The myth of the sensitive artist.
Really rough around here, seems a member of a Dutch gang was capped during a drive-by. But I bet it’s nothing like those Blaue Reiters! Man, those guys were savages.
THINGS GIRLS LIKE (supposedly).
But seriously, she’s getting very good, and I hope that early success doesn’t screw her up. Who else gets to be 12 and have regular showings?
All the young painters are taken with this new realism.
It’s silly to say you’re sad about someone’s dying, someone you didn’t know, dying after a long, full life. But still, you liked what they did. And then you’re sad that they won’t keep doing it. Less about absence than continuance.
Earlier this year I was asked if I had any regrets. At the time, I thought I answered honestly in the negative, with a fool’s surety. A dip into the archives reveals the mistake. No idea where it would have gone, but that’s not the point, is it?
Peddler. I’m told this cart does not come with churros, bacon-wrapped anything. Still nice idea.
Spent the night with the Tortilla Conspiracy just to be on the safe side.
I have nice friends who let me jump their train.
I guess you can put anything on a pedestal and call it art.
You think it pretty, but then again you haven’t seen Kaufman’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers, have you?
Here we have differing opinions about the qualities of Moore’s work.
Potato, tomato. But I can respect that.
Possesses the wiry strength of a welterweight de Kooning.
There.
This jungle Holland Cotter uses a Sharpie for his critique, which is why the guards at SFMOMA get jumpy when we take out a pen.