wordcrush

Much like the gunk that's been festering in my sinus cavities for weeks, this post has just been sitting there making me miserable. Then suddenly the slow, strange gears of ratiocination clicked into place this morning, and I realized what I needed to say. Something bugged me about this photo essay on the work of the young and talented Haligonian Jack Bishop, and I finally reamed it from the dark caves of my unconsciousness: his paintings have the saddest, dirtiest little clusters of green, overwhelmingly surrounded by the crass colors of carpaint and road grey.

Can colour be a critique? As my title implies, my nevermet pal Earle Birney seemed to think so. Besides the occaisional blur of English Racing Green, or my quizzical glance at an outdated nineties earthtone person, I wonder what vertiginous verdigris hues have the uniformly bland branding of Starbucks and Discount Car Rentals snatched from right under our noses? As sniffles of the fall set in, what chartreuse shards of summertime bliss have the jazzed gold of peoples' autoerotic displays simply snuffled from consciousness? Perhaps capitalism's truest purpose and secret motive is to impose a return to the 256-color digitized displays of yore.

# posted by Lintropy @ 12:46 PM