Never forget that the “semi retured” terrorist mentioned in Mr. Simon’s article, has never recanted his declaration that it would be necessary to kill 25-30 million of us to start creating that utopia, folks. Never forget.
Sometimes it is good just to laugh at stuff. Laughing is good for your insides. I bet the folks that did this excellent video would have just the purrfect sensibilities to do a version spotlighting the shenanigans of the new UN Human Rights Council featuring new members Saudi Arabia and the People’s Republic (?) of China. We’d need lots of plastic ants for that.
It seemed right and proper to give this beautiful thing to someone who could appreciate its structure. It contains Fulgurites; the little glass tubes left in the ground sometimes by lightning strikes. Have no idea how the new Toon Town Big Government Crap Weasel Obamacare World of Medical Delights will go about destroying our little corner of the woods; am sure that when that when it strikes us, the results won’t be pretty. Am also sure that our Liberal Elitist Insect Overlords will blame the dysfunctional system they’ve created on their favorite whipping boys while successfully escaping any responsibility for degrading yet another aspect of life. The progs have been trying to bury their socialist hook deep under our gills for a very, very long time.
And they don’t believe in catch and release.
Our Dear Leader Obama’s response when asked for his definition of sin was this: “Being out of alignment with my values [i.e., ideology].”
Hard as is it to comprehend that this arrogant little quip was deliberately released into the air, here’s a link to the interviewre’s source for it:
Thank your prog/liberal/marxist/lo-fo neighbors for this, pals. We’re in the tragedy to farce section of the feedback loop, on the way to the Surreal-Super-Fun-Happy-Slide. Rod Serling is sorely missed; he could have narrated this ‘new normal’ nonsense with the right touch of caution and wonder confronting the absurd.
“When gold paint flakes from the arms of sculptures,
When the letter falls out of the book of laws,
Then consciousness is naked as an eye.
When the pages of books fall in fiery scraps
Onto smashed leaves and twisted metal,
The tree of good and evil is stripped bare.
When a wing made of canvas is extinguished
In a potato patch, when steel disintegrates,
Nothing is left but straw huts and cow dung.”
These stanzas are from the poem “The Spirit of History”
by Czeslaw Milosz, published in 2001 in “A Treatise on Poetry”
Check this story out from Moonbattery; the evil of the ‘progressive mind’ is almost beyone belief. Almost.
Was thankfully able to visit briefly an 80th birthday celebration for the late Rip Woods given by Dee Dee, his family and friends last Saturday at 934 on Southern Avenue in Phoenix.
Rip was a beloved mentor, to whom I offer two Quotes from Eric Gill:
“The training of artists, therefore, is twofold. First, there is the training of the living. The child brought up in a dark cellar or in an art school will know nothing of humane life. Art training is first of all the training obtained by living the ordinary life of the time. Thus the mind is nourished on reality and not romance.”
“….A fool may be a Saint.
A villain may be an artist.
A fool may be an villain.
But a fool cannot be an artist, nor a villain a Saint.”
Dear Rip, mentor and friend – Moriendo Modulor.
In that “art is life and life is art” frame of mind, I spotted a post over at Sultan Knish that connected with a J G Ballard recollection someone posted lately (if I remember where I’ll update with the citation) In reference to Ballard’s childhood in pre WWII China, the post noted that:
One morning, while biking to school, he and his father encountered a closed checkpoint and were forced to sneak over a fence and through an abandoned casino to get back to the road. Ballard was struck by the overturned roulette tables, shattered glasses, and scattered betting chips. Gilded statues and ornate chandeliers threw glimmering light everywhere, “transforming this derelict casino into a magical cavern from the Arabian Nights tales.” This casino served as inspiration for a number of his later works: “I . . . felt that the ruined casino, like the city and the world beyond it, was more real and more meaningful than it had been when it was thronged with gamblers and dancers. Abandoned houses and office buildings held a special magic and on my way home from school I often paused outside an empty apartment block. Seeing everything displaced and rearranged in a haphazard way gave me my first taste of the surrealism of everyday life, though Shanghai was already surrealist enough.”
The post continued by saying: Ballard dug through the dime novels at the local bus depot and eventually discovered science fiction. He was less interested with novels about outer space than he was with those stories that looked at the present or near future and examined political trends that were present after the war. While he viewed “writers of so-called serious fiction” as primarily concerned with the self, he wanted to focus on “the everyday world, which was just as much a psychological construct, and just as prone to mysterious and often psychopathic impulses.”
A fellow traveler indeed. His ruined Chinese ballrooms and casinos were a world away from the decayed Arizona motels that caught my attention, but that sparkle of recognition that the ruin is speaking is the same one. The appreciation of the utter strangeness of that “everyday world,” of it surreality, of its “mysterious and psychopathic impulses” came back to mind after reading the post linked above. And then, of course, there was the news that Time magazine readers voted Kim Jong Un “Person of the Year” for 2012.
Didn’t need to read much science fiction after the mid 1980′s, because the everyday world was becoming as bizarre as the fictional one. A trend that becomes more pronounced every day. Ballard’s works were some of my favorites back then, but I doubt that even he, with his appreciation for the darkly absurd, would have foreseen a world of “mysterious and psychopathic impulses” where the likes of Arafat, the inventor of airline hijacking, would have been given a Nobel Peace Prize.
Black market lightbulbs anyone?
This is my first blog attempt after a handful of unfortunate events partnered up; Cox dropped my webpage, my hard drive and auxiliary hard drive crashed, plus a few assorted non-technical events. Putting something back together from the pieces has been strange in unexpected ways…
In the process of tracking down an article date to verify it, I ran across an auction site that had an older work up for bidding – one that I hadn’t documented. A lot of time has gone by since then. Was kinda shocking to sit back, and remember making this thing, this moment, this place to stop, to put things together for a while.
Why make art about/from old Arizona motels?
Honestly, there isn’t a simple answer to this question. This isn’t nostalgia, wanderlust, or escapism. It’s a mystery to me. The colors, the shapes, the history, the surrounding Arizona environment,the cheerful tackiness of it all, even the decay – especially the decay, have captured my attention for well over twenty years. And it’s not just any classic period motel that will do – it is the Arizona ones that got caught in my eye.
This aesthetic exploration took an unexpected direction in the late 1990′s with the inclusion of beadwork, hammered copper and or recycled aluminum. The larger exclusively beaded works usually require a minimum of six months to bead.
Part of the humor or irony in this latter development dwells in the concept of time. The “classic period” motels themselves were designed for short stays, and are rapidly disappearing. As cultural artifacts, not destined to survive very long. Yet they have inspired this contemplative and vastly time-consuming beadwork; which is then viewed by a contemporary audience with an attention-span that is measured in seconds. . . .
Prior to the incorporation of beadwork, the paintings were typically a minimum of 48” x 60” in size. Here, the Arizona motels became darkly magical and threatening places within the Sonoran Desert environment. Cacti, desert creatures, rocks and that harsh desert light populated a colorful motel world. The motels themselves provide much of the color palette; every element in each work was exploited for it’s metaphoric potential. Each one was a multi-layered look at contemporary Arizona weaving together local natural history and sharp observation, through the lens of imaginative interpretation. If you’re looking for labels to describe my work, it has been christened “figurative expressionist with surrealist leanings and an abstractionist bent.”
Given the connotations of the word “large” today, I hesitate to use it; the current works are so much smaller than these earlier paintings that it’s necessary to use “large” as a comparative term when referring to the body of work as a whole. Originally an oil-on-canvas painter, chemical sensitivities forced a switch to acrylics. Technically, the move made me a better painter, but lacks the pleasant aroma of the turp can, and lush textural feel. Had to eliminate the solvents from printmaking processes also. I love working with my hands, and am trying not to poison myself or the ground with chemicals.
Check out the ‘Joe Doe’ page for kind of an explanation about the motels.
Please forgive the clunkiness here in my little parlor; am not technically savvy. Am just an artist trying to clear the darkness out of my eyes in order to pay attention and learn something about this strange and wonderful place, this gift of place, and time, and love.