And I cannot stress this enough: bury their bones in an unmarked ditch.

Those are original Warhol boxes. Two Brillos, a Motts and a Campbells tomato soup. Multiple millions worth of original art, set on the floor by the front door.

Theres a regular customer whom i do plumbing work for, for the last 3 or 4 years. These belong to her. She also has Cherub Riding a Stag, and a couple other Warhols that i cannot identify, along with other originals by other artists that i also cannot identify. I have to go back to her house this coming Monday, i might get photos of the rest of her art, just so i can figure out what it is.

Even though i dont have an artistic bone in my entire body, i can appreciate art. I have negative feelings on private art like this that im too dumb to elucidate on.

eat the fucking rich. they are good for nothing.

  • booty [he/him]@hexbear.netEnglish
    6·
    1 year ago

    Both situations do have an evocative imagery. Either fluorescent lit rows of bright labels and unnaturally brightly colored chemicals or a dim janitors closet filled with jugs of less appealingly colored and labeled versions of the same, meant for wholesale so no need to have shelf appeal. There’s a lot that can come from the mundane.

    You described two scenes (and in so doing went much further than the “artist” here), but nothing “came from” it. I still didn’t really feel anything. Those are completely mundane situations and being reminded of them brings no emotions or insights to my mind at all.