There be monsters here

There be monsters here. These great ferocious beasts, with wild teeth biting and sandpaper tongues lapping at our sensitive parts, circle and hunt our little clan of pilgrims.  I’ve been in their lair. I didn’t lead the way – I just followed the path of innocent dead.  I’ve seen things nonetheless – horrible things, and remarkable things but of course the desiccated bodies of dreams moaned in the gutter and sold me coffee.  In the lair of monsters there is no history there is only myth. I tried to find out though – I searched and asked and dug and shoveled and poked and prodded and pleaded and begged, but monsters must preserve the myth. That’s the only truth in the shiny cave of vanity –myth must triumph above all else. I asked my guides how they managed to navigate the land of beasts and they pointed me toward a box. A box divided horizontally many times and then divided again vertically many more times. They told me many stories about the vertical divisions and how those divisions also divided the mind. Expanding the compartments of impression and prejudice, taste and touch, sense and sensibility. You can tell the monsters from the skin-walkers ‘cause the monsters aren’t vertically expanded. I said “oh. I might not be coming back.” They said there are ways to deal with the beasts in their place of power – “vertically divide and you may be insulated.” I told them I am happy to watch the show but I won’t be staying for the encore.  The weather was there but I wish the monsters were beautiful.   

POSTERS! - Wordly Jan. 21st

 For Legs

Talking to Failure

Sargent Serendipity

David has elbow issues - Wordly Jan. 21st

The fingers will flex and the palm must stick

The wrist should be solid, the forearm stiff

The elbow meets at a swinging place

The joint perforates, at the half, with grace

The bone is cut rough, made pink and white

The thumb is shored up, tough and tight

Mix the cream with the gray, a touch of glue, a bit of spray

Give the thing a name off slight,

And tell folks why opening night.

Sundays with Bruce - Wordly Jan. 21st

The inventor was making making weapons of war and ended up with children's toys. There's some phrase where the message is to"kill your parents."  Something like, "you gotta' kill your folks to get past 'em." Something in that realm of thinking - kill your heroes. Defile your gods and expose their frailty and faults - then you may continue on.  Light some effigies in the mind's eye and they'll show you a way out of the cave. I have some investment in this idea, and it's a bit limited, but one can see possibilities for dealing with all those gods and monsters haunting our consciousness. 

DIY Death Machines - Wordly Jan. 21st

Imagine a group of folks show up in your driveway, deconstruct your car, plant the axel in front yard (at least four feet down, these guys are interested in doing a job right), reattach a wheel on to the protruded end of said axel, and then proceed to strap your body over that tire. Your wrists are bound to your ankles, around and beneath the black rubber, stretching your stomach and chest to the sky. The folks that did this to you bring up a chair, take a seat, and wait for the show.  You see it's always a good time 'cause you never know if the weather, or birds or even a simple failure of biology will bring about the act's climax - that's the fun part!  ...but Mr. Wellman might say -

I tried to speak to the spirit of your dead grandmother last night. I set fire to a piece of paper on which your mother’s name, who is still living, was written. I drew a circle with a black china marker. On the outside of the circle I then drew the most cryptic things that I could think of at the four cardinal points. I stood in the center of the circle as the paper burned and sternly said out loud in the empty room, empty except for all of the garbage, “Your grand daughter is sick!” again and again until I felt ridiculous. This was at night. The following morning came on like the spell had been cast incorrectly, or like it had conjured the spirit of disgust, or of some anonymous shit-head  who had died like they all die: of sadness. The atmosphere and the sky had spilt ink everywhere. The people were a reason to revive eugenics as a form of American bravery. It said in the newspaper that women in Africa had their vaginas shredded into jelly-like black mounds by adolescents with some African-sounding weapon that, from what the description attempted, was a lot like a broom made with steel wires, long and thin.

Oh Allen, those don't go there

 I’d howl but I got black pipe for a throat. I swear I didn’t take this picture with a potato (all though the quality suggests otherwise). Mr. Ginsberg and his gaping mouth are receiving visitors – anybody who wants the esteemed wordsmith to join their cause should ask, and Allen will oblige. Write down your concerns and whisper a wish into his mouth – it works, or it’ll at least get you some attention.  The bust was built, chopped up and reassembled a whole bunch of times until the image fit the program (like the legacy of the man himself).  I leave you with, as promised, a bit of Mr. Wellman’s reaction;

For the Hasid perverts

Don’t stand beside me

I’ll never forget the hell

You put Einstein through

So close, so soon - Wordly January, 21st

I'm not a little teapot. I'm a bucket of lard rendering over a flame. A rich jelly to spread nicely over warmed bits of toast - give the rest to the dog. So close now, gotta be careful and eat slowly so as to not burn the roof of my mouth. This be the home stretch! Don't spill.

While I cooked down I had some time to snap off a few dirty shots of the new work and in the coming days I'll throw some of those pictures up here a give y'all a look.

I also have some writing to share from the one and only Nathan Wellman. Nate developed a kind of synesthetic response to the attitude he gleaned from the sculpture. Those tasty morsels will be parceled (in small bite sized chunks, we're whetting our appetite here) out along with the new images. But be sure and remember to look for your very own copy of his words when you swing by the show.

Wordly

Jan. 14 - Feb. 17

Opening night Jan. 21

Suffolk University Art Gallery at The New England School of Art & Design