#58…considering unemployed elephants…


Unemployed elephants, shouldn’t we admit that it is inexplicable – the course of history.  Unemployed elephants with nothing to do, covered with dust and mud and sequins and plumy tops.  Unemployed elephants, unconcealable immensity of individuals – dense in matters of gravity, numbered as Stars, as real as the circus unknowns.  Unemployed elephants, bearing their wonderful equipage showing the finesse of their servant girls, now wandering in the provinces.  Some in memory ponder the big idea, the Big Tent, presenting the fears, the follies, and some skills brought to – finesse; and the value of pachyderms, now past.  Maybe it is best.

Do Elephants Remember Mastodons?             oil        H.Eaton

All emotive lives are the stuff of dramas, runny mascara on artificial heroes, pains from discarded dreams (or is it discarded activities); taming a beast or learning what the beast would have. Sequins and ribbons on wrinkles and scars.

The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture sits on the glacial out-plain of the ancient iced home of the mastodon. As things warmed the tree top ripper and scat pooper provided useful service. Mastodon was gone long ago, before these enforced migrant elephants came to entertain and provide bits of a story.


We have offered fields for the elephants to spread their droppings and fertilize the home of ancient grasses, the gift to future growing.  A home for unemployed elephants, as if we knew the mastodon – or remembered to care.

Please join us next Saturday, the befuddlement of urban myths arrive at the tent.



#55…Considering Play…

img_0001Play is the eldest of habits, preceding the scribbling on cave walls, the accumulation of stuff, the maturation of mythical leaders, the harvesting of row-crops, the forming of balls (and bombs), and the counting graphs of wealth and power.

The ultra-new ( which includes old-school avant-garde) is worthy, when remembering, that play is connected to the antiquarian, the ancients, the creation myth of all things fiction; fulfilled in all things art.

With all of the pernicious crap going on in and around the tent of The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture it is important that we remember that there are children present; and play should be a part of this gathering, no matter what real or imagined fears the adults cling to.













Our anarchist emotives live a nervous maturity; favoring adult sophistication that is (only?) monetized aggression, raging against a pitiable return. Collusion with wealth and power is often difficult to avoid, oligarchs tempt.











img_0001Please excuse the following official note:

The tent, overseen by those to whom We have given authority – The Deciders, is stretching into an oligarchic character.  Scholarly attention has been devoted to reigniting the carcass of artistic drive towards a new, superior (monied) academy; without an artistic skills component. It is to proffer effete emotive intellectualism lacking any direct involvement in lowly affairs, such as real children playing.

Play is to precede to a type of professionalism that diminishes childlike wonder with its’ erratic anarchic character ( i.e. the spontaneous substitution of a broom for a horse, the type of realism that never claims victory over an actual stone castle).  It appears that it should accomplish goals (sooner and fiscal in character) in service to the Decider-In-Chief.  Play, as now proposed, should be systemized in a digital format.










The Decider-in-Chief as established a play area developing skills more likely to benefit the fate of children when they seek a day-job.



Yorick established a play area outside last summer but the winter has limited it as a refuge, arguments have reminded some of the other Deciders of that effort. To what end we must wait, at least till next Saturday.





#53…considering nobility…

img_0023Recent events at the tent have left some cracks in our present story. The local audience half-expected some pose by a bleeding Yorick. The white-walled gallery, now needs rebuilding.  The Deciders have demanded more color bombs and authority, something of an aristocratic triumvirate.   And so we move on, to a more noble day (?).

Considering Nobility
Considering Nobility      oil

Is there a better day in this “there was a better day”, “back-in-the-day” era? The question is probably better “is there a greater day to remember?”  A day when the oligarchy was noble, above all, in some auric glow of past splendor (we confuse with the present).  When our superiors were Nobles, and acted with noblesse oblige.

The eagle, whether perched or on wing, searches for the weak, the inattentive, the injured, for an eagle’s sustenance.  Flying here over our rivers gently flowing they have the attributes of gods; power, majesty, floating upwards without borderlands.

Eagles flying, gold burnished, the eagle abstracted to emblem, logo, or symbol posted on commerce and political ascendency. Compressed emotions to symbolic standards for those membered, who claim charts of nobility as a decantation of heroic acts; whereas the lessers died without gift of a position.  Noble authority didn’t mine the gold nor form and burnish it, but they wear it and are housed in it; a world liquid in unexplored vanity, unexplored despair.

Imagining the wings and gold as attainable and usable attributes; some emotive artificers seek to mimic the gods in the pursuit of sovereignty.  Presumably they bequest a benediction on those in subservience, on the borderlands of obscurity and living remembrance. And yet seeking supremacy is not the Holy Grail, certainly not the one from which the Blood of the Lamb pours.

Aha Young Men        oil







A fool was not a Noble, but many who claim a noble’s elite rights are fools, and so even here where winter leaves no fragrance, fresh or rotted, young men prefer the artifice of noble folly.






#50…considering, commas,,,



It is winter here on the prairie where we are wrapped in wind and whipping canvas, the former circus tent, now home to the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.  The winter light is brightening a bit, a week plus after the early dismissal of the sun.  Back then the world came to the end of its’ wobble, then started over again.  Now, a lengthening winter sun is not the same thing as a warmer sun, only a more promising sun,  it is still cold.



Tent shelter in winter…a bit chilly, no insulation. Swirling snow (although very lovely) blows in,  hot air goes to the top, while the people at the bottom cuddle lit emotion bombs, these artistics crunch closer and closer, erratic opinions drafted in chilled tensions find a topic. The more verbally endowed articulators (poetic/prosey types) anxious for even this bit of fame, begin to declaim on…,,,…comas.

Comas, those old-school  upside-down bombs, incomprehensibly-absolutist little dictatorial-divisive-connections interspersing the written as directions, or, governance to – how we speak, or how we mean – something.  Instincts re-form the vocalizers;  visceral high school psyches face rational-comma subgroups, and concurrently, the threats of little emotion bombs.

Older attendees proffer commas as the output of medieval theological speculation, where a threesome of ideas becomes- a point: to whit, and therefore, – uh, ah, oh, – commas; or something like that.  Ergo, comma tyrants claw with religious tenacity as arguments develop. The noise is vibrated aloft into the winds.


While the big comma, winter wind, forms a grip on outdoor activities, arguing anarchists and grammar-lords fill time inside. Smoking enfant terribles enjoy the separation from the  grammarians more than the nicotine, banished, like back-in-the-day.d




On an official note: a new Deciders Quorum has been appointed.

Due to rules thy are first formally presented by their hobby-horse head personae, to whit…


















Better to be discussed next Saturday, disagreements already exist over new authorities, and, the issues are greater than grammar…

#46…so small, not worth considering?…




So Small, the ideas, so small, the plans, so small the thoughts we had (after the brutal lessons), so small yet still unresolved, so small after the big plans, so small…so small.

So small, these gifts, so small


So small but, even simple it does matter… doesn’t it?


He would like her to have it, but it is…so small.


Join us next Saturday, it is simple.

#45…comic bubbles…


We have just had a mixed media poetry performance ( or endless vitriolic political rant with celebratory cliches ), here in the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.  The poet just wanted to add some colorful beauty to surround and lift the words. Apparently not so elevated as to be pushed into awe, just some run-of-the-mill beauty.  But the bubbles were destroyed; there was little hope, they wouldn’t quite stay in the air, sorta just crashed, unnumbered.

After the first thousand attempts, there should have been an outpouring of communal joy.  The happiness of seeing the not-so-good get smashed, and then the succeeding attempts;  watching a human ( poetic to be sure ) enclose words that resonate, sing and harmonize, and pulsate enlivening other words.  That shoulda been a party, it would unite.  It seems like a happy haptic public poetic sequence, but we missed it. There should have been a holiday marking the thousandth failure. But it is so long ago and didn’t seem then like a notable event, and now no ceremony is likely.


Yorick, who ponders both the comic and the tragic, would be happy to help the poet.  He knows that first there is pain (more than a smashed finger), sometimes then, clawing; that inability to reach beauty, not to mention Awe ( the overwhelming).  But anyhow, there is pain, then the reality, something has to be done,  then the hope that something may improve the originating pain, then the effort (scribbling), money (if lucky ), then stuff, the manipulation, arriving at – the imperfections.  Followed by maybe enclosing all in modern media bubbles,  for safe keeping.

Yorick, being born of “olde”, doesn’t quite get the isolation, no matter the utility.

The bubble may be the modernist’s  most significant enterprise.  That ability to enclose things, quotes, economic plans, political slogans; separating deeds and words.  Bubbles, bubbles make people happy, don’t they?  But bubbles, real bubbles, happy bubbles don’t need utility: they just are –  floating away in the breeze.

Some bubbles don’t even have air, they are built, big expletive markers helping the poetic anarchist emote.img_0001

They replace having a touchable community in completing the poets deeds.

Next Saturday we begin to celebrate something easier, the Season.



Vignette #3 …Dressing for the Winter Dance…

Dressing for the Winter Dance       mixed media     H.Eaton

Dressing For The Winter Dance      Herb Eaton
My Friends,
aren’t we awaiting The Winter Dance,
the enchantment of an attending beauty
accompanying our follies and awkward gyrations
up marvelous stairs, isolated
from the cold?

My Friends,
isn’t it possible, beyond the
frivolity of summer’s silky, sultry, streaming
green jungle beats,
that we shall acquire a less supple outer garment
to humbly clothe
our beauty?

My Friends,
aren’t we all a bit distorted, maybe nervous and convoluted,
doing a graceless dance
while arranging our new
dull and wrinkled layers?

My Friends,
won’t it be nice, The Dance Hall,
as our crinkling outer wraps are shed,
lead by an honor guard past our
pretty and petty pride,
thankful to be a living corsage
to serve Beauty.
My Friends,
isn’t it best to joyfully dance
until the tune ends?

#43…conjuring a thicker stew…


Ruminating rather than conjuring, searching for an opportune moment to bring forth well-kept emotions, the anarchists have spread out in the reunion.  Tables, the folding kind, have been set up in order to facilitate the collections, garnered from the dropped-off miscellany, presumably to make found-object art.


Some of the  mostly older emotive types (post-dead and before the days of “found-object art”) have pulled up chairs and apparently expecting a Thanksgiving feast.

As you might presume, anarchists of bygone times have a tendency of being “old” (post-living) and beyond the daily need for food.  But, as they are old, the topic of comforting food is constantly on their mind.  And with it a need to demand –  thicker stews.  Apparently the ghostly and skeletal varieties have some hope of the stew adhering and regenerating life – if it were less watery.  Thicker stew also has a class character, the higher the class the thicker the stew;  and as many of the ancient artistics came from the upper crust, a thicker stew seems a rightful demand.


However, we have not completed a suitable commissary, and so, as much as this early winter might provoke the taste for thick stew; we have none to offer.  And we have no servers, except for some of the younger (pre-dead) artists; many on-leave from restaurant jobs (so as to be part of  the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture) and so they have serving skills. But probably they are “serving” for a moment, a socially acceptable moment, an opening,  to push their emerging art, (as original as a fart from a shared pot of stew), into the milieu.


Social class of course is the determining factor of how one eats, more often than what one eats.

So if the post-dead anarchists want comfort food; conjuring  superior thick contents in a soup bowl (empty to our eyes) – it works.

Thankfully conjured, by the condescension of being served…by their lessers.

Join us next Saturday to consider what is worth considering and deception.

#41….considering a big rock rising…

Big Rock Rising       charcoal      H.Eaton

It is just a big rock, a really big rock, far away.  Travelers have returned reporting that it is a bit shy of gravity (and has a dark side), its’ damaged by millions of insults (serendipitous smaller rocks wheeling in from space).  It gets blamed for the behavior of were-wolves and other fugitive ideas, and ever repeating tides.  Lovely just now, though just a big big rock, showing the attractive side.  The romantic, the “dancing on moonlight” side.

Moonbeams and Fireflys Come To Town                oil       Herb Eaton

Most likely you, the digital reader, prefers time to be marked by a blinking multi-colored electronic device, you might consider the round clock face as ancient as an hour-glass.  Here, we have found the moon, waxing, waning, gone and overwhelmingly brilliant, to be a chronological fit.  This is a very un-midwestern idea, we like to be on-time in the digital clock sense.

But turbulence among the bigger and lesser enfant terribles attendees is such that gravitational waves, seismic waves, or the winds now arriving from the arctic; seem to emanate astronomically, in order to attest to the emotive’s fated importance.  Certainly the stars and the moon would cease their influence if providence hadn’t decreed: that the attendees at our reunion of anarchists – must be – the heaven’s goal.

Could it be a celestial confluence that found this place on the prairie, so that the anachronistic could coexist with the temporal?  We are close to the native homes of the singing poet of Illinois and the guy who named our practical capitol the “hog-butcher of the world”.  And, nightly the moon still shines useful light into the cemetery on the nearby Spoon River. All are present,  just over the rise from the Mother Road.

She Hangs The Moon     oil  H Eaton





















And, to light this dance of the romantic absurd; up in the dome of the tent of the incomprehensible, She ( our docent ) has hung the moon, a bit of romance in our absurdity.

A decorative reminder that present times may be out-of-joint,  but as long as the big rock keeps rising there will be anarchists and enfant terribles, and possibly a few artists.


And, as long as the sun keeps rising liberty will be dancing in the thickets..

In The Thickets     oil    H.Eaton

Next Saturday, we shall consider “back-in-the-day”…join us.