Saturday, January 30, 2010


It's a bit of a contradiction, my passion for art and objects that border on vile and twisted (could give two hoots about impressionists, bring on the bacon and hurst) when I can't sit through violent movies. I see the looks on peoples' faces when they come in the store and are greeted by the very lifelike looking human skeleton (I wonder if they'd like the baby doll parts up in my studio displayed in jars?) I guess it's that showman in me, like my father who can't wait to say something shocking when there are delicate ears around. I'm madly in love with my latest acquisition, a terrific collection of 1960's mugshots from New York City. I hand selected the creepiest, most typecast from a bunch of losers. I love the sweet sap who looks like he's just carefully walked the old lady across the street, right before he made off with her purse. Or the hardened wise guy who looks like he's got someone in the trunk. One guy is plain wrong-looking, the two halves of his face don't go together and you just know he's the demon seed. One guy has an alias "Trout", whatever that means. I framed them in floating frames so you can read the rap sheets on the back. I wish they told you what the crimes were, it's just a number and a fine, most are $10 or $15. Some deterrent that is. All I can say is not one of them looks innocent and I think a few of these tucked in amongst the family photos is just right for your mother to happen upon. Now that's what I call art.

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