On Monday (June 23) I am going to attempt something that nobody has ever done before. At 12:00 (Eastern Time; that's 5:00 pm GMT), I will be blogging LIVE from the final of the World Extreme Competitive Still-Life Painting Championships.
That's right! Even though the event sold out in just a few minutes, you can still be there with regular blogged updates on all the imaginary action. Join me, The Imaginary Reviewer, from noon (EST) this Monday, and be a part of the very first ever LIVE PLAY-BY-PLAY IMAGINARY SPORTING EVENT BLOG!
The Imaginary Review's live coverage of the World Extreme Competitive Still-Life Painting Championships is brought to you by Gillette, David Niven Fake Moustaches Inc. and Christie's Auction House of Pancakes (Now with no reserve on the Maple Syrup!).
Showing posts with label paintings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label paintings. Show all posts
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
The White House Collection of Presidential Romance Novel Cover Portraits
When George Washington became the first president of the United States, he was worried that the people of America would not accept him as a strong, unifying leader. To make sure he was seen as someone worthy of being in charge of the country, he had a portrait commissioned by one of the greatest artists in the country at that time. Being wary of the public’s suspicion of the English monarchy, Washington paid the artist to paint him in a scene that would show the American public his strength, sensitivity and intelligence. He was painted as the hero in the cover to a romance novel.
Since then, one of the lesser known parts of the constitution makes it essential for all American presidents to have their portraits painted in this way. Until now, the pictures have been hidden away along a corridor of the White House, seen only by the presidents themselves and their families (and lovers!), but now the collection has been released for a world tour, and I was at the press premiere, like a dashing international playboy/thief.
The paintings show a wealth of different artistic talent from the decades of American history. Each canvas shows a world leader in a different romantic pose, their muscles bulging and with a fair maiden in their arms. All bosoms are understandably ample.
It is interesting to note the personalities of the presidents shining through in each picture. John F. Kennedy, for example, is shown as a dashing buccaneer, swinging on a rope from ship to ship with a knife between his teeth and a buxom blonde in his large, muscled arm. The expression of intent and fearless derring-do in his eyes looks all the more tragic with the benefit of hindsight.
Fast forward some decades and George W. Bush’s romance novel portrait looks somewhat odd in comparison. The reason for this, undoubtedly, is that the current president did not adequately explain the purpose of the picture to the artist, and Mister Bush was painted as the damsel in distress, rather than the hero. The wags present at the exhibition commented on how prescient the artist must have been. I stifled a giggle.
Since then, one of the lesser known parts of the constitution makes it essential for all American presidents to have their portraits painted in this way. Until now, the pictures have been hidden away along a corridor of the White House, seen only by the presidents themselves and their families (and lovers!), but now the collection has been released for a world tour, and I was at the press premiere, like a dashing international playboy/thief.
The paintings show a wealth of different artistic talent from the decades of American history. Each canvas shows a world leader in a different romantic pose, their muscles bulging and with a fair maiden in their arms. All bosoms are understandably ample.
It is interesting to note the personalities of the presidents shining through in each picture. John F. Kennedy, for example, is shown as a dashing buccaneer, swinging on a rope from ship to ship with a knife between his teeth and a buxom blonde in his large, muscled arm. The expression of intent and fearless derring-do in his eyes looks all the more tragic with the benefit of hindsight.
Fast forward some decades and George W. Bush’s romance novel portrait looks somewhat odd in comparison. The reason for this, undoubtedly, is that the current president did not adequately explain the purpose of the picture to the artist, and Mister Bush was painted as the damsel in distress, rather than the hero. The wags present at the exhibition commented on how prescient the artist must have been. I stifled a giggle.
The delight in many of these paintings comes from the details. For example, note in the portrait of Bill Clinton (reproduced here), the bulge in his trousers as he clasps his arm around the infatuated redhead. The long knife in his other hand, situated to the left of the groin area, gives some impression of the size of what lies within Clinton’s tight beige pants.
Ronald Reagan’s portrait shows him dressed as a fire fighter, rescuing a nightgown-clad woman from a blazing building. What sets this painting apart from the rest of the collection is that while the females in the other paintings are universally attractive (allowing the American people to envision themselves as the second half of the President/Public Partnership that makes democracy), here Reagan is rescuing a rather aged, ugly woman. On closer inspection, the love interest appears to be Margaret Thatcher. An interesting and telling detail, and no mistaking.
All in all, this exhibition is a thoroughly enjoyable one, and shows off both the greatest romance novel cover artists of successive generations, as well as the way that American presidents were seen by them. If you can get over the disturbing nature of some of these pictures (The one portraying Richard Nixon as a Victorian-era Schoolmaster actually made me burp up a little bit of sick), there is a lot to enjoy here. And while you do, why not try to picture the next president of the US, whoever that may be, as the subject of a romance novel cover painting? It’s fun! Really it is!
The White House Collection of Presidential Romance Novel Cover Portraits will be travelling all over the world, starting in Australia on Monday, Japan on Tuesday, Russia on Wednesday, Germany on Friday (it’s having a rest on Thursday) and Mexico all weekend. Postcards are available, but none have pictures on them.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Art Exhibition Review: Saint Whopp's (CofE) Primary School
I attended the opening night of Saint Whopp's Primary School's annual art exhibition with my son, Monty, hoping that this year's festival of paint would be better than last year's godawful shiteshow. How wrong I was.
Take Tommy Chapstick's work, for example, if you want to see why St Whopp's school is famed for its laughable art. The thick strokes of blue, yellow and red are daubed on the paper in such an amateurish fashion that I initially thought someone had mounted dog vomit on the wall. If only they had. Chapstick (6 and a half) should be ashamed of the drivel to which he is subjecting the world. It was all I could do to stop myself from spitting on the painting, entitled, incidentally, My Mummy.
Suzie Bedknobs (5) is another artist whose work would be better off used as toilet paper in the elephant house at the zoo. While her vivid swirly circles are no doubt intended to evoke the spirit of Kandinsky, instead they evoke the kind of bloated indigestion that one gets after eating too many snails. Maybe the swirls are supposed to be snails. Who can tell? Who cares? Not I.
I have never felt as physically sick when looking at a work of art as when looking at seven year old Robert Fromme's painting, My House. Not even during Pierre Gabstank's installation that comprised of nothing but rotten eggs and deer crap. The shit on the paper was enough to make me shout obscenities at Fromme's father, Bill. Fromme Sr. became angry with me so I resorted to punching him for raising such an untalented child. Then I punched Robert for being so crap.
The only saving grace in the entire show was the wonderful work by brilliant genius child Monty Reviewer. The beauty of the subtle, gradiated colours in his painting, Daddy, were enough to put tears in my eyes. That the hands of the figure in his painting had seven and ten fingers, respectively, was unimportant. The child really caught the essence, the spirit of his subject. This work alone is more than enough to make up for the rest of the dross on display here. So come and see for yourself!
Saint Whopp's Primary School's art exhibition is on until their next art lesson, when the paintings will be sent home with the kids. To discourage nonces, all male visitors to the school must leave their testicles with the bursar.
Take Tommy Chapstick's work, for example, if you want to see why St Whopp's school is famed for its laughable art. The thick strokes of blue, yellow and red are daubed on the paper in such an amateurish fashion that I initially thought someone had mounted dog vomit on the wall. If only they had. Chapstick (6 and a half) should be ashamed of the drivel to which he is subjecting the world. It was all I could do to stop myself from spitting on the painting, entitled, incidentally, My Mummy.
Suzie Bedknobs (5) is another artist whose work would be better off used as toilet paper in the elephant house at the zoo. While her vivid swirly circles are no doubt intended to evoke the spirit of Kandinsky, instead they evoke the kind of bloated indigestion that one gets after eating too many snails. Maybe the swirls are supposed to be snails. Who can tell? Who cares? Not I.
I have never felt as physically sick when looking at a work of art as when looking at seven year old Robert Fromme's painting, My House. Not even during Pierre Gabstank's installation that comprised of nothing but rotten eggs and deer crap. The shit on the paper was enough to make me shout obscenities at Fromme's father, Bill. Fromme Sr. became angry with me so I resorted to punching him for raising such an untalented child. Then I punched Robert for being so crap.
The only saving grace in the entire show was the wonderful work by brilliant genius child Monty Reviewer. The beauty of the subtle, gradiated colours in his painting, Daddy, were enough to put tears in my eyes. That the hands of the figure in his painting had seven and ten fingers, respectively, was unimportant. The child really caught the essence, the spirit of his subject. This work alone is more than enough to make up for the rest of the dross on display here. So come and see for yourself!
Saint Whopp's Primary School's art exhibition is on until their next art lesson, when the paintings will be sent home with the kids. To discourage nonces, all male visitors to the school must leave their testicles with the bursar.
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