he paints my winters.

...because that's when I get all rural romantic and stuff.

Mark Morrisroe

"Mark was an outlaw on every front-sexually, socially and artistically. He was marked by his dramatic and violent adolescence as a teenage prostitute with a deep distrust and a fierce sense of his uniqueness. I met him in Art School in 1977; he left shit in my mailbox as a gesture of friendship. Limping wildly down the halls in his torn t-shirts, calling himself Mark Dirt, he was Boston's first punk. He developed into a photographer with a completely distinctive artistic vision and signature. Both his pictures of his lovers, close friends, and objects of desire, and his touching still lifes stand as timeless fragments of his life, resonating with sexual longing, loneliness, and loss."- Nan Goldin

Performance artist și fotograf, Mark Morrisroe a fost unul dintre cei mai buni manipulatori în camera întunecată. Polaroidele sale sunt incredibile, incredibile, incredibile! 

wordstorm

(Sam Winston)

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine. And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”- Haruki Murakami

snow white revisited

by Paul McCarthy, The King of Visceral Pop Art. vorba lui Mae West: "I used to be Snow White but I drifted".

in memory of my feelings: Frank O'Hara

Asta e una dintre picturile mele preferate. Recunosc, din cauza poveștii din spatele ei. După despărțirea de Robert Rauschenberg, Jasper Johns a pictat asta. Îmi place pentru că e evident mai mult decît un exercițiu în pictură. Bate o inimă, sau poate chiar mai multe, în spatele acestor culori terne, ciuntite, grăbite și rănite. Iar the odd couple out- lingura și furculița- mă zgîrie pe piele. Direct și fără remușcări. Iar titlul face referire la un poem al lui O'Hara, despre lost love, dar nu-l găsesc pe net așa că va trebui să dați un pic pe la bibliotecă, dacă vă pasionează subiectul. Eu zic că merită.

(cei doi, în exercițiu creativ)