Month: August 2015

I Used To Get Early Apples Like That

AlenaStuck

Stuckism Russia “Before” by Alena Levina

I also used to cook and bake tremendous amounts of food to satisfy the hungry hoard that I imagined would come to see a year’s worth of Throop work. Soup, breads, cakes, cookies, quiches even. I remember my first public exhibition; I rented the space for a long weekend, designed and mailed 200 postcards, invited local media, spent hundreds of dollars on frames, and laid a veritable feast on several tables. I had a game where some lucky art lover could win an original Throop simply by answering correctly an obscure trivia question. I never once considered it compensating for the inferior work on the walls. Rather, I naively thought, “this is how it’s done”. As artist, you warm your friends, family, and even some strangers with the human touch, and they give back by purchasing a painting, or, if that is out of any guest’s price range, one of your several published books discounted on the table beside the free saved seeds. On the price list I included some barter ideas (still do), to get the conversation humming. On opening night, students from the college came at the behest of their professor, who was fast becoming a friend of mine. A few asked excellent questions, many showed serious interest. It was practically heaven while they eased in and out of the rented gallery. In the course of a weekend maybe up to five other unknowns came to view the work. One brought his elderly mother who really loved the food, and went so far to say that I should open up a catering business. Not a single word about the paintings! Even with several colorful titles like:

Veterinarian Ron Gets In Trouble With His Magical Time Machine

Welcome Suspicious Careerists

Don’t Underestimate the Bite of the Toothless Dragon

Aut Libri, Aut Liberi (Either Books or Children)

All in all, it was still wonderful. Truly a life-changing success. Likewise, a harbinger of future financial failures to come, but heck, it was an exhibition, not a stock speculation. An expressionist cannot help it if the laymen thinks television and a glass of wine the better night life to stimulate slumber. The dreams of the latter will amount to new cars and carpet. The expressionist as fool believes always in a better life. Often he or she must make one up to prove it.

These Russian painters are the future of art on earth. Their enthusiasm is more verve than the MoMA could squeeze from pathetic, uninteresting, uninspired bozos like the false clowns shown here:

b-and-gaga

Lady Goo-Goo and the latest uninspired director of the MoMA

Jesus, just look at them. No thought of exhibiting their innocence. They are prepaid for.

As to the constipated man in the photo, there is no doubt in my mind that he is oblivious to what makes art art. He would come to the Stuckist painting show, eat their food, chewing silently with no questions asked, and head back to the hotel with time to stream a few episodes of Breaking Bad through his iPad. Art think must break away from this kind of power that doesn’t even know what goes into an apple pie in order to bake it. There is art adventure out there. Seek it! Else fork over $25 to see what Bjork wears on a hot day.

Of course, many can partake in a revolutionary act. Attend the free art party to talk to human beings who help make talking to human beings a worth while pursuit.

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Have fun tonight showing your work!

In Russia, They Know How Winter Can Ruin a Century

Tam and Friends

RussianStuckists

So summer is king.

I hope some of you can make it to Moscow on “the last Friday of leaving summer…” Below is the translation to the open invitation by a group of Stuckists in Moscow. They represent both the humility and triumph of painting so lacking in my country. Artists in New York City can learn a thing or two from this group of aficionados (I call them this with the highest respect). They post photos of their sessions. They learn together, drink together—plein air, cramped studio, critiquing each other with joy and enthusiasm. Shows in the woods, beside the canal, in the apartment. We Americans know nothing of painting camaraderie. Lonely business beggars locked down in the identity studio. I am so tired of existential art-think. Joy to the world! Thank you Russian painters!

Here is the Google translation to the invite above. Please go. I myself have…

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Right-handed Study of My Left Face

RightFace

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 11 x 14″

I practically ran away from this one. I’ve had painter’s elbow pretty bad this month, and thought I’d give a go this morning with the right hand-arm. No mirror. Just memory of myself with beard and hair shirt. I don’t suggest it to anyone. Like forcing yourself to have a gut pain on a sunny day.

This Was Going to Be a Criticism on Cult of Personality, but Hell I’m No Judge

ChinaTumblr

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18″

Or, Which China Snowflake is Wrong?

I wanted to know more about Ai Weiwei, the Chinese thought-artist who spent some mid-eighties nights hanging out with Allen Ginsberg, the Time Magazine poet. Then some flycatcher bird with a tiny Dharma Bums tucked under the wing lit on my shoulder and told me to give neither my attention until I could count all the artists and poets in China who have raised children responsibly, and can do more than just “think up the next piece” to get paid. Omitting the choir, the disciples, the dumb college kid worshiping Howl, and the art history survey professor who can always make time for conceptual art, what value do their popular sermons bring to anyone on earth suffering from sensitivity overload? A dead Ginsberg and a live Weiwei knew how to tease an establishment class like the jesters in court who were consummate flatterers. They got “in” because they were jolly and non-threatening. They stayed in because their level of celebrity often payed for plane travel. If Weiwei truly loves China, he may think up art all day, anonymously, earning a very modest Chinese stipend, skimmed off the tippy-top of his investment banker portfolio. Ginsberg can run naked around phony hell for all I care. Neither have brought families closer together, stopped Fukishima, nor even dropped a flaming turd bag on Wall Street. No better than CEO’s or soldiers.

Ginsberg and Weiwei. Representatives of poetry and art to the great and glorious G-8. City mice at cheese play! Built to perpetuate confusion.

Take Me Back by Van Morrison

In Russia, They Know How Winter Can Ruin a Century

RussianStuckists

So summer is king.

I hope some of you can make it to Moscow on “the last Friday of leaving summer…” Below is the translation to the open invitation by a group of Stuckists in Moscow. They represent both the humility and triumph of painting so lacking in my country. Artists in New York City can learn a thing or two from this group of aficionados (I call them this with the highest respect). They post photos of their sessions. They learn together, drink together—plein air, cramped studio, critiquing each other with joy and enthusiasm. Shows in the woods, beside the canal, in the apartment. We Americans know nothing of painting camaraderie. Lonely business beggars locked down in the identity studio. I am so tired of existential art-think. Joy to the world! Thank you Russian painters!

Here is the Google translation to the invite above. Please go. I myself have been “corpsically” invited!

AlexeyFriends

On the last Friday of leaving summer we invite you to our apartment exhibition: an event continues the tradition of the international movement stuckism – in an informal family atmosphere, you can see the work of artists from the United States and Russia, to spend time in a friendly company, where the viewer and the artist closer than ever.

Art, music and wine sunset rays … And yet – a small auction for those who want to go home with the painting under his arm;) and the lottery, one of the works – a gift to the winner 😊

Friends, we wait for you on August 28 at 19:00 at the young naturalists – notes on the meeting page, contact us and come!

Participants:
Alexey Stepanov (Moscow / Saint-Petersburg)
Alena Levina (Moscow)
Andrey Makarov (Moscow)
Peter Generals (Moscow)
Michael Trubehin (Moscow)
Nikita Selyavina (Moscow)
Ilya Zelenetskii (St. Petersburg)
The corpse of Ron (Ron Throop) (Oswego, United States)

Gandhi’s Second Reincarnation

Gandhitumblr

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 14 x 11″

The first reincarnation as poor farmer’s boy in Punjab ended in tragedy. Born a cretin from a heavily DDT overdosed mother, the once “Great One”, with new name “Dumbface”, was pushed off a railroad bridge in 1989 by a gang of cruel village boys. Immediately he was born into a family of landlords in Goa living a charmed life educated in the finance of modern Hinduism. He was quite the studious hipster at business school, which earned him a fast-climbing position with Monsanto, and dreams of one day becoming the Lord companies’ C.F.O. However, according to basic Vedic logic this will be impossible, owing to the fact that Mr. Vishnu is an Indian, and Monsanto hates Indians literally to death.

I hate Monsanto. But I was reborn politically correct in the U.S.A. That means it is “bad form” for justice seekers to voice disdain for bad people who create things and policies that are harmful to life.

Bt cotton is not necessary for life and likewise cotton. Therefore, if just one Indian farmer cannot afford a bag of new suicide seeds in a crazy time when all of his “agriculturally correct” farmer neighbors tacitly agree to participate in their own culture’s demise, and he commits suicide by drinking a gallon of Roundup®, then Monsanto executives, lobbyists, politicians in pay, need to resign their positions immediately, or face BMW enemas administered at dawn.

Oh wait. I forgot. I live in a western industrialized oligarchy. What I meant to say was, “Live and let live Elvis says one shouldn’t judge until you walked a day in the other guy’s shoes people are all inherently good even the sinister ones who lick money like ice cream children on constant holiday”.

There. I covered my anger tracks. Now, back to work!

Get This Algal Sludge Off Our Seas So We Can Import More Infantile Crap From China

Algaetumblr

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 14 x 11″

Exclamation point.

Why not? It’s sticking our ships in sheet slime and slowing them down. I am so sick of progress impeded. Eradicate all producers of the ocean and save a penny on every dollar ordered from Sichuan Province. Yes, a few Chinese limbs will be lost to speed up production, but that is the price to pay for the latest American high school drop out to cash-in on bountiful ignorance at the Dollar General. The latter have multiplied like faux-happy Mormons all over rural New York State, serving up their first-of-the-month woe to the second-tier hapless victims of time poverty.

The control will always allow us sufficient nutriment to survive. The control knows it could not control without expired Little Debbies® or upstart potato chip companies made in New Jersey. Dollar foods fuel a bored, sloth-like purchasing urge for dollar picture frames, dog collars, scented candles, Santa hats, short-life batteries, greeting cards, children’s books about Jonah, and pleather folders with auspicious insurance company logos.

And while basking in the dull light emanating from these exotic goodies, one can hear the latest made-in-a-high-rise country music hit—“I love America’s military hate of everything not Caucasian checkered tablecloth grandmother at the county fair”.

The algae are practically acting like terrorists. As soon as that first green nasty pops its life-giving breath out from the arctic ice, I want a CENTCOM order to blow the North Pole to pluto. Hell, let’s act now. These ships must get through unimpeded. The Christmas season is nearly upon us. The Port of Shanghai is loaded and groaning with colorful, plastic manufactured things of jolly.

Killjoy algae! You’re poised to destroy everything that makes my culture practically disgusting.