You can’t see it yet, but I never had a painting defy me so much before. Shall I tell you, that we’ve had the most torturous, tempestuous, taciturn, tantrums together. A veritable Tempest in fact, which-given the theme and adjunct velocity of recent events-is as close to tapping the vein as nicking an artery with a straight razor.
I think of Manson whenever I hear “straight razor”, along with “boxcar” and “jug of wine”, which-given my inclination to the latter-means he’s constantly in the shadows, even when he isn’t making the news for pending nuptials to a 20 something Mansonoid.
The shadows is certainly why then, the new one is behaving so precociously willful, since my every intention with the last series was to exorcise black from my palette…in more ways than one might imagine.
Naturally, the dark is a constant periphery for me, the oily slug of lamp black-an oxymoron if ever there was-my default. Why that is I could attribute as much to some unfathomable predisposition as much as the dark pockmarks stung by life, but there you have it.
It took the faux Frieda Kahlo exhibit at Liberty Station to shake me of my doldrums, shine a beacon and all that cliche jive. My word-all that pain and bitter disappointment, embellished by other hands in garland hues, light dancing in every corner, vivid brilliance illuminating sharper than a boxcars glass shards. Misery by proxy.
Except, afterwards, I scrawled something on a dogs ear, about her legacy seeming like the suffering theater of female empowerment in the face of misogyny, but it felt misogynistic to even pursue the trains thought.
It struck me that in all things, it’s too easy to cast shadows.
In that light, Vincent begins to almost make sense.