All Epochs Must Pass

I’ve been locked into a Cubist epoch for the past seven days. At the outset, I was extremely prolific, producing two paintings over the course of two days. Since last Friday, however, I have been toiling away on what I have decided must be the last of my Cubist works.

A floccinaucinihilipilificator might suggest this piece belongs in a dumpster behind an orphanage.

But it doesn’t. It is pulchritudinous. And sublime. And very, very lumpy.

Here is my ‘Late Cubism’ masterpiece, entitled Self Portrait, or also, The Bulge.

Self Portrait, or, The Bulge, by Michael Cedarwood. (2015) Microsoft Paint

 

Rap Music: Does It Belong In My Cubist Epoch?

If you missed yesterday’s post, you have to be asking yourself “What the f*&k is an epoch?”

It’s okay, I was flummoxed too.

Two hours into my Cubist phase, even I was still thinking epoch was murdered by Notorious P.U.F.F. Daddy back in nine-six. I couldn’t have been more wrong. What in the world could Cubism have to do with rap music anyways?

Nothing, until now. In yesterday’s post, I also claimed I wasn’t creative enough to produce a Cubist work. I couldn’t have been more wrong there either. Would an uncreative person have the revolutionary idea to combine Cubism and rap music into one fluid art movement called rapism? That looks bad. Try again. Would an uncreative person have the revolutionary idea to combine Cubism and rap music into one fluid art movement called Curap? No, an uncreative person would not have that idea. That’s why I had that idea.

If yesterday’s painting was an example of my ‘early Cubist phase,’ then today’s installment is surely ‘high Curap.’ Here we see the artist (me) rip through the fabric of our tangible universe and stumble into a dimension all his own.

Heaven for a G, by Michael Cedarwood. (2015) Microsoft Paint

The painting again makes use of cubes, there’s some liquor in there, and double meaning is incorporated—the ‘G’ in question stands of course for Georges Braque, and also for the way that rap music uses the letter, as an abbreviation of ‘guy.’

The epoch rages on.

 

My Cubist Epoch

After reading The Cubist Epoch by Douglas Cooper, I have decided to enter into a Cubist epoch of my own. While I do not possess the vision, creativity, or even paint necessary to complete a true Cubist work, I do have the desire to sarcastically mock the movement, much in the same way the book told me Marcel Duchamp did some 100 years ago.

So, I sat on my balcony, taking in the scene, wondering how Picasso and Braque would analyze and break down the space and figures before me. I opened a blank canvas in Microsoft Paint, and created the following tableau:

Behatted John Solicits Prostitute, by Michael Cedarwood. (2015) Microsoft Paint

We can see me up there on the balcony, some cubes, the titular Behatted John, and of course, the prostitute wanting to get in on that dollar sign above the man’s head.

Not a bad first try if you ask me.

Fan Art

This letter came in today:

Dear Mr. Philosophunculist:

I painted this owl for you in the hopes that you will recognize our spiritual connection. This is actually a painting of you, or as I see you in my imagination. You are wise and elegant, yet fierce.

I will be your field mouse, and you may hunt me.

Swoop down on me with your sharp beak, and eat me for dinner. I’m okay with that.

You may notice this owl looks like a combination of angry, suspicious, and judgmental. I imagine this may be how you see me.

As I painted your eyes, they pierced my soul. As your blurbs of wisdom often do.

Look at this note as creepy, haunting, weird, I don’t care. Our souls are connected, and you don’t even know it yet.

But you will in time. YOU WILL.

My sincerest regards,

Your soulmate.

I Get The One Subway Sandwich “Artist” Who Was Influenced By The Minimalist Movement

It’s my own fault, really. I wasn’t paying attention when my sandwich was being made right in front of me.

I got home, bit into the sub. It made a whooshing fart sound, then deflated. I opened it up. The general layout was an embarrassment. The few ingredients in the sandwich were concentrated in the middle. A few pickles, a light splattering of black olives, a couple of tomatoes. Even the cheese had somehow withdrawn and puckered. A total of two pieces of green pepper were visible.

I’ve never had a Subway Sandwich Artist drop this kind of bomb on me before.

I would have gladly eaten a sub prepared by a Dadaist or Surrealist Sandwich Artist, if it would have gotten me more than four banana peppers. The sandwich I crave needs someone, maybe and Expressionist or Impressionist, who isn’t afraid to bombard the sub with rich, girthy, experimental swaths of ingredients, and more than one pass with the mustard bottle. But a Minimalist? I love a diversity of styles, but Minimalism has no place in Subway.

This sandwich artist was clearly rejecting the bombastic array of rich textures and colors before her in some sort of sick rebellion against the norms of conventional Subway Sandwich Art. I wanted a sandwich that would make me feel like this:

The Scream, by Edvard Munch, 1893

But got this:

Black Square, by Kazimir Malevich, 1915

Next time I go to Subway, I will be asking the potential Sandwich Artist to display a catalogue of previous works, as well as a list of creative influences.