Thursday 29 December 2016

Paprika in October

Read like a pile of nouns: a woman's leg, a car door, dishes, glass, cigarette smoke, incumbent looking fingers, a skirt, a grey hair comb, a pair of flaccid socks, half of a woman's face, a mans hand, spaghetti, Fords grill, high-heeled shoes, car wheels, eyes, words partially spelling out Marilyn and more spaghetti. The plastic value is in plastic value; THEY ARE to be looked at. 

Rosey he keeps you on your feet when you should be on your arse. Little to no angle on that rogue Frosting even with goggles. 

A commercial cubism and academic dust gets polished off by windowcleaners earning $4 a day. 

Speedy grid-device (proportionate squaring) absences caressing hand to point of filling in for commercial gambit-profit. Gleaming glossy kernels of 'our desire squared'.

No longer 'solemn, brooding, dreamy, self-absorbed, deeply serious, with roguish exuberance, with a sigh of release, with a deep sound of mourning, with defiant power and resistance, with submissive suppleness and devotion, with obstinate self-control, with sensitive, precarious balance. Living an independent life of their own, with all the necessary qualities for further autonomous existence, prepared to make readily, in an instant, for new combinations to mingle with one another and create an infinite succession of new worlds.' 

The artless billboard painter is efficient in 'technique' equivocal to wage, every 'stroke' (or square filled) decimated by surviving at a distance to be looked at.

The distance is palpable disintegration of implied (soft-focus) 'realism'. Facture or methodological 'finish' pertinent and defunct simultaneously. 

Rosey gives us images as he would otherwise on 24th street, whereupon the visual information from pavement to billboard is no more than assertive on the image 'falling apart' when one gains ground; giving them the cheapest workmanship that holds at a distance.

Epitaphs of modernist radicalism; the end-game of definitive 'lastness' or 'championship painting' realises the runts are roosting and bringing with them the implied 'democracy' of the social division of labour (worms celebrate Rodchenko). 

Rosey gives them the palpable monotony of what was counter posed previously (art/life); no El Lissitzky on the street but rather dreamlike reality of the American idyllic with beaming smiles and full frontal gaudiness. 

Rosey's treatment of blue nylon and Monroe's face is same. No more sentiment in either; a forehead seamlessly transitions into grisailles hands presenting cake and a car hood speeding on highway 69 into that spaghetti sunset.