Friday, April 06, 2007

Joslynn's existential art crisis: an evaluation of nice things that don't look good

Art speaks to the human soul. It is the greatest creation of human beings; it forges a connection between us while enveloping beauty, creativity, and emotion.
However, there is such a thing as a bad painting. Because of this fact, I was inspired to embark on a quest to find the worst art ever.

I was fortunate enough to stumble upon these.

Acquired by Scott Wilson from trash

Here we see a disembodied head, whose bleeding shadow screams with pain.
Don't drink the water.

Think Again
A Michael Jackson-like character presents to us the severed head of a horse which, I believe, exists simply because of the artist's inability to draw the animal's hindquarters.

Clouds in an otherwise clear sky cry blood as the bovine beast dives, lemming like, and misses the phosphorescent, oily, swimming hole.

Reef Garden
Acquired by Scott Wilson from the Salvation Army Store
Here we are, witnessing the stage of a musical extravaganza. On a silent cue, one pulsating incubator bursts, hurtling an anxious and curiously aged little merman upwards to the unknown world above the surface. The dancer stares, hypnotizing the viewer. We find ourselves forced to stay -- feel the music or drown.

Mama and Babe
Donated by the artist

The hues of the skin and the presidential candidate-like bone structure of both Mama and Babe advertise the everlasting bond between parent and child-- much like a marionette and a puppeteer.

And last, the King of them all...

Lucy in the Field With Flowers
Unknown Artist

The motion, the sway of her body, the subtle hues of the sky, the expression on her face -- every detail cries out "masterpiece."

Monday, April 02, 2007

Polluting the air in more ways than one

The McCombies have been in Malibu for six months.
Each day of their absence, Renee Clark has faithfully gathered their mail and placed it in a plastic box where bit by bit it has amassed and accumulated to overflowing. Not only does the woman drive a large vehicle to pick up the letters from the McCombie's mailbox fifty feet from her front door, but she also almost always has a skinny cigarette clamped securely between her faded and sagging lips.
From my front porch vantage point, I can periodically witness the antics of my singular neighbor. Today, as I unstrapped my running shoes and stretched my legs, I smiled to myself and thought:
Ah, she gets better everyday.