Tag: Barbara G. Wilson
Aimée Zoe Lizinka de Mirbel painted, Louis XVIII, in 1818, without a sitting! The following year she was commissioned to paint the king’s official portrait. That’s talent, dear hearts.
eXisTenTiaLNihLisT with Ricocheted Laughing For good measure: Adult Themes, Language, Arcane Drug References and David and Venus, nude, but not naked; Dedicated to Kalliope Amorphous Musecatcher
I remember when I was a child seeing fifites personality Garry Moore burped on live on his variety televison program, The Garry Moore Show; not for comic or vulgar effect, but because he had to belch. Even as a youngster I though it was funny, but embarassing. Mr. Moore immediatly appologized and continued his monologue.
On The Red Skeleton Show, another live program, a cow on stage for a skit decided it was just as convenient to shit on stage as in a cow pasture. You could see the actor’s facial and olfactory reactions and naturally the quick thinking pepperidge farm joke was priceless. A horse did the same on Johnny Carson’s show and like the previous story it was captured live so we all got to see it happen in real time.
Television shows were bold enough to stay live rather than cut to commercials so audiences could be assured of surprises that today are edited, bleeped or excised because we’re too naïve or sophisticated for such scatalogical humor.
Pretty stupid when you consider the word sucks, which alludes to oral sex more than anything else, has found it’s way, not only into primetime television lexicon, but commercials as well. Hate the word unless we’re talking about vacuum cleaner power settings of Black Holes.
Playhouse 90 produced some of the best programs, and directors like the late John Frankenheimer and Sidney Lumet, got their big breaks in the live TV arena. As expected, mistakes were rare but when they occurred it wasn’t a big deal. Pardon My Blooper had a field day with the uncensored TV, Radio and Newscast faux pas and produced albums in the seventies that can still make one laugh hysterically.
One wonders have far off the cliff society has gone since the fifties. The Nuclear Family has been replaced by the Pipe Bomb Quartet; mum, dad, little Billy and sister Kate. People are no longer friendly to their neighbors, that’s assuming they know their names, and less caring about strangers or people in need. Beaver has left even the best father became a a welby doctor and ozzie knew better than to make harriet angry.
Today, everyone is angry and often for no reason other than the world is so over-populated with hatred and uneducated college graduates who haven’t the slight idea what syntax means that it’s no wonder many of them end up in the corporate sector.
For the record, syntax has nothing to do with taxing sinners and everything to do with language.
I was wondering recently, while smoking a peace pipe filled with meatless pot pies, at what a deranged race the human one has become (heh, guess we always were). Why are many of us interested in what the rich and famous are doing, especially when it’s bad. Coke-sniffing starlets, cheating spouses and DWIs seem to bring out the worse side of inhumanity; “oooh, so glad it wasn’t me.”
But it is you and me and them. We all do something we’re not proud of at some point in life; however, many people out grow the need for illicit drugs and unsafe sex while there are others who thrive on the dark side.
Imagine world renowned American portrait photographer Annie Leibovitz as a mugshot photographer. Half naked actresses failing to walk the straight line and ending up with a nice pic of themselves with dirty hair, blurry bloodshot eyes and the look of castaways from COPS. Would they be embarassed once they get out of Rehab? Hell no, the shots would make great Christmas Cards for there friends.
I recently read stories from irate citizens as to how a movie was going to adversely affect the adoption business in “Orphan.” Hmm, worse than “Bruno?” These are the same people (they never see the films they want to ban) that castigated Martin Scorsese’s “The Last Temptation of Christ?” They freaked at Robert Mapplethorpe photos because they are terrified of art. These people would probably make Michelangelo’s David (1501-4) wear shorts. Yes, he is naked and yes you can see his penis, and what a nice one at that!
For those of you fearful or misguided about penises, they are not an optional feature like On-Star. Most men come fully equipped although most use them in an improper manner. No manual. I love that word…Man, U-Al. Think about it. At least artists knew (and still know) the human body is as complex and disturbing to some eyes as the realization that the world is neither flat nor the centre of the universe.
While “Orphan” is merely a horror movie, and certainly not for all audiences, it is still a piece of celluloid created to make money. It shouldn’t be banned because a group doesn’t like it. Like a TV set or Radio: there is an off switch for those foolish enough to misunderstand what the on switch was for and no one forces anyone to go to the cinema.
If I didn’t live in West Alabama, where art films are difficult to see unless you go to Atlanta or Montgomery’s Capri Theater, I would be broke going to films from throughout the world. My DVD and Video collections of foreign films is at least as big as Barnes and Noble. The T-Town B&N has a large gay and lesbian film section now and good for them…the lesbians and gay men, not B&N!
Art is for art’s sake, whether you believe it or just enjoy the great seventies 10cc song; “Art for art’s sake, Money for god’s sake…money talks, so listen to it, money talks to me.” Typically, I truncated the lyrics for those who already know it; if not, get cracking, find it and listen.
As a writer, I am glad for the freedom to express myself and as an ExNil
I can leap the consciousness stream and change subjects and directions in the manner of the well-know river analogy.
I recall the Nazi’s destroyed books and works of art and the Taliban has a hatred for statues and women’s rights to exist. When I went to see “Orphan,” mainly because I was in a “right comical mood” I thought the only problem with the adoption agencies and children needing good homes is that too many women, who shouldn’t, would rather get pregnant and add to the population explosion rather than help existing life forms already starving for love and parents and an opportunity at growing up with family.
I am one of those people who believes responsible gay couples are better parents than none at all.
Now, in two grafs, I’ve probably pissed off the anti-gay movement and pregnant women who’d say, “How dare you.” I wrote some months ago how I wanted to come back as a Suicide Girl and play in Von Iva’s band so in another life I could have been a feminist but instead….yawn….I’m a man. Proud to be me, but often less so of the overall male population.
For your information, I do not have children. I have 13 cats and while I am not against children, even the evil movie variety, I realized many decades ago I would never be a father – good or otherwise – and would be better at supporting those who have children and rescuing abused animals. I have tenants, too, who sometimes are like children who need a spanking, but instead I raise their rent.
Glad to be artistic
Charles Pierre Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil, 1857) is classic French Lit, and luckily immorality and cynicism don’t erase decadence from the mindscape. Although his poetry found a small, but appreciative audience, the masses weren’t ready for themes of lesbianism, sex and death. And why not? They have been with us always and have inspired artists, painters, sculptors and writers for generations. In his brief life, 1821-67, Baudelaire impressed as much as he shocked and like Flaubert, who had to endure attacks, re: Madame Bovary, at least continued their talents in the world of creativity.
Could the French Miniaturist Aimée Zoe Lizinka de Mirbel find a steady job today and would she be happy with the 21st Century? What worthwhile endeavor could a Miniaturist from the 19th Century expect from our excessive culture? She’d be confined to a cartoonists’ milieu and her delicate style would be at odds with our brutish larger than reality commericialism.
Subtle days where have you gone?
Henriette Ronner-Knip would have a field day with the felines residing here. Maybe not the “Parson’s Cat,” but she have plenty of strays as models. “Meow,” says the big black cat and Henriette would be happy until pay day.
In the interest of fairness, especially now that ShyGirl has hopped onto the back of my writing chair to lick hair on the back of my head, and she has reminded me of Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi, who the other cats know simply as Sandro Botticelli or Il Botticello, they advise if I am going to give art lovers a lesson in male anatomy what better female example than The Birth of Venus (1486)?
Botti might have enjoyed his contributions to the Quattrocento more had he known that, under the patronage of Lorenzo de Medici, the Early Renaissance would be characterized as a “golden age” thanks to architect and Italian painter Giorgio Vasari.
I’d like to be remembered as part of a memorable artistic age but alas, future alien races, when they arrive centuries hence to study the planet earthendam, now inhabited by animals and plants and insects only, will excavate Golden Arches, Fire Arms and Hard drives.
Will they find the Mona Lisa? How about a copy of André Breton’s landmark Manifestoes of Surrealism or even Barbara G. Walker’s wonderful The Woman’s Dictionary of Symbols and Sacred Objects?
Artistically or esthetically we will have probably removed all creativity from our solar system.
They will find remnants of the human race. Even if we somehow leave this planet, a la WALL-E, no one will first clean up the garbage. Fortunately, albeit, millions of years later, the earth will replenish itself and the blight that we have left will be as if it never existed. Even space is our landfill with desolate satellites, pieces of space debris and lest we forget where the Space Shuttle or Space Station sends its sewage.
How sad that all the great works of art and fiction could be gone, unless someone is wise enough to take them to the next world, populated soley with creatives. A planet with rings, two moons and a better view of the universe thanks to a ban on all sporting events and super-Nova lighting.
No politicians, clergy or violence-prone humanoids. No need for spouse abuse or child endangerment. A cup of decaff purple tea and a hand-rolled Corn Dolly.
Tricky. No matter who is in charge of the list some schmucks will stowaway so don’t forget the catapults.
They will serve a useful purpose on our next home.