Oil tanker, stranded in the desert, bleeding rust onto the burning sand. A second tanker, bleached, worn down to iron ore, the plateua around it white, radiant.
Animal-faced children, masked adults stare out of raised canvases, making my neck tilt back to see them full. Whatever. Boo!
I see it four exhibits ahead, other side of the aisle. I pretened not to notice, steal away quick glances, play hard-to-get and plot a course that winds through the competition. I narrow my focus, try not to think of or look at the object of my desire, work up emotionally to seeing it in all its glory, but only after pining after it for a sufficient time.
The flowers shift and flip without every really changing. Holograms without depth.
Mirrorered stars above a mirrored landscape. Too symmetric, the same chaos, repeated.
A lone form sits under a foreboding cloud, a threat of destruction in a peaceful field, a desolate existence, peaceful.
A path, through life, twisted around itself in countless directions, curved and non-interfering.
A man, on a pile of boats, dreams of sailing away into the ocean, away from his world.
Abstract scenes on the backs of pages torn from different books. Too on the nose? Too abstract?
Ascending into the heaves, the sickened brown ground below forgotten, placenta abandoned behind as a god is born and flies toward its throne.
A young father comes up with the perfect lifehack: bring his son, 3-4 years old, to an art show, wearing squeaker shoes, guaranteeing that he will always be aware of his progeny's location, as will all of us. My poor ears.
Jesus preaching to dinosaurs as a fireball rips the skies assunder, guaranteeing dinosaurs in Heaven.
Pale figure, missing footgear, raincoat-clad and out of focus, runs through my dreams, and nightmares.
An overhead shot of land and sea, mostly dark-blue and lifeliess, a twelve-foot mostrosity dedicated to the fast and lonely emptiness of water, of this planet.
A 20-story see-through building houses a tower of crystal, encasing it with its own glass dome. A handful of human time-travellers loiter outside, encircling the building and the pile of treasure sitting at its base, jewels gleaming on its sides.
Two astronauts outside their ship, in space, locked in conflict, each poised in anger, "Sup, Brah!"
A peacful, quiet and cold day in a city park, skaters doing laps around an ice-rink, a handful of flakes suspended on the air. The world at peace, one last time.
The whale had the texture of its sculpin step-brother. The two had grown up together, took on each-others' traits.
Butterflies on a dual-star world, playing in and around ocean waves.
The crowd looks on, awaiting anxiously for robot gladiators to tear eachother apart. The year is 2018 and the robot uprising isn't far.
An explosion spooks the crowd, one of the fighters is dribbling liquids out of its front, the severed fish heads drip the same, their mouths flapping in horror.
Tank treads are a persistent motif, and these are not robots but terrible fascimilines of tanks, remote pilots pushing joysticks for some amusement.
Toy radio telescopes face into the galaxy and listen for life in a dead desert, the bright sun not impeding the stars' brilliance, because there is no atmosphere. All is dead, except the listeners.
Slices of paint arranged in parallel planes, takes on the appearance of a face when viewed head-on.
The words yell at us, obsceneties and mini rants. -End
Printed faces hang on the wall, strings off into [infinity]. Which do I put on, when? What is the signal?
Heaven and Hell, long brush-strokes in blue and red, respectively, is all the difference. My Heaven.
Old man gives advice about art, in part lamenting on a painting he missed buying in college, to Always Be Buying. The painting is $75,000.
Ellementary school gold covers some ancient cut-outs, B&W heads, furniture, toys, all. Simple, boring.
A pile of wood-planks organized in a gird, their ends cut and shaped to give an illusion of a cliff.
Folded paper, green and pink flowers, under a matted glass, the plant comes and fades by bends.
The Rain buries the City, turns streets into gutters, scares off the fickle tourists. City smiles.
River gushes in the canonyon, its weight and sound immense. The closer I get, the more lost it is.
The curves sketch on a raging road, circular, looping around, a single crease in it.
Layer of identical pieces of paper, or plastic, glued in exact numbers together, very orderly. Art?
Starfields of galaxies, composed of nails, copper and steel, hammered into a photo of stars.
2D background, carved up or torn in places, holds the styrofoam structure of the world. Forest.
Two halves, ground and day, alike in lack of detail and strong, vibrant colors, meet with three trees and four houses.
An island floating in the sky, its features so unique and potent that they poke up out of the world.
The forest of animals takes to the sky, whole squadrons of birds darkening the skies as the world ends.
An infinity of fighter planes, marching off into infinity between two panes of mirrored glass.
The kids are rambunctuious, running around like they own the place. Can't even sample what's made here.
Explosions rocket the small space, while laser blasts push the adventurers deeper into the strange structure.