The Beat Goes On

I’m going to put it right out there…..Art is not a necessary aspect of modern society! We are over-burdened by imagery as it is, thusly, any new art is just another blur on the retina of life.  It doesn’t matter how unique or creative, or new, or colorful; it is still just another additive to an already filled landscape.  We have at our fingertips the entire history of art, from ancients to what is showing at any Soho gallery today.  Now, my argument isn’t that the new is impossible.   On the contrary, everything is new and every new piece of art added to the whole is new and unique.  My point is  it doesn’t matter, our senses are so dulled and over used, our minds so cluttered and availablity so omnipresent that we are now incapable of making rational judgements.  How can any judge or jurist at an art show say this or that image is important to the future when there is no future…merely the passing of time.  There is just too much knowledge, too many facts, too much history in the world.  The artist will continue to work, the internal debate goes on in his mind.  Don’t expect the world to care or hear…..oh shit, nothings changed, this could and was said over and over for eons of time. Dam, and I thought I had something to add to the discussion.  


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Masturbation Climaxes as a Parity

I just completed a sculpture of Warren Buffett.  You know, the billionaire who wants to be taxed more by the government.  The primary theme is that Warren is an alien because we are so programed to think the very rich hold on to their wealth with the ferocity of a barracuda.  So, I gave him a tail and lizard hands while he stands there in a pin-stripped suit.  Somewhat clever, but I’ve always hated that ability to be clever.  Nobody would call Van Gogh a clever artist.  The problem with American culture is we reward cleverness above all other catagories.  Is there anything else?  Can a clever solution ever get to the heart?  Is a clever answer ever motivated by unconscious thoughts?  I’m going to mentally masturbate and see if I have anything to add after.

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The Power of Failure

It’s funny what I think about when I sit down to blog.  Mainly, I try to figure out what bothers me at the moment.  Why is it that the negative has such power?  Think about the past and I remember regrets of how I handled this or that problem. What’s themost important thing in a mans’ mind, lovemaking.  It’s not that I’ve forgotten the great triumphs but the failures really gall me and I want to take them all back, replace them with good memories and get on with the cleansing of all failures.  If I could actually replace every bad event in my life with a good memory event, so there were no more negatives anywhere………..what would be the result?  Flat line death, a mind empty of ridges, a mind of no contrast, that’s what!  Our failures are what define us.  Our failures push us, prod us to work harder, study more and defeat our nemesis.  Anyway, that’s what I keep telling myself.


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Why do people want to know what something means?  Just because I made this thing doesn’t mean I have a clue why I made it.  All right, if anybody has a clue it’s most likely the artist.  But, when you ask for an explanation you are asking for another type of art.  You’re saying the picture isn’t enough, I want words too.  I, for one, hate glib artists who speak so readily about their work.  It makes me think the work can’t stand on its’ own.  The problem is we value intellectualism as expressed with words more than symbolism  as expressed with color and line.  So, I put the two together……………..




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Why People Get Sick!!!

I don’t really have a clue, but as I’ve aged it has become a overriding burden on the mind.  It is so unfair, the stupid equation of GET OLD, GET SICK AND DIE.  I think it is why old men start wars and send young men to fight them.  Equaling the unfairness ratio.  It is so obvious, old men should fight all the wars and when they come back a comely young women will offer herself to him.  I think it’s in the Constitution, or it should be.  OK, enough digression, back to sickliness.  If I ever get sick I’ll just deny it and when a friend says you look awful, I’ll hate them and make silly, stupid drawings of him and his family.  There is absolutely no reason to go thru life without good natured revenge.

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Play ‘the game of life’ Blindfolded

I’ve moved a bunch of stuff around the studio.  Taken the dog for two runs.  Had a couple cups of coffee and comtemplated going to the coffee shop and sketching.  Yes, you guessed it, depression has set in and I don’t have a glue what I’m doing.  I wish someone would call and say they want us to come over and have dinner.  Only problem there is I’ve ruined all the past invitations with over-eagerness, bouncing from foot to foot with excitement, eating too fast, and speaking jibberish.  Is it true that I am merely reaping the rewards of a life poorly lived?  If I’d made better decisions wouldn’t I be fishing off some pier in Florida.  Instead, I ponder what to draw, what to write, what to eat, and why Republicans are such idiots.  UhUh, that’s probably half of you out there, and I know the GOP is a very unforgiving club, except for their own membership.  Next, I’ll take on the Democrats and why they are the worst game players in the cosmos.

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The aroma of life

I know, that is one stupid beginning headline.  But, I’m going to roll with it and say that each of us is born a well oiled, tank full, cogs pumping, neurons kicking machine that leaves stinky droppings behind.  All the machines are thrown in a box and we bounce off each other, dent our exteriors, make noises, leave dirty trails and try to find a section of the box that is all our own.  The catch is, of course, you get just one tank of gas.  Tank empty, fall to bottom of box never to be seen again.  And that’s life.  I for one have got to find a better answer to this predicament.  So, I chose to be an artist.  Which just means I’m screaming and yelling, trying to make other boxes hear my rants and admit that I’m not the prettiest box but very interesting none-the-less.  We all leave piles of shit, called personal history.  I’m trying to add a little sparkle to my pile, an extra aroma to the stink.

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