Smile your on candid camera!

Our ExQuisite Corps and Huichol Beaded skulls

Plus it’s Mardi Gras Season…a good excuse to hope for a resurrection!

“et voila monsieur, pourquoi votre fille est malade

Moliere

 

You will excuse my predilection for skulls. I come from a family of surgeons. Plus, I endured at the NY Academy  of Fine Arts, interminable hours of deadly boring lessons on human anatomy.

And that’s why I love the spooky stuff !!!

 http://www.ourexquisitecorpse.com

 

 

 

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IF I ONLY HAD THE B…. TO BE CHARLIE!

THE JOKER IS DEAD LONG LIVE TO THE JOKER

Speak Truth to Power thru Humor and Say the Unsayable


Death has come to 12 editors and employees of the SaTyricAl French magazine, Charlie Hebdo. The French mourns. Those blessed with a hefty sense of scandalous and astute political humor have taken to the streets with the rallying cry “I am Charlie”. I feel their pain. I grew up in Montreal with that hilarious, in your face/despicable Hara-Kiri humor which was Charlie’s predecessor. While I tear up seeing crowds  demonstrating honestly, I wince hearing their claim to be Charlie as it takes much more than a televised my guts spilled in the street among good bodies to be Charlie Hebdo…

It takes a devotional power to do good, in the face of Self righteous Reactionary Crazy 🙂

Watch this FUN short documentary by Jerome Lambert and Philippe Picard on Charlie Hebdo’s crew and witness how it collectively gets to our featured front page caricature which for Charlie, represented everything that the magazine stood for….“C’est tout le canard!” “On va après les integretistes!”

Fascinating stuff is revealed in that short clip. Such as,  If you are uncomfortable drawing a caricature of your country or party’s leader, you might be heading toward dictatorship ( if your not stewing in one, already)…….So where does this leave us, conventional goodi-two-shoes North-Americans?  

Art Speigelman, the political cartoonist from the New Yorker, points out in a long interview with Amy Goodman’s Democracy Now, how “here in America the art has been defanged”.  He goes on saying that once upon a time, there was MAD Magazine and it had real power like to power to stop the Vietnam war. “It’s not just about the right of self expression at all cost. It’s about stirring things up so that what matters rises to the surface!”

 http://www.democracynow.org/blog/2015/1/8/cartoonists_lives_matter_art_spiegelman_responds

P.S. The front page readsMohammed is dumbstruk… It’s hard to be loved by morons”

Photo from Contre-Point.org

THEIR BLACK BOX

                                                                                                                                             

I  have always promised my mother a goldsmith, that she would one day be famous.

My mother, G.R.G. worked in Montreal during the roaring 70’s. A prolific artist, I am sending you but a few photos of her precious jewelry collection. There, she studied the craft with a known Belgian artisan and as you can ascertain became an accomplished technician in her own right. She used mostly the lost wax technique. She dipped the massive gold pieces herself in acid and polished each one, more hours than in a day.

She always has considered herself to be a sculptor.

Yet a true Goldsmith, she won awards in her days. She was even featured by then famous art galleries but the times were inauspicious for such sumptuous and arcane jewelry. And so they lay dormant under our resigned gazes, haphazardly hidden here and there.

You may wonder why I choose only now, to bring her work back to the public eye?

Well, as her only child for years, I have witness  those flights of golden genius metamorphose under my very eyes. A driven artist, let’s not mention the days when she barely rewarded me with a glance. Who keeps a tab? And they were the many thefts. My mother grieving each missing artifacts and then obsessively blaming her careless patrons. Brilliant splendors turned back to dust but forever shinning in our now, aging minds. You will forgive me for having considered what was left mine and kept a dragonian  fist upon my trove. Those were gilded incantations to which I have written every word. Does it matter if I tell you that night and day, I heard her plea for a better fortune? How she dearly wished to be recognized as the artist that she was? Yet nothing ever came her way. She simply wouldn’t know how to play the game. Sad as artists endowed with such talent are born at, but rare intervals.

Bracelets, rings, earrings, pendants heavy as gold yet light as sun rays, reflect and distort their onlookers; Violent adornments fashioned for barbaric queens, bedazzled by civilization:

Then a bull now a chariot, this time driven hard and fast by a victorious Europa. A lurid fish crawls his way to his precious. Water runs high above her sarcophagi. Solaris shackles her astronaut. Two cyclops are gate keepers of their deity’s hearing. The mandrake will plant it seeds. Once more born again. Feathered and beheaded at her majesties’ service. Locked in an embrace, a praying mantis pulsates at the hollow of a neck. A vengeful humming bird poisons an enemy’s  garden.

Can you it?

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Gagnon

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Tarentula

born on blue

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