Art – Page 35 – I Don't Get It

I Still Hear Your Seawaves Crashing

Pastel-painted condos in coastal towns make for some solace when the winter sky is overcast and the weather is dreary. Galveston is no exception.

You can rent a beach house, condo, or hotel room for your stay. Some are swanky and grand, like this one.

But I imagine the bedspread is still unwashed, and the sheets are covered with pubic hair and glitter, as I have found in even the most expensive of hotels. Which is why I HATE hotels. And motels? Eek. Motels are simply something you accrue in Monopoly so that you can later buy hotels. Although I guess if you are a criminal on the lam, then motels are just your style. Or perhaps this leaning tower of Victorian latticework.

Galveston is home to the Pleasure Pier, which has never been pleasurable for us, as it is only open on weekends, and we cannot afford weekend rates anywhere but our own home. Nonetheless, it is a colorful sight against the bleak backdrop of a sunless sky. (Honestly, is this what London feels like? Seattle? Lack of sunlight is a serious buzzkill.)

It is a quirky city, decorated in green, gold, and purple in anticipation of Mardi Gras.

So quirky that the dentist is housed adjacent to the Ben & Jerry’s. Take note: Ron Burgundy’s Scotchy Scotch was there.

So quirky that this home showcased a plant-haired tiki idol, lording over all of Crystal Beach.

And when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds for all of eleven minutes…

…it made for a lovely little shot of Americana.

I Told You I Just Wanted A Trim!

Sophie is actually just leading a mime workshop. I know, right? Mime. I guess when you’re deep into the craft of mime, you don’t have time for styling long locks. A mime’s best friend is a wash ‘n’ go hairstyle–after a black leotard and white face paint, of course. Let me just say that I’m not too keen on whiteface, any more than I am about blackface, or a combination thereof.

By the way, did you know that mime did not die out with Marcel Marceau? They have mime schools (yes, plural) in Paris, France. Another reason for me not to go to France.

Oh, yeah, that’s not creepy at all.

http://ivanmaly.cz/gallery/12-film-theatre

Holy crap, he makes freaky clowns look like Care Bears.

I’d rather wake up to a man in Gene Simmons’ Kiss make-up than any of this crazy smeared mess. Do you know how traumatizing it is to an elementary age child to have to watch Shields and Yarnell (RIP Yarnell) dressed as Sonny and Cher on TV, doing what would later be called “the robot” by breakdancers?

They even disgraced the cover of my beloved Dynamite.

I wonder if they made out like that when they got home? All stiff like the tin man, with a laugh track playing in the background to help their self-esteem. You’ll have to youtube them yourself; I’m not poisoning my blog with any more memories of mimery.

Rearview Mirror

This year, this picture will be 20 years old. I took this the first (and last) time I ever went water-skiing. After that summer, my toes would never again touch that lake water, nor would I return to that little town. I didn’t edit the picture in any way; it just has that curious green hue. Now it seems like a metaphor for looking back at youth, vigor, athleticism, the wide hope of your whole life ahead of you–all in the past, but captured by that cheap little camera. For those of us living insular lives, not traveling the world or checking off entries on Bucket Lists–those of us just trying to get by–it’s a nice reminder to know, as Sandra Bullock’s character says in Hope Floats, “Once upon a time your mama knew what it meant to shine.”

An Image To Warm You On A Winter’s Day

(spoiler alert: this is not the warm image)

Yes, it’s Elvis’s birthday today. It is my intention to brave the blustery polar vortex and go to Chuy’s Tex-Mex to consume an Elvis Presley Memorial Combo in his honor. New Year’s Resolution be damned. It is my obligation as an American citizen.

http://
This photo of Chuy’s is courtesy of TripAdvisor.

Mercy, that looks delicious! But today’s post is not about The King of Rock n Roll; it’s about The King of Pop. You see, my 12-year-old self would have considered it an epic failure on my part to not have been married to Michael Jackson by this point. That was, after all, my master plan. And probably that of a million billion other adolescent girls. And we all failed. Except ironically, for the daughter of the King of Rock. And Debbie Rowe, but she doesn’t count.

No matter that he no longer walks the earth. My 12-year-old self would be disappointed. He was the reason we hit “play” and “record” simultaneously on our jambox that sat atop the television on the night the Thriller video premiered. No, we didn’t have a VCR yet. He was the reason my best friend and I learned to moonwalk in our Bill Blass socks on my parents’ hardwood floors. He was the reason we wore our red zippered Beat It jackets (not ironically, of course) to school and then promptly retired them out of humiliation because for some reason, sixth grade white girls couldn’t quite carry the look. In our defense, we did weigh 115 lbs at that point, just like he did.

I think it’s safe to say that most current musical artists were influenced by Michael Jackson. I imagine his influence spread into other art genres as well. But I was not aware of the magnitude of this until my friend posted this glorious image on facebook today. Apparently she was googling “exotic flowers,” and this gem appeared:

I know what you’re thinking. Sometimes words can’t express our emotions, our awe, our wonder. In that sense, this artwork is like the Grand Canyon. I was only an Art Major for two years before changing to a legit degree (just kidding, art majors), so I am clearly not the authority on this. But I can say that never has there been such a depiction of the soft femininity of flowers balanced with the rugged machismo of Michael Jackson.

Needless to say, there was an instant barrage of comments, including:

that’s a pretty young lady
Why? Why? Tell them that it’s human nature.
i want this person to be my next family photographer.
Are those cornrows? Seriously?
i can give your whole family cornrows after your family photographs if you want that with exotic flowers in your hair…lol
Is there alcohol in your coffee this morning?
Looks like an Herbal Esssence commercial!
Much magical.
Does anyone else feel compelled to go purchase Summer’s Eve products?
I like how the photo looks wet…
Or sweaty

I felt it was my duty to share this beautiful artwork with my readers. You’re welcome. I hope your day is much magical.

Clubhouse On A Rainy Day

I got a new Saturday Evening Post today, solely for the cover. Truth be told, I pick all my books by their covers. That’s how I judge things, especially if they have cute orange and white Penguin spines at the bookstore. I can’t pass that up. This cover, although Rockwellian, was actually done by Ben Kimberly Prins. I never heard of him, either.

I’m not a rich white guy nor a member of a country club (I hear you, Travis Tritt), but I like the camaraderie depicted, the fact that they’re not bowling alone, that they’re spending time interacting with other humans face-to-face. The fellowship! And yes, I like their hats. It reminds me of The Great Good Place, a book about places in the community where people can gather, other than work or home.

I realize that art, in its reflection of life, is as subjective as music. None of us is going to like the same things. I don’t like abstract art because it looks lazy. Splashing paint, to me, is not a skill. If your canvas resembles a kindergarten fingerpainting, it does not impress me. But I realize that others enjoy what that chaos represents.

I see enough chaos on the news. I don’t want part of my walls taken up by something that I can’t figure out what the heck it is. I like everything to fit into boxes, so that I can stick an adhesive label on it. That’s called order. I don’t like guessing games. I do not like abstracts, Sam I am. But to each his own. Her own. Its own.

Perhaps it’s an idealized version of life, a sterilized Americana, in an era in which I was not even alive. But I am simple. I like happy things. Beaches and thunderstorms!

Not this.

The yellow glow of a festive party!

Not creepy, disturbing, nightmare-inducing, twisted-in-the-head stuff like this. If you like this, I bet you see dead people. I bet you spend a lot of time in the basement. And I realize this is pretty tame, but I can’t even post the gruesome, oversexualized, bloodied up images that pour forth from people’s jacked-up brains.

So I leave you with two timely images for the New Year. This babysitter is drinking milk because calcium is good for her bones.

New Year's Eve Babysitter — New Year’s Eve Babysitter

And this couple, still awake at 2:52am, has the First World Problem of tackling a kitchen full of dirty dishes and leftovers.

New Year's Aftermath — New Year’s Aftermath

That’s how I like my problems: First World. And that’s how I like my art: easy to recognize.

And speaking of easy to recognize, happy 66th birthday to my favorite bartender, Isaac Washington. I hope your day is exciting and new!

New Year’s Eve Eve Sunset

Juxtaposition

Bazaar Was Bizarre

We visited the Blue Genie Art Bazaar in Austin, hoping to find some unique gifts. This art was easy on the eyes.

Small booths showcased different artists with a wide range of talents.

Some prints revealed the artists’ love of the city.

Some things made me hungry.

Some things just plain creeped me out.

And some just hurt my eyes.

In the end, we wound up leaving empty-handed. Although the pieces were interesting, they were vastly overpriced. Perhaps they were intended for pretentious, high-income Austin hipsters who congratulate themselves on funding the hobbies of former U.T. art majors. Too harsh? So is $55 for a set of six coasters. And with so many children there, it seemed curious that many items were covered in curse words, too filthy for me to type here. One thing’s for sure: Austin is still keeping Austin weird.

The Proof Is In The Pudding

I don’t know what message this Victorian Christmas image is trying to convey, but it’s certainly not Christmas cheer. Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol refers to “the pudding singing in the copper,” so I can only assume this pudding decided to do a little choreographed number as well. It may be smiling, but the birdwoman is not. She looks downright alarmed. Fortunately, the lid serves as a protective shield. The message here: pudding is dangerous, albeit polite.

I (like most Americans) am not familiar with what a Christmas pudding actually looks or tastes like. When Americans think “pudding,” we think chocolate pudding and Bill Cosby. Pudding is not hard and aggressive; it is soft and creamy.

In my mind, the copper pot pudding resembles a yummy fried hushpuppy. Yet, I know that it most certainly is NOT a hushpuppy, because hushpuppies are “comfort food.” They do not get violent.

When Mr. Deasley posted his top ten “alternative” puddings last week (thttp://theverybesttop10.com/2013/12/13/alternative-christmas-puddings/), I got my first glimpses at these foreign puddings.

This holly-sprigged treat doesn’t look anything like the dessert in the birdwoman cartoon. It does, however, resemble THIS image of what appears to be a burnt meatloaf, carrying his own weapon of execution.

Perhaps Brits feel the same way about Christmas pudding that Americans feel about fruitcake: unless it is drenched in brandy, why bother? The difference is, we don’t stick currency in our food.

http://www.englishblog.com/2008/12/christmas-cartoon-of-the-day-christmas-pudding.html#.UrIhsPRDvQh

Apparently, custom once dictated putting a coin inside the pudding, and the one who bit down on it and cracked his tooth would interpret it as a sign of good luck. The irony in this cartoon, is that the value of the pound was falling. I liken it to putting a peso in a fruitcake. You’d have to shove seven thousand inside it to make it valuable, at which point, every bite would be fraught with pesos, and everyone would need dental work. OH, I GET IT! THAT’S WHY BRITS HAVE THE REPUTATION FOR BAD TEETH. It all makes sense now. What a revelation.

Anyway,the tradition seems as foolish as slipping a wedding ring inside a cake or a glass of champagne; choking hazards are nothing to rejoice about. Unless you know the Heimlich Maneuver, I would discourage it altogether.

ABC Christmas

Christmas Mold

I don’t suppose Santa would prefer a jiggling foot-high Jell-O mound to a batch of warm Tollhouse Cookies, but it’s better than nothing–and low on calories. Although I would never allow my toddler to sleep under a table for safety reasons, I can confirm that the pose is a common one for children, as though they were kneeling in prayer and simply toppled forward. My concern is the rodent in a cradle on the mantle. ‘Twere I Santa, I would question the hygiene of the home and pass on the gelatin altogether.

Autumn in the Highland Lakes

A month ago we booked a lakeside rental along the Highland Lakes, not knowing if the week of Thanksgiving would be a balmy 90 degrees as in days of yore, or a frosty 29 degrees, as in other days of yore. One never knows in Texas. As the preschool teachers are fond of saying, “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset.” A nice sentiment, but not quite as catchy as, “Zip it, lock it, and put it in your pocket.”

As it turns out, what we got when we arrived two days ago was not sunny and hot; but what Winnie the Pooh might term a very blustery day indeed, with temps near freezing, and drizzle to boot. However, the foliage was stunning, as far as dying Texas leaves can be, so were not entirely disappointed by the dreariness of the weather.

And although we did not dare to jump into the lake, we did get to glimpse it as we drove along the meandering hills.

Always take your cameras, dear readers. We are older today than yesterday, and our memories fade as we go.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: