October 13, 2005

Some Local Pathologies

[UPDATED 10/16: For the record, labelhorde is now back online.]

[UPDATED 11:30 AM 10/15: Last update on this, but note that labelhorde's site is still down. Note also that Angela Johnson's site, and Rhonda Zayas's site, are still up and running; so that it's only the members of labelhorde who are offline (and losing their investment) now, not the teacher of fashion marketing nor the public relations guru. Just so the lines are clear here.]

[UPDATED 7 PM 10/13: Curiously, three days after Catherine called attention to irresponsible management at labelhorde, when you click on their site right now, what do you get? (http://macdonald.genwebhost.com/suspended.page/) and the chilling phrases "This Acccount Has Been Suspended" and "Please contact the billing/support department as soon as possible." We didn't do anything but witness. How can they not afford to pay their internet bill?]

by Jerome du Bois

Bulletin from the blog some love to hate:

This sure is an unhealthy, even poisonous town.

Cretins with battery acid in their veins and Clorox in their brains came crawling out snittering when I posted a photograph celebrating Catherine's completion of her astounding dress, The Psychedelic Leprechaun. The sitemeter soared. How predictable. And they did the obvious. And Angela Johnson and Rhonda Zayas left the insulting thread up, and they explicitly endorsed it by contributing to it. When they damn well felt like it, they took it down. Jerks. They have yet to send us an email of apology, which we deserve.

Try to imagine what is in the heart and mind of someone who would take the time and trouble to cut and paste and ruin a photograph which does nothing but celebrate beauty and hard work? These people cannot handle beauty and the demand for high standards; so, like angry grade-schoolers, they draw the moustache on the Mona Lisa. Only here they did a lot worse, because their souls are black. And, for reasons known only to them, they hate us. We're real weepy about it, too. All broken up.

Twits, with tiny lives.

They couldn't just look at the photograph, and then move on to another blog or entry or website or activity. No: it gnawed at them enough that they went out of their ways to destroy a perfectly innocuous celebration of a special creation and a special time.

And if they think they've slowed us down or intimidated us, they'd better start thinking.

We're going to keep on exposing the ugliness in this town, wherever we find it.

For example, yesterday we followed a sitemeter reference from a person who calls himself the klute. When the page appeared, it was a whole damn thread about me. Shudder. Remember, I never even heard of this guy until he came out of the woodwork last month with a gratuitous slap for no reason.

Catherine said, "It's exactly like those TV shows where they open the perp's closet and there's a bunch of pictures and news stories all about their one obsession. This creep has some kind of intellectual homosexual fascination with you. It reminds me of Wendy before we ran him off --Ian Wender, remember? 'I read you every morning with my morning coffee.' Yeesh. This guy is obsessed with you. What's that about? Creeps."

Couldn't have said it better myself. the klute, you should probably save yourself further embarrassment, and just tiptoe away. And stay away.

Moving on, down at The Trunk Space we have two more skanky exhibits: gay male clichés and paintings of registered sex offenders.

Edward Luce's particular deformation of psychological health focuses on hairy men, and he makes paintings of them. Say no more. He's the same guy who hung up a string of truckers' caps which mimicked the gay hanky code. If you read what those colors mean, you know why gay bars have no windows. (These proud men.) Message for Mr. Luce: study psychology, not anatomy; you might grow up. (Now some ignoramus will label me homophobic. Predictably.)

Karolina Sussland's paintings of Texas registered sex offenders are themselves pathological. Again, imagine the kind of mind that conceives of such a project, and thinks it's fine, even ironically edgy. Doesn't this woman have children of her own? Or know children? So while she's faithfully painting these evil faces, transferring feature by feature from one medium to another, does she ever think about the victims, some of whom, kept secret in these perp's heads, will be buried in untidy spots near roadsides all across this land, forever lost to their loved ones? If she does think these things, does she care?

What kind of mind conceives of paintings such as these? A pathological one, I say.

Then, as mentioned before in "The Murder Pimps," Gidget Gein has a show at Perihelion. This is the guy who used to steal objects from helpless dead persons when he was entrusted with the job of driving them from hospitals to funeral homes. Another fine example of Phoenix artistic judgment by Amy Young and Doug Grant, two more ghouls in the mix.

Finally, the Phoenix New Times once again recently featured Sue Chenoweth, who is still flogging her so-called addictions and compulsions, though now, of course, she informs us she's in recovery. But she still talks about this crap because it's her gimmick. She makes sure they come up in the interview:

Why there are no paintings made with real blood in her studio anymore: I went through this cathartic thing where I had to make more room. I threw away I don't know how many huge garbage cans. Anything with real blood or mutilation or I'd prick my finger and draw with the blood --I don't know why and I don't care. Anything that reeked of Camelback Hospital.

Catherine, a former teacher, says, "Even with the most co-dependent enablers, and the most forgiving school principal and colleagues, no whacko maintains the steady teaching career that Sue Chenoweth has. And now she'll probably cry when she reads this, and I'll get another nasty letter from her old art teacher Marlyne Jones like I did after the Arizona Biennial in 2003. Don't bother, Marlyne."

And pass the tissue, Sue; your career is going fine, even if it looks to us like aesthetic Munchausen-by-proxy.

So there you have it, people; some fine examples of local Phoenix art and culture.

And now, if you'll excuse me, Catherine is calling me to the breakfast table: leftover chateaubriand from last night, shirred eggs with fresh herbes de Provence, a little caviar on the side. On Wedgewood china. Fresh-squeezed orange juice in Baccarat crystal. Fresh, hot coffee. Damask linen. My beautiful wife beside me.

Ah, the good life --far, far, far from the abbatoir.

Posted by Jerome at October 13, 2005 06:36 AM | TrackBack