April 2006 Archives
No penis this week. Instead, these are two food related things that I did around the same time. The first is just something inspired by my love of those great French cafe posters from the early part of the 20th Century; boobs, black lines and espresso, the stuff of real anarchy. I love the intellectualizing of sex that went on at that time, specifically as practiced by Man Ray, Henry Miller and the surrealist painters. If nothing else, it provided me with a great excuse (offered to parents and grandparents wishing to buy me books for birthdays and Christmas) for looking at bush when I was a horny little art teenager. The second thing was done for a friend of mine called Paul Alan Smith who is a Beverly Hills agent who gives a ton of his money away to progressive causes and left-leaning organizations otherwise funded poorly by under-monied hippies, saints, sycophants and weirdos. He used to throw these speaker soirees on the upper floor of a restaurant and invite various activists and writers to talk about stuff that the mainstream media wouldn't touch with a ten-foot Ryan Seacrest. He would then invite everybody he knew and feed them dinner and dessert and ask them to open their pea brains and, if they were moved by what they heard, their wallets. Anyway, I painted him from the famous photograph of Kerouac at the Artist's Studio in 1959. He is introducing Karl Marx to a Los Angeles crowd of over-paid ninnies, many of whom I know personally and, despite their political nincompoopery, am quite fond of - the fucking assholes.
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No penis this week. Instead, these are two food related things that I did around the same time. The first is just something inspired by my love of those great French cafe posters from the early part of the 20th Century; boobs, black lines and espresso, the stuff of real anarchy. I love the intellectualizing of sex that went on at that time, specifically as practiced by Man Ray, Henry Miller and the surrealist painters. If nothing else, it provided me with a great excuse (offered to parents and grandparents wishing to buy me books for birthdays and Christmas) for looking at bush when I was a horny little art teenager. The second thing was done for a friend of mine called Paul Alan Smith who is a Beverly Hills agent who gives a ton of his money away to progressive causes and left-leaning organizations otherwise funded poorly by under-monied hippies, saints, sycophants and weirdos. He used to throw these speaker soirees on the upper floor of a restaurant and invite various activists and writers to talk about stuff that the mainstream media wouldn't touch with a ten-foot Ryan Seacrest. He would then invite everybody he knew and feed them dinner and dessert and ask them to open their pea brains and, if they were moved by what they heard, their wallets. Anyway, I painted him from the famous photograph of Kerouac at the Artist's Studio in 1959. He is introducing Karl Marx to a Los Angeles crowd of over-paid ninnies, many of whom I know personally and, despite their political nincompoopery, am quite fond of - the fucking assholes.
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Here are three collages, all untitled. I've always found the titling of abstract art counter-intuitive to the point of the medium. Labeling a non-literal piece of art with a title like "Dignity" or "Ice Cream Salamanders Sliding Over Vickie's Backside" is both intellectually and emotionally misleading. Those who demand a literal translation of abstract art are usually the same sort who wouldn't understand the depth of their own humanity or the beauty of their own girlfriend's crotches without Hallmark or the Nestle corporation.
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Here are three collages, all untitled. I've always found the titling of abstract art counter-intuitive to the point of the medium. Labeling a non-literal piece of art with a title like "Dignity" or "Ice Cream Salamanders Sliding Over Vickie's Backside" is both intellectually and emotionally misleading. Those who demand a literal translation of abstract art are usually the same sort who wouldn't understand the depth of their own humanity or the beauty of their own girlfriend's crotches without Hallmark or the Nestle corporation.
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I found this in a notebook of mine dated 1988. I guess I've been pissed off for a while.
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I found this in a notebook of mine dated 1988. I guess I've been pissed off for a while.
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Here are three dust jackets that I designed for a novel that I wrote (and continue to rewrite); a novel that, like my cartoons, attracts fans but no big money contract. The Prick is the most recent version of the rewrite.
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Here are three dust jackets that I designed for a novel that I wrote (and continue to rewrite); a novel that, like my cartoons, attracts fans but no big money contract. The Prick is the most recent version of the rewrite.
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This is the view from the balcony of an apartment that me and my wife had in Ardmore, Pennsylvania, before we were married, when I was in a band and she was in grad school. I was unemployed most of the time and working on a novel largely comprised of the word "fuck" while listening to tons of Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Bob Dylan and John Lennon, all on a shitty little tape recorder with a speaker that belonged either in a kazoo or in the voice box of the angriest cancer survivor imaginable. Perfect squalor, tons of intercourse, and prospects for the blackest future money could eschew. Happiness, for me, has never been as poetic as then.
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This is the view from the balcony of an apartment that me and my wife had in Ardmore, Pennsylvania, before we were married, when I was in a band and she was in grad school. I was unemployed most of the time and working on a novel largely comprised of the word "fuck" while listening to tons of Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Bob Dylan and John Lennon, all on a shitty little tape recorder with a speaker that belonged either in a kazoo or in the voice box of the angriest cancer survivor imaginable. Perfect squalor, tons of intercourse, and prospects for the blackest future money could eschew. Happiness, for me, has never been as poetic as then.
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Slideshows
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Seeking the Rage: Among the Protesters at the DNC
The group Recreate '68 tries to ignite the passion of another generation -
Crazy 4 Cult 2 at Gallery 1988
More artwork and photos from the Friday, 8/22 opening in Hollywood. -
Dog Days of Summer
Again on the hot-dog trail, in search of sausage satori
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