For Those Who Missed Opening, Think On Squeezing Out a Fabric Ball of Alocasia Juice

alocasia
Alocasia Juice 2018. Acrylic on hardboard, 16 x 20″ (framed in metal under glass, 22 x 28″)

$130.

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.

 

I See the Spectrum Truck on Every Corner, So Find a Painting and Get It God Help Us

LenaUFO
Here Everything is Absolutely the Same 2018. Acrylic on hardboard, 16 x 21″ (framed in metal, under glass, 22 x 28″) $150

Everybody is getting cable. All the houses are connected. And the Spectrum thugs come in pairs, sometimes even a foursome to snatch away your dreams. Many of you will order the complete package,  and in a month pay what the painting is priced at, for thousands of strangers to advertise meaninglessness to you. For $15 you can get live streaming of practically any talent without the commercials, and afford a painting to last two lifetimes. And when friends come over, they won’t be able to judge you, like “Oh my God, window cleaning and beer commercials. How  80’s indsutrial! Wait, what’s that hanging on your wall? What is it? A painting. From a Russian? But the people at Spectrum told me to fear Russians because oil runs the world, and petroleum makes the plastic bottle for my Windex to squirt out of. Oh God, I’m confused and it makes me uneasy inside because I see now that everything is absolutely the same! How much? Let me take it off your wall, I love it! 150? Sold! I am born again and free!”

We can do this. We are human again. We can call up Spectrum and tell them to eat our cheese. There are only a few evils left, and they’re touting the lot of them. Eliminate propaganda and join the artists as we visit new worlds from the peace of our little tomorrows and wonderful homes.

Bacchus and a Bald Stranger in New York

I hope to see friends and new friends tomorrow night. I have door prizes of painting(s) and a vacuum sealer. I’ve added a couple quiches to the menu and washed the floors on my hands and knees. Autumn is the surprise time, and our second gale in a week blew over Ontario last night. It’s time to batten down the hatches and set that third sheet to the wind. If you drive, think taxis. If you walk, think about making a taxi driver your private chauffeur. Pretend with me that we’re crazy rich, but not necessarily in that order.
Lena did it again, and this morning I saw Bacchus at court in full inebriation. Many birds and a bald guy came to call.
“Beautiful strangers in New York. Ancient Greek Gods and Danae. Bacchus is the God of Winemaking and Inspiration.” 2018. Acrylic, and photo by Eric Olson.

Jean-Michel Basquiat and Andy Warhol

Jean-Michel Basquiat and Andy Warhol
Jean-Michel Basquiat and Andy Warhol. 2018. Acrylic on hardboard, 17 x 21″, metal frame, under glass (22 x 28″) $150

Here we go. I have just made final arrangements with the Frank Gordon Trio, ordered the new element for the oven, purchased fresh flowers at a steal, weathered an all-night wind storm and gale off the lake, and am ready for art lovers and friends of art lovers to meet the inspiration of Lena Ulanova.

I have planned a menu for the opening.  Please don’t tell me what you think now, just come in on Friday and break pounds of bread with me in the flesh, and Lena in spirit.

Palatable menu for expressive paintings to be exhibited:

Pumpkin Pie
Cheesecake
Apple Crisp
Chocolate chip cookies
Double chocolate cookies
Peanut butter cookies
Fresh picked empire apples
Oranges
Spiced almonds, pecans, cashews, maybe pistachios
Hummus
Tapenade
Assorted cheeses
Smoked salmon with capers and dill
Vegetarian chili
Butternut squash soup
New oven element roast beef
New oven element roast turkey
Vegetables and multigrain breads and rolls for sandwiches

Coffee and tea

Many beverages including sangria

And an autumn night filled with space.

First, a song about Andy, followed by a great autumn song:

Flowers for Robin Williams and van Gogh Directs the Sun

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van Gogh Directs the Sun 2015. Acrylic on panel, 16 x 20″

Or vice-versa. Two serious clowns—one struggling the anonymous existence and the other trapped in the poisonous web of mega-celebrity. Serious and intense clowns—there are no other types.

One of these is on exhibit and available for purchase, now if you want, Friday if you wait. I’ll give you a hint. It’s the one honoring the man who said “vloek!” not “shazbat!” when nobody bought his paintings.

And it’s for sale at $150 U.S. Metal frame, under glass.

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Flowers for Robin Williams

Any Exhibition Worth Its Salt Needs Decent Signage

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Lena Ulanova is an aristocrat of the spirit.

I copied her stance in self portrait from a painting she made a couple years ago, and placed it in a Saint Petersburg vista I saw in dreamland. There is also a mute swan late to migrate, and autumn leaves swirling.

The mute swan was brought to America to ornament the gardens of grand estates. I invited Lena to send her work over here to teach my countrymen, especially those immersed in the arts and art professions, how to dream again, like they did before treading water for a lifetime in a sea of art bureaucracy, which is an enormous oxymoron pool that no one thinks beautiful. Like an atomic sea, or an ocean in hell.

Dear private galleries and museums… You don’t need us now, but you will one day. Like van Gogh, we do this for free, and we also take van Gogh in a direction he desired, of this I am certain. Communion among fellow artists! For art for the masses to survive to the next century, I advise all and sundry to take another look—perhaps to do a Timothy Leary— “turn on, tune in, and drop out” now to save your souls, or just to make yourselves more deserving of a better time, like you had when you were young and hoping foolishly.

The thought of art in your 20’s was like the anticipation of a wine buzz on a night out with friends, (in)complete with all the unknowns and surprise that could happen without cars and money. Art in your 40’s, 50’s, and beyond is like a bottle of wine for coping—a kind of temporary medication to the constant duress underpinning every sought after good time.

Established galleries and museums are missing the point. They cannot represent art. Living artists, (and I don’t mean the image-makers with polished dot coms and paid for Brooklyn studios), but the ones turning old man and old woman wine drunks into born again songwriters, the aristocrats of the spirit—they are the artists worth seeking and promoting, else you’ve learned nothing at all from van Gogh. Nothing art anyway, above rich endowment and $75,000 advertising budgets. Your end of the art spectrum is so necessary to art and artist, however you worship a bottom line declaring that the only path to art’s survival is more money.

In America, an aristocrat like Paul Allen, owns a football team and attempts to buy art. And therein lies the rub. Art cannot be bought, or sold. One can share it for a price, in order to keep moving artistically. No one pays a plumber to dig and install an old ceramic French drain (even one his great grandfather might have lovingly fired in a plumber’s kiln). Paul Allen must be an idiot to think he can pay a million times more than what a French painting costs a dead painter, and move an art world toward a gargantuan tax write-off. No. He is a dead product pusher, a little rich boy with no depth, an aristocrat of avarice and emptiness, with the spirit of a greedy flea.

And he boasts of a 10,000 bottle wine cellar for his hopeless admirers and wannabes.

There has always been an easy greed to spot in art, even of the 19th century, when any cough around the corner could spray blood, and a cool drink of water on a hot day spread the cholera to babies. Vincent van Gogh was an artist. Jeff Koons is not. Any person who speaks of the latter in art does not know art. He or she knows image, like Paul Allen. And the three of them can go figuratively hang themselves on a Seahawk’s goalpost for all I care of their loud mouths. I’m gonna put up this sign I made for Lena, quieter than most swans, and show her paintings to the world, expressively like an angry goose.

Lena Ulanova is an aristocrat of the spirit. In any age she could fall and complete a painting to uplift and inspire. There is an easy marker to tell art from artifice. Would a painter have the determination to magically land and express in any century, or is she just another contemporary middle or late age wine drunk dreaming about owning a football team?

Wake up galleries and museums. Stop selling your stuff like losers.

 

 

 

Alocasia Juice and When I Was Deep in Poverty You Taught Me How to Give

alocasia
Сок алоказии 2018. Acrylic on board, 14 x 18″

The following I wrote back in March 2016, while hearing word and seeing images of my paintings transported worldwide. Worth a read if artists have any intent to save the human world. Alena Levina, Moscow artist and great human being, is front and center in photos with Lena Ulanova, now Saint Petersburg great human being and subject of this blog and exhibition:

When I Was Deep in Poverty You Taught Me How to Give

A.Lena2016
Alena Levina, the gift, and Lena Ulanova in Moscow

Milestone. I just passed it, and I am waving my hand. Good bye avarice! There is no mirror living of your neighbor to be admired. Adios oneupmanship! I am not nearly as accomplished as the worst painter. I am going to free up my archive of its output—and I shall do this while out walking the village, going door-to-door with my empty begging bowl. Put paints in it and you shall have a painting. Add stretched canvas and a desire to know me, then clear up a wall for my work. Basically, if you’ll have me, the painting is yours.

Two arrivals yesterday of paintings so close yet separated by thousands of miles. It was like I was split in two. At three in the afternoon I was not ready for the joy-energy to hit me like it did. Like a mortal head-on collision with a Zeus thunderbolt. I am still smoking, but feeling more alive than ever with a new understanding.

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Hazra and the gift in New Jersey

The title of this post is a lyric from “The Wedding Song” by Bob Dylan. In no way am I impoverished in the literal sense. I eat. I sleep warm and dry. And the plumbing works 363 days a year. I can get from point A to point B with sufficient planning. It is a practical life, with a few luxuries thrown in from time to time, but rarely with surprise.

Still, I have fed the poorest spirit for too long. It was getting old. It was repeating thoughts, forgetting joy, and closing in—fast-walking to the big sleep.

On an artistic level, I was going inward, deflated, and more alone in my painting and writing than ever before. A difficult direction for even the most steadfast to about-face!

What happened?

I opened up. I don’t know exactly when. I have an idea how. In part by my own effort to climb out of artistic depression, with catalyst coming last April on the day I received Alexey Stepanov’s paintings in the mail. By his acquaintance I have made warm connection with other inspired people rich in dreaming, who make manifest their dreams through the painting process. It is good company to keep, even if separated by language and a vast swath of earth. Long live Stuckism! 

Now I want my paintings to travel. To go where I go while I execute them. To foreign lands. To new love! To Eric Fromm’s plea for a man to be born again. Among all of this and more, I must remain productive. But this energy needs to move. It must go from me, and if nobody is buying, then I am giving. Believe me, there is so much more gold in the latter transaction. I don’t want your money. If I know you and like you, all I desire is that you thrive and be happy.

Maybe a painting will help.

And will you look at that wallpaper! Genius!

A.L2016