Under PlexiGlass.

This is highly unusual for our enterprise: in a panic that the art was being stolen away from us(!) we glued some unphotographed small paper drawings under plexiglass, on top of a very heavy steel slab. No one could steal it. Okay, crazed, yes yes. The drawings were partly ruined; they are very faint and the glue sort of did some chemistry that was bonding but not in the good way. Anyway, this for contrast.

Traitor Trash.

This is our (P’s and my) most recent big acrylic, 30x40” and enough paint so that the raw materials cost around $70. So that, we suppose, is its worth, except the materials are now used and all we have is this masterpiece. Moot: we will never sell our love-children into the bondage of another household.

The painting is, well, a lot of things, including something like a well: you can look down it and see if there is a pussy down there:–

Ding, dong, bell,
Pussy’s in the well!
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Green.
Who pulled her out?
Big Johnny Stout.

What a naughty boy was that,
To drown poor pussy-cat,
Who never did him any harm,
But killed the mice in his father's barn!

—Mother Goose. (Really!)

But we don’t kill kitties. It’s that whole Anglo-Saxon thing: Peter is boringly English with a drop of Shelty, and you can probably tell from my name what my heritage is. So, Angles all around, and a fair amount of hot and steamy Saxon. Angular but all round, everywhere always look over there see there. He as a CD called “Death—to the right of them.” In fact:–

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
  Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
  Rode the six hundred

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”

That was the Crimean war, the Cossacks/Russians vs. the six hundred. A Pyrrhic victory? Depends on your perspective. You could learn a million ways of reading that poem, and still not get the whole picture. But, so vivid. So much so that light might change your point of view.

Why do we have colors? Did Locke or Berkeley or Bacon or or or have anything to say on the matter? Ahhh... not matter. A secondary quality.

That is the picture we just posted. Into the jaws of Death. If Ingmar Bergman’s Grim Reaper from The Seventh Seal had significant jaws, like gloriously square testosteronal ones (actually, we only refer to the lower jaw when we talk about the shape of jaws), then the painting is a colored version of a very, very, very miserable time.

Worse than Lars von Trier’s Medea. Just hangin’ around. And plotting a hatchery of images and quotes from that “A bishop and a knight” mov(i)e(/solution).