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.
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.
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 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.
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:
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.