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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