Frida Khalo Slept Here Before She Fucked Diego Rivera
As Munchs go, I love this one...
http://faculty.washington.edu/annkurth/images/sun.jpg
prophetic in so many ways.
PLEASE SKIP THIS POST: HOMELESS MIND IS JUST RANTING ABOUT ART
Scrib, there are a few other MUNCH'S I dig.
But let's put that bacon back in the fridge.
I wanna cook another thought or two here.
There's enough fat in the world to go around, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll probably catch some shit for this, but I never liked what I consider the "Lightbulb" piece you pixed. It's redundant. The colors, sure, magnificent. The texture, too. There are so many reasons to jump on the "wow" bandwagon. But it doesn't bleed for me.
It falls short. Compared to so many other pieces.
While the gas gauge may seem full to many, it's empty to me.
Van Gogh did similar shit. Experiments to move the needle and just get it done. And I don't like many of those, either.
To me, some are mere science projects; lab experiments that are now worth millions because of the limited number of originals.
Those who deeply study know. And I'm not talking about professors. But grunts like me who experiment daily (over a lifetime) to create. I know, I know, the books claim it is brilliant. Genius. Oh, my. Oh my. Man, those fuckers also killed Poe. Rejected him. Now those fuckers praise him. Teach him in class. Good to be erudite, eh? (To all my buds who are profs, published out the ass, tough shit; and it ain't a put-down, but you know me...)
The fucking truth is in the meaning behind each painting. It's there, hidden. If you ever get the chance, ask Pollock, de kooning, Basquiat, et al.
And take a gander at Frida Kahlo's paintings.
She wore a mask that she ripped the fuck open before, during and after her marriage.
Fuck.
The world will tell you about art.
About the politics of it.
About paying the rent.
About creating.
But fuck, who cares. (Yes, rhetorical.) It's all done for the greater good of humanity, right? Har Har, to quote the boss; someone who has probably seen and lived through as much of the bullshit as I have.
What's that? Hold on.
Make that a double Blue. No Ice. Bigger glass, please.
And get the guy next to me one; it's my boy, Dylan Thomas.
His glass is half empty. But we need to talk. About what makes art fulfilling.
What's that, Dylan, you're going into, "that good night?"
Well, kiss my grits. I may just join you.
For I can hear the helicopter blades swirling above, and The Doors on my stereo.
So good night to all...
For my rage against the dying of the light is temporarily on hold.
And Robbin William's isn't teaching me about poetry; in real life, or a movie.
That, I'm teaching myself, with every sip, slip, and splotch of paint.
Thanks, Jackson. You are still my mentor in spirit; and I hope you and Marley and Lennon are playing backgammon.
Pax