As all ectomites know, bees are no stranger to the briny waters of the world’s oceans for, if that were the case, the unnatural tryst that spawned the noble Octobee would never have occurred. Still, not all bees are able to adjust to the aquatic milleu, as evidenced in this painting by Gail Potocki, entitled Shipwrecked.
In an interview in the excellent art mag Hi-Fructose she explains that much of her more recent work has centered on environmental themes, with works like Shipwrecked focusing on the mysterious disappearance of honeybees in the last few years.
In all honesty this is a painting I would have passed over if it wasn’t for the bee in the center midground. If asked to explain why I would be unable but, if pressed, I would say that I find something distinctly human in its posture; the way its head is turned from the approaching surf. Its struggle is palpable.
Dutch artist Fons Schiedon, has a show opening on November 6th and running through December 21st at Concrete Hermit in London called Revolution Deformation. The series of paintings features a character named Jesus — Not the Son of God — who had previously been known under the moniker of “Badboy Lensflare – The Albino in a Wheelchair”, operating as a cipher through which Schiedon explores “the subjects of transition, transformation and broken memory.” It makes for a series of haunting, nightmarish cartoons.
A twisted rider apes a classic Napoleonic pose, mounted upon the fleshy back of a unicorn, its head that of a narwhal. Such things exist in the mind of Mat Brown, an artist whose images are nearly beyond description; sprawling landscapes, lush with alien vegetation and inhabited by hideous figures. It is a fascinating, but horrific collection of sensual grotesqueries.
Be careful as the gallery is, most assuredly, not safe for work.
In my advanced age I have lost the urge to venture far from my abode. Indeed, as far as the country of my birth is concerned I have yet to explore farther west than the Mississippi, choosing instead to traipse up, and occasionally down, the East Coast. Much of it has to do with climate, both in terms of weather and social temperament. Indoctrinated as I am to the curt, succinct interpersonal interaction of the Northeast, the lands to the west appear to my mind as a fetid morass where individuals languorously loiter on the street, holding court in a fashion that runs contrary to a matter of the utmost importance, i.e. arriving at my intended destination. I am in a rush people; I have no time for your greetings and salutations.
Yet, as of late, I have found myself looking towards California with something disturbingly not unlike longing. Last Saturday in Los Angeles, Coilhouse held a soiree for the launch of their magazine. Fortunately, my disappointment from missing that event was mitigated somewhat by the fact that I had, some time ago, fashioned cardboard standees of Zoe, Meredith, and Nadya. We had a wonderful evening. There was punch, chips, and three different kinds of dip. Don’t you judge me.
If that wasn’t bad enough only now I’m finding out that Dave McKean has had an exhibition at the Merry Karnowsky Gallery since July 19th, and it is ending this Saturday. Those of you who have chosen to settle in or near this fetid metropolis may want to check it out. I would utter a curse upon L.A. but that would be like kicking a two legged puppy; it has it bad enough without any assistance from me.
Left:The Girl with the Faberge AssRight:Appetite for Destruction
Robert Williams, founder of Juxtapoz and contemporary of Ed “Big Daddy” Roth. Also, possibly, a madman. Looking at what he unleashes onto a canvass one can only wonder about what he may still be repressing. We’re probably better off not knowing.
YOUR THROBBING MULTIFARIOUS LUSTFUL DESIRES ARE COMPLETED N YOUR HYPER-ORANGE SELF, YOU MAKE ME LOVE AGAIN, YOU’VE CHANGED MY HEART, MY MELANCHOLIA DISAPPEARS WHEN YOU ARE INSIDE OF ME, MY HUMAN RAGE IS TEMPERED WHEN I AM INSIDE YOU, THE SECRET IS COMMUNICATION, LONGEVITY, STAMINA, REPETITION, FURY, SOULFUL KISSING, EARPLUGS. YOU FUCKING CORPORATE COCKS AND CUNTS.
So begins the rant that accompanies this video on YouTube. Let me be perfectly clear: there is nothing redeeming about this video. No, this is a test of fortitude or, perhaps, a measure of your masochistic tendencies. Here for your own edification then is nigh on nine minutes of torturous inanity in the form of a man — clad in a Speedo and purple socks, his face hidden by a bag forged from the brightest Day-Glo so as to protect himself from reprisal — caressing, fondling, and humping a giant phallus comprised of Cheetos.
The masked man — should you be interested in demanding those 8+ minutes of your life back — is one Jeff Ostergan, an artist who in addition to the aforementioned inappropriate snack touching, also claims an impressive portfolio of objects and canvasses he has dripped paint on; and by “impressive” I mean that it is impressive that one would wish to drip paint on so many things or that one could convince others to spend time and money displaying all the things you have dripped paint on.
An informative documentary on European master — and Ectomo favorite — Peter Bruegel. The level of detail in his paintings has always astounded me and this episode pointed out some details that I had not been aware of. Something nice and laid back to start off your Wednesday.
Picking up pets offworld was generally frowned upon by the Company, as there were no quarantine facilities beyond the Oort.
Foreign mammalia carried strange strains of crippling flu, shed itchy fibers on cockpit upholstery, and left crumbly little fewmets in secret places, fewmets that became apparent, and airborne, as soon as a ship hit ohgee.
If you are in San Fransisco tonight I would recommend going to Gallery 1988 for the opening of Bittersweet, an exhibition of work by Kathie Olivas which includes a stunning array of custom vinyl toys, along with equally amazing paintings and prints. The show runs through March 22nd.
Alternating between creepy little girls as sadistic killers and little girls as creepy sex objects, Zhang Peng’s photography/paintings manage to be both simultaneously beautiful and unsettling.
My father and I have long maintained a correspondence of epic intellectual proportions. Usually these take the form of discussions on science and science fiction, Rick Gauger being an award-winning science fiction author, and all-around life of the party.
Recently I sent him a link to a collection of cartoons on the fashion wars of the early 1800s, which were as vicious as they were short-lived. Men and women abandoned the stiff, straight-laced wardrobes of the 1700s and briefly adopted a more modern, flowy, comfortable look. This was the famous Regency era, in which Jane Austen lived and wrote. Unfortunately for fashion, it was quickly destroyed by the severe repression of the Victorian age’s corsets, high heels, and silly hats. Dad, armchair fashion historian, elaborates [with my notes appended, thusly]:
Yes, I’ve always thought it odd that women went out of, and back into corsets in the early 19th Century. In our own time, the 60s got over in a hurry, as women went back to makeup and hairdos in the early 70s. In my century [Dad is 64], I think that the corporations panicked as they saw hair styles, makeup and tailored clothing apparently becoming obsolete, and they put on a major propaganda offensive. The majority of people (including women) never understood the 60s anyway, so they were ready to buy into it. We had a last hurrah of big cars, just at the moment when we should’ve been changing our ways.
Another reason for the quick loss of those styles was that a woman really has to be very good-looking [such as my mother, 54, who to this day refuses to learn how to use an eyelash curler, probably because she’s too busy beating men away from her door with a stout stick] to be able to go without makeup and tailoring. There were a couple of girls among the grad students of 1965 that made me froth at the mouth; most others, however smart and sweet they might be, just didn’t have what it took. One of them was the girl who welcomed me back from my first tour in Vietnam. She came out in a nightie that made her look like a joke. I would have rather died than hurt her feelings at that moment.
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
