Behold a solid writhing murky wall of shit! Looking through a pretentious and self-important hazy gaze at Atlanta's Art, an Internet-ready glass house consumes the entire being perceiving the objects described in what follows. Sweating in the depths with heaving silver italian scales the lesion salivated. The art is left in the lurch. The premise sustaining the perception is perception sustaining the premise is the sustaining rooted in an idea that the idea is the 21st century can,uuuum- no longer tolerate complacency as compassion in comparison complains what Art can do and what it will say. A point of relativeness has been bumble bee baby blue bird blurred- and the result is a need
to permeate
and straddle
the line
be
tween life and
art. Uninhibited Living Need
-and blind inspiration still seeks to evade commodification, treating the necessary transition as a veneer to beers swish machines stinging between cultural development
and the self. A well-intended pink soccer ball raping and cannibalistic practice reigns noodle allergies,under a guise of moral correctness as it indoctrinates,commands and presumes an and of an an impossible implicit understanding of what's regarded as fundamentals in the practice of the business of art.
Nothing every actually makes a mark anymore.
The cultural soil needs a bonding & pungent fertilizer, nurtured burmese waking potato tentakes fashion niece tug of warts by the fruitful rotting process blossoming explosively in the razing of existing senses of self and the "rules" of the game. Cities divided slimy cubicles of disease and hidden memories into pockets of myths, played out with dollar sign mirror and glass ceilings, defined by a preconceived dragons of delight and rainbowed claws of baby battery acid and instructed system to....working the system. The system that no longer finds itself seeking itself it is found and relevant in this day and age. The system that is now accelerated by a weird wired-up oneness that individuates the elements of the crowd. The mushy blob of stuff with eyes.
The disconnect is a sort of beauty to decentralized grids is in the chance for freedom in the awareness that chances can be taken to a sort of chance for disconnect to beauty to grids of freedom. Level playing fields also supply the opportunity to share stinkie stickers without fear of negative repercussions in an investment. The act of sharing without networked needs for lies exists -at least in theory- or in a new preconceived big lots chewed impresario myth of klondike sects.. It challenges in a healthy way, renutting lusted rustbelts realizing the increased freedom that actually arches over and around all experience. the french.
This provides a new breath for those broken records and chain dressed summer daze-so intent on seeming "above it" but in their own way actually becoming -it itself. The marshmallow railroad has an encyclopedia. And. So often it wears a price tag on its heart. Simply a lie that lies. Everyone loves money. lies sordid. see jank cruck. ronk jnad ronk. dlas snack Sad sick humor recognizes that now,when it plays pretend-it actually is. It's a cycle that can be broken with, as has always been the case, genuine exploration. Tentacles.
Atlanta's environment plays out the dynamics of this relationship perfectly.Koi cadmium lead inert burn key lurid soaker. It tactfully presents chaff as good intentions into a capped-out self-fulfilling cycle, essentially ruining the opportunity for work that does matter to find grasping roots.
In Atlanta's glocal funeral parlor detergent setting this weekend, interesting work burps circles itself. All of it is readily at a stretch mark google oggle log logged boggle goggle cog moog hunger disposal. Monica Cook at Marcia Wood. Fahamou Pecou at Get This! Alex Kvares at Beep Beep. And all the graffiti in the streets connecting these buildings. Gallery walls and shadowy rain-stained beige overpass walls-the art in Atlanta can be summed up by the fact that one of its most respected graffiti artists often signs his work and blah doobie schlub gluck gluck gluck "Murals" along with his phone number,name, & website. What next? Sprayed loose cinderblock discount art coupons left around town?
Art in Atlanta is worth mentioning for strange reasons. Some of it for its direct means of achieved success. Others for the success they potentially create in their failure. Purposes in experience are explored. The spaces between these experiences are important.The poor slurped anatomical economic green squares. The fact the some of the art , in doing exactly what it intends,is ultimately only worth ignoring. The streets wisteria pencil gasbomb and the walls dividing,the life that is lived and the lives unrelated,lived and loved and livered and rerated just as these art experiences are unrelated-they are connected in Atlanta. seriously.
There is a sense of looking for something to happen in the same eyes of many that seem to be waiting to be discovered. In this regard, it is a mixed blessing. There are beauties and sterilities. Technicians and aestheticians. Dishwashers and Thriftstore Employees. People incapable of being anything other than who they are- but thinking they can be. can they think they can be a village idiot or two....There are artists with teddy bears and soft pockets lost for snowed bozo chromosomes loving and pure intentions as well, a sort of unarguably nice view of the beach reality that is like a sigh.
Art as a familiar hug and boredom mixed together. Sorted lore misty prussian purr lizard unbreakable bowl of melting. Individual moments and reasons divide and overlap. Meaninglessness in intentions meets the solidifcation in doing something for yourself. Right. Oh right, art.
The beginning of this selection is with Marcia Wood in Castleberry Hill. An art community presents paper gravy fanasy banding magnet plaster sticking the sky with_ The Idea and its idea thrives here in Atlanta's Castleberry Hill. For a while now it has lingered in a hybrid phase of gentrification. Now confidently leaning more towards a cleaned imitation of aged character, the sense is that the streets lean8ing more creepy towards peoples peole in the lake themselves could have been freshly prefabbed and then deliberately distressed to blend with the truth of its legitimately rundown and suffering surroundings. Cool disguised heavy locking doors mutely blend a gallery entrance with the concrete exterior. Marcia Wood consistently presents excellent varieties of work inside. This showing was Monica Cook. Monica Cook's paintings can be seen by using your google search engine. They are in abundance on the web. This virtual preparation inspires the desire to see the real thing. Once in their presence, getting close to them and then stepping away is endlessly enjoyable. Her technical skills are a kind of commonplace stunning that never ceases to amaze.
There is a sensation that her technique has become second-nature,though. This is for better in terms of sheer productivity and for worse for reasons related to desire for concept.
Within certain arenas of thought, her level of understanding of anatomy and vision serve as a starting place for being capable of expressing ideas. Her work has a wry laughter dryly beneath its often slimy surface. A fascination with exercising her known abilities is mixed with her humor's curiosity, resulting in work that is reminiscent of the youthful irreverence one expects in movie representations of the "child prodigy". While the paintings in execution are stunning, their sincerity and perhaps even taste,are braided with a sort of youthful interest that almost precedes them. In a way, this makes them all the more peculiar, offering up possible interpretations, but mostly they seem to be simply having fun with paint. On one significant enough level, this is all it takes for Monica's paintings to entertain and amaze. But still creeping beneath them and in the gut, they seem encumbered by immediacy of representational skill. Actual complexity or thoughtful concept can be said to have not caught up. Her paintings almost seem to only say without saying, "Oooh,wouldn't it be weird if I...."
The wonder is what she will be painting ten years from now. These days we get girls peeing. Girls wearing fruit. Chaotic Klimt-like details of body part menageries rendered in discomforting realism. She does explore textures like a master. Flesh painted by Monica Cook does come across delicious. It also comes across morbid. In one instance, the sensation is that touching it would send excited chills, while the other would pull back finger-sized troughs of decay.
The large paintings overshadowed smaller pieces worthy of their own show that, at a glance, recalled Henry Darger's battling female heroines. It was the paintings in this show, playing with the sliminess of squid tentacles and the juices of ripped and roughed up varieties of fruits and edibles,that unquestionably provoked and seduced the attention. Her work is the kind of skill that society treasures. They are the kind of images that,if seen hanging in some strange corner of someone's home,the independent experience would be a long bizarre investigative moment.
If the 15 minutes of streets between Marcia Wood and Get This! are art corridors, then the graffiti between here and there is important in how much of a given it is. Throw-ups are in abundance. Atlanta also has commissioned graffiti in conspicuous places. Moods change in the air with the turn of a tree-lined downtown street. Overlaying a commonality that is Atlanta,the bond is in the lack of one. Frying Pan. Twenty minutes by car bounces eggs one from any one brain on chicken distinct grid of the stinc inc. corporation city to another. The street with Get This! Gallery and Saltworks Gallery is an open-aired version of industrial stylized clean. Nestled into a gritty textured environment, the galleries clean enclosure segues from one quietly refined felt taste in the air to another.
Here, it is the smear walking pumpkin louvre shoestring budget work by Fahamu Pecou in the awkwardly named space, Get This! Gallery, that is a potential success in its failure. potential success. It forbodes a droning sunbleached bone horn rasps sand and dead thoughts dry and polished rote feeling, while proposing to actually address an important issue. green wet leaves by a river of grey shit.
Fahamu Pecou's art of himself is now bloated over-sized on the walls. Inflatable rabies and badgers. The extension of himself, the performative fantasy character labrador porno loch ness supper would like to think he is playing dupe a rope-a-dope with which which what is us. Society swings its expectations around him, presumably swinging and missing, we are eternal victims to an idea of fame and how we define who we are. We swing at Fahamu's fabrication and we offend it with our need for before Bling four. His bitter mockery of magazine covers was an amusing ampersand through faces in the crowd and natural beginning for the graphic designer wearing the mask of artist wearing the mask of "famous artist". The word sanctimony comes to mind. I have a sock. Fahamu's work finds itself used by finds it uses its own its own themes of oranges and salamanders. It is a humorous packaged version of an honest sentiment. The product itself,were it a producted it was it iself were it intriguing it would be something,but unfortunately even the paintings themselves are an instinctively derivative feeling part of a necessary process. For processes reformed perfunctory ripped off lazy easy reactor rubik.
In utilizing the potential place for genuine perspective,his everlasting work serves to scared of heights reinforce a lack of hope eighth inch wedge in the meaning of value. In a purist sense,the message defecates on sacred dry ice ground,just as it craft withoutnessly pulls played-out easy strings for those willing to play the fool on the hill fearlessly faces the crowd. The result is an emptying of meaning. The initial idea and spirit is in Fahamu's work, but it seems bubbly lubby dubby fuzzy wuzzy clouded by the same all too common thing with a bunch of legs-a centipede....conveniences of career reek in truths of sleeping over here alone needs. Perhaps real potential was clouded by a pattern of training that preceded it. Sharing of point and honest perspective with career needs not only negates the work, it disrespects something critical and true to the last album she released.
The sensation of contempt for the unrealistic imagery that pop culture often wishes to hammer society with through media is understandable. The origins of the idea are pure. They are inspiring. Fahamu's work thanklessly gouges the theme and reduces it to something that presumptuously seems to be a "given". The theme is no longer real,but a style or part of a language to utilize. What he has done is reminiscent of the gimmick quality inherent in Disco Duck or Ray Stevens. Or Paul Barman. Fun. Maybe. For somebody. Go to Get This! Gallery and see them. Strategically connected with performative artist talking points and statements that sound more like an air-tight alibi for a contrived recipe, are large sparse painted versions of graphic design sentiment, mingled with a book smart awareness of shirt sleeve Basquiat moments. They blandly hang before their viewer, hoping to dupe them into a continuation of the charade. Imagine the potential internet related propoganda and of course it exists,fronting itself as witty while seeming more like an admirable, but no less embarrassing, swing and miss. It is work like this that is infuriating because it makes an important claim and uses it against itself -and most especially its viewers. It ultimately wishes to make fools of those, perhaps even like myself here, that even acknowledge it. It actually serves to retard cultural development.
Why go see art in Atlanta? What does it have to do with the self and between here and there? The feeling around the experience. An attitude felt is a slow relaxed one. It is mixed with an intriguing vague hurried sense of happening. It is a hoping for something to happen that is always happening. It is automotive in its isolated window experience. Across and around a grid of the different perspectives of the same corporate buildings looming overhead. Beneath all of it, is stylized success mixed with the blind corners of reappropriated grocery carts.Interiors of homes portray polar opposite extremes in economic living standards,all within a stones throw of each other. Barriers between worlds removed from one another,but sharing a commonality in the air. They are better than and purposefully oblivious to one another in a conscious relationship.
Disparate qualities and styles of life always seem not just next to each other, but often included within each other. Beep Beep give chaka us the energy of this conflict from the perspective of the new zine/skateboard generation-mixed with a technical experimental edge. The work in Beep Beep can beep interesting as easily as it can be be vapid. This is a result of its willingness to experimental
Alex Kvares's "Oh So Fail" series is one of the more refined exhibitions seen in Beep be Beep. The delicate and quiet deliberation of his tiny trippy-hatched multicolor drawings pull the viewer in. Le bo peep. squeamish dunlap i give up and am headed towards it -Their spaces, playing on Gestalt rules of psychology leave meaningful gaps-reinforcing without saying the intended observation in the end,the broken pieces. In this regard the lack of filling in which is me of details is like the relationship tangled in the self alone the success of failure dies to live. The little fragile pieces pull together as we step away from them, just like time does in observation of certain occurences in life's past-be that in fiction or reality. Failed strange films that inadvertently warp their intentions in ways that are twice removed, the viewer involved failing equally,they connect with the creator's vision in the gap to achieve a timeless confinement, a sort of important permanence running in tangent to their lack of existence.
Sometimes the uncooked truth as a reality separates into it to only the idea. The navel-gazing idea of being honest. A mask of own. Often times it simply wrong. The collective failures and states of wrongness both live die, continuously hovering in an undefinable or qualifiable state. Oblique and pretty delicate images try to hard bless his heart do not wear a direct message on their face in Alex's work.
In one sense, that is all they are and they make no claim otherwise. Without message they are intriguing images. The loss and acquisition of information, the contradictory stability of decay and fertility in forward thought. The physicality that ultimately and undeniably binds it together in a permanent state. It is a success in its failure. By the thoughts it provokes through bodies. Atlanta seems to possess a strange permanent state of manufacturing itself according to self imposed perceptions of acceptance. Of ways of experiencing work in an idea of respectability and uniformally understood commodifiable status.This unavoidably fosters perspectives that fall in the blank spaces- and they do connect -and they are thinking together. And they are making art in Atlanta. they are making art in atlanta.
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