WHAT MY KIDS' ART SAYS

"Horse Behind Rocks," by L, Portland, finger paint on butcher paper

2012-02-01T08:50:00.000-08:00

Day Care Expressionism, the moody movement centered on emotional abandonment, which I so astutely covered in my latest book (buy it here this second), continues to gain steam. As with any emotionally relevant creation, new buds flourish as new followers breathe in fresh light. L may very well be the missing link that successfully harnesses the reckless violence of the movement into a more discernable, message-relaying experience. In short, these whiny babies may indeed have something to say. “Horse Behind Rocks” not only is the first work from a self-proclaimed Day Care Expressionist to pay any attention whatsoever to form, it’s also loaded with subtext. We see the horse, quite clearly, eyes as black and soulless as coal--a wild and free creature in a guarded box not unlike day care with all its “suggested” rules. No hitting, no fighting -- no living. A purple form appears to weigh down the mare, crushing its spirit. Is it the Birthday Clown? Or is it the shapeless all-consuming depression that surely takes hold after the 300^th round of paddy-cake?

Racist Butt Gun, by T, North Carolina, pencil and crayon

2012-01-27T07:25:00.000-08:00

North Carolina’s T has never hid from the spotlight. His multi-panel installation in Salt Lake City’s airport depicting Brigham Young as an organ grinder and his monkey earned him eternal banishment from the Mormon hotbed. And by the looks of his latest work, a stunning crayon and pencil joint entitled “Racist Butt Gun”, T seems to be making himself quite at home in the bright white glare. It’s hard to say what’s more shocking; the pale-skinned blond form attacking a clearly African-American figure, the raised-arm mirrored acts of surrender, or the powerful butt gun capable of creating a heart-sized hole in its prey. Both sides claim innocence here, but it’s clear to T who wields the power. The victim’s see-through pants only enhance the absurdity of the scene; a scene in which a butt gun can not only fire with deadly accuracy without need of a hand or arm to steady it, but somehow curve its bullet’s flight 45 degrees upward. Regardless of how it looks, T reminds us, it’s rarely as easily explained as black and white. Sometimes it’s more about the butt gun.

"Sparkle App", by G, Malvern PA, new media

2012-01-18T21:04:00.000-08:00

The interesting thing about pop art is that the “pop culture” it seeks to play with is constantly shifting -- Marilyn Monroe begat Jane Fonda who begat Britney Spears and so forth. Campbell’s soup can is no longer the iconic staple it once was -- today’s Warhol may have just as easily lampooned Google’s omnipresent logo. Roy Lichtenstein’s power-pop cartoon strips are simply not as relevant to the present day – save for two exceptions: Family Circus; as great writing NEVER goes out of style, and the irrepressible comic stylings of the indolent Andy Capp. Be that as it may, the pop art ship has drifted sans El Capitan for years now. In early ’05, a San Jose artists collective known simply as “The Toddlers” claimed to have spurred the next chapter but their decision to use only The Segway as the central theme in their work ultimately proved too limiting and nerdy. Enter G, a 10-month old sensation from Malvern, PA. G’s game-changer, “Sparkle App” is the perfect blend of old and new – all the pop art principles have a safe home here: bright, strident colors, mass accessibility, instant familiarity. G’s work looks and feels just as Lichtenstein wanted his to when he said, “I want my painting to look as if it had been programmed.” And yet G brings the movement to the present and future by replacing the comic strip with an ipad screen. Where Lichtenstein was driven to explore a sense of detached “antisensibility” in his work, G welcomes the viewer – the digital interface invites us to pick the next color and create the next line. It’s pop art for a more interactive, two-way society. That, my friends, is how you push things forward. Interview requests went unreturned but it is believed the artist cannot yet talk.

READER MAIL

2012-01-12T21:48:00.000-08:00

With my book now available on bookshelves and internets throughout the world, it’s only natural that my virtual mailbag has become impregnated with well-wishers, glommers-on and the occasional hot (under the collar) toddy. Here’s a sample. Enjoy!

Dear Dan, I adore the book. And I must say you look devilishly handsome! Could we discuss it more over a drink?

Sorry reader, but spirits never pass these lips. I can ill afford to lose a brain cell (or a million). It takes all my faculties to be this great. Something you’ll never understand, I’m afraid.

Dear Dan, you devote a lot of the book to Lily’s work. The same Lily that recently received a massive private industry grant. Is there a connection?

Oh joy, the common folk spy my new three-story Jackson Hole retreat and suddenly I’m on the take? Since you’re keen on gossip, reader, here’s a hot tip for you: focus more on your own life and perhaps you too may graduate from the Chevy SUV and buffet bar life.

Dear Dan, you didn’t review my son’s work. What gives?

What gives? I give. I give reviews to work worthy of my precious time. I give careers to unknowns. I give the gift of inclusion into a world you could never provide. However, I do not give reviews to diaper-soiling, saliva-dribbling mongrels that can scarcely find the wet end of the brush. Hope you enjoyed the book.

Sticky-Stick #3: Curse of the Kitty, L, age 4, Portland, Oregon, stickers on construction paper

2011-12-31T13:32:00.000-08:00

Haiku-thon ’88, my annual sabbatical to West Des Moines, a perfectly cut herringbone smoking jacket, and now Portland’s L—that’s rarified air, my young friend, but oh how my heart soared (and continues to do so!) at my first stolen glance of Sticky-Stick #3: Curse of the Kitty. It’s the once-in-a-generation artist who so cleanly eschews all schools and movements to create so viscerally from unchecked emotion. No hang-ups, as the kids say, L just does. While stickers may not be entirely fresh ground, it’s the concentration and layering that transcend the tired “pee-pee reward chart” and lays claim to higher ground. The simple joy of a sticker becomes a brand-new monstrosity, an old innocent ploy gone terribly wrong. The vibrant red, chicken-scratch backdrop only heightens the effect. Delicious details like the cow back-heeling the soccer ball under the watchful eye of the duck create mini-stories that add depth but never detract from the gorgeous whole. This is perfection. But L has already graded himself in the form of an A+ sticker at the top. Teacher’s pet!

Self-Portrait, K, Delaware, Ohio, pencil on paper

2011-12-06T11:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, K, I do believe this is a self-portrait. Did you also live in Florence circa 1503–1505? For Leonardo’s sake, if you are going to plagiarize the master, have the decency to do it right. Mona Lisa’s strong Roman nose brings the viewer’s eye directly to the centerpiece of the da Vinci painting: her enigmatic smile. Your nose, dear K, looks more like the last pathetic strand of spaghetti in the colander. Furthermore, the last time I checked, Mona Lisa’s eyes both resided in the same ZIP code, and she wasn’t wearing wristbands. Now, if I am off base (impossible!) and this truly is a self-portrait, you should go see a doctor about that palsied left arm of yours posthaste.

“On Sale”, by A, San Francisco, Colored pencils on gray paper

2011-11-06T18:52:00.000-08:00

What a shop of horrors! Leave it to the artists of San Francisco to lay the rest of us bare with such finely-polished mirrors just as A does with this open-handed slap to America’s consumer (counter) culture. Looking every bit the tart with double Barbie ponytails, pink halter top, micro skirt and stilettos, our heroine is framed – in a flat, one dimensional style evoking Mayan wall paintings – in front of her temple which rises divinely to the sky. Only there is no sacrifice to be had here; Barbie’s bought everything as evidenced by the multitude of bags surrounding her – too many for the poor thing to carry. A sad, but true and effective commentary. One curious choice is the artist’s decision to place the lead singer of Dexy’s Midnight Runners in the GAP window.

Surprise!, by G, Richmond, VA, Etch-A-Sketch mural

2011-10-28T07:43:00.000-07:00

I never liked Russian nesting dolls. Somehow, the “joy” of discovering smaller and smaller versions of a gift I’d already received and didn’t care for always struck me as insulting – as if I’d grow increasingly fond of the ridiculous bauble as I discovered cuter miniature versions. “But just look at the detail on this tiny one!” To quote the great Miro: “Who gives a flying shit?” Which is why I’m so fond of this new etching from little-known satirist, G. He offers us an X-ray glimpse (heightened by the pixilated texture of the Etch-a-Sketch screen) inside his creature to save us the toil and unrewarding trouble of uncapping one after another. What we find is exactly what we expected – increasingly smaller exact replicas -- each bringing considerably less to the party than the previous. To some, nesting dolls are a study in consistency, a social commentary on the triumph of detail over scale. To me, and thankfully to G as well, they’re nothing more than a bad joke repeated ad-nauseum. Which reminds me -- how many Russian nesting dolls does it take to change a light bulb? As many as you can shove in the live socket.

Poop Balloon, B, Columbus OH, crayon on paper

2011-10-12T15:04:00.000-07:00

Trauma is an artist’s best friend. A life lived happily on the surface usually produces art about as deep and textural as most romantic comedies. And it goes without saying that potty training is a traumatic affair for most. Columbus, Ohio’s B turns that frown upside down in her latest effort, Poop Balloon. Shaping the unmistakable waste matter into a lighter than air, animal-shaped balloon, B reframes the beast from below into the most harmless form imaginable. Don’t fear the potty, she’s telling us, throw caution to the wind and embrace the waste. Up next for the littlest motivator? A multi-panel installation in trendy German Village entitled “Pee is awesome.” Straight flush!

Order this now or you'll just be sick.

2011-10-05T21:00:00.001-07:00

Legion of fans, my book will be out in early December -- available at Barnes & Noble, amazon.com, and the two remaining independent bookstores in America. And don't be fooled into believing that it's nothing more than a collection of material from this blog. I respect you so much more than that. There is a treasure-trove of new material in the book: material you will never know the joy of reading unless you click here this second.

Tree of Life, S, Deerfield, IL, finger paint on construction paper,

2011-09-09T13:54:00.000-07:00

Flyover country is also God-fearing country and northern Illinoisian, S, is a bold, touched and humble servant. “Tree of Life” is a massive title for a young soul, but when your first painting, “God as Caterpillar” triggered an outcry from none other than the Vatican itself, you tend to feel “big” may just be your birthright. No shying away from the spotlight in this effort; the wily serpent winds his way around the apple tree, changing his colors cunningly in mid-form. The apples, clustered in a bushing seem to be falling from a divine light – this is pre Adam and Eve as God and the Devil jockey for better seats in this first play. The inclusion of a blowfish at lower right is interesting if not totally bizarre and serves as what is fast becoming a trademark of the Midwestern artist – tried and true logic challenged by linear-breaking randomness. As in all her outdoor works, S leaves the grass high – a nod to her fear of lawnmowers.

APOLOGIES AND GINORMOUS NEWS!

2011-04-04T13:26:00.000-07:00

First off, let me apologize for my lengthy absence. I took my annual "regeneration" trip to West DesMoines (Martha and Pete, you're both aces!), and then, upon returning, learned that my humble blog was being courted by a plucky book publisher. After weeks of intense negotiations, highlighted by my refusing to speak for 36 hours until certain demands were met (how is an author supposed to agree to ANYTHING LESS than total control over paper stock?!?), we reached a deal. So, my dear readers, should you like to hitch your wagon to a star and have your work reviewed in my forthcoming epic, submit a high resolution file to me today at danconsiglio@sbcglobal.net. I expect this book to be a best seller and if you aren't ready for that kind of publicity, simply step aside. As I learned during my time in community theater, the spotlight is not for everyone.

I show you the subtle difference between genius and crap.

2011-01-17T18:55:00.000-08:00

Read and learn, novices.

"Dots" L, Chicago, dot marker and pencil
If paradigm-shattering composer Phillip Glass could paint, this is the masterpiece he would create. L’s gorgeous symmetry conceals blooming buds of chaos much like Glass’s repetitive notes conspire to create wholly other rhythms. Both artists display an other-worldly grasp on this simple human condition: repetition does not remove opportunity, it creates it. This is music to mine eyes.

"Circles" E, St. Louis, water based paint and fingers
This is just a bunch of colored dots on paper, unlike L’s masterwork, “Dots”, which trembles with a barely containable energy. A word of caution, E: do not confuse play with art. Take off the smock, put down the graham cracker and paint like the entire Pre-K room is watching. And maybe one day, they will be.

SPOTLIGHT!: L, Minnetonka

2011-01-14T14:18:00.000-08:00

Without question one of the most exciting artists to come out of the snowy hinterlands since the scathing small-town critic, Sinclair Lewis, Minnetonka’s L has burst onto the scene like a mentos dropped in Diet Coke. And just like the Sauk Centre scribe, she pulls no punches. The irascable youth’s most important work to date -- “Defacing Disney” (shown above) caused an industry wide stir that ultimately prompted a much choreographed reaction from the Giant Mouse himself. A reaction that garnered little more than a passing glance from the artist. “I don’t like Mickey, I like Goofy. Mickey’s stupid.” Touche!

Forgoing paint and brush for more visceral tools like crayon and pencil, L’s work can best be described as guttural or as she puts it, “scribbly-wibbly.” Perhaps shaped by the long, icy Minnetonka winters, she’s less concerned with creating subtle intonations in her work -- she prefers to wield a sledge-hammer. “I like crayons because they feel super good.”

So true.

Is a mixed media surprise next in line for the Minnesota’s Muse? “I like to cut stuff with scissors. And I like graham crackers, too. They’re good.” Whatever she chooses to do next, we’ll be keeping a close eye on her. When asked about her literary cousin, Mr. Lewis, Lucy stops short of claiming she’s reached her artistic Main Street. “I like art. I like to do art every day and stuff.”

We’ll be watching!

BOOB ALIEN, L, Nashville, crayons on parchment

2010-11-16T20:12:00.000-08:00

It’s no surprise that after spending their first 12 months attached to mother’s breasts, that – oh by the way serve as their only source of nourishment -- children form a bit of a bond with the human milk delivery truck. But it is surprising to see one turn on the round cows like Nashville’s trickster, L. Make no mistake, disguise it as you will, L, with three blue eyes, rainbow spiky hair and a whispy moustache, that gaping pink ‘mouth’ is a dead-on areola. Added up, it is indeed a horrifying BOOB ALIEN. The only question left unanswered is this: what turned L so violently against her longtime companion? Was it lactose intolerance? Only L knows.

"Gill-man" by Aidan

2010-10-28T10:15:00.000-07:00

It’s impossible to put a price tag on art, but how about $12? That’s how much US currency you’ll have to part with to secure your very own copy of 'Gill-man' by Aidan, a 5-year old boy recently diagnosed with leukemia. Buy yours here; proceeds go toward Aidan’s medical bills. And although this particular “monster” bears more than a passing resemblance to the sleestaks made popular by the ahead-of-its-time TV show, Land of the Lost, WMKAS finds it jaw-droppingly beautiful. Well done and hang in there, Aidan.

"Family Farm" by L, Douglasville, GA, crayola on paper

2010-10-15T09:33:00.000-07:00

What happens when the family farm is taken over by rogue cats? Plenty, according to Douglasville, Georgia’s rural Renoir, L. Don’t be fooled by the bright sun, freshly painted red barn and smiling “cattle” – trouble is brewing below the Mason Dixon line. Look no further than the bloated, plastic udders fashioned by the catcow on the left. Another sure sign that we’re not in Kansas anymore – the heaping mounds of catshit piled equally at right, baking in the hot sun. L’s point is not entirely clear in “Family Farm”, but one thing is as clear as the parchment sky – I wouldn’t drink the milk.

Artist Profile, S, Palm Desert

2010-10-11T13:28:00.001-07:00

It’s rare for an artist to find and establish their voice so quickly in their career. That’s never been an issue for S, Palm Desert’s most promising export since dry heat. “From a very young age, I’ve just known what I wanted to say,” she told WMKAS over a very open and inspring brunch from her desert studio between bites of animal crackers. We should all be so lucky. “Art has always been and will always be my language. And I like to think I have a beautiful voice.” Such confidence is evident in the brave, sweeping, brightly-colored slashes that characterize S’s work; something that not only defines her style, but her worldview. “The desert teaches you that anything is possible; if a flower can bloom without a drop of water in 110 degree heat, then certainly I can create something of beauty. Or at least finish re-tiling my studio!”

Aside from the paint-splattered clothing and slightly dishelved hair, S doesn’t strike you as the sterotypical brooding artiste. Detractors have claimed she floats too happily on the surface instead of diving deeper into darker, richer territory. Don’t mistake her chippy demeanor for a lack of substance cautions S. “There is no artist’s handbook that claims depression is essential to creating important work. I wake up excited every day to create something new. And without my art, I’m not sure where I would channel that joy -- perhaps into my juggling.” There have been setbacks, however. At her first public showing in Los Angeles, her work was dismissed as “too fairy-schmairy” by decidedly moodier critics than those she had wowed in sleepier Palm Desert.

“That hurt, I won’t lie,” she says, head down, doodling with a burnt orange crayola. “Part of me wanted to pack up and go back home. But a larger part of me made the decision to never let anyone dictate my work. I put them in a mental ‘time-out’ and moved forward.” And she hasn’t looked back since.

"Seamus" by F, Chicago. Charcoal on paper

2010-10-06T13:28:00.000-07:00

Now isn’t this precious? A scruffy young pup imploring us to a game of fetch or whatever it is dogs do. Chicago’s F, who sent us this charming canine, certainly seems smitten with her “Seamus” but it leaves this reviewer as cold as a Siamese cat. With eyes as soulless as a sharks and ham-fisted shading looking more like the coarse etchings of a lifeless, turn-of-the-century nude than a frisky modern-day mutt, F has managed to capture all the warmth of a shareholders meeting. No need to play dead, Seamus.

"Purple" by N, Seattle. Mixed media on scrap.

2010-09-27T07:50:00.000-07:00

The biggest formula for art is that there is no formula for art. There is no guidebook for inspiration, no paint by numbers for budding Mondrians. But there are notions. The notion that a work of art should ask something of a viewer – perhaps to re-examine, look deeper, reflect or even project; the notion that the work is born from a point of view; a kernel of communication no matter how blunt or obscure, nor base or garish in execution; and the notion of necessity – the feeling (not verified but deeply felt) that the artist had very little choice but to create the piece. There are notions, and then there is N. Her recent piece, aptly and unimaginatively titled “Purple” is a study in meandering, disconnected thought and shatters every notion of what art should and should not say or do. Too staged to be symbolism, too obscure to be remotely realist, “Purple” is simply play on paper. There are those who will say that play is paramount for art, yet I don’t believe Vinnie was simply “having a laugh” when he sliced off an ear. It takes suffering, people, not crayons. The Stormtrooper wearing the child’s backpack in the lower left, however, is a nice touch and leaves us with a trace of promise.

"A Day in the Life of a Daycare Toilet", by N, Washington, D.C., mixed media

2010-09-07T18:08:00.000-07:00

The temperature of the art world runs hot and cold and draws from the same tap as the political thirsts of this great nation. And you don’t have to be one of the top eleven online art critics in the Midwest to sense the discord in both. But leave it to N, a DC-based (where else?) “commode-artiste” to bring both worlds to a head – pun intended, of course. Entitled “A Day in the Life of a Daycare toilet”, N cheekily adorns the throne with all the trappings befitting the title – slinkys, racecars, various magnets, even a peppermint. We expect as much. Now, off we go to naptime, yes? No. N begs us to open our eyes and see the forest for the trees. Decorative as it may be, this is lipstick on a pig, folks. Distraction as message. And in a town where Glenn Beck can rally his true believers while claiming no politics, N’s piece feels right at home. No matter how you dress it up, it’s still nothing more than a shitbox. Well done, N.

WMKAS RISING STAR: C, Boston

2010-08-12T15:35:00.000-07:00

If you know anything about the art world, you know that landing a review – positive or positively scathing – in WMKAS is a major, major deal. I don’t hand out pixels to every Tom, Degas and Harry that knocks on my electronic door. But when a new artist delivers not one, but two gigabreaths of fresh air to my inbox, I grab my Smith Corona and take the message to the streets. Such is the case with C, or as she’s known in the art circles of her hometown of Boston, “that aht-ist kid.” But C is the rare case who views art as nothing more than a tiny part of a greater whole; a theorem applied to a hypothesis based on a hunch – everything and nothing is fact. These two remarkable pieces, entitled “Will she Star?” and “Will she Bird?” are as glorious and meaningful to the art world as they are to the hyper-nerds at MIT. How so? Consider this factoid from our friends in the lesser science: place a single atom in a controlled environment and it still cannot be predicted how long it will take to decay; only the probability of decay within a given time can be calculated. That’s the beauty of randomness. That’s the beauty of human nature. For no matter how many stars, birds or parameters you overlay, C cannot be predicted, she will be only what she will be. Chaos, my dear readers, is beautiful. And so is C.

"Demons of the Desert", by S, markers and raw fear on paper

2010-08-06T08:30:00.000-07:00

Oh, how a year can change things. The millions of you who read this blog daily certainly recall the soaring work of Palm Desert’s S; crackling with intensity and verve, bold swooshes of reds and yellows bespoke her arid homeland and her bold, gregarious worldview. Fast forward some 9 months and it’s clear that S has entered a new phase in her prolific career – gone is the vast, endless possibility of the desert sky, enter the cramped, judging gaze of “The Monsters.” Intrigued by this sea change, WMKAS reached out to S who granted us a surprisingly candid interview over a cold fruit juice. “Life is not all sunshine and butterflies, now is it” S began. “I don’t believe in boogeymen –‘Monsters’, is less about the physical presence and more about the demons in the mental closet.” Does that explain the cold, lifeless eyes? “Not exactly" S replied, "I have trouble drawing pupils.” Indeed!

"Ad", by C, Texas, markers and capitalism

2010-08-04T21:10:00.001-07:00

You may not realize that before he was a pop culture sensation and the most sought after artist in the world, Andy Warhol was a…drum roll, please…commercial artist. Gasp! Oh the horror! In fact, quite a few artists have taken the reverse route from selling their soul commercially to the hard, honest, absolute truth of the fine arts (selling your soul sans deadlines to billionaire “patrons” who sit atop commercial empires). But few have taken as blatant and direct a route as Texas’s own C – who is apparently hunky-dory pairing her plastic, one-dimensional work with brand names slapped across as subtle as an ice pick to the eardrum. Bebe Gear is a line of children’s clothing – cute as a button, I might add – who claims to have no contractual ties with the artist. Could it be a precocious youngster’s update on Warhol’s classic Campbell’s Soup? Let’s discuss. Warhol’s fascination with mass produced iconography was simple and well-documented; the Coca-Colas and Campbell soups of America were and are the great equalizers – presidents and the poor have equal access to a consistent taste. Warhol’s work was packaged social commentary. The rudimentary structure and glaring inconsistencies in C’s "Ad" lead us to only one conclusion: C has sold out before she ever clocked in.

Please, please beat this.

2010-08-02T13:49:00.001-07:00

It's been an unusually dull and hot summer. My serotonin levels have been more erratic than that one ape at the zoo. I attribute all this to my annual "re-awakening" (in which I find myself literally and figuratively unchanged since the year prior which triggers a shame spiral) but surely some of my malaise can be traced to the current state of the art world. The most interesting submission I have received of late is an absolute soul-crusher. See for yourself.

Animal Parabe? Oh, the banality! And why is the third beast from the left a Knight's shield? This "work" is not worthy of review. Even I can't spin gold from dull pencil shavings. Save me, dear readers, submit work worthy of my time. Do it now. Send it to danconsiglio@sbcglobal.net

“Three colored things on a rake with a fish nearby and some stuff”, R, Washington, DC

2010-07-02T09:50:00.000-07:00

It could be the biggest understatement since Jimmy Carter’s infamous proclamation uttered his first day in the Oval Office -- “this ain’t Georgia” -- to say that modern art is polarizing. And so I expect equal amounts of hate and fan mail for devoting precious blog space to R’s latest head-scratcher, “Three colored things on a rake with a fish nearby and some stuff.” If we take the title at its word, R delivers in spades. But rarely are things as they seem with modern artists -- and good luck gaining any insight through an interview! R doesn’t speak to the media but responds to queries with semaphoric flagging she records from her home studio and sends out via quicktime. My take? “Three colored things on a rake with a fish nearby and some stuff” lives right there on the surface, alongside that partially decomposed dead fish R so cheekily placed to give us her intended perspective. Don’t fish here, she tells us, you’ll only leave frustrated and hungry. The joke is on us – although this reviewer isn’t amused.

"Total Bullshit" by D, Boston, madness on paper

2010-06-11T15:01:00.001-07:00

Mental illness runs rampant in the art community. And it’s my job to deliver to you, the clueless layman, the airtight diagnosis for each artist – genius or madman? It can be thorny at times; how does one distinguish between the mindless scribblings of a homeless degenerate and the beautifully orchestrated chaos of Jackson Pollack? C’est ne pas une pipe, Magritte? Then what the fuck is it? Pardon my French. And so I labored long, hard hours over this piece from Boston school ground legend, D. What was his point of view? Where is the beginning, middle, end? What story was he telling? What connections was I – the viewer -- being asked to draw? There are leaps I am willing, no, obligated to take not as a critic but simply a viewer of art. The artist has earned that much. But for the life of me, I can’t find the thread between a turtle, mailbox, umbrella, swingset and what looks to be a cross between a Roman and Trojan soldier tapping a red fire hydrant with a reflex baton. This is pure madness. Perhaps D should check the mailbox with the upturned flag – he just might find a note from his local mental health facility.

"Color Me Bored", by L, Chicago, cut-up stuff with glue

2010-06-07T12:54:00.001-07:00

The merry prankster returns with yet another farcical romp that could even bring the rouge to Warhol’s coke-white cheeks. Chicago’s own L, dubbed “The Snarky Surrealist,” lives up to that moniker with “Color Me Bored” a delightful mixed-media gem that lives joyfully outside of the lines. With the taunting youngster’s face placed bluntly atop a crudely-colored Crayola cutout, L puts a sharp point on an otherwise dull wax: don’t be fooled by all the pretty colors, the world we see is more dull grey. Is this a majority voice, or simply an artist broadcasting her unique image on the masses? Matters little to L, as she continues to grow her latest striking collection: “Thoughts for Time Out.”

"1122112211" by T, North Carolina, markers on stone paper

2010-05-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

All work and no play makes T a dull boy. Watch the kitchen knives my friends, if work like this is any indication, T may soon be fashioning headphones with one earbud.

Theater of Pain, by S, Washington D.C., ink on used copy paper

2010-04-29T12:40:00.000-07:00

In another first for WMKAS, we have the pleasure of reviewing a submission from the nation’s capital. And it’s no surprise that “Theater of Pain” a first from line-drawer and quasi-realist, S, is laced with all the fire and brimstone that currently engulfs the stately-gilded black hole on the shores of the Potomac. A smiling President Obama (note the grotesque ears) stands triumphant yet deflects praise to an androgynous Nancy Pelosi at the lectern as scores of widened eyeballs fasten their gaze. Is it disbelief in the passage of such stunning legislation or shock from a painfully exposed legislative process? To underscore the acrimonious atmosphere, S floats a freshly severed finger barely covered with a band-aid above Pelosi on a surfboard-y knife; a medicinal albatross set in motion by a bitter and diminished John Boehner. There’s little to interpret here. But one might argue that the yearlong theater played out on mainstream media was drama enough. To me, it earns an enthusiastic “filibuster.”

Bagheera's Castle, written and illustrated by JM, Glenview, IL

2010-04-26T11:23:00.001-07:00

Bagheera’s Castle, written and illustrated by Chicago master-in-waiting JM not only cracks open a fresh category (book reviews) on WMKAS, but manages to both embrace and mock the whimsical, all’s-well-that-ends-well children’s book genre in one peculiar story. JM skillfully merges two plots – one the more expected monarchial power struggle and one deliciously metaphorical – as Bagheera the Guinea Pig King tasks his dragon and hedgehog pet/guards to search the land and bring him a carrot. JM puts the henchmen in harm’s way all in the name of the almighty carrot – a not so subtle nod to the foolish “quests” that best characterized a time when an enormous wooden horse befuddled the tightest of security.

In the end, Bagheera gets his carrot, but only after his dragon and hedgehog defeat an opposing king (looking more like the sasquatch). The last image is a satisfied Bagheera -- carrot jutting out like a victory cigar -- surveying his kingdom. What tastes sweeter, JM challenges, the unmitigated power or the simple pleasure? Bagheera it appears, can have his carrot cake, and eat it, too.

I'm plugging my book -- DEAL WITH IT

2010-04-14T06:35:00.000-07:00

I tirelessly promote the work of artists across the globe so allow me a moment of proverbial chest thumping. This is my new book which you can buy here. It's perhaps the most important work of fiction to hit the parenting genre since DeClair's 1946 classic, "When Did The Baby have Corn?"

The Sheet of Lucy, photography, L, Chicago

2010-03-23T11:02:00.001-07:00

Huzzah! Yet another whip smart challenge from arguably the art world’s most provocative thinker, Chicago native, L. Never one for Kool-Aid, L’s latest photograph lifts the veil, so to speak, on a long-believed rallying point for Christians around the globe --The Shroud of Turin. While the striking negative of amateur photographer Secondo Pia’s photographic plate revealed what many believe to be the face of their savior, L’s “shroud” veils nothing more than a child holding a dryer sheet wearing an ironic T-shirt. But like all of L’s work, including the 20-story urinal made entirely of toilet paper constructed outside Paris’ Gard du Nord last fall, the end is only the beginning. By shooting her subject intentionally veiling herself, is L suggesting we are each our own savior? Is it childish to blindly believe in an image which radiocarbon dating has proven to be from the Middle Ages, over a millennium after the death of Christ? Or is it the trusting, reassuring nature of Jesus to lead us to find ourselves in his image? Don’t look to L for answers, she clearly finds the questions to be a richer, more rewarding sandbox. Lucky for us.

"Angry Grimace Jellyfish," by B, Delaware, Ohio, marker on white paper

2010-03-11T11:16:00.000-08:00

Just like his admitted idol, filmmaker David Lynch, irrepressible line drawer, B, blends fantasy and reality with all the subtlety of a jab from a freshly sharpened Dixon Ticonderoga. Look no further than the title of his latest -- “Angry Grimace Jellyfish” – an obvious “holla” to the blatant semi-seriousness Lynch employs in plot and characters like the now infamous “Log Lady.” The difference is that Lynch, through film, has the ability to push and pull his viewers towards either side of the reality spectrum, constantly shifting the ground they stand on, forcing them to question and ultimately readjust their vantage point. “Angry Grimace Jellyfish” ends where it begins – with an angry jellyfish resembling Grimace dancing on an air mattress that has somehow sunk to the bottom of the sea. The only thing left to question is the emerging fecal matter with arms. Ho hum.

"I Am The Brightest Star", by N, Decatur, GA. Photography

2010-02-10T12:25:00.000-08:00

Artists are notoriously self-absorbed. Not necessarily vain, yet absolutely gripped by their place in the universe. And then along comes this blast of fresh southern air from rising star, N, out of Decatur, GA. Spare us the existential longing, forget the brooding, sorrowful searching. N knows exactly where he belongs – directly at the center of it all. In “I Am The Brightest Star,” N calls it like he sees it; he is the sun and center of our shared universe. All revolves around him. Is this simple narcissism or the next evolution in artistic POV? When reached for comment, N put it back into the only perspective that matters -- his: “Call it what you want, it don’t matter to me none.” Brash!

"Meow Milieu", mixed media by L, Portland

2010-01-26T12:25:00.000-08:00

Portland is famous for its relentless rain, lush greenery and the infamous “Port-fuck” reference in the cult hit, alleyball. Add to that impressive list budding mixed-media wunderkind, L. A self-described “subconscious Jungian experimentalist”, L rearranges reality in front of our very eyes to hypnotic effect in his latest tour-de-force, “Meow Milieu.” Just as Magritte begged us to question the unquestionable (ceci n’est pas une pipe), L takes the elements we freely associate with a typical housecat – whiskers, eyes, triangular pink nose, and scatters them like kitty litter across a linoleum floor. What are we left with? Makes no difference to L, he’s more concerned with what we no longer have. Or to put it in terms that tabby might grasp, ceci n’est pas un chat.

Meow, mes amis, meow.

"Julia" by P, San Jose, marker on white paper bag from trash

2010-01-08T14:32:00.000-08:00

Celebrity portraits are not exactly high art. In fact, they’re more like the Fiero of the sportscar world – sure they’re made of metal but you look like a grade-A knob behind the wheel of one. And so it was with great trepidation that I agreed to review San Jose surrealist P’s take on silver screen starlet, Julia Roberts. There’s no mistaking the cartoonish wax lips, but aside from that, P checks the photorealism at the door and opts to metaphorically capture this Pretty Woman. Two bright blue eyes – cute as buttons yet empty as cupless saucers dangle like ornaments below two clearly overreaching eyebrows. A shock of hair that looks as plastic and replaceable as a Potato Head doll asks the viewer, “who do you want Julia to be today?” Pretty Woman or Erin Brokovich are the only plausible choices – neither of which sparks the interest of this reviewer.

"Our Father" by G, Lawrence, KS, marker on gray paper

2009-12-10T10:13:00.001-08:00

The church has always been a common target in the art world. The creative mind has little trouble negotiating around the curtain of blind faith. But in recent years, a more personal target has come into the “cross” hairs, so to speak. G’s decision to playfully depict the temptation of the Catholic priest comes as no surprise given the scandalous headlines. But by reducing the Father to child size, he has -- in shockingly simple terms – posed a question for the ages: do we need the middleman to reach our God(s)? But don’t reach for that first stone just yet, G reminds us. While the figure on the left sports a snarky, holier-than-thou grin, her Bono-style glasses, hipster beard and saddle shoes smack of idol worship and materialism. Will none of us be saved?

"MASTER PLAN" Plastic doll installation, by R, St. Louis

2009-12-01T22:00:00.000-08:00

In astrology -- easily the most exacting of all the sciences – the four cornerstone elements, or Triplicities, are Fire, Air, Earth and Water. There are three signs of the Zodiac associated with each Triplicity (thus the name), and when deciphered, they contain our true, unalterable fate. Now tell that to a flat-chested 9th grader with braces and correctional footwear. In experimental upstart R’s stunning power play, the Triplicities anchored at each corner look more like buxom triplets (avec one) while two of the chosen giggle through eternity on pink and purple dolphins at the center of this dolled up universe. I want in! The easy critique is to claim bitterness – young artist on the fringe, fighting simultaneously for and against acceptance in a tug-of-war of the soul. But it’s R’s deft, less noticeable treasures that lift her above Mean Girls fare. See how the animals have found each other; how the minorities (African American and roller derby) have not been given a proper seat at the “table”; and if you look closely, it appears that pool of silly pleasures at the center may indeed be empty. As Billy once opined through character so many years ago, “The fault, dear Barbie, lies not in our stars, but in oursleves.”

NPR, LA Times GUEST CRITIC!

2009-11-23T09:10:00.000-08:00

Madeleine Brand has, as the kids say, "mad mass communication skilz." As an NPR journalist and LA Times podcaster, Brand balances the funny and the true with the deft touch and timing of a lifelong carnie. WMKAS is pleased as punch to publish her first-ever childrens' art review, below. To read and listen to more of Madeleine's fantastic body of work, visit www.parentingontheedge.com.

"IS THIS IT?" by L, Chicago (reviewed by Madeleine Brand)

“He who opens a school door closes a prison.” So said the French novelist Victor Hugo. Well, this miserable artiste cunningly opens the school in the prison, thereby deftly commenting on the extermination of free will our learning institutions are bent on carrying out. Could it be an accident that she has clad herself in prison stripes that also call to mind a French Querelle-ish tunic? And, la pauvre has no arms -- obviously a symptom of the passivity the state encourages -- Foucault’s panopticon internalized. But, wait! What’s that at the bottom of the work? The shoes -- are they not flowers blooming, ready to arch up and through the prison bars? Could it be that our petite Cosette is actually offering us poor, beaten down Jean Valjeans a ray of hope? J’espere...j’espere...

NEW TALENT UPDATE: Chicago’s O ushers in a new “dimension.” Literally.

2009-10-27T14:25:00.000-07:00

Pens and charcoal pencils down, readers. All eyes on the teacher. The landscape is shifting underneath our shiny, well-heeled wingtips. And no, I’m not talking about CHANGE (which has crushingly yet somewhat predictably given way to PARTISAN). I’m referring to a sizeable development in my neck of the woods – the heavily unstable albeit massively medicated art world. And it all begins with a nose. By eschewing the traditional dot and/or the common practice of bypassing the beezer altogether and rendering the human nose in three-dimensions, O has shattered expectations of the genre and supplied the DNA for the most exciting revolution since cubism. “Just like the world, the nose is not flat,” said the artist when reached for comment -- fitting words from an explorer standing on the brink of a new world. And while the tennis ball eyes and collagen-enhanced lips show promise, the chunky digits and wispy, juvenile body speak to a work in progress. Rome wasn’t built in a day, my friends. But if I’m in charge of the Senate, O gets the general contract.

“VOLCQIYA: Curse of the Peppermint”, by L, Chicago. Stickers on wrinkled paper

2009-10-13T21:47:00.001-07:00

I don’t frighten easily, at least not by external stimuli. And thanks to the good folks of America’s pharmaceutical companies, I’m even able to keep the inner demons from making every day a candy-less Halloween. But there is no pill, no powder nor drink -- no escaping the sheer terror that seized my marrow when I laid eyes on L’s fiendish career-maker: “VOLCQIYA: Curse of the Peppermint.” Constructed devilishly around a three-peppermint-motif, L combines iconic seasonal, and habitual images in a seemingly harmless, unspectacular grouping. The message is clear: “Nothing to see here, visitors. Grab your treat and shuffle next door.” And there will undoubtedly be those in the art world (apologies, Gerard!) who will half-wittedly unwrap the shiny gift and swallow it whole. Oh, what a creamy center they’ll miss! L’s ability to create structure out of chaos is bliss; tricolor mints lead us delicately (trapses the cat) to the spiritless witch hat – another trail gone cold on a search for shallow reason. The owl, that all-knowing watchman, seems as lost as the colored, clueless candies at his side – another fable dismissed. And the jack-o-lantern-less pumpkins sit dumb as dirt as the grinning devil waits patiently to unleash the true power of the dark season. It’s impossible to know L’s every meaning, but the Hangman-esque lettering at bottom underscores the true grit of the piece: Take off your mask if you dare. If not, take your candy and be on your way. Which will you choose?

“Target: My life as an Object.” by G, Minneapolis. Multimedia installation

2009-09-18T08:22:00.000-07:00

“Don’t speak to me like a child.”

We’ve all said it or had it played back to us at some point in time – and most certainly years beyond our childhood days. But when a child voices this protest, it is a biting reminder that linear age is not a true barometer of our ability to comprehend, express and grow. Truth be told, the very young exhibit advanced cognitive reasoning as proven by the infamous “Why can’t I have that cookie?” tests conducted by the University of Texas throughout the late 1950s. The grants were later pulled from the research – at a crucial time no less – when it was discovered that the first round award of $1.6 million had been squandered by researchers on cookies, milk and massive amounts of street-grade heroin. So it is with a wink and a smile that I took in G’s “Target: My life as an Object.” I get what the artist is saying – I really do; how can one not sense the biting sarcasm, the bottled patronization finally gushing forth like a needless duplication of exclamation points. “Super!” says the octopus; “Extraordinary!” clucks the hen (all that’s missing is the Eggs-traordinary play on words). And it’s certainly no accident that the young child takes the shape of a giant X – an obvious target for wide-eyed, bended-knee degradation. But what’s ironic about this piece, and perhaps it’s by design, is how G speaks to his audience like children – there’s no room for interpretation, it’s simply paint by numbers. As parents often tell their children, two wrongs don’t make a right. Or, in this case, a mirror is not necessarily art. Framing the reflection is what begs for a closer look.

"Midnight", collage with marker, by H, Ann Arbor, Michigan

2009-09-07T12:24:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it’s the new, openly inclusive representation in Washington. Perhaps it’s the proliferation of anti-discrimination and equal opportunity policy such as Title IX, which has attempted to steer the country to a more race/gender neutral space. Or perhaps it’s simply the latest trend in the fickle, incestuous art world. Whatever the reason, young artists seem hell bent on blurring the gray matter between chromosomes these days. While I applaud the social ambition of H’s latest work, I anguish over her completely telegraphic approach. The idea is crystal clear, and therein lays the problem. Pouring a man’s figure into a bridal gown and labeling him/her “Cinderella” is message enough. Point taken. But H’s ill-advised decision to give the figure blotchy hair-plugs is an exercise in overplay. A word of caution to all social reformists: make your audience earn the message -- dictation smacks of the monarchy.

“Stuffed…with child.” Stickers on corporate stationery, by Q, Brooklyn.

2009-09-05T10:48:00.000-07:00

Brooklyn-raised surrealist, Q, has seen a lot in his short life. As many young New York artists born in the post 9/11 lockdown, Q has focused his studies on the neighborhood instead of the world. Less travel, more home exploration. And in doing so, he’s managed to sharpen an already keen eye trained indelibly on the cultures and controlled chaos of everyday life in the world’s richest (financially and metaphysically) city. His latest effort is classic Q; a gender-bending pregnant life form made out of “food” supplied by a corporate chain. Where else but New York? The gaping orange eyes are more meth than mommy and the macaroni-featured “child” has grown larger than its host – are we eating for two or feeding the beast? It doesn’t always take a great imagination to be a successful artist. Sometimes, it’s all about – as they say in real estate – location, location, location. Q seems perfectly situated to stay a relevant force for years to come. Assuming, of course, that New York continue to supply the goods.

"Lambeau Leap", splattered paint on paper, by E, Kansas

2009-08-29T17:52:00.000-07:00

Scores of young artists have patterned their growing styles and (hopefully-growing) careers after the masters. Dimestore Picassos and Monets dot the halls of some of this country's finest budget hotels. Paint-by-number Rembrandts adorn physician waiting rooms in Scottsdale and Sioux City. Gutless Pollack-pretenders pop up in "hip" advertising agencies in Columbus and Pittsburgh. Yawn. Young E (Mahnattan, Kansas), on the other hand, has chosen a different, and somewhat surprising and to his credit somewhat refreshing, path. His master of choice? LeRoy Neiman. It speaks volumes about the humble nature of the midwesterner to graciously pattern his work safely in the low-rent district; lofty ambitions lead to monumental failures is a lesson that's taught from the cradle to the grave in America's heartland. Values aside, there is no mistaking the coarse but effective style Neiman made famous in E's work -- it's slightly above mainstream sports depictions, slightly below anything more than that is perhaps the least offensive way to put it. E's a little more free with the paint, letting his green and gold clad Packer crowd take shape more in the mind of the viewer than the canvas. The youngster isn't looking to force feed -- perhaps the one inkling that he may indeed shake free and outgrow the corn.

The Dance, marker on somewhat thick paper, by S, Minnesota

2009-08-03T20:57:00.000-07:00

This is absurdist bliss. If we believe Albert Camus, and we should, then we must understand that our very freedom, and therefore the only opportunity we have to give life any real meaning, lies in the total recognition that life itself is absurd. There are no absolutes. There is no master plan. There is no precious subtext. Man must create his own meaning and purpose. And when there are no absolutes -- no powers to please, myths to topple, doctrines to attack – when there is absolutely nothing but the hand, paint, canvas and naked world – that, my good friends, is when the triangles dance. If her work is any reflection of her true self, S has not just rechanneled the crushing despair that can come with such mature absurdist thought, but graduated to a higher plane; one where the absence of reason, logic and purpose trigger a euphoric freedom of soul most could never grasp. We may never get there ourselves, but we can each in our own way, dance with the triangles.

"Blind Sadness" by S, Chicago, raw pain on paper

2009-07-22T15:20:00.000-07:00

Rejection isn’t an easy thing to deal with. Neither, apparently, is going through life with box kites for hands. Chicago artist S debuted this shocker at last week’s “Look What I Did!” showing on the city’s slumbering north side. The reactions ranged from confusion to outrage – proof that S touched a nerve usually well insulated in lattes, sunscreen and Bay Rum. I’m of two minds of this piece, entitled “Blind Sadness”; while I applaud S for not just addressing but taking down and de-tusking the elephant of emotional abandonment in the room, I feel the piece reaches beyond its simple means -- takes that well-earned attention and flaunts it a bit too much -- to try and sneak in some personal artistic postscripts. We may never know who or what BOBOHOO is or represents (best guess is a Twin Peaks-ian father/demon figure – see the encircled BOB) but wouldn’t that make rich texture for a work of its own? Patience, S, the spotlight is focusing, your tools are sharpening, it’s almost show time.

Emerging Artist interview: L, 5 ½, Chicago

2009-07-17T14:16:00.000-07:00

WMKAS: You work in a variety of mediums – everything from colored construction paper to your recent Polly Pocket Hotel architectural model for example. Is there any one particular medium you feel most comfortable with?
L: I’ve never seen the medium as anything more than a tool. Some tools you’re better with, certainly, but we need hammers and screwdrivers to build shelves, no? They are means to an end, the aesthetic doesn’t concern me.
WMKAS: But isn’t the perception, even, emotion of the work created by the aesthetic?
L: If you only look at the surface, sure. Do you like this jumper I’m wearing? Then I must be a nice person. Not necessarily “the truth” is it?
WMKAS: What’s next for you?
L: I’m haunted by options! I’m a big believer in everyday art – removing the preciousness, so to speak. To that end, I’ve always wanted to create a sort of social experiment, living art, if you will. The opposite of flash mobs – that pre-planned spontaneity makes my flesh crawl.
WMKAS: Thank you for your time.
L: You’re quite welcome.

"Yeah!" by F, Salt Lake City, Utah. Crayons on yellowing parchment paper

2009-07-14T10:20:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed the frequency of my reviews has dropped off significantly in recent weeks. Whereas this space used to be a succulent, daily helping of steak tartar, it has been reduced to a weekly scraping of burnt toast. White bread, no less. Blame yourselves, readers. I certainly blame you. When the helter-skelter scribble shown above is the most original piece of art sent my way in the last several weeks, what more can you expect? Like any artist, I crave inspiration. And with all do respect to F, his latest radiates all the inspiration of a slug on Prozac. With lines shakier than Charles Schultz nearing his end, F’s work is more pedestrian than Pollack. Random thickets of color shatter any semblance of balance and appear to serve only the pre-nap whims of a cranky youth struggling to find a unique point of view. From this critic’s vantage point, that POV better find a focal point soon or F might find himself SOL. Let this be a warning, readers: art is serious business. Playtime is over.

"Hello, Gotham" by S, Chicago. Mixed media

2009-07-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

You wanna know how I got these scars?
Heath Ledger’s tormented Joker literally stole the show in last year’s epic addition to the Batman franchise, The Dark Knight. His posthumous Oscar was a fitting, and well-deserved tribute to a devoted, disciplined artist. The young Aussie certainly left quite an impression on Chicago artist, S; one glimpse at his haunting new master craft, “Hello, Gotham”, and you are hit with the urge to hide all the sharp pencils in the house. But what’s most disturbing about this piece is S’s unmistakable penchant for dressing down the horror to deeper effect; the selection of pastel, stripey, short-sleeve children’s garb and freshly painted pink nails coddles the devil in swaddling clothes. Not only does he walk amongst us, S implies, but can assume the benevolent form of a bubbly toddler at the neighborhood park. Looks like the joke’s on you, suburbia. Run, jog, or rollerblade but you most certainly cannot hide.

"Pick Me Up" by S, Chicago, assorted colored papers in Starbucks cup

2009-06-30T21:31:00.000-07:00

Chicago’s resident pop culturist and scathing intellect, S, has brewed up another delight. This time at the expense of your friendly neighborhood Starbucks – where a paltry $3.75 can get you ice, milk and coffee blended together! S doesn’t drink the jingo, dear viewers. The cup is not half empty, but filled to the brim with corporate greed, empty promises and enough sugary artificial happiness to make you feel, well, something. How American: a common staple tarted up and whored out like a happy pill. Make mine a Venti.

"My America," by S, stickers on paint and maybe a little marker

2009-06-23T11:44:00.000-07:00

Palm Desert new age artist and muse of the American Southwest, S, debuted a spirited, playful piece in this space, which you can see here. Apparently, her mood has shifted to match the arrival of the blistering summer heat. S’s latest piece -- while staying true to the Southwestern color palette – is a 180-degree about face. Shotgun blasts of blood red pockmark a swarm of moths, butterflies, bees, ladybugs and one unfortunate dragonfly. These are among nature’s most harmless creatures, but S takes them to task. It’s the common man who pays the price of the titans’ folly – a message as timely and refreshing as a desert wind in this New American Landscape where insider dealings build mansions in the Hamptons and bilk hard working taxpayers of their dreams. Kudos to the young woman for having the courage to lay her cards on the table from the relative calm and security of Palm Desert. Are you listening, Washington?

"Polly Pocket Hotel", architectural model by L

2009-06-16T12:06:00.000-07:00

L has never been one for categories. Her art has always strived to serve only the idea, not adhere to the specifications of any so-called movement. And so it is with her first foray into architecture: "Polly Pocket Hotel” – a name as blunt and honest as L’s legendary demeanor – picks up right where her brush leaves off. Defying both modernism and post-modernism, L drives a wedge between the two with a stunning plan that has both camps scratching their collective heads. Eschewing the belief that structures must be either firm or folly, "Polly Pocket Hotel” is half Wagner, half Wonka, and delightfully 100% L. “If it’s structurally-sound” L told us recently in an exclusive interview from her mud room, “you can go anywhere from there. I have no interest in building what I see, only what I imagine.” Up next for the young rebel: a 700-story skyscraper made of play dough and pipe cleaners. Delightful!

"Into the Bowlels" by C, Chicago, crayon madness

2009-06-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

People are frightened of greatness. Frightened of the sacrifices it takes, frightened of the responses it might elicit, frightened of the sheer power of it; the removal of limits and boundaries which provide the framework for our safe, mediocre lives. This is not to say greatness exists in everyone, but it’s fair to say there are those out there who have shelved the possibility – swallowed it whole with their antidepressants and orange juice -- and taken the first train to “thinking less.” Today, WMKAS is proud to debut a savagely fierce young artist who not only shows no fear of what is certainly his destiny, but embraces it like a stuffed Garfield. Chicago’s own C has delivered us with his first work, “Into the Bowels”, a tour-de-force as unsettling and guttural as its title. With line form as true as a salute, C employs a spectral range of colors whirling and diving, melding and throbbing. The viewer is both pushed and pulled, invited and expelled. We’re left exactly where we began. Are we wiser for the journey? Tell yourself whatever you like, C seems to be saying, you matter little to the process; the process has its own natural order. C, however, seems destined to be one of the precious few capable of rewriting the code. Bravo.

"Any and Every Day" by J, Phoenix

2009-06-10T14:41:00.000-07:00

It takes a deft hand to find the right shade of subtlety. Too little, and the viewer sees only lifeless, pointless gray. Too much and the true story is lost in a predictable Oreo cookie of black and white. The Academy Award winning film, Crash, for example, served up enough Oreos to feed the entire public school system in New York City for a month. Woah! In short, subtlety is a weapon, but only in the right hands. Hands like abstract upstart, J. What appears to be a standard mother-and-son-smiling-in-the-sun piece (yawn) begs for a closer look. And then the clues begin to surface like bubbles in a gassy toddler’s bath; the transparent dress, the codpiece on the balding youngster, the sparse, struggling vegetation and finally, ultimately, the exploding sun. Everything we know and love today, suggests J, can be turned upside down tomorrow. A bleak worldview for such a precocious young mind? Perhaps. But Academy Awards have been doled out for far less.

Art Exhibit dominated by H, Portland, Oregon

2009-06-06T07:42:00.000-07:00

I won’t lie to you; I was feeling a bit downhearted when I left for my little oasis in West Des Moines. The demons were circling…was this blog actually accomplishing what I set out to do: set the art world on its collective ear (pardon the pun, Vincent)? After an inspiring start, many of the recent submissions felt childish, hollow, vapid. And truth be told, some of my reviews lacked the passion I so rightly demand in the work. And then I return to find this gem shining brightly from my digital inbox; it’s a still image snapped at Miss Kalcfactis’ second grade art exhibit, “Growing: A Retrospective” in Portland, Oregon. Amidst the clunky, unimaginative “flowers” bloom two dazzling inspirations. My heart literally fluttered as I drank in H’s category-shattering dabs and swirls. Arguably, the entire wall depicts flora, yet which pieces evoke growth, change, possibility, and dare I say, love? Thank you, H, for setting ablaze again a fire that had quieted to a candle flicker. And for proving beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this humble blog is doing yeoman’s work.

Back from Vacation

2009-06-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I try and steal away each Spring to my little slice of muse-inducing heaven that is West Des Moines. The good people at the Spring Hill Marriott simply radiate with a joie de vivre that is truly inspiring. My heartfelt thanks for a much needed battery recharging. And Craig and Danielle, stay in school! The blog is officially back in session, my patrons. And as such, I demand a fresh supply of your latest, greatest works. Send away (danconsiglio@sbcglobal.net); my extraordinary mind is your blank canvas.

"Fly, Fly, Can I?" by H, Tucson, Dixon Ticonderoga on 20# paper

2009-05-30T22:34:00.001-07:00

George Rodrigue had his Blue Dog, Georgia O’Keefe had her flowers, and apparently, Tucson upstart, H, has her triangles. I haven’t seen such a blatant abuse of white space since the Serra Sculpture (shown here). It’s always unfortunate when an artist decides to serve the “hook” rather than fish for something more nourishing, but H’s “Fly, Fly, Can I?” is as hard on the eyes as it is the soul. The merciless abuse of the triangle not only creates a horribly unbalanced page, but suggests absolutely nothing more than H’s apparent inability to draw any other shape. If forced to find a redeeming quality in the work, it might just be the curious addition of a Jack O’Lantern in the woman’s stomach. If this reviewer had to guess, and with this piece anything is possible, I would say it suggests that our mad hero was impregnated by goblins while waiting for The Great Pumpkin.

New Movement or Blatant Rip Off? Can it be both?

2009-05-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

When does a style become a full-fledged artistic movement? And does it have to take place in France? Both excellent questions. One thing is clear, however: a line must be drawn (literally) between art that earnestly represents the most fundamental ideals of the movement and “art” that merely mimics a style in hopes of cashing in. Witness the similarities in St. Louis artist, O’s new work (at top) and a still image from a San Diego artist’s multimedia effort reviewed less than a month ago in this very space. Are we witnessing the birth of a new genre? Or is O simply a marginally talented plagiarist? We went directly to the source. A telling excerpt from our interview with O is below:

WMKAS: Are you working with the San Diego artist?
O: Hello.
WMKAS: Is this a coordinated effort or mere happenstance?
O: (silence)
WMKAS: Sir, I should think you—
O: Poop! (hysterical laughing)

Exposed!

"DEAL WITH IT!" by P, Utah, suburban graffiti

2009-05-21T21:49:00.000-07:00

Graffiti art is and always will be debated: is it art, destruction of private property, both? No matter what side of the barbed wire fence you land on, one thing is for certain: the movement has produced some recognized, respected names in the art world, and for good reason. (see some fantastic work here). So what to do with Utah-native and natural born rebel, P? His much-heralded debut fits the graffiti movement in theory – it ‘tags’ a physical space not created for art. But while its size and scope are ambitious, it lacks the playful muscle well done graffiti metes out. One wonders if the artist was more bent on simple destruction rather than commentary; reports that this work was completed in less than 17 seconds hint to the latter. Note to P: destruction is child's play, creation is all growed up.

Pay attention, people

2009-05-18T08:47:00.000-07:00

Roberta Fallon is a genius. So she's perfect for this blog. She and her dear friend and co-genius, Libby Rosof, keep an incredible blog called the ARTBLOG which you should all visit and expose your kids to immediately. Just take in a glimpse of Roberta's incredible CV: Roberta has written about art for Philadelphia Weekly, Artnet, Art Review, Art on Paper, Philadelphia Inquirer and Art and Auction, and has taught and been a visiting critic at Tyler School of Art, St. Joseph’s University and Cranbrook Academy of Art. Add my humble blog to her credits -- her amazing review is below. Thank you, Roberta.

"Loving the Fashion" by L, reviewed by Roberta Fallon
This fine marker drawing by L captures the current trend in portraiture as fashion statement. (Elisabeth Peyton works this trend well. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Peyton for more). L's figure, a gender-ambiguous and ageless beauty stands at ease and confronts the viewer. L's fashionable interpretation of this person activates the entire surface of the drawing. This is a bold representation whose one word --L U C Y-- in the upper left corner sings like a brand label proudly claiming its territory. Everything here from the spiky and wind-tossed hair to the sweet A-line shift with Popeye sleeves and capri skort says this is a person of consequence, a leader among men or women. While it's hard to interpret, L's treatment of the fingers is particularly appealing. The triune of lines and squares easily reference pawn shop cherries (commerce in our days of recession) or perhaps Calder's mobiles (a smart Modernist art historical reference that is in itself very post-Modern). Whatever the meaning, these digits (and who says three can't stand in for five!) feel fresh and new!

L is obviously on her way to stardom. Among other things, her line quality is sure; her concept of the emboldened figure confronting the viewer is solid; and her unselfconscious signature shows her grasp of the importance of branding. I look forward to seeing where L takes this body of work in the future.

"Shitstorm" by J, charcoal on small notebook paper

2009-05-16T07:34:00.000-07:00

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore. And may I further say, my canine friend, I do believe we’ve slipped the surly bonds. J’s otherworldly debut is the brave work of a burning young soul; borrowing on traditional Americana (the little house carried away by the twister in Wizard of Oz) to make a much larger point on the chaotic state of affairs in modern America – a frenzied place that would surely bunch Auntie M’s considerable housedress. Just as Sinclair Lewis used his small town upbringing to tear apart such places in his scathing depictions, J trades on his unique makeup as both the son of an artist and meteorological zealot to take us swiftly to the eye of the storm. The little home can only hope to be swept up and carried to a better place these days. Instead, J, intones, we’re forced to ride it out in this man-made mess. There is no man behind the curtain. There is no Oz. There is only the shitstorm, Toto.

"Hello, Dave" by L, mixed media

2009-05-13T07:58:00.000-07:00

In Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece, 2001: A Space Odyssey, mankind is sent on a sort of scavenger hunt to the cosmos, in search of the entity responsible for the placement of the evolution-inspiring monoliths. The search is powered by human-created technology in the form of the wisecracking HAL9000 computer. What transpires is a battle for evolutionary control between man and machine. The art world’s resident ghost in the machine, L, offers her take on the never-ending story in “Hello, Dave.” Look all you want, the artist teases, and you’ll end up right where you began. By placing the coyly smiling child inside the astronaut’s helmet, L takes a direct stab at one of the most famous images from the film. But instead of a mind-bended space captain peering into the void, L’s child radiates playful, all-knowing innocence: all of and none of the questions are answered here. And that, says L, is the closest we’ll ever get. Take heed, NASA.

"Grandma" by M, Columbus, Ohio

2009-05-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

BLOG AUTHOR'S NOTE: My brother Joseph (pronounced Yo-Sef) is also a genius. See a riveting documentary on our incredible lives HERE. And then read his genius critique of a surprising new work below.

Guest critic: Joseph Consiglio
The abysmal despair embodied by a featureless black angus cow in bric-a-brac wig, in second-grade rising star M’s bitter parody of suburban alienation, “Grandma,” makes Munch’s sinewy screamer look downright swishy by comparison. The mock-pleasant, lurid artifice of buildings and sky, stalked by a most bovine evil, amid which a suspended square basketball reminds the viewer that grade school is but a withering dream, is udder-ly terrifying. When this deeply affected reviewer tried to reach the artist for comment, she was at soccer.

"Kick It, Mom" by L, 5:29 am on Mothers' Day

2009-05-10T07:33:00.000-07:00

I could discuss the gangsta pose of the mother in the heart (mom is a tough MF). Or the neck that resembles a small intestine. But really, this work says one simple thing clearly and beautifully: Happy Mothers' Day.

"Love or Detroit", by L, Chicago, blue marker on typing paper

2009-05-08T21:41:00.001-07:00

Yes. Stop. No. Does the heart send messages to the brain in telegram? Or are we all coded and pre-programmed for only three black and white responses? Where's the emotion, the soul, the Hallmark-schmaltz modern media has credited to the most lovey-dovey of all organs, the heart? L calls a spade a spade, or in this case, a heart. Stop the pining, folks. It's an organ, no different than a spleen. Serve that with chocolates. There's also a good chance this could be the state of Michigan but the Pinot's flowing and my truffles are ripe!

"Ta daa!" by L, markers on old alphabet paper

2009-05-06T20:17:00.000-07:00

We live on a razor thin line, my friends. Life is not all that different from a magician's bag of tricks. In L's latest uproarious effort, the master of sledgehammer subtlety strikes again. In this life, we're either faking it or we're dead. There is no in between. You're getting sawed in half but still wiggling your toes for the giddy crowd or you're catatonic in a pine box. Which one is it? L pulls another rabbit out of her hat. Sublime.

READER SUBMISSION: "Pregnant Banana Lady from Mexico", by M, Chicago

2009-05-04T21:29:00.000-07:00

Lovable, racist brand icons are as American as Mom, apple pie and baseball (now 35% populated by Latin born players, by the way). Look no further than the Colonel, KFC's sassy sharecropping pitchman. Delicious! So there is definitely some tasty space to play where Warhol's ode to consumerism left off. M fills that space deftly and pulls absolutely no punches in "Pregnant Banana Lady from Mexico". The artist leaves little to the imagination, or does he? A dead ringer for Chiquita's well-known icon, M has made some devilish "updates"; a touch of elephantitis to the right hand attacks the blatant sexist nature of the original piece; the shrunken head can in no way "carry the load" of her more traditional sister; and lastly, what apeears to be an elongated pregnant belly takes all the sand from that famous hourglass figure. But M leaves his icon's skin white as snow. After years of having our fun at the sake of cultures around the globe, who's the servant girl now?

READER SUBMISSION: “You Tell Me Because I Don’t Know”, by A, St. Louis

2009-05-03T06:30:00.000-07:00

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece The Great Gatsby, a painting expressed in type if there ever was one, the author explores the importance (or overblown significance) of symbolism throughout the book. Are the all-seeing eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg on the faded billboard those of God or nothing more than peeling paint on weathered wood? Fitzgerald lets his protagonist and readers wrestle with that one. In “You Tell Me Because I Don’t Know”, A serves up a veritable smorgasbord of possibilities. There’s no question as to who we’re regarding (although the addition of the names is a bit small-town for this reviewer), but what hangs ominously (or divinely?) just above their heads and below the azure sky? Is it the eyes of their maker watching over them? Two birds and free souls shadowing their human frames? Or two enormous sagging breasts with tired, reddened nipples? Great Scott!

"Woman in Leather Football Helmet" by E, Columbus, markers and fabric on paper

2009-04-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

There is an Indian tribe known for creating meticulously crafted blankets. Each woven blanket contains such mind-boggling attention to detail, they’re nearly painful to observe. But woven into each and every one is a minor yet purposeful flaw; the tribe realize perfection is not attainable. So the flaw is built in, so to speak. It might be wise to expose up-and-coming realist, E, to some Indian culture. In her debut piece “Woman with Leather Football Helmet”, we witness a devotion to symmetry usually reserved for more concrete endeavors such as architecture or juggling. The orange woman (a subconscious nod to harmonious Indian culture perhaps?) is bracketed perfectly between mirroring patterns of hearts and flowers (reflected in the shapeless housedress no less); one sole flower protrudes from each orange oven mitt. All lovely to look at it but you get the sense that E is bottling it up, holding back. Even the sun is sheared into a nice, more controllable straight line. Why do we believe this artist has more to say? Ask yourself why this pleasant woman in the most pleasant of surroundings is wearing a leather football helmet. That’s the story we’d like to see unfold in E’s next work.

WORLD PREMIERE! "Down down", by A, San Diego, mixed media

2009-04-28T12:06:00.000-07:00

Catch your breath now, if you can. This raucous debut from much-heralded multimedia wunderkind, A, proves that while San Diego may be a sleepy beach town, much is stirring under its' sandy surface. In 23 of the most powerful seconds you will ever experience, A visually and emotionally brings us "Down down" with her subject's vicious descent into madness. The pupils ever dilated, the teeth morphing to fangs then giving way to a mute gaping black hole -- and ladies and gentlemen, when our ability to express drips away, the demonic feeding frenzy begins. But in an absolutely delicious turn, A loops the footage repeatedly. The message is clear: we are never at rest. We are never at peace. Art cannot save you. Nothing can save you. Now rise and do it again. An absolutely transcendent debut. Where is the east coast response? Holla.

READER SUBMISSION: "Daddy" by O, Hotlanta, marker on let's call it whiteboard

2009-04-25T12:19:00.000-07:00

Across America, peppy little shops in largely conservative, lily-white suburbs like to flex their worldliness by importing the handiworks from artisans in faraway lands such as Mexico or even Belize. Yes, such shops are the talk of the town. And how about that quirky owner with the ponytail? Is he gay? Or just artsy? Such shops (and quirky owners) are fascinated with Mexico’s Dia De La Muerte: a three-day festival in the lawless country devoted to honoring their dead and lighting off fireworks. Huzzah. However, this unremarkable festival is best known, and unfortunately so, for it’s whimsical arts and crafts almost always featuring a child-like skeleton. That’s all well and good until you receive a disturbing piece of work like “Daddy”. With the oversized eyes, triangular nose, and grim expression complete with scar, there’s no doubt as to the inspiration. Unless Daddy is a child skeleton, O is simply doing what all artists do: creating what they know. Perhaps Mommy is spending too much time browsing in “The End of the Earth” or “Art From All Over.” What’s next, O, pop art of a Starbucks Frappacino; a Chuck Close Target logo; a Gymboree documentary? Apparently, today is my personal day of the dead.

"Mommy" by N, Chicago, digital photography

2009-04-23T14:11:00.000-07:00

Children don’t question technology. It would be as if I questioned the existence of the phonograph or rubber tires in my childhood. They were simply there as they always had been; I had no concept of what life was like before. But N proves us wrong with this snarky image, shot – savor the delicious irony, here – with a digital camera. Taken purposely at eye level, N shows us what she sees, and it’s not pretty. An arm extends into the frame/computer screen holding the faceless child in an utterly loveless pose -- as if it’s being propped up like a hero trout for approval by all those essential new “buddies” on MyFacebooks. Yet by leaving things slightly out of focus, the artist has given each of us just the chemicals needed to bring our own clarity to the story. Will we venture into the darkroom? Or go on drifting in cyberspace. LOL!

READER SUBMISSION: "BLU" by G, St. Louis, paint on parchment

2009-04-22T07:46:00.000-07:00

Prick up your ears, fans; the art world may very well have just crowned a new King of Subtext! “BLU”, a glorious new work from G not only underscores his incredible emotional and physical growth as an artist (see his playful yet rather inauspicious debut HERE), but -- thanks to a deft touch, master-grasp of color and shade, and a wryness that defies his years – catapults this young man to an entirely different level. One color is all G needs to sweep us off our feet with this kinetic gem. As the paint bleeds heartily off the page, we are left wanting and feeling more, our soul continues where the canvas ends. But there’s more to this emotional wave than initially meets the eye. For buried in this treasure is a reminder to all of us: let emotion blindly carry us and there will be consequences. Are we receiving “the bird” for all our efforts? Who better to deliver this message than the artist? Bravo, G.

I cannot be bought.

2009-04-21T12:51:00.000-07:00

As crucial as it may be to receive a glorious review for your child's art in this heralded space, put your money back in your trousers, please. Flattering posts such as this one do not, and will never color my impressions. Like any great artist, I serve my muse first and only. Rent be damned.

READER SUBMISSION: "Stampy Time" by S, Palm Desert, markers and adorable animal stamps

2009-04-20T13:31:00.000-07:00

The vast sprawling southwest has created a culture all its own. As the grids and gridlock disappear, the mind reshapes. Sunshine replaces cloud, endless replaces finite and as is the case with this searching debut by S, optimism replaces pessimism. Draped literally in the dreamy oranges, pinks and purples of a desert sunset, “Stampy Time” is the very image of an artist at play, and at peace with herself. The flippant lines follow no preordained plans here, flowing as wild as a tumbleweed in the open plain. Decorative beaver and alligator heads form a cheeky yin-yang: it takes teeth and hard work to come to terms with who you really are. It seems S has both. This is lighter fare, no doubt, but tasty nonetheless.

READER SUBMISSION: "Swan" by C, Portland, original sculpture

2009-04-19T07:45:00.000-07:00

This is the blog's first foray into sculpture. For obvious reasons, it is also the last.

"Head Body" by L, cutouts and blobs of paint on paper

2009-04-17T15:04:00.000-07:00

Keith Haring’s brilliant career was sadly cut short but not before he introduced us to some of the most joyful art seen in decades. His bright colors and iconic “people in motion” literally leapt off the page and defined an artist buoyed by possibility against the longest of odds. In one flat swift kick, L nearly undoes this all. “Head Body” is the art world’s answer to the Edsel. A discouraging glut of color and shape answer to no higher reason here, and simpleminded attempts to add “depth” to the piece (one eye, how mysterious!) carry the subtlety of a Humvee in a Quaker village. Let us hope that this unfortunate character’s resemblance to Haring’s tribe is purely coincidental. If not, L owes the art world a sincere apology. I’ll bring the microphone. Have a glorious weekend.

READER SUBMISSION: "My Two Hands" by L, San Diego, paint on parchment

2009-04-16T09:03:00.001-07:00

For most artists, physically hiding smaller creations in larger works is the trickery of the adman. Skulls lurking in ice cubes doesn’t exactly scream “high art”. Some movements however -- folk art in particular – rely on rich layers of creation which combine to tell the entire story. Such layers aren’t hidden Waldo-style, but on clear display for the viewer. So it is with mixed emotions I give you L’s “My Two Hands.” We’ve all seen the harmless handprint ad nausea and L takes full advantage of this, daring us to set aside preconceived ideas and discover the devilish nuances in his work. Why is the left hand on the right side, a la Twister? Are there six fingers on said hand? But it’s the twisted contortions of the other “left” hand that provide the most compelling proof of this young artist’s gift. Look closely. It’s not hard to see the Lincoln-log headed beast, but in a move reminiscent of MC Escher, did this beast in fact create the handprints in this piece? Incredible.

"My Dad" by K, St. Louis, marker on scroll

2009-04-14T21:19:00.001-07:00

Notice any resemblance? It’s not uncommon for young artists to indulge in a bit of idol worship when it comes to portraits of their “fathers”. But K takes this notion of Dad as Savior a tad too literally. Apparently, in K’s world, the sun’s only purpose is to frame Daddy’s head perfectly from every angle. We’re also led to believe that Pappa walks around with arms spread gathering his lost flock for Chinese takeout and a bit of Wii bowling. You’re young K, we forgive your indiscretions, but please. Either give your audience some credit or get thee to a nunnery.

"Here They Are, My Family, I Mean" by L, marker on paper

2009-04-13T12:52:00.000-07:00

Family portraits can reveal a lot about an individual, less so about an artist. The viewer is never really sure where to separate fact from fiction, experience from expression. So it is with L’s “Here They Are, My Family, I Mean.” True, the age and sex of her family members appears to be accurately portrayed giving the viewer a base in realism, but let’s not take the express train, shall we? Further inspection finds a young artist’s sardonic wit more on display than the limbs of any family tree. The full-chinned “father” seems blowfish-boastful while his masculinity is mocked by his thinning blue hair. Mommy smiles mindlessly by – shelving her dreams and independence for the unit while her unfulfilled hopes of another youngster manifest themselves as a top-hatted kernel caught in her throat. She’s choking. Who will save her? Can you, L? Or is this indeed why you paint?

"Happy Easter" by L, marker on paper at 5:19 a.m.

2009-04-12T06:39:00.000-07:00

The thought of having an enormous rabbit sneaking around your house in the middle of the night hiding eggs amongst your knick knacks, to me, is a Fellini-esque nightmare. It certainly doesn't inspire such harmless etchings as above. Regardless, enjoy this sugary Easter treat.

READER SUBMISSION: "Mrs Johnson" by N, New York, crayons and pencil on something

2009-04-10T20:41:00.000-07:00

They say the eyes are the window to the soul and if that is indeed true, than N’s “Mrs. Johnson” may be the only known portrait of a black hole. There’s lots to say about this peculiar piece; the freakish yellow skin, the animal cracker-nose, the 57 teeth or the fact that all of this madness is framed in double-edged candles and bones, but nothing ensnares the viewer like those hollow almond holes. Not since the Mona Lisa have eyes told us so much and so little at the same time. Is she a “mad scientist” as her shirt so playfully suggests? Or is Mrs. Johnson really nothing more than a metaphor? A metaphor for the dead-eyed, animal cracker-nosed, 57 teeth, yellow skin freak framed by double-edged candles and bones in each of us? N will never tell.

Intimidated?

2009-04-09T16:43:00.000-07:00

This absolutely jaw-dropping Horzebra was one of several images on display at an all-children art show at Arcadia University. Work of this caliber makes me want to shut this blog down toute-de-suite. Sigh. But instead, I've invited a top east coast critic (who happened to review the work at this show) to be a guest critic in this space. Consider the heat turned up. Stay tuned and send works of REAL substance to danconsiglio@sbcglobal.net.

“By the Light of the Tiny Death Devils” by L, marker on fairy paper

2009-04-07T21:54:00.000-07:00

L has never been concerned with staying inside the lines. Perhaps the most controversial young artist since Mapplethorpe, L never fails to challenge the viewer on esoteric, emotional and very personal levels. Art critic and smart person Brad DeMarea once likened viewing L’s work to “cheese grating your knees.” Spot on. In “By the Light of the Tiny Death Devils”, L has created one of her most simplistic yet monstrous works to date. It’s a study in double meaning. The color palette is harmless enough, yet brilliantly, all the colors are in the wrong places. Blue faces, green necks, Peter Criss-style makeup; are these gentle fairies or angels of death? And note the jagged marker strokes; staccato stabs where charming crayon is usually found. The result is unsettling, and by design. For L doesn’t want you too close and comfy with her work. She wants to light your face on fire.

REVIEW CONTEST!!!! "Red" by A, St. Louis, paint or blood on paper

2009-04-06T14:20:00.000-07:00

Today's your lucky day. I'm throwing this blog open to all the amateurs out there who live and die by my thought-provoking critiques. Post your review of "Red" in the COMMENTS section or email it to danconsiglio@sbcglobal.net. Winning review is posted on the main page. I decide who the winner is because only I can do things like that. Not you. Godspeed.

This man is not me.

2009-04-05T21:35:00.000-07:00

But it could be. Maybe I do wear a beret, it doesn't matter. The point is, I know art and don't you forget that. I was recently challenged here, and as you will read, I meted out an appropriate smack down. I don't like doing that but test me, my friends, and you too will get the horns. You don't have to agree with me but you MUST respect me.

READER SUBMISSION: "Paper or Plastic?" by N, St. Louis, Tempara on brown bag with cut string

2009-04-04T20:46:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard quite a lot about this young artist. My contemporaries in St. Louis describe him as “Pollack meets Falling Man.” After spending a considerable amount of time with “Paper or Plastic?” I’m not so sure I agree. In fact, I’m quite certain I don’t. Where Pollack was slave to eruptions of spontaneity, N’s work is wonderfully deliberate. Even the hair has meaning: the perfectly coiffed golden wave adorned with shiny tape (sculpting gel, perhaps?) informs the viewer that this is not Obama’s everyman: this is Rush’s small government, tax-break Titan who can’t be bothered with so-called “Change.” His limbs evoke the red stripes of Old Glory; externally, we’ve got ourselves a Patriot. Yet like so many “ditto-heads”, there’s a storm brewing inside. N’s violent brush strokes and unsettling color palette depict a man at war with himself -- trying desperately to follow the path as prescribed yet longing to disappear into the welcoming thicket. And that my friends, is the no-spin zone.

The Next Master?

2009-04-04T06:14:00.000-07:00

Is your child the next Picasso? Perhaps. I highly doubt it. In fact, most childrens' art is nothing more than the brain venting nervous energy -- neurological spit-up on paper, if you will. Maybe your kid's different. Again, I doubt it. But email me their work anyway and I will make the final call because I am supremely equpipped to do so. Send jpegs to danconsiglio@sbcglobal.net.

READER SUBMISSION: "Dirt" by S, Chicago; marker on brownish paper

2009-04-03T21:11:00.000-07:00

The Russian-born artist Wassily Kandinsky compared the spiritual life of humanity to a large triangle. It was the artist’s job, he theorized, to lead others to the top of the pyramid by the exercise of his talent. On first review, S’s strident debut seems too wiry, too “Kandinsky-light” for real mettle. And then it hits you. To ascend to the peak, one must travel lightly. S chooses only red marker and soiled paper, tools wispy enough to carry the weight of the world if she so chooses. Another piece like this one and the choice will be made for the young lady. This is exciting stuff!

“Old Toys” by M, art installation

2009-04-03T13:57:00.000-07:00

Youth is wasted on the young, they say. But just because one’s age is in the single digits, does not mean one’s perspective is limited to crayons, cartoons and cheesy puffs. Mozart began composing at the tender age of 5, do we consider his work “juvenile?” Of course not (unless you’re Salieri! Jealous much? Oh, mercy!). So it’s with great anticipation that M ventured off the canvas with “Old Toys” a flirty yet demoralizing piece that is as much about the premature death of her youth as it is the narrow, brainless scope of societal influence force fed to growing minds like a race car on a governor. To regard this work is to face our shame. For while these particular toys may be “old”, there is a fresh-faced bunch popping off the assembly line specially designed to limit our abilities and expectations. How cute!

"Two Stories" by L; cutouts on construction paper

2009-04-02T19:38:00.000-07:00

There is a certain safety in nursery rhymes. Somehow, these bizarre refrains, which are really entertaining and underappreciated surrealist farces, are never taken at more than face level. “Oh what a cute rhyme” the mommy says. But the child artist understands the laughing dog and fiddle-playing cow to be dimension bending, slightly demonic “what-ifs”. There’s a reason such rhymes are read before bedtime; the brain needs highly-active REM sleep to wander the possibilities set about by these wonderful passages. L does her level best to demonstrate the duality of the nursery rhyme in the aptly (if not too obviously) titled “Two Stories.” By placing the text alongside a happy, smiley moon we see the nursery rhyme in its’ snuggly, warm-milk state as bedtime companion. But the rest is pure chaos. While the elements are all plainly represented, their relationship with each other is a masterwork of shattered space, depth and balance. The intention is clear: the cadence my lull us to sleep, but the passage sets our minds ablaze.

READER SUBMISSION “Brimstone” by K, St. Louis, paint and decoupage

2009-04-02T08:17:00.000-07:00

This one’s actually pretty freaking good. Jesus, she’s 8?
Submit worse artwork than this to danconsiglio@sbcglobal.net

"Movie 75" by L; experimental performance piece

2009-03-30T20:43:00.000-07:00

There are those pieces that lay us bare. Works of art so powerful, so profound, so raw that we critics drop our notepads, rare back from our keyboards, cup our gaping mouths and simply feel the artist. “Movie 75” is a beautiful and terrifying work. To critique such a piece does a disservice to the art world. For who can’t sense the isolation, the disappearing into oneself? Who can’t hear the senseless, guttural cries into the void? “Am I done?” the artist asks rhetorically at the end of the piece. Perhaps. That is, if this absurd mystery ever really began.

SCANDAL!!! Reader Submitted Work Too Close For Comfort?!?!

2009-03-29T06:59:00.000-07:00

It's one thing to be a disciple of an artistic movement -- Renoir and Monet's styles weren't exactly oil and vinegar after all ROTFL! But when the details of a specific piece are lifted so blatantly, so callously, well, that is cause for alarm in the uber protective art world. So imagine my shock when I received this piece (above left) "created" by K, San Francisco, USA. On the right is a sketch by the surrealist Max Ernst. I leave it to you, viewer. The aggressive animal imagery, the dichotomy of crayon/charcoal stroke, the faded parchment backdrop? If imitation is indeed the sincerest form of flattery, Mssr. Ernst should be overjoyed. K, however, should take a long hard look in the mirror.

READER SUBMISSION "Cereal" by G, St. Louis; Bingo dabbers on wet paper

2009-03-28T07:44:00.000-07:00

There’s a children’s book about a pig named Olivia who, after seeing a Jackson Pollack in an art museum claims, “I could paint that.” That evening, she splatters her bedroom wall in red paint and earns herself a timeout. Cute. Abstract expressionists are the butt of a lot of jokes. And I have to believe G wasn’t the most popular one on the playground after creating this gem. Where’s the silly yellow sun? The jagged rainbow? The one-dimensional chimney with springy coils of smoke? All juvenile crap. G’s “Cereal” is pure kinetic energy, a mad celebration of the artistic process, final product be damned. While his so-called contemporaries are busy penning spindly-legged babysitters with oversized bows in their hair, G is exploring the depths of raw, unedited human emotion in all its violent glory. A painful path perhaps, but art isn’t recess. Onward, young man.

READER SUBMISSION: "Stage" by T; San Diego, marker on paper

2009-03-27T08:41:00.000-07:00

Leroy Neiman made a nice living capturing sports stars in their moments of glory. Fan of his work or not, the borrowed interest brought a certain “look at me” to his pieces. So it’s no surprise that musicians get their fair share of idol worship amongst the “starving artist” crowd; it’s the three-chord route to stardom, right? Perhaps. Where T’s work differs, and in this reviewer’s mind far surpasses Neiman’s, is wholly on the principle of insight. Neiman’s paint-sloppily-yet-still-by-numbers approach has none. T’s decision to take larger than life rockers The Who, and shrink them to bite-size teletubbys is absolutely by design. They pale in comparison to their marquee - a not so subtle nod to the power of the promotional machine. But what’s most compelling is the decision to add a fifth band member to the infamous quartet. Has the artist left room for all of us who air-guitared “My Generation” in our bedrooms? Or the spirit of the deaf, dumb and blind Pinball Wizard? Entirely possible considering the artist’s name: Tommy.

"Pop!" by L; digitally effected photography

2009-03-26T11:58:00.000-07:00

Pop art is nothing if not ironic. And one could argue (with very little opposition) that “being famous” has grown into a mainstream passion surpassing anything Warhol might have imagined. We no longer pine for our 15 minutes, we demand our 15 daily seconds in downloadable chunks. L’s mixing two metaphors here with good, not great affect. The pouty starlet complete with tiara being manipulated by the string pullers smacks of today’s propped up, vacant “talent pool.” The digital effects laid over photography a metaphor for the changing medium and the industry of fame itself; paint takes too long, we need everything in a click. Call it Pop Art on Twitter. An interesting work for interesting times.

Be a Good Parent

2009-03-26T11:19:00.000-07:00

Have your child's artwork reviewed in this digital space. By a professional -- Me. Because art is not a form of play, it's a life or death venting of self-expression that can be channeled into tangible essences of inspiration, clarity and unrivaled commentary, both personal, social and environmental. And kids need to realize that. Send your kids’ artwork to danconsiglio@sbcglobal.net