“…When I am in my painting, I'm not aware of what I'm doing. It is only after a sort of 'get acquainted' period that I see what I have been about. I have no fear of making changes, destroying the image, etc., because the painting has a life of its own. I try to let it come through. It is only when I lose contact with the painting that the result is a mess. Otherwise there is pure harmony, an easy give and take, and the painting comes out well….”
“Jack The Dripper” … I love the chaotic textural and color-way of Pollock. Thanks to Peggy Guggenheim for propping him up and darn that tree for stepping out in front of him. Gone in a second, at forty four.
Now I’m just too busy to craft anything voluminous and so I’ve essentially lied to you with the title of this story so you’d come see me. I’ll write some breakthrough, life changing sh_t later in the week. What I did realize yesterday is that I haven’t worn anything lately that would be an affront to the dignity of my followers. You know, stuff that makes Young Fogey and other less courageous commenters (Anonymous-ers) try to reform or just flat out make fun of me.
So I busted out my Pollock khakis. These were actually owned by Jackson Pollock and now they are owned by me. At least the top half. I sold the trouser legs for breathtaking amounts of dough.
Laugh if you want but LFG and I run in some pretty serious art circles. My baby is an accomplished works on paper conservator...so there. Look at those deft little hands, navigating gingerly the application of varthane on an original Carlo Pellegrini caricature...without a ventilator mask. She's a graduate of The Cortauld as well as the Hello Kitty School of Textile and Paper and Stuff Restoration. Just to let you know how brilliant she is...LFG outed Sir Anthony Blunt and she wasn't even born yet. Damn.
And just when I'd decided that my hoof pick belt was a winter staple, it pounced on me. First time I think, that I've worn any belt other than my LFG Father's Day sterling buckle. Shut up.
While we're on the subject of eye-rolling fuzzy dice-isms, I'm down to only two wrist adornments these days. The cotton friendship bracelets finally gave up the ghost. Rest assured though, that I'm gonna load this thang back up soon enough. Shut the....
So stay tuned for whatever-whenever. The Lord only knows when the next post of any merit will rise from the wherever.
Onward. Dripping and Splashing.
Oh and ps.…here’s a few more dating site photos. Now I’m not saying to NOT include a cowboy hat shot in your dating profile picture lineup.
Who knows, you may be looking exclusively for a girl-in-a-cowboy hat-hankering kind of a fella. The onliest thing I’m saying is that I be not that man.
These “I’m kinda wild and if you don’t believe me look at this picture of me with a cowboy hat on at the Hazzard County Tractor Pull” pictures scare me. I’d probably have some “performance anxiety issues” if suddenly you pulled out said hat as a prop.
Reason being is that I almost got my ass beat at an all-day outdoor country music festival in Manassas Virginia in 1993. I’d never been to one before and you can bet your sweet cowboy hat wearin’ ass I’ll not go again.