A few days after Mr. Moto sends me this rudder frame I've drawn here in anticipation for my Dream Vessel, I'm in a former airplane hangar converted into art studios and galleries at Santa Monica airport.I'm looking at a high-minded installation so minimalist I don't even realize it's there. The existentialism of it so overwhelms me that it takes a grand effort of politeness to control my Art Tourette's Syndrome. Never heard of it? It rears its ugly head when faced with bland public art or some whining self-centered visual exercise best discussed with a therapist rather than trotted out as cutting edge art.I manage to get out the door before expletives burst forth punctuated with a combination of exclamation points and question marks. "Somebody gets paid for this sh-t!?" Once again, I have neglected to insert that filter between brain and mouth.
I walk across the street to lunch at Typhoon where aromatic Asian food scents the atmosphere as I look at the true art on the runway where small planes are lined up waiting to take off.The array of form, color, skill and imagination intrigues and inspires me. As the planes loft, I think of Icarus and Leonardo. Might as well burn up in a flash of beautiful fire than take up space in the garage.
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