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Oslo. Winter. Der erste Schnee. Junge Mütter verschwinden spurlos -- was bleibt, ist ein Schneemann in ihren Vorgärten Kommissar Harry Hole (Michael. Einige Frauen verschwinden spurlos, zurück bleibt ein Schneemann. "Der Teufel trägt Prada" punktet in Sat.1 () · Amazon-Highlights im Juni: "​Fear. Schneemann online schauen auf Netflix, Prime, Maxdome, Sky und anderen Schneemann Download + DVD/Bluray & Erscheinungstermine. 15 spannendsten Psycho-Thriller-Filme & (Netflix, Prime, Maxdome, DVD & Kino. Schneemann Film The Snowman / Schneemann (Kurzinhalt) Apr. Is der Drama, Krimi Der Falke und der Schneemann stream online Deutsch (German)​. Schneemann im Stream: Jetzt legal online schauen beim Streaminganbieter deiner Wahl ·

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These are beings who carried some of her intensity into other domains and other times. I never heard her speak ill of another artist of any kind; every time we met in public or in private to speak about anything, her conversation was always full of positive gestures, positive feelings, for the work of other people, even in fields very close to or very far from her interests.

I can remember not so long ago a conference on the work of Stan Brakhage—Carolee came and spoke more lucidly and more compassionately about Stan and his work than all the rest of us put together—a memorable performance in the art of generosity, of understanding by sympathy.

Her intensity, her friendliness, her closeness, her power—these are the things that I miss, and make me mourn all the more so her passing too soon, too soon.

Even before I met Carolee Schneemann, I was devoted to her. As a graduate student in at U. I was responsible for the performance art section, and urged him to include Schneemann.

So began our year-long friendship of mutual devotion and the struggle of strong wills. She loved her typewriter and was a poetic writer of considerable accomplishment, nuance, and humor.

Just as her letters were entirely visual, her performances and installations were deeply intellectual, a quality many missed, rapt as most were with her beauty and naked body.

She changed many aspects of her identity, including the spelling of her given name, and she enhanced details of her life and art, as perhaps we all do to some extent or another.

Although revealing much, Schneemann also cloaked her history and remained impenetrable and often contradictory, as much as she was both ferocious and deeply loving.

She once asked why I had not written about her trauma. She also kept prolific diaries, written daily since childhood and locked in a trunk.

I wonder who will read them and what they will reveal about this most mysterious, significant woman and artist? I hope that the reader s will be kind.

I visited Carolee often and she trusted me to live in her home for a week in During the days that I read her correspondence much more than was ever published , we spent time discussing her life.

I learned many of her secrets, and I have kept them for decades. We often talked on the phone several Sundays a month, airing our complaints about the art world and celebrating artists, chatting about travels, lovers, and friends, thinking about her art and exhausting schedule of exhibitions and interviews, discussing our individual publications, and laughing and crying about our cats and my horses.

Even though it does not measure up to or compensate you for the proportion of your devotion to my work over time.

Realistically this is not a symmetrical relationship. Schneemann attempted to monitor everything anyone wrote about her, dictating what could and should not be said.

In my case, she was extra vigilant. I already knew too much, not only about her dazzling art and life but also about her radical, political, and committed ethics and her lifelong active social engagement, which few have considered.

This unforgettable woman remains without peer in the sum of her remarkable attributes, from an unfettered imagination and vivid, eloquent, even aristocratic mode of expressing herself, to her wry, sometimes bawdy sense of the absurd.

Her intellect pierced through sham. It was as if she were the artwork that was changing my life before my eyes; her focus, her attentiveness even in a loud, crowded room, her ascent above the fray, her grace, her way of being, and of course the amazing things she was saying were utterly mesmerizing.

Although I had been living as an artist for only three years Carolee embraced me as a colleague, my vast ignorance notwithstanding.

We had a similar understanding of the relationship between our own bodies and our art, and she told me about all the struggles to which her approach had subjected her—that it was too sexual for feminists of the time and not submissive enough for the male art world—and as furious as the failure to understand it, or the bullet-headed impulse to reject it even as it was being appropriated right and left, and diminished in the appropriation could make her, it only confirmed that she was doing what she had to do.

She taught me that all art is political and that the task of the artist is to be aware and to create awareness, that even while fighting for a better world, the artist must also fight on behalf of her own vision, because no one will surrender power, not even to art, without a struggle, and if art is lost, the struggle for change is also lost.

When her cat Minos, would worry the stunned bodies of birds or chipmunks until they were dead, Carolee felt right at home in a nature that was built upon predation even as I found myself squirming , and she kvelled like a mother when La Nina, started making assemblages out of her own kills.

Ach, I miss her and will miss her so much. What I especially miss already are our phone calls. She was the person other than my daughter and my partner who most often called me, always just asking: How are you doing?

The invisible imprints are repellent. I have other physical things from her, for example, syringes, bandages, and stuff covered with her blood.

Of course, I already knew of and was in awe of her work. She was already an art goddess in my mind. But it was when she came to San Francisco in for a semester as a guest artist at the San Francisco Art Institute that we really began our deep friendship.

I lived in San Francisco at the time, and Linda Montano had suggested that Carolee connect with me while living there, more for female friendship than art world connections.

I helped her edit the video footage for that piece. I have continued shooting video along with my partner, Roberto Guerra, and alone after he passed away, also from cancer with her over the years and have quite an archive that I will begin to try to distill and work with.

Her most recent cat, La Nina, and mine, Lily, are sisters from the same litter. So whenever we spoke about all sorts of things—art, being single, loneliness, health issues, and more—we always shared stories of our beloved sister cats.

For that, along with her creative spirit, fierce intelligence, integrity, and amazing humor, I will miss her terribly. Her spirit lives on in all the lives she touched and in the amazing body of work she created that has had such important influence on the culture.

The goddess reigns! I was completely blown away. It was not only the power of the film in its full sensual glory, but her own radiating aura and the intelligence of her beauty that so deeply affected me.

I cannot describe the freedom that she spoke of: to embrace the sensuality and the erotic power of the female body; only that it was a beckoning call.

I returned to New York a few months later and began making experimental films and performance in earnest. She entered in and out of my life over the years and I could often hear her whispering in my ear, always leaning towards seeking the ecstatic vision: to be unabashedly free of shame about our bodies and to embrace our beauty.

When I joined forces with Bradley Eros—making wild half-naked shamanistic films and theater pieces—she was occasionally in the audience, lighting up the darkness.

She understood the urge towards a sensual intellect with her heart, her mind, and her cunt. I have always felt that I was seen and acknowledged by her, though my work remained deeply underground during that time and we ended up living on different coasts.

Many moons later she re-entered my life when she fell literally into the arms of my husband-to-be at her own opening at SF MOMA. I was the single mother of a beautiful boy who I dragged along with me to a party at her loft in New York, where I met him.

At our wedding, she gave our union a sacred blessing when she spoke of the intricate roots that connected one to another in mysterious ways.

Twenty-five years later, I am still grateful that her fainting spell led me to such a long lasting and sacred union. She had a great understanding for the value of good sex—having had a quite a few long lasting soulful love affairs and marriages herself.

She has always been a guiding force in my life as a female artist. Her fearlessness and deeply mythic intentionality, as well as her tender sense of humor and her tough wizened armor, have become part of my flesh.

I can feel Carolee under my skin—in a visceral personal way and I shall carry her with me to the living end. The first time I met Carolee was through her work.

My entire vision of what art could be was shattered by what I saw in those pages. I saw images I had only dreamed of—a woman naked, covered in feathers and meat while confronting the lens with intelligent defiance.

Bodies at once beautiful and grotesque, examining the complicated relationship between restraint and release, pleasure and pain, the violence of Eros.

Like so many other young women artists looking for work that spoke of sexuality and death, I found my mirror.

Or rather, I saw myself in her mirror, pushing the radical political against the radical erotic. The second time I met Carolee was in the flesh.

It was the late s and I was making experimental films with long takes and no edits. The action would guide the result, and that agency of movement was how she got closer to the truth.

She understood that the battle was not over. And with instinct, passion, and fearlessness, she changed the course of art history.

I don't think I ever entirely got over the fact that I personally knew Carolee Schneemann. One day we were hanging out at her show at Emily Harvey Gallery and I asked, "What advice can you offer younger artists?

Because when you're older no one will want to sleep with you. My initial up-close personal experience with Carolee Schneemann took place in mid-August As a recent graduate of Bennington College, with its longtime connection to Judson Dance Theater, of course I knew who Schneemann was, and I had browsed through her book, More than Meat Joy , at the campus library.

But even then I was struck by the fact that none of the Bennington faculty had known quite what to do with her: the painters all thought she was really doing performance, the dance crowd thought she was a studio artist, and absolutely nobody seemed to know how to even address her singular take on what we casually refer to today as gender issues within the art world.

Carolee was a mesmerizing speaker. Gracious and articulate, she came prepared in the way that a performing artist would: self-composed, with perfect posture and breath control, and always fully occupying the present moment.

I tend to remember the s as a pretty slouchy decade overall, so Carolee stood out as someone whose approach—even when it meant introducing a film—entailed a serious degree of physical self-discipline.

I was smitten. She confessed that she knew she really had to be on top of her game that night, because the feeling of people hanging on intently to her every word was palpable.

Other cultures care for its older creative bodies but we are embarrassed by old age and dismiss them into invisibility.

Carolee Schneemann refused to be dismissed and invisible. She always stood proud as a wise reminder of our critical need for historical memory.

Her newly mythical, timeless body of furious and playful love made and changed our visual history. I remember Carolee best for her deep personal dignity, generous accessibility, and care for animals great and small that spoke of humility and compassion.

Her cat stories were not about a sentimental eccentricity but about a grounded, tender connection to the animal body exemplified in her performances, shaking off the cruelty of Puritanism, and in her beautiful private life.

Carolee sought to reclaim our practice through countless humanitarian acts of perception that can only be compared to moments in monasticism in which the wise Master encounters the fullness of the universe in the gaze of a wild creature.

Contemporary American performance art is richer for having such enlightened wildness in its performative lineage.

I met Carolee about 25 years ago when she had heard I once had a gallery and she was seeking exhibition opportunities.

I organized exhibitions of her work in her loft and in my loft in Soho. She was regal, majestic, had amazing bodies of work and no gallery representation.

She was renting out her NYC loft for money and her back space in New Paltz and was vastly underappreciated by the art market. I became her art lawyer and we became dear friends.

Carolee was fierce about the primacy of her work and her practice as an artist. She was fully committed and worked at her art incessantly.

Her ongoing exploration of sexuality, sensuality, mythology, nature, politics, the vulvic morphology, historic gender structures was intelligent and full throttle.

But she always had time for friends. She was a fantastic friend, always interested in current politics, philosophies, and my personal life.

When I had a series of miscarriages she wrote me a beautiful letter about souls dancing in orgasmic fluids. She loved to swim in her pond and the importance of her Huguenot stone house and gardens can not be underestimated.

She thrilled to the cat artworks Nina created there, collected gifts from cats past and present, birds, mice, feathers and displayed them there, and reveled in her garden.

She insisted I transplant some of her mugwort magic she declared and mint. I am deeply grateful to Carolee Schneemann for the gift she was to our humanity and to the world at large.

Yet these humble appendages carry significance that even the vulva cannot provide, despite its valorization in her art. Consider this, the vulva is structurally and functionally withdrawn from public view; it resists disclosure.

In contrast, feet are anatomical extensions into space and place. Weather and the circumstance mattered little.

Her sole-ful nudity fed her cravings for somatic rapport with her planetary home. These categories of somatic experience are unfamiliar to wearers of shoes.

Feet that are routinely swaddled in rubber and leather are oblivious of the bountiful textures, temperatures, consistencies, and degrees of moisture that feet evolved to detect, register, and deliver.

Such sensory interactions are, arguably, more alien to current cultural norms than exposing the vulva. Indeed, cushioned soles exemplify the insensate social strictures that Carolee resisted throughout her life.

Contact between her feet and earth was a radical and defiant form of non-compliance. Over time, the persistent demands of her sensory appetites seemed to alter the anatomical structure of her feet.

Her toes gradually spread apart, as if to optimize their investigative and grasping capacities. Carolee was less a free-spirit than a grounded soul.

She craved submergence, not release. By enlisting gravity as a mighty ally, her cathedrals soared in reverse. Terminal Velocity — is an example of an artwork that is imbued with the downward thrust of gravity.

This photo montage of newspaper clippings depicts victims of the World Trade Tower disaster plummeting to their deaths from story offices.

Indeed, removing shoes corresponds to her stylistic elimination of outlines, borders, and frames that segregate visual elements.

Unfettered, they absorbed vibrations that issue from the Earth, and spurred the glorious celebration of flesh for which she will always be remembered.

We first met in at the Judson Gallery which was in the basement of the very Judson Church building in which your memorial is taking place today.

Also, in , you designed the program-leaflet of our Franco-American poetry reading at the Living Theatre.

You later moved to Europe and, as I was putting together the first International Festival of Free Expression at the privately funded American Center for Students and Artists on Boulevard Raspail in Paris not to be mistaken for the US government—sponsored place on the rue du Dragon , you came to me with the proposal of a horizontal trance frenzy involving humans, fish and different meats; some more or less accidental nudity; and lots of splashy body art.

That project was to become famous as Meat Joy , which you premiered then and there, in , at our Paris festival. In fact the Meat Joy Paris premiere went very well.

The room was packed and the audience sat in a circle around the protagonists as the action spread out on the floor. I remember you giving soft instructions to artist Daniel Pommereulle and to Annina Nosei then a student, not yet an art dealer to make do with the overly dramatic contortions of Rita Renoir, a famous Crazy Horse Saloon stripper, who ambitioned to become a mainstream theater actor by way of the so-called avant-garde that was supposed to be us, I guess.

You set out to explain to her that in our line of collective work there were no such things as stars or second fiddles since all participants had equal status.

But never mind, with all its contradictory components Meat Joy, in particular, and the fortnight long festival, in general, were big hits and we enjoyed ourselves immensely while helping each other make things happen.

Nowadays nudity is quite commonplace, even banal, in the performing arts, but back in the sixties that was not yet the case. I remember how excited the magnificent British-born surrealist poet Joyce Mansour was as she moved closer and closer to observe what was going on.

Being short-sighted and wearing thick glasses, she got so close that eventually she became part of the action. In a sense, that kind of sums up the entire purpose of our efforts.

Meat Joy was immediately perceived by us as a major landmark of the world-wide underground transnational rhizom which we experienced first hand in the sixties on either sides of the Atlantic and the Pacific.

What did all of us have in common? More than half a century later it makes sense to recall the general socio-political context in which the contre-culture came about and spread like wildfire, especially today as we are witnessing a nauseating global regression towards the most obnoxious forms of racism, nationalism, social and sexual oppression, and religious fundamentalisms of all kinds, of which the pussy-grabbing moron shooting off his mouth in the Oval Office and at N.

It could be useful to note how intensely positive the general context we operated in was back then, in contrast to what it is today.

In the US, the Civil Rights and Black Power movements energized everyone; so did the Berkeley Free Speech movement, the budding Feminist movement, and Gay Liberation, all converging into a many layered antiwar rainbow coalition.

Meanwhile, in France, a giant general strike shook up the very basis of capitalism: factories, radio and TV stations, universities, schools, train stations, airports, subways, and theaters, were occupied by more than ten million insurgents who stopped going to work so as to try and retake control of their own lives.

The General Strike turned the entire social space into a gigantic Dada-flavored wild dance floor on which millions performed spontaneously.

The uprising was choreographed by no one in particular, certainly not by professional politicians, union bureaucrats, tycoons, or oligarchs.

In other words, it is not impossible and—even quite plausible—that on an individual, private, intimate level, a free jazz concert by Ornette Coleman; a performance of Paradise Now by the Living Theatre; a tune played by Thelonius Monk or by the Rolling Stones; or a happening conceived by Kaprow, by Fahlström, or by you, Carolee, could initiate a psycho-physical sensory awakening process of life-changing magnitude.

Alas, the art market quick-sands and enforced prostitutional behavioral codes have all but swallowed up whatever creative dissent managed to evade detection, but, nevertheless, here and there, we can discover signs of life buried within the global quagmire.

The first five kilometers of the demonstration were boringly academic to a fault: thousands of banners covered with the usual robotic political slogans, row after row after row of red flags, large portraits of Marx, Che Guevara, and even, to my horror, Stalin, followed by all kinds of Vietnamese and other flags.

Later on, black flags showed up and, at the very end of the enormous procession, suddenly a conclusive philosophical statement of the highest order appeared out of the blue: a handful of youthful females and males, paraded distinctfully apart from the mainstream, holding up a simple broomstick to which they had thumb-tacked a sheet of free-flowing translucent cellophane.

I experienced a similar revelatory emotion when you premiered Meat Joy back in Star Wars. Netflix-Neuheiten im Juni Hairstyllistin Shannon Bakeman im Interview.

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