EXPECT UNEXPECTED
PIX. from the series "New York Zen" - All rights reserved to Monika K. Adler
See more at:
http://cid-2a051b0860e32a31.skydrive.live.com/browse.aspx/New%20York%20ZEN%20by%20Monika%20K.%20Adler?authkey=ZpoI*bl3qt8%24&ct=photos
Sunday, October 25, 2009
NEW YORK ZEN:
See more at:
http://cid-2a051b0860e32a31.skydrive.live.com/browse.aspx/New%20York%20ZEN%20by%20Monika%20K.%20Adler?authkey=ZpoI*bl3qt8%24&ct=photos
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monika K. Adler updated!
Monika K. Adler was born on January 5th. She is an artist, entrepreneur, self promoter, a charismatic & ultra fashionable icon of varied interest and diverse subject of art: photography, film: actress, director,writer . Adler graduated from the School of Fine Arts ( Art & Design ) and the European Academy of Photography in Warsaw/Poland : Creation & Expressionism. Her works has been exposed in exhibitions around the world and published in prestigious trade magazines. She lives & works between Paris and NYC.PHOTOGRAPHY SERIES:
2009 - La-La Land
2009 - Obsession
2009 - New York ZEN
2009 - Tao.
2009 - Derange in London
2009 - Tomorrow never dies
2009 - Beware of my Dogs!
2008/2009 - The Beauty of the Shadow
2002/2009 - Portraits
2006/2009 – Travel no End
2006/2009 – Children and other rubbish
2006 – Universe
2006 – Thank God I am a VIP
2006 – The Death of the Warrior
2005 – Not yet a Pope
2005 – I love New York.
2005 – Last Supper
2005 – What’s Wrong ?
2005 – Postcards from Paris
2004 – Salut de Paris
2004 – Expire
2004 – Mademoiselle Guilottine
2003 – Theresa is waiting
2003 – Nothingness
2003 – More cries then whispers
2003 – Sacred Flesh
2003 – Nocturne
2002 – The Polaroid Perfect Collection
FILMOGRAPHY:
2010/11 - THE CANCER - feature film - supporting role - writer - director-producer (developing)
2010 - Come back to the trees! - short film - lead - writer - director - producer (preproduction)
2009 - La-La Land - short film - lead - writer - director - producer (preproduction)
2009 - Obsession - short film - lead - writer - director - producer (preproduction)
2009 - Prayer - short film - director - producer (postproduction)
2009 - The Beauty of the Shadow – short film - lead - writer - director - producer - PREMIERE FEB.2010
1998 – Two loves – short film with Kamil Polak.
PRODUCTION:
2010 - THE CANCER
2010 - COMEBACK TO THE TREES!
2009 - LA-LA LAND
2009 - OBSESSION
2009 - PRAYER
2009 - THE BEAUTY OF THE SHADOW
MUSIC:
2010 - RED MOUTH GREEN EYES - SINGIEL
LITERATURE:
2010 - THE CANCER (screenplay in developing)
2010 - THE CANCER (screenplay in developing)
2009 - Come back to the trees! ( screenplay)
2009 - Prayer, La-La Land, Obsession - (screenplays)
2009 - Bloodsucker (novel)
2009 - Prayer, La-La Land, Obsession - (screenplays)
2009 - Bloodsucker (novel)
2008 - The Beauty of the Shadow ,, ( screenplay Pol. Eng. )
2008 – Letter to Father - Biblioteka Gazety Wyborczej, wybór opracowanie i wstęp Jerzy Wójcik i Grzegorz Piechota.
1998 – Late Fall (screenplay)
1998 – Two Loves (screenplay with Kamil Polak)
FASHION:
JOHN GALLIANO - HAUTE COUTURE -FALL/WINTER 2005 - BACKSTAGE
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Monika K. Adler - Official Website Available from November 11th!
Monika K. Adler - Official Website available from November 11th: http://www.monika-k-adler.com/
Photo of Monika K. Adler by Raul Jones
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Determination futile ? by Nicola Carley ( part about Monika K. Adler )
Paris 2005
Nicola Carley: http://www.petitenicole.blogspot.com/
Determination Futile ? (part about Monika K. Adler)
,, My hopes of escape were resting on the fact that somehow Monika and I might find a rich Russian to purchase one of her pieces of art or her ‘children’, as she referred to them. I would be able to set myself up on the commission; and Monika, well, the possibilities were endless. If Hirst could get away with commanding millions for a pickled shark and unmade beds win art prizes, I saw no reason why a work of art that does actually have something to say, be bought for serious money. It is of course unfortunate, that art become a consumer product however, until such time as living is free, this state of affairs is inevitable whether we are talking about a painting or a poem.I felt perhaps we had a chance. Monika had opened her exhibition without the traditional vernissage – an opening show where press and potential buyers and genunine art critics would be invited to see the work and generally, drink wine and nibbles. It would be tough to organise without any funding or contacts but we had the exhibition space and with some scouting around, there was a possibility we might pull it off. I resolved to give it a go.“Perhaps we could make it a performance.” Said Monika as we trod the pavement of a sidestreet, which branched off the Champs Elysee. “We’ll get some live models to ‘act’ Mademoiselle Guillotine, play some powerful music, project video on the walls.”“I think it’s a great idea but I think our best starting bet is going to be to network to start with,” I said.“Vodka 380 euros, 2002 Louis Roederer Cristal 700 euros,” I read aloud from the menu in its gold and glass case.“It sounds like this must be the place.” I said, turning to Monika, as we looked up at the sign over the darkened doorway on which was inscribed, Raspoutin.“Excellent, lets have a look inside,” she said heading for the door.“Attendez” came a voice from within. I looked closer and realised that there was a doorman buried deep in his green and gold livery, peeking at us from under his top hat. “Are you members of the club?” he asked in French.“I’m sorry but no.” I replied. “It is a members only club?”“Yes so unfortunately, even though you are both very beautiful, I’m afraid that I can’t allow you past. I’m very sorry.”Crestfallen, having felt that we had come so close to meeting our target, Monika and I turned on our heels and headed for the nearest bar that we actually would be allowed into. “Mesdames!” came a shout from behind us. Turning, we looked to see a short, balding fat man running attempting to run towards us, his tie tickling his chubby cheek with the force of the wind and spittle caught in the corner of his moustache.“Excusez-Moi! Est-ce que vous-etes prostituees?” He inquired.“No we fucking well aren’t! Get lost!” I yelled back at him. It was his turn to look crestfallen. “Unbelieveable.” I said looking at Monika, then down at my clothes to double check that I hadn’t accidentally walked out of the hostel in anything which could be construed as being whore-like dress. Nope. Definitely not. It was just the sordid bloody French again.The following morning, on arriving at the ‘gallery,’ we discovered another setback. A Pavarotti look-a-like was busy unloading a lorry full of clothing onto rails, which ran the entire circumference of the room. He was eccentrically dressed in a large, baggy pair of pink and black chequered trousers. Dresses dangled from the open stairway, hats adorned the centre table and Monsieur Pavarotti lorded over his assistant who could just be made out under the layers of cellophane covered bundles of clothes he carried. “Hi,” I said to him, slightly flabbergasted. “I’m Nicola, a friend of Monika here who was exhibiting her art here yesterday.”“Hello” he said, barely glancing up. “I’m a friend of Lucien. I am a fashion designer and I am selling some of my clothes from here for the next few weeks. I have a lot to do so, excuse me.”“Where are my prints?” asked Monika.“Sorry? Prints? What are you talking about?” he responded.“There were some large prints of photographs set around the room. Do you know where they are?”“Ah, those strange pictures? They are over there.” He said, pointing in the direction of the stairs. Hurriedly, Monika and I collected the pictures and walked out of the gallery. “Well, if his dress sense is anything to go by, it’s going to take him a while to shift that lot.” I said.“Pah.” Said Monika. “He is a joke. Look at his hair. It hasn’t been washed in weeks and his trousers, I will not think about them. It is too… disturbing.”“Well. Now we’re truly buggered.” I said, as we stood looking up the street at the looming silhouette of the Louvre. ,,
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Nicola Carley: www.petitenicole.blogspot.com
Friday, January 2, 2009
A brush at the Paris Ritz
by Nicola Carley: www.petitenicole.blogspot.com
“He is obsessed with his penis! All men are obsessed with their penises. It is an unfortunate trait. But it is small. I am sure of it,” said Monika as we were ejecting ourselves from the taxi on Concorde, just around the corner from The Ritz. She was talking about her Paris patron – the one who had lent her the exhibition space.
We had thirty euros each in our pockets (one cocktail = €20). We stood and looked at the imposing grandeur of the building with its top hatted and tailed voituriers standing outside and took deep breaths. We were on a networking mission. Looking for prospective art-buyers and we had to start somewhere.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked me, slightly nervously.
“It’s ok.” I said, “People do this all the time and they’re all just human like us. Besides, this was your idea. If we want to bump into the rich, we are going to have at least be within a few metres of them!”
“Except they usually have more money in their pockets and a posh accent,” Monika added.
“Ok, but for tonight, we are two mysterious foreign girls out discovering the high life of Paris. Besides, it was in my Time Out guide to Paris so it can’t be that taboo to come here.”
We entered an even more imposing foyer but felt a little more at ease when the two French meeters and greeters stood smiling at us and directed us to the Hemingway Bar. We walked down a seemingly infinite corridor, flanked on either side by glass fronted, mirrored cabinets, all brightly lit and ornate looking filled with odd, kitsch trinkets like plastic dolls and cheap jewellery.
On the Hemingway Bar, The Time Out Guide to Paris read, ‘Pulling in its fair share of characters, honeymooners and expense account nerds, it’s a great place to people-watch.’ What the guide didn’t tell you was that it would be filled with middle-aged thirty-year-olds; brandishing walking sticks; sporting the latest lines in country clothing; with the obligatory stiff upper lip wrapped around the Cuban cigar stuffed in the mouth.
We found it a tad overwhelming when the waiter, looking rather dashing in his white suit jacket, shirt and black trousers demanded, what would you like to drink ladies? When I requested, ‘la carte’, he answered, oh, there’s no need and continued by reeling off a list of the top 10 favourite cocktails, what was in them, how they were made and gave details right down to the temperature at which the vodka in the vodka martini had been stored at. We were warned that the berry vodka martini was nasty and we were not disappointed when the cocktails appeared with a garnish that probably cost more than the alcohol and it bit back on drinking, with as much pain as it took for us to admit that we were each going to spend 20 euros on one drink.
Of course we had no reason to fear the bill. Being two attractive girls alone in a bar, it isn’t too difficult to bump into someone tripping over themselves to talk to you and buy you a drink. Unfortunately, we ended up talking to a boring Spaniard and his friend who worked for the Hilton and related stories demonstrating his passion for customer service in the hotel industry. According to the Time Out guide, we had bumped into a couple of the ‘expense account nerds’. When they picked up the bill (without asking either of us if they could), I felt that we had well earned the 40 euros between us and the offer of going to a salsa bar in the Champs-Elysee with them was fairly irresistible to two poor foreigners staying in a youth hostel for 10 euros a night and as there didn’t appear to be any better prospects, it seemed too good to refuse.
“Don’t worry. This was a trial run,” I said.
“Yes,” said Monika. “Next time we’re after the Russians. They have plenty of cash to throw around and I know people who can tell me where to find them.”
On the way out of the Ritz we stopped for a chat with Colin the English of the English bar manager who lived up to the quote in the Time Out guide:
“… the old-school charm of Colin the barman make[s] the bar a cocoon from the horrors of the outside world.” However it didn’t tell you the Colin the charming barman is also a pot-smoker.”
A brush at the Paris Ritz
by Nicola Carley: www.petitenicole.blogspot.com
“He is obsessed with his penis! All men are obsessed with their penises. It is an unfortunate trait. But it is small. I am sure of it,” said Monika as we were ejecting ourselves from the taxi on Concorde, just around the corner from The Ritz. She was talking about her Paris patron – the one who had lent her the exhibition space.
We had thirty euros each in our pockets (one cocktail = €20). We stood and looked at the imposing grandeur of the building with its top hatted and tailed voituriers standing outside and took deep breaths. We were on a networking mission. Looking for prospective art-buyers and we had to start somewhere.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked me, slightly nervously.
“It’s ok.” I said, “People do this all the time and they’re all just human like us. Besides, this was your idea. If we want to bump into the rich, we are going to have at least be within a few metres of them!”
“Except they usually have more money in their pockets and a posh accent,” Monika added.
“Ok, but for tonight, we are two mysterious foreign girls out discovering the high life of Paris. Besides, it was in my Time Out guide to Paris so it can’t be that taboo to come here.”
We entered an even more imposing foyer but felt a little more at ease when the two French meeters and greeters stood smiling at us and directed us to the Hemingway Bar. We walked down a seemingly infinite corridor, flanked on either side by glass fronted, mirrored cabinets, all brightly lit and ornate looking filled with odd, kitsch trinkets like plastic dolls and cheap jewellery.
On the Hemingway Bar, The Time Out Guide to Paris read, ‘Pulling in its fair share of characters, honeymooners and expense account nerds, it’s a great place to people-watch.’ What the guide didn’t tell you was that it would be filled with middle-aged thirty-year-olds; brandishing walking sticks; sporting the latest lines in country clothing; with the obligatory stiff upper lip wrapped around the Cuban cigar stuffed in the mouth.
We found it a tad overwhelming when the waiter, looking rather dashing in his white suit jacket, shirt and black trousers demanded, what would you like to drink ladies? When I requested, ‘la carte’, he answered, oh, there’s no need and continued by reeling off a list of the top 10 favourite cocktails, what was in them, how they were made and gave details right down to the temperature at which the vodka in the vodka martini had been stored at. We were warned that the berry vodka martini was nasty and we were not disappointed when the cocktails appeared with a garnish that probably cost more than the alcohol and it bit back on drinking, with as much pain as it took for us to admit that we were each going to spend 20 euros on one drink.
Of course we had no reason to fear the bill. Being two attractive girls alone in a bar, it isn’t too difficult to bump into someone tripping over themselves to talk to you and buy you a drink. Unfortunately, we ended up talking to a boring Spaniard and his friend who worked for the Hilton and related stories demonstrating his passion for customer service in the hotel industry. According to the Time Out guide, we had bumped into a couple of the ‘expense account nerds’. When they picked up the bill (without asking either of us if they could), I felt that we had well earned the 40 euros between us and the offer of going to a salsa bar in the Champs-Elysee with them was fairly irresistible to two poor foreigners staying in a youth hostel for 10 euros a night and as there didn’t appear to be any better prospects, it seemed too good to refuse.
“Don’t worry. This was a trial run,” I said.
“Yes,” said Monika. “Next time we’re after the Russians. They have plenty of cash to throw around and I know people who can tell me where to find them.”
On the way out of the Ritz we stopped for a chat with Colin the English of the English bar manager who lived up to the quote in the Time Out guide:
“… the old-school charm of Colin the barman make[s] the bar a cocoon from the horrors of the outside world.” However it didn’t tell you the Colin the charming barman is also a pot-smoker.”
Nicola Carley: www.petitenicole.blogspot.com
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
A Polish Encounter
by Nicola Carley: www.petitenicole.blogspot.com
By the time the last week of February dawned, I had made friends with Jerome - another Canadian guy who had been staying in the Auberge and who, like me, had outstayed his welcome. He introduced me to the hostel just around the corner, which was great as it meant I only had a short distance to drag my possessions and they even had a lift! It felt as though I was beginning a new era as myself and my volunteers moved my god knows how many kilos worth of bags and bits. This excitement was soon dampened a few days later when I was told that the only bed available that night was a mattress on the floor in a room which already had one resident – or sharing the double bed with them.
The next morning I happened to be passing Starbucks on the start of another day scouring for jobs when, through the glass I noticed a girl I thought I recognised sitting in the window. Looking warm with a long heavy coat, dark, Eastern European looks with the almost compulsory highlights they often seem to have in their hair, which shadowed half of her face and her wide deep eyes. She sat inside, working on an Apple Mac, as I stood freezing on the outside and I realised the reason I recognised her is because she too had been staying in the Auberge. I had never really noticed her before, being the quiet observer of the social experiments around her, choosing not to participate.
I pushed the door open, walked over and introduced myself.
“Hi, I’m Nicola. I was staying in the same hostel as you the other day but I never had an opportunity to speak to you really.
“Oh, yes. Of course I remember. You are the English girl in the hat.”
Yeah. I guess that’s me. I thought it needed a rest today.
“My name’s Nicola.”
“Hi, I’m Monika Adler. I’m from Poland.”
“So, what are you doing in Paris?”
“To be honest? I guess there are many reasons really, but more than anything, it’s that someone opened the door, just a crack, onto potentially, a whole new life. It opened to show me something with a beautiful exterior but not enough for me to be able to scratch beneath it so, here I am. Scratching!”
I wondered if I could also use that as an excuse to explain the awful state of my nails after living in a hostel for almost two months.
“You?”
“I’m an artist and I have an exhibition here in Paris, just off the Rue de Rivoli, close to the Louvre.” She said, handing me a flyer. “I know some of the other artists working here in Paris and my friend agreed to loan me his exhibition space for a few weeks. Their art isn’t much good, they are all too obsessed with their own penises to see much beyond that but the relationship works for me at the moment.” She said, with a look of disdain.
“You should come along and take a look at my work. I’m there everyday from 1pm to around 7pm.”
“Cool. I will do. I have to do some job-hunting in the morning but I could pop by in the afternoon.”
Her blog today (December 2008) reads:
OFFICIAL BLOG OF MONIKA K. ADLER - AN INTERNATIONAL ART ICON
Monika K. Adler was born on January 5th. She is an artist, entrepreneur, self-promoter, a charismatic & ultra fashionable icon of varied interest and diverse subject of art. Adler graduated from the School of Fine Arts ( Art & Design ) and the European Academy of Photography in Warsaw/Poland : Creation & Expressionism. Her works have been exposed in exhibitions around the world and published in prestigious trade magazines. She lives & works between Paris and NYC.
Like many artists, she sees herself as a work of art or as she calls herself – an international art icon. A glance at her own blog posts and the self-photography there and it would be easy to write her off with an over-inflated ego, something that becomes obvious when photographs of dog turds are suggested as being ‘art’ paying homage to DuPont's 'throne'. However, beyond this egotism lies a sharp intelligence displayed in some of her pieces with a real passion to question society and lead society to question itself.
One critic writing on her blog said:
“To really understand Monika K. Adler’s art you have to put yourself above the social borders and political thoughts you know as everyday rhetoric, you have to open your mind and see the entire world in a single shot because behind every image is a very deep philosophy with its own arrogance, irony, romanticism, sadness, rebellion for freedom and change.”
Or at least that’s what I saw when I visited the gallery the next morning and first laid eyes upon her ‘Chef-de-oeuvre’ Mademoiselle Guillotine in life size.
Looking beyond the mirror, the following are my thoughts on the work however informed/mis-informed they may be…
The Unspoken Word
Monika K. Adler was born in Poland. She graduated from the School of Fine Arts and the European Academy of Photography in Warsaw, Poland. Her works have been shown in scores of exhibitions in Eastern Europe and published in trade magazines but Monika wanted to reach Western Europe and it seems in that world, to make it as an artist, you must be willing to not only sell your pictures but also your soul.
I was struck however, by the poignancy in this picture of ‘Mademoiselle Guillotine’ - saturated with signification. Having just come from London and a political climate of War and pro-human rights, this picture spoke volumes. In the UK recently, there seems to have been an increasing awareness of the subordination of women in many countries and the many forms it takes; from the killing of baby girls in China to female castration in Africa and the Taliban’s regime of the degradation of women. Monika’s pictures seem to give a voice to these women.
Many artists portray the naked female body with a submissive quality; laid back poses, paintings of women naked with their babies and women relaxing in the nude or portraits to be hung over a mantelpiece. The talent in Monika’s pictures lies in her ability to retain the femininity of the female and at the same time, show the innate power that lies within it. In this image, the power of the naked female body - far from subordinate - is a strong dichotomy in the masked girl. The Western and Eastern symbols of femininity fight with such intensity that on first view, a sharp intake of breath may be required.
These symbols however, the burkha and stiletto shoes are superceded by her naked sex; the defiant, provocative stance - her legs are not bound to keep them open - along with the expression in the eyes and the stiletto shoes fights against the masking of the face and the hands tied behind the back. Her ‘gaze’ taunts the voyeur to look her in the eye, to look away from her nakedness and into her soul. To look at her and regard the authoritarian, totalitarian male – war, rape and the brutalisation of a people, inferred by the symbols in the piece.
This image gives a voice to those women who cannot speak for themselves. It speaks against those forces that cover the female body and put it under wraps for exactly the reason displayed in this picture; the female body has a dangerous power. It can reduce some men to a helpless state, physically and emotionally inferior in that moment to the woman hence ‘feminine’ denotes in this picture, the very opposite of the dictionary definition. The rhetoric is a search for truth as it battles the stereotypes of feminity.
Religious and cultural dialectics are expressed in the stark ironies of the Burkha style mask in contrast with the naked genitalia and the world wide symbol of aid – The Red Cross - creates a context of War - in this picture, is not helping the woman from her binds. The photograph speaks against censorship. Against the binds that society places on women. Even in the Western world, the BBC will allow film of men with flaccid penises but a woman’s sex cannot be shown.
It may be a Western woman’s ‘choice’ to wear stilettos but nevertheless, it is a conformity to the male’s view of what constitutes sexuality - something that is celebrated in the Western world. In the East, women conform whether by choice or otherwise, to the male-dominated culture and wear burkha. Covering up what is deemed to be ‘dangerous’ there: a woman’s face and body, Monika might fear for her life in Saudi-Arabia for creating such a work.
It would be easy to write this off as an insult to women the world over. Through the dialectics in Mademoiselle Guillotine polarised cultures are transcended to bring together both East and West. It is a comment on Paris where the muslim ‘emigrant’ of countries such as Algeria and Morrocco meets the Western female in a sepia tone, nostalgic of a past long gone in the narrative of this photograph. Long live matriarchy!
From that moment, for this image, it moved me deeply enough that I pledged my allegiance to Monika K. Adler and it is in the juxtaposition of this with the ‘ideal’ image of Paris that it becomes ever more powerful such as this entitled ‘idyllic Paris’.
Her work can be viewed at
http://www.monika-k-adler.com
http://www.adler-photography.com
Robbie was entirely repelled by her. He thought her predatory, egotistical and vacuous but I saw another side. Predatory or not, I felt that her work had something powerful to say.
Posted by It's all in the text at 7:34 AM 0 comments
A Polish Encounter
by Nicola Carley: www.petitenicole.blogspot.com
By the time the last week of February dawned, I had made friends with Jerome - another Canadian guy who had been staying in the Auberge and who, like me, had outstayed his welcome. He introduced me to the hostel just around the corner, which was great as it meant I only had a short distance to drag my possessions and they even had a lift! It felt as though I was beginning a new era as myself and my volunteers moved my god knows how many kilos worth of bags and bits. This excitement was soon dampened a few days later when I was told that the only bed available that night was a mattress on the floor in a room which already had one resident – or sharing the double bed with them.
The next morning I happened to be passing Starbucks on the start of another day scouring for jobs when, through the glass I noticed a girl I thought I recognised sitting in the window. Looking warm with a long heavy coat, dark, Eastern European looks with the almost compulsory highlights they often seem to have in their hair, which shadowed half of her face and her wide deep eyes. She sat inside, working on an Apple Mac, as I stood freezing on the outside and I realised the reason I recognised her is because she too had been staying in the Auberge. I had never really noticed her before, being the quiet observer of the social experiments around her, choosing not to participate.
I pushed the door open, walked over and introduced myself.
“Hi, I’m Nicola. I was staying in the same hostel as you the other day but I never had an opportunity to speak to you really.
“Oh, yes. Of course I remember. You are the English girl in the hat.”
Yeah. I guess that’s me. I thought it needed a rest today.
“My name’s Nicola.”
“Hi, I’m Monika Adler. I’m from Poland.”
“So, what are you doing in Paris?”
“To be honest? I guess there are many reasons really, but more than anything, it’s that someone opened the door, just a crack, onto potentially, a whole new life. It opened to show me something with a beautiful exterior but not enough for me to be able to scratch beneath it so, here I am. Scratching!”
I wondered if I could also use that as an excuse to explain the awful state of my nails after living in a hostel for almost two months.
“You?”
“I’m an artist and I have an exhibition here in Paris, just off the Rue de Rivoli, close to the Louvre.” She said, handing me a flyer. “I know some of the other artists working here in Paris and my friend agreed to loan me his exhibition space for a few weeks. Their art isn’t much good, they are all too obsessed with their own penises to see much beyond that but the relationship works for me at the moment.” She said, with a look of disdain.
“You should come along and take a look at my work. I’m there everyday from 1pm to around 7pm.”
“Cool. I will do. I have to do some job-hunting in the morning but I could pop by in the afternoon.”
Her blog today (December 2008) reads:
OFFICIAL BLOG OF MONIKA K. ADLER - AN INTERNATIONAL ART ICON
Monika K. Adler was born on January 5th. She is an artist, entrepreneur, self-promoter, a charismatic & ultra fashionable icon of varied interest and diverse subject of art. Adler graduated from the School of Fine Arts ( Art & Design ) and the European Academy of Photography in Warsaw/Poland : Creation & Expressionism. Her works have been exposed in exhibitions around the world and published in prestigious trade magazines. She lives & works between Paris and NYC.
Like many artists, she sees herself as a work of art or as she calls herself – an international art icon. A glance at her own blog posts and the self-photography there and it would be easy to write her off with an over-inflated ego, something that becomes obvious when photographs of dog turds are suggested as being ‘art’ paying homage to DuPont's 'throne'. However, beyond this egotism lies a sharp intelligence displayed in some of her pieces with a real passion to question society and lead society to question itself.
One critic writing on her blog said:
“To really understand Monika K. Adler’s art you have to put yourself above the social borders and political thoughts you know as everyday rhetoric, you have to open your mind and see the entire world in a single shot because behind every image is a very deep philosophy with its own arrogance, irony, romanticism, sadness, rebellion for freedom and change.”
Or at least that’s what I saw when I visited the gallery the next morning and first laid eyes upon her ‘Chef-de-oeuvre’ Mademoiselle Guillotine in life size.
Looking beyond the mirror, the following are my thoughts on the work however informed/mis-informed they may be…The Unspoken Word
Monika K. Adler was born in Poland. She graduated from the School of Fine Arts and the European Academy of Photography in Warsaw, Poland. Her works have been shown in scores of exhibitions in Eastern Europe and published in trade magazines but Monika wanted to reach Western Europe and it seems in that world, to make it as an artist, you must be willing to not only sell your pictures but also your soul.
I was struck however, by the poignancy in this picture of ‘Mademoiselle Guillotine’ - saturated with signification. Having just come from London and a political climate of War and pro-human rights, this picture spoke volumes. In the UK recently, there seems to have been an increasing awareness of the subordination of women in many countries and the many forms it takes; from the killing of baby girls in China to female castration in Africa and the Taliban’s regime of the degradation of women. Monika’s pictures seem to give a voice to these women.
Many artists portray the naked female body with a submissive quality; laid back poses, paintings of women naked with their babies and women relaxing in the nude or portraits to be hung over a mantelpiece. The talent in Monika’s pictures lies in her ability to retain the femininity of the female and at the same time, show the innate power that lies within it. In this image, the power of the naked female body - far from subordinate - is a strong dichotomy in the masked girl. The Western and Eastern symbols of femininity fight with such intensity that on first view, a sharp intake of breath may be required.
These symbols however, the burkha and stiletto shoes are superceded by her naked sex; the defiant, provocative stance - her legs are not bound to keep them open - along with the expression in the eyes and the stiletto shoes fights against the masking of the face and the hands tied behind the back. Her ‘gaze’ taunts the voyeur to look her in the eye, to look away from her nakedness and into her soul. To look at her and regard the authoritarian, totalitarian male – war, rape and the brutalisation of a people, inferred by the symbols in the piece.
This image gives a voice to those women who cannot speak for themselves. It speaks against those forces that cover the female body and put it under wraps for exactly the reason displayed in this picture; the female body has a dangerous power. It can reduce some men to a helpless state, physically and emotionally inferior in that moment to the woman hence ‘feminine’ denotes in this picture, the very opposite of the dictionary definition. The rhetoric is a search for truth as it battles the stereotypes of feminity.
Religious and cultural dialectics are expressed in the stark ironies of the Burkha style mask in contrast with the naked genitalia and the world wide symbol of aid – The Red Cross - creates a context of War - in this picture, is not helping the woman from her binds. The photograph speaks against censorship. Against the binds that society places on women. Even in the Western world, the BBC will allow film of men with flaccid penises but a woman’s sex cannot be shown.
It may be a Western woman’s ‘choice’ to wear stilettos but nevertheless, it is a conformity to the male’s view of what constitutes sexuality - something that is celebrated in the Western world. In the East, women conform whether by choice or otherwise, to the male-dominated culture and wear burkha. Covering up what is deemed to be ‘dangerous’ there: a woman’s face and body, Monika might fear for her life in Saudi-Arabia for creating such a work.
It would be easy to write this off as an insult to women the world over. Through the dialectics in Mademoiselle Guillotine polarised cultures are transcended to bring together both East and West. It is a comment on Paris where the muslim ‘emigrant’ of countries such as Algeria and Morrocco meets the Western female in a sepia tone, nostalgic of a past long gone in the narrative of this photograph. Long live matriarchy!
From that moment, for this image, it moved me deeply enough that I pledged my allegiance to Monika K. Adler and it is in the juxtaposition of this with the ‘ideal’ image of Paris that it becomes ever more powerful such as this entitled ‘idyllic Paris’.
Her work can be viewed at
http://www.monika-k-adler.com
http://www.adler-photography.com
Robbie was entirely repelled by her. He thought her predatory, egotistical and vacuous but I saw another side. Predatory or not, I felt that her work had something powerful to say.
Posted by It's all in the text at 7:34 AM 0 comments
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Monika K. Adler : ONLINE MAGAZINES
IN MY BED MAGAZINE - TORONTO/CANADA
Theme: ,, Foreplay ,, , ,, Sexual myths ,, : http://www.inmybedmagazine.com/
ZINC - AREA MAGAZINE - MADRID/SPAIN
Themes : ,, I ,, , Idyllic ,, , ,, Fetish,, : http://www.area-zinc.com/
Theme: ,, Foreplay ,, , ,, Sexual myths ,, : http://www.inmybedmagazine.com/
ZINC - AREA MAGAZINE - MADRID/SPAIN
Themes : ,, I ,, , Idyllic ,, , ,, Fetish,, : http://www.area-zinc.com/
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monika K. Adler in essay of Mark Birdsong
*
At first glance, Monika K. Adler's work recalls that of fellow eastern European photographer Jan Saudek. Solitary subjects, nostalgic sepia-tones, a focus on feminine beauty ― in cell-like settings. But where Saudek's caged birds exist in a timeless isolation, the outside world may more rudely intrude in Ms Adler's tableaux vivants.
*
At least that's the case for the photo which became known as “Mademoiselle Guillotine” at its Paris exhibition earlier this year ― the best example I have seen of her talent for finding a potent semiotic nexus.
*
The image shocks with the force of its clashing religious and cultural symbols, its dialectical dynamics of covered face, exposed genitals; naked beauty, naked vulnerability; sexual power, sexual humiliation. It alludes to the contemporary political context. The picture draws strong reactions from spectators, who suddenly find themselves voyeur/participants in a would-be war crime scene. Here we have the mainstay subject of the female nude updated to the unfortunate era of Abu Ghraib.
*
This work unites art and politics in the polemical style of John Heartfield's anti-Nazi photomontages. It is a hyperrealist mise en scene with a lexicon drawn from news media iconography. It blurs photojournalism and art photography, stripping away manipulation and ideological pretense in the process. What's left is a withering commentary, the coup de grace, delivered in the satirical title: "Democracy."
*
The irony is that where Saudek's boldest work had humanity literally gazing into its own anus in the shadow of the Iron Curtain, the other side, Adler seems to retort, is only a rape scene.
Paris, June 2005
At first glance, Monika K. Adler's work recalls that of fellow eastern European photographer Jan Saudek. Solitary subjects, nostalgic sepia-tones, a focus on feminine beauty ― in cell-like settings. But where Saudek's caged birds exist in a timeless isolation, the outside world may more rudely intrude in Ms Adler's tableaux vivants.
*
At least that's the case for the photo which became known as “Mademoiselle Guillotine” at its Paris exhibition earlier this year ― the best example I have seen of her talent for finding a potent semiotic nexus.
*
The image shocks with the force of its clashing religious and cultural symbols, its dialectical dynamics of covered face, exposed genitals; naked beauty, naked vulnerability; sexual power, sexual humiliation. It alludes to the contemporary political context. The picture draws strong reactions from spectators, who suddenly find themselves voyeur/participants in a would-be war crime scene. Here we have the mainstay subject of the female nude updated to the unfortunate era of Abu Ghraib.
*
This work unites art and politics in the polemical style of John Heartfield's anti-Nazi photomontages. It is a hyperrealist mise en scene with a lexicon drawn from news media iconography. It blurs photojournalism and art photography, stripping away manipulation and ideological pretense in the process. What's left is a withering commentary, the coup de grace, delivered in the satirical title: "Democracy."
*
The irony is that where Saudek's boldest work had humanity literally gazing into its own anus in the shadow of the Iron Curtain, the other side, Adler seems to retort, is only a rape scene.
Paris, June 2005
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