Time for my annual diatribe about the powers that be taking away my hour. Bastards don't even pay interest. They keep it for six freaking months! I got my revenge by sleeping in this morning, until there was only a half hour of the new, truncated morning left. Felt really swell. Then I took a picture of my newest little watercolor, a nit-picky little composition I did without any thought at all, and it looks it. Sigh. Just wanted to see if I could do it, and I could, sort of. I saw in the NY Times (I get it online, don't want to be left out, after all), an exhibition at a local NY gallery of installations that looked like wrinkled bed sheets painted gray and fixed to boards and hung on the walls. Got to guess some guy did that. No woman would hang her dirty laundry up for the world to see. And the call it "fine art". I call it sanctimonious. And gullible on the part of the public who ooh and ahh over it. Emperor's New Clothes lives! Hope I never get pretentious enough to do anything like that. Hell, I live in shit-kicking, tree-hugging California. Never happen.
0 comments:
Post a Comment