The Last Call of Marilyn Monroe

Marilyn
2018. Acrylic on cardboard, 12 x 16″

I’ll be heading down to New York City this week to galleries, museums, and many public places to promote the one and only Lena Ulanova! I went to the Guggenheim a couple years ago brandishing enthusiasm for an exhibition of Lena’s work with three other painters working in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. It was a funny place. Funny sad. I wrote about it in the exhibition book.

I Went To The Guggenheim and All I Brought Back was Gnostic Insanity

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I just returned from New York after a couple days in the city that should go to sleep. A warm February afternoon in New York stepping off the E train eager to take a stroll through the park with my family. Crossing the street to look at a map and immediately accosted by a thug pushing a ride in a soiled pedicab. For three dollars a minute one of his desperate coolies will pull human flesh and bone a few hundred yards to give the feeling of what it was like to be an English snob of Calcutta a hundred years ago. The company does not take good care of the cabs and drivers. They look already chewed, broken, miserable. No dignity or devotion. Each might have been happy as a little boy licking snow. Now they survive on the street like starving pigeons with arms and their hands held out.
A walk through the park, past the Metropolitan Museum of Art where one can purchase from street vendors what appears to be art, but leave you suspecting that it’s resale of anonymous stuff that’s been passed around for years. The sellers look so damn unhappy. It can’t be joy they’re exhibiting. Must be impostors.
Then on to The Guggenheim where you believe high art will liberate you, and help build a trust again in human potential. $68.00 for the family of three to enter. By this time we’ll give whatever we got just to use a New York toilet.
Relieved and excited to see the work of painters past the army of dead-eyed ushers. Besides a small room hanging paintings from a few French and one Spanish master, and a special exhibit of five Kandinskys, that you cannot get close to for all the uninspired children huddled on the floor, there is nothing but work that looks like it could be showing right now at ANY local art association across America. I would add that it might even be worse. I have never been angry at a museum before, until this day.
Look… Art!

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Ha ha ha. They’re not really cleaning supplies. Gotcha! It’s formed plastic that’s been painted to look just like the thing that it was. Wow!
Dear young people of earth, with remarkable patience birthed from the boredom of tacit slavery, (which is school), you too can achieve this milestone. Find an over-educated, non art-maker to authenticate your clever genius. Make sure she has access to money. A ton of it. An overrated architect got enough to design and hire coolies to construct teeny tiny bathrooms that barely fit a person’s knees between the toilet and the wall. He too is on display in the basement of the Guggenheim. Here the back-scratching descends in a self-congratulating staircase all the way down to hell.
Seekers of fine art, my subjective brilliance shall not be humiliated by a Guggenheim ever again. A pretty building with barely workable bathrooms. Perfect to house an army of unwashed pedicabbers and their shredded, stained vehicles. Both they and the Guggenheim offer imaginary crap for pay. I just feel like kicking the juice out of them for accosting my wife and child in the park on such a beautiful false spring day.
But all is not lost of your legacy multi-millionaire Guggenheims of no taste. The Internet has been invented. For free you can come see on my blog what living artists are producing on any day of the week. And I’ll never charge you to squeeze your knees into a poorly designed toilet room.