It's a strange experience, running a perfectly good box of matches under the faucet, but aborting its potential was the only way I could rid myself of this relic from our first date. His name was Jason.
The first thing that strikes you about Hockney’s paintings is their brightness. Hockney’s acrylics seem to emit light. The paints are so bright that despite being surrounded by layers upon layers of somber wools, furs and cashmere of winter New Yorkers, you feel like you’ve escaped the January cold and somehow landed, abathe, in the generous LA sun. “It’s hot in here” is the passing phrase of the hour. Good paintings have an ability to work the other way. You don’t look at them. They come at you. Hockey passes this test with brightness alone.
The second thing is how realistic his water is. Realistic in its approximation of fake, LA-perfect. The water is painted in could-be nail-color, “Envy-me-emerald” and the scene is one we’ve learned to yearn for a million times: a pool in the hills. The pool is salacious, irresistible, visceral — to look at it, is almost to eat it, a consumptive experience — but, as in painting and in life, the pool is completely untouchable.
A pool is like a landscape. The act of looking at it is something altogether different than being in it. The romanticism comes from onlooking. And perhaps this is why both pool and landscape translate so well to painting.
With a single painting of a pool, Hockney encapsulates the voyeurism, romanticism, and pretending, but ultimate separation and disappointment that is viewing paintings.
Snoochie boochies. Mall rats. Slackers. Weed. Smells like Teen Spirit. Grunge. My So Called Life. MTV. PSYCHE. NOT.
Fuck the haters. Major key. The life changing magic of tidying up. Palo santo. Sage. Ayahuasca. Sunset yoga. Setting intentions. Cross fit. Women’s march. Black lives matter. ACLU. Vice News. This is what democracy looks like. Woke. Get Woke. Love not fear. 50 days til the man burns. Radical Inclusion. Micro-dosing. Be the change. TIL. Yasss. :)
over before it began
Two black kids waiting for the bus. Their body languages says they aren't quite siblings, but closely affectionate.
The boy is older, maybe 15. Long hair in braids. Serious.
The girl looks up, stands close, listens.
I pass in a car, windows down. I gather just enough of the conversation for it to land.
"Did you know that 1 in 3 black men go to prison."
He looks to see how she's taking in this betrayal.
"ONE in THREE".
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