01 June 2007

I really feel, deep down that I have lost something, and cant quite place my chubby pink olive finger on it. A friend told me, nicely, I am being a big bitch again, but I am still not so sure. As, Going to romita websites to copy tarzans dont help. I feel a irritating compitance starting to ooze into my works.

This is a picture I did in art school, right after a year of that awful grind about circle squares and spheres, ect. I had been given a copy of Michealangelo's Roman Dialogs which was bought for me for Christmas, at pennies on the dollar at a nearby used book store. Here I learned from a true master, as opposed to Kirby, what art meant. I took many of the items to heart, including the use of wax crayons, as the early Romans had not paint, but plenty of dripping bees wax colored with pigment, causing roman works to be as bright today as when painted and later italic work disintegrates. There were no rulers, deep focus and halos, black thick lines, and frozen poses. I showed it to Ciotti and some buddies as if I had found a tresure chest brought up from a shipwreck only I had known was there on grant street, not far from the Ides, a sadly roman named comic book emporium filled with boys in t shirts who smelled of prideful sweat as they fingered all the old mads.

I did this picture of a gal , who actually I was head over heels about, and who was stand in for quite a number of people who used models for their hopefully heavy metal like work. She appeared in several grandiose paintings by people all hoping to become the next Dorian, who I wet to school with, who was hoping to be the next olivia or even vargas, and so, this image did not please her. She saw the tuscan coloring, the sad face, and especially the long tree limbs in crooked angels to her body,as a snide joke, even an insult. Flavia, a large woman who was both benefactor to me and suspicous critic, took her aside when she started to bitch and told her she would never be drawn as well as this ever.

But, I saw the pout on the girl which did, I must say, hurt me a bit. She was used to being the occasional dale arden chick in these middling works of sci fi fan boy shit. But, I wasnt going to try out my Tuscan artworks on a cute chunky blond who danced in beerhalls for boys, and who was more interested in standing in for me in all manners of things, even as a student film never completed. This other girl, in fact, almost every other girl around, seemed more affable to me and some were more than willing to see what they would have possibly looked like as fixture of a Neapolitan wall, rather than as a image in marvel comics. Of course, I could have drawn this fat blond, a sweet chick, and whom I even sometimes dream of in strangely unsexual dreams. But it wouldnt have been ...tuscan, or sad, or worth it.

I tore it off a larger instillation, and Flavia herself went into the gousche smelling refuse of the class, and tore it off a giant box it had been glued to, and gave it back to me. I have to say I am glad I still have it. I wanted to make it up to Lesley and drew a large Dorian like piece of her as cleopatra, a sly in joke, and it had the bloated look, though she was thin, of a face of painted charicature one could often see on us news and world report when I was a kid and nelson rockerfeller would be in cartoonish dismay on the cover. She dutifully liked it, and placed it carefully in a backpack, but no way did I think it was any good.



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