Do More and Hah-Wee

Had a fantastic, art filled weekend.

If you haven't visited the MoMA to see the Marlene Dumas show, I highly recommend it. Originally, I rendezvoused with some friends (including Artner, who these days seems to defy the laws of physics as she is everywhere, all the time - very LOST), at the museum to see the Pipilpotti Rist room of large scale projections. In the end, however, it was a room full of hipsters thinking that that shit was PS1 circle '98. Kinda a bore and smelly too. Good ting we ran upstairs to check out the painting though. Thank god for our olfactory.

When isolated, Dumas's bushstokes are reminiscent of Abstact Expressionist canvases and stained fabrics. The gestural drawing combined with the dark, psychosexual subject matter that she paints leaves one with a yucky, but aesthtically charged feeling. Fancis Bacon, in comparison woudl get an NC-17 for violence and adult imagery. Marlene Dumas is still at Rated R. OK, maybe some pictures are NC-17, but that is for their graphic depiction of sexuality, not violence, nor horror like Bacon.

The most entertaining thing about the show was her lack of technical display when it came to drawing hands and feet. The woman can sure work it out a potrait, but Artner and I laughed and laughed at how inventive she was at disregarding a good delineation of fingers and toes. Do we need Dumas to do more. Nah. Keep on drawing those hookers! Art history will be the judge on how misogynistic it is to give them dildos, instead of hands.



Equus was also on the bill this weekend. Everyone in NY had heard of the "naked Harry Potter" play, but I hadn't learned about it's plot, nor themes until very recently. Some may attribute that to my emergence as a B'way queen. but I chalk it up to design. The poster around the city is fab.

I loved this show. The minimalism, the content (more psychosexual broohahhah), the costumes, the set design, the script... just amazing. We arrived the theater after a gorgeous bunch , all tired and a bit pooped. Once the show started, though, I was mesmerized. A drama about one boy's struggles with a fucked family (read as you will, I think we're all fucked in our own right) and his own sexuality, the show gallops and spins into a fray of sex and arguments soaked in horse sweat. A complete delight for the Armchair analyst in you.

On a smaller note, Harry's dingdong did take stage eventually. He's such a lithe, toned young man. Such control of his body. Makes me wonder if we should call them the Hah-wee potter movies.

And with that bit of size-queenery, I leave you with this...bye:


Prince begat Prance.

And Prance begat Prankus.

And Prankus begat Flankus.

And Flankus begat Spankus.

And Spankus begat Spunkus the Great,
who lived threescore years.

And Leckwus begat Neckwus.

And Neckwus begat Fleckwus,
the King of Spit.

And he said, ''Behold, I give you Equus,
my only begotten son.''

(somebody's Cray-zeeee..)



And Fleckwus spoke
out of his chinkle-chankle.