"Forbidden Fruit" Chris Antemann at Portland Art Museum
Feed me an apple and I'll become Eve serve me a cup of tea and I turn 50 shades of gray. Never have little figurines looked more enticing and inspired intercourse in the hall ways of a venerable museum, a love temple for all to participate in if we weren't to prudish and self aware.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Thanks to the vision of Chris Rauschenberg and his fellow artists we have a marvelous body of work with many outstanding photographic art exhibitions to look back at.The future for photography is bright in Portland thanks to their tireless effort to present to us the best of the world.
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Monday, December 29, 2014
Pennies and promises from the pockets of Heaven
First there was stillness than a rush of fermented flavors, a drum roll like buttery popcorn popping into a megaphone.
Colors reduced blocked bleached out by chalky white eating away like hard core acid on the brain of the self indulgent. Picking on it like pigeons on a piece of stale wonder bread that has lost its power of wonder.
Traces of vaginal fluid flow together with streams of premature ejaculations next to a chair that pretends to be more like a sculptor, a metaphor for the seat of the gut the content of the digestive movement spelling out like as if little cramps of discomfort could actually speak spelling out “remember reality” meaning that we are not invincible spelling out silently like a witness to a holocaustic event waiting for the return of the horizon of previous pleasures.
I look at you, myself and the world through my looking glass what I see is like in a prism of obscenity while strobes of pleasure enlighten my retina giving me flash backs of the impossible which became my reality that revels in sand squares soft to the touch.
I am the museum and a mausoleum of my past over the counter encounters my intellectual clashes with cultures and sub-cultures, the stored images of objects and subjects that engaged me made me search for justice in a place of injustice, a space between two ideas which occupy the same locality and claim to be its righteous owner. I am the divided occupier like in a fable that holds the truth in one hand but deprives the other hand from getting to it like in fable that holds the answer to the secret holding it up to me like a mirror but I see nothing when I look into it.
Bloodless concepts perform a buffer between zones of recognition. Is it me you hate or is the you that you seen in me that you can’t accept or is the me in me that irritates you reminded you that hate is an option.
I am collecting the collective guilt to trade it for a new pair of lucid optical fresh spectacles as food for future countless guilty acts of careless pseudo caring to save the ideas of superiorities on the on the backs of the sacrificed for the cause that caused the scarifies.
I am looping the pretention with the unpretentious to come back to full circle. I am a wall in a wall in a wall without foundation like a skeleton of concepts without a frame of reference or a stand to hang from; existing in the base that thought is the base of our purpose unless it is debased.
Complications arise like motivations which were formed out of the too quick logic of post war mentality.
Transnational ideas are glued together with patriotic ideologies of branding a dream for the world onto its dislodged psyche.
It’s obvious isn’t it: she said
Flicked her tongue around her thumb and took off.
Flick, flicker, words flicker in the brain before they burn like blisters in the mouth forming a signal tone a shock wave of sense code into hasty syllables escaping into thin air escaping the abyss of memory to defy the limitations of communication to articulate meaning full of meaning leaving us guessing it’s meaning.
Draw me a line I can follow, throw me a line I can catch, hand me down a line that binds me, swing me a line I can jump , string me a line I can hang my hopes on, lay me a line I can overstep, unleash me from the limits that limit my ability to love.
The shadow has no recollection it is uncertain of its independent existence; like a stalker it follows its victim like a stalker that wants to be stalked.
Worlds of words of words that resemble significance a prophetic in nature substance underneath the sugar coated elegance are an elegy to surface. The tension underneath is the proof that the world, this world is still in the making and that the maker is not done with it yet, that the maker is like the stalker waiting for the moment of self realization not in the other but in the completion of the mission which started in a heaven made from pennies and promises.
Saturday, December 27, 2014
"Odd Things: Daydreaming"
New Works by Erika Sanada
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I am usually not a sucker for the saccharine but in this case I am going leapfrog the other way. These delicate sculptures show rapture in still form. They seem to be alive just frozen in time as if someone pushed the mute and frieze button on the Earths play console.
There is a good creepiness to them which is good in this case as we should be creeped out by our behavior towards nature and each other. Like any good art they are stand ins for timeless metaphors and speak to the subconscious as well as to the visual but their sheer beauty supersedes all mind-fuck and just gives pleasure to the weary.
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Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Jaime Travezán and Morgana Vargas Llosa
art director David Tortora
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This is color as medium with an orgy of visual delights. Color makes us happy and the people in these photographs seem to have found just the right amount to experience bliss.
Family is the star in its nucleus and its extended outreach to offer a sense of belonging and protection.