Hallucinogenic Toreador

Fashion Designer | Metamorphose | Stillness of Time

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At the bright things (ocher, cerise, lime, aqua, atomic) you stop for a moment to reflect that painting is always more literal than it's given credit for. Arles, Chinese hills, Port Lligat actually look as they have been painted. This is a rebuke to schools and journalists, no doubt. You see things in the rocks, a bull of radiant form of memory, the bloodied arena, around a pool of fascinating water (dogs go there, they build things there), and the joy of the place is another thing it is difficult to proclaim, a vast acquirement of ancient times, a sacred and mysterious art.

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Warhol's shoes have this look of usable fashion you can support yourself with, if you pause to reflect on it. Rhombs and fishnets are after all design elements and emblems and useful, and stripes are a way of marking time on the end of your cane or your shaft, with your head full of flowers.

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There are precisely two ways of thinking about or looking at the subject. The chain of effects that inexorably controls certain aspects of our utter despair at our reduction to a gripping cry, and then the upsetting consciousness of our plight, double-scored while freshness (a nocturnal moth, say) fancies in the night air something resembling us.

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Munch's Scream has an ambiguous position, a rather discontinuous salute received with inattention, gladly or sadly, something we fixed among the rocks and said was fine and dandy, and a little bit ahead of the game, ahead of ourselves.

 

 

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