tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1684307762768712422024-01-28T21:25:51.977+13:00Roger Boyce PaintsImages and text relating (at times) to my painting practice.Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-76110843722202418712022-02-17T13:52:00.003+13:002022-05-02T20:52:22.422+12:00<p> <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Poorly Photographed Images of Works I am Currently Progressing in the Studio.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Working Title - "House of Games"</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Individual 2022 Paintings:</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>500mm x 600mm</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Oil, Dispersed Pigment & Acrylic Polymer on Cradled Board </b></span><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOCnbjZYqJxhYUSy_xx3yAE03It6QEwyaNrrxaO1uppWJa12K4O2Mmx_P5rfbB5j4SnscvBPUXQY7Flkjmk2WRs9ycn9Th-l0jqHaWYGFQT6fHVhGC1em6cCikOIuFPnPZp4oF9CrYa6V0832NpHl4IRjYvCmJ6nIo_mhjSGY2vH-r9Bd9oYubGOlcXw=s1618" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1618" data-original-width="1269" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOCnbjZYqJxhYUSy_xx3yAE03It6QEwyaNrrxaO1uppWJa12K4O2Mmx_P5rfbB5j4SnscvBPUXQY7Flkjmk2WRs9ycn9Th-l0jqHaWYGFQT6fHVhGC1em6cCikOIuFPnPZp4oF9CrYa6V0832NpHl4IRjYvCmJ6nIo_mhjSGY2vH-r9Bd9oYubGOlcXw=s320" width="251" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1574" data-original-width="1180" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRir0PGBGe4qRkOf-UgaUqYlitzypuZZ3DelMVvTmLJU4TxxHBrqdcQ5JGjlVpLjgRHDTCcE6W5yjWPQHDneCkG9HWQPFV3QtVWbcXQIUcqoLsxvN4Gqp0ZmbTsdSWvKvc4focXrMdfV7NWIQy4KXziBkcggx1LNMYiXSjBS8fKBe5D39NmH-FFZcLVg/s320/CATSUIT.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFXfjKis8GwMGn0Wo5_zyhQIVY8giWCc1Z00L8XCoaSA13nIFO54qHHa5-WdgE2lRrxhkoDXS4_z25UuVP6m6r8prctBQO_5nzl8w1SXrka-fD2LFKVV0spbCrV24pfqeuIalODt0HFsHK6ZHXRVEJaomkOngSlqHBd3689KYxKa2OVwFzSsoHYNOag/s1344/SEX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="1344" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFXfjKis8GwMGn0Wo5_zyhQIVY8giWCc1Z00L8XCoaSA13nIFO54qHHa5-WdgE2lRrxhkoDXS4_z25UuVP6m6r8prctBQO_5nzl8w1SXrka-fD2LFKVV0spbCrV24pfqeuIalODt0HFsHK6ZHXRVEJaomkOngSlqHBd3689KYxKa2OVwFzSsoHYNOag/s320/SEX.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-66186303492119054602021-11-25T10:41:00.001+13:002021-11-25T10:41:24.030+13:00<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="" style="text-align: justify;"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_1xl"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqsXKgaazixH05qgawWl2-sIxectyrNbz9tAlRAgU4NFhdxO9ypKPSCCXKufykg_E4cMpcKk6Vf-e05FN9pTfPjxWQ7cz3b3oAwWu7uqvPdpKZ-Ey5IGdoZ673zMYdOqGVFDKsiJllSHI/s1728/grant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="1660" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqsXKgaazixH05qgawWl2-sIxectyrNbz9tAlRAgU4NFhdxO9ypKPSCCXKufykg_E4cMpcKk6Vf-e05FN9pTfPjxWQ7cz3b3oAwWu7uqvPdpKZ-Ey5IGdoZ673zMYdOqGVFDKsiJllSHI/w384-h400/grant.jpg" width="384" /></a></div><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Funny that, I'd always hoped my decision to become a practicing artist would afford me a modicum of freedom from having to "interact with the fucking community".</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I"ve rarely ever applied for gra<span style="background-color: #fcff01;"><span></span></span>nts or public project funding of any kind ... unless, of course, someone, 'in-the-know', had kindly given me the 'high-sign'. I have always preferred to invest my energy - energy I'd otherwise expend grant/proposal writing - on studio pursuits. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Earlier in my so-called career I did execute a couple of ambitious public projects (one in LA and one for the City of San Francisco) but in both cases I was fortunate to have willing & qualified intercessors who didn't seem to mind interfacing with all of the many punctilious doorkeepers, inevitably attached to such matters.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">The % for the arts program in the USA (wherein new building construction which had received any sort of federal or state funding were required to establish a set-aside budget for the purchase or art) had, arguably, the single most destructive impact on the arts, I have seen in my lifetime.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Artists - ever accommodating when it comes to cold cash - soon twigged to the reality that 'site-specific', region specific, community specific, proposals were most appealing to deciding regional ("fucking community") committees. So, the loathsome term 'research' began to attach its self - like a linguistic leech - to project proposals wherein aspiring % for the artists began to look at local events, 'sites', putative communities (historical or otherwise) local sensibilities & mores to dress up their proposals & ass-powder deciders. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Institutional spaces, artist's spaces, and granting bodies of every possible affiliation and ideology, soon, thereafter, joined the site-specific, community relevance/interaction dance. And artists - once again, as accommodating, as always, when it comes to money or exhibition 'exposure' - shaped their work and themselves to whatever Procrustean bed they were asked to lie down in. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">To my mind, these serial lie-downs had unfortunate, domesticating, impacts on both art and artists. Former wide-ranging & relatively fascinating wolves-of-the-steppes (who could, now and again, be lured near the campfire, with promises of meat) soon grew accustomed to sleeping with and being warmed by their domesticator's well appointed hearths. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Packs of artists became homogenous breeds with predictable appearances and habits. In time, these domesticated artists became indistinguishable from loyal dogs and, worse yet, began to resemble their 'owners' in both sensibility & petite bourgeois predictability.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Art of the type I allude to here - and the sotto voce requirements for its funding and fabrication - became ever more standardized and international in distribution and influence. The single good thing about it, though, is its distinguishable 'smell' ... which allows for its scrupulous avoidance, if we are fortunate enough to be approaching it from downwind.</div></div></span></span></span></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="stjgntxs ni8dbmo4 l82x9zwi uo3d90p7 h905i5nu monazrh9" data-visualcompletion="ignore-dynamic"><div><div><div><div class="l9j0dhe7"><div class="bp9cbjyn m9osqain j83agx80 jq4qci2q bkfpd7mw a3bd9o3v kvgmc6g5 wkznzc2l oygrvhab dhix69tm jktsbyx5 rz4wbd8a osnr6wyh a8nywdso s1tcr66n"><div class="bp9cbjyn j83agx80 buofh1pr ni8dbmo4 stjgntxs"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span aria-label="See who reacted to this" class="du4w35lb" role="toolbar"><span class="bp9cbjyn j83agx80 b3onmgus" id="jsc_c_1xo"><span class="np69z8it et4y5ytx j7g94pet b74d5cxt qw6c0r16 kb8x4rkr ed597pkb omcyoz59 goun2846 ccm00jje s44p3ltw mk2mc5f4 qxh1up0x qtyiw8t4 tpcyxxvw k0bpgpbk hm271qws rl04r1d5 l9j0dhe7 ov9facns kavbgo14"><span class="t0qjyqq4 jos75b7i j6sty90h kv0toi1t q9uorilb hm271qws ov9facns"><span class="tojvnm2t a6sixzi8 abs2jz4q a8s20v7p t1p8iaqh k5wvi7nf q3lfd5jv pk4s997a bipmatt0 cebpdrjk qowsmv63 owwhemhu dp1hu0rb dhp61c6y iyyx5f41"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span aria-label="See who reacted to this" class="du4w35lb" role="toolbar"><span class="bp9cbjyn j83agx80 b3onmgus" id="jsc_c_1xo"><span class="np69z8it et4y5ytx j7g94pet b74d5cxt qw6c0r16 kb8x4rkr ed597pkb omcyoz59 goun2846 ccm00jje s44p3ltw mk2mc5f4 qxh1up0x qtyiw8t4 tpcyxxvw k0bpgpbk hm271qws rl04r1d5 l9j0dhe7 ov9facns tkr6xdv7"><span class="t0qjyqq4 jos75b7i j6sty90h kv0toi1t q9uorilb hm271qws ov9facns"><span class="tojvnm2t a6sixzi8 abs2jz4q a8s20v7p t1p8iaqh k5wvi7nf q3lfd5jv pk4s997a bipmatt0 cebpdrjk qowsmv63 owwhemhu dp1hu0rb dhp61c6y iyyx5f41"></span></span></span></span></span><span aria-label="See who reacted to this" class="du4w35lb" role="toolbar"><span class="bp9cbjyn j83agx80 b3onmgus" id="jsc_c_1xo"><span class="np69z8it et4y5ytx j7g94pet b74d5cxt qw6c0r16 kb8x4rkr ed597pkb omcyoz59 goun2846 ccm00jje s44p3ltw mk2mc5f4 qxh1up0x qtyiw8t4 tpcyxxvw k0bpgpbk hm271qws rl04r1d5 l9j0dhe7 ov9facns du4w35lb"><span class="t0qjyqq4 jos75b7i j6sty90h kv0toi1t q9uorilb hm271qws ov9facns"><span class="tojvnm2t a6sixzi8 abs2jz4q a8s20v7p t1p8iaqh k5wvi7nf q3lfd5jv pk4s997a bipmatt0 cebpdrjk qowsmv63 owwhemhu dp1hu0rb dhp61c6y iyyx5f41"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="tojvnm2t a6sixzi8 abs2jz4q a8s20v7p t1p8iaqh k5wvi7nf q3lfd5jv pk4s997a bipmatt0 cebpdrjk qowsmv63 owwhemhu dp1hu0rb dhp61c6y iyyx5f41"><br /></span></span></div><br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-36914840070723983872021-09-05T17:26:00.000+12:002021-09-05T17:26:22.721+12:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BABqkywaaU4w_Yb5-e-Gz_UXinJ4w2K57dLwLVujFin8odj3qKL8Ffk8As7nyKrHnRBQ4XKpbQ7G6FyuztXMlsAhWgJausmbK4EkSulW9lB5KEzWHPM_TSkOKa5-clAIIwrWLmGIusA/s1406/suburbs+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="802" data-original-width="1406" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BABqkywaaU4w_Yb5-e-Gz_UXinJ4w2K57dLwLVujFin8odj3qKL8Ffk8As7nyKrHnRBQ4XKpbQ7G6FyuztXMlsAhWgJausmbK4EkSulW9lB5KEzWHPM_TSkOKa5-clAIIwrWLmGIusA/w640-h366/suburbs+.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><div class="" style="text-align: justify;"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_24w"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #fcff01;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I have had a lifelong horror of suburban living. Stemming from an early childhood trapped in a brand spanking new California 'cracker-box' housing development ... an instant suburb built for US servicemen and their newly nucleated families.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Living in those early housing estates was like dwelling in an earthbound moon colony. The lanes devoid of adult street-life, and signs of life - if detectable at all - taking place in the 'rumpus rooms', back yards, or double garages. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Many of our house-wife mothers, whose primary occupation was child rearing, clustered together in dining rooms and breakfast nooks during the day. Convening lengthy gab fests - fueled by coffee and diet pills. Supermarket-impulse-aisle displyed tablets and capsules containing Benzedrine and Dexedrine Sulfate. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">The children ran in unsupervised packs - on bicycles and barefoot across dog-turd studded summer lawns. Boomers now idealize such childhoods and use their 'shining' example to needle and shame subsequent generations. As if boomer-era suburban street-sense taught my generation anything other than Horror Vacui .</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">For the past 17 years I have lived in a Christchurch Suburb, where I was reminded this morning that the raucous start-up of a weed-whacker is a mating call. Soon summoning the answering whine and combustive rattle of gas lawnmowers, mulch-chippers, leaf-blowers, hedge-trimmers and the inevitable little men wearing Glyphosate back-pack sprayer.</div></div></span></span></span></div></div></div></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #fcff01;"> </span></span></p>Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-20665213966488065502021-09-04T18:54:00.006+12:002021-09-04T18:58:54.645+12:00<p> </p><div dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_2g"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="text-align: justify;"><div><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve been pondering why, song - a temporal artefact of the human voice - is the most profoundly transcendent of art’s many instruments. <span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto">Why a singing voice has incommensurable capacity to move us. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Consider that a song’s profound beauty arises from the living core of a worm’s anticipated feast. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">A sound lofting heavenward on human breath. Deathless testament of beauty and defiant rebuke of creation’s terrible license to serially flourish at our expense. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cYkRbwgTK1Y" width="320" youtube-src-id="cYkRbwgTK1Y"></iframe></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div></div></span></div></div></div></div>Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-65577199929659536882021-06-11T09:47:00.000+12:002021-06-11T09:47:06.183+12:00<p> </p><div class="" dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_8p"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPz8-4sfzKkg8jWosAvg86EOsrh7mlHSg62SB7D7SaroD_xQ5pu-2aCyunMGA5F_TRpJj-WFLNSAY8CZsBkqSj_oQDAxNwPAJhrE0XO9fooNo4LlPjdgQHWyz8QQ5Se12f5lxckvzXCx8/s1296/Ronnie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="854" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPz8-4sfzKkg8jWosAvg86EOsrh7mlHSg62SB7D7SaroD_xQ5pu-2aCyunMGA5F_TRpJj-WFLNSAY8CZsBkqSj_oQDAxNwPAJhrE0XO9fooNo4LlPjdgQHWyz8QQ5Se12f5lxckvzXCx8/w422-h640/Ronnie.jpg" width="422" /></a></div> <br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">When I was a skinny, callow, freshman in high school (before I'd cannily allied myself with Big male buddies) the 'hard girls' kindly had my back.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Those sisters of the street thought me cute (in a non-romantic little-bro way) and I became sort of mascot to a gang of beehived & heavily eye-shadowed girls who smoked, trash-talked, and occasionally cat-fought with better-bred, tartan skirted, Janes. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Ronnie Spector personifies the memory of those girls for me. And although I never got more than an affectionate pash from that tribe of tough & capable girls ... having moved away from Hayward High to the more psychedelic precincts of Canyon High ... there's still an unconsummated part of me that responds to the knowing look and urban ululations of the peerless Ms. Spector.</div></div></span></span></span></div></div></div></div>Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-71871833466610037592021-06-09T09:01:00.000+12:002021-06-09T09:01:24.063+12:00<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Look</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"> </span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">A picture is something that requires
as much trickery, malice and vice as the perpetration of a crime, so create
falsity and add a touch of nature<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">–<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Edgar Degas</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">As an artist
and an occasional writer I am, occasionally, asked to write about another artist’s
work. I usually find myself responding reluctantly, willingly or
enthusiastically. I won’t tell you in what situation or to which specific
artist I will initially react this way but, when I take up the offer, it is
always because I like the work, something it suggests or both. I’m never sure
why I’m asked. Is it because whoever is asking likes the way I write or is it
the expectation that, being an artist, I’ll at least know what I am writing
about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m hopeful it’s the former as
while I do know something about art, it’s not that simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">The first
difficulty is, as an artist, I usually have little idea of what I’m doing and
no idea how others will respond to the finished work. I expect its much the
same for most other artists. This difficulty is further hampered by a reader’s
desire for meaning. A reader often assumes if someone has bothered to write
about the work it must have specific meaning. This is a major difficulty, not
only in most instances, but particularly in this one, as I know how much Roger
Boyce dislikes meaning. I’m not adverse to meaning but I know what Roger means.
The search for meaning clouds the looking. The desire for meaning can not only
hamper viewing but also making. I would suggest, if an artist’s singular
intention is for the work to be meaningful, it will never reach the studio
door. As the artist will be so weighed down by their objective they will never
complete anything. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">For the
critical viewer the over-arching desire to find meaning can obscure any, albeit
unintentional, utilitarian meaning. It is a desire that often approaches a</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%;">pophenia.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%;">Apophenia is the tendency
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mistakenly</i> perceive connections
and meaning between unrelated things. Admittedly, art often makes connections
between unrelated things. Surrealism is an obvious example. In fact, the
bringing together of the seemingly unrelated is the foundation of surrealism
and it is an idea that still underpins the bulk of contemporary art practice.
The apophenia I am thinking of is more akin to the mis-heard. The song lyric
sung over and over in your head in such a way that it has acquired personal
meaning. Then, at a later date, you see the lyrics printed and realise they are
completely different from what you thought you heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the meaning you have gained may remain,
it was never in the original. If this happens when viewing or writing about
art, what is misread, either through a cloud of ideological preconceptions or
the willful desire for meaning, enters a world of Chinese whispers. Eventually
the thing looked at and its imposed meaning bare no relationship to each other.
You often see evidence of this in gallery wall labels where the desire to imbue
meaning is paramount. </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Do
these paintings need words? Words can either facilitate or obstruct
understanding. Do any paintings need words? </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">What you see, is what you see. And
what you see, is what you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> to
see. As William Burroughs said “You can't tell anybody anything he doesn't know
already”. </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Is it necessary to read a script before seeing a
movie, see sheet music before listening to a song or to look at illustrations
to understand a novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those
distractions may be interesting in themselves but are they primary? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">These
days, with visual art, words seem to be a requirement. Yet, scholars inform us,
that only a few centuries ago, paintings were used to tell stories to those who
couldn’t read. Hence, the early development of the visual language of western
art was largely within the confines of the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, seeing is believing. Now it’s as
if, we can’t engage with an artwork without having to read something, either
before or after viewing. Is it really that difficult? That complicated? Was it early
last century, with the rise of abstraction, that words became pressingly
necessary? But there has always been abstraction. It wasn’t new. You only have
to look at aboriginal or Islamic art to see that. And, what is perhaps the most
abstract art form of all, music, is widely considered to be so immediately
understood it easily crosses cultural boundaries. So, it seems we believe what
we hear. Why is it we no longer believe what we see? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">How
do we see visual art? It appears initial engagement is subliminal. A subtle,
oscillating, mix of thought and emotion stimulated by visual cues. A
recognition. An experience that may build slowly or occur before you know it.
The work will either appeal or not. If it doesn’t appeal there is no obligation
to take it any further. You don’t have to understand why you didn’t like it or
found it unusable. If you have responded favourably to the work’s visual
stimulus and are intellectually curious you may want to know more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if it is just to know exactly what that shade
of white is because it would be great on your bedroom walls. Like most
everything else, natural or manufactured, an artwork can be dismantled. Its
parts be can laid out, identified and their function analysed but by then the
patient is probably dead. This kind of investigation is only suitable for
artists.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">With his
paintings Roger Boyce wants the viewer to look. To believe what they see. He
implies this by painting paintings of paintings. There is no smoke, it is just
mirrors, and like a magician, who wishes to not only delight with his sleight
of hand, he also wants to reveal how the trick was done. You will notice next
to the painted paintings there are no wall labels. If it’s only meaning you
seek, I would start here.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Robin Neate</span></p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDoHh_rLo-I8nKs5Oue6qVybtEYT9osmWdYtEMd8PsQs8AwYBjifLoGinOJQGKjgj5Og213CFNdf5oT9PEI9DKNQNN0v2_ahiB9nC7ZZLjkzQQEOYKKtpcwHa_w6_gsNKPoOSf1CJYY5c/s1656/Words+of+Consent+100x1100+jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1504" data-original-width="1656" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDoHh_rLo-I8nKs5Oue6qVybtEYT9osmWdYtEMd8PsQs8AwYBjifLoGinOJQGKjgj5Og213CFNdf5oT9PEI9DKNQNN0v2_ahiB9nC7ZZLjkzQQEOYKKtpcwHa_w6_gsNKPoOSf1CJYY5c/s320/Words+of+Consent+100x1100+jpeg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7hwJmpk5DRpCAVzGEmV6jrobkV5clhL3CRpOc7rdEIFijWYJ6xkmK-tcW3i5yYqIZCGB41cxtTfYqdlre_t44q4Bo35c16GpA5C3ews1_DkVzbaQ5CT4G91cc5KGf7SZcz0pp1cr8VM/s1400/Word+of+Advice+1050x1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-51262374329239772932021-06-08T22:33:00.002+12:002021-06-08T22:38:00.045+12:00<p> </p><div dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_21v"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: white;">Fun While it Lasted<br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #01ffff;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Rhapsodic language and sanctimony do seem to readily attach themselves to modernist abstraction. As do miraculous accounts attach to medieval reliquaries. </span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="text-align: justify;"><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Pure abstraction's long-standing aspiration to be untethered from the objective - to unyoke itself from pictorial servitude to humanist culture - did (for good or ill) fatefully position it to promote the possibility of here-and-now transcendence. Transcendence, reserved, of course, for the elect.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="text-align: justify;"><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>These idle thoughts summoned for me the memory of Ancien Régime Werner and Elaine Dannheisser making their way across Chelsea's broken cobbles. The two, tottering unsteadily from gallery to gallery ... as if in search of New Lourdes.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="text-align: justify;"><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> I can't say if those two lovely oldsters did ever experience, in their regular pilgrimages, a rebirth of wonder, or, the return of their animal, spiritual, or erotic vitality. But I did once witness the normally dour art dealer, Diane Browne, transfigure suddenly and magnificently arise (with a fluttering of hands) from the floor of her gallery, as the Dannheisers entered the sacristy. </span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="text-align: justify;"><div><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>It was, indeed, fun while it lasted. </span></span></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Photo:</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Werner and Elaine Dannheisser </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>by Robert Mapplethorpe</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #01ffff;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #01ffff;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #01ffff;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK05yzlutw3NSOB2e1E9S2IDzZNElOWxpZmNHKd1EuxaEKZV7XMaIm58ORLf8JnEhxd7VVILRP2eDpnsn1EV2QrKEFRQjWhn0YbElAyIxEm4bKEuCf3gq6yMx17v2jdO7FehLNIF-jjj4/s948/Elaine+and+Werner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="948" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK05yzlutw3NSOB2e1E9S2IDzZNElOWxpZmNHKd1EuxaEKZV7XMaIm58ORLf8JnEhxd7VVILRP2eDpnsn1EV2QrKEFRQjWhn0YbElAyIxEm4bKEuCf3gq6yMx17v2jdO7FehLNIF-jjj4/w370-h234/Elaine+and+Werner.jpg" width="370" /></a></div><br /> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div></div></span></span></span></div></div></div></div>Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-89049713197802185632018-08-01T09:19:00.003+12:002018-08-01T09:24:48.449+12:00Everything Disappears<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3P4WOcdJCmIr3EO56lKeMxUeE7hfKFJVbv3RgC9prcKwBNB1K4M4Px2H6wwnTlXcEk3AHfhZiMckVVXiy5XiRCVQC4f5QbpUlfMXbrMWaWSJd_AN515r4_DCFq_mdTIL6LJiQ1DBECc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-07-31+at+1.45.26+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="462" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3P4WOcdJCmIr3EO56lKeMxUeE7hfKFJVbv3RgC9prcKwBNB1K4M4Px2H6wwnTlXcEk3AHfhZiMckVVXiy5XiRCVQC4f5QbpUlfMXbrMWaWSJd_AN515r4_DCFq_mdTIL6LJiQ1DBECc/s400/Screen+Shot+2018-07-31+at+1.45.26+PM.png" width="281" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the mid 1980s I executed two monumental commissions in California. One in San Francisco's Mission District and one at the well-known and highly visible corner of Hollywood and Vine, in Los Angeles.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Los Angeles work has recently vanished. And neither the art consultant who originally orchestarted the commission nor her art-lawyer can discover its whereabouts. Or why it diappeared. New(ish) state laws which protect the integrity of public works or ensure an artist's rights are not applicable to the work in question, due, paradoxically, to its vintage status.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm consoled in my loss by thoughts of all the many children who, over three decades, may have seen the work (out of car-passenger windows) from the adjacent freeway and surface roads.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Everything disappears. As, eventually, does every consequence of its going. </span></div>
<br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-20411901287450627252018-07-01T21:50:00.000+12:002018-07-01T21:50:03.386+12:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-75639437488574628622018-06-21T00:54:00.000+12:002018-06-21T00:54:54.268+12:00ROOM / @ SUITE / SEPTEMBER 2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQG3OIsT6MgQmxunUVeFlPe27_du_L4GDVyx5GfiR9kTkYJ8oeMsfAJGY2F51ReFpM4pdOpXDL8-F34-DViCB-fhwNlUI7k1kr8jtz7VMekijAfSK5d91eO5pJBFmnd7afCyLACIPibc/s1600/Accesory+After+the+Fact+1500x1200+small+jpeg++Roger+Boyce+_05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1286" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQG3OIsT6MgQmxunUVeFlPe27_du_L4GDVyx5GfiR9kTkYJ8oeMsfAJGY2F51ReFpM4pdOpXDL8-F34-DViCB-fhwNlUI7k1kr8jtz7VMekijAfSK5d91eO5pJBFmnd7afCyLACIPibc/s320/Accesory+After+the+Fact+1500x1200+small+jpeg++Roger+Boyce+_05.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq0_eWQvAAmLXCNxSdM98h4C2gkL4aghyphenhyphenzKLEq-eht5wC950x48Y6Ac3B9AqemH55B7jEiO6iNAsb3lMDz3Qc2WPQTGD7HhaURj_vT4hnNz5WJESvQC0ksaPyHZk9fSHZZidVL5LcF4y4/s1600/Honorary+Chair+900+x+1200+small+jpeg++Roger+Boyce+_09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1186" data-original-width="1600" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq0_eWQvAAmLXCNxSdM98h4C2gkL4aghyphenhyphenzKLEq-eht5wC950x48Y6Ac3B9AqemH55B7jEiO6iNAsb3lMDz3Qc2WPQTGD7HhaURj_vT4hnNz5WJESvQC0ksaPyHZk9fSHZZidVL5LcF4y4/s320/Honorary+Chair+900+x+1200+small+jpeg++Roger+Boyce+_09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-2099826255007299142017-11-03T18:03:00.002+13:002017-11-03T18:03:53.281+13:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4R_p6PbHTuY18vIC9mAmuX57ztCsZYUeGOezuRUaRrdnyBUEI1X1iWtUjsy4OtZXIlN2QHc0pr7moGQrWvZsSMt3syanpJERj2nRKnXJQKC8xzz_7HwaqCCttON3uNXAeALOYqp-77I/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-11-03+at+5.40.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1260" data-original-width="1600" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4R_p6PbHTuY18vIC9mAmuX57ztCsZYUeGOezuRUaRrdnyBUEI1X1iWtUjsy4OtZXIlN2QHc0pr7moGQrWvZsSMt3syanpJERj2nRKnXJQKC8xzz_7HwaqCCttON3uNXAeALOYqp-77I/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-11-03+at+5.40.17+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Perhaps the mistake is to think of me, in actual fact. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I mean by that, that I’ve never been able to talk about my life, actually. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
As soon as I start talking about my life I start lying straightaway. To
begin with I lie consciously. And very quickly I forget that I’m
lying”. </span></div>
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- Michel Houellebecq, transcribed, by me, from a 2005 BBC interview. Photo of Houellebecq from the period.<br />
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Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-74760591358648501792017-07-31T16:59:00.001+12:002017-07-31T16:59:34.074+12:00Review - School of Harm - Eyecontact<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wdh10TIsVzHxhjPiOzzUSCkGr0n1H25FF9Lsn-JgR7hj_2xL5wtOcV4cypoFf1OCHKqxAltBRO6b98o7CiFYqqn3qYWUN4nrkfON61TX6PF4S0sRs6Nk3BhZ11l-jPLM_Kx_OwvKGd4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-07-31+at+4.56.04+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="1326" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wdh10TIsVzHxhjPiOzzUSCkGr0n1H25FF9Lsn-JgR7hj_2xL5wtOcV4cypoFf1OCHKqxAltBRO6b98o7CiFYqqn3qYWUN4nrkfON61TX6PF4S0sRs6Nk3BhZ11l-jPLM_Kx_OwvKGd4/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-07-31+at+4.56.04+PM.png" width="387" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://eyecontactsite.com/2017/07/sworn-to-fun" target="_blank">Link to Eyecontact review</a> - School of Harm </span></div>
Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-18423901504053532302017-07-13T20:58:00.000+12:002017-07-13T20:58:06.024+12:00School of Harm - Maenadic Studies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8CLLrv6oQ_GG2DVUTqlO3gph_hcnQJ2NiPtN7OdMDsi2M9qPxrZFF6U2CyFusaGDOFcIt3xgPL7_U4JrYVZmDLr0rV4vbkI5CptVpuAhmFT4R5NyhEjtXDEyjL0bEnYq2eQNCTHYPvB4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-07-13+at+8.50.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1187" data-original-width="1600" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8CLLrv6oQ_GG2DVUTqlO3gph_hcnQJ2NiPtN7OdMDsi2M9qPxrZFF6U2CyFusaGDOFcIt3xgPL7_U4JrYVZmDLr0rV4vbkI5CptVpuAhmFT4R5NyhEjtXDEyjL0bEnYq2eQNCTHYPvB4/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-07-13+at+8.50.17+PM.png" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><b><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">School of Harm … Maenadic Studies *</span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span lang="EN-AU">Regarding artists, Plato saw <i>in them no invention, unless inspired and out of their senses</i>. Inspiration, </span><span>incidentally</span><span> <span lang="EN-AU">bestowed - in the Plato’s own time – by a divine troop of discipline-specific </span></span><span>Muses; figurative </span><span lang="EN-AU">personifications and exclusive franchisers of creative genius.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">Lamentably, for visual artists, while Greek Muses readily </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">enraptured</span><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;"> poets, musicians, tragedians, dancers, and comedic actors, they, for whatever reason, spurned visual artists.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span lang="EN-AU">Plato stipulated insensibility as essential prerequisite of divine inspiration. I like to fancy the philosopher imagining such obligatory insentience along Apollonian lines. Envisioning, perchance, vital inspirational swoons unspooling in what one might think of as neoclassical style. Spontaneous divination, attending on cerebral abstention – serially eventuating within a </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">colonnaded</span> <span lang="EN-AU">rotunda, awash with even, Arcadian, light.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span lang="EN-AU">A space, symmetrically picketed by genre specific effigies and furnished with tastefully appointed fainting lounges. The sum of its aesthetic and psychological portions designed to encourage accommodative inward-turning and mortal downscaling of oversized sacred energies. Discarnate consummation, germinating and birthing physical creation. Creation, of course, minus somatic exertion or emotional histrionics, of the kind I entertain a happy appetite for.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span lang="EN-AU">I speak to the sorts of squalid, orgiastic, convulsions often typified by more barbaric states of possession and creative birth. Ludicrously savage states of captivation, like the </span><span>Dionysian-</span><span lang="EN-AU">flavoured</span><span lang="EN-AU"> </span><span>frenzy-and-transport attached to popular notions of middle-period modern artists. As in the caricaturish artist-</span><span> </span><span>manqués (and their creative paroxysms)<span> one chances upon in New Yorker cartoons and Mad Magazine parodies.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span>Is any caricature more perennially hardy - or as ubiquitous - than stereotypical depictions of bohemian picture-painters? We’ve all seen, and been drolly amused by, these laughable, easel-orbiting dervishes, lost in a private, careering </span><span>pas de deux,</span><span> with whatever ‘god-mad’ inspiration topped their contemporary-painting dance-card of the cultural-moment.<span> </span>Most of us are familiar with this apparitional, beret-and-smock-wearing artist. A parodic character, far removed from any sort of steady, Apollonian, inner-thrummings. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span>Conversely, what we have here, is a spirit-drunk puck, unthinkingly engaged in</span><span> a no-holds-barred, and potentially self-destructive, tango with real and imagined elemental forces, dressed up as demigods. In ungainly and mortal struggle with an immortal tag-team of Maenadic suitors or, perhaps, adversaries. An artist, wholly lost to the world, to himself, to any possibility of impulse-buffering domesticity … in fact, publicly averse to all governing restraint. An artist - to paraphrase Maslow - who is - <i>merely animal - an animal transcending.</i> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span>So, what might this essay’s mythopoetic carry-on have to do with the purportedly allegorical paintings on show? These newest works continue on an elliptically sui generis path of preposterousness, provocation and impiety – contending with typically dead-earnest (and, to my mind, dead-end) aesthetic concerns and conceptual ‘issues’, currently obsessing the outward-turning, gray-matter-alphas of the art world. <span> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span>My paintings perpetually cycle and recycle monotonic, introspective, matters of matter-of-factly misanthropic studio-life. <span> </span>Studio environs complete with its exaggerated, and shopworn studio emblems, such as: painting palettes, easels, brushes, smocks, berets, cruel shoes and paint smears. Outfitting my anatomically correct figures – in various states of studio dress and undress. Loosing the paintings’ players at each other, to indulge in socially incorrect intergender tussles. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span>Think of the pictures as mytho-poetic Punch and Judy shows, featuring relatively tiny artists beset by bigger-than-life, multi-chrome, Bacchae.<span> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span>The paintings’ shallow perspectival settings and preposterous lighting-conceits backdrop the depicted figure’s stylized </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">terpsichorean mayhem </span><span>- think WWF, think contact-improv, think Jules </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Feiffer’s cartoon</span><span> ‘dances to spring’, think the anachronistic stylizations of </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Nijinsky </span><span>or Martha Graham. <span> </span>All, of course, contrived and stagey – but convincing, nonetheless, with a curiously plausible internal logic. The painting’s players; either unaware or unashamed of the broad melodramatic artifice they play out. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span>While the paintings feature, in most cases, spatially believable, planar-floors. And, at times, the sort of low-rent <span>moiré-patterned</span> wood grain walls found in trailer-homes and budget motels, such ur-quotidian detail serves, perversely, as shabby-chic foil to the painting’s even more tawdry optical (atmospherically metaphysical) contrivances. More often than not, consisting of spectral incursions by non-naturalistic light and color – democratically alluding to visionary states, lustrous natural phenomenon, or Las Vegas’ neon-borealis. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><span>What does all of this add up to, you might ask. Well, nothing, that is, to do with any real, or explicit, fixed meaning. The paintings’ agenda is simply retinal and cerebral delight – of an unfixable (open ended narrative) category. While alluding to and borrowing (magpie like) from all sorts of affiliate association. The paintings, in their final testimony, substantiate and attest only to the hoary outlaw-biker credo – <i>sworn to fun, loyal to none</i>.<span> </span><span> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: cyan;"><i><span><span>* my essay (unpublished) for the exhibition of the same name @ Suite Gallery, Wellington </span></span></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-28175385086775363432017-07-06T17:06:00.001+12:002017-07-06T17:06:40.350+12:00School of Harm - Maenadic Studies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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School of Harm - Maenadic Studies opens @ Suite, Wellington, 12 July 2017</div>
<br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-34090657777390484342017-05-01T15:18:00.003+12:002017-05-01T15:18:55.511+12:00Mas y Mas from the Studio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5J0YxPG8djILwJy8amgGakoaw1pccLY7UePUmQ_8a1m4ejp-1H3-TUjmPalKDHVr9ZI-F4ZuZZNT1dqhqcZzuHro092zrYKjNLEbm7XOEE4WoqfUagTD98IfBECGEcd6HocSz7sAWpM/s1600/IMG_7192.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5J0YxPG8djILwJy8amgGakoaw1pccLY7UePUmQ_8a1m4ejp-1H3-TUjmPalKDHVr9ZI-F4ZuZZNT1dqhqcZzuHro092zrYKjNLEbm7XOEE4WoqfUagTD98IfBECGEcd6HocSz7sAWpM/s400/IMG_7192.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-9638787218093897902017-02-25T16:47:00.002+13:002017-02-25T16:47:28.912+13:00Through NYC Floorboards<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcz5fsdRtlfUNirlTXDmQsP7yKLQ4XUvRxEeeBNpx2uQ0DQfyFrQCA1qhtnk6-H1zYqyduRcljDhUJsGIgOGR00z4HVluM6swlDP7TxTr3nMMMs0HYP5xHcFlu5CsSAymydXblZrNFSs/s1600/rough+Johnny+Az.+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcz5fsdRtlfUNirlTXDmQsP7yKLQ4XUvRxEeeBNpx2uQ0DQfyFrQCA1qhtnk6-H1zYqyduRcljDhUJsGIgOGR00z4HVluM6swlDP7TxTr3nMMMs0HYP5xHcFlu5CsSAymydXblZrNFSs/s400/rough+Johnny+Az.+.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: lime;">I used to live in a loft in Manhattan's wholesale flower market. 28th Street between 6th & 7th.</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;">Upstairs lived a young boy, with his father. That same lad claimed, decades later, to have heard the blues coming up, from my place, through the floorboards. Now he lives in New Orleans and earns his crust as an itenerant bluesman. Touring constantly around the USA. He asked me, not long ago, to paint him an LP album cover. Here 'tis - sans record title and his name ... which will come later at the printers. By the way, he gave up the cigarettes. </span></div>
Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-2446219775076690762017-02-20T18:18:00.000+13:002017-02-20T18:18:04.893+13:00Sneak Preview - School of Harm <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmZQk71xFfhIHfDOHsUPPK6qF8e1QwqmCr075KTvFVV1teWdCPTSqGQn2ggJIspXSbGWxE6HaKaEQTYeCPrexo5wf5cW3gTzrr1z0sweBzaEZvxeu_MAhYZ72xH6dTlYGkDK_xVKUAoQ/s1600/Easel+%2528big%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmZQk71xFfhIHfDOHsUPPK6qF8e1QwqmCr075KTvFVV1teWdCPTSqGQn2ggJIspXSbGWxE6HaKaEQTYeCPrexo5wf5cW3gTzrr1z0sweBzaEZvxeu_MAhYZ72xH6dTlYGkDK_xVKUAoQ/s400/Easel+%2528big%2529.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
<br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-76597465432332457532016-10-08T12:50:00.000+13:002016-10-08T19:19:53.737+13:00Means to an End<div style="text-align: center;">
Exhibited:</div>
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<a href="http://www.cavesgallery.com/roger-boyce.html" target="_blank">Caves Inc., Melbourne </a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.pggallery192.co.nz/new_work/last-judgement-26-july-19-aug/" target="_blank">PG Gallery, Christchurch </a></div>
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<a href="http://suite.co.nz/roger-boyce-richard-lewer-means-to-an-end/" target="_blank">Suite Gallery, Wellington</a> </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zFZjs805Gpg" width="560"></iframe><br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-87528974848491518012016-09-24T12:55:00.001+12:002016-09-24T12:55:21.525+12:00Measurable Outputs<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPVbTgECVKkcRtK4fdMM0IuMuqliEN21wqbDBosVY-trTOasGt3q2ZOt5FJFT-CwFs9YRgkSrV5jKoEOs_ob6WyiRLTF-2XKN2RwTmlByeEZsDMW678bx8FRoVrsjCzgl95eovehZyUBw/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-09-24+at+12.20.58+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPVbTgECVKkcRtK4fdMM0IuMuqliEN21wqbDBosVY-trTOasGt3q2ZOt5FJFT-CwFs9YRgkSrV5jKoEOs_ob6WyiRLTF-2XKN2RwTmlByeEZsDMW678bx8FRoVrsjCzgl95eovehZyUBw/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-09-24+at+12.20.58+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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The idea that art (of all type) is a sort of antechamber one
habituates, or medication one swallows, in order to "improve" one's self
and/or one's society, is a bourgeoisie, Victorian-era, artifact. </div>
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The Victorian notion was that the, then-trebling, early-industrial
era's 'great unwashed' could be demographically reduced, or socially
improved, by supplementing the workers otherwise squalid existences with
calibrated doses of culture. </div>
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These ideas have persisted to our day and<span class="text_exposed_show">
are now greenhouse-propogated by relational aestheticians and
non-profit ( governmental and private) entities who dole out public
funds based on 'measurable' audience-outreach and measurable
audience-enrichment ... read "improvement". </span></div>
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I've no argument against, nor practical alternative to these hoary
ideas and practices - mine is a subjective observation. Nothing more.</div>
Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-38840450491919738022016-08-16T14:56:00.002+12:002016-08-16T14:57:11.424+12:0070 Million Dollar Petit Fours<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfana6HA2UsMJTFvFF43LXQkcimy4iLSHqRPGdJQf8HhlNxK2QSSkyEuk16vBOJJeTE5Sg61HzhItbmQNqaxwI-ocDwniZJj8HDst0qRUglda3vWN-hzabYkVn5XSlAjKVIuLPqpIIHw/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-08-16+at+2.51.56+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfana6HA2UsMJTFvFF43LXQkcimy4iLSHqRPGdJQf8HhlNxK2QSSkyEuk16vBOJJeTE5Sg61HzhItbmQNqaxwI-ocDwniZJj8HDst0qRUglda3vWN-hzabYkVn5XSlAjKVIuLPqpIIHw/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-08-16+at+2.51.56+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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FYI: Art Historian Amelia Jones is a seasoned pro when it comes to curating her own
(faux) radical credentials – and self-promotionally disseminating that
self-constructed myth via mainstream media and august podiums at airless
academic conferences. </div>
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Jones is particularly deft at
opportunistically placing herself (in word, if not deed) at the
hypothetical barricades of whatever cultural war(s) she sees being
fought – fought by actual, participating, stakeholders. </div>
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Jones is
the quintessential academic, careerist-sayer, posing as an activist
player. Her two main claims to ‘fame’ are coining the grammatically
jaw-breaking trope “Pollockian performative” … and her infamously
demonstrated willingness to accept a lucrative Chair at UCSC – where she
functioned as upholder of, and appartchik spokesperson for, the
party-line at Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern
California – just as the entire <a href="http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/arts/miranda/la-et-cam-usc-alumni-letter-supports-withdrawn-mfa-art-students-20150618-column.html" target="_blank">2016 post-graduate cohort of the school quit en masse</a>, in protest over the organizationally inept
corporatization of the art school. Including, but not limited to,
broken, contractual, promises to its post-grads. </div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
From the
elitist promontory of her academic sinecure Amelia Jones loftily
pronounces on “trans-identity” and righteously excoriates ‘privilege’ –
all-the-while nibbling Jimmy Iovine and Dr. Dre’s 70 million dollar
petit fours. </div>
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Jones has positioned herself in such a way as to
lump anyone who questions her radical legitimacy with those who oppose
the cultural “re-questioning” she herself has co-opted from its rightful
owners.</div>
Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-73657742088879622752016-05-09T11:36:00.000+12:002016-05-09T11:36:17.780+12:00Install Shots - Means to an End - Caves, Melbourne<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHSb2HgBeoDeE7oQdwht_5wXJSulKn0px76Rf1qEHMopXZuPB42AwswscjStDDfg0Mghu79FNkXO1fek0iz5uW2HZpX-KBCQYeo8NQNla8zT3LloumXnCQ1H0gJWN3c_ldurY_v9OJnQc/s1600/Overview_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHSb2HgBeoDeE7oQdwht_5wXJSulKn0px76Rf1qEHMopXZuPB42AwswscjStDDfg0Mghu79FNkXO1fek0iz5uW2HZpX-KBCQYeo8NQNla8zT3LloumXnCQ1H0gJWN3c_ldurY_v9OJnQc/s320/Overview_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1io_b08WSNkhkZK5iKxPEjfYuQB9d9WLqV5cuBfA4wXGLxPfGDYs3yDVl7Mt4g2OcIguppPUvi1wJrUOy_99-SfsYZqqteUfD-vDjY71JPsWy7FyGQ5tUfK48nAHD0wGpWmi9jOVy3E/s1600/Overview_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1io_b08WSNkhkZK5iKxPEjfYuQB9d9WLqV5cuBfA4wXGLxPfGDYs3yDVl7Mt4g2OcIguppPUvi1wJrUOy_99-SfsYZqqteUfD-vDjY71JPsWy7FyGQ5tUfK48nAHD0wGpWmi9jOVy3E/s320/Overview_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtuhVwn4TFZp5UoG5i7ePGHgcKZKBpdr2CZ6pKE3vqXgGPzYMP2EZdcl4gvYfTWgxuLBCIZyyot78b5mx5itOxy83gvFQe0MWXYgEchC1yiP2y6N1aM0Q6BETxZcD5K8W5AYOvNRF1fs/s1600/Overview_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtuhVwn4TFZp5UoG5i7ePGHgcKZKBpdr2CZ6pKE3vqXgGPzYMP2EZdcl4gvYfTWgxuLBCIZyyot78b5mx5itOxy83gvFQe0MWXYgEchC1yiP2y6N1aM0Q6BETxZcD5K8W5AYOvNRF1fs/s320/Overview_3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bCp_2oDoPlEbgGj1OUXKhBQmR_6STrsmnAHQGi6JcbZN6L5BdU4_pUGawQJibUBAcrumfEA8tN-KNcW6bKga0VEZyfqoR9Hhj0jxF3e8tl-xyshfmbzutPhbUXiJG9kxCQF4XZRM9nk/s1600/Tanks_detail_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bCp_2oDoPlEbgGj1OUXKhBQmR_6STrsmnAHQGi6JcbZN6L5BdU4_pUGawQJibUBAcrumfEA8tN-KNcW6bKga0VEZyfqoR9Hhj0jxF3e8tl-xyshfmbzutPhbUXiJG9kxCQF4XZRM9nk/s320/Tanks_detail_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Installation shots from Means to an End @ <a href="http://www.cavesgallery.com/" target="_blank">Caves Inc, Melbourne</a><a href="http://www.cavesgallery.com/" target="_blank"> </a> </div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Room 18, Level 6, 37 Swanston Street (Nicholas Building), Melbourne, Victoria, Australia</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Thursday, Friday 12 - 6pm. Saturday 1 - 5pm.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span>Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-34956979435574354732016-04-21T21:02:00.000+12:002016-04-21T21:05:02.434+12:00Means to an End travels to Caves, Melbourne<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8M6agZicChlu-VMVvxeTfti2owew2TweQc4vd1YiHgmppJce8q0j48A_ng8NnBfnyR4UgaMGaYw7u7rMsU5L454MMStcsemAWazaHemWxNbo1IeqqJ6quvG1Zuy0o-OYvjvEOGDnvGck/s1600/Nitrogen+SCBA+Jpeg+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8M6agZicChlu-VMVvxeTfti2owew2TweQc4vd1YiHgmppJce8q0j48A_ng8NnBfnyR4UgaMGaYw7u7rMsU5L454MMStcsemAWazaHemWxNbo1IeqqJ6quvG1Zuy0o-OYvjvEOGDnvGck/s400/Nitrogen+SCBA+Jpeg+small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Means to an End. </i>2016.<br />
Two full scale SCBA (<i>self contained breathing apparatus</i>)<br />
Courtesy of the artist.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 13px;">C A V E S </span><span style="font-size: 12px;">is pleased to announce an exhibition of new work by New Zealand based artist</span></b></span></span></h1>
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<span style="color: yellow;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">R O G E R B O Y C E</span></span></u></b></span></h1>
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<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Means to an End<br />
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<span style="font-size: 13px;">Opening celebration to take place on Friday the 29th of April from 6pm.<br />
29th of April - 21st of May, 2016.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: yellow;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It is not worth the bother of killing
yourself, since you always kill yourself too late."</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">
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<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- E.M. Cioran, The Trouble with Being
Born</span></span></div>
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We respectfully acknowledge the traditional owners of the Kulin Nation.</span><br />
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<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>C A V E S</b><br />
Room 18, Level 6, 37 Swanston Street<br />
Melbourne, Victoria 3000<br />
Australia</span></span><br />
<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
Hours: Thursday, Friday 12-6pm. Saturday, 1-5pm or by appointment call 0413205929 or 0416051672</span></span></div>
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Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-72289336245478113952016-04-08T21:59:00.000+12:002017-02-12T23:20:04.439+13:00Merle , Bronco Billy, and Hillbilly Heaven<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XyMy9iGJb2I" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Here's my farewell Merle Haggard story and my favorite
Merle Haggard song.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">When I was a young man I once took a job on a broke-down ranch-cum-fugitive-farm
(of sorts) a good distance on a dirt road outside Durango Colorado....somewhere, or other, in the national forest
vicinity of Alamosa. The place was run, or rather run down, by a half-assed
'rancher' (and I use the term rancher, loosely) more accurately an out-and-out grifter named
Bert.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
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</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Bert had a number of things going, in various states of the union, none of which were
going particularly well, at the time. Bert’s hobby-ranch and
cult-of-personality detention camp was staffed by a duke’s mixture of youngish
men and women - semi-skilled cowboy-and-cowgirl-wannabe drifters - and real,
down on their luck cowhands, pedophile cooks, </span></span><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";"><span class="_Tgc">dipsomaniac</span> bottle-washers, self-diagnosed handy-men and women and
what have you – most of whom seemed to be primarily engaged with - to the
exclusion of much honest work and all else - a perpetual and mysteriously randy, game of musical bunks. <br />
<br />
</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">The stock was habitually hungry, and thus constantly breaking down fence
to get at grass - both Bert's and the surrounding neighbors. This, and other
ranch management dysfunction led to anger and conflict with the more-competent
owners of neighboring spreads and recrimination, incessant grumbling,
conniving, rumor mongering and dust-ups among Bert's mostly unqualified, </span></span><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";"><span class="st">debatably</span> sociopathic,
ranch hands. </span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">A great many conflicts stemmed from Bert's unwillingness, or financial reluctance ,
to buy-in feed, the ranch's collective incompetence at growing and laying by its own hay
and alfalfa stores, but more often than not overflowed from incompletely sublimated tension
around, and out of, tectonic shifts in romantic alliance, schism, and
rivalry. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">I'd hie off, now and again, into wilder places nearby, to get far away from the ranch's daily interpersonal
chaos and collapsing infrastructure ... and to try for trout in the Alamosa, the Animas
& their tributaries. A time or two, on my desperate river wanderings, I'd find I had been
mysteriously tracked down one river trail or another, by a
canny, redheaded and determined young horse-girl. I'd get back to my camp at
nightfall to find her ride tied nearby and her waiting, in the altogether,
inside my tent. She got no argument from me, there on the river, although back at the ranch was another story. <br />
<br />
</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Things finally came to an unhappy head, with Bert and I, late one evening. And
after a marathon, and dangerously heated, argument about: whether I was really
leaving, or not, whether he'd be paying me what was outstanding, or not, and if he'd willingly drive
me to the train station in Gallup,New Mexico - or risk a well earned beat-down I’d
been spoiling for. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Bert surprised me by capitulating and so we drove off the ranch, into the night, and on toward New Mexico,
in his late model, canary yellow, Coupe de Ville. It should be noted here that Bert
did not scrimp on personal comforts.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Driving, in an adrenally fatigued and grimly silent state,
through the remainder of the night, we arrived. And I was unceremoniously dropped, near dawn, on
the outskirts of the New Mexico Indian town of Gallup - where I'd be forced by a Southern Pacific timetable to
wait most of the day for the next train to California. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Being already
chronically sleep deprived - by continual ranch goings-on: jarred or kept awake,
nightly, by noisy parties, serial arguments, the occasional knuckle duster and/or
theatrically loud fucking sounds coming from adjacent, thin-walled, bunkhouse - I was all but asleep on my feet in a town I had no familiarity with or newfound affection for. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Gallup is, or was then, a dead, dry and dust-blown southwestern town with nothing
much to recommend it - save cheap Mexican restaurants, drinking dives, and
cheek-by-jowl pawn shops - pawn shops stuffed full of dead-Indian-pawn. Sad, tawdry cinder-block and stucco treasuries filled with silver and turquoise bolos, bracelets, necklaces,
belt-buckles, and earrings of various vintage and craftsmanship – all democratically
reduced to abandoned second-hand merchandise, to be pawed through by fat, white,
American tourists weighing the dubious pros and cons of quality, price and
baseline advisability of buying and taking home an authentic Native American memento of travels through the indigenous southwestern USA.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">I imagined, with no little desperation, finding a lush park or municipal lawn on
which to collapse and sleep. But that was a waking dream. Gallup's few public parks were treeless, sun-blasted expanses of hard dirt,
dust, broken bottle glass and strategically pinched dogshit. Grass, had it once existed, was now a
distant memory. I wandered the streets in a sort of nauseous haze, looking for relief.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">Relief appeared, as if a mirage, in the form of an old-school movie
palace. On a Deco Marquee: "Clint Eastwood’s Bronco Billy, featuring a cameo appearance by
Merle Haggard and the Strangers". I tripped into the almost empty theater’s shady,
air-conditioned interior, sat down in a plush seat, and stayed with Bronco Billy until Merle appeared - grinning and fronting his band, behind a </span></span><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";"><span class="st">cinematically staged<i> </i></span>barfight. </span></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "times";">I fell asleep immediately thereafter, assured that if Merle could carry on
playing in the eye of a honky tonk storm that I might, just might, sleep undisturbed, all the way to California, in a
second class train coach and wake up fresh to the sunshine state. Where perhaps, with some luck, I might reclaim a little piece of the life I’d left behind.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">
</span><span style="font-family: "times";"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The song Merle and the boys were playing in the
movie that day was Misery and Gin – my favorite Haggard tune then and to this day. RIP Mr.
Haggard. You gave as good as you got. And often better. </span></span></span></span></div>
Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-10066034384624688532016-04-02T19:57:00.002+13:002016-04-02T19:57:48.775+13:00Ha ha ha huh?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVk2ECbJ_a8swKgZD0ahXs6eUMJ7n6Mw5lzELQ_8U657r3uLOv1cQJpPmDqykkqkQxp5iei-vfodBaRiO2neJ-VWpg2ISErz28NldvwlGYCnmc-o0M6rDc3wg7hbPRF3Ux0DQyW0xn2BQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-07+at+4.48.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVk2ECbJ_a8swKgZD0ahXs6eUMJ7n6Mw5lzELQ_8U657r3uLOv1cQJpPmDqykkqkQxp5iei-vfodBaRiO2neJ-VWpg2ISErz28NldvwlGYCnmc-o0M6rDc3wg7hbPRF3Ux0DQyW0xn2BQ/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-03-07+at+4.48.17+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ha ha ha huh? Art Basel Hong Kong Debate motion: "Art Today Has Sold Out
To The Market" ... note to breathless ABHK debaters - Bernard Berenson
once lucidly compared the Renaissance relationship twixt artist and
patron to that of a luxury goods tradesman (say, shoemaker, tailor to
the court) and a customer placing an order. The patron specified what he
or she wanted. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I imagine the Church and 17th century nouveau riche
tradesmen of the Netherlands also specified desire. What M<span class="text_exposed_show">odern,
and now contemporary, art patrons most specifically desire, is a ticket
to ride. A warrant to climb aboard and be associated with an artist's
intangible, but increasingly valued, prestige. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="text_exposed_show">To gain admission to
realms of prestigious endeavor and experience they would otherwise be
socially/culturally excluded from - given the almost monomaniacal
pursuit of mercantile wealth is the real price of admission to Art Basel
Hong Kong and other luxury goods trade-fairs.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="text_exposed_show">Blog-post image by Bill Griffith </span></div>
Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168430776276871242.post-87712149752316758622016-03-26T17:16:00.000+13:002016-03-26T17:16:06.719+13:00A Short Conversation <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JoYNg1QvqGCYGFHWVS85Wt6k-th4flXKbmuN6M03bZj_hnqH5KjyqaZ0wsSk-GBbs1iZmtKWKNAmqDyNLjySTnfPOknepp_o51EBXd_NRBLHhrJYDlgQxE6kjuMCScVjdOghbY47WIQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-11+at+1.07.26+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JoYNg1QvqGCYGFHWVS85Wt6k-th4flXKbmuN6M03bZj_hnqH5KjyqaZ0wsSk-GBbs1iZmtKWKNAmqDyNLjySTnfPOknepp_o51EBXd_NRBLHhrJYDlgQxE6kjuMCScVjdOghbY47WIQ/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-03-11+at+1.07.26+PM.png" width="345" /></a></div>
<br />Roger Boycehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07666743336156820694noreply@blogger.com