Marelene Dumas' "Miss January" set a record for a painting sold by a living female artists—$13.8 million.
Today, Dumas is known as one of the most influential painters in the world, according to Christie’s, which said she “is known for her emotionally charged, psychologically complex portraits — often based on found photographs — which explore themes of sexuality, race, grief, motherhood, and the body.”
Free the Nipple. Nude dresses banned in Cannes. Sally Mann's work confiscated by state police from a Texas art gallery.
I don't think we, as a nation, are united on how we feel about the naked form, but when I read that there is an epidemic of pedophiles online, that the most searched for thing on Porn Hub is for underaged girls, I think maybe we are a not getting the point.
As well as sociable, mildly depressive, vengeful, and superstitious, Twain was also surprisingly sophisticated.
Once he married Livy, Twain quickly took to the lifestyle of the era’s one percent. His millionaire father-in-law, who had made a fortune in coal, bought the young couple a mansion, with suitable staff, as their starter home. For the rest of their lives, the Clemenses and their three daughters never lacked or denied themselves any pleasure or purchase. For 11 years, the family lived in hotel suites and villas in various parts of Europe, particularly England and Vienna (where Freud, Gustav Mahler and Theodor Herzl came to see Twain perform). At one point, Livy complained that they were as “poor as church mice,” when the family was residing in Venice in a 28-room villa with a team of servants.
As he enters his 70s, the lonely writer begins to seek out the companionship of young girls between the ages of 10 and 16. While no sexual overtures accompany these relationships, Twain’s letters to his many “angelfish” are distinctly flirtatious, and the whole business feels more than a little creepy. Once the girls reach 16, he drops them.
While knowledge of Twain’s life can enhance our understanding of his writing, the man himself turns out to have been self-centered, loving but neglectful of his daughters, foolishly gullible, something of a money-hungry arriviste and vindictive to a Trumpian degree. Of course, he was also a genius — at least in a small handful of books, perhaps only one really. Were it not for “Huckleberry Finn,” would we really think of Mark Twain as one of America’s greatest writers? I wonder.
That's from a book review by Michael Dirda in the WaPo. I've never been a Twain fan outside of "Huckleberry Finn," so that rather thrilled me.
One of my friends responded, "Showing any kind of interest in anything is “kind of creepy." Name withheld to protect the deviant. He's the same person, however, who tells his outraged friends, "Sure, in the animal kingdom the males always fight over the right to breed with the older females in the group."
Nature has its ways.
I guess this will bring me to what I really want to talk about, will bring me to the buried lede.
Today I am to take the bandages off my surgical wound and take a shower. I am terrified. I don't want to look at it. I really don't. I live alone. There is no one to do this for me. What if I pass out?
I am sure my leg will be forever deformed. My gut is heavy and my shoulders have narrowed. Which females in the pack will fight over me? Body issues. And yet. . . several women at the gym who I know only from seeing them there, surprising me with their concern, offered to come help me take off the bandages and shower. Some insisted that I take their numbers. And I swear I think the nurses at the hospital and the doctor's office were flirting with me.
Girls still send me pictures, some of which I can post here.
Some who have almost forgotten me send me ancient gifts. I got a Christmas present yesterday, a book with last year's inscription evincing the feelings of the time.
But I feel postdated. I mean, for all of it, I am alone and will have to deal with my physical disabilities without the help of a True Love. I am both terrified and sad.
Last night, I decided to try and get back to a normal life, to shake the inherent gloom, so after visiting my mother, I decided to get sushi on the Boulevard. It was early, but in the good months, you need to get there early if you want a good table.
But last night, that was no problem. There wasn't a soul to be found. I sat alone for a good long while in the six o'clock 93 degree afternoon. Eventually, an irritating middle eastern hillbilly family sat at a table near me. They were loud, obnoxious, and hideous.
But the food was alright. This is a mid-level sushi place with decent but not spectacular food. There are two Michelin star sushi restaurants in town, but dinner is around $400/person at a seating for nine. Some of my friends go. I never will unless someone is sporting me. Maybe, you know. . . my next true love.
The workers came to do house repairs yesterday. They finished the apartment and will come back on Monday to do the house. It is expensive, but I will feel better when it is done. Money. I let things go too long with some fantasy that I will get out and fix things myself. I am not a skilled handyman. I am something far worse. I can pitch mulch and haul things to the curb, but don't let me around power tools.
Though I have built a couple of decks. No real skill there, though.
Miami sent me a song as I was working on culling photos for my proposed website. I am going to build a website with photos that the average person who knows nothing about photography other than the commercial images they see can appreciate. Anything that would appeal to a person with a critical eye will remain in the vault. I just need the website so that when I ask people to be in a project and they say, "Do you have a website?" I can show them this. Don't get me wrong, I like the images. They are good images and don't embarrass me, but they are not weird or dangerous nor a challenge to the average sensibilities.
I ran into "The Artist" who had the studio behind mine in those studio years. He was a full-time artist who made his living selling art. Some of his very large encaustic pieces sold for $10,000. He is living in Canada now and was only here on business. So, in the parking lot at Whole Foods, we stopped to chat and catch up.
"Are you still doing photography," he asked.
Embarrassed, I thought for a minute and said, "No. . . I haven't latched on to a project I could run with, really."
It sounded terrible, It sounded like defeat.
The song Miami sent was a lively Latin tune, and just at that moment, I was working on this.
It seemed a fortuitous synchronicity. Just maybe, I thought, this thing is going to get me going. Maybe this thing is going to work.
But I need to quit finding photos that I haven't processed before and just go with what I have got or I'll never get a website up.
But I am putting off the inevitable here which is dealing with my surgical bandaging and wound. I will go to the gym and do a little more light exercise, and then come home and deal with the dressing. My nether regions begin to tingle in an uncomfortable way just thinking about it. I'm a real scaredy cat when it comes to this shit. I was fortunate to have someone who loved me after my accident. I could not have done that on my own.
This is nothing of the kind, but still. . . oh, love. . . oh love. . . .
The Cuba pictures are good, I think. I need to get out and do more.
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