Filed under pictures
Tagged as art
You’d best come and meet my neighbour, Christina Johnston: she paints stuff like that and it’s fucking mind-blowing.
And Krishna: that Pollock is incredible. When I was four, I painted a painting that my mum told all her friends was ‘a Jackson Pollock’ and framed. It’s still there on her wall, and I boast about it to my other half, J, who laughs and scoffs, “It looks like it was done by a four year old”…
Hi Lara: Pollock is like a dance. The effortlessness is an illusion. I wish I could still paint like a four year old.
Christ, Martin, that’s very dull. That’s a very dull person you found there.
K & L: I was thinking more of Kauffman & order for free. The tangle isn’t really a tangle at all but a product of complex systems. Anyway, envy-filled Christian artists everywhere will be relieved to know that no one has yet paid the bush $100,000 for being art.
& I’m happy to know that no bush got the way it is according to some idea of a “well considered visual environment”, but is just itself in the unconsidered world. Ugh. Dull, Martin. Dull.
I think we’re doing yr bush a disservice. If you’d picked a tangle five feet from that point infested with crisp packets I might have thought of de Kooning, if it hadn’t been in monochrome. I’m not sure what I’d have made of the use of monochrome.
The observer changing the observed.
‘The tangle isn’t really a tangle at all but a product of complex systems’… I have to tell you (must I really?) that that made me think of my hair. Sorry to disappoint.
But, yes, MJH, ‘the bush is art for free… in the unconsidered world’. I want to go back there; I so want to go back there.
p.s. it’s a fab photo. bravo.
but even the considered world can be perceived as unconsidered—-I often ride the subway, home of dense man made inscriptions both legal and not, and the bodies of their inscriptors crammed up against both (inscriptions and inscriptors). It is a heaven and hell of messages and unsuspected revelations–especially when one is not thinking, riding along and suddenly raises one’s eyes to find a riot of visuals, unevaluated and suddenly thrust against the brain like a Pollack or mad thicket
A final thought:
“Nine-year-old writes iPhone code”
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