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.
Here is a short video of the gallery minutes before opening finished with some jazz by The Frank Gordon Trio. Find the painting on the wall that you like and contact me your interest to learn more about it and see some stills of detail. Domestic shipping is extra, but not too much. Below the video are the two paintings not caught in movie, their titles, size and price.
Thank you once again to everyone who stepped out to celebrate “Lena Ulanova Entrainment”!
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.
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:
Chocolate chip cookies
Double chocolate cookies
Peanut butter cookies
Fresh picked empire apples
Spiced almonds, pecans, cashews, maybe pistachios
Smoked salmon with capers and dill
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:
And because I am a fool, knowing damn well that my hairline has receded all the way to my back fuzz.
To wake up each day with the foresight of what can and will be, as long as one keeps the reality where it must always remain—in the head, behind the eyes, turning and churning, the little dynamo of enthusiasm, with routine puffs of steam let out the extremities else BOOM! What would I do otherwise? Where would I go if “Danae” was left on a wall in Lena’s flat in Saint Petersburg and another winter came, with another gallery/bank formed in the subterranean depths and rising to the pretend top of the world because all red blood dulled to black and the ice came and stayed an eon?
The reason I know that I am one of the last curators to promote art and its artist is because of my good looks. I am stuck with them. I spend money I don’t have because all money is an abstraction with a giant chip on its shoulder. It wants to bring me food, shelter, dull raiment, and occasional freedom walks, but in the present moment I get so bored out of my skull with money’s monotone that the hairs just leap off rather stay with such a cloying wannabe.
I choose in my small way to enhance the life of an artist because I am a creative humanist who is thrilled by the sacrament of another. And because no humanists are alike, I prefer the painter’s outward expression of an inward grace. It’s better than religion on all days except the Christmas kind, yet can act as a kind of half-Christmas throughout the year, if one only seeks it, religiously.
Which I do, hence the good looks. And with “Danae” beside me, I cannot stray too far away from the higher realm. Larry Gagosian, and his ancient, polished marble tile look-alikes, made a deal with the darkness a long time ago. His yacht floats on the river Styx, and nobody alive comes on board.
Promoting Lena is giving the gift of artist to the world. In the immortal words of the poet Patrick Kavanagh:
I gave her the gifts of the mind. I gave her the secret sign That’s known to all the artists who have Known true Gods of Sound and Time.
—from “Raglan Road”
There is not a gallery in any great city that can afford to be this insolvent on purpose. The rents are just too damn high!
So put the painting on the chair where all the people walk on a glorious Autumn afternoon, and don’t ask for a dime, especially if you hope to keep the last hold-outs in their follicles.
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???
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.
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.