Item one: I created enough art today that, would they actually sell, I could live off the income for a month.
Minus, of course the gallery's standard 40% commission fee...damn symbiotic relationships
Item Two: I'm going to relate this bizarre fantasy I had while in the book store today on a break. Beware though, this is what it is truly like to be in my head all of the time, strange things inspire strange musings. Let me set up the fantasy properly.
So, I'm looking in this art magazine and I see an ad for an exhibition by artist Tom Wesselmann. The Exhibition is called "Expressionistic Nudes". Now, being of the school of expressionistic nudes myself I was quite upset by this, at best his usage of flat imagery and absence of texture puts him into the category of Pop art, which after a jaunt online I see that he is indeed classified as a pop artist. Ok, my issue is that the article was identifying him as the "king of expressionistic nudes", and to me there is only one king of expressionistic nudes, and that by far is my all time favourite artist Egon Schiele. So, like a good Schiele follower, one blessed with an overactive imagination, my mind immeadiately concocted this disturbing fantasy...
New York Gallery, 8 pm, just dark enough to see the lights glitter off of the newly wet street. A crowd of vapid, self-indulgent gallery goers are inside, making small talk and gulping the free wine like it's Renaissance Europe and all of the water is toxic and plague ridden. Enter Krys, boots clacking against the floor, trenchcoat billowing around my legs. Into the center of the room I strut, eyes down, my hands at my side in clenched fists. My eyes raise and my mouth opens to cry above the din of the crowd...
"Wesselman! Show yourself!"
The crowd looks over their shoulders in sudden shock, a clears a wide berth about me. A man emerges from the crowd, he is age 73, haggard, feeble, and entirely put out. He approaches me and stops an inch before my face, peering into my slit eyes in an angry sneer. (I imagine him to be shorter than me, it's more fun that way.
) Wordlessly I pull a canvas painter's glove from my back pocket (an item I do not use, by the way, but him, being an oil and acrylic canvas painter will no doubt recognize it) and slap him across his smug face, twice... and obvious challenge to a duel...
...Not a Quentin Tarrantino Kill Billean kind of duel mind you, more like a Barry Lindon-y kind of duel, egos and defending of honour, not bloodshed and retribution. (Heh, two good film references is one thought, I rock)... What does this mean between two artists? It means we duel with the only implements our trade allows, paintbrushes.
Now, my weapon of choice is a Holbein silverado sable synthetic blend, #26, full bellied bristles that taper at the end... Him, being a dirty oil painter (My watercolour instructor would be so proud!) wields a brush the likes of something in a Windsor and Newton line, probably a flat brush, no surprise, since his paintings are so flat... (Burn!)
And so on and so on and so on.
My fantasy did not flesh out in my head to this point, so I would just have to summarize that the scence degenerated into a back and forth duel, all footwork and swashbuckle-y, with lots of posturing egos and insults in the forms of compliments. Eventually, my brush gets the better of him, for I am on the side of good under the eyes of my Master Schiele, dead these 90 some years, while he is just an interloper... and because watercolour and gouache always trump oils and acrylics, my brush sends his clattering to the ground, or snaps his in half, I have not decided...but in either case I end up with my brush's tapered bristles resting on Wesselmann's heaving breast bone and my left palm in the air behind him, staring all swarthy and victorious. He kneels to yield, renouncing his claim on the title "King of expressionistic nudes." I, happy at triumphing in my Master's name, turn in a flurry of trenchcoat flourishes and saunter out into the cold night, as the crowd closes in behind me to watch my departure in awe and admiration.
Muhhahahahaah!!!!
And so ends a session of wasting time in Krys's head. Yes, it really is this strange sometimes. You might ask why I had not figured out the latter details to my fantasy, well, glad you did. My fantasy was cut short when I realized that Wesselmann died last December, and the exhibition was a retrospect of his life and times... So I guess I can ignore the mislabeling of his work, seeing as how his family who have control of his estate probably have no clue what they are talking about...
... I can only hope my family will know what to do with my work when I die, they'll probably just be happy that the hundreds of paintings I have created thus far are worth money with my death...
Oh well... fantasies make me happy.
1. Share a silly fantasy with me.
2. Think I am nuts yet?
3. One random fact please.
Minus, of course the gallery's standard 40% commission fee...damn symbiotic relationships
Item Two: I'm going to relate this bizarre fantasy I had while in the book store today on a break. Beware though, this is what it is truly like to be in my head all of the time, strange things inspire strange musings. Let me set up the fantasy properly.
So, I'm looking in this art magazine and I see an ad for an exhibition by artist Tom Wesselmann. The Exhibition is called "Expressionistic Nudes". Now, being of the school of expressionistic nudes myself I was quite upset by this, at best his usage of flat imagery and absence of texture puts him into the category of Pop art, which after a jaunt online I see that he is indeed classified as a pop artist. Ok, my issue is that the article was identifying him as the "king of expressionistic nudes", and to me there is only one king of expressionistic nudes, and that by far is my all time favourite artist Egon Schiele. So, like a good Schiele follower, one blessed with an overactive imagination, my mind immeadiately concocted this disturbing fantasy...
New York Gallery, 8 pm, just dark enough to see the lights glitter off of the newly wet street. A crowd of vapid, self-indulgent gallery goers are inside, making small talk and gulping the free wine like it's Renaissance Europe and all of the water is toxic and plague ridden. Enter Krys, boots clacking against the floor, trenchcoat billowing around my legs. Into the center of the room I strut, eyes down, my hands at my side in clenched fists. My eyes raise and my mouth opens to cry above the din of the crowd...
"Wesselman! Show yourself!"
The crowd looks over their shoulders in sudden shock, a clears a wide berth about me. A man emerges from the crowd, he is age 73, haggard, feeble, and entirely put out. He approaches me and stops an inch before my face, peering into my slit eyes in an angry sneer. (I imagine him to be shorter than me, it's more fun that way.
) Wordlessly I pull a canvas painter's glove from my back pocket (an item I do not use, by the way, but him, being an oil and acrylic canvas painter will no doubt recognize it) and slap him across his smug face, twice... and obvious challenge to a duel...
...Not a Quentin Tarrantino Kill Billean kind of duel mind you, more like a Barry Lindon-y kind of duel, egos and defending of honour, not bloodshed and retribution. (Heh, two good film references is one thought, I rock
)... What does this mean between two artists? It means we duel with the only implements our trade allows, paintbrushes.
Now, my weapon of choice is a Holbein silverado sable synthetic blend, #26, full bellied bristles that taper at the end... Him, being a dirty oil painter (My watercolour instructor would be so proud!) wields a brush the likes of something in a Windsor and Newton line, probably a flat brush, no surprise, since his paintings are so flat... (Burn!)
And so on and so on and so on.
My fantasy did not flesh out in my head to this point, so I would just have to summarize that the scence degenerated into a back and forth duel, all footwork and swashbuckle-y, with lots of posturing egos and insults in the forms of compliments. Eventually, my brush gets the better of him, for I am on the side of good under the eyes of my Master Schiele, dead these 90 some years, while he is just an interloper... and because watercolour and gouache always trump oils and acrylics, my brush sends his clattering to the ground, or snaps his in half, I have not decided...but in either case I end up with my brush's tapered bristles resting on Wesselmann's heaving breast bone and my left palm in the air behind him, staring all swarthy and victorious. He kneels to yield, renouncing his claim on the title "King of expressionistic nudes." I, happy at triumphing in my Master's name, turn in a flurry of trenchcoat flourishes and saunter out into the cold night, as the crowd closes in behind me to watch my departure in awe and admiration.
Muhhahahahaah!!!!
And so ends a session of wasting time in Krys's head. Yes, it really is this strange sometimes. You might ask why I had not figured out the latter details to my fantasy, well, glad you did. My fantasy was cut short when I realized that Wesselmann died last December, and the exhibition was a retrospect of his life and times... So I guess I can ignore the mislabeling of his work, seeing as how his family who have control of his estate probably have no clue what they are talking about
...
... I can only hope my family will know what to do with my work when I die, they'll probably just be happy that the hundreds of paintings I have created thus far are worth money with my death...
Oh well... fantasies make me happy.
1. Share a silly fantasy with me.
2. Think I am nuts yet?
3. One random fact please.
2. Always, it's in my nature to doubt my sanity.
3. At any given time of the day my imagination does this to me, sorry if I space out on you, it was probably some silly observation that caused it, not you...
2. Think I am nuts yet? Not at all. I think you have a great imagination, something that must come in handy being an artist. Or maybe not being as you paint nudes. I wouldn't have a clue, I'm not artist.
3. One random fact please. I really can't think of a factual type piece of info at the moment so I'll just state the fact that I'm nekid at the moment. I just stumbled out of the bath and I have a big purple towl wrapped around my head.