So, these are "bad boys", the ones who frequent the streets.  Night-time is their dream, and wrong-doing is their demeanor.  They call to no-one except each other in their pursuit of the jumbled expression of pain and anger.  Distance enjoys distance. Distance must remain distant or intimacy of the soul will prevail and outrage will die a whimpering death.  It's too much for either Cinderella or the Pumpkin to consume.

So, we continue, politely, in the Charity Of Angst.

Coming to grips with the situation, it's a Manly kind of thing.  Art and Woodwork.  My drunken Father is the construction worker below. My angry and disjointed son sprays the paint on the scaffolding above. Neither one knows the other; each is lost in the Night Of His Own Soul.

The Angel above; the Troll below. The Historic Beast in the Father punishes the Sensitive Artist in the Son. The son's Mother saves him and his delicate artistic temperament from the Howling Father, but the son grows up with a legacy of Female Outrage and Male Hollowness.

It's a trick of the trade; it's a lame surprise of City Life in these Civilized times.  Mothers lost in the mirror and Fathers in the bottle. Brave New World, go on and on.

We notice the Incendiary Quality of the color "red".  Violent, yes.  Passionate, yes.  Angry, yes.  Masculine, yes.  "Involved in Life", yes. 

We notice the volatile quality of expression as being the bottled up feelings of youth and manhood; perhaps gone astray, but perhaps not.  Perhaps rightfully placed. Perhaps just simply filling the end of the see-saw to balance the ancient predicament that comes of "civilized society".

We who live the façade have no time to explain the beast who dwells in the bosom.  We who live the façade are prevented by fear from examining either the violence or the joy that perpetuates the deeper archetypes in man.  We are hurrying to the hairdresser; we are distracted once again on our cell phones; we are too busy driving up our neighbor's ass on a crowded avenue.

You Are There, So Am I. Maybe Millions of People Go By.

We end this installation with the Cuban People's Revolutionary WorkHorse on the left.  He is embarrassed, slightly awkward as he uncovers the hidden Treasure of Soul.  He looks you not in the eyes, for he has no cubicle to endow with his nameless Wealth.

He discovers Himself: hidden in a box.  Sleeping under a Rainbow.  The majesty of Truth, so long distanced from his bloodshot eyes, is now in full view.

But it's hard for him to look at - the Glow is Too Great.

so... he shows it to you.

But, what will YOU do?  This is not YOUR treasure, it is HIS.  His gold is worthless to you.  And unless he recognizes it as his own, he is eternally lost.

We show each other our goods; we fail to see our goods ourselves.

The show becomes futile unless the value is known by by the performer.

It's a Myth, it's deep; it's a dream when we're asleep.  All the talk and all the Toys and all the men and all the boys, lined up on a Cloudy Avenue.

You are There, so Am I ....

continue to OLD 2 >>