#77… considering artistic resumes …

IMG_0001 2The artistic resume, the scribbled history of location-dropping; value credited to an unattainable past held in unalterably storied, and very significant – places.

 

A “wise one” type, common among emotives, has told a story about “previous” enfant terrible reunions being superior to this one ongoing in a circus tent on the Illinois prairie.

Back then, and specifically there, superior artists were more admired, philosophies deeper, emotions purer, significant cultural bombshells much more exuberant; and patrons “acquired” art,  they didn’t “buy” art.

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These statements are influencing a coterie who have adopted that story and enhanced it with more, very mentionable, locations; Paris in the 20’s, a charming rural Adirondacks village, a melange ala’ Bali, and a private Aegean Island (owned by an uber-rich hip virtual-reality youngster), plus numerous, conspicuously exotic, others.

An expressive street smart type, seeing an opening to drop an emotive bombshell vivid in self-righteous anger, exploded about being “cut-out” of the “previous” reunion by the “aloof lap-dogs” of the monied-class types.  That also attracted a following.IMG_0002 2

 

 

A robust series of bombs began blowing off amid the effects of the hot, humid, buggy, dusty and pollen embedded summer atmosphere … more memorializable angst.

 

Please note the following …

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Yorick and the docents spoke firmly, emphasizing there was NO “previous” reunion; this one is it.  Arguments are frivolous. Banderoles were unraveled saying “Let Peace Reign!”

Instead invective reigned.

To this hyperbolic confusion yet a third leader formed a group opposed to the “tirelessly effete” first group and the “boringly vulgar” second. To this, the third added that their movement had “distilled the paradyms of the past into a new language of art”.

One would hope for an ancient, deep, wet, wishing-well to dampen the fuses, but alas, this is not the case. This gathering of smug, crude, and benighted neo-something artistic types continues; as fuses sputter towards dry powder.

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Scene from the neo-non-existant enfant terrible reunion…nuevo-post-sometime.

At least the common simili about art/life imitations makes sense.  Let’s not discuss other comparable truths.

#76…considering hormonal blooming…

Imagine a hormonal bloom, a late-puberty flowering…IMG_0001

Young man (more to the point … old boy), your powers are rather extraordinary in a world of awesome super magnificent and other superlative banter; or, possibly only marginal.  But such as it is, here in the middle of the Illinois prairie, rascals show-off.  ‘Twas (once upon a time) considered suitable to gain the affections of a damsel.

Surely, demonstrating powers in the increase would always be best. Some evidence of growing power, some undaunted mastery, some fantastic!, some midsummer tassel of potency, some fizzing and sputtering hormonal bombs, and the like.

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But, some things maybe aren’t so easy, considering modern times.

Maybe she carries her acceptance complex interwoven under cute emotion bomb appliqués.  A bit more openly now than ever before, but, still discretely hidden; luminous, wet, curled in silky wonder.

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It just is not all that clear.  Hormonal blooms (exerted emotions) for the rascals, the boys, the young men – expect a solid response.  What is the boy’s hormonal bombs use if not to spout it’s power?

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But is there an assertion that won’t just energize another defensive … as so described … hidden indescribable ephemeral bomblet?  A bit more ethereal, a bit more feminine.

#75…considering the demon Beauty…

 

DCS_1629Reining a demon …

… Beauty … Beauty certainly isn’t a demon, is it …(or maybe – she)?

Is there a tethering grace to hold the pony’s desertion or revenge?

 

There is noise in bumping cans, tubes, brushes, bottles, razorblades dividing pleasure from depression (simple, just scrape off callused dried bumbles).  There is racket in traffic, robo-calls, bad media speakers, word questions for which there are no answers (impatience awaiting sober silence or skill?). There are memories, bits of love, clanging  mushy heady grey matter (or warm red embodiments), alarms beepbeepbeeping (is it commerce or just legality?).  There is loud partisan truth (for which there is no rebuttal).  All this, and obviously more, attend while roping a delusion …  the reining of Beauty.

And yet some, covered with dust and ashes, persevere. That is okay, and noticed, but please don’t burden the wrangler with your delusions.  It’s that day’s work, a tiny skirmish with an outrider of the sublime, a vengeful circus pony; and plenty for the painter’s day.

Beauty has within – a wildness – to birth awe, but beauty is not awe.  Beauty is tied to controlling acts of delusion, of a final ruling, maybe unity, even unalterable hushed simplicity; beheld, maybe, in joy.  And yet it changes, often degrades; entropy attending the stillbirth of awe.

Artistics possessors of technique and emotions, even greyed and ash covered ones, mostly lack that silent simplicity: and seek painting (circus ponies and more) for fun.  Now there is a delusion! Fun is less than joy, and that’s a fact.  The restraining lead tied to beauty is going to snap and lash through delusions, the stumbling, the wild skill-less drippings, the slashing; the meek even cowardly smoothing: hoping for that simplicity, a circus going solemn.  And yet, beauty is more than that and less than awe, and that’s a fact.

But shouldn’t fear reign in the confrontation with demons?

Can we be fools, funning with Beauty, restraint ruining the savage unleashing of joy: and still face (and even grasp) the descent of awe?

It is how the circus ponies get their revenge.

 

 

#74…ripples and endless waves…

IMG_0001Sometimes, all it is in the night is just a stone, or maybe a frog … and then another.

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Stones and frogs make ripples, waves…turbulence.

Turbulence ends endless ripples … or …. turbulence is an endless ripple.

 

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And turbulence conjures a raft of fear.

Some would say that all … (you know, the big… ALL ), is a wave,

In the night who would know, turbulence in the wave,  what is the cause?

A frog, stones (endless) thrown in the dark?

#73…Considering Yorick, floods, & cartoon bubbles…

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Floods, they come and go, usually taking with them the fallen.  But some of the fallen become embedded; anchoring the edges of ancient and present times, and, this is to surmise … a place for fools.

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IMG_0002Yorick has been missing for awhile, a professional fool’s skeleton, medieval jester, princely tragedy’s companion; lived, died, and resurrected – by virtue of art. He has rested awhile at the river contemplating another apt comment or juggling trick to awaken the witless to their folly, and nudge them to better behavior.IMG_0005

The jester’s goal…(jesters are congenitally about Joy and Truth)…conjure an insightful smart-aleck one-liner pointing to the consequence of hubris; war, rape, hunger, blood-letting that ends with the onset of malaise, the misconstruing of fun with joy.

Yorick’s perceptive comments, and clever juggling, are largely out-of-date to political celebrity royals. Flat cartoon bubbles are the vehicles for modern times; jokeish profundity in snappy little tidbits…perhaps.

Inflated, cartoon balloons could spread ideas far afield, if the winds blow right; still, there are limits to letting wisdom float free. IMG_0001

 

 

Were cartoon bubbles Medieval, they would have been in danger from below (an oligarchy’s crossbows), now they are probably doomed by drones from all directions.

 

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Considering that, Yorick’s balloons were sending variants of airy thoughts (ideas about peace and harmony, brief warnings about violence,  treason, and treachery); and, considering that the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture hosts many artistics from other ages, an antique form was re-construed – banderoles – those script holders from medieval manuscripts and the late circus.

 

 

 

 

To that end Yorick conscripted theatricals to perform, but, as it is;

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the winds still blow and jokes (especially dry, witty ones) don’t translate.

Apparently presentation means are variable, even if similar, as is the cliche’ message. It is difficult to deliver the wit that accumulates into Joy.

Yorick retreats. The default settings for amusing present fools are digital scores, ticker tapes, and virtual tragedies scrolling the screen edges for the emotives: folly is  Fun.

IMG_0001.jpgYorick harbors on a long-embedded log and illuminates (passé) banderoles; thoughts of recurring floods and remaining fools.

#71…considering begging cowboys…

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“Your money or your life !”  ah, the Good Olde Days. Does the six-shooter helps to focus your attention, focused on this beggar seeking alms (and authority)?  A ghost of mythic Westerns? At this point surely an anachronism.  It is presumable, seeing his personae   evidenced in the hobby horse, that he’s well…a bit childish. The crime to be? It is based on simple, great, old-timey things – the desire for increased sustenance or, is it a really bad attitude?

Some presume wealth begetting power is based upon – a really bad attitude –  and to that end, portraits of leaders (with really bad attitudes) are placed on selected currency of the realm: it is a nice reminder.

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It is known that money is hard to trap; winds, floods, wars, theft and the like will destroy it or spread it…to wherever…

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Some wealth seems to just get stuck here or there, useless; available to beggars (armed or otherwise), available just for the picking…an easy deduction from the fluid value of the commonwealth. Removal (with proper authority) probably saves wealth from being stuck, or blown about –  among the common thickets.

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Elsewhere in the tent, a new play is rehearsing, avant-garde actors have tried white hats on the villain character; to soften the image, make it more inclusive.  A drama with limited conflict; desiring a nostalgic (possibly static) form of happiness.  At this point neither dialogue or plot are moving very well – due to budgetary constraints.

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Life, bandits, you never know…

#70…ahh, ahh, charming angels and romantics purists…

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As you can see, this dazzler has lushly decorated beauty – foregoing simplicity – knowing that psuedo-charm will attract gallant purists.  Primeval myth, covetous medieval glory, and opulent circus maidens churn impulsive purists.  For the enticed, hormonal dust never settles and the vainglory flood of desire never recedes. Spurring on in rapturous clamor they seek to capture the untouched “all”.  Even if that “all” is disguised store-bought-angels, store-bought halos, and store-bought lovely taffeta and pearly goddesses in spray-gold bartered carriages. Vanity is wonderfully alluring for purists.

Modern, technically enhanced, and mythologically misconstrued unicorns play their roles, with vanity and dizzy pursuit. Benighted valiants who, it is said, lack the virus of lust; practice a type of chivalry – in hot pursuit of the (idolatrized) virginal.

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IMG_0006Well-aged unicorns (also mythologically out-of-step) have returned to the prairie; in keeping with generations of prying, window-peeping moralist – intent on ending moral turpitude. Desiring “lots”, and “more” and “much” while avoiding labor, (e.g. making a sharable daily bread) the unicorns ride spreading consumable fear and bellicose intimidation.  This to the end of quelling prurient visions of glamour and angelic seductive concupiscence, plentiful among the emotives gathered here. Quelling even art and artistics.

They have put to chasing the nearly feral young (so fragile in morality).

 

 

Could it be that our reunion of anarchists in a circus tent on the prairie, which holds the brazen charm of individual enticement, is soon to be surrounded by the panting breath of self-made (aged past sin?) purist on contrived unicorns damning pleasure’s end?  They will demand “all”.

 

Youthful ardor has dashed ahead to grasp and gorge on the romanticized pure beauty but, alas, the utilitarian must be replenished…

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…in olden chivalry, this is when lance and arrow inflict the unicorn’s demise.  One purity superior to another.

#69…it is June…and matrimonial thoughts…

IMG_0003 The little creek that runs near the tent is clean, convenient, free, and close. Some participants in the reunion of anarchistic emotives have apparently decided to get married or celebrate an anniversary of such.  The cake and the wine appear to sit somewhat unstable just now, don’t you think?

Matrimony (what this table seems to offer) is based on the future, it is a promise.  Sounds nice, but there are always issues from the past enclosed in little emotion bombs (quick to hand) and today’s occurrences of – now,  wherever “now” lands.

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The following is just conjecture.

“Now” might have been the first meeting, the first fifteen seconds; the dancing began, awkward probably, (an interruption on the way to mundane work?).  A bit of prancing about, hiding and showing, bending and bowing, looking and avoiding…afraid to fall?

 

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To that out-of-balance whirl, a dance if you will, unchoreographed bodily truth; something moved on.  Both dancers clutching lit anarchist’s bombs: ancient bits and pieces of pain; brought from, visited upon, invented by, bought and cared for – presumably defensive.

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Look at this, so soon after their meeting.

What do you think or, what do you  know: dropping his bomb would destroy his footing, even if both hands would be free to remove the mask…or dance better, closer.

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But, of course, the partner would have to give up her little bomb…and vanity.

 

 

But thankfully (at least apparently) all went on.

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Now meanwhile, out near the peaceful stream, some wine and a little cake await, why?…do you know?