#5…Where we consider dangerous conditions and condescension

 

 

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Just Passing Through       oil           H.Eaton

Have you considered life as an expressway of dangerous conditions,  even for artistic types?

Travelers joining the like-minded among the anarchistic artistic types may also include un-amenable individuals attracted to our group.  Interstate off-ramps are not marked;  disciplined skills Exit A, agitated emotives Exit B.  Coming to our destination are creative emoters carrying bombs; big, small, fused, and some lit and sputtering.  Some claim unique artistic, or at least expressive, character.

Most coming to the reunion of enfant terribles arrive from highways seeking the parking lot of the tent, as yet unfinished.  Flustered and indignant unevolved caveman emotions have driven fast;  trying to contain splintered nerves, tire hum, addled lane changers, irresolute truck passers, and an image-fog of turn and brake lights.  Eventually they filter down to the farm-to-market roads.  Slowed,  expecting antiquated pastorale sounds and calendar images.

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Modern Illinois Prairie        ink        H.Eaton

As it is, prairie agriculture has lost its’ pastoral overalls and barefoot charm.  It is a visual enormity with industrial outlines.  Rarely, but always slowly, the township roads are straddled by some industrial agricultural contraption of enormous  dimensions, a world uncommon to most cosmopolitan artistic types.  Considering the potential need of services, honking cosmopolitan speeders passing farm tractors moving to the shoulder is a bit of misapplied condescension.   The fallow cornfield, where all are gathering looking for the tent of the incomprehensible, is being planted with artistics mingled with the curiously misfitted.  The highways deliver most; others arrive by pedestrian means, and some will just materialize.

The infant terrible types are offered a new milieu, an untainted  la monde.  Do you wonder how this might work?  Can we assemble a bunch of anachronistic thinkers, bombshell carrying anarchists under a big tent with the goal of simply enjoying the metaphorical prophecies, the deep insights, the rapturous understandings  and calamitous breaks from past rigidity their art exposes?

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The Site       ink    H.Eaton

We should be thankful that no major media has stooped to establish an outpost on this provincial prairie; freeing the absurdists and romantics from attracting various forms of realism from modern anarchy.  But, to the media’s superior taste, not much happens here.  In spite of our invitation.

If your taste will accept, this is an invitation to follow this blog…next Saturday.

 

 

 

post #4…where we meet Yorick, and consider the bare necessities of joy.

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Yorick’s Mind     drawing   H.Eaton

Fog-enshrouded, does your grey matter hold a tragedy engulfed ruler?  At the reunion of  artistic types fog-wrapped tragic artistic types are plentiful.  Needing assistance to construe joy all should probably meet Yorick. To our advantage, this skeletal specter of death and all vanity has decided to join us.

Yorick is the only honored guest, the only possessor off a proper name according to the rule of enfant terribles reunion. Yorick, a medieval jester, once lay deep in a verdant microbial plot, flesh detached by worms, in a land of gloom and treachery.  But through the grace of Art, staged fiction;  his skeleton was reanimated. “Ah, the world, I know it.” says Yorick.

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Yorick’s Memories      drawing    H. Eaton

Yorick found his way to this reunion through deep immemorial strata,  his ancestor’s traveling jongleur shows. He has their flare for distilling the wit of stories.  Although vanity once possessed him, a vision of dried bones now greets his mirror.  Brushing the dust and ashes off his brow, “Vainglory! Ah”, says Yorick poking around the gathering reunion seeing the fame grasping, “There is nothing new trodding the boards.”

In his fleshed days his skilled physical gestures, acrobatics, and juggling were enough to bring humor to a markedly humorless aristocratic bunch.  With overtures by cymbals and flutes, he danced the vulgar dances of the common folk sometimes in mocking satire of the king’s court.  Un-amplified dance music we should add, and without a multi-kilowatt light show…unamplified?…in candlelight? and someone was amused or even distracted?  He must have been good!  Walking among us now wearing a jesters crown and dust and ashes, surprising men and frightening women into emoting public horror and uncomfortable laughter; Yorick is the master, an anachronistic anarchist with a rusty old bomb…still fissing  for the ladies.

We will be seeing him around.  Fame, the glory of all enfant terrible artistic types, intrigues him, recalling the old days. Yorick witnessed the royal courts sloshing flagons of mead, caressing their orbs, blithering explosive muddle as tarnished honors were passed about and jealousy raised its’ all to fleshed out head.  Now, several artists want awards ceremonies, evening auctions, and extraordinary glitz and glory media works.  The princes, earls, and marquesses of old would feel at home;  hyping ceremonies for small talents in need of big venues.

 

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Yorick’s Example        drawing     Herb Eaton

Having the only unquestioned long-running solo show Yorick will probably get a lifetime achievement award; as if it matters to him.

Next Saturday…Dangerous conditions.