{"id":28256,"date":"2012-06-11T12:14:23","date_gmt":"2012-06-11T16:14:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=28256"},"modified":"2012-06-11T14:04:55","modified_gmt":"2012-06-11T18:04:55","slug":"electrical-banana","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/06\/11\/electrical-banana\/","title":{"rendered":"Electrical Banana"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Mati Klarwein, Annunciation<\/em> (used for Santana's Abraxas<\/em>), 1961, oil and tempera on primed canvas.<\/p><\/div>\n

\n

I have always been a poor visualizer. Words, even the pregnant words of poets, do not evoke pictures in my mind. No hypnagogic visions greet me on the verge of sleep. When I recall something, the memory does not present itself to me as a vividly seen event or object. By an effort of the will, I can evoke a not very vivid image of what happened yesterday afternoon, of how the Lungarno used to look before the bridges were destroyed, of the Bayswater Road when the only buses were green and tiny and drawn by aged horses at three and a half miles an hour. But such images have little substance and absolutely no autonomous life of their own. They stand to real, perceived objects in the same relation as Homer\u2019s ghosts stood to the men of flesh and blood, who came to visit them in the shades \u2026 This was the world\u2014a poor thing but my own\u2014which I expected to see transformed into something completely unlike itself.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

So wrote Aldous Huxley just before an afternoon mescaline trip, his first, in 1954. The psychedelic sixties would take Huxley\u2019s message to heart, opening new doors of perception while under the influence. But for graphic designer Heinz Edelmann, Huxley\u2019s journalistic exploration was mescaline enough. After reading the British novelist\u2019s account, Edelmann thought, \u201cWell, I don\u2019t need mescaline. I can do that stone cold sober.\u201d If you don\u2019t know who Edelmann is, have a look at Yellow Submarine<\/em>: he created the look of the film and designed all the characters.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

As influential as Edelmann\u2019s work was at the time, his relationship with the culture was fraught\u2014he found it too decadent\u2014and he describes himself as being ashamed of his work on the Beatles\u2019 film (his other work more closely resembles that of Milton Glaser). As Electrical Banana: Masters of Psychedelic Art<\/em><\/a>, by Norman Hathaway and Dan Nadel, shows, Edelmann\u2019s story isn\u2019t the only exception to some of the generally held rules of sixties psychedelic art. Another is that there were no great women artists of the period. How, then, to explain Marijke Koger, member of the design collective the Fool (which created, for instance, the costumes for the Magical Mystery Tour<\/em> film), painter (her murals for the Aquarius Theater provided the backdrop for the famed LA run of Hair<\/em>), set designer (on the 1968 film Wonderwall<\/em>), and onetime musician (she\u2019s credited as the tambourinist during the Beatles\u2019 \u201cAll You Need Is Love\u201d telecast). A modern women, she did it all.<\/p>\n

The language of psychedelia existed beyond the borders of the Western world, too. Two of the seven artists profiled in the book are Japanese. Keiichi Tanaami\u2019s illustrations, record sleeves, and posters are inflected with elements of ukiyo and manga, Pop art and underground comics; they\u2019re also significantly informed by his memories of World War II. \u201cToyko was on fire,\u201d he recalls. \u201cIt was very psychedelic for me.\u201d Tadanori Yokoo\u2019s designs heralds a kind of postmodernity: hot, flat colors electrified by vibrating juxtapositions and repeating designs; collaged and written elements; a host of references, including biblical and biological, Indian and Japanese\u2014and rainbows! His poster for the Roger Corman\u2013directed psychosexual film The Trip<\/em>, shows Peter Fonda and Susan Strasberg locked in a mind-bending CMYK-color-separation erotic embrace. (Look for Yokoo\u2019s work among other geniuses of the postwar Japanese avant-garde in MoMA\u2019s \u201cTokyo 1955\u20131970<\/a>\u201d this winter.)<\/p>\n

Plenty of art from the psychedelic era seems dated and slightly embarrassing, occasionally even puerile (the kind of thing you\u2019d see under black lights in a college dorm room), and a handful of works in the book don\u2019t convince me otherwise\u2014Dudley Edwards\u2019s painted piano for Paul McCartney doesn\u2019t strike me as particularly revolutionary, but Dave Hickey once argued that \u201cit was a communal polemic art, vulgar in the best sense and an international language.\u201d So perhaps a psychedelically painted piano is more than the sum of its parts. It\u2019s an art that is sophisticated and poetical, too, on occasion. Mati Klarwein\u2019s paintings are of that stripe, a staggering cornucopia of cultural references merged fluidly into unified compositions. His may be best known for the cover art of Miles Davis\u2019s Bitches Brew<\/em>\u2014quite possibly the be-all and end-all of album art. In looking at his densely woven paintings, one would guess that Klarwein is a cosmic master, able to peer into multiple dimensions at will. And he may very well have been: of Robert Graves artists\u2019 community in Majorca, where Klarwein lived until his death, he said, \u201cLike Duchamp\u2019s Nude Descending a Staircase <\/em>to the local beach for a midnight swim of salt and kisses, I can see the afterimages of my past gesticulating in an overlapping succession of familiarity, painting, swimming, walking to the village to go shopping, discussing Wittgenstein at the local bar, getting pissed, playing the congas, tripping over the psychedelics amongst olive trees, and being seduced by my best friends\u2019 daughters.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n
\"\"<\/a>

Tadanori Yokoo, silkscreen poster for an exhibition of art by Henry Miller, 1968.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Dudley Edwards, book jacket for Italo Calvino's cosmicomics<\/em>, 1968.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Martin Sharp, Mister Tambourine Man<\/em>, 1966, silkscreen poster on foil.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Martin Sharp (with Robert Whitaker), Plant a Flower Child<\/em>, 1967, newsprint poster. For issue 5 of the London Oz<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Heinz Edelmann, Yellow Submarine<\/em>, 1969, offset German film poster. <\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Marijke Koger, Love Life<\/em>, 1966, offset poster. <\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Marijke Koger, fashions and interior of the Apple shop, 1967.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Keiichi Tanaami, record sleeve of Jefferson Airplane's After Bathing at Baxter's<\/em>, 1967.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Mati Klarwein, Blessing<\/em>, 1965, oil and tempera on primed canvas.<\/p><\/div>\n

<\/center><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I have always been a poor visualizer. Words, even the pregnant words of poets, do not evoke pictures in my mind. No hypnagogic visions greet me on the verge of sleep. When I recall something, the memory does not present itself to me as a vividly seen event or object. By an effort of the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":54,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[7282,35,538,1403,7834,696,7835,6878,6877,7833,46,67,6876,7836,1390,3604],"class_list":["post-28256","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-aldous-huxley","tag-art","tag-fashion","tag-heinz-edelmann","tag-keiichi-tanaami","tag-marcel-duchamp","tag-marijke-koger","tag-mati-klarwein","tag-miles-davis","tag-milton-glaser","tag-music","tag-painting","tag-psychedelia","tag-roger-corman","tag-tadanori-yokoo","tag-the-beatles"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nElectrical Banana by Nicole Rudick<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"June 11, 2012 \u2013 I have always been a poor visualizer. Words, even the pregnant words of poets, do not evoke pictures in my mind. 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