Friday Gallery Special: Purple Granny and a Banner

$175 Acrylic on cardboard, 19 x 25″, Framed matted at 24 x 36″

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.

¡Viva Lena Ulanova!








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

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


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.


Me Horn Meet Toot and Blow


While perusing Twitter this morning I came across the National Gallery feed, and a curator’s post of her excitement at hanging some 11 x 14″ Dutch master of ancient times. And rightfully so! There is a wonderful feeling to hold and view the treasures of generations past. She put on her white gloves, strolled down to subterranean darkness to retrieve the artifact among thousands, and so carefully brought it out to artificial daylight to hang on its alarm nail for a few months, the end.

She got paid, and then tweeted her thrill, and probably went to a delicious lunch in Georgetown, seated next to a table of Saudi diplomats openly mocking the moral elasticity of our politicians and many other game players at our nation’s capital.

Just another art history PhD having lunch in a topsy-turvy world.

Juxtapose her curatorial effort with mine and you’ll see that art is very much alive and well on planet earth, with many more artists in the actual daylight and moonlight striving to bring humanity back up or down to equilibrium.

I made my house a gallery because the National Gallery does not want this nation to see and feel the art of the living. It dots its halls with copy-cat painters to wow visitors who aren’t wowed enough with imagination wrought by their own powers. “Look, a painting by a Dutch master! And look, some amazing painter copying the Dutch master’s painting for an hourly wage! It looks just like that Rembrandt!”

How efficiently federal pretend capitalism shames the living talents of its own visual art makers.

Turns them into monkeys for money.

The National Gallery curator sees no irony because she has a similar working imagination of dead-eyed Saudi diplomats.

Lena Ulanova Entrainment
Brought to you by reverence. Paid for by it too. And because all avarice has been buried in the yard with the squirrel’s nuts, no National Gallery can hold a candle to it.



Flowers for Robin Williams and van Gogh Directs the Sun

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.

Flowers for Robin Williams

Beautiful Strangers in New York: Ancient Greek Gods and Danae—Charon, the Carrier of Souls

“I nevertheless firmly believe that no world order, no world harmony, is possible until the artist assumes leadership. I mean by this that the artist in man must come to the fore, over against the patriot, the warrior, the diplomat, the fanatical idealist, the misguided revolutionary. It is not against the gods man must rebel—the gods are with him, if he but knew it!—but against his own mediocre, vulgar, blighted spirit. He must free himself to look upon the world as his own divine playground and not as a battlefield of contending egos. He must lift himself by his own bootstraps.”

—Henry Miller from Stand Still Like the Hummingbird

Or this:

Lena has made immortal my brief trip to the great city. She has put herself there as well, fusing two worlds with brush and pigment. She is more than patriot, warrior, diplomat. The gods are with her, it’s so obvious. Just look! They have consented to be painted in their divine playground by the earthly artist, the mortal creator, Lena Ulanova!

Another Wednesday for Stuckism Poetry

Danae 2017. Acrylic on board, 12 x 16″

Spent Wednesday in New York with my friend Eric parading this painting up and down Manhattan. The urge struck me a couple weeks ago, and only came to fruition because Eric has practical verve, whereas I am more of a verve dreamer, a stay-at-home thinker and studio doer. Last Sunday he pointed to Wednesday and said “Let’s go!”.

After a sleepless 24 hours and several miles of walking (hundreds driving), Lena Ulanova’s “Danae” is now a New York celebrity, seen and admired by a few thousand people from all walks of life. The MoMA could not be this diverse in a day. And all Eric and I did was practice intuitively what the cult of art pretends to desire in its mad money rush to be authentic. We were a walking, talking gallery, without walls, without admission fee, without a bottom line accounting department, nor a damn given to the oligarch and his high rise vestibule decoration. “Danae” stepped out and went for a walk on a beautiful summer-autumn day. Lena got to experience New York (video below) as her curator knows it, and art got to the people better than any channel Gagosian could devise in that greedy little beggar brain.

81st street to the Met, then Guggenheim, United Nations, Chrysler Building, Radio City, the MoMA, Washington Square Park, West Village, Larry on Hudson, Hudson Greenway, the Whitney, the High Line, Chelsea, and Neue Galerie on 5th Avenue.

In the video Eric asks me what Stuckism is, and I quip, “Stuckism is going to New York and not visiting a gallery”.

I guess Stuckism doesn’t need another koan for its initiates to push through. But that’s a good one off the cuff, and means the right stuff for me. Painting is poetry and vice-versa. Lena gets it. That’s why Eric and I spent the day caring for her “Danae”, and making New York a better place for art the moment we crossed the Hudson.

Lena says it best after watching a video account of our day. Her words are the reason I curate her paintings. If you don’t get it, drop out of art and make room for the life-giving ones. I hear there is advancement opportunity in the banking trade.

Read Lena, and then watch the video, please, if you’re at all curious about art and artist.

“Hey, Ron! What are you doing in New York today?”
I do not know if I will ever have the opportunity to visit this city and see all these wonderful places, but now one thing has already happened—my picture was there. She traveled with Ron all day. My Danae swept into the New York subway. She was in the hands of a policeman, a black beauty, a stranger in red, standing at the feet of a half-naked man in a park, having a bite in a Brazilian restaurant. You may not believe it, but my picture has already recognized the walls of the Guggenheim Museum, the Museum of Modern Art of New York. She did not recognize them from the inside, but from the outside. Well, you can say, she just spent a little time with these museums, but these are the details. What’s the difference, inside or outside…
In general, despite the fact that I was here in St. Petersburg, a little me, quite unexpectedly visited the wonderful city of New York. Danae, with whom, according to mythology, a miracle happened in terms of love, when Zeus appeared to her in the form of golden rain, experienced another miracle—a miracle of adventure, which ended in a beautiful fiery sunset.
Thank you, Ron! And, please remind me, again, what are you doing in New York, today???

“Эй, Рон! Что ты делаешь в Нью-Йорке, сегодня?”
Я не знаю, будет ли у меня когда-нибудь возможность побывать в этом городе и увидеть все эти замечательные места, но теперь уже свершилось одно – моя картина там побывала. Она путешествовала с Роном целый день. Моя Даная прокатилась в нью-йоркском метро. Она побывала в руках полицейского, чернокожей красотки, незнакомки в красном, стояла у ног полуобнаженного мужчины в парке, перекусила в бразильском ресторане. Вы можете не верить, но моя картина уже узнала стены музея Гуггенхайма, Музея современного искусства Нью-йорка. Да она узнала их не изнутри, а снаружи. Ну, можно сказать, она просто немного побыла рядом с этими музеями, но ведь это детали. Какая разница, внутри или снаружи…)
В общем, несмотря на то что я была здесь, в Санкт-Петербурге, немного меня, совершенно неожиданно побывало в замечательном городе Нью-Йорке. Даная, с которой, согласно мифологии произошло чудо в плане любви, когда Зевс явился к ней в виде золотого дождя, пережила ещё одно чудо – чудо приключения, которое закончилось прекрасным огненным закатом.
Спасибо, Рон! И, напомни пожалуйста, ещё раз, что ты делаешь в Нью-Йорке, сегодня???

The Last Call of Marilyn Monroe

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


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!

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.