PDX Art: Idio-sychrasy or a decade to remember

Idio-syncrasy

The space less traveled non-intimidating forgone conclusion a popup window into realms/zones of indifference laktating with indecisiveness; not solidified like a joke before laughter has proofed its funniness, its validity.
Taking a crap-shoot at orthodoxy uncertified by society or free from face value attachment of cooperate structures using pre-existing conditions to dismantle Pop ideologies and to transmorph them into pop poop culture like the Olympic rings made from spiders.
Do you want a piece of Brittney’s cake or are you just jealous? Is this a bridge for ultimate condolence or a contraption to capture the UR-cry; am I pushing the envelope or just brain daisies in barren field.
Food for thought doesn’t grow on trees it has to be excavated from the garbage pit of the populous.
It’s a no-brainer or better a right brainer, a marriage between poetry and pragmatism to attempt to spell “occult” back wards or pacing like a tiger overdosed on Red Bull like in a library of confessions with snowy thought flakes made from recoiled inspiration to form drifts of after thought blowing over sexed concepts up Damien Hirst’s ass.
Nothing matters to Damien nothing matters to me either because I love him and I just like to say his name like dropping golden poop on a bloody red carpet of guilty by association sins just like to say it like a knife cutting through “I can’t believe its not butter and never was”.
Idiosyncrasy rules the day by night disturbing the order of all things ironic.
Art is the walk along memory lane like when even memories of dreams become future events.
“This is it” good by Michael; good by Billy Jean looking forward to the movie. I know it doesn’t have a happy ending but paints life with different colors.
Sure fire grill caged words caged with tears abstracted with realism in small quantities of drug paraphernalia painted faces with oil and wax on panels of judges with fallen images but what makes this moment special is the feeling of it; the of what was captured before but can’t be re-captured. The moments don’t repeat themselves only memory lets them play it again, makes it unforgettable, makes it unfold in the brain like a row of chairs for a wedding hoping for a prosperous union or a funeral hoping for a heavenly re-union.
I cut a slice of my soul and hand it over to you to taste it.
Invisible enemies are still enemies they still exist as a label as a fear that bears potential.
I look at Kippenbergers paintings and I know that fame hurts in all the wrong places but without it it hurts everywhere. I wish I were a woman and could hide behind my breasts like a power plant; two towers evoking awe and shock and desire.
What a mixed bag to carry on ones chest like an architectural weapon to nurture or to lead to demise.
My favorite word this year was naked but it’s my favorite word every year. Naked in a plain narcissistic way as in over exposed to all the wrong people like in a wasted land where the pledge of allegiance is printed on a toilet paper roll used to wipe ones private, very naked parts.
The decade of passion the one who fucked itself with a passion that consumed endlessly even war or war fair continuously to not have to pay for anything no matter what the currency was lives money health all was gambled away.
Funny you shouldn't’t care either about the tyranny of culture of its failure and its pill induced suckers mentality.
I still hear Aretha Franklin singing at Obama’s inauguration but mostly I remember her hat. I still hear Obama's acceptance speech after winning the presidency but mostly I remember Michelle’s red and black dress.
Every minute the most important things in life are upstaged by the most trivial.
Things are really good now.
I got used to not fear, fear!
Food is fuel, thought is fuel, and war is fuel for fear.
Avant-garde is fuel for Art. Love is the promise of loss, love is the promise of gain, love is the promise to the world to be the bread of the world like a feeding tube of the mind in need of exhilaration.
Neon signs remind me to forge ahead in the cultural forest to stay lit by day and by night. I can’t ignore anymore the shift in perspective the window that’s permanently opened in my consciousness.
Everyone is welcome to peek its free of admission but it’s filled with admissions.
I danced with Vampires empirical in nature, painted my face with menstrual blood to feel mother earth, dressed like a panda bear just to get love from unhealthy sources.
I ate from bohemian troughs like a pig on LSD.
There is no substitute for ignorance.
Only the lonely descent to hit rock bottom naked again treated like a strange creature like a copy of an original faded scratched discolored deemed worthless.
Aren’t all years the same just in a different rapping paper?
But it's all a big mistake of mistaken identity. It’s not about the things I am capable of or not but it’s the way its packaged and if the right hand knows what the left hand is doing.
Is authenticity is innate or acquired by following a teacher/guru or are we all born liars?
I am worth collecting! Am I the next prince of tides bankable personable sell able in a sexist kind of way.
This year like all others are an amalgam of hysteria accumulated over decades spread out over millennia’s and a short decade of perversion.
I shine on no matter which disease will blossom next in my chest. I rip it out just like the last one the Bush infection charade.
Now has become “Won”. I am alive and life is the winner moving on getting up close and personal like the fever that is rushing towards evolution burning what didn’t work out to ignite new fires of inspiration taking it to limits not invented yet.

I don’t have to cut myself open to proof read what’s coming next becoming. I am in "the becoming of next", a state of activism hanging ten but not holding on but gliding into the future-rama but not caring about dress coat or credentials or the obligation for sanctimonious intercourse. I am just fucking my way out of the brain trap towards life’s altar where the rules of fear don’t match up anymore with reality.
Welcome to the future of now tense where pleasure has no bounds clueless it begs to be tide up expecting to be seduced by painful elation.
Tradition will have to wait it failed as a self-fulfilling prophecy it has to wait for the next cycle of retrograde.
My cycle has no breaks but has the insurance that the next crash will be much greater then the last.
Temptation is not a movement; it’s a folly behind eyes that proof otherwise.
See what you get and get only what you can see.
Leave the sublime for the weak in mind and needy at heart.
Survival is not for the fittest anymore but for the smartest. Survival is not a fitness test or a biggest loser show segment but a sustainable strategy in longevity.

Rock on head on with the head lights turned on to document enchantment and its many categories. There is room on the Arch and in the Inn for all even the dead will be welcome.
The game has barely started yet and at strike one the game continues…

copyright 2009 Richard Schemmerer

PDX Art: Idiosyncrasies in images 2009

Idiosyncrasies in images

PDX Art: Santa Baby and a Hail Mary

Santa Baby and a Hail Mary

It’s that time of the year when the Sunday paper is crammed with adds and my Spam filter cries for an assistant. It’s when friends forward me sobby stories or animated "Gifs" that clog up my CPU with unbearable "Schmaltz."
Today I got an e-mail showing the 20 best Christmas trees from around the world and everywhere I go I run into them the newest breed of holiday trees.

The Malls are filled with homeless elves and stalking Santa’s looking like somebody played a joke on them and they are not sure if they are on “Punked” with Ashton Kutcher. The bells are ringing 24/7 and cheery songs have high jacked the airwaves like Somali pirates taking our sanity captive.
The "Hour of Power" is selling crystal angel ornaments to keep Crystal Cathedral alive and well decorated.
Grotto's are decked out with pay for view candles and prayer trees are loaded with notes of hope and despair dangling in the icy night wind glistening like frozen leaves in a Hollywood blizzard.
Rudolf the red nosed one is as popular as ever dragging a sled made from blown up plastic bags behind him followed by the Grinch as most displayed lawn ornament.

The houses are all decorated with made in china lights and figurines to resemble the birth place of the child named Jesus made for the Western Christian market to profit a communist dictatorship but who cares it’s Christmas a time of jolly ignorance and exuberant shopping habits.
Santa Baby reminds us that this is the season of giving until the table bends an old Celtic tradition to bribe winter to be short and mild.

I love looking festive in fleece sweaters with stitched snow flakes on them like splotches of memories of a better time when we sat around the fire place with our real family and Scandinavian mulling wine and German ginger bread for good company.

Down in town Santa Con is terrorizing the neighborhoods with a thousand drunk guys shaking on windows and doors dressed like Saint Nick or whatever they think he should look like. In some Cities they even have a Santa in Speedo's Parade but that’s really over doing it as they run around like a hoard of naked reindeer's storming shops and restaurants making obscene sounds.

The mystery of human life is celebrated with fine hand blown in Sweden ornaments that would make the ancient Egyptians jealous.

This is the season we call Christmas and truly what a great idea to throw all kinds of historical festivities together to create a blend worth a party when the days are the shortest and the nights the darkest.
Be merry is the slogan and to try to make it to the new year, which is waiting around the corner of tomorrow without a major catastrophe, is the goal.

There is nothing we like better we might call it the fest of all feasts.
We might call ourselves humans but deep inside we are all closeted party animals just a drink away from turning back into a wild animal. We are ready to pop out anytime at the first best occasion because we do live in the hope that once we get it out of our system redemption will come without a price tag attached.

We flock to the churches like sheep that committed the unforgivable like wanting to be a wolf that wants to be herded back out to the Holy lands pasture.

With the new year in town we start planning with great expectation that our ingenuity will win out over our self destructive tendencies because as sobering, cheesy or hollywoodish it may sound, the greatest hope and the greatest gift is in the connection we are able to feel for each other.

Once we take a step back from shopping for happiness in all the wrong places we begin to see the true wonders that is Christmas the miracle, which allows us to unconditionally love one another.

All that said it’s time for some spiked egg nog, sweet Grand Ma's apple pie, one more Hail Mary and go Ducks while they keep playing Santa Baby on the radio because once the resistance has eroded and is down in the trenches of sentimentality it just feels so good.
It’s Christmas time, so be it!



Richard Schemmerer

PDX Art: Ultimatums by Richard Schemmerer

Ultimatums
Or
Like “if you ever assume anything about me I’ll disappoint you”


Or if we don’t do this and this the ice will melt, floods will come, hills will burn, and friends will die and leave you forever.
Ultimately I am tired of ultimates, they make life seem foreign, dangerous, cancerous,
out to get me to break with my habits which have made me not rich but happy in a Panda kind of way.
As long as I get what I need for daily life it works just fine for me.
I have a list, a catalog and categories of self full filling needs like a ritual, a habit, kind of like pre-paid bills or auto-pay.
I don’t want to need anyone or be reminded that I do; I am not in the help business
but more like “the help yourself Inc.”
Fantasy is my specialty and realization of it my goals the destiny. It’s all about giving the right label to things so I can find it when need it.
Not that I need that but want it.
The glass is always full because I keep it that way. I never think its empty; even when it is I see it just as full with something else.
I could live without a man or woman because as long as I have my basic rights I can provide happiness and stimulation anytime I crave it.
The world is my museum, a dream factory, an art hub, a zone of pleasure bouncing rays of light and waves of shock of my jagged little psyche.
The admission is free in this theater of paradoxes with its grotesque inhabitants acting out dramas and myths as if it were 3000 BC.
My life is one big evocation of previous life style options and then some as I quiver deeper into my future self.
Beautiful people all around me want me to cry out loud “I am beautiful too me but also to you.”
There is no search for meaning just a quest for being because the Cultural Revolution is in full swing it never stops.
When the hour glass has run out the big hand flips it back around and around we go.

Every day has a head line not good or evil just a call to action to find the mystery in the
unexpected.
The laughter is in the horrid, the wisdom in the trashed and the trivial in the depth of pain.
I am drawing in circles which resemble cycles; I am thinking in loops which form the thoughts on the rebound from extenuation.

I am the original copy of myself as I follow the ultimate to end up in the ocean that collects all my visions. I have to become the ultimate swimmer and leave the thinking, worries, and my shelter behind to find comfort in the destabilized, the no-world with its yes attitude and poetics of artificial intelligence and its wormholes of inspiration.

I assemble at the point when my own creation becomes unzipped to bare witness to the fruition of the universe; a place where tradition cohorts with responsibility and acceptance partners with the new unfolding world order.

All my variations of being meet at this existential moment lined up as consequential
possibilities.
As the frames of reference collapse, collide like in a particle accelerator to form an amalgam “the generation next” with its new sets of order and limitations still keeping the yearning for the ultimate happiness alive so do I continue on my path to reach my own ultimate destiny.

PDX Art: Uncaged Courage; White Bird presents Daniel Leveille dance group

Naked in a dance

Un-caged at the Left Bank a cavern like space rededicated for artististic purposes just for a mooning cycle.
The promise is of flesh moving to sounds of Beethoven’s piano concerto performed by the Daniel Leveille dance group.
A cold night can’t stop the die hard to come out after all nudity is a given and that doesn’t happen too often in the good old US. The venue is sold out the seats are skin close together.
The lights go off and the play of movement, shadows and light begins to hypnotize the audience. Everything seems save at first everyone wears proper dance attire like little wresting outfits.
It’s all about modern combat no not really but communication slash interaction in modern society made obviously uncomfortable through moves depicting kind of self defense kicks and robotic interactivity.
I am not a critic not detached enough so everything is observed as if my eye is touching reaching into the action.
I feel for the dancers understand their plight to follow the choreographer’s vision but also wanting to be liked by the paying audience.
And then it happens the first naked one marches on to the stage like in a provocative move places himself right in front of the first row the perceived as the best seat in the house.
They get their money’s worth as a beautifully built youth with shoulder long hair stands there uncut in his pride for all to see.
Soon we see them all men and women each so different and so similar moving through a very ritualistic dance routine with powerful intention and graphic detail some times in pairs, as bubbles of bodies or as in the final conquest a single man posing beguiling or stamping, breathing, threatening while all naked and vulnerable.
It reminds me how we must have felt at the dawn of humanity accessorized with our superior brain which also made as painfully aware how vulnerable and unprepared w e are.
It must have seemed like a joke of God to throw us into this wilderness naked not even with a pair of decent fangs and it reminded me that I still sometimes feel the same when I am out there in the mass of human traffic wondering if it’s time to buy a gun because even when I am dressed I still know that underneath I am just like these marvelous dancers naked seeing that all that holds me together is skin, bone and muscle.
Yes, the Dance was impressive, erotic, powerful, scary, somber and a reminder to slow down and look into some ones face to recognize each other’s humanity instead of seeing each other as a product to be used or consumed or treated as an obstacle.
Hurray to White Bird and its courage to keep pushing our boundaries of taste.

PDX Art: Local Art part1 "Manor of Art" in the rear view mirror