Pompous art drivel or "how I got my degree without really trying"

Last night, I went to the opening of the Keith Haring show at Katy's gallery. Here are some pictures (click for the big versions):




Some of Haring's work is so simplistic that it's easy for me just to read it as straightforward, though pretty, icons. Like reading road signs, you can decipher these symbols on a purely symbolic level- working through the canvas by stopping here, speeding up there, or yielding as directed. But, ignoring that, Katy tells me that some of these were done in one sitting by Haring and I'm amazed by the precision of the strokes (that is not a pun about the Mickey above) and his perfect, innate sense of geometry. We were also talking about how light-hearted and fun these paintings are but there's this unavoidable sadness surrounding Haring's death at such a young age. There's a connection there, I think. The blitheness of the work is weghted down by the death from, of all things, a sexual disease.
Still, a mickey mouse whacking off is pretty funny.

Exposition

I'm just not going to be able to post here daily or even weekly, but I can't resist the call of bloggery any longer, so I hope to pop in with the occasional observation or anecdote. Here's one to kick things off.

Saturday morning, I woke up to a beautiful day in Park Slope. It was perfect fall weather and I had just bought a tasty cup of coffee from Two Little Red Hens, a neighborhood bakery. I was calling my sister on my cell phone and, as it was ringing, I noticed this big goofy looking man- really "galoot" is the only word I can use- walking towards me, but on the opposite side of the sidewalk. He's pushing a little cart full of junk. If we had both continued on our paths, we would have passed each other with about 3 feet between us. Suddenly, he points his trash buggy in my direction and is slowly teetering right towards me. He starts yelling "GET OFF THE PHONE! WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING!"

I'm not afraid to point out my own numerous flaws, but I really was watching where I was going this time, and it's not as if I was going to recklessly stagger into his tiny garbage cart on purpose. Not at 10 am anyway. One of us was crazy, and I was beginning to suspect that it was him.

Since he's just moseying along, he's too slow to run into me and we pass each other. I look back as he's still yelling "THOSE PHONES PUT MICROWAVES IN YOUR BRAINS." I guess it registers somewhere inside him that I'm just going to continue on my merry path and not realize the folly of my cellular ways. He gets in one last warning to me: "FINE, WE DON'T NEED ANY MORE WHITE PEOPLE ANYWAY."

Did I mention that he was as white as Ivory soap?

Caving

Stay tuned.