Paul is Dead by David Van Gough

Around the time the Beatles were supposedly seeding there waxings and sleeve artwork with messages that one of their number was deceased, Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski conceived a child who would be named Paul.

Had Sharon been hastily Cesarianed-as Sadie ghoulishly considered- Paul Polanski might have been born as an offering for Charlies Collective.

Paul Polanski,  an infant spawned of sacrifice and ceremony like Rosmary's baby, a lion cub born of Jupiter like one of Crowleys moonchildren birthed in ritualized blood, a pupae that could be imprinted as a Monarch for the new dawn.

Paul would have been forty three years of age this year had he lived. What kind of life would be brought to consciousness by a baptism of slaughter and fire, I wonder? What kind of Man?

A son of man?

A son of Manson?


The Man/son show runs from the 1st-31st October at Hyaena Gallery, Burbank CA. Opening 6th October 8pm-12am  

Healter Skelter by David Van Gough

"When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom and I see you again."

The twists and turns of Helter Skelter, led Bugolosi into the hall of mirrors, one which he saw himself reflected,forging a lucrative new career writing the most successful 'true' crime fiction novel ever. 

Helter Skelter-or Healter Skelter as it was written in blood on La Bianca's Freezer, a killer's catchphrase to hang with the shopping lists, postcards and fridge magnets.

"Listen" asks Bugolosi cupping his ear to the ground...Intoned in McCartneys raw vocals, in the shredding guitars, was the Devil unleashed? 
Was he? 
Was this song Charlies Catcher in the Rye, an inferno of annihilation embedded in-between the first note and Ringo's blistered fingers, composed to awaken the Mansonian candidate.  

Helter Skelter coming down.

He(a)lter Skelter-recapitulated. 
Easter Hell Trek
Hell retake rest
Lethal Seer Trek  
You begin to sound like Bugolosi.

And yet...and yet,at the base of the downward spiral,in the labyrinth of tunnels beneath Laurel Canyon, echoed in the coyote howls of Death valley, or in the hollow of native Indian bones beneath, or scrawled in the bloody epiphets of  victims blood, lies something dormant. A specter that stains the ether beyond the hallucinogenic haze. A dark totem constructed of ritual murder, ancient orders and corrupt organizations.

And when I get to the bottom there is her-Sharon Tate, the disfigured goddess, eternal mother of the stars,leading me back to the top again, the questions swirling as I go around and around the serpent again to the tail,stoking the fires of hell.

The hell of Helter Skelter.



The Man/son show runs from the 1st-31st October at Hyaena Gallery, Burbank CA. Opening 6th October 8pm-12am

God of Fuck by David Van Gough

 

Around about the same time I was born, Charles Manson met Lynette (Squeaky) Fromme on Venice Beach, introducing himself as the self aggrandized 'God of Fuck'. 

He wasn't wrong, because the amount of Charlies Angels, willing to spread the gospel as well as their nubile thighs for the holy father, numbered around thirty by the time of trial.  

I thought of Charlie- instilling his message with his divine wand  and I painted the Scorpion from Revelation's fiery Pitt, engorged with blood and the eternal eye of Horus, like a phallus weeping blood and semen. 

I thought of the bullshit Beatles/Bible hybrid that counted for pillow talk in his Hippie harem, and painted a copy of the White album under his arm. 

I thought of the LSD that he doled out like Spanish fly and painted the little green tab as holy sacrament . 

Charlie-the cartoon messiah, small hands, big head, like a marionette who had gotten loose of his strings, 

Charlie-the literal God of fuck sewing his poison seed.

The Man/son show runs from the 1st-31st October at Hyaena Gallery, Burbank CA. Opening 6th October 8pm-12am

Man/Son: the Haunting of the American Madonna-a series by David Van Gough

Here it is, the full measure of the Man/Son showcase, a months work -the culmination of a years research, of which seven of the pieces were completed in two weeks. I've sworn never to undertake such a task again.

For all its hardship, there have been revelations for me, the revelation that convinces me that dark evil forces exist and are perpetuated by powers with sinister agenda's.That the connections around the Manson case are unfathomable and have far reaching implications not just on our lives, but on a level that defies understanding. That for all our supposition to the contrary, this so called modern world is imposed by a dark ancient will, that uses ritual murder, arcane rites,symbols and talisman, sinister architecture and sacred geometry. 
That mostly, this path I was on wasn't just the search for clues in a detective story, but a spiritual one, seeking a sense of reason in the harrowing chaos, pivoted on the gruesome killing of a beautiful woman and her unborn child.

This is the heart of the Man/son and the haunting of the American Madonna.

 

Bad Vibes
24" x 36"
Mixed media

 Something Witchy
11" x 14"
Oil on canvas

 

War
16" x 20"
Oil on canvas

God of Fuck
11" x 14"
Oil on canvas

Healter Skelter
24" x 36"
Oil on canvas

 

Pig
16" x 20"
Oil on canvas

  

Rise
30" x 40"
Oil on canvas

Paul is Dead
11" x 14"
Oil on canvas

 

Death and the Maiden
11" x 14"
Oil on canvas

Death of the 60's
11" x 14"
Oil on canvas

Revolution nine

 

It must be over twenty years since I listened to the White Album in full-its one of those albums that seems so a part of cultural ubiquity (and for me at least) forever associated with the communal toke at college parties, that any impact it could have had, has long since passed me by.  I gave it another 'spin' today,minus the crackles,grooves and hemp: it still held a certain charm that did nothing to imbue an edge for my daubing, even after Helter Skelter had long finished. 
And then 'Revolution 9' kicked in, and it was like standing at the gates of Ceaser's Palace again. 
I wondered how, even in the dizzy haze of 'leb'-the resonance of this quagmire of dissonant sound didn't strike a wake up chord back then. The banshee carrion call of number nine repeated against a jarring backdrop of spectral phaze waiting to be encoded. 
But to whom? 
Manson, the Manchurian candidate?
Manson the cartoon messiah, a serial killer made for a cereal box generation?

I'm so immersed in the conspiracy bullshit-twelve months of revelation since what started as macabre homage to an adolescents love affair with a dead muse, and I can't think straight for the paint fumes and relentless heat.
And yet Revolution 9 sits like a skeleton stripped bare and redraped again as a eureka moment....something doesn't sit right.

Two paintings this week now completed-'Healter Skelter' (anagram of Easter Hell Trek) and 'God of Fuck'-umpteen to go in 24 days. And more weird phone calls that pick up with tapping on the line.
I must be onto something.