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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Apropos to nothing really, except Jo Spanglemonkey’s justifiable nervousness about the whole Eichler image, I met a woman this weekend who is a window & woodworking expert and she was telling me how, by throwing money wood and windows at the problem, she can transform an Eichler from, well, an Eichler, into something that would be identified by anyone seeing it as a Frank Lloyd Wright.
I came here this morning to create art, but when I looked inside myself for a sentence all I got was a low buzzing noise and a visual image of the late-night, after-the-television goes off-air test pattern.
figuring they’ll get it all bailed out by december or call it art, one, i make my reservations for art basel miami beach.
they’d sold a piece, he said, and display is a constant rotation, as he hammered to the gallery wall the same colorful 45 rpms that last i’d seen some 30 years ago, summer in my burbank apartment, all piled up next to the record player; i should get mine out, i told him, how did i get so old?
Bile rose in his throat as he examined his girlfriend’s latest expensive Sculptural Acquisition: a six-foot bronze casting of “Aristotle Contemplating the Bust of SpongeBob.”
run around, gotta get up at 4 am, gotta get on the plane tomorrow so where is the usb cable and why doesn’t it work anyway, i’ll just have to go out again and get another one, which i should have done when i picked up the printer, which i decided to do because i didn’t have time to print out all the things i wanted to show and then i realized that the printing itself would be an activity and i should just bring it along, but not if it doesn’t work with the dual cable i have, even though the guy said i didn’t need one, that there was a pull-out one on there already, but it turns out that’s a mini one meant for the camera, i guess, not for the computer so here i’ll have to go out again soon because what if it isn’t the cable after all but something wrong with the printer, which i can’t tell maybe because i can’t get the tablet to connect to the network so i’m gonna have to throw myself on some geek’s mercy when i get there, and i really wanted to go to bed early and yet here i am running around instead of knitting up a swatch for gwendowmamma’s knitting lesson example, but all i really have to do is pack up the suitcase and make sure the printer works, right, and then i can calm down some, as i already got the cans of cafe du monde coffee to take to woolfcamp and the plane doesn’t even leave for just under 12 hours, after i stop off at the airport post office to mail the bills—i’ve gotta write the checks for the bills first, before i go out for the cable—and then stash the car and then a 7 hour ride during which i can finish the sock and then grace will be there to scoop me up in my old hometown and then i can rest, maybe they have cables at walgreens, did i eat today?
this was ok, pretty even, until the mechanics contracted for the big breasted mermaid.
“Well, of course it’s me,” thought Betsy as she carefully painted in the shadows, “any other critter would just be mucking about.”
“Opposable thumbs, my bum” trumpeted Ramona as she sat firmly and damply on the monkey.
Buy a Picasso and agree to sell it for a handsome profit, then just before completing the deal, poke a hole in the painting and sue the insurance company for the 59 million dollars in lost value, which should be, if you’re playing your cards right, more than what you paid for the painting in the first place; oh yeah, one more thing, you get to keep the painting.
Meatloaf has been seriously underutilized as an artistic medium, as a sculpting medium it far surpasses clay.
On Gauguin Mountain, the days turned slowly on invisible lines of mottled blue, and no one worshipped the yellow Christ.
In an era when consumers became obsessed with achieving “real time” internet dialog, a select few discovered, via ScrineChat, the gentle art of the weeklong conversation.
Mr. Ashford recycled the words with such care that even the most staunch of us, including that grumpy old Mr. Beckins, couldn’t help but smile.
Each morning, Wilford’s anal retentive time clock would make a meticulous mental note of the extra 4 seconds it took for Wilford to secure the coffee filters in their resealable package; the clock was proud of Wilford, just as Wilford was proud of the clock, and the two took great comfort in their relationship and were seldom far apart.
VanEck was less “left questioning man’s desire to construct a god in the absence of one”, and more appalled that some three million euros of tax-payers’ money had gone into purchasing a giant, eight-legged, paint-splashed couch.
Minimalist Jones would head straight for the door
When he spotted art he felt was too fancy,
“Too much color,” he’d say with a wave of his hand,
“And certainly much too Rembrandtcy.”
Dear authors, musicians and artists generally: Thank you.
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