Fine Art Americawho’d have thought. Everything you’d want to make with your art under one all-encompassing metaphorical roof. Keep your art or sell the original. Have images printed on any shape or form.
You don’t have to leave the house Fine Art America will do the work and more. They will even set up a website for you- set up a blog- do your marketing- emailing-pdf’s- Facebook page- stats-the lot.
I don’t know if it’s too good to be true -we all know that adage-maybe that was then this is now. Share the world.
Gone is art that is unobtainable, where art is on some higher echelon.
Viewed by the few encouraging pomp and ceremony as a marketing tool with elaborate words and descriptions and plenty of cash and over the top bios.
Art is for all and it appears the Fine Art America crew are making it happen for everyone- artist-galleriest-purchaser
The only thing left is for the creative to get going and create in any form they like.
Then upload the work.
This part I will admit is the hard-laborious bit.
It takes time and patience. Application and dedication.
Focus and organisation.
Cumulonimbus is a cloud of voluptuous exciting brightness and powerful up currents, soft fluffy and desirous but containing dark thunder storms and shafts of torrential rain, lightning and tornadoes.
Like Dionysuswhose troop of devotees followed him around for his wild and beautiful nature, it was for this Cumulonimbus waited, this wildness and frenzy like passion for pleasure and festivity of Dionysus which went voraciously unabated.
When they would erupt together the sky would be crazed with light and darkness.
When Dionysus created heat with his pine cone staff this would start the right conditions for Cumulonimbus to prepare for precipitous pleasure.
First there was the development and supercell desire followed by the mature stage then full dissipation for which Dionysus waited eagerly.
This unity brings with it turbulence so dynamic that Vesuvius erupts and spews angry bursts of molten flame into cumulonimbus where Dionysus charges onwards into the depths of Thebes clinging to Cumulonimbus screaming in congestivetorrents of nascent Perseids.
Everything matters. Like a hose kinking it’s when the water stops that you notice. You become irritated and disgruntled looking back to see the problem plain as day staring at you. Such is life.
As you unfold it you can feel the pulsating pressure build up within the dark tunnel, fluid then suddenly charges through your hands throbbing, searching and seeking an exit.
The fluid gushes out and nothing can stop it. Until the next kink which is usually once you’ve relaxed and it happens again.
It feels good but it’s a dream. A tension filled wet dream from dark matter. So dark in fact that event this massless particle is non-existent. He pushed and probed gasping with deep breath and tiny inhalations of frustration. The intensity is only surmounted by the audience who look on at the master: they are fully focused and dry lipped.
Like the holder of the gushing hose which feeds off the yearning buds hankering for a wetting, he too becomes ejaculatory with the unkinking and gushing flow. But that happens later and there is no outlet. Fuck it.
How did it come to this?
It was a dance and when you do the thigmotropic and transmundane dance in broad daylight your exposed and she’s confused and the world spins faster, the hose kinks tighter, the flow builds up and suppressing it only creates unintended phantasies which have to see the light of night.
She saw this concomitance when their eyes glazed each other. It was instantaneous. Immediate. A hairs breadth – he was oscillating in the tunnel and didn’t see.
SKYLLA (Scylla) was a sea-monster who haunted the rocks of a narrow strait opposite the whirlpool of Kharybdis (Charybdis). Ships who sailed too close to her rocks would lose six men to her ravenous, darting heads.
Homer describes Skylla as a creature with twelve dangling feet, six long necks and grisly heads lined with a triple row of sharp teeth. Her voice was likened to the yelping of dogs. This description of Skylla is probably derived from the imagery of words associated with her name–namely, “hermit-crab” (Greek skyllaros), “dog” and “dog-shark” (skylax), and “to rend” (skyllô). In classical art she was depicted as a fish-tailed sea-goddess with a cluster of canine fore-parts surrounding her waist.
According to late classical writers she was once a beautiful nymph loved by the sea-god Glaukos (Glaucus), but her jealous rival, the witch Kirke (Circe), employed magic to transform her into a monster. Older poets, however, envisaged Skylla as simply a monster born into a monstrous family.
NEMESIS was the goddess of indignation against, and retribution for, evil deeds and undeserved good fortune. She was a personification of the resentment aroused in men by those who commited crimes with apparent impunity, or who had inordinate good fortune.
Nemesis directed human affairs in such a way as to maintain equilibrium. Her name means she who distributes or deals out. Happiness and unhappiness were measured out by her, care being taken that happiness was not too frequent or too excessive. If this happened, Nemesis could bring about losses and suffering. As one who checked extravagant favours by Tykhe (Tyche) (Fortune), Nemesis was regarded as an avenging or punishing divinity.
In myth Nemesis was particularly concerned with matters of love. She appears as an avenging agent in the stories of Narkissos and Nikaia, whose callous actions brought about the death of their wooers. In some versions of the Trojan War, she was the mother of Helene, and is shown in scenes of her seduction by Paris pointing an accusing finger at the girl.
Nemesis was often sometimes depicted as a winged goddess. Her attributes were apple-branch, rein, lash, sword, or balance. Her name was derived from the Greek words nemêsis and nemô, meaning “dispenser of dues.” The Romans usually used the Greek name of the goddess but sometimes also named her Invidia (Jealousy) and Rivalitas (Jealous Rivalry).
Her combed skin creased and stretched over the topography of her face. Vacant and exposed I see her kneel, her rib cage sucked in deep with despair. She tried in vein to make the oxygen seep through the orifices, she couldn’t. I sat behind her and pulled until the limbs were rooted and spread, stop! Stop! She cried I can’t breathe. Don’t fight it you are here.
Easing her into the hall and laying her down in rigour mortis then pulling her jumper up I gently knead around her mother connection. Slow and deep. This uncut cord is engulfing the life out of her. Everting to recreation.
Desperately trying to limn into a foetal position the body looks for succour.
Pulling up and away, shaking the tears come. Why! Why? Jesus help me! Letting her move to her own moribund desires she rolls into the anhedonic ball.
In this apostasy state I grab the wool from the shelf. Garbling gnostic utterances I bind her into a skein.
It is thick and soft, comforting, washed raw wool she smells the earth. Breathe in: deep… Imagine you are this yarn, each strand and fibre pulled and knitted. The dropped stitches, the twists and turns, the under and over’s no two yarns are the same. No two hand knitted garments are the same.
Massaging her head I reach for the atlas bone and pull up- a perdurable manoeuvre that never fails to quell the demiurge wrangling with the mind and body.
She closes her eyes and rests then sleeps.
I unwind the wool and stretch her autochthonous extremities fully. Fetching a cover. She is cocooned in a heated blanket only to wake later to another noumenon.