Sunday, May 14, 2017


Today, I watched part of the movie called "Pollock," a film about the abstract artist. Ed Harris, an actor
whose silences are often credible on screen, starred. I like Ed Harris. The movie was -- you guessed it -- all about Jackson Pollock.

I like people who are willing to lay down their chips for creativity. When it comes to the art work, this doesn't mean I like the outcome. It's the willingness to throw down.

The movie, after a while, presumed a bit too much for me. I kept wondering why I should care about this guy. It was the same feeling I would get when reading books about Pablo Picasso -- why should I like this man I don't much care for. With Pollock I was vaguely interested. With Picasso, the ego had miles too much volume and I disliked his distaste for women.

Why should I care about artists? I do care to look at the art. I'm not especially interested and do not like being arm-wrestled into pretending there is something important at hand. Does the art love me? Do I love the art?

Nuff said. You want your cock stroked, go somewhere else.

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