Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Leather Shoes
It looked more like a brown pigeon that took a bath in muddy puddle than a beautiful parrot with bright tropical colors. Somehow the girl who had the most potential to become a great artist turned the colorful bird into a dirty rag. It was large and took up the entire canvas, the only colors used were brown and black. Painted with think brush strokes, going up and down it seemed almost color blind. Alison had a spectrum of colors at her disposition but choose Norwiegian palette over Kadinsky. She was the only one in the class who painted the parrot and it's cage in the middle of the classroom massive and bland.
She was six and wore brown leather shoes, with a quiet disposition.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Roxy Paine on the Roof: Maelstrom
Roxy Paine currently is my favorite large scale sculptor of today. I love his metal trees! This installation is different from the one he exhibited at Madison Square Garden. At the Met, one can walk through the chrome vines following various paths. It's impressive when absorbed by the shiny threads of steel. I also admire the line mess of shadows the sculpture creates. I give The Met credit for putting on a great show each summer on their Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Roof Garden. Check out the installation videos here.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wet Pavement
Wet pavement is most deceiving late in the evening when neon lights from the street lined with bars and bodegas bleed together into rainbow reflections of beauty with a hint of sparkle. A masquerade of ugliness and pulchritude, black patches of old forgotten gum and dog shit shimmer.
No longer does one see the dark spots of gum thrown away years ago, shadows shelter rats and garbage, only the black pavement is dancing happily at his feet. Usual gray becomes saturated black, and feeling of nausea is replaced with dizziness.
In all of this false beauty he should of forgotten the parasite bogging his brain. Wine and cigarettes did not kill it, and solitude only seem to strengthen its grip. How ridicules he felt when his friendly approach was met with laughter and derision. To be fair he did not know what he wanted out of exchange. There should been a goal, a plan, and a prize to assess how much effort he wanted to put in, but he had neither. It was an empty exchange, one that caused him to sit on A15 alone with a dumb look on his face. As he looked on at the wet pavement, bus stopped every other block picking up a fresh set of strangers to distract him from his thoughts. They were the usual pedigree of old, young and disinterested. And once he began to feel comfortable with their presence, feeling slight companionship, they up and left, disappointing him once more. He examined the riders, beginning with their footwear to their hair. It was a habit he picked up when he was young, riding subways with his mother. It was rude to stare at people's faces, instead he stared at their feet and made mental notes about their footwear. Old men seem to wear the same black wide leather shoes, not the finely polished, "you could see yourself" leather with sleek shade heels and pointed toes, or the fashionable square toes, those shoes belonged to businessmen and only those who travelled abroad. Old men wore boat shoes. They were heavy and thick, in turn making old men look older. Women on subways never wore the shoes he saw women wear on tv. Although women on tv never took subway. The subway women usually wore flats in multitude of colors and material.
Their association was a deserted one. It was dry with mild hallucinations of possibility.
Overall he was content with his achievements and thought of himself as a respectable and noble human being. He was well rounded and knowledgeable in most aspects of popular arts, culture, and science. He was not ambitions but polite to management. His subordinates felt he was a tool.
No longer does one see the dark spots of gum thrown away years ago, shadows shelter rats and garbage, only the black pavement is dancing happily at his feet. Usual gray becomes saturated black, and feeling of nausea is replaced with dizziness.
In all of this false beauty he should of forgotten the parasite bogging his brain. Wine and cigarettes did not kill it, and solitude only seem to strengthen its grip. How ridicules he felt when his friendly approach was met with laughter and derision. To be fair he did not know what he wanted out of exchange. There should been a goal, a plan, and a prize to assess how much effort he wanted to put in, but he had neither. It was an empty exchange, one that caused him to sit on A15 alone with a dumb look on his face. As he looked on at the wet pavement, bus stopped every other block picking up a fresh set of strangers to distract him from his thoughts. They were the usual pedigree of old, young and disinterested. And once he began to feel comfortable with their presence, feeling slight companionship, they up and left, disappointing him once more. He examined the riders, beginning with their footwear to their hair. It was a habit he picked up when he was young, riding subways with his mother. It was rude to stare at people's faces, instead he stared at their feet and made mental notes about their footwear. Old men seem to wear the same black wide leather shoes, not the finely polished, "you could see yourself" leather with sleek shade heels and pointed toes, or the fashionable square toes, those shoes belonged to businessmen and only those who travelled abroad. Old men wore boat shoes. They were heavy and thick, in turn making old men look older. Women on subways never wore the shoes he saw women wear on tv. Although women on tv never took subway. The subway women usually wore flats in multitude of colors and material.
Their association was a deserted one. It was dry with mild hallucinations of possibility.
Overall he was content with his achievements and thought of himself as a respectable and noble human being. He was well rounded and knowledgeable in most aspects of popular arts, culture, and science. He was not ambitions but polite to management. His subordinates felt he was a tool.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Tin Cup
In the moments of rage she thought if she was an ounce crazier, the outcome of the argument might be significantly worse with police and an ambulance visit. Thankfully Jen had a thin veil of sanity to prevent her from tragic decisions. The tears were burning her face. Silently enjoying the feeling of the salty water running down and collecting under her chin, she watched as they fell on her dress shaping dark spots into polka dot pattern. At the exact moment Jen reached for a tissue to wipe her nose careful not to dry her puffy face, memory of her parent's friends birthday present on her 9th birthday appeared in her mind. The present was a cup for collecting tears. It might of just been a regular tin cup, white with a small flower drawing, but attaching purpose beyond consuming liquid gave it greater importance. It refurbished its original meaning, making the cup unique no matter the boring design. Jen had lots of cups but none for tears. Many of her young innocent and not so innocent tears were collected into cylindrical container only to be washed away by chemical infused sink water. How amusing would it be if the cup was designed to categorize all of her tears throughout the years; the amount collected, reasons and outcomes. Reviewing the data might prove highly comical, she thought. Silly arguments, pointless disputes, and creative defenses hinting at her possible future as a lawyer? Presently, she wondered how much of that cup she could fill up. The tin cup was long thrown out when her parents moved, recycled she hoped for another less personal use.
He commented on her selfishness, she mounted an attack supported by evidence from the last three years he would have forgotten by now. No cup to sit with, slight ounces of rage in each drop making a splash at impact with metal, slowly collecting an Alice in Wonderland river, excreting anger from her body.
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