Walk with me. A slow amble under a hot November sun through strangely empty streets in central L.A. on a Saturday morning, with visual input galore.
Where are all the people? This was around 11.am.
Frequent stops for photographing – not enough, as it turned out, or not always focused enough.
As is my wont, I went into a neighborhood without having read up on it, always hoping to have a fresh eye. More educated now, I wish I’d had added stops for this or that landmark, oh well. Still captured the essence, I think.
A lonely tagger.
I had chosen L.A.’s art district for my outing because it is generally advertised as a haven for graffiti, and it did not disappoint. Its history, now that I have read up on it, is generally more interesting than most of the murals, however. More distressing as well. Much of the graffiti is simply tame.
The area was actually the center of California’s wine industry in the 19th century, L.A. then known as the City of Vines. Not only were the vineyards located on land taken from the indigenous Chumash, Tongva, and Tataviam tribes, but tribal labor was used to build the business in systems not unlike slavery. When native Americans came to the mission and were lured in baptism it brought with it a bidding contract that they could not leave. They were forced into indentured labor, including winemaking, and lived in subpar conditions that introduced and spread European diseases. When the mission systems were secularized, their land was given to white settlers instead.
The Earth Crew mural, a community mural from the 1980s, renovated 5 years ago.
Displaced, they roamed the area and many of them turned to alcohol to drown their sorrows, which led to horrid consequences.
Eventually the vineyards gave way to the citrus industry, which was later destroyed by treatment-resistant parasites. During its heyday, it needed a shipping network, provided by the railroad that arrived in 1876. First Southern Pacific, then the Atchison, Topeka, Santa Fe Railroad and finally the Union Pacific. By 1905, Los Angeles had become the western terminus for three major transcontinental railroads. All three railroads built depots, transportation buildings, warehouses, and rail yards in and around the Arts District. Many cheap hotels providing single rooms for the workers followed. Some of the photographed buildings capture the old architectural structure.
By WW II the rail system was replaced by the trucking industry, with the industrial nature of the area permanently ensconced until the 1960s or 70s, when artists moved into many warehouse now vacant, because smaller businesses had been absorbed or displaced. The alleys had also become too small for ever increasing truck sizes. By all reports the urban environment was decaying and dingy, but increasingly dedicated to art- making and -living spaces, once the City of Los Angeles passed the Artist in Residence ordinance in 1981, which allowed artists to legally live and work in industrial areas of downtown Los Angeles.
Looked to me like the little scooters were longingly staring at the mega truck…
Some 50 years later, gentrification rules the neighborhood. There is enormous loss of inexpensive lofts to developers who have converted some former loft and studio buildings into condos.
New high-rises change the character of the neighborhood.
The district is still one of the most filmed locations ever, with as many as 800 filming days a year. The movie industry knows a good thing when it sees it. Chic bars and restaurants around many corners. Weed dispensaries everywhere.
Privately run and decorated dog parks as well – probably a good thing, for dogs and neighborhood alike.
Some landmarks remain, but are also undergoing changes, something that was true through the centuries for the American Hotel. That building and its occupants alone is a living testament to the changing times – a fascinating, detailed summary (with a link to a documentary movie) can be found here. It was the first hotel that was legally open to Black people, with a bar that was shut down in 1914, when it became obvious that Whites and Blacks mingled and partied together.
Ownership changed hands, and was Japanese, as were most of the guests, until they were brought into the camps after Pearl Harbor. A Mexican immigrant bought and operated hotel, bar and market in the mid 80s, and the artists moved in, using the exterior for murals as well. Here are the current ones:
“La Abuelita/Má’sání” (2015)(Portrait of a Navajo weaver by El Mac. The geometric pattern above Abuelita was painted by Augustine Kofie and the lower left portion was painted by Joseph Montalvo AKA Nuke One of the UTI Crew.
White paws below on the other side of the building.
A pioneering social activist, Joel Bloom, opened a General store on the ground level in 1995 and fought for years against the forces of gentrification before he died in 2007. It looks like 16 years later that battle is still ongoing.
Lots of buildings are shuttered and For Lease signs everywhere – prices waiting for investors, I suppose.
Part of the attraction of the Art District is/was the music, always at the cutting edge before commercial appropriation. The only music related mural I found, though, commemorated murdered rap artist Nipsey Hussle, shot in front of his store in 2019 in a gang dispute. He was a rising musical talent and also revered as someone giving back to his community and trying to revitalize the neighborhood.
Mural by Mister Alex, Biganti26, Hufr – Hussle and Motivate (title of a track)
And memorialization of Kobe and his daughter is found here as well, as so frequently across this city that still mourns the loss, the sun providing a kind of halo.
Not much political art that I came across, maybe that needs to be explored in different neighborhoods.
But there was plenty of reference to comics and a certain affinity for portraits.
My eye, of course, was over and over caught by the saturation of the colors, even those in the pastel range. The light here is so different from up north, and it affects everything.
.
Yup, a lot of visual load. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!
Music today is by L.A. music ensemble Wild Up, playing a rousing piece by Julius Eastman.
The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal — the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease, were incidents of half an hour.
But Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his crenellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.
They resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven — an imperial suite, In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extant is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the “bizarre.” The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor of which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue — and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange — the fifth with white — the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes were scarlet — a deep blood color. Now in no one of any of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro and depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire, that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly lit the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or back chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.
It was within this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. It pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and while the chimes of the clock yet rang. it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of Time that flies), there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.
But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for color and effects. He disregarded the “decora” of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure he was not.
He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm — much of what has been seen in “Hernani.” There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these the dreams — writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away — they have endured but an instant — and a light half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays of the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven there are now none of the maskers who venture, for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appalls; and to him whose foot falls on the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps that more of thought crept, with more of time into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus too, it happened, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, of horror, and of disgust.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood — and his broad brow, with all the features of his face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell on this spectral image (which, with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
“Who dares” — he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him — “who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him — that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!”
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who, at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth a hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and while the vast assembly, as with one impulse, shrank from the centers of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple — to the purple to the green — through the green to the orange — through this again to the white — and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddened with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry — and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which most instantly afterward, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and seizing the mummer whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse- like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
Happy Monday ….. here is a good site for all Poe related curiosity
Photographs are of graffiti found in surrounding SF neighborhood, with a few masks added…
It has been 46 years yesterday since the murder of Victor Jara by the Chilean military police. The singer who put Neruda’s poetry to music and was closely allied with Allende’s movement was but 40 years old when Pinochet’s henchmen took over.
His political engagement was always centered around social justice, which brings me to today’s stroll through the streets of Bushwick, my last travel report from NYC.
The Brooklyn neighborhood counts 114.00 people with 56% identifying as Hispanic and has poverty rates almost twice as large as the average for New York – 27.8%. Housing quality is lousy – maintenance defects including water leaks, cracks and holes, inadequate heating, presence of mice or rats, toilet breakdowns and peeling paint are at 79% according to nyc.gov statistics. It has double the rate of teen births compared to the rest of NY, and incarcerations rates (per 100 000) is 142 compared to the citywide average of 93.
I have been photographing in that neighborhood on almost every single trip to NY over the last decade plus. It is a haven for graffiti artists, and used to be extremely political, with issues of social justice artistically displayed at every corner. That seems no longer to be the case.
Signs of gentrification are everywhere, tourists are descending en masse to see the art, guided by local people who probably roll their eyes behind the visitors’ backs, and the display has lost much of its bite.
I assume that the more serious work has wandered elsewhere, together with the artists driven out of their housing by yet another wave of gentrification, and ignorant West Coast fans like me don’t know where to look. In any case, today’s photographs are from last week.
You can find a lot of art, both curated and spontaneous, in the streets of the old city center of Ljublijana. (And a lot of tourists taking care of their blisters…)
There are sculptures,
sudden vistas appearing on street corners,
church doors incongruously modern on their baroque hosts,
surprise alleys,
windows and corners
and facades.
Across the river, however, you encounter an explosion of graffiti, sculpture and objects defying description when you enter the terrain of the Autonomous Metelkova Cultural Center Mesto -an umbrella term for one of the liveliest cultural, artistic, social and intellectual urban areas imaginable on par with other alternative and underground cultures in Europe.
In 1990 a group of more than 200 partner organisations facilitated by the Movement for the Culture of Peace and Non Violence and the ŠKUC Association, formed the Network for Metelkova trying to propose a new use for the former Fourth of July Military Barracks, which had housed troops since 1882 by whoever was currently occupying or running the country. Negotiations with the government showed no results, so that in 1993 the Network occupied the former military barracks in order to prevent its illegal destruction and redevelopment. The squatters have remained to this day, and since 1995 the space of 7 buildings has been a self-organised autonomous zone. Although it has not yet succeeded in achieving a proper legal status, the area was partly registered as national cultural heritage in 2005.
Despite the legal limbo, the many music venues and cultural organizations on location are these days supported by state and municipal funders as well as by diverse local and international sponsors, foreign Embassies, and cultural institutes. The Center is organized non-hierarchically, with its Forum making decisions using consensus and direct democratic principles. The participating members are too numerous to list here, spanning galleries, music clubs, NGOs, queer festivals, peace initiatives, a hostel and Infoshop, a social space for research and development in the theory and practice of anarchistic and related movements. http://www.metelkovamesto.org
It holds up to 1300 concerts annually and young Europeans flock to the festivals organized around underground music.
Equally, if not more importantly, the center offers a home and workshops to both the LGBTQ and disabled communities. Both constituencies face a far more hostile environment in the Balkans than we are used to, evidenced also in that after the addition of some feminist and LGTBQ organizations, the center has faced increasing attacks from the neo nazi right. Metelkova’s biggest challenge, though, is to hold off the forces that ogle this urban location for private housing development. So far they have been successful in persuading the city that as a magnet for cultural events and concerts they enhance the tourist value of Ljublijana overall, which fills public coffers, but the situation is tenuous.
Below is an article from 2015 that comprehensive tells the history.
As a photographer you could spend a week there, just documenting details. I was only able to visit briefly, but certainly caught enough to give you an idea of the profusion.
Vienna was recently ranked, for the umpteenth time, the most livable city in the world. One of the ranking factors concerns the quality of the urban environment, actively pursued by a city government that understand the advantages of cutting-edge urban planning. Vienna’s administration has made conscious political decisions to open the public sphere to urban artists, granting rights to paint public property and offering permits for large building walls to national and international artists. The city welcomes intercultural exchange and public discussion of urban art and as a result the city benefits from graffiti that is art rather than pure tagging.
It is no coincidence, then, that the largest European street art festival takes place in Vienna, organized for 5 years now by a group of artists under the name of Calle Libre. They attract major talent
and the festival has grown to include sponsors and cooperation from the most important museums and political and cultural organizations in town, among them the Museum of Modern Art (MUMOK), Museum Quartier, and Frameout Film Festival.
In Calle Libre’s own words, “Our goal is that of showing a different side of street art, aside from the “writings” or “bombings” often identified as vandalism by the wider public. Through our festival we can inform a wider audience on the nature, proportion and potential of street art as a form of art.” I believe their approach is effective in removing the stigma still attached to so much of urban art.
The programming this year included, next to the live paintings across a week at various sites, workshops, concerts, film and dance performances. A panel discussion about the role of urban art as gentrifier or enhancer saw high powered speakers from the academic world, art critics, curators from the Albertina Museum and political figures. I missed that one.
I was, however, at the spot where a guided tour was scheduled to take us around to reveal not so obvious new works in various districts. Alas, no guide appeared. Admittedly, they had warned it would be canceled if it was too hot, and hot it was.
Luckily, I had explored on my own, and marveled at the work in progress devoted to artists who died 100 years ago and saw major celebration across Vienna’s museums this summer: Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele. Photographs of the unfinished works are mine, the finished ones gleaned on the net.
Brazilian artist KOBRA riffed on an old photo of Klimt and his cat;
Portuguese artist Kruella d’Enfer (remind me of that name when I am next looking for a pseudonym) paid homage to both Klimt and Schiele,
as did Zesar Bahamonte from Spain.
This last one is located in the second district’s orthodox Jewish neighborhood. One wonders about the reaction to the lack of clothes….
Here is a link to a piece that gives you a bit of background about the festival.
The city becomes, of course, more and more colorful with these large surfaces adorned by major graffiti artists; the art draws a particular section of tourists as well, helping the economy. I was most taken by the spontaneous output though, outside of these organized extravaganzas. You can discover real creativity and fantasy and wit on a daily basis by so many unknown sprayers who come and go, not having to fear retribution.
Here are some of my favorite examples, in no particular order.
You find them at play grounds, along the Donau canal, in the alleys of the city or hidden courtyards. Creativity surrounds you.
As do reminders that you’ll never get the inside jokes.
I saw mention of this in the last couple of days, but the actual article actually appeared 2 years ago: describing the work of an elderly German woman, Irmela Mensah-Schramm, who goes around scraping off, painting over and otherwise destroying Nazi stickers, graffiti and general racist messages left about in public.
The woman, now 73, rocks. She claims that she has painted over or ripped apart 75 800 racist messages by now, having done this for decades, but only starting to count in the last 10 years. Here she is in action:
She does this despite the fact that she has been physically attacked, and is in true danger in certain situations. YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING! she insists, even if others try to play down the threat of the return of totalitarianism in the republic.
Most importantly, Mensah-Schramm has been a model for many others who are now trying to do the same, fighting expressions of neo-Nazis in the public sphere.
Here is a video that shows the people from #paintback, a group (Die Kulturellen Erben) loosely connected to a paint store for sprayers, at work – they reconfigure Nazi symbols into little artistic jokes and scenes that undermine the whole brown menace. They have now found many imitators in various European countries.
And speaking of a horrid echo of the past – I learn this morning that the women in ICE custody who are separated from their children have to wear a yellow bracelet. And it so happens, that almost 1500 of those children have disappeared into some administrative chaos and cannot be located – we will not know if there is ever to be reunification with the parents.
Hamburg
Berlin
Frankfurt
I think we all should pack a scraper if not a spray can, in case it comes in handy during our summer months of travel….
Photographs are from Berlin, Dresden and other German sites where the old symbols raise their ugly heads and keep Mensah-Schramm busy.
Charleston SC is a city practically devoid of street art. There are a few official murals.
To find graffiti you have to scout the outlying areas, and even then the results are meager, hidden behind empty malls and off traffic arteries.
What you can spot in the city is small and unobtrusive.
The occasional writings in shop windows or on banners are supposed to be funny, I let you be the judge.
I was puzzled by this since I associate the East Coast with a lot of tagging activity and some really cool art works, in Miami in particular. Good weather leaves the stuff intact. Not here, though. And with these few exceptions, not political.
Those of you who have followed “Your Daily Picture” for the last 6 years know that I have a penchant for graffiti. Not the plain old tagging, although that also can be seen as an ever more intricate art form. Rather I like the kind that is depicting, with elements of fantasy, wit, social criticism and above all, COLOR.
Many of you have seen what I brought home from Amsterdam, Berlin, Hamburg, Istanbul, Paris, Miami Beach, Toulouse and good old Bedford Stuyvesant or other parts of NYC. Only Italy in 2015 was a bust. No clue why it’s not happening there, or why I didn’t find the relevant spots. Probably hanging out in too many churches during that trip.
In any event, Mexico City rules. No idea why, but the remarkable thing there is that you find impressive, interesting, intricate and/or charming murals everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Graffitti is not restricted to particular hip neighborhoods, or those less accessible, or those least controlled by the forces of order and homogeneity. I had originally thought I might join one of the guided tours for graffiti fans that exist in CDMX just as in other capitals of the world, but realized soon enough there is no need to spend those $25. What I found all by myself is creative, funny, and has a sense of color that reminds me of the European expressionists of the 20th century. For that matter, it has comparable emotional, even spiritual qualities; Marc, Munch, Gauguin, Kirchner and Kandinsky and Nolde would have felt right at home at this scene.
Don’t take my word for it – judge for yourself.
Historical References
Earthquake
Faces
Whimsey
And of course your daily wildlife …..
And it wouldn’t be Mexico if there weren’t a skull somewhere (more on that later.)
And in case you want to read and not look at pictures, here are links to the eternal “what is art?” discussion….
This week we covered gentrification, health, sports (I was running from advice, remember) religion, politics and philosophy. It seems fitting to end the week with another central human concern: LOVE.
