the empty world

And I like Jenny Holtzer.  She may be voided by the judges though not because she doesn't even paint, but because we were in school together.  I saw her a couple of times at my house actually, and Aethelred was there and a pile of artists like my friend Michael and the guy we lived with across the Huron river who studied with either Rafael or Moses, I can't remember, but I never said anything to her or vice versa, and it could of been someone else I suppose.  She left after awhile and I went to what I thought was her first show, with small phrases written in pencil on large well relatively large sheets of paper.  I was at that time a fool and an idiot, and I thought I could think of sharper cooler ways to say everything she said, god this is embarrassing, yet I was still very attracted to the show and I remember the exact placement of two pieces I wished to buy, both of which touched me with their sort of clumsy phrasing and touching sentiment -for what price of course I have no idea.


you just gotta love comments like this from you tube:

You are free to enjoy your proudly ignorant opinion and to wallow in your inability to hear music at any real depth. The music business is built on pushing product to millions of consumers and passionately-clueless fans exactly like you... and far be it from me to wish it otherwise!  Being a member of an informed Minority is its own reward.  The irony of your pseudonym is spectacular.  Have a good day and goodbye... life's to short to waste time speaking Latin to a goose.  Laugh.

lurking

It now seems eerie to me.  When I go on facebook there is no one there.  No comments no response.  It's like I'm walking around a giant store in the middle of the night.  No lights are on. No one is there.  But then when I'm at school talking to somebody, she will say oh I liked what you posted the other day.  And I think what did I post?  It is weird to walk around this confusing and empty internet.  

My blog is empty too.  No one signed up to hear it.  No one reads it.  It is writing for nobody.
These are paintings no one wants to see.  They inspire no one.  They do nothing for nobody.

I know that we no longer enjoy any privacy.  I no that no one and nothing has any value anymore.  But I like the echoes when I sing and I think someone else must be singing.  Somewhere.  But it is a sad day.  A sad world.  I guess it is a sad country.

The world now seems unpeopled.  No humans.  No birds.

I made a painting this morning.  A stupid baby Cy Twombly. A nothing for no one.  I made two others.  Early surrealism.  Another era. Another age. Another time.  I think I am a goose.  And I'm trying to understand Latin.  But I feel like biting.

Once belonging to Man Ray’s darkroom printer, Pierre Gassman, these prints reveal a subtlety that is often lost or overlooked in the prolific Surrealist’s work. Seen in their earliest, un-manipulated form, these still lifes and early examples of Man Ray’s portraiture evince a casual sensibility — a willingness to engage in trial and error — that feels, somehow, refreshingly at odds with the American-born modernist’s more widely known, finished works.

Read more: http://lightbox.time.com/2013/02/27/rare-contact-prints-from-man-rays-archive/#ixzz2MFWtLelx

I had a weird dream last night that I had a bad a seemingly endless coughing fit. And the upshoot was I coughed up a large blackish off-red goup in the shape of my lungs.  I then used it by gluing it down on a large sheet of Rives bfk.  And there it was.  My lungs were very tender.  Like a baby's lungs.  But I could, the next day, breathe huge lungfulls of air.  I was like a young teenager.  I couldn't understand how to breathe anymore.

I am my own clueless fan.