June 9th, 2009
It happens to me often. I say something and the thing I wonder about is right next to me. I might say it has do to with the alienating phenomenological veil of LA so that I do not recognize the thing next to me. That veil created by moments like when I am sitting at my desk and someone happens by–a weird incongruity of imagination and reality–am I suppose to know you? Have we met before? Sometimes I wonder who invited me and turned on the T.V. in need of a subtle (or not so subtle) confirmation of acknowledgment; surreal but still enjoyable giving more fodder for lunch conversation. Here under the sun, or even when it is uncomfortably unsunny, one’s everyday thoughts do not seem to expand, develop, increase beyond a half witted bon mot or HEADLINES to move to some kind of a conclusion or even resoluton! –as this blog can as well attest–thoughts meander in an unstructured slothfulness.
So to point out what was next to my post PORTRAIT— The National Portrait Gallery (like Riverside Dr. being next to a river)– to The BP Portrait Awards 2009. It answers the question, Where have the portrait painters gone? The answer: apparently they never left home.