ARTIST IN EXILE #14

Alex Roehner

Crayon drawing by NYC artist Alex Roehner

Another invitation to New York City. This time Alex is showing big, really big in the RAW Apple of her youth. There’s always something to be said about going home, Wolfe be damned. Nice.

A brisk spring visitation to the Unreal City would be an awesome and much needed urban outing, Alex, but sorely in discordance with my rather foul inertia these days, where money is light, and I’m much too prone for complaints with spring rains still picking a fight with my plantation agenda, but thanks, I know you’ll kick ass anyway! Your crayon work is utterly ferocious in its intensity of spirit and color. Go get ’em where it counts!

And speaking of the wrenching arts of distinguishing, scary is among us like last year’s stinkbugs. Thistles, thorns, sand spurs, land mines, conspiracies and their pack of theories hobbling among the verifying classes anxious to commit death everywhere. What’s a poor dumbass hick smote thee first smote thee last who clings to this, or that, to do? Smote intelligently, folks, for arts and politics are sick business…

E┬ánter the painters. Who remembers what it’s like to fish against the tides in the seize of time? And who put their finger on where that activity actually leaves off? Hot jeers of thunder echo forth in the color schemes of the ugly voter. We forget that we must wrestle away from the notions of fitting into what pleases the lowest common denominator in its impatient pursuit of happiness in all its bold ignorance. It is true, of course, that only once one has learned to paint, and thereby has mustered enough caché to break the barriers that are in place to keep the unknown mundane and easily insignificant. So I wonder, whom among us is free of that fear and personal taint when not even the market can bear the strain of evidence that is the figurative difference between zero and nothing.

Relax with a laxative, the psychologist suggests, just before warning us we can’t sustain an alphabet romp without rounding the edges with a plastic butter knife meant for the wrinkled page where paint does not always belong. This, the tribe in power knows without questioning. The outsiders in their crayon best silks run like watercolors on the critical verge of escaping each counterpoint the wooden messenger bundles…

GT

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