Vaughn, Laslow, and John, Drinking at Agatha Bean's

Facing west, also habit under with...

In the middle of it's lot sharing time with some loose gravel sits the apex of all squandered pretenses further squandering itself. In the 20's Agatha Bean's was a white shuttered shack with false lanterns tacked up beside it's front door. Ever since Agatha's lost it's lanterns the cubby brick shack has been painted not-white about as often as any not-white could be had. But it's front door has remained as black as pitch-drizzle. Betta, the old lady that owns the place also owns the filling station a few blocks away. Bud and LU live there when the weather gets sticky. On morning's like that Betta comes into the bar and pours a shot for the dusty tinkers on the rim of their day.
Agatha's never closes, meaning that it's been open every day for decades. The place is shaped like a calendar so the mixed blessings that wander in won't get lost. Agatha's is warm and mellow with it's variations on a tarnished afternoon staggered like stools along the bar. I raise my hand to the woman sleeping under Benny's cubby stuffed with it's chaucer-hats and chunky tin boxes. Vilma nods, her drip of a chin bounces on her chest and she blinks.
The place is filled with the labored plinking from the paneled spool player in the back. Stripped for the cause, it's our bland, bland, bland, bland... Vaughn continues on intently. Owing to this magnet of essential light, we claim tile and tile towards it once again... This is not a victory but it is the righteous way removed...

We don't like McCow's so we soak up our hypothetical moose rays and all of their cosmic meanings right here. I sit next to Laslow and he sits next to me. We'll talk about drinking and smoking and being most foul. We'll talk about the honorable and mystical flag of the Platz. How it features a pale green field with a broad blue stripe and 4 white stars below a chevron. Laslow might even note that some people have interpreted the chevron as the uppercase variant of the symbol a few over from the Pi, the symbol some call a Lambda...
I might say to him, For my money, I've always felt it looks like a house with 4 stars living in it.

He might say, You know the Doc's still going right?

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The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

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Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

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