I'm plugging my book -- DEAL WITH IT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.

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

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

“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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?