31 August 2011

Courtesy of Canadia

I recently purchased a print from an online gallery, the warehouse of which is situated in Canada. The site is called Mammoth Collection and houses a variety of really great prints which are made in-house using archival pigment inks on heavyweight 100% cotton fibre archival paper. Each print is numbered by hand and comes with the artist's signature printed in the border. My first purchase arrived in the mail just over a week from the date of ordering it and I was super excited to receice my certificate of authenticity with the piece. The only bummer is that while the prices are so reasonable, you can expect the cost of postage to be equal to, if not more than, the cost price of the art itself. 

Daniel by Jason Fiske

Bambi's Bequest (i request)






Golucho

Golucho has to be one of my favourite (recently discovered) artists. I'm about to start painting again and his works epitomise my aspirant style, medium and subject matter. I particularly love the fact that he doesn't waste time on backgrounds and that he is not at all precious about defacing his work(sort of like taking a pen to a crisp new book). The superrealism of his subjects combined with his bold use of colour fascinates me. Another interesting aspect is how his stark use of colour and line/stroke tends to give an eerie temparement to the overall mood of the piece.






30 August 2011

La vie en rose...




Rest in Peace Dear Nina (TannieAnnie)



A Dog Has Died- Pablo Neruda

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy
life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.



 

29 August 2011

blague du jour

Two attorneys went into a diner and ordered two drinks. Then they produced sandwiches from their briefcases and started to eat.

The owner became quite concerned and
marched over and told them, "You can't
eat your own sandwiches in here!"

The attorneys looked at each other, shrugged and exchanged sandwiches.




24 August 2011