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

100_0363

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.

img_0001

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Yorick’s perceptive comments, and clever juggling, are largely out-of-date to political celebrity royals.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.

 

IMG_0004

 

 

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;

IMG_0001

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…

DCS_1647

“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.

IMG_1107

 

 

 

 

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

IMG_1106

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.

img_0001

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.

IMG_0001 2

Life, bandits, you never know…

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

DCS_1666

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.

IMG_0004

IMG_0005

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…

IMG_0012

…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.

IMG_0015

 

 

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?

 

IMG_0014

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.

IMG_0086.jpg

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.

IMG_0080

IMG_0096

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

But thankfully (at least apparently) all went on.

IMG_0001

 

 

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

 

 

 

#68…considering how wonderfully skillful….

100_2108Self-inflicted, another name for foolishness?, a concept for the depressed, a way of seeing the world from above, above others, arrogance…then fallen ?

Among emotives, with or without artistic ambitions, there is really nothing new.  Attention, control, expansive territories, an angel’s overview, admiration(admiration!) something to brag about, Admiration!, dominance, pain to their enemies ( even those who don’t know who they are…or care)  Additional Admiration! a recognition of their bombs ( not as “little” but as potency in hand ), a place in the hierarchy of nature ( a superior force of nature ?),  an Additional Admiration by The Divinity or whomsoever may be worshipped.

And to that end, many craft themselves as self-made angels. How wonderfully skillful !  Constructing angelic wings bound to their strength by golden shackles ( compare to Seraphim, not cupids ).

And begin to fly.  IMG_0001 2

 

 

 

 

 

Typically the self-made angel types never get around to asking a rather simple question.

Where is Heaven?  Out there? Someplace not bound to our whims, in distant traces of luminous wonder?

IMG_1745Or, here in the muck…the product of our conceit, and even our goodness; is Heaven just a moment in reflected luminous wonder…?

100_0465

How wonderfully skillful !  If, rising from this vale of misery his hands are cut and bloody; refrain from pity, and don’t startle him with notoriety.  Those shackles ( how wonderfully skillful !) his willing acquisition, and with great effort attained, must be discarded.

Then, looking up to see birds fly…he can walk.

#67…considering some aliens among us…

 

IMG_0005

Wow! the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture has a show up in the gallery.  An ancient figurative sculpture exhibit. Everyone seems to be on good behavior, thoughtful and interested in bronze likenesses of “others”, and being served.

IMG_0001 2

 

IMG_0001

IMG_0002

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A bit anachronistic (bronze is ancient) and mildly troublesome: someone is in the room not from our temporal identity group.  Troubling if someone has a sword or posturing an old exotic mystery-angst.  Troubling faces, masks are easily offensive.  Of course the figures may be troubled, headless or limbless, broken in ancient ceremonies or wars.  And troubling (depending upon the winds of doctrines) because they are not dressed at all, nudity.

It is possible to bump into them. Maybe sculpture should have an alarm sound incorporated, you know beep-beep-beep-beep incessantly calling attention to the bleeding obvious or providing auditory accentuation to momentary troubles.

IMG_0002

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The alarm may also be applied to various issues between men and women (the putting on or off of the pedestal sort of thing) respect that may not be interpreted as respectful; antiquated chivalry.

IMG_0003

 

 

 

 

 

IMG_0003

 

 

 

 

 

 

IMG_0015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some sculpture needs the alarm if it looks like – when then and there meets here and now.

 

IMG_0004

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#66…Considering the role of anger…

 

IMG_0001Theatrical extras, birds and small mammals, escaped during a mystery play rehearsal (to have been performed here at the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture).

The play, in synopsis, is a dramatization of a trio of stories concerning the same angry man, who knots ropes into a whip.  He is better known in other stories for peace and thoughtfulness, with a skill in useful fiction.  He becomes an anarchist after watching the plebs offer the weak to gain an honorable nod from the patricians, who claim access to The Divinity’s pleasure.

His whip is not a particularly lethal device but, unfurled in rage, it upsets the traders accounting.  He madly denounces the cheapening of the sacred.  Would any forego such commercial arrogance and accept this cleansing?

IMG_0001

Alas, in later scenes, other actors bray their manly sins; a type of public self-flagellation – self-flagellation in a kevlar cardigan. Then they bellow scripts of hallowed words, for remission of their actions (with special offers to others, at a price, payable to earthly gatekeepers).

As the play goes on, those with an unconquerable desire to be despised offer their weak in exchange for a haughty nod from their lording creditors.

We are not sure how it ends, could this be comedic?

#65…the change, spring….

IMG_0002Certainly this too will change: a thicker, darker, more heated, densely leaved, buggy, irritating evidence of life proceeding into summer. But for now the winds blow from wherever…

IMG_0001

Wherever, whenever, always and ever…change.  It is hard not to personalize, whatever changes, hoping for some stability; for a complete ever and forever.

IMG_0001 2

But, if only the changes stopped at…(…whatever would you want…)…

#64…considering manure and weeding…

Who is going to weed this?IMG_0001 2

The emotives, artistics visionaries in outlook, have uncovered their agrarian roots.  While their tent world is airing, these balmy days call up the genius of gardening.  Spring opens all that will come; fruits, vegetables, viney growths, sprouting green goodies, the gentle haze of chartreuse over loamy soil ( a spread of lightly sanded microbial nursery and grave).  No bugs yet, just a few bees gathering in the ditches pollinating flowering weeds.

But surely the bugs will come, with associated fears and pain, and the delicate delights now coloring the roadside will spread happily among the rows of newly planted edibles.  The elbowing for sunlight, the spreading drinking roots, the happily (are plants happy?) gnarling fertilized stems will need removing. Killing (killing a happy plant?) from these purposeful rows, now neatly tilled valleys of ancient worm graves, will be required.DCS_1682

 

 

 

 

 

The circus, as mentioned, uses part of the tent for their menagerie, assuring a plentiful supply of manure to replenish the soil (though not likely to return it to the prelapsarian) but maybe allowing some dance of a sort: a grim pass between danger and delight, beast and grace, weed and fruit, stench and aroma.

 

Sometimes (maybe always) even the simplest places have layers, some meaning veiling some other meaning.  Myth upon measurable truth, nobility upon coarse brutality, angels (the good kind) upon fearsome savage, all contained in a few squares of a measurement; studied surface laid upon the unfathomable. Aromatic manure upon antique compost, all feeding weediness (and so the question – who will weed?)…and maybe…gain fruitfulness.

 

As spring moves souls and seeds this world of effusive artistics has a plethora of planters. But the garden holds sparse hopes for abundant fruitful harvesting, considering the happy weeds and the plentiful old and new manure,  and it being probably bereft of weeders.

 

 

 

Planters are cocky, forward, proud; the harvesters self-congratulatory:  but in between must be the weeders (when employable), hot, bug-bit, bent, ill-tempered; maybe also feeding a crotchety delight in killing.  Across the road crop farmers use chemicals, kind-of crotchetiness in a bottle.

 

But, for this artistic’s garden, the only hope is that a disciplined few will be weed editors.