If you're into philosophy and its metaphysical ramifications on society, check out this iconoclastic thinker:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M1AOG5gGXvM
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Gallery: Trompe l'oeil.
I never did a lot of strict trompe-l'oeil, which is French for a style meaning "deceive the eye," because it's a lot of meticulous work. It's easier in theatrical scenery where the audience sits far away from the painting. This example is in the hallway of a private home in Bedford NH, and it works from a few feet away. Everything you see is paint on a flat wall. The subtle shadows on the wall were based on the actual lighting in the hallway, which included ceiling lights and a window admitting daylight. After painting the Red Sox cap and the little vase w/rose, I told the client we needed something else on the shelf. She couldn't decide, so I slapped in the flower pots at the last minute to finish the job and get the check.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Sticker Shock.
Cars are beautiful. Cars are useful. Cars are absolutely necessary.
Still, I hate them. To me, they are nothing more than an essential evil, these great two-ton, electronically mysterious monsters which gobble up gasoline and dare you to get the hell out of their way when they come charging down the road.
I absolutely refuse to buy a new car that would suck four to five-hundred dollars a month out of my pocket, just to transport my ass from point A to point B.
I always stick to used cars, which can be bought for a flip of cash or--at worst--half the monthly payment of a showroom gem. Used cars will need repairs sooner than a brand new trophy in your driveway, but, most of the time, if you spread the cost over the year, your transportation will be less expensive with a used car, especially if you can endure crawling under the monster and gouging your knuckles now and then to do repairs.
The worst time of year in New Hampshire, of course, is when your birthday approaches. That's when you have to pay for registering your car (Didn't I register this car about six times already?), and also, it's time to get the piece of shit you're driving inspected by the powers that be, just to get a sticker of approval, which you can not slap onto your refrigerator proudly alongside your children's or grandchildren's works of art.
It's not that kind of sticker.
You must slap this sticker, attesting to the safety of your vehicle, on your front windshield to prevent police troopers from swooping down on you at night and detaining you on the side of the road with blue strobe lights flashing and a searchlight blinding you from behind, exposing your dumbass face to passing drivers, who think you've just been arrested for drug-dealing or serial killing.
This is my birthday month, and I know that my front brakes are due for replacement, though I could put off the expense safely for another year.
Stickers, though, can not be put off, so here I go, under the hated monster--grease all over, clothes ruined, aggravation complete.
But--I'll have money in my pocket as shiny new cars pass me on the highway.
Still, I hate them. To me, they are nothing more than an essential evil, these great two-ton, electronically mysterious monsters which gobble up gasoline and dare you to get the hell out of their way when they come charging down the road.
I absolutely refuse to buy a new car that would suck four to five-hundred dollars a month out of my pocket, just to transport my ass from point A to point B.
I always stick to used cars, which can be bought for a flip of cash or--at worst--half the monthly payment of a showroom gem. Used cars will need repairs sooner than a brand new trophy in your driveway, but, most of the time, if you spread the cost over the year, your transportation will be less expensive with a used car, especially if you can endure crawling under the monster and gouging your knuckles now and then to do repairs.
The worst time of year in New Hampshire, of course, is when your birthday approaches. That's when you have to pay for registering your car (Didn't I register this car about six times already?), and also, it's time to get the piece of shit you're driving inspected by the powers that be, just to get a sticker of approval, which you can not slap onto your refrigerator proudly alongside your children's or grandchildren's works of art.
It's not that kind of sticker.
You must slap this sticker, attesting to the safety of your vehicle, on your front windshield to prevent police troopers from swooping down on you at night and detaining you on the side of the road with blue strobe lights flashing and a searchlight blinding you from behind, exposing your dumbass face to passing drivers, who think you've just been arrested for drug-dealing or serial killing.
This is my birthday month, and I know that my front brakes are due for replacement, though I could put off the expense safely for another year.
Stickers, though, can not be put off, so here I go, under the hated monster--grease all over, clothes ruined, aggravation complete.
But--I'll have money in my pocket as shiny new cars pass me on the highway.
Music: Ray Charles' America the Beautiful.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFMqrRW-FQU
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