*Drawing by a teenage Chubbs
by Idaho Chubbs (
Eluvium/
Arvo Part)
"Alas, we often lack breath and faith, wrongly certainly but--and here we come back to the point--if, however, we want to work we must submit both to the stubborn harshness of the time and to our isolation, which is sometimes as hard to bear as exile. Now before us, after our years which have thus been lost, relatively speaking, poverty, illness, old age, madness and always exile."
- Vincent Van Gogh
God's eyes are burning an ulcerous hole through my ab vein. I want it to stop yet I beckon the intrigue that may solve the mystery of my life--My life or anyone else's. The burn furies forth like Van Gogh's "Starry, Starry
(McLean) Night". The blues, the yellows, the suicidal insane aylum wonder created such a work that will forever live . Fucking damnit, let my shit live. Let it yearn, let it grow, let it not be bastardized into a severed ear's life. Vincent and I share so many fucking secrets together. The Christian Lord tore a gap into him that he could never escape from. The escape from one's existential psyche. So you know that Vincent knew at least three languages? Do you know that Paul Gau "Fucking" guin probably cut off his hearing vessel over frustration over a whore and Vincent's insistence/badgering over starting art's fucking pure Reich of an art community? Gauguin was a total balls to the wall meat head who happened to be good with a paint brush. He left his family, his beautiful children, to be a prostitute of art, women, and a dueler who perchance, sliced my ardent hero's skin. He did not realize that his manic friend would change the world. Oh, it might not be true, but I feel it might so be...so much so that I will swim laps in The River Styxx to prove him just. My man Vincent tried so many paths; he tried to be one with God--no dice (or maybe his paintings were the only time he was?). He yeared for companionship but settled for money groping ladies of the night. He lived off coffee and tobacco, he suffered (I'm starting to cry), he sold less art then I have when he existed on this cruel forsaken rock planet. Have you ever attempted a copy of one of his visions? I have, it sucks, but every sloor/decent human being believes it to be sound. It's NOT! I exist because of him! Art was raw in way BC...after, it got super fucking restrictive. Over the last 150 years it went psychotically into the future; Van Gogh, Schiele, Ryder, Chagal, Picasso, Dali, Max Ernst, Escher, Pollock, Giocametti, Basquiat, Godinez...my friends, my compatriots, they saw the amagalm of colors and insight, and brush strokes in this weird fucking unexplanatory life and they got on with it. Shit flooded their brains that existed nowhere except within their heart, their minds, their being. To express truth, bones were scorched, petruding through the skin (alla the original LT sacking of Theisman on Monday Night) to take hold of the definition of LIFE! Are we not looking for that? Color, sound, verve, explosion, euphoria!--Sigur Ros, Godpeed, Tarkovsky, Fellini---We want to remember the past to express it in a fulfilled future. A future where the artist won't suffer...AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! The utmost beseeching of fair mythology will not deem that appropriate; and I will accept that. Men can lead an unintentional/"evil" life on earth but produce art fit for Zeus. Are they damned to Hades, or did they just try to see the wonderful, sad and happy beauty that is this realm (Pergatory has levels). My brothers, my soul-mates, we love paint, the way it dances on our cold skin, our brush, oil, water and canvas; We are gods, but for a short time, to give the universe our true expression the best way we truly know how; through our subconscious/conscious selves. And to tell you the real truth; that's way more invaluable than any walk on Mars. BTW, Prince, you owe Gauguin a shot of absinthe...he wants to cut you (Van Gogh and Chubbs high five!)...Hades is fun in the Spring...or is it Heaven?
No comments:
Post a Comment