As The World Turns. Is it geological or merely daytime soap bubbles in the cosmic soup of the universe? Either way it gets ladled out, in a skid row soup kitchen or spewing from the business end of the electronic sausage factory we call television, you can be sure it will be slimy. It's the primordial ordeal and it's the real deal. Take a whirl 'round the bulge with your equatorial Art Safari leader Dave.
Amanda Benjamin Paints blue black heartache in "Locked."
Unchain my heart!
Baby set me free!
At least leave me
a copy of the key.
Harper Blanchet, as if summoned by a deus ex machina comes through with "The Keyhole."
I've got a brand new pair of roller skate keys
You've got a brand new keyhole.
Looks like a deadbolt.
Ann Byer
illuminates
with her new
stained glass
"Cosmic Rap So Dee"
Well, Rap - so - dee - doo - dah
to you, too, toots.
When Sunday Dawne-Marie
swished up to Arts Upstairs
on this snowboard,
I hadda take a look.
"Fire and Ice Kiss"
would curl the socks
on any soap fan.
"Depiction of Adam And Eve" ?
In which gospel? This gory interpretation
has Right to lifers and animal cruelty activists
scratching their heads.
Thanks, Christopher Haydu
David Jeffrey delivers us to the spongy cold moss of "Catskill Falls". I have been to this place. It is truly wonderful.
Polly M. Law
is a great boxer.
Maybe better than
Mohammed Ali.
She doesn't pull her punches.
We "Hope" you will by it.
Julie Marcus, in a rare Egon Schiele-esque
charcoalian torsonification of
lanky feminine sacroillia,
calligraphs her message
in a few smudgy lines.
"Torso" is the terse
way of putting it.
Let's not put the Tock before the Tick,
shall we?
Or say we did.
No matter what mean time you subscribe to, it's always flies in Judith Singer's cupboard.
"Time Flies" is later than we think.
Who Knew
Su Cou?
Who knew
you were supposed to
look through
a mirror at Medusa?
I got stung & now I'm stone.
What makes you want to call this "Self Portrait"?
Take me back to the creamy, dreamy days of summer, Anique Taylor.
"Earth Altar" reveals the melody behind the memory. And the mummery behind the mammary.
I'm a nut for Caravaggio.
His papaya complexioned
Pubescence casts a glow.
Never an aspersion.
Juicy fruit is not as sweet -
Even among Gauguin's Tahiti sweeties -
As the one we both admire now.
Here's to our solo room artist,
Helene Weissman's
"After Caravaggio".