1x1x1:
Daniel Giordano -
Stink Stank Stunk
December 17, 2021 - January 28, 2022
Opening
December 17, 2022 3-5pm
Closing Event
Marzipan Sculpting Workshop
Postopned to: February 5, 2022 11:30am
Open to the Public
No RSVP required, just show up :)
Daniel Giordano -
Stink Stank Stunk
December 17, 2021 - January 28, 2022
Opening
December 17, 2022 3-5pm
Closing Event
Marzipan Sculpting Workshop
Postopned to: February 5, 2022 11:30am
Open to the Public
No RSVP required, just show up :)
Daniel Giordano
The Continuing Adventures of Doctor Orfeo
by Anthony Giordano
December 2021
Doctor Orfeo knew when opportunity knocked on his door; he wasn’t all serious business at the end of the day. He knew that the note he had in his grasp was written by Doctor Ione, his heart of hearts, and it had been far too long since the two of them had met down by the water, the place of Doctor Ione’s usual emergence. The Doctor’s heart felt a crush of emotion as he flopped his long quiff back, and smoothed out his onyx colored coat of brocade.
This was the very coat he’d sent away for twelve years prior while visiting an ancient merchant spirit on the high street of the ruins in Delos. Visions of two brothers riding upon dolphins as they overtook a swelling wave of white foam danced in the back of his consciousness as he went over the legend of the coat as told by the long-dead trader, who was all too happy to have another customer.
Flooded by memory, with nary a moment to lose, the Doctor plinked a couple of coins into his coffee cup and nodded good-bye to his server, a young man who was in the midst of making another round of coffee for good measure on an archimedean contraption wrought of clay and copper tubing. The Doctor nudged his chair back in, and made off, dodging another, older server who was set to bring a tray bristling with cannoli and shots of amaro to another table.
The young server watched as Doctor Orfeo traversed the street paved with glittering mica bricks and escaped up the long zig-zagging staircase that led to the next neighborhood up. The Doctor’s form grew ever more distant in this way until it was a mere speckle on the afternoon skyline. Considering that for a moment, the young server took a drink of his ristretto, and thought again about leaving town for a few days to relax in the apple orchards.
After a time, reaching the Granite Heights neighborhood, the Doctor began to make his way to the old overlook park built upon the Decurion’s tomb of ages past. He passed under a stucco archway clad in Sunday laundry, and lingered in the narrowing street as he heard a sigh on the wind. Brow creasing, the Doctor suddenly dove a hand into the pocket of his coat. The sound drew nearer, and began to build in intensity as it took on the character of stones rapping against the cool walls.
Without a spare moment, the Doctor turned and threw a resin vial of turquoise liquid over his shoulder, pausing to shut up his eyes and ears as a flare of verdigris light erupted with what felt like a dry coolness. The cold light revealed the formed spirit of a crab apple that fell from its tree well before its time. The lumpen ghost took on an expression, glowering at the Doctor after being forced to manifest so rudely. It made a quick lunge at the Doctor, which the Doctor was just able to side-step. It spat wickedly pointed seeds at the Doctor, which he managed to deflect with his raised right arm, clad under his sleeve with a long puncture-resistant bracer.
In response, Doctor Orfeo doubled back a few paces. He drew out a tiny lyre suitable for playing in the palm of the hand. Its strings were colored vermouth green, silvery purple, acid yellow, and deep red.
“Your time running wild comes to a close, Spirit. You need to calm down,” the Doctor said, in a hushed tone. He knew there were mere moments before the scene would be happened upon by members of the public, or worse, by the local authorities. He began to strum the deep red string, then the acid yellow, then the vermouth strings, which announced a thunking, multi-tonal melody. “Stink, stank, stunk. You will come with me to learn how to exist in this world. Release yourself from the pain of being away from the Source.”
The phantom crab apple seemed to be made of opaque stone in that instant, crystallizing rapidly, though retaining its organic structure. Its features seemed to grow more serene by the moment. It glided languidly through the air towards the Doctor, and when the Doctor opened his coat to it, it shrunk down to the size of a thimble, and nestled into an interior pocket, apparently at rest based on the coo of relief that came from that very place in the garment.
Doctor Orfeo, his brow beaded with sweat, threw himself against the cracked wall at his back. He closed his eyes as he fumbled with the little lyre, putting it away and composing himself for another moment. He turned towards the end of the narrow street, and faced the way he intended to go: towards the blue horizon where he knew he could find the water. For an instant, he thought he saw the outline of his beloved in the old open gate that led down to the harbor.
by Anthony Giordano
December 2021
Doctor Orfeo knew when opportunity knocked on his door; he wasn’t all serious business at the end of the day. He knew that the note he had in his grasp was written by Doctor Ione, his heart of hearts, and it had been far too long since the two of them had met down by the water, the place of Doctor Ione’s usual emergence. The Doctor’s heart felt a crush of emotion as he flopped his long quiff back, and smoothed out his onyx colored coat of brocade.
This was the very coat he’d sent away for twelve years prior while visiting an ancient merchant spirit on the high street of the ruins in Delos. Visions of two brothers riding upon dolphins as they overtook a swelling wave of white foam danced in the back of his consciousness as he went over the legend of the coat as told by the long-dead trader, who was all too happy to have another customer.
Flooded by memory, with nary a moment to lose, the Doctor plinked a couple of coins into his coffee cup and nodded good-bye to his server, a young man who was in the midst of making another round of coffee for good measure on an archimedean contraption wrought of clay and copper tubing. The Doctor nudged his chair back in, and made off, dodging another, older server who was set to bring a tray bristling with cannoli and shots of amaro to another table.
The young server watched as Doctor Orfeo traversed the street paved with glittering mica bricks and escaped up the long zig-zagging staircase that led to the next neighborhood up. The Doctor’s form grew ever more distant in this way until it was a mere speckle on the afternoon skyline. Considering that for a moment, the young server took a drink of his ristretto, and thought again about leaving town for a few days to relax in the apple orchards.
After a time, reaching the Granite Heights neighborhood, the Doctor began to make his way to the old overlook park built upon the Decurion’s tomb of ages past. He passed under a stucco archway clad in Sunday laundry, and lingered in the narrowing street as he heard a sigh on the wind. Brow creasing, the Doctor suddenly dove a hand into the pocket of his coat. The sound drew nearer, and began to build in intensity as it took on the character of stones rapping against the cool walls.
Without a spare moment, the Doctor turned and threw a resin vial of turquoise liquid over his shoulder, pausing to shut up his eyes and ears as a flare of verdigris light erupted with what felt like a dry coolness. The cold light revealed the formed spirit of a crab apple that fell from its tree well before its time. The lumpen ghost took on an expression, glowering at the Doctor after being forced to manifest so rudely. It made a quick lunge at the Doctor, which the Doctor was just able to side-step. It spat wickedly pointed seeds at the Doctor, which he managed to deflect with his raised right arm, clad under his sleeve with a long puncture-resistant bracer.
In response, Doctor Orfeo doubled back a few paces. He drew out a tiny lyre suitable for playing in the palm of the hand. Its strings were colored vermouth green, silvery purple, acid yellow, and deep red.
“Your time running wild comes to a close, Spirit. You need to calm down,” the Doctor said, in a hushed tone. He knew there were mere moments before the scene would be happened upon by members of the public, or worse, by the local authorities. He began to strum the deep red string, then the acid yellow, then the vermouth strings, which announced a thunking, multi-tonal melody. “Stink, stank, stunk. You will come with me to learn how to exist in this world. Release yourself from the pain of being away from the Source.”
The phantom crab apple seemed to be made of opaque stone in that instant, crystallizing rapidly, though retaining its organic structure. Its features seemed to grow more serene by the moment. It glided languidly through the air towards the Doctor, and when the Doctor opened his coat to it, it shrunk down to the size of a thimble, and nestled into an interior pocket, apparently at rest based on the coo of relief that came from that very place in the garment.
Doctor Orfeo, his brow beaded with sweat, threw himself against the cracked wall at his back. He closed his eyes as he fumbled with the little lyre, putting it away and composing himself for another moment. He turned towards the end of the narrow street, and faced the way he intended to go: towards the blue horizon where he knew he could find the water. For an instant, he thought he saw the outline of his beloved in the old open gate that led down to the harbor.
1x1x1 is ann street gallery’s series featuring one artist, one work, for one month in the Gallery window. 1x1x1 aims to be a nimble platform giving artists experimental space for solo exhibitions.
Daniel Giordano’s work is informed by his Italian ancestry, loved ones, and locale. His sculptures are inspired by his experience in the Hudson Highlands of upstate New York, specifically Newburgh. His studio, within his grandfather's former garment factory, is a modern-day alchemist lab—where he collects found objects, natural materials, and integrates them with factory relics and hand-made ceramic, glass, and cast metal components. He transforms these elements with “a focus on creating seamless transitions of disparate materials and surface treatments, [from which] his sculptures become entities that were seemingly dredged from the depths of the Hudson River.”
Daniel Giordano was born in 1988 in Poughkeepsie, NY. He lives and works in Newburgh, NY. Giordano earned his MFA from the University of Delaware. Solo exhibitions include the Rosenberg Gallery, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY; Wil Aballe Art Projects, BC, Canada; and Sardine, Brooklyn, NY. Group exhibitions include JDJ, New York, NY; Anonymous, New York, NY; Mother, Beacon, NY; and Morgan Lehman, New York, NY. He is a recipient of the AIM fellowship at the Bronx Museum of the Arts. Giordano's work has been featured in Art Spiel, Canadian Art, Cultured Magazine, Sculpture Magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, The New York Times, and Whitehot Magazine. His upcoming solo exhibition at MASS MoCA opens in March of 2023.
Daniel Giordano was born in 1988 in Poughkeepsie, NY. He lives and works in Newburgh, NY. Giordano earned his MFA from the University of Delaware. Solo exhibitions include the Rosenberg Gallery, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY; Wil Aballe Art Projects, BC, Canada; and Sardine, Brooklyn, NY. Group exhibitions include JDJ, New York, NY; Anonymous, New York, NY; Mother, Beacon, NY; and Morgan Lehman, New York, NY. He is a recipient of the AIM fellowship at the Bronx Museum of the Arts. Giordano's work has been featured in Art Spiel, Canadian Art, Cultured Magazine, Sculpture Magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, The New York Times, and Whitehot Magazine. His upcoming solo exhibition at MASS MoCA opens in March of 2023.