The best painting break in the world — a trip to one of Manhattan’s incredible museums. Up yesterday? The Met. It was yours truly and Paul Zepeda, with Betty Crocker riding shotgun, taking in the (sometimes neon) sights.
Now, for a slice of stream of conscious commentary.That’s right, say it five times fast.
Working on Warhol’s old townhouse… the door was slightly ajar, but I didn’t want to get nabbed for trespassing. I could hear Warhol eating a hamburger in my minds eye… we both dip in a pool of ketchup. True. But why did he remove the bun first?
Did you know if you swim this pond twice, counter-clockwise, you will descend into the secret Met, where all of the real paintings are on display? It’s a well known fact that the actual work is in a temperature controlled fallout shelter seven floors below the surface.
For a closer look. Always a scene in front of the Met.
Penetrating gaze… always found this phrase to be salacious.
Lots of things happening up in chair. At least that jester lookin’ fool is helping with the cross, shit looks heavy.
Scrape away that painting… love the initial drawing layer. This is very modern looking, despite the poor choice in floor tiles.
Damn son, they foreshortened the son of G in this piece. But damn, nice sky and informational perspective, no?
Oh word? What’s old is new. Van Gogh ripped this teal background, and people are mad obsessed with good facial hair these days… guy was born in the wrong era. He coulda been a contendah!
Look at this modernity (btw, if you are in college, you probably want to slap your art history professor for dropping the pretentious M-Word like its hot, no?). Homeboy is feeling good about his sleek hair and lime green table cloth though.
She’s all, “at half pence, I shan’t take but half the stalk” and he’s all, “m’lady, I assure you, despite having a sword in my pants, I’m still happy to see thee”.
Boys are getting crunked out on some O, which at that time was probably Opium, not the president or a daytime diva.
Want to see this panoramic slightly larger?
Shadows. Light. Railings. Steps.
Paul Zepeda, looking stealth on the stairs.
Looks like one of those pneumatic tubes… close the glass and I go ‘vooomp’ into the ether. This was the worst thing on display, hands down (or crossed).
Hopper was born to paint brownstones, particularly when they are red.
My beloved… the only masterpiece I ever copied.
Oh Stu… always limiting your palette to maximum effect.
How’s this for a new deal? Paying artists to create dope murals at Radio City during the Great Depression.
If you have nothing nice to say, hang it in the Met.
All those people in the foreground are like, “brah, did you see my arm-to-leg-to-torso ratio? I’m freaking out brah. Freaking.”
It claims to be a lolly pop, but it’s pretty obvious to me that green thang is a palette knife. Thoughts?
Love to think this dude is chillin with a hooker when the lady of the house strolls by, and he is like, “oh hi honey, oh her? She’s nobody, just stopped by looking for milk”. Then he mutters, “if she keeps breaking my balls, I’ll never live to see old age, you know, 33″.
Derain in the membrane… say what?
I’ll have a bowl of colorful impasto please.
Was he a dog killer? Adriana seems to think so.
Things began to escalate.
Stretching out the arms… stretching out the legs… pushing the ol’ grey matter. Another fine day at the Met.