Wednesday, December 02, 2009

Pablo Picasso - Simple

Monroe by Feinin. This reminded me of the Mona Lisa under protective glass, her image untarnished

Arm, is tree contemp work meh have now, Ah say me ca destroy dem so like meh Damien tire cap. Dem ah sorry meh forget is competition me giving dem muse modern, Tate, Nationel Canahda, Brookolyn. Meh turm meh bamsee, me ingratitudinacitious ting, flog me wit yuh feather whip...

"Is it a gravesite? If it is, then her smile says that she is beyond our sorrow or her own..."

Your interpretation of the Andy Warhol study is correct, you answered your own question. As I stayed still, I thought look what I accomplished, but there was more, a "love" of her, and an understating of silence. I laid by her side in memory, and in death...till then - "Andy"

Does this mean I have value, no, its my memory, conditioned repeatedly of this movie star...It becomes a language, like the Mona Lisa.. a thing having meaning. Andy Warhol' art is like your furniture, it becomes dated.

In my earlier Feinin of Andy Warhol, " In this composition of shutter shots, I cried, There was a boy trapped in a woman and longing for some consoling touch, a kiss, an embracing hug a a tickle on the nipple, a show of compassion. I could gather that this portrait had me wondering in tribute, fair to say I liked the aura measured over the century. A telescopic pussyfooting, leach. A girlie pimp. So smack, kick over a table, pee on the rug, shit and wipe your ass with your finger, live life, tell nasty tales and treasure God, Man, cinema, sesame street - time is all we have. Introvert, miser, coward, hillbilly, tooth, shark. grace, Amen".......

After Pablo Picasso's Ceramic Owl, Picasso, the greatest artist of the twentieth century - Oh that jug once belonged to my great grandparents

.....and of Picasso, a tyrant, obsessed over money and rebellious. Angered and bitter that age had robbed him of his youth, his vigor and prowl. A mastermind of deception, forgery and a trickster capable of making art out of shear stupidity and having his admirers jump at his every whim.

Here was a man full of himself, a bull, a Picasso having the gall of wanting to be a Picasso. It amused him, his self admiration, his ownership of others. In his lifetime, his heart belonged to only one love. I realized that Pablo Picasso was fighting his inner demons, he was not willing to except his mortality.

This study made me aware of my own self worth, about a fragility to one's mortality. How I will be remembered is exactly how I predict it, with my love at my side, and a passage a bit turbulent at the first, but a flight into the aura of mankind's mystery. In forgiveness, and in understandings, I shall say quietly to myself, so this is it, how simple, how marvelously cute, like a button.

God likes men, you are his savior...

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

where can I get this lovely pot?


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