I had several adventures with the artist last night, two I remember now as if I could open my front door and walk into them. Rarely do I have vivid dreams to recall the moment I wake up. This morning was an exception. One involved the setting of a placid seashore shared with another Saint Petersburg painter, Andrew Makarov. The three of us were walking on a sand beach discussing the power and the glory of human happiness. We walked out to a pier and jumped in with all our clothes on.
The other was with Lena at a communal dinner in a fine city restaurant where everyone spoke Russian besides me, yet I had to prove my camaraderie with the group, so I cleared and wiped down the table, and went to the kitchen to finish the dishes.
Not much, but there was more, as any stark dream will unveil to the dreamer. To retell it with any detail is folly, as witnessed above.
I have 25 paintings left hanging in these rooms. This one is its own room of cotton. Hang it on your wall and sleep beneath cotton sheets, head on a cotton pillow, and dream of anything you can while you can still dream. Especially if the dream left with its power to surprise you.
Thank you Lena for these beautiful paintings to show!
Eager buyer, I shall wrap it up with the greatest care in a box you will save as a conscientious example of all future packaging to come.
So, that’s two works of art for the price of one, although the latter is industrial art and not at all mantel pretty. Bring it to the office and show colleagues how to mail an order out, and then invite a colleague or several to dinner and show off the Ulanova you recently purchased because life is worth living, and we do it one time, and spending on beauty is your right practiced without the threat of military police and search dogs.
Buy this today and I will toss in a swab of true artist DNA which will improve taste in any human gene pool seeking to unwind and uplift its mortal burden. The art market could use a reforming GMO to pop the TIA (tulips in Amsterdam) bubble that floats above all realities, laughing at them. Sometimes the bubble breezes into a private plane, and this painting here shall become an accurate rocket launcher from the ground, from the base, from the real reality where artists pine for an equal playing field. Aim. Fire! That’s some GMO not to mess with!
And the oligarch no longer enters a world he was never invited to. We are the salon of the future but only if we cease with stupid phraseology like “the cream rises to the top”. Cream comes from cow’s milk and after 5,000 years, science tells us that lactose makes our guts turn inside out. Some also declare the milk protein is causing us cancer like it does in rats. So I don’t want cream anymore. Leave it in the cow for the calf. The putrid stench of rot also rises to the top. When we need a new metaphor to share the story of the big city art market, lets embrace our mutual intolerance and call out the oligarchs as the putrid stench that rose to the top.
Amsterdam had pretty tulips to sell as if there were no other perennials to flower in the early spring. The super rich were bored and super stupid.
Nothing has changed, so buy a painting on your own today because unlike 17th century Holland, you, the outskirts peasant, can afford these more colorful tulips, and at the same time ruin the stupid game of stupid rich people spending enormous sums on what nature and the artists give practically for free.
In honor of these foxes, we shall end the exhibition on Black Friday®, and begin to pay more attention to the fox eyes of our own families and friends. There’s a Kohls® demanding your cash for apparel made in the outskirts of Guangzhou. Kohls® is hunter and our tastes the hunted.
Ron the curator suggests skipping the big boxes of stuff this holiday season and find love again beneath the stars. For the price of two pair of sweatshop jeans, steamed and folded into a box, set in a shipping container with a thousand other boxes, put on the sea, and delivered via greenhouse gas asphyxiation to a registered Kohls® near you, a loved one or trusted friend can have this Ulanova painting until the Mozluk race evolves, long after the initial mass gene jump triggered by the insatiable purchasing of crap set the stage for the devolution of the human beings.
Unwrap the gift of a painter. It is the appropriate luxury good for happiness to regain its power over our lives.
Purchase these well appointed ladies and I will toss in one of our 6 x 3′ exhibition banners. Great for the kid’s room or the man cave where the football posters and pennants used to hang before we realized that the NFL is just an oligarch plantation where wealth drops down in bags of gold, but dignity is fumbled, time and again.
And you can place the beautiful painting where your dignity still seeks appropriate outreach. The parlor or dining room. Below the purple granny we pass the potatoes on holiday and look upon the world with delight. Life is easy for the industrialized cultures. We know we’re lucky, so we make or purchase a painting and raise our young to be better than we are. It is the joy of responsibility. Those who refuse to seek it, are just jackasses, and there are many. That is why we have pain in places where its always Christmas on earth. Know an artist. Be an artist. Save the world from our wealthy self-pity.
To avoid a bidding war, please contact me immediately to expedite this painting to your favorite room’s wall. Shipping and handling domestic (USA) will be about $30. If you’re local, I will drive it to you wrapped in paper blessed by an aristocrat of the spirit.
Take the “million” out of “aire”, and we will all be free again to feel. Paintings by the living are and should be as affordable as aperitif and dinner for two, maybe an Uber and foursome if the painting is larger than a picture window.
We can do this. We can decorate and sip our coffee and look up each morning to the genius on the wall and re-recognize the corporitos as the toilet paper providers they have always been. Dealers on the TP market. They can hide away in private planes until tomorrow’s tomorrow as long as we never run out of toilet paper. But they are forbidden to bid on our humanity and set the thinking price of an artist’s gift of expression. Ignore them and they go away. I’ve seen it happen.
And they leave aisles upon aisles of toilet paper stacked to the ceiling six rows back.
Stick to the ca-ca exchange Christies®, while the enlightened denizens of the new age express their taste with an Ulanova painting. We’ll call you when we need you. “Ah, damn! Honey, bring me a roll of toilet paper please!”
Our suppliers are filthy rich, yes, but necessary for our daily hygiene. Give them their $1.29 for another roll. Let them keep their private planes and stupid trips to an ugly Dubai. But never give up your art. It’s what separates you from the serfs of the supply line.
Christies’ Art Tulips in Amsterdam Auction House of Billionaire Rot just sold an artificial intelligence masterpiece to an art-hater for $432,500.00.
Undercut these oligarchs of grand stupidity this holiday season. Pack all your years of love and human tenderness into a tiny fabric ball placed beneath your pillow on a snowy December night. Think on your children and grandchildren, holiday decoration and cheer, loved ones lost and gained and maintained. Dream a long, deep sleep night of a world without Jeff Bezos picking his ear wax and the next minute the modern serfs of earth throwing a billion coins at his feet. Think of Santa Claus and Charles Dickens, why not? And then watch a tremendous time lapsed video into the future beginning with a solitary bird of prey landing on a mall roof and the same species of bird leaving the mall of the future, level ground of earth now grass, wildflowers, insects, worms and no human being you have ever known or will know upon it. A people unknown moving over the mall that was so long ago, that is no more. People of no history because history wasn’t worth repeating to idiots who purchase paintings made by a computer.
In the morning take the fabric ball from under the pillow. Take it to the kitchen and squeeze it over your favorite coffee mug.
Alocasia juice and a new day worth living. Drink up!
All for one hundred and thirty dollars. Created by human hands in a world shared by humans. Try it sometime. It won’t hurt you as much as celebrity worship has.