Monday, August 31, 2015

In a Fookin' Time Warp Between Reality and Middle Class Virtual Monsters

Judging by the title, the manic phase is not entirely complete.  Judging by the time, it doesn't seem close to complete.

Reverend Scarborough is loosely-defined now.  He wasn't so good at establishing funny but he knows what he is even if he hasn't said it as well as he would like yet.  Silas Scarborough already was defined but there are multiple versions of him and he has even confused himself with that.  (That's not a terrible confusion to have)

There was some thinking of rolling the characters together and maybe Sasquatch puts on some sunglasses to let fly on the guitar but that feels muddled and would take some serious thought.  One way to do it would be to cut to a different image and then, fast as hell, get sunglasses, hat, etc.  Cut the view back and Sasquatch magically transformed into Scarborough.  Thin but maybe.

Sasquatch has got that rock masterpiece in his head which he knows he can do but didn't do yet.  It's the same disease as Scarborough but in a different form so it seems another one is on the loose.




There's very little worth dredging out of Facebook as it's mostly a virtual middle class wasteland but this piece struck me.  My friend posted it and he posts works from black artists exclusively.  Maybe someone wants to honk him for racism but we can play that.  In the art world today, music and photography sink into digital hell faster than if they were resting on digital quicksand and physical media is not so far behind. The chance of exposure is minimal so why would you not help your friends first.  I have not asked him but that's what I would do and I don't see it as any more racist than my posting of reviews almost entirely of people I know from the Circus, most of whom are white.




"The Dancer" by Marvin Posey


The combination of styles gives a dramatic emphasis as it appears modern art and stained glass at once. The passion in the colors is greater than one usually sees in an often-dreary style.

The general theme of I'm a dancer and, dayum, do my feet hurt is clear but what I also feel from it is the enduring nature of that.  Her feet hurt now, they have hurt for a long time, and she knows they will continue hurting because dancers live with it.  I wonder if she asks if it's worth it.

The passion in the colors tells me she gets down sometimes but she will get up and dance again. Maybe I'm all wet on that but that's what I see and she would have an honored place on my wall, if I had a wall.



The competition is a steadily diminution of artistic standards and it's looking like digital photogs have finally figured out how to do long exposures so now this is art all over again:


Um, no, because it wasn't art the first time around but that won't stop Instagram from filling with this stuff.  Dunno about you but this and a few pics of Nicki Minaj's butt and I'm ready for the day.


So, do as you will but I'm hoping you will scroll back up and take another look at Mr Posey's work.

(At first I called him Marvin but that sucks as it annoys me when Clinton wants me to think of her as Hillary.  I admire Posey's work but I don't know him so maybe we would get along, maybe we wouldn't.  I like the German way with that in which you're Misters with each other until you agree you're not.)

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