Thank you Lena for these beautiful paintings to show!
Eager buyer, I shall wrap it up with the greatest care in a box you will save as a conscientious example of all future packaging to come.
So, that’s two works of art for the price of one, although the latter is industrial art and not at all mantel pretty. Bring it to the office and show colleagues how to mail an order out, and then invite a colleague or several to dinner and show off the Ulanova you recently purchased because life is worth living, and we do it one time, and spending on beauty is your right practiced without the threat of military police and search dogs.
Buy this today and I will toss in a swab of true artist DNA which will improve taste in any human gene pool seeking to unwind and uplift its mortal burden. The art market could use a reforming GMO to pop the TIA (tulips in Amsterdam) bubble that floats above all realities, laughing at them. Sometimes the bubble breezes into a private plane, and this painting here shall become an accurate rocket launcher from the ground, from the base, from the real reality where artists pine for an equal playing field. Aim. Fire! That’s some GMO not to mess with!
And the oligarch no longer enters a world he was never invited to. We are the salon of the future but only if we cease with stupid phraseology like “the cream rises to the top”. Cream comes from cow’s milk and after 5,000 years, science tells us that lactose makes our guts turn inside out. Some also declare the milk protein is causing us cancer like it does in rats. So I don’t want cream anymore. Leave it in the cow for the calf. The putrid stench of rot also rises to the top. When we need a new metaphor to share the story of the big city art market, lets embrace our mutual intolerance and call out the oligarchs as the putrid stench that rose to the top.
Amsterdam had pretty tulips to sell as if there were no other perennials to flower in the early spring. The super rich were bored and super stupid.
Nothing has changed, so buy a painting on your own today because unlike 17th century Holland, you, the outskirts peasant, can afford these more colorful tulips, and at the same time ruin the stupid game of stupid rich people spending enormous sums on what nature and the artists give practically for free.
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.
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:
I have woken each morning since August with this exhibition in mind, and before that, sporadically, but just as intense when imagined. I wonder often if I should have went to divinity school to become a preacher. A veritable Vernon Johns selling vegetables out of my pick up truck on the side of the road after Sunday service. I say this because I feel lately that artists and their art, when taken together, exemplify the human spirit far better than any Middle Eastern Bible can, repetitively citing another used parable about a flock of sheep, a wife to lay with, and a regular threat of a high and mighty smiting. And I realize that a Christian life would be nice, but very stale, following the same old example of a Jesus who never painted a picture, or sat on a train, or read a book about black bears in the wild.
Artists suffer and abandon, accept and howl as good as any bigoted patriarch of Canaan. It’s been so since the compiling of the good book of whichever religion your grandparents pretended to obey, and passed down to you after the atheist slaughter of the modern wars and rise of the nuclear age. Every generation since Job and Jesus has had the artist and the poet to imitate and/or reflect joy and suffering, and every age does to them just what the mighty Lord often did to his abiding flock.
And it often ain’t pretty.
There are artists like Lena Ulanova who are humble to the core, and give back in spirit and wonder so much more than what life offers. I look at her paintings throughout the gallery and am comforted that spirit and harmony with nature and man is in tact as it ever was. I see improvements made to a suffering world, joy expressed, and original compositions of the eternal human condition. If you knew Lena like I imagine to know her, you would see how I see a modern-day St. Francis of Assisi—with a palette of paint and substrate of the forest. No creature fears her presence. All of nature is her monastery and mankind is connected as before, now and always. She is a mirror of the lust of life, as any religion must be if it is trying to remain human.
I made this painting to revere the artist in woman and man. Nobody expects her to perform the healing miracles of the saint, and yet my soul is free and the birds alight on her shoulder.