Once again, we delve into the exciting world of “When the Frame is Better than the Art.” Note the intricacy of the frame. How the scrollwork plays a golden tune, carressing the interior of the wood with a rivulet of gilded swirls, vaguely reminiscent of the heraldic crest of Spain, itself an homage to the Virgin Mary in her celestial glory.
Observe the marbled finish, a delicate antique veneer brushed over sturdy oak, adding the weight of years without weakening the integrity of the wood with dry rot and the slow advance of the years. So rarely does baroque ornamentation and utilitarianism come together in such harmony!
I guess we should talk about the art, at some point. I’d been trying to avoid it.
Hrrnuurrrr!! Somehow we have realized the worst possible elements of bad photoshop and bad oil paint in unholy union. Take a postage-stamp-sized photograph of someone’s grand-daughter, the photo she hates, the one where she was yawning AND eating, or just stepped off the short bus into bright sunshine. Blow it up. WAY up. Airbrush over it, then add a creeping white frost slowly crawling up her shoulder like the fungus from Pluto. Cover your brush with spackle. Add a mumu. You know, every horror show of a screaming, Münsch-esque anklebiter needs to be wearing a thick, thick layer of paste. It’s like a toothpaste toga.
Take this lively little abomination, roll it in a pile of confetti, and paste her against a quick-and-dirty rendition of “Autumn in New England After the Bomb.” Add salt to taste. Serves six.
Salvation Army on 183, Austin