Calico

Took a very short break from the paint and solitary confinement this weekend. I make it sound like Steve McQueen bouncing a rubber ball on the inside of his cell, but it's really not.

We drove to a ghost town three hours north east, called Calico. It's been mostly restored from the original settlement,but amongst the usual touristy tat like a house made of wine bottles (?) are a few original buildings, rusting machinery and pock marked mines. It didn't have the same dark undercurrent as somewhere like Tombstone, but there was enough character to conjure the haunted bedrock of America, as well as somewhere over run-rather aptly-by stray cats.

It set me thinking about the psyche of this country, how it's genesis is still tangible and close enough to almost justify the vainglory it suffers.I said almost. No dark ages or plagues,no Roman occupations or blitzes-just the Atom bomb and McDonalds, the Moon landings and Snooki.

From little acorns.

Speaking of which, the next Cielo Drive post is up-entitled Darchitects part one-the Liverpool Fuhrer. Click the link below:



And I'm days away from posting the completed self portrait, which I can tell you looks rather like a psychotropic Van Gogh.

From Hitler the failed artist, rejection burning in his bitter black heart, scorching the earth, to Van Gogh failed artist, rejection in his bitter broken heart, killing himself.

What a message for anyone with an aspiration to paint for a living.