder
Eating my Nymphaeaceae,
Born under the water
Bearing sign, baring
The deep emotional voice
Of this unsinkable scorpion.

Thursday, 4 June 2015

Alteri Sæculo

by Rory A.A. Hinton

The Sound Of Fallen Snow
Fell three years ago, now,
About a bridge mixture
With a fragile visitor
Biting off less than she could choose.
A pendulum soul caught swinging
Between Blake's communal crime
Seen, and heard, too much to trust
In Basho's chilly climate.

But that was then, and this is then.
Remembering this moment
Butchered out of my time,
About another patch worked collage,
And another snow jaded evening.
You held my glove, then,
Wrapped in that white blanket.
I talked of Masonic prophecy,
And you listened attentively,
As our two solitudes started
Our troubled Canadian legacy.

That was before, then,
Before the organic birth
Of your betraying afterbirth
Twenty years too late.
The shadow of that famed obstetrician
Within the court yard of Alteri Sæculo
Is harbinger enough for me, now.
Better the devil you knew,
Than the one you never do?
Snowed man melted ...

Monday, 1 June 2015

Variations On A Dream

By Rory A.A. Hinton

I am interpreted.
I am shrunk.
I am locked in the trunk
Of the myths I am living.
Condemned historically
To her animastic story.
Tao's Tzu has nothing left to do.
I am the sanest man alive.

This is how she wants it done:
I tell her the demonic details
Of all my nocturnal secrets
While she sits across the end of me.
My honesty is stained by her light.
She feels that I am braver at night.
"I see enough of you to see the truth of you."

I am not written in braille.
She doesn't need to touch me
To know my archetypal trickery.
Tricksters make and break their world.
Mischief and art have a part to play
Time and time again
As I lie with this alien.

Lying in muthur's arms,
The nymphed foot and root
Of this woman's charm
Bracelet dangling loosely
As she carefully writes down
All of the irrational fullness
Of my analytical anguish
That's as old as old can be.

She is my monastic secretary,
Habitually cloaked in Coco Chanel.
A woman like her is not ashamed
To die the death of one thousand
Transfers of her pantomimed lust
In order to gain my trappist trust.

She waits for me,
Beckoning voyeur
Like an ancient altar,
Watching my words
Shifting her torso,
Crossing over just so
Right in her chair
Woman over bored.
Nodding on and on
As if it's all news to her.
Because it almost is:
Variations on a dream.

Saturday, 23 May 2015

The Queen Of Sins Forgotten

By Rory A.A. Hinton

"For a man needs only to be turned around once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost ... Not til we are lost ... do we begin to find ourselves." (Thoreau)

I close my eyes
As she turns me around
And around, and back again.
We dance to the daily
Game show jingles,
As the crowds cheer us on
Into the next commercial break.
Then the dizziness, and I see them
Walking past the fortified doors.
We don't get visitors here.

I recall seeing this before,
In a foreign pediatric ward,
My little white hands
On the big wooden rods
Staring behind the cribbed bars,
While three familiar strangers
(They say I know, but not quite)
Turn a sharp corner
And vanish out of sight.
We don't get visitors here.

I recall their absence
On a regular basis now
From the sewer of shadows
Cast by Penny Wise:
Grinning death on the psychiatric floor.
This feminine l'elephant terrible,
This task mistress shaming me
Into chilling secrecy
Over natural body functions.
We don't get visitors here.

I recall them stripping me naked,
Throwing me into a tiled corner,
And then spraying me frozen
With that industrial hose.
I am my house on fire.
My kingdom for the Queen
Of sins forgotten ...
... water, water everywhere.
(A poem suddenly remembered).
We don't get visitors here.

I recall my history
Slowly reduced down
To a medicated guess.
Turning around again,
With my eyes wide open,
First found, then lost
Inside Walden's forest.
If I had a knife,
I would cut its throat.
But we don't get cutlery here.

Friday, 15 May 2015

Hip Gnosis

By Rory A.A. Hinton

She came from the center
     and she comes to those who think of her,
     and she finds those who are worthy of her.
Consider her, you who only look at her,
     and you hearers, hear her words.
     And you who wait for her, keep waiting.
Do not banish her from your sight.
Do not remove her from your life.
Do not make your voice hate her,
Do not be ignorant of her anywhere or any time.
You who deny her, confess her,
     and you who confess her, deny her.
You who tell the truth about her, lie about her,
     and you who continue the lie, tell the truth about her.
You who know her, be ignorant of her,
     and those who don’t know her, let them know.

She is knowledge and ignorance.
She is shame and boldness.
She is shameless and is ashamed.
She is strength and fear.
She is war and peace.
She is compassionate and cruel.
She hurts you to love you,
     and to protect you from herself.
She is more than you can bite.
She is less than you can chew.
She is beyond good and evil.

Do not hate her obedience,
     and do not love her self-control.
In her weakness, do not forsake her,
     and do not be afraid of her power.
Why do you despise her fear
     and curse her pride?
She exists in all fears
     and is confident when she trembles.
She is senseless and she is wise.
She is godless,
     and her God is great.
She is unlearned,
     and yet everyone learns from her.
She is control and the uncontrollable.
She is the union and the dissolution.

She is the one below,
     and all come up to her.
She is the judgment and the acquittal.
She is sinless,
     and the root of sin cums from her.
She is lust in outward appearance,
     and interior self-control exists within her.
She is the hearing which is heard by everyone,
     and the speech which cannot be grasped.
She is a mute who does not speak,
     and great is her multitude of words.
Hear her in gentleness,
     and learn from her violently.

She is the first and the last.
She is the honored one and the scorned one.
She is the whore and the holy one.
She is the wife and the virgin.
She is the mother and the daughter.
She is the barren one
     and many are her children.
She is her secret marriage vow,
     and she remains husbandless.
She is the midwife and she who does not bear.
She is the solace of her labor pains.
She is the bride and the bridegroom.
She is the mother of my father
     and he is her offspring.
She is the slave of him who made her,
     and her power is from his center.
She is mindful of his circumference,
     and knows that it is nowhere.
She is the staff of his power in his youth,
     and he is the rod of her old age.
Whatever he wills happens to her,
     and she does not complain.
She is the silence that is incomprehensible
     and the idea that is never forgotten.

She is perfection, and she is grace.
She is this smile on my face.
She is the totality of inner opposites.
She is the plurality of outer composites.
She is fortune and she is fame.
She is the utterance of her name.
She is …

Friday, 17 April 2015

His Random Mana

by Rory A.A. Hinton


"I have found God, but he is insufficient." (Henry Miller)

One day,
Old and gray
Matter scarred.
Two dazed
Bitter moons
Consumed by air and fire.
Writer for permanent hire
And higher up we raised
This spiritual spire.
Resurrection after
     Making words
     Making worlds
     Making love
     Making life
Breaking spells,
To hell with this ...
... this ...
     beyond god and devil,
     beyond good and evil,
     behind ...
Time waits for this man
Eating his random mana.

The Rosy Crucifixion

Anaïs Nin. Henry And June. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. 1986.
Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller. A Literate Passion: Letters Of Anaïs Nin And Henry Miller (1932-1953). Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. 2001.
Henry Miller. Sexus: The Rosy Crucifixion I. Grove Press. 1994.

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

Putting Beauty In Its Place

By Rory A.A. Hinton

The Martyr Of Beauty - 2012

"It is self-evident that nothing concerning art is self-evident any more, not its inner life, not its relation to the world, not even its right to exist." (Theodor Adorno)

The paintings of Xiao Guo Hui are a playful response to the modern idea that beauty is not the raison d'être of art. Beginning in the 1860s avant-garde artists made beauty a martyr for its cause by sacrificing it upon the altar of subjective experience. This singular act dismantled the idea that beauty is synonymous with artistic excellence, an idea that had been slowly evolving for over half a millennium (beginning with Plato's Republic and rising to its zenith in the art of the Christian religion). Nietzsche's claim that "Christianity is Platonism for the masses" sums up this history decisively. With the modern rejection of this ancient ideal, it was no longer art for art's sake, but art for artist's sake.
     Artists like Charles Baudelaire humanized art in the process, making it less ethereal and more visceral. By focusing their attention on the human subject, they made beauty truly belong to the eye of the beholder. So, when Xiao says that he does not want his work to be "seen apart, but rather for people to see themselves within it," he is echoing an old idea that the subject-matter of art is the only object-matter that matters. Nothing is "beautiful" apart from what our eyes consider to be beautiful things (breasts on a platter, no less).
     Baudelaire asks “What is pure art according to the modern idea?” His answer is instructive, and sums up how best to think of his work and what followed in its wake: “[Art] is to create a suggestive magic, containing at the same time the object and the subject, the world external to the artist and the artist himself.” Modern art is as romantic as it is real, as external as it is expressive, and as suggestive as it is subjective. Modern art is magic.
     This turn to the subject as the object of concern freed us to practice what Xiao calls "inventive thought and discernment." However, Xiao's insightful response to this story of martyrdom is to playfully argue through his discerning brush that while the modern avant-garde were right to reject beauty as the criterion of art, they were wrong to think that beauty was not an essential component of human life. Xiao knows it is. His paintings show that life has beauty because it is ugly, grotesque, macabre, deviant, pathological, and horrifying. 'Beauty' is a relative term. Winner's Game as Guantanamo Bay.

Winner's Game - 2011

     By putting beauty in its place among every other aspect of our experience, Xiao makes it possible for each of us to figure out how to live a beautiful life on our own terms (the only terms that matter). How is this done?
     The first step is to follow Xiao's historically sensitive lead in affirming beauty's modern displacement. Consider Edouard Manet's "beautiful" Olympia. It is rightly regarded among art historians as the first real modern painting. Why? It hints at the fact that such relative beauty has within it the seeds of its own subjective destruction. Notice the black cat at the right side of the canvas. If anything represents the harbinger of the disaster that is to befall the beautiful Olympia, it is this femme feline.
     For there will come a time when beauty's attendants won't notice her any longer, nor send her flowers, nor position her lying languidly on her bed as she stretches her sweet anatomy. She will no longer be art's darling. In The Martyr Of Beauty Xiao bears witness to the fact that this lost time has already come and gone. Beauty is not so picturesque as Olympia, nor should she be. Rather she is now sprawled out on an operating table like a cadaver waiting for an autopsy. Everyone else does everything but notice her (and rightly so), whether it is engaging in the play of sexual innuendo, or the work of necrotic analysis. Beauty is dead. Long live the beautiful.

Olympia - 1863

     This death should give us serious pause. If beauty is no longer art's reason for being, it cannot be used as the basis for determining what is a work of art from what is not. Xiao's work cannot be understood apart from this fact. If you look long enough at his paintings a curious sense of estrangement begins to demand your attention. This demand can be expressed in the form of a question: What makes The Martyr Of Beauty, or Winner's Game, or Unclothe Hercules art? Can we look at these paintings and find within them what we need to answer this question? Does Xiao's work wear its artistic essence on its canvased sleeve? In the post-Warhol era the answer to these last two questions is a decisive "No."
     What made Andy Warhol's Brillo Box so important in the history of modern art is that it was the culmination of art finally coming into critical consciousness. This "sculpture" raised within itself the question of what it is. Clearly in this case you can't point to further Brillo Boxes to determine which one is a sculpture and which one is merely a shipping container. In the Stable Gallery show of Warhol's work in 1964 art finally exhausted its own resources to define itself. Art raised the question of its own essence (Is the Brillo Box art?), but was incapable of answering it. At this point art and reality were indiscernible.
     "It has always been taken for granted that one could distinguish works of art from other things by mere inspection," Arthur Danto writes. "Now we know that this straightforward way of learning cannot work, and that the meaning of art cannot be taught by examples." How can it be taught? We need philosophy to answer this question.

     What makes Xiao's work important, and well worth collecting, is that it hints at a philosophy of play as the way to teach the meaning of art. "I am fascinated by play for I believe that only in play is our true nature revealed," Xiao writes. "I like to create a limitless playground where [the viewer's] imagination is free to envision endless possibilities and personal reflections." Painting is Xiao's playground of the imagination. It is only through a life of play that we can begin to figure out what makes life beautiful.
     Consider the card game as an example of what it means to play. This game runs as a theme through Xiao's work like a narrative spine. The card game in this context functions as a metaphor for the job of statistics: the taming of chance. To live a beautiful life is to tame chance. Of course one way to tame chance is to stack the deck. Even the mighty Hercules stands no chance against lady luck when she is both player and dealer. In the game of life we pay our money and we take our chances (especially when it comes to sex and romance). Xiao's The Martyr Of BeautyWinner's Game, and Unclothe Hercules respect chance enough to play with it, and chance respects this play by allowing herself to be tamed by him and through them, at least until we are taught that art is getting away with surviving in style.

Unclothe Hercules - 2015

        I began this essay by stating that Xiao's work is a playful response to modern art. This is not the response. It is a response. In fact, it is my response to what I take to be Xiao's response. It is the product of my attempt to be inventive and discerning. This is as it should be. 
     I usually interview the artists I write about before I start an essay. But in this case talking to Xiao was not necessary. In talking to him I would only be confirming what I have already gathered from his paintings. By not talking to him I honor and respect his work. Even if I did talk to him about his paintings he would not be able to talk about them. Not really. Why? Because he does not fully understand one painting he has produced. No one does. Not even someone like Dali, who claimed that the reason why he never understood one of his paintings is because he only creates enigmas. 

Andy Warhol. The Philosophy Of Andy Warhol. Harcourt. 1975.
Arthur C. Danto. Beyond The Brillo Box: The Visual Arts in Post-Historical Perspective. The Noonday Press. 1992.
Francis Frascina and Charles Harrison (eds). Modern Art And Modernism: A Critical Anthology. Harper & Row, 1987.
Frank Pavich. Jodorowsky's Dune. Sony Pictures Classics. 2013.
Friedrich Nietzsche. Beyond Good And Evil. Oxford Paperbacks. 2003. 
Peter Gay. Modernism - The Lure Of Heresy: From Baudelaire To Beckett And Beyond. Norton, 2008.
Plato. The Republic. Penguin. 1987. 
Theodor Adorno. Aesthetic Theory. University of Minnesota Press. 1998.
Xiao Guo Hui. Exhibition Catalogue.

© Christopher Cutts Gallery, 2015

Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Guru's Muse

By Rory A.A. Hinton


Jack Grimaldi: "So you're the big hoodlum? Personally, I don't see it."
Mona Demarkov: "Keep lookin'."

Through resolving door
To Rumi's killing floor.
Two hinges that swing:
Hard between guru's muse
And a piece offering he brings,
Her power to amuse or abuse.
Libido over Credo.

Intrigue intrudes her body
Electric bitch embodied.
Tatiana takes no prisoners:
Let no one enter here
Who is ignorant of her,
Syndromatic biosphere.
Mona over Persona.

Never one only two
Buddhas will ever do.
Alone but never lonely:
Goodness inside beside
Tatius leaving evil behind,
Mindful of Persian purity.
Breath over Death.


Mona Demarkov: "You can dig one grave or you can dig two."

Romeo Is Bleeding. Polygram Filmed Entertainment. 1993

Sunday, 1 March 2015

Till Kingdom Come

By Rory A.A. Hinton

Your healing invitation.
My healthy investment.
High end for a high end.
We know Kahlo's blend:

Once sew enclosed
Inside our fabric.
Feeling your heeling
Now with-held strength
At your legs-length.

Andy: "Just be yourself, Betsey."
Betsey: "Which one?"

From his salmon plate
To your corporate date.
Catalysts are never late.
"Afraid," you say?
Let me tell you why
... you slay:

     You are more than every Woman,
     You are Gucci Noir:
          You are your space
          You part the read see
          You have women desire you
          You set the captives free
          You shut down production
          You open closed doors.
     You are more than any Christian,
     You are Christian Dior.

Andy: "Just be yourselves, Betsey."
Betsey: "Which ones?"

With timing
And rhyming
Minimal words
I found my sound
Within your source.

I am swept under,
Stand asunder over
Me over again until
You understand I am
Strong enough to catch.

Strong enough to be
Hold arms out for you:
A bountiful Mobster
A beautiful Monster.

Andy: "Just BE, Betsey."
Betsey: "BEtsey." 

Canadian cosmology meets
American archaeology greets
Tumbling photography
Therapeutically enveloped.
I must take magnificent pictures
Before you are newly developed.

Andy: "I am deeply superficial, BEtsey."
Betsey: "Take a picture so I can see." 

I am perfectly clear.
I don't commandeer.
I never have.
I never will.
Still ...

My love, if you want,
My Cinderella can ask
For an offer you can use,
For an offer I won't refuse,
From your more than fair-he
Father of the gods:

     Will you give
     What we believe,
     This safe place,
     This sane pace,
     This orchid flower,
     This ontic tower,
     This desired lot,
     This ... Camelot?

Betsey: "What's he doing at his desk?"
Andy: "Waiting till kingdom come, BEtsey." (Click)

Wednesday, 25 February 2015

Not So Mad Men

Jacob Baal-Teshuva

Review by Rory A.A. Hinton


The following quote from Rothko is worth the price of the book. It indicates just how divided the Abstract Expressionists were over the notion of worth. When it comes to the dividing line between creativity and commerce, you are either a Mark Rothko or a Barnett Newman. Rothko ended up on the right side of art history. His healthy bourgeois existence made the message of Pop Art possible: American capitalism is an artistic achievement. His art is as commercial as it is fine.

"After Rothko's art was declared to be a good investment by no less a financial authority than Forbes magazine, the relationship between Rothko and his uncompromising colleagues Still and Newman only worsened further in the mid-1950s. They accused Rothko of harboring an unhealthy yearning for a bourgeois existence, and finally stamped him as a traitor." 

Not So Mad Men

Jacob Baal-Teshuva. Rothko. Taschen. 2003. 

Saturday, 21 February 2015

Chart Recognition

By Rory A.A. Hinton

Art is ...

Gekko's Nod To Warhol

My years as a fine art dealer led to my career as a futures trader. The art of the deal convinced me that the money I made meant more to me than the fine art did. This made me love art more, and for the right reason. Warhol's claim that art is what you can get away with helped me understand that by trading dealing for hedging as a way to make my living, I was merely moving from one artistic market to another. I was not leaving art behind, I was just doing art differently. Art dealing and futures trading are nothing but related ways to get away with sum things. Gekko knows.
     My father knew too. He traded stocks. After he died my mother told me that he ran a stock trading club for his fellow employees at IBM where he worked as a mechanical engineer. This made retrospective sense since as a kid I remember him taking notes while reading stock market reports after dinner. He was preparing for something, obviously. I once asked him what the market was about. With an omniscient grin on his face he replied that it was "all about psychology." He was exaggerating, but he made it easier for my young eyes to see the charts he examined as the patterned psychological product of supply and demand decisions between buyers and sellers (guided by fear, greed, and ignorance). To recognize a chart is to recognize the patterns it presents.
     Japanese-Canadian abstract artist Kazuo Nakamura (1926-2002) made the remarkable claim that the artist and the scientist do the same thing but in different ways: they recognize patterns in nature. A universal pattern that symmetrically exists in nature makes it possible for string painters and string theorists alike to equally contribute toward our collective understanding of the universe (Nakamura's string paintings predate string theory by at least fifty years). This leads Nakamura to conclude that art is nothing but "the total activity of man." This totality includes trading. 

Nakamura Meets The Nasdaq

     Traders who analyse market charts for a living are doing the same thing as physicists, painters, and even psychiatrists (since the market is "psychological" by definition). Chart analysis is nothing but the activity of recognizing patterns in nature. In this economic case they are supply and demand patterns created by individuals without and within financial institutions. What made me see my work in aesthetic terms was the realization that charting is part of Nakamura's total activity of the human species. This too is art.
     My trading platform has drawing tools. Each morning before the market opens, I draw. I bring up the chart for the asset class I trade and draw lines and shapes on it (horizontal, vertical, diagonal, circular and rectangular). I draw lines indicating the Globex highs and lows from the previous evening of trading, lines showing the trading highs and lows of the previous day, lines pointing to the price at which my asset class closed the day before, and the present day opening price when the market opens. This graphical information helps me recognize the supply and demand zones I use to make trades (whether short or long depending on market trends). Here is a minimalist sample from the S&P 500 (my almost empty canvas, as it were, before I mess it up):

Abstract Chart



     I can't draw, not really. But I can trace. The tracings I create for a living contribute toward the total activity of the human species. They also chart capitalist patterns of human consumption in a way that must be understood in artistic terms. Of course, the art dealer in me thinks I should cash in on the art of chart recognition by creating a new abstract chart market (chart art). And the artist in me agrees. I am an abstract chartist.

Andy Warhol. The Philosophy of Andy Warhol. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2001.
Ihor Holubizky. Kazuo Nakamura: The Method Of Nature. The Robert McLaughlin Gallery, 2001.
Oliver Stone. Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. 20th Century Fox. 2010. 
Richard William Hill. Kazuo Nakamura: A Human Measure. Art Gallery Of Ontario, 2004.

Thursday, 29 January 2015

現代 Haiku January 2015

by Rory A.A. Hinton

Picture Book

January 2015

January 01, 2015
Same old
Song dance.
Stay home

January 02, 2015
Frozen waste
Land mass.
Fair banks

January 03, 2015
Being in
Side her.
We be

January 04, 2015
Taste good
Skinny feels.
Green moss

January 05, 2015
Pissed off
Line on.
One place

January 06, 2015
Busy brain
Hurts work.
Not seen

January 07, 2015
Loving early
Mourning her.
A tendency

January 08, 2015
Shallow wide
Receiver surface.
Found me

January 09, 2015
American eagle
Landed Canadian.
Literal symbol

January 10, 2015
Real ontology
Polity deals.
Heil GITA!

January 11, 2015
Badly married
Woman driving.
Pull over

January 12, 2015
Democratic society
Aristocratic paleness.
Artistically noble

January 13, 2015
Cut open
Up down.
New life

January 14, 2015
Previous life
Repair damage.
Growing forward

January 15, 2015
Paid bottom
Feeder leader.
Eight days

January 16, 2015
Power couple
Beta max.
Still idling

January 17, 2015
Sitting still
Here now.
Still sitting

January 18, 2015
Phat bag
Man stacks.
Under ground

January 19, 2015
I’ve been
Loving you.
Best fools

January 20, 2015
This is
The thing.
Leaves clothes

January 21, 2015
Fifty one
Year older.
λάθε βιώσας

January 22, 2015
Internal incision
Pain management.
Over bored

January 23, 2015
Her wonder
Full throttle.
Breathing in

January 24, 2015
Big Ben
Wa balls.
Four times

January 25, 2015
Knees begging
Please stay.
Dancing days

January 26, 2015
Four times
Three moves.
Thirty three

January 27, 2015
Flowers bloom
Bright perfection.
Pollen removed

January 28, 2015
Psycho white
Plague sic.
Wounds heal

January 29, 2015
Snow night
Mare fall.
The couch

January 30, 2015
Future past
Present illusion.

January 31, 2015
Reading her
Story bored.
Picture book