A bum's murmur, the tail of another day.

One’s work is never done, what do you expect? I show up and do what is asked of me. Be strong. Be brave. Be an artist. The eyes turn to us and it’s up to us to make the new generation of action paintings. March to the canvas, flex your muscles, and allow the paint to be flung off hair pics, brooms, air brushes, squeegees, palette knives, wall scrapers and even your own hands. The ideas and actions are no longer mine - taken from those that came before us. Time is the only teacher for me. Stealing is my only invention. The canvas doesn’t lie … unless to be stretched and gessoed by my assistant. On the wall you go! Be my action! Be my art!

The starless constellation know as the Buffalo moves North from the horizon line as our world rotates counterclockwise to another day. Both feet in cool Lake water, we look to it. “You see those three stars there? Kinda like a square triangle? Next to that, in the deep black blue void of space is the Buffalo. Follow my finger as I trace around it’s rump, spine, and move toward it’s head.” “Yes.” “They say it’s the only constellation you can see during the day. That it’s always visible.” “Is the Sun also a constellation?” “I guess so.” “Maybe it’s apart of constellation visible from another point in space?” “That would mean were not alone.” “The Buffalo is always there, always has. So we were never alone. Just not the only viewer.” “A second shooter?” “Maybe more.” “And if our Sun is apart of the Buffalo…” “…that would explain why it’s always visible!”

The starless constellation know as the Buffalo moves North from the horizon line as our world rotates counterclockwise to another day. Both feet in cool Lake water, we look to it.
“You see those three stars there? Kinda like a square triangle? Next to that, in the deep black blue void of space is the Buffalo. Follow my finger as I trace around it’s rump, spine, and move toward it’s head.”
“Yes.”
“They say it’s the only constellation you can see during the day. That it’s always visible.”
“Is the Sun also a constellation?”
“I guess so.”
“Maybe it’s apart of constellation visible from another point in space?”
“That would mean were not alone.”
“The Buffalo is always there, always has. So we were never alone. Just not the only viewer.”
“A second shooter?”
“Maybe more.”
“And if our Sun is apart of the Buffalo…”
“…that would explain why it’s always visible!”

The casual stare of the Green Queen into our multicolored world: her black eyes slowly take in all we live in. Her crown, our freedom. Those ten black orbs brightly shine atop her head as we mix together blue and yellow in the afternoon sun. Applying her green vision to our concrete jungle, my fellow serfs  harbor suspicions about my loyalty to the 99%. “I would die for the Queen as I paint for the Queen!” “But we till her land. Grow her food. And give it all to her. And what do we have to show for it? Nothing! We still live outside the wall.” “The light is so much better out here – without the darkening of the wall’s shadow. Stronger. Warmer. Brighter.” “But we can’t eat light. Light is not a roof over our head. Light is shit.” “You must be one with the sun. Like a plant. Rain, soil, and sun and look what can grow. A fig tree! A Redwood! A mushroom can do all that without the light! And in shit!” “What have you grown to feed your family?” “Nothing! I place rocks under cows to gather their urine for my Indian Yellow pigment. Feed those cows mango leaves as I drag these boulders into the noon day sun to dry.” “What will you mix with that yellow to make green?” “Tonight we will use it strait! To the new green! To the cow fields! Down with the Queen! Down the Green!”

The casual stare of the Green Queen into our multicolored world: her black eyes slowly take in all we live in. Her crown, our freedom. Those ten black orbs brightly shine atop her head as we mix together blue and yellow in the afternoon sun. Applying her green vision to our concrete jungle, my fellow serfs harbor suspicions about my loyalty to the 99%.

“I would die for the Queen as I paint for the Queen!”

“But we till her land. Grow her food. And give it all to her. And what do we have to show for it? Nothing! We still live outside the wall.”

“The light is so much better out here – without the darkening of the wall’s shadow. Stronger. Warmer. Brighter.”

“But we can’t eat light. Light is not a roof over our head. Light is shit.”

“You must be one with the sun. Like a plant. Rain, soil, and sun and look what can grow. A fig tree! A Redwood! A mushroom can do all that without the light! And in shit!”

“What have you grown to feed your family?”

“Nothing! I place rocks under cows to gather their urine for my I
ndian Yellow pigment. Feed those cows mango leaves as I drag these boulders into the noon day sun to dry.”

“What will you mix with that yellow to make green?”

“Tonight we will use it strait! To the new green! To the cow fields! Down with the Queen! Down the Green!”

lutzjon:

JD Walsh

Those white edges meet our end, fail to cross over and move on to the next user. Inside those three equal angles, past the 80’s two color arcade video technology: our life is projected onto a flat screen. What you see is the not the original, not the source. No. What you see is what I show you. Watch those clouds drift by. Do you see that … over there? That hump, a nose, tail, some ears? Yes. It’s a cat! I see a car? Asshole.

lutzjon:

JD Walsh

Those white edges meet our end, fail to cross over and move on to the next user. Inside those three equal angles, past the 80’s two color arcade video technology: our life is projected onto a flat screen. What you see is the not the original, not the source. No. What you see is what I show you. Watch those clouds drift by. Do you see that … over there? That hump, a nose, tail, some ears? Yes. It’s a cat! I see a car? Asshole.

The trowel behind my back and my work in front of me, I step back and show off my newest masterpiece. Lawrence Weiner’s ghost laughs at what I call art.
"You can’t hang that art in any home or institution Junior."
"But that is the art Lawrence. The wall is now on the floor. What is left behind, the absence of wall, is the idea and icon of object. That is the art."
"Art can’t be replaced or made whole by absence"
"But that’s what you did! Chiseling a driveway crack. Cutting the rug. Throwing things into the river! Where is the art in that?"
"What you saw was the art, the action. No longer limited to painting – it never was. My actions were the art, like the action of painting makes the art, the painting. These actions are just more interesting than painting on a canvas."
"So painting is dead? Uninteresting?"
"No, it’s just what I do. You should try it."
"I’d rather paint than ain’t. That is what I do."
"No fool’n? I dig that."
"Let’s do a collaboration someday Lawrence!"
"Maybe when we’re both dead."

The trowel behind my back and my work in front of me, I step back and show off my newest masterpiece. Lawrence Weiner’s ghost laughs at what I call art.

"You can’t hang that art in any home or institution Junior."

"But that is the art Lawrence. The wall is now on the floor. What is left behind, the absence of wall, is the idea and icon of object. That is the art."

"Art can’t be replaced or made whole by absence"

"But that’s what you did! Chiseling a driveway crack. Cutting the rug. Throwing things into the river! Where is the art in that?"

"What you saw was the art, the action. No longer limited to painting – it never was. My actions were the art, like the action of painting makes the art, the painting. These actions are just more interesting than painting on a canvas."

"So painting is dead? Uninteresting?"

"No, it’s just what I do. You should try it."

"I’d rather paint than ain’t. That is what I do."

"No fool’n? I dig that."

"Let’s do a collaboration someday Lawrence!"

"Maybe when we’re both dead."

The faceless corporate mascot marches down to Zuccotti Park. Inside his plastic orange jack-o-lantern are instructions for Occupy Melbourne, Occupy Sydney, Occupy Brisbane, Occupy Gold Coast and Occupy Perth. As he removes these manifestos and reads them aloud to his faithful followers we all jockey for position to draw a face on Minnie. Each of the giant crayons are unable to render a eye, nose, or even a mouth. Instead they just scrawl a “K” across the sky.
Eight times we try.
Eight times we fail.

The faceless corporate mascot marches down to Zuccotti Park. Inside his plastic orange jack-o-lantern are instructions for Occupy Melbourne, Occupy Sydney, Occupy Brisbane, Occupy Gold Coast and Occupy Perth. As he removes these manifestos and reads them aloud to his faithful followers we all jockey for position to draw a face on Minnie. Each of the giant crayons are unable to render a eye, nose, or even a mouth. Instead they just scrawl a “K” across the sky.

Eight times we try.

Eight times we fail.

Red eyes or not, those bees float by. Their bodies too big for the wings to pick them up –scientifically. Sorry Junior! These theories can’t be proved in any lab. They exist only in each of our minds. Each bee’s hopes = our dreams. Success is the flower that sheds it’s pollen onto our legs while we stop and smell the road. Petroleum asphalt, concrete, and cobblestones enter our nose and exit through our fingers. Those dreams dry like water-down gesso on raw canvas: ready for the next young buck to paint a top the ground we laid down. I am the gesso. You are the canvas. They are the paint.

The meat long cooked, now bleached and cracked and by time himself and the natural year long circular rotation of the restaurants windows around the sun, asks us for our names as we walk in. The tube steak pride, left to rot, still brags about being The Ultimate and on a roll. Inside the eatery, the white water goes unordered. Return to your frozen hell Sausage Boy!

The petroleum jelly was rubbed onto the lone ocular lens as the eagle swoops down onto an Earth that is slowly sinking into the tarpit known as the Milky Way.

The petroleum jelly was rubbed onto the lone ocular lens as the eagle swoops down onto an Earth that is slowly sinking into the tarpit known as the Milky Way.

Summer blues and night heat. The saxophone talks as the emptiness of Brooklyn walks. We meet again, above the dead pigeon, below the street light: Hello stranger.

Summer blues and night heat. The saxophone talks as the emptiness of Brooklyn walks. We meet again, above the dead pigeon, below the street light: Hello stranger.