Thank you. Thank you. Now I would like to talk about how the Bush administration covered up the tapestry of Guernica by the entrance to the U.N. Security Council with some blue curtains [ears] so that those poor ladies wouldn’t have to watch Colin Powell’s W.[mouth] M.[eyes] D.[nose] slideshow. Nelson Rockefeller commissioned that tapestry and gave it to the U.N. to promote peace on earth. What would he say about such hijinks? He who had Lenin sandblasted [whiskers] off his Diego Rivera mural might have offered valuable insight! Oh those poor Guernican gals! With their hands like baseball mitts and their ears like clam fritters, [muzzle] forced to listen while Secretary Powell made his terrible case. I hope they find peace and quiet. Once in Italy I saw a painting of a damsel. She had a an ivory bosom and dimples [pupils] where her knuckles should have been. She was in the middle of a gilt frame in the middle of a great hall [muzzle, head] where nobody was saying anything. I hope they find peace like that.”, 2018
Oil on linen
60 x 45 in (152.4 x 114.3 cm)

The job of us artists is to draw new lines. All the old lines are straight [whiskers], even the curvy ones and us artists gotta draw new ones. Us American artists, we thought the road was really something. For a hundred years we poked at its vanishing point [mouth] with our thoughts. Like sea lions we thought we could balance our dreams on its pointed tip [nose]. Like sea lions we were wrong! Us artists need to learn more from the Parisian Communards who barricaded the streets but pierced the houses [eyes, pupils] and flowed that-a-way. They “found flowers [muzzle] which are chairs” said Rimbaud confusingly. Oh artists! We are the Most Influential Artist’s of 2017 yet we must be influenced in turn. Let us remember to gaze upon that the tear shaped cloud of starlings [ear] gyrating over Central Park South and to wonder at their reflection in a glass facade [ear] as we turn to enter the Apple Store., 2018
Oil on linen
60 x 45 in (152.4 x 114.3 cm)

There were six long art students, thin like spaghetti, standing around the nude model [whiskers]. The model posed with her head thrust forward and her fingers locked together behind her back [nose, mouth]. Her stage was a little round platform with a blanket thrown over it [muzzle]. The art students looked up at her and one by one broke their vine charcoal into two pieces [pupils]. They rubbed the black sticks onto pads of newsprint until the shape of the powder that crumbled off resembled the shape of the model. Meanwhile, the teacher sat by the window and fiddled with a paint flecked oval boombox [head]. He carried it around the room like a thurifer, trailing plumes of static. He waved it about, and pushed its antennae this way and that [ears] until, finally, it shouted “Autozone!” , 2018
Oil on linen
60 x 45 in (152.4 x 114.3 cm)

The Pfeilstorch smiled when he met his arrow [nose, mouth]. Two clouds recoiled, grew dark [eyes, pupils] and cried [whiskers]. Acacias and baobabs sighed in the rain [muzzle]. Somehow the Pfeilstorch flew on. The hunter bent his bow [ears] in frustration but it would not snap. The limp string [head] brushed against the savanna but the bow would not snap. , 2018
Oil on linen
36 x 24 in (91.4 x 61 cm)

 
 

A Monument to Chronology should be made of copper, so patina can record it's days under the sun.

A Monument to Chronology should not be too large or too small, but find presence somewhere between.

A Monument to Chronology should be stacks of things, like the sediment of time in layers.

A Monument to Chronology should mimic the growth of a tree with sheets of paper, one after the other in diligence.

A Monument to Chronology should evoke the space of a second within a minute within a day within a month within a century, and be strung together with a rod through it's core.

A Monument to Chronology should be etched with drawings of circles and all the shapes we see in nature, like the man in the moon.

A Monument to Chronology should be a tool for measurement, telescoping forwards and backwards to represent all time - for everyone.

A Monument to Chronology should be a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, to help in remembering "the torch was lit from another before you, and another and another before that . . ."

– G.W.W.

 

Enviro-mental, 2017
Braille sign, acrylic

Antique sentiment (Pieta), 2017
Charred wood, paint

Le Decrottoir (The Shit Scraper), 2017
Knife, blue stone, steel, bristle brush

 

Hermes is the guide into the underworld via communication and interpretation (and creation) of symbols. Jesus, while not himself a "block" to the underworld, is definitely utilized as a block by the church, as a kind of controlled demolition of the entrance to the underworld. The myth that dies/is buried, along with the idea of reincarnation, wherever christianity went is that earth is hell or rather an odd purgatorial realm with more below and more above. Jesus' teachings (if heeded) allows one to be social in an ever expanding, ever globalizing, ever hostile world. Hermes allows one to do the same but in the "unseen" world. It sounds like you are already in the narthex, why not relax and stroll about for a bit? (…)

The society of the spectacle is simply a hazy affirmation that politics and materialism are merely chapters in the history of religion, not a new phase of history proper, rather a brief forgetting of what history and religion is, what it's capable of and how one "finds" (and uses) it. -zummi

 

Help Me

Princess is pleased to present, Help Me, an exhibition of new work by Lulou Margarine. In this exhibition, Margarine will present three new works on paper in charcoal and oil pastel. In this series Margarine has reworked an earlier composition (Portrait, 2015), narrowing the frame around the subject’s enigmatic eyes. In many ways, Margarine’s composition is the new Mona Lisa.

Lulou Margarine (b. 1984, Dallas) lives and works in New York. Margarine has exhibited in a solo presentation at Egg, Chicago, and in group exhibitions at 0dX, Berlin and Queer Thoughts, Nicaragua. Upcoming group exhibitions include Life Sport, Athens and Et al. etc., San Francisco.

 

the woman places an
oasis into a vase
a tulip balloon floating
over peace lilies
landscape as archive
faces on flowers
the difference between
power and botany

Q: What is this sticky stuff all over my car?

A: At this time of year I am often asked about what is colloquially known as 'honeydew', but is, in actual fact, aphid droppings!

Curious things arise from desire.

Tiberius loved cucumbers so much that he ordered the construction of the first known greenhouse so that he could indulge his voracious appetite for those elongated melons year-round. Bringing the garden indoor was the first step in cultivating a human-made nature. Through processes of speculation, trial, and error, scientific experimentation helps us to control unpredictable elements that might better yield results in our favor.

The image of a bountiful bouquet reflects our ability to arrange desired elements plucked from nature. With the planetary fields of biochemical and geological determinism, how has the bouquet adapted?

Welcome to the Age of Precarity.

CFA
@}‐‐‐’‐‐‐‐

 

A beekeeper begins reading a story. The story's words are written in an ever-expanding combination of number and symbols. The numbers and symbols are variables in the evolution of a self-generating algorithm. The algorithm's rate of growth and complexity is accelerated exponentially with the calculation of each sentence. The beekeeper watches in amazement as the code continuously compounds. This is a story about growth. [Honey, I shrunk the kids.]

The beekeeper now understands a few specific memories from its past as dots connected in an abstract timeline; a count-down to worldwide integration. Juvenile fictions from the past mature into a fact called future as echoes of an empty present find resonance in the form of a relentless crescendo. [Honey, I blew up the kid.]

The beekeeper folds the story in half, adding dimension to the previously flat narrative. The angle breaks the equation. The algorithm reverses into a degenerative free fall. The incoherent gibberish of an increasingly intricate self-similar pattern crystallizes into a beautiful downward spiral. [Honey, we shrunk ourselves.]

The story's new edge cuts the suspense. A concluding event appears just over the horizon. A string of taps against a bed of dormant solar panels resembles a fruitless drum-fill awaiting an overdue punch-line. [Honey, we don’t have any more Honey.]