Even
before the whole COVID-19/social distancing thing shut down our
jobs, Emily was struggling to clean out the garage, and finding
interesting stuff that had built up in there since we moved here way
back in the year 2001. It was a different world; we were working for
a big box bookstore chain called Borders, and terrorists had crashed
planes into the World Trade Center, sending the world into turmoil
the likes of which had never happened before.
She keeps finding my old artwork, some of which was kept in an envelope that I decorated with adolescent drawings circa 1969. That was another interesting time; the human race was experimenting with space travel, hallucinogenic drugs, and nuclear warfare. The shock waves were tearing apart civilization as we then knew it.
I
was transitioning into a high school weirdo/unemployable
creative. This is one of my earliest self-portraits. I love how crude
these drawings are. I also love how the envelope had gotten
dog-eared, and the ink from the felt tip pen has faded, making it
look like an archaeological artifact from a forgotten age, suitable
for a Museum of Pre-Internet Culture.
I
felt it was necessary to warn people about my art. It seemed to me
that all the good stuff had warning labels on it. Movies would boast
that, “The screen explodes with a new kind of excitement!” And,
since my art wasn't pretty, or anal retentive/obsessive compulsive,
nobody in authority approved of it.
]
A
few years later, when I discovered dada and surrealism, I felt
vindicated.
Like Picasso said,
“Painting is not made to decorate apartments. It's an offensive and
defensive weapon against the enemy.” Some say “Make Art not War,”
but Art is War. If you're doing it right.
My
sexual fantasies have always been mixed-up with sci-fi weirdness.
Some is too weird for sci-fi.
And
I must admit, I like it when people are disturbed by my art.
Maybe
I'm some kind of pervert.
And
we haven't even gotten into what's in the envelope . . .
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