(no subject)
I overheard a rather surreal conversation today. I was quietly painting in the studio; it's possible that the pair in the room forgot I was there, but I don't really think so. A girl was telling a guy how she once scooped her shit out of the toilet bowl, put it on a plate, stuck a flower in it and took a picture to make a painting out of it. The guy thought this was cool, and asked her if she wanted to see a picture he took of his own shit with his camera-phone. She readily agreed, and they recalled with nostalgia the size, color and consistency of their respective turds in each instance of artistry.
It reminded me of this book Eric had lent me, Crooked Little Vein, where everything is so utterly ridiculous, degrading, disgusting, yet in someway founded in the actualities of our culture. And as the girl segwayed effortlessly into her next tale (of having her period and bleeding on the white leather seats at a museum), I couldn't help but wonder if I'd missed the boat, and everyone was off photographing their shit and bleeding on expensive furniture, and perhaps if I had only been more liberal with my most personal excretions, my paintings wouldn't be so boring.
It reminded me of this book Eric had lent me, Crooked Little Vein, where everything is so utterly ridiculous, degrading, disgusting, yet in someway founded in the actualities of our culture. And as the girl segwayed effortlessly into her next tale (of having her period and bleeding on the white leather seats at a museum), I couldn't help but wonder if I'd missed the boat, and everyone was off photographing their shit and bleeding on expensive furniture, and perhaps if I had only been more liberal with my most personal excretions, my paintings wouldn't be so boring.