THE DAILY PIC: This is Jim Dine’s hilarious “Hair” (I assume it’s also simply his hair) painted in 1961 and now on view in the survey of the Onnasch collection at Hauser & Wirth’s 18th Street space in New York. Judging by this show at least, the German dealer and collector went for gloriously off-beat, even atypical works by some of the best American artists of the postwar years.

This big Dine, six foot square, has hints of Jasper Johns’s peculiar directness – painting-as-skin, here, instead of painting-as-flag in Johns – but it also gets down and dirty as Johns never does. You could also compare it to Ruscha and maybe even, in spirit (and color), to some much later Guston – and of course to the expressive, manly messes of Pollock and other AbEx-ers, which Dine was clearly sending up. (© ARS, NY and DACS, London 2013 Courtesy Onnasch Collection)

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The greatest works of art forgo the deceptive illusionism of a self-contained aesthetic world and point beyond themselves. They stand in an immediate relationship to the great problems of their age and are always searching for an answer to the questions: How can a purpose be gained from human life? and: How can we participate in this purpose?
—  Arnold Hauser, The Social History of Art

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Gif’s serie of the Suicide Squad for a Talenthouse contest.

Handmade portraits with graphite pencils, digitally constructed in photoshop.


to Kaspar Hauser

the apple has a will, of course, it rolls where it may, and if it deigns to hide, then the worse for the one who let it fall

oh, and i’d like to meet the man who built the tower, he would scrape the sky like i cannot. and the room in the tower, locked in its walls i saw only room. now i am no longer enclosed. now i see the sky and its immensity. it does not bind me, nor does death, as in Verlaine, “J’ai voulu mourir à la guerre / La mort n’a pas voulu de moi.”

certainly i am not a tree-frog. are you? deduction isn’t worth a damn, when we lack so much description’s truth, and there are so many things i still don’t understand, so many words i do not know, the world burgeons with its blossoming beauty, so why would we ever want to enclose life in our faulty circumscription, if life evades us at each turn?

music makes my soul hurt. one would have to be blind like Florian truly to see where beauty resides. and my hands that have clumsily caressed only a wooden horse, why do they falter on the keys, why do i stumble, when i hear what i hear in the heart of beauty?

Herzog offered me an epitaph: “But can you not hear the dreadful screaming all around that people usually call silence?”

I do and it frightens me, life’s immensity…