Dutch postcard by Gebr. Spanjersberg N.V., Rotterdam. sent by mail in 1963. Brigitte Bardot in Et Dieu... créa la femme/...And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956).

 

Beautiful French actress Brigitte Bardot (1934) was the sex kitten of the European film industry. BB starred in 48 films, performed in numerous musical shows, and recorded 80 songs. After her retirement in 1973, she established herself as an animal rights activist and made vegetarianism sexy.

 

Brigitte Bardot was born in Paris in 1934. Her father, Louis Bardot, had an engineering degree and worked with his father in the family business. Her mother, Ann-Marie Mucel, was 14 years younger than Brigitte's father and they married in 1933. Brigitte's mother encouraged her daughter to take up music and dance. At the age of 13, she entered the Conservatoire Nationale de Danse to study ballet. By the time she was 15, Brigitte was trying a modelling career and found herself in May 1949 on the cover of French magazine Elle. Her incredible beauty was readily apparent, Brigitte was noticed by Roger Vadim, then an assistant to the film director Marc Allegrét. Vadim was infatuated with Bardot and encouraged her to start working as a film actress. BB was 18 when she debuted in the comedy Le Trou Normand/Crazy for Love (Jean Boyer, 1952). In the same year, she married Vadim. Brigitte wanted to marry him when she was 17, but her parents quashed any marriage plans until she turned 18. In April 1953 she attended the Cannes Film Festival where she received massive media attention. She soon was every man's idea of the girl he'd like to meet in Paris. From 1952 to 1956 she appeared in seventeen films. Her films were generally lightweight romantic dramas in which she was cast as ingénue or siren, often with an element of undress. She made her first US production in 1953 in Un acte d'amour/Act of Love (Anatole Litvak, 1953) with Kirk Douglas, but she continued to make films in France.

 

Roger Vadim was not content with the light fare his wife was offered. He felt Brigitte Bardot was being undersold. Looking for something more like an art film to push her as a serious actress, he showcased her in Et Dieu créa la femme/...And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956). This film, about an immoral teenager in a respectable small-town setting, was a smashing success on both sides of the Atlantic. Craig Butler at AllMovie: "It's easy enough to say that ...And God Created Woman is much more important for its historical significance than for its actual quality as a film, and that's true to an extent. Woman's immense popularity, due to its willingness to directly embrace an exploration of sex as well as its willingness to show a degree of nudity that was remarkably daring for its day, demonstrated that audiences were willing to view subject matter that was considered too racy for the average moviegoer. This had both positive (freedom to explore, especially for the French filmmakers of the time) and negative (freedom to exploit) consequences, but its impact is undeniable. It's also true that Woman is not a great work of art, not with a story that is ultimately rather thin, some painful dialogue, and an attitude toward its characters and their sexuality that is unclear and inconsistent. Yet Woman is still fascinating, due in no small part to the presence of Brigitte Bardot in the role that made her an international star and sex symbol. She's not demonstrating great acting here, although her performance is actually good and much better than necessary, and her legendary mambo scene at the climax is nothing short of sensational." During the shooting of Et Dieu créa la femme/And God Created Woman (1956), directed by her husband Roger Vadim, Brigitte Bardot had an affair with her co-star Jean-Louis Trintignant, who at that time was married to French actress Stéphane Audran. Her divorce from Vadim followed, but they remained friends and collaborated in later work.

 

Et Dieu créa la femme/...And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956) helped her international status. The film took the USA by storm, her explosive sexuality being unlike anything seen in the States since the days of the 'flapper' in the 1920s. It gave rise to the phrase 'sex kitten' and fascination of her in America consisted of magazines photographs and dubbed over French films - good, bad, or indifferent, her films drew audiences - mainly men - into theaters like lemmings.BB appeared in light comedies like Doctor at Large (1957) - the third of the British 'Doctor' series starring Dirk Bogarde - and Une Parisienne/La Parisienne (Michel Boisrond, 1957) which suited her acting skills best. However, she was a sensation in the crime drama En cas de malheur/Love is my profession (Claude Autant-Lara, 1958). Hal Erickson at AllMovie: "this Brigitte Bardot vehicle ran into stiff opposition from the Catholic Legion of Decency, severely limiting its U.S. distribution. Bardot plays a nubile small-time thief named Yvette, who becomes the mistress of influential defense attorney Andre (Jean Gabin). Though Andre is able to shower Yvette with jewels and furs, he cannot "buy" her heart, and thus it is that it belongs to handsome young student Mazzetti (Franco Interlenghi). Alas, Yvette is no judge of human nature: attractive though Mazzetti can be, he has a dangerous-and deadly-side. En Cas de Malheur contains a nude scene that has since been reprinted in freeze-frame form innumerable times by both film-history books and girlie magazines." Photographer Sam Lévin's photos contributed considerably to her image of sensuality and slight immorality. One of Lévin's pictures shows Brigitte, dressed in a white corset. It is said that around 1960 postcards with this photograph outsold in Paris those of the Eiffel Tower.

 

Brigitte Bardot divorced Vadim in 1957 and in 1959 she married actor Jacques Charrier, with whom she starred in Babette s'en va-t-en guerre/Babette Goes to War (Christian-Jaque, 1959). The paparazzi preyed upon her marriage, while she and her husband clashed over the direction of her career. Her films became more substantial, but this brought a heavy pressure of dual celebrity as she sought critical acclaim while remaining a glamour model for most of the world. Vie privée/Private Life (1962), directed by Louis Malle has more than an element of autobiography in it. James Travers at Films de France: "Brigitte Bardot hadn’t quite reached the highpoint of her career when she agreed to make this film with high profile New Wave film director Louis Malle. Even so, the pressure of being a living icon was obviously beginning to get to France’s sex goddess and Vie privée is as much an attempt by Bardot to come to terms with her celebrity as anything else. Malle is clearly fascinated by Bardot and the documentary approach he adopts for this film reinforces the impression that it is more a biography of the actress than a work of fiction. Of course, it’s not entirely biographical, but the story is remarkably close to Bardot’s own life and comes pretty close to predicting how her career would end." The scene in which, returning to her apartment, Bardot's character is harangued in the elevator by a middle-aged cleaning lady calling her offensive names, was based on an actual incident and is a resonant image of a celebrity in the mid-20th century. Soon afterward Bardot withdrew to the seclusion of Southern France.

 

Brigitte Bardot's other husbands were German millionaire playboy Gunter Sachs and right-wing politician Bernard d'Ormale. She is reputed to have had relationships with many other men including Sami Frey, her co-star in La Vérité/The Truth (Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1960), and musicians Serge Gainsbourg and Sacha Distel. In 1963, Brigitte Bardot starred in Godard's critically acclaimed film Le Mépris/Contempt (Jean-Luc Godard, 1963). She was also featured along with such notable actors as Alain Delon in Amours célèbres/Famous Love Affairs (Michel Boisrond, 1961) and Histoires extraordinaires/Tales of Mystery (Louis Malle, 1968), Jeanne Moreau in Viva Maria! (Louis Malle, 1965), Sean Connery in Shalako (Edward Dmytryk, 1968), and Claudia Cardinale in Les Pétroleuses/Petroleum Girls (Christian-Jaque, 1971). She participated in various musical shows and recorded many popular songs in the 1960s and 1970s, mostly in collaboration with Serge Gainsbourg, Bob Zagury and Sacha Distel, including 'Harley Davidson', 'Le Soleil De Ma Vie' (the cover of Stevie Wonder's 'You Are the Sunshine of My Life') and the notorious 'Je t'aime... moi non plus'.

 

Brigitte Bardot’s film career showed a steady decline in the late 1960s and early 1970s. In 1973 just before her fortieth birthday, she announced her retirement. She chose to use her fame to promote animal rights. In 1976 she established the Brigitte Bardot Foundation for the Welfare and Protection of Animals. She became a vegetarian and raised three million French francs to fund the foundation by auctioning off jewelry and many personal belongings. For this work, she was awarded the Légion d’honneur in 1984. During the 1990's she became also outspoken in her criticism of immigration, interracial relationships, Islam in France, and homosexuality. Her husband Bernard d'Ormal is a former adviser of the far-right Front National party. Bardot has been convicted five times for 'inciting racial hatred'. More fun is that Bardot is recognised for popularizing bikini swimwear, in early films such as Manina/Woman without a Veil (1952), in her appearances at Cannes and in many photoshoots. Bardot also brought into fashion the 'choucroute' ('Sauerkraut') hairstyle (a sort of beehive hairstyle) and gingham clothes after wearing a checkered pink dress, designed by Jacques Esterel, at her wedding to Charrier. The fashions of the 1960s looked effortlessly right and spontaneous on her. Time Magazine: "She is the princess of pout, the countess of come hither. Brigitte Bardot exuded a carefree, naïve sexuality that brought a whole new audience to French films."

 

Sources: Denny Jackson (IMDb), Hal Erickson (AllMovie), Craig Butler (AllMovie), James Travers (Films de France), Films de France, Wikipedia, and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

BY STELLY RIESLING

Featured below is another original art work of mine in homage to THE PIONEER OF INVISIBLE ART — PAUL JAISINI. Forget all the copycats that came after him — Master Paul Jaisini was the *FIRST* of a totally original concept and the *BEST*. My favorite thing about him is that he’s a voice, not an echo, which is quite rare.

DISCLAIMER: This is for anyone who is a hater OR wishes to better understand me, what I’m all about, so you can decide whether I’m weird or normal enough for you — a kind of very loose manifesto, rushed and unrevised, full of raw uncut emotion that I don’t like to be evident in my writing as lately I prefer a more professional, formal style, so we can consider this a rough draft of the more polished writing to come when I have extra time. I might return to this text later and clean it up or break it into separate parts. Right now it’s a long-winded hot mess, so if you manage to make any sense of it, BIG PROPS TO YOU. lol …and if you manage to read it ALL, you have my solemn respect!!! in a day when reading has been reduced to just catchy headliners and short captions of images once in a while. The consequence of this one-liner internet culture is non-linear, tunnel thinking, which is baaaaaad.

There lives among us a most enigmatic and charismatic creature named Paul Jaisini who led me into the wonderful world of art, not personally, but through descriptions of his artworks in essays written and published online by his friend, which painted the most fascinating images in my mind. Early on as a kiddo, I experimented with photography, simple point and shoot whatever looked attractive to me. Digital manipulation of my photographs with computer software followed… and somehow I learned useful drawing techniques along the way to combine existing elements with nonexistent ones, which allowed me to elevate the context for my ideas. Later, I started creating my own digital art from scratch for my friends and family as a favorite pastime. They would shower me with praise and repeatedly encouraged me to share my “different” vision with the rest of the world… it took a while and wasn’t easy to overcome the insecurity of not being good enough along with a gripping fear of being harshly criticized, but one day I woman-ed up and started publishing my work on the web, reminding myself that my livelihood didn’t depend on a positive reception.

Paul Jaisini’s role in all this has been to not disgrace myself, even if what I do is just a hobby. And I would never do him and other genius artists the disservice of calling myself a professional because I know I’ll never be as good as any of the GIANTS of pre-modern history. Be the best or be nothing, no middle ground.

People’s jealousy in the past, future and present over my obsessive love of Paul Jaisini, which they are well aware is purely plutonic, has caused them to despise the man and has made many relationships/friendships impossible for me. I refuse to have such people in my life because by harboring any negativity towards Paul, they unknowingly feel that way about me and express it to me. It’s their own problem for not realizing this. Paul’s new art movement, Gleitzeit, shaped me into the allegedly awesome girl I am today, giving my art more edge, more “sexy” because it refined my vision of the world and propelled me to attain the skills necessary to not dishonor my family name through tenacious pursuit of perfection. Since the beginning of my life, I attempted to depict what I saw in visual, musical and literal forms, but continuously failed without adequate training and determination. Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit was the answer to my prayers. Who I am today I owe mostly to him and his selfless ideals of the artverse that I’ve given unconditional loyalty to (he has this cool ability for hyper-vision to see whole universes, not itty bitty worlds, hence I call it an artverse instead of art world, with him in mind). So again, anyone who hates Paul Jaisini hates ME because, regardless of what he means to you, he is the most important person in my life for making me ME. The way a famous actor, dancer or singer inspires others to act, dance or sing, Paul inspired me to become a better artist, better writer, better everything. More people would understand if he was a household name because they’re wired to in society. But we’re inspiring each other all the time in our own little communities without being famous, so if someone has the ability to change even ONE person’s life immensely with creativity, it is a massive achievement. And passionate folks like myself are compelled to scream it from the cyber rooftops. So here I am. It’s whatever.

Furthermore, I’d like to address here a few pressing matters in light of some recent drama brought on by both strangers and former friends. To start, I never judge the passions, interests or likes of others, which are often in my face all over the place, so likewise they have no right to judge any of mine. It is quite unfortunate and frustrating how very little understanding and education the majority of people have or want to have. Their logic is as primitive as a chipmunk when it comes to promotion of fine art on the web: “spamming, advertising, report!” It’s their own problem that they fail to understand what it’s about due to the distorted lens through which they see the world or inability to think for themselves; an inherent lack of perception or inquisitiveness. Well, guess what? Every single image, every animation, every video, every post dedicated to Mr. Paul Jaisini and “Gleitziet” (to elaborate: a revolutionary new art movement Paul founded with his partner in crime and personal friend, EYKG, who discovered him and believed in him more than anyone) has an important purpose. Every one of those things you run across is a piece of a puzzle, a move in a game, an inch down a rabbit hole; the deeper you go, the more interesting it gets; the more levels you pass, the more clues unfold, the greater the suspense and nearer the conclusion (yet further). You earn awesome rewards like enlightenment, spiritual revelations, truths, knowledge, wisdom and the most profound reward of all: the drive to improve yourself to the absolute maximum, so an unending, unshakable drive. People often make a wrong turn in this cyber game and go back a few levels or get stuck. Those that keep on pushing, however, will come to find the effort has been worth it. And what awaits you in the end of it all? The greatest challenge to beating the game: YOUR OWN MIND. You will be forced to let go of every belief you held before you had reached the last level, to completely alter your mindset and perception of the world, of life, of yourself. But by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it will be as easy as falling off a cliff! (It is a kind of suicide after all — death and rebirth of spirit.)

Paul Jaisini does NOT, *I repeat* does NOT use mystery and obscurity to his advantage as a clever marketing ploy, no, he’s too next level for that with a consciousness so rich, he should wear a radioactive warning sign (he’ll melt your brain, best wear a tinfoil hat in his presence as I certainly would.) The statement he makes is loud and clear, hidden in plain site for those who take the time to connect the dots and have enough curiosity to fuel their journey into unknown territory (an open mind and flexible perception helps a lot). Actually, anyone with an IQ above 90 is sure to figure it out sooner or later. Hint: You don’t have to SEE an extraordinary thing with your eyes to know it exists, to understand it and realize its greatness — you can only feel it in your bone marrow, your spinal fluid, your heart and soul. The moment you do figure it out, as the skeleton key of the human soul, it will unlock the greatness and massive potential buried deep within, changing the doomed direction humanity is undoubtedly headed. I don’t speak in riddles, I speak in a clear direct way that intelligent humans will understand, so I’m counting on them.

GIG is an international group of artists and writers that support Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit. We started off as an unofficial fan club of Jaisini in 1996, comprised of only 6 individuals spanning 3 countries, and eventually escalated in status to an official fan group across the entire globe. A decade later it had grown to hundreds of fans. Nearly another decade later, there are thousands. Let’s not leave out another delightful group of vicious haters that have been around for nearly as long as us since the late 90s and have also grown in impressive numbers. Now, for the record (and please write this one down because I’m sick of repeating myself), Paul Jaisini himself is not part of our group and has nothing to do with us. He loves and hates us equally for butchering his name and making him appear as a narcissistic nut-job in his own words. He casts hexes on us for the blinding flash we layer over the art that members contribute to GIG — “disgusting-police-lights, seizure-inducing-laser-lightshow, bourgeois-myspace-effects retarded-raver shit” in Paul’s words. Ahh, how we love his sweet-talking us. In a desperate attempt to please him, those among us who make the art and animations have spent countless hours and sleepless nights trying to solve a crazy-complex quantum-physics type of equation = how to not create tacky or tasteless content. He does fancy some of it now, we got better, that’s something! In the reason stated below, our mission just got out of hand at some point.

What little is known about Paul Jaisini, even in all this time, is he’s a horrible perfectionist who slaughtered hundreds of innocent babies — I mean — artworks of remarkable beauty created by his own right hand (mostly paintings, some watercolors and drawings). He’s a fierce recluse who wants nothing to do with anyone or anything in life. But those few of us who know of an incredible talent he possesses (one could go as far as calling it a superpower), could not allow him to live his life without the recognition he FUCKING DESERVES more than any artist out there living today and, arguably, yesterday. We use whatever means necessary to reach more people, lots of flash and razzle-dazzle to lure them into our sinister trap of a higher awareness. Mwahaha! The visual boom you’ve witnessed in both cyber and real worlds, that is GIG’s doing — two damn decades of spreading an art virus — IVA. InVisibleArtitis… or a drug as in Intravenous Art. It’s whatever you want it to be, honey.

Our Gleitzeit International Group (GIG) started off innocently enough and gradually spiraled out of control to fight the haters, annoying the hell out of them as much as humanly possible. They don’t like what we do? WE DO MORE AND MORE OF IT. But never without purpose, without a carefully executed plan in mind collectively. If we have to tolerate an endless tidal wave of everyone’s vomit — e.g., idiotic memes and comics; dumbed-down one-liner quotes; selfies; so-called “art photography” passed through one-click app filters; mindless scribbles or random splatters by regular folks who have the nerve to call themselves serious/pro artists; primitive images of pets, babies, landscapes, random objects, etc… then people sure as shit are gonna tolerate what we put out, our animated and non-animated visual art designed for our beloved master, Paul Jaisini, who has shown us the light, the right path to follow, taught us great things and done so much for us — and so in our appreciation of him, we stamp his name on everything, for the sacrifices he has made in the name of art, to save our art verse, he’s a goddamn hero. There’s a book being written in his dedication where little will be left to the imagination about him.

If Paul Jaisini was as famous as Koons or Hirst, for example, people would know it’s not him posting stuff online with his name on it but fans creating fanart like myself among others. But noooooo, such a thing is unfathomable to most people - the promotion of another artist. Like, what’s in it for us? Uhh, nothing?? This is all NON-PROFIT bitches, the way art should be. It’s a passion FIRST, a commodity/commercial product/marketable item LAST and least. Its been that way for us since the early 90s to this day. Not a single member of GIG has sold an art work (neither has Paul Jaisini who’s a true professional) and we want to keep it that way. We do it for reasons far beyond ego. So advertising? Really? How the hell do you advertise or sell thin air, you know, invisible paintings, invisible anything? Ha ha, very funny indeed. The idea here is so simple, your neighbor’s dog can grasp it. Our motives: replace fast food for the mind with fine art, actual fine art. You know, creativity? Conscious thought? Talent? Skill? Knowledge? All that good stuff rolled into one to bring viewers more than a momentary ooohand aaahh reaction. Replace the recycled images ad nauseum; repetitious, worn-out ideas; disposable, gimmicky, money-driven fast art for simpletons. Stick with the highest of ideals and save the whole bloody planet.

Fine art is often confused with craft-making. This often creates bad blood between classically trained artists who put out paintings that leave a lasting impression, that make strong conversation pieces, that are thought-provoking and deep… and trained craftspeople whose skills are adequate to create decorative pieces for homely environments — landscapes, still lifes, animals, pretty fairies, common things of fantasy, and other simplicity. Skills alone are not enough for high art, you need a vision, a purpose, the ability to tell a story with every stroke of your brush that will both fascinate and terrify the viewers, arousing powerful emotions, illuminating. I have yet to see a visible painting in my generation that does anything at all for me, other than evoke sheer outrage and disgust. What a terrible waste of space and valuable resources it all is.

Paul Jaisini leads, we follow. He wishes to remain unknown - so do most of us. I’m next in line, slipping into recluse mode, no longer wanting to attach my face, my human image to my art stuff. I wish to be a nameless, faceless artist as well, invisible like P.J., and in his footsteps I too have destroyed thousands of my own artistic photography and digital art made with tedious, labor-intensive handwork. The whole point of this destruction is achieving the finest results possible by letting go of the imperfect, purging it on a regular basis, to make way for the perfect. I love what I do so it doesn’t matter, I know I’ll keep producing as much as I’m discarding, keeping the balance. Hoarding is an enemy of progress, especially the digital kind as there’s absolutely no limit to it. It’s like carrying a load of bricks on your back you’ll never use or need.

The watering down of creativity that digital pack ratting has caused as observed over the years is most tragic. For the creative individual, relying on terabytes of stock photos or OSFAP as I call them (Once Size Fits All Photos) instead of making your own as you used to when you had no choice, being 100% original, is a splinter in the conscience. It’s not evil to use stock of, say, things you don’t have access to (outer space, deep sea, Antarctica, etc.), but many digital artists I know today can’t take their own shot of a pencil ‘cause they “ain’t got no time for that!” How did they have time before? Did time get so compressed in only a decade?

Ohhhhh, and the edits, textures, filters, plug-ins and what-have-you available out there to everyone and their cats… are responsible for the tidal wave of rubbish that eclipses the magnificent light of the real talents.

I can tell you with utmost sincerity there is no better feeling on earth than knowing your creation is ALL yours, every pixel and dot, from the first to the last. It’s not always possible to make it so, but definitely the most rewarding endeavor. I’m most proud of myself when I can accomplish that.

Back to Paul Jaisini, from the start there have been a number of theories floating around on what his real story is. One of my own theories is that he stands for the unknowns of the world who can’t get representation, can’t get exhibited at a decent gallery because highly gifted/trained artists aren’t good enough - those kind of establishments prefer bananas, balloon dogs, feces, gigantic dicks/cunts, and all kinds of what-the-fucks…

So again, you don’t get the Paul Jaisini thing? That’s your problem. Don’t hate others for getting it. People are good, very good, at making baseless assumptions and impulsively spewing it as truth. They criticize and judge as if they’re high authorities on the subject yet they clearly lack education in fine art or art history and possess little to no talent or skill to back up their bullshit. My little “credibility radar” never fails. When they say I know this or I know that, I reply don’t say “I know” or state things as fact as a general rule of thumb - instead say “I assume/believe” and state the reasons you feel thus to appear less immature, especially about a controversial topic like invisible art. I have zero respect or tolerance for egomaniacs who think they know it all and act accordingly like arrogant pricks. Who can stand those, right? Once again, a good example would be: I, Stelly Riesling, believe everything I’ve written in this little manifesto to be correct based on personal experience and observation from multiple angles, thorough research and sufficient data collected from verifiable sources (and don’t go copying-pasting my own words back at me, be original). Just because you or I say so doesn’t make it so. Just because you or me think or believe so doesn’t make it true or right. I only ask that my opinions are regarded respectfully and whoever opposes them does so in a mature, civilized manner. We should only be entitled to opinions that don’t bring out the worst in us.

I don’t normally take such a position, but the time has come to stand up for what I believe in! It’s quite amusing and comical how haters think calling me names, attacking me or my interests or members of the project I’m part of for years is going to change something. It only makes more evident the importance of what I’m doing so I push on harder still.

Words of advise to those who can identify with me, with my frustrations over people’s reluctance to change their miserable ways, with our declining art world…

DON’T waste time on people who sweat the small stuff, whose actions are consistently inconsistent with their words. DO waste time on people who always keep their eye on the ball—the bigger picture of life.

Paul Jaisini’s invisible paintings are more than hype, more than your lame assumptions. Here’s one I got that’s pure gold: a cult! It started out as A JOKE OF MINE that was used against me. I told a then-good friend that he should come join our little “art cult” in a clearly lighthearted manner, and later he takes this idea I put in his head first and accuses me of being in an (imaginary) cult—the jokes on me eh?. But wait, aren’t cults religious? Our group consists of people around the world of different faiths (or none at all) so how could that ever work? If religion was about making fine (non-pop) art mainstream and bringing awesome, fresh, futuristic concepts to the collective consciousness, the world would not be so fucked up today because talent, creativity, originality and individuality would be the main focus, not superficial poppycock; those things would be praised and encouraged and supported in society by all institutions, not demonized and stigmatized.

Here is one thing I CAN state as solid fact: only one person close to Paul Jaisini knows the TRUE story, or at least some of it: EYKG. Everything else that has ever been said about him is myth, legend, gossip, speculation, the worst of which is said by jealous non-artists (wannabes, clones, posers, hang-ons, unoriginal ppl in general) and anti-artists (religious psychos, squares, losers and -duh- stupid ppl). Sadly, people are unable to see the bigger picture by letting their egos run their lives or repeating after others as parrots.

Commercial art, consumerism, and ignorance of the masses truly makes me want to curl up in a ball, not eat or drink or move until I die, just die in my sleep while dreaming of a better world, a world where real fine artists rule it with real fine art as they used to and life is beautiful once again….

Well I hope that settled THAT for now, or perhaps inadvertently made matters worse. I hope I didn’t sound too pissed from all these issues that keep popping up like penises on ChatRoulette… just got to me already! Can you tell? I had to put my foot down, stomp ‘em all!

To be continued, still lots more ignorance and pettiness to battle… Till then peace out my bambini. MWAH!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

PROLOGUE

Paul Jaisini was like a messiah, as you wish, who saw/understood the impending end and complete degeneration of Fine art or Art become and investment nothing more than that. He predicted the bubble pops art when everybody would eventually become an artist, including dogs cats and horses, because they as kids followed the main rule: express yourself without skills or knowledge or any aesthetic concerns. J. Pollack started pouring paints onto canvases; Julian Schnabel, former cab driver from NY, suddenly decided he could do better than what he saw displayed in galleries, so he started gluing dishes on canvases; A.Warhol, an industrial artist who made commercial silk-screen for the factories he worked in, started to exhibit "Campbell's soup" used for commercial adds... and later the thing that made him an "American Idol": by copying and pasting Hollywood celebrities (same type of posters he made before for movie theaters).

When Paul Jaisini stood out against the Me culture in the US by burning all of his own 120 brilliant paintings (according to the then-new director of Fort Worth MoMa Museum, who offered hin an exhibition of his art in 1992, and later the Metropolitan Museum curator, Phillippe de Montebello, in 1994).Paul probably assumed all fellow true fine artists would join him or stand by him against corruption of the art world.

And after 20 years of his stand-off...the time has finally come today. Many artists and humanitarians around the world took a place beside him. His invisible Paintings became a synonym for the future reincarnation of fine art and long lost harmony. The establishment is in panic! The "moneybags" (as Paul Jaisini named them) are in panic, because they invested BILLIONS of dollars in real crap made by craftsmen. Now they realize that the reputation of American legends of expressionism was nothing but a copy of Russian avant-garde" Kazimir Malevich, Vasiliy Kandinsky and tens of others from France and Germany.. US tycoon investors were spending billions on "Me more original, than you". "Artist Shit" is a 1061 artwork by the Italian artist Piero Manzoni. The work consists of 90 tin cans, filled with feces. A tin can was sold for £124,000, 180,000 at Sothebys, 2007.

EPILOGUE

Before I resume promoting and admiring a very important art persona on today's international art arena, I'd like to clear up some BIG questions; people ask continuously and subconsciously, directly & indirectly: "Why does the name Paul Jaisini, flood the Internet in such "obnoxious" quantities that it's started suppressing some other activities that my friends might share with the rest of the Internet's Ego Me only Me www society? I can't just answer this... so I'll try to explain why I'm writing this: Jaisini's followers keep posting art and info about,

He IMHO the only hope in quickly decomposing visual fine art. "Paul Jaisini realized many years ago, in 1994, when he declared (at that time to himself only) the start of a New era, a New vision, that he is trying to redirect from the rat race, started by an establishment in post-war New York, long before the Internet culture.

Sub related information: Adolf Gottlieb, Mart Rothko, etc (after visiting Paris France in 1933):

"We must forget analytical art, we must express ourselves, as a 5 year old child would, without a developed consciousness. Forget about results - do what you feel, EXPRESS yourself with your own unique style"

With this statement Mark Rothko starts to teach his students, degeneration of fine art begins, and the generation of war of styles took a start signal of the material race, greatly rewarded by establishment "individual" - eccentric craftsmen - show business clowns.

Sub related Information: In the summer of 1936, Adolf Gottlieb painted more than 800 paintings, which was 20X more than he created in his whole art career as a painter, starting from the time of Gottlieb becomes a founding member of "The Ten" group in NYC "Group of Ten" was a very peculiar, enigmatic group... Based on a religious point of view;(where a human figure was prohibited from being created)

GLOSSARY

IN 1997, Paul Jaisini's best friend Ellen Y.K.Gottlieb started a cyber campaign by promoting on a very young Internet, back then, Paul Jaisini's burned paintings as Invisible Paintings, visible only through poetic essays. She and a handful of people saw his originals and were devastated that nobody could ever see them again. "We, his fans, believe that someday Paul will recreate his 120 burned paintings if he has any decency and moral obligation to his fans, who have dedicated decades to make it happen, for their Phoenix to rise from the ashes and the whole world will witness that all these years we spent to get him back to re-paint the Visuals again were not in vain," - said E.Y.K.Gottlieb in 2014 during the 20th anniversary celebration of Invisible Paintings to GIGroup in NYCity. So now, hopefully, this clears up why I and others do what we do - our "cyber terrorism" of good art, dedicated to Paul Jaisini's return, which is & and was our mission & our goal. We post good art to fight "troll art" which is worthless pics, after being passed through 1-click filters of free web apps. We are, in fact, against this www pops pollution, done with "bubble art" by the out of control masses with 5 billon pics a day: Pics of cats, memes, quotes, national geographic sunsets and waterfalls, not counting their own daily selfies and whatever self-indulging Me-ego-Me affairs, sponsored happily by photo gadget companies like Canon, Nikon, Sony...who churn out higher quality madness tools at lower cost.

This way Government taking away attention from the real world crisis of lowest morality & economical devastation. The masses are too easily re-engineered/manipulated by the Establishment PopsStyle delivered to them by pop music and Hollywood "super" stars. In 1992 Paul Jaisini's Gleitzeit theory predict such a massive, pops self-entertain madness, following technological explosion, but not in illusive scales.

Uber Aless @2015 NYC USA

NOTE Date's numbers and events can be slightly inaccurate.

#gleitzeit #paul-jaisini #invisible #painting #art #futurism #art-news,

OPEN LETTER TO PAUL JAISINI: “IF THERE’S GOD OR P. JAISINI

DEAR PAUL:

Please give us all hope for the new resurrection of the invisible and visible after the terror of the visual is overpowering and had removed all the essential human qualities. The visual had enslaved all human race into submission, we need the new INVISIBLE premises to be free of the visual terror to return to the DESIRE to possess to cherish. We had lost the desire with the possession of the images, of the unlimited choices. For example… I will SEE enough juice for my memory to keep me for craving it - my daily dose of the search — and the resources are vast - images of the imaginable future girlfriends I could had chosen but have no interest in… Another day of looking and processing. Same as the old girl who calls it: ALWAYS LOOKING AT AND ALWAYS JUDGING. I think I am now not a man — the visual terror had done me in. I turned into “the eyes”.

I can possess the images of so many young girls that in the end of the possession I forget my initial interest.

My voyage had one direction — I was looking for a treasure, but in the process I had forgotten all about the trip and reduced my purpose to the mere observation. I had even forgotten my normal routine and had changed personally. No longer do I want to hold the treasure. I am happy with the process. I don’t ever want to end it. And its something in my imaginable control. I can freely continue to consume the given information (the female images) as a collection of my new memory that stores these images to just process and not to choose.

   

Queens Of The Stone Age @ Odeon, Saskatoon, SK

 

p.s. if you are gonna post my copyrighted images elsewhere on the internet at least have the decency to credit me with them or link them back to here, or i'll probably stop posting them or at least start putting big watermarks on them.

Make it clean, make it lean, make it decorated

Line it up, all in pairs, make it orchestrated

I'm a sucker for symmetry

Lock the door, what it's for, it's not complicated

Give the key, just to me, I'm not devastated

I'm a sucker for privacy

 

I'm a sucker for harmony

Chaos did never work for me

I'm in control of heart and soul

I'm a sucker for harmony

I'm a sucker for harmony

Let me show you my agony

You'll understand what I have planned

I'm a sucker for harmony

 

Another day that I've been on retreat

Another day to recover

Another task that I'll never complete

The day we prey on each other

The day I'll come to my senses

You make me lose it all again

And I fall into pieces

I think you'll never understand

 

Scrub your feet, wash your hands, make them disinfected

Don't come near, don't stay here

Don't feel disconnected

I'm a sucker for purity

Don't drink this, don't eat that

Only if it's heated

Please refrain from the stain

It just has been treated

I'm a sucker for decency

 

Another day that I've been under the siege

Another day to discover

My holy grail, it is never complete

And so I feed on another

The day I'll jump all the fences

Is the day when I lose it all

When I'm down on my knees yet

I've nowhere left to fall

 

Neuroticfish - Agony

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

BY STELLY RIESLING

Featured below is another original art work of mine in homage to THE PIONEER OF INVISIBLE ART — PAUL JAISINI. Forget all the copycats that came after him — Master Paul Jaisini was the *FIRST* of a totally original concept and the *BEST*. My favorite thing about him is that he’s a voice, not an echo, which is quite rare.

DISCLAIMER: This is for anyone who is a hater OR wishes to better understand me, what I’m all about, so you can decide whether I’m weird or normal enough for you — a kind of very loose manifesto, rushed and unrevised, full of raw uncut emotion that I don’t like to be evident in my writing as lately I prefer a more professional, formal style, so we can consider this a rough draft of the more polished writing to come when I have extra time. I might return to this text later and clean it up or break it into separate parts. Right now it’s a long-winded hot mess, so if you manage to make any sense of it, BIG PROPS TO YOU. lol …and if you manage to read it ALL, you have my solemn respect!!! in a day when reading has been reduced to just catchy headliners and short captions of images once in a while. The consequence of this one-liner internet culture is non-linear, tunnel thinking, which is baaaaaad.

There lives among us a most enigmatic and charismatic creature named Paul Jaisini who led me into the wonderful world of art, not personally, but through descriptions of his artworks in essays written and published online by his friend, which painted the most fascinating images in my mind. Early on as a kiddo, I experimented with photography, simple point and shoot whatever looked attractive to me. Digital manipulation of my photographs with computer software followed… and somehow I learned useful drawing techniques along the way to combine existing elements with nonexistent ones, which allowed me to elevate the context for my ideas. Later, I started creating my own digital art from scratch for my friends and family as a favorite pastime. They would shower me with praise and repeatedly encouraged me to share my “different” vision with the rest of the world… it took a while and wasn’t easy to overcome the insecurity of not being good enough along with a gripping fear of being harshly criticized, but one day I woman-ed up and started publishing my work on the web, reminding myself that my livelihood didn’t depend on a positive reception.

Paul Jaisini’s role in all this has been to not disgrace myself, even if what I do is just a hobby. And I would never do him and other genius artists the disservice of calling myself a professional because I know I’ll never be as good as any of the GIANTS of pre-modern history. Be the best or be nothing, no middle ground.

People’s jealousy in the past, future and present over my obsessive love of Paul Jaisini, which they are well aware is purely plutonic, has caused them to despise the man and has made many relationships/friendships impossible for me. I refuse to have such people in my life because by harboring any negativity towards Paul, they unknowingly feel that way about me and express it to me. It’s their own problem for not realizing this. Paul’s new art movement, Gleitzeit, shaped me into the allegedly awesome girl I am today, giving my art more edge, more “sexy” because it refined my vision of the world and propelled me to attain the skills necessary to not dishonor my family name through tenacious pursuit of perfection. Since the beginning of my life, I attempted to depict what I saw in visual, musical and literal forms, but continuously failed without adequate training and determination. Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit was the answer to my prayers. Who I am today I owe mostly to him and his selfless ideals of the artverse that I’ve given unconditional loyalty to (he has this cool ability for hyper-vision to see whole universes, not itty bitty worlds, hence I call it an artverse instead of art world, with him in mind). So again, anyone who hates Paul Jaisini hates ME because, regardless of what he means to you, he is the most important person in my life for making me ME. The way a famous actor, dancer or singer inspires others to act, dance or sing, Paul inspired me to become a better artist, better writer, better everything. More people would understand if he was a household name because they’re wired to in society. But we’re inspiring each other all the time in our own little communities without being famous, so if someone has the ability to change even ONE person’s life immensely with creativity, it is a massive achievement. And passionate folks like myself are compelled to scream it from the cyber rooftops. So here I am. It’s whatever.

Furthermore, I’d like to address here a few pressing matters in light of some recent drama brought on by both strangers and former friends. To start, I never judge the passions, interests or likes of others, which are often in my face all over the place, so likewise they have no right to judge any of mine. It is quite unfortunate and frustrating how very little understanding and education the majority of people have or want to have. Their logic is as primitive as a chipmunk when it comes to promotion of fine art on the web: “spamming, advertising, report!” It’s their own problem that they fail to understand what it’s about due to the distorted lens through which they see the world or inability to think for themselves; an inherent lack of perception or inquisitiveness. Well, guess what? Every single image, every animation, every video, every post dedicated to Mr. Paul Jaisini and “Gleitziet” (to elaborate: a revolutionary new art movement Paul founded with his partner in crime and personal friend, EYKG, who discovered him and believed in him more than anyone) has an important purpose. Every one of those things you run across is a piece of a puzzle, a move in a game, an inch down a rabbit hole; the deeper you go, the more interesting it gets; the more levels you pass, the more clues unfold, the greater the suspense and nearer the conclusion (yet further). You earn awesome rewards like enlightenment, spiritual revelations, truths, knowledge, wisdom and the most profound reward of all: the drive to improve yourself to the absolute maximum, so an unending, unshakable drive. People often make a wrong turn in this cyber game and go back a few levels or get stuck. Those that keep on pushing, however, will come to find the effort has been worth it. And what awaits you in the end of it all? The greatest challenge to beating the game: YOUR OWN MIND. You will be forced to let go of every belief you held before you had reached the last level, to completely alter your mindset and perception of the world, of life, of yourself. But by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it will be as easy as falling off a cliff! (It is a kind of suicide after all — death and rebirth of spirit.)

Paul Jaisini does NOT, *I repeat* does NOT use mystery and obscurity to his advantage as a clever marketing ploy, no, he’s too next level for that with a consciousness so rich, he should wear a radioactive warning sign (he’ll melt your brain, best wear a tinfoil hat in his presence as I certainly would.) The statement he makes is loud and clear, hidden in plain site for those who take the time to connect the dots and have enough curiosity to fuel their journey into unknown territory (an open mind and flexible perception helps a lot). Actually, anyone with an IQ above 90 is sure to figure it out sooner or later. Hint: You don’t have to SEE an extraordinary thing with your eyes to know it exists, to understand it and realize its greatness — you can only feel it in your bone marrow, your spinal fluid, your heart and soul. The moment you do figure it out, as the skeleton key of the human soul, it will unlock the greatness and massive potential buried deep within, changing the doomed direction humanity is undoubtedly headed. I don’t speak in riddles, I speak in a clear direct way that intelligent humans will understand, so I’m counting on them.

GIG is an international group of artists and writers that support Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit. We started off as an unofficial fan club of Jaisini in 1996, comprised of only 6 individuals spanning 3 countries, and eventually escalated in status to an official fan group across the entire globe. A decade later it had grown to hundreds of fans. Nearly another decade later, there are thousands. Let’s not leave out another delightful group of vicious haters that have been around for nearly as long as us since the late 90s and have also grown in impressive numbers. Now, for the record (and please write this one down because I’m sick of repeating myself), Paul Jaisini himself is not part of our group and has nothing to do with us. He loves and hates us equally for butchering his name and making him appear as a narcissistic nut-job in his own words. He casts hexes on us for the blinding flash we layer over the art that members contribute to GIG — “disgusting-police-lights, seizure-inducing-laser-lightshow, bourgeois-myspace-effects retarded-raver shit” in Paul’s words. Ahh, how we love his sweet-talking us. In a desperate attempt to please him, those among us who make the art and animations have spent countless hours and sleepless nights trying to solve a crazy-complex quantum-physics type of equation = how to not create tacky or tasteless content. He does fancy some of it now, we got better, that’s something! In the reason stated below, our mission just got out of hand at some point.

What little is known about Paul Jaisini, even in all this time, is he’s a horrible perfectionist who slaughtered hundreds of innocent babies — I mean — artworks of remarkable beauty created by his own right hand (mostly paintings, some watercolors and drawings). He’s a fierce recluse who wants nothing to do with anyone or anything in life. But those few of us who know of an incredible talent he possesses (one could go as far as calling it a superpower), could not allow him to live his life without the recognition he FUCKING DESERVES more than any artist out there living today and, arguably, yesterday. We use whatever means necessary to reach more people, lots of flash and razzle-dazzle to lure them into our sinister trap of a higher awareness. Mwahaha! The visual boom you’ve witnessed in both cyber and real worlds, that is GIG’s doing — two damn decades of spreading an art virus — IVA. InVisibleArtitis… or a drug as in Intravenous Art. It’s whatever you want it to be, honey.

Our Gleitzeit International Group (GIG) started off innocently enough and gradually spiraled out of control to fight the haters, annoying the hell out of them as much as humanly possible. They don’t like what we do? WE DO MORE AND MORE OF IT. But never without purpose, without a carefully executed plan in mind collectively. If we have to tolerate an endless tidal wave of everyone’s vomit — e.g., idiotic memes and comics; dumbed-down one-liner quotes; selfies; so-called “art photography” passed through one-click app filters; mindless scribbles or random splatters by regular folks who have the nerve to call themselves serious/pro artists; primitive images of pets, babies, landscapes, random objects, etc… then people sure as shit are gonna tolerate what we put out, our animated and non-animated visual art designed for our beloved master, Paul Jaisini, who has shown us the light, the right path to follow, taught us great things and done so much for us — and so in our appreciation of him, we stamp his name on everything, for the sacrifices he has made in the name of art, to save our art verse, he’s a goddamn hero. There’s a book being written in his dedication where little will be left to the imagination about him.

If Paul Jaisini was as famous as Koons or Hirst, for example, people would know it’s not him posting stuff online with his name on it but fans creating fanart like myself among others. But noooooo, such a thing is unfathomable to most people - the promotion of another artist. Like, what’s in it for us? Uhh, nothing?? This is all NON-PROFIT bitches, the way art should be. It’s a passion FIRST, a commodity/commercial product/marketable item LAST and least. Its been that way for us since the early 90s to this day. Not a single member of GIG has sold an art work (neither has Paul Jaisini who’s a true professional) and we want to keep it that way. We do it for reasons far beyond ego. So advertising? Really? How the hell do you advertise or sell thin air, you know, invisible paintings, invisible anything? Ha ha, very funny indeed. The idea here is so simple, your neighbor’s dog can grasp it. Our motives: replace fast food for the mind with fine art, actual fine art. You know, creativity? Conscious thought? Talent? Skill? Knowledge? All that good stuff rolled into one to bring viewers more than a momentary ooohand aaahh reaction. Replace the recycled images ad nauseum; repetitious, worn-out ideas; disposable, gimmicky, money-driven fast art for simpletons. Stick with the highest of ideals and save the whole bloody planet.

Fine art is often confused with craft-making. This often creates bad blood between classically trained artists who put out paintings that leave a lasting impression, that make strong conversation pieces, that are thought-provoking and deep… and trained craftspeople whose skills are adequate to create decorative pieces for homely environments — landscapes, still lifes, animals, pretty fairies, common things of fantasy, and other simplicity. Skills alone are not enough for high art, you need a vision, a purpose, the ability to tell a story with every stroke of your brush that will both fascinate and terrify the viewers, arousing powerful emotions, illuminating. I have yet to see a visible painting in my generation that does anything at all for me, other than evoke sheer outrage and disgust. What a terrible waste of space and valuable resources it all is.

Paul Jaisini leads, we follow. He wishes to remain unknown - so do most of us. I’m next in line, slipping into recluse mode, no longer wanting to attach my face, my human image to my art stuff. I wish to be a nameless, faceless artist as well, invisible like P.J., and in his footsteps I too have destroyed thousands of my own artistic photography and digital art made with tedious, labor-intensive handwork. The whole point of this destruction is achieving the finest results possible by letting go of the imperfect, purging it on a regular basis, to make way for the perfect. I love what I do so it doesn’t matter, I know I’ll keep producing as much as I’m discarding, keeping the balance. Hoarding is an enemy of progress, especially the digital kind as there’s absolutely no limit to it. It’s like carrying a load of bricks on your back you’ll never use or need.

The watering down of creativity that digital pack ratting has caused as observed over the years is most tragic. For the creative individual, relying on terabytes of stock photos or OSFAP as I call them (Once Size Fits All Photos) instead of making your own as you used to when you had no choice, being 100% original, is a splinter in the conscience. It’s not evil to use stock of, say, things you don’t have access to (outer space, deep sea, Antarctica, etc.), but many digital artists I know today can’t take their own shot of a pencil ‘cause they “ain’t got no time for that!” How did they have time before? Did time get so compressed in only a decade?

Ohhhhh, and the edits, textures, filters, plug-ins and what-have-you available out there to everyone and their cats… are responsible for the tidal wave of rubbish that eclipses the magnificent light of the real talents.

I can tell you with utmost sincerity there is no better feeling on earth than knowing your creation is ALL yours, every pixel and dot, from the first to the last. It’s not always possible to make it so, but definitely the most rewarding endeavor. I’m most proud of myself when I can accomplish that.

Back to Paul Jaisini, from the start there have been a number of theories floating around on what his real story is. One of my own theories is that he stands for the unknowns of the world who can’t get representation, can’t get exhibited at a decent gallery because highly gifted/trained artists aren’t good enough - those kind of establishments prefer bananas, balloon dogs, feces, gigantic dicks/cunts, and all kinds of what-the-fucks…

So again, you don’t get the Paul Jaisini thing? That’s your problem. Don’t hate others for getting it. People are good, very good, at making baseless assumptions and impulsively spewing it as truth. They criticize and judge as if they’re high authorities on the subject yet they clearly lack education in fine art or art history and possess little to no talent or skill to back up their bullshit. My little “credibility radar” never fails. When they say I know this or I know that, I reply don’t say “I know” or state things as fact as a general rule of thumb - instead say “I assume/believe” and state the reasons you feel thus to appear less immature, especially about a controversial topic like invisible art. I have zero respect or tolerance for egomaniacs who think they know it all and act accordingly like arrogant pricks. Who can stand those, right? Once again, a good example would be: I, Stelly Riesling, believe everything I’ve written in this little manifesto to be correct based on personal experience and observation from multiple angles, thorough research and sufficient data collected from verifiable sources (and don’t go copying-pasting my own words back at me, be original). Just because you or I say so doesn’t make it so. Just because you or me think or believe so doesn’t make it true or right. I only ask that my opinions are regarded respectfully and whoever opposes them does so in a mature, civilized manner. We should only be entitled to opinions that don’t bring out the worst in us.

I don’t normally take such a position, but the time has come to stand up for what I believe in! It’s quite amusing and comical how haters think calling me names, attacking me or my interests or members of the project I’m part of for years is going to change something. It only makes more evident the importance of what I’m doing so I push on harder still.

Words of advise to those who can identify with me, with my frustrations over people’s reluctance to change their miserable ways, with our declining art world…

DON’T waste time on people who sweat the small stuff, whose actions are consistently inconsistent with their words. DO waste time on people who always keep their eye on the ball—the bigger picture of life.

Paul Jaisini’s invisible paintings are more than hype, more than your lame assumptions. Here’s one I got that’s pure gold: a cult! It started out as A JOKE OF MINE that was used against me. I told a then-good friend that he should come join our little “art cult” in a clearly lighthearted manner, and later he takes this idea I put in his head first and accuses me of being in an (imaginary) cult—the jokes on me eh?. But wait, aren’t cults religious? Our group consists of people around the world of different faiths (or none at all) so how could that ever work? If religion was about making fine (non-pop) art mainstream and bringing awesome, fresh, futuristic concepts to the collective consciousness, the world would not be so fucked up today because talent, creativity, originality and individuality would be the main focus, not superficial poppycock; those things would be praised and encouraged and supported in society by all institutions, not demonized and stigmatized.

Here is one thing I CAN state as solid fact: only one person close to Paul Jaisini knows the TRUE story, or at least some of it: EYKG. Everything else that has ever been said about him is myth, legend, gossip, speculation, the worst of which is said by jealous non-artists (wannabes, clones, posers, hang-ons, unoriginal ppl in general) and anti-artists (religious psychos, squares, losers and -duh- stupid ppl). Sadly, people are unable to see the bigger picture by letting their egos run their lives or repeating after others as parrots.

Commercial art, consumerism, and ignorance of the masses truly makes me want to curl up in a ball, not eat or drink or move until I die, just die in my sleep while dreaming of a better world, a world where real fine artists rule it with real fine art as they used to and life is beautiful once again….

Well I hope that settled THAT for now, or perhaps inadvertently made matters worse. I hope I didn’t sound too pissed from all these issues that keep popping up like penises on ChatRoulette… just got to me already! Can you tell? I had to put my foot down, stomp ‘em all!

To be continued, still lots more ignorance and pettiness to battle… Till then peace out my bambini. MWAH!

  

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

PROLOGUE

Paul Jaisini was like a messiah, as you wish, who saw/understood the impending end and complete degeneration of Fine art or Art become and investment nothing more than that. He predicted the bubble pops art when everybody would eventually become an artist, including dogs cats and horses, because they as kids followed the main rule: express yourself without skills or knowledge or any aesthetic concerns. J. Pollack started pouring paints onto canvases; Julian Schnabel, former cab driver from NY, suddenly decided he could do better than what he saw displayed in galleries, so he started gluing dishes on canvases; A.Warhol, an industrial artist who made commercial silk-screen for the factories he worked in, started to exhibit "Campbell's soup" used for commercial adds... and later the thing that made him an "American Idol": by copying and pasting Hollywood celebrities (same type of posters he made before for movie theaters).

When Paul Jaisini stood out against the Me culture in the US by burning all of his own 120 brilliant paintings (according to the then-new director of Fort Worth MoMa Museum, who offered hin an exhibition of his art in 1992, and later the Metropolitan Museum curator, Phillippe de Montebello, in 1994).Paul probably assumed all fellow true fine artists would join him or stand by him against corruption of the art world.

And after 20 years of his stand-off...the time has finally come today. Many artists and humanitarians around the world took a place beside him. His invisible Paintings became a synonym for the future reincarnation of fine art and long lost harmony. The establishment is in panic! The "moneybags" (as Paul Jaisini named them) are in panic, because they invested BILLIONS of dollars in real crap made by

craftsmen. Now they realize that the reputation of American legends of expressionism was nothing but a copy of Russian avant-garde" Kazimir Malevich, Vasiliy Kandinsky and tens of others from France and Germany.. US tycoon investors were spending billions on "Me more original, than you". "Artist Shit" is a 1061 artwork by the Italian artist Piero Manzoni. The work consists of 90 tin cans, filled with feces. A tin can was sold for £124,000, 180,000 at Sothebys, 2007.

EPILOGUE

Before I resume promoting and admiring a very important art persona on today's international art arena, I'd like to clear up some BIG questions; people ask continuously and subconsciously, directly & indirectly: "Why does the name Paul Jaisini, flood the Internet in such "obnoxious" quantities that it's started suppressing some other activities that my friends might share with the rest of the Internet's Ego Me only Me www society? I can't just answer this... so I'll try to explain why I'm writing this: Jaisini's followers keep posting art and info about,

He IMHO the only hope in quickly decomposing visual fine art. "Paul Jaisini realized many years ago, in 1994, when he declared (at that time to himself only) the start of a New era, a New vision, that he is trying to redirect from the rat race, started by an establishment in post-war New York, long before the Internet culture.

Sub related information: Adolf Gottlieb, Mart Rothko, etc (after visiting Paris France in 1933):

"We must forget analytical art, we must express ourselves, as a 5 year old child would, without a developed consciousness. Forget about results - do what you feel, EXPRESS yourself with your own unique style"

With this statement Mark Rothko starts to teach his students, degeneration of fine art begins, and the generation of war of styles took a start signal of the material race, greatly rewarded by establishment "individual" - eccentric craftsmen - show business clowns.

Sub related Information: In the summer of 1936, Adolf Gottlieb painted more than 800 paintings, which was 20X more than he created in his whole art career as a painter, starting from the time of Gottlieb becomes a founding member of "The Ten" group in NYC "Group of Ten" was a very peculiar, enigmatic group... Based on a religious point of view;(where a human figure was prohibited from being created)

GLOSSARY

IN 1997, Paul Jaisini's best friend Ellen Y.K.Gottlieb started a cyber campaign by promoting on a very young Internet, back then, Paul Jaisini's burned paintings as Invisible Paintings, visible only through poetic essays. She and a handful of people saw his originals and were devastated that nobody could ever see them again. "We, his fans, believe that someday Paul will recreate his 120 burned paintings if he has any decency and moral obligation to his fans, who have dedicated decades to make it happen, for their Phoenix to rise from the ashes and the whole world will witness that all these years we spent to get him back to re-paint the Visuals again were not in vain," - said E.Y.K.Gottlieb in 2014 during the 20th anniversary celebration of Invisible Paintings to GIGroup in NYCity. So now, hopefully, this clears up why I and others do what we do - our "cyber terrorism" of good art, dedicated to Paul Jaisini's return, which is & and was our mission & our goal. We post good art to fight "troll art" which is worthless pics, after being passed through 1-click filters of free web apps. We are, in fact, against this www pops pollution, done with "bubble art" by the out of control masses with 5 billon pics a day: Pics of cats, memes, quotes,national geographic sunsets and waterfalls, not counting their own daily "selfies: and whatever self-indulging Me-ego-Me affairs, sponsored happily by photo gadget companies like Canon, Nikon, Sony...who churn out higher quality madness tools at lower cost.

This way Government taking away attention from the real world crisis of lowest morality & economical devastation. The masses are too easily re-engineered/manipulated by the Establishment PopsStyle delivered to them by pop music and Hollywood "super" stars. In 1992 Paul Jaisini's Gleitzeit theory predict such a massive, pops self-entertain madness, following technologicalexplosion, but not in illusive scales.

Uber Aless @2015 NYC USA

NOTE Date's numbers and events can be slightly inaccurate.

#gleitzeit #paul-jaisini #invisible #painting #art #futurism #art-news,

 

Italian postcard in the series Divi del Cinema by Vetta Traldi, Milano, no 232.

 

Voluptuous American actress Mamie Van Doren (1931) was a sex symbol of the 1950s and 1960s. Van Doren starred in several exploitation films such as Untamed Youth (1957), loaded with rock 'n' roll and juvenile delinquency. Her onscreen wardrobe usually consisted of tight sweaters, low-cut blouses, form-fitting dresses, and daring swimsuits. Mamie and her colleague blonde bombshells Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield were known as 'The Three M's.'

 

Mamie Van Doren was born Joan Lucille Olander in Rowena, South Dakota, in 1931. She was the daughter of Warner Carl Olander and Lucille Harriet Bennett. In 1942 the family moved to Los Angeles. In early 1946, Van Doren began working as an usher at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. The following year, she had a bit part on an early television show. She also sang with Ted Fio Rito's band and entered several beauty contests. She was married for a brief time at seventeen when Van Doren and her first husband, Jack Newman, eloped to Santa Barbara. The marriage was dissolved quickly, upon her discovery of his abusive nature. In the summer of 1949, at age 18, she won the titles Miss Eight Ball and Miss Palm Springs. Van Doren was discovered by producer Howard Hughes the night she was crowned Miss Palm Springs. The pair dated for five years. Hughes provided her with a bit role in Jet Pilot at RKO Radio Pictures. Her line of dialogue inconsisted of one word, "Look!". The following year, 1951, she posed for famous pin-up girl artist Alberto Vargas, the painter of the glamorous Vargas Girls. His painting of Van Doren was on the July 1951 cover of Esquire magazine. Van Doren did a few more bit parts in RKO films, including His Kind of Woman (John Farrow, 1951) starring Robert Mitchum and Jane Russell. Van Doren then began working on the stage. She was a showgirl in New York in Monte Proser's nightclub version of Billion Dollar Baby. Songwriter Jimmy McHugh discovered her for his musicals, then decided she was too good for the chorus line and should have dramatic training. She studied with Ben Bard and Bliss-Hayden. While appearing in the role of Marie in a showcase production of Come Back, Little Sheba, Van Doren was seen by Phil Benjamin, a casting director at Universal International. In 1953, Van Doren signed a contract with Universal Studios. They had big plans for her, hoping she would bring the same kind of success that 20th Century Fox had with Marilyn Monroe. Van Doren, whose signing day coincided with the inauguration of President Eisenhower, was given the first name Mamie for Ike's wife, Mamie Eisenhower. Universal first cast Van Doren in a minor role as a singer in Forbidden (Rudolph Maté, 1953), starring Tony Curtis. Interested in Van Doren's allure, Universal then cast her again opposite Curtis in The All American (Jesse Hibbs, 1953), playing her first major role as Susie Ward, a wayward girl who is the man-trap at a campus beer joint. In Yankee Pasha (Joseph Pevney, 1954), starring Jeff Chandler and Rhonda Fleming, she played a slave girl, Lilith. In 1955, she had a supporting role in the musical Ain't Misbehavin' (Edward Buzzell, 1955) and starred in the crime-drama, Running Wild (Abner Biberman, 1955). Soon thereafter, Van Doren turned down a Broadway role in the play Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?, and was replaced by newcomer Jayne Mansfield. In 1956, Van Doren appeared in the Western Star in the Dust (Charles F. Haas, 1956). Though Van Doren garnered prominent billing alongside John Agar and Richard Boone, she appears rather briefly, as the daughter of a ranch owner. By this time, Van Doren had grown tired of Universal, which was only casting her in non-breakthrough roles. Therefore, Van Doren began accepting bigger roles in better movies from other studios, such as Teacher's Pet (George Seaton, 1958) with Doris Day and Clark Gable. She appeared in some of the first movies to feature rock 'n' roll music, such as Untamed Youth (Howard W. Koch, 1957). The film was originally condemned by the Catholic Legion of Decency, but that only served to enhance the curiosity factor, resulting in it being a big moneymaker for the studio. Van Doren became identified with this rebellious style, and made some rock records. She went to star in several bad girl movies that later became cult films. These include Born Reckless (Howard W. Koch, 1958), High School Confidential (Jack Arnold, 1958), and The Beat Generation (Charles F. Haas, 1959). After Universal Studios chose not to renew her contract in 1959, Van Doren was now a free agent and had to struggle to find work.

 

Mamie Van Doren became known for her provocative roles. She was in prison for Girls Town (Charles F. Haas, 1959), which provoked censors with a shower scene where audiences could see Van Doren's naked back. As Eve in The Private Lives of Adam and Eve (Mickey Rooney, Albert Zugsmith, 1960) she wore only fig leaves, and in other films, like Vice Raid (Edward L. Cahn, 1960) audiences were clued in as to the nature of the films from the titles. Many of these productions were low-budget B-movies which sometimes gained a cult following for their high camp value. An example is Sex Kittens Go to College (Albert Zugsmith, 1960), which co-starred Tuesday Weld and Mijanou Bardot - Brigitte's sister. Mamie also appeared in foreign productions, such as the Italian crime comedy Le bellissime gambe di Sabrina/The Beautiful Legs of Sabrina (Camillo Mastrocinque, 1959) with Antonio Cifariello, and the Argentine film Una americana en Buenos Aires/The Blonde from Buenos Aires (George Cahan, 1961) with Jean-Pierre Aumont. Van Doren took some time off from her career and came back to the screen in 1964. That year she played in the German Western musical Freddy und das Lied der Prärie/In the Wild West (Sobey Martin, 1964), starring Freddy Quinn and Rik Battaglia. Tommy Noonan convinced Van Doren to appear in 3 Nuts in Search of a Bolt (Tommy Noonan, 1964). Van Doren had turned down Noonan's previous offer to star in Promises! Promises!, in which she would have to do nude scenes. She was replaced by Jayne Mansfield. In 3 Nuts in Search of a Bolt, Mamie did a beer-bath scene, but is not seen nude. She posed for Playboy to promote the film. Van Doren next appeared in The Las Vegas Hillbillys (Arthur C. Pierce, 1966) which co-starred Jayne Mansfield. It was the only time two of 'The Three M's' appeared together in a film. A sequel was titled Hillbillys in a Haunted House, but Van Doren turned this role down, and was replaced by Joi Lansing. She appeared in You've Got to Be Smart (Ellis Kadison, 1967), and the sci-fi film, Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women (1968), directed by the young Peter Bogdanovich (as Derek Thomas). In this film astronauts land on Venus and encounter dangerous creatures and meet sexy Venusian women who like to sun-bathe in hip-hugging skin-tight pants and seashell brassieres. In 1968, she was offered the role of a murder victim in the independent horror film The Ice House as a replacement for Mansfield, who died the previous year. She turned the offer down, however, and was replaced by Sabrina. During the Vietnam War, she did tours for U.S. troops in Vietnam for three months in 1968, and again in 1970. Van Doren also developed a nightclub act and did live theater. She performed in stage productions of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and Dames at Sea at the Drury Lane Theater, Chicago, and appeared in Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? and The Tender Trap at the Arlington Park Theater. In the 1970s, Van Doren performed a nightclub act in Las Vegas as well. Van Doren had a supporting role in the Western The Arizona Kid (Luciano B. Carlos, 1970). Since then, Van Doren has appeared only in cameo appearances in low-budgeted films. To this date Van Doren's last film appearance was a cameo role in the comedy Slackers (Dewey Nicks, 2002). Van Doren's guest appearances on television include Jukebox Jury, What's My Line, The Bob Cummings Show, The Jack Benny Show, Fantasy Island, Burke's Law, Vega$, and L.A. Law. Van Doren released her autobiography, Playing the Field, in 1987 which brought much new attention and proved to be her biggest media splash in over 25 years. Since the book's publication she has often been interviewed and profiled and has occasionally returned to acting. Van Doren has been married five times. Her first marriage was to sportswear manufacturer Jack Newman whom she married and divorced in 1950. Her second marriage was to bandleader, composer and actor Ray Anthony whom she married in 1955. They had one son, Perry Ray Anthony (1956). The couple later divorced in 1961. When Van Doren's early 1960s, highly publicized, on-again off-again engagement to baseball player Bo Belinsky ended in 1964, she married baseball player Lee Meyers in 1966. They were divorced in 1967. Her fourth marriage was to businessman Ross McClintock in 1972. They met while working on President Nixon's reelection campaign; the marriage was annulled in 1973. Since 1979 she has been married to Thomas Dixon, an actor and dentist.

 

Sources: Wikipedia and IMDb.

You cannot outrun her and she can hold in her arms a hell of a lot more than you can.

The Star Wars "Rise of the Resistance" ride at Disney Hollywood Studios is an extremely cool ride. "Spectacle" is probably a better word. The money that was poured into it was fully on display. It's well worth the 2 1/2 hour wait.

 

But honestly, it WAS a little frightening to watch adults pushing and jostling each other to get a slightly better vantage point to get a picture of the different aspects. All while dressed up as their favorite Star Wars character, of course.

 

For a lot of people, common decency goes right out the window. It's honestly not much different than how you see "adults" treating each other at a sporting event.

 

I enjoyed the ride. I enjoyed the spectacle of the park. But at some point, you have to draw the line. It's a kids ride, and a lot of the kids seemed to have more respect than their parents did.

The vast beach here is part of the Holkham Estate and more than a mile from town. In the summer, a miniature railway will take you from the town to the row of candy-coloured beach huts on stilts above the sand.

 

Brightly coloured beach huts are an essential part of the British coast.

 

Recently the spirit of nostalgia for the British coast has meant that beach huts, in some locations, can sell for more money than houses in other areas and given that you cannot stay overnight in them and many need annual maintenance, this is really saying something!

 

Beach huts really started to be used in the early years of the twentieth century. Before then, bathing had been a cumbersome and expensive affair. Men and women bathed on separate beaches and changing for a dip in the ocean was performed out of view in a bathing machine, which was towed a safe distance out to sea before the nervous bather took his or her plunge into the often uninvitingly cold sea water. Queen Victoria made sea bathing fashionable with her "hut" on wheels which was trundled down the beach at Osborne Bay on the Isle of Wight off the south coast of England. These bathing machines afforded maximum privacy for the ladies who could thus enter the water with only their heads being seen.When we finally dispensed with the bathing machine many were left abandoned on the beach.

 

In the Edwardian era and in the years following the First World War, the sight of people of both sexes in bathing costumes had become acceptable. However, changing in public was frowned upon and could result in a fine, even if decency was preserved under a Macintosh - so called "Macintosh Bathing". Hence councils provided and charged for beach huts to change in.

 

Enterprising people made use of the abandoned bathing machines by removing the wheels and turning them into beach huts. As an alternative to the beach hut, some seaside towns provided tents for hire, along with deck chairs. These were often brightly coloured and decorated with stripes.

British postcard in the Picturegoer Series, London, no. W. 187. Photo: R.K.O. Radio.

 

American actor Gregory Peck (1916-2003) was one of the most popular film stars from the 1940s to the 1960s. Peck received five nominations for Academy Award for Best Actor and won once – for his performance as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). He almost always played courageous, nobly heroic good guys who saw injustice and fought it. Among his best known films are Spellbound (1945), The Yearling (1946), Gentleman's Agreement (1947), Roman Holiday (1953), The Guns of Navarone (1961), and Cape Fear (1962).

 

Eldred Gregory Peck was born in 1916 in La Jolla, California (now in San Diego). His parents were Bernice Mary (Ayres) and Gregory Pearl Peck, a chemist, and druggist in San Diego. His parents divorced when he was five years old. An only child, he was sent to live with his grandmother. He never felt he had a stable childhood. His fondest memories are of his grandmother taking him to the cinema every week and of his dog, which followed him everywhere. Peck's father encouraged him to take up medicine. He studied pre-med at UC-Berkeley and, while there, got bitten by the acting bug and decided to change the focus of his studies. He enrolled in the Neighborhood Playhouse in New York and debuted on Broadway after graduation. His debut was in Emlyn Williams' play 'The Morning Star' (1942). By 1943, he was in Hollywood, where he debuted in the RKO film Days of Glory (Jacques Tourneur, 1944). Stardom came with his next film, The Keys of the Kingdom (John M. Stahl, 1944), for which he was nominated for an Oscar. Tony Fontana at IMDb: "Peck's screen presence displayed the qualities for which he became well known. He was tall, rugged and heroic, with a basic decency that transcended his roles." He appeared opposite Ingrid Bergman in Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound (1945) as an amnesia victim accused of murder. In The Yearling (Clarence Brown, 1946), he was again nominated for an Oscar and won the Golden Globe. He was especially effective in Westerns and appeared in such varied fare as David O. Selznick's critically blasted Duel in the Sun (King Vidor, 1946), the somewhat better received Yellow Sky (William A. Wellman, 1948), and the acclaimed The Gunfighter (Henry King, 1950). He was nominated again for the Academy Award for his roles in Gentleman's Agreement (Elia Kazan, 1947), which dealt with anti-Semitism, and Twelve O'Clock High (Henry King, 1949), a story of high-level stress in an Air Force bomber unit in World War II. In 1947, Peck, along with Dorothy McGuire, David O'Selznick, and Mel Ferrer, founded the La Jolla Playhouse, located in his hometown, and produced many of the classics there. Due to film commitments, he could not return to Broadway but whet his appetite for live theatre on occasion at the Playhouse, keeping it firmly established with a strong, reputable name over the years.

 

With a string of hits to his credit, Gregory Peck made the decision to only work in films that interested him. He continued to appear as the heroic, larger-than-life figures in such films as Captain Horatio Hornblower (Raoul Walsh, 1951) with Virginia Mayo, and Moby Dick (John Huston, 1956) with Richard Basehart. He worked with Audrey Hepburn in her debut film, Roman Holiday (William Wyler, 1953). While filming The Bravados (Henry King, 1958), he decided to become a cowboy in real life, so he purchased a vast working ranch near Santa Barbara, California - already stocked with 600 head of prize cattle. In the early 1960s, he gave a powerful performance as Captain Keith Mallory in The Guns of Navarone (J. Lee Thompson, 1961) opposite David Niven and Anthony Quinn. The film was one of the biggest box-office hits of that year. Peck finally won the Oscar, after four nominations, for his performance as lawyer Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (Robert Mulligan, 1962). He also appeared in two darker films than he usually made, Cape Fear (J. Lee Thompson, 1962) opposite Robert Mitchum, and Captain Newman, M.D. (David Miller, 1963) with Tony Curtis, which dealt with the way people live. The financial failure of Cape Fear (1962) ended his company, Melville Productions. After making Arabesque (Stanley Donen, 1966) with Sophia Loren, Peck withdrew from acting for three years in order to concentrate on various humanitarian causes, including the American Cancer Society. In the early 1970s, he produced two films, The Trial of the Catonsville Nine (Gordon Davidson, 1972) and The Dove (Charles Jarrott, 1974), when his film career stalled. He made a comeback playing, somewhat woodenly, Ambassador Robert Thorn in the horror film The Omen (Richard Donner, 1976) with Lee Remick. After that, he returned to the bigger-than-life roles he was best known for, such as MacArthur (Joseph Sargent, 1977) and the infamous Nazi war criminal Dr. Josef Mengele in the huge hit The Boys from Brazil (Franklin J. Schaffner, 1978) with Laurence Olivier and James Mason. In the 1980s, he moved into television with the miniseries The Blue and the Gray (Andrew V. McLaglen, 1982) in which he played Abraham Lincoln, and The Scarlet and the Black (Jerry London, 1983) with Christopher Plummer and John Gielgud. In 1991, he appeared in the remake of his 1962 film, playing a different role, in Martin Scorsese's Cape Fear (1991). He was also cast as the progressive-thinking owner of a wire and cable business in Other People's Money (Norman Jewison, 1991), starring Danny DeVito. In 1967, Peck received the Academy's Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award. He was also been awarded the US Presidential Medal of Freedom. Always politically progressive, he was active in such causes as anti-war protests, workers' rights, and civil rights. In 2003, Peck's portrayal of Atticus Finch was named the greatest film hero of the past 100 years by the American Film Institute, only two weeks before his death. Atticus beat out Indiana Jones, who was placed second, and James Bond who came third. Gregory Peck died in 2003 in Los Angeles, California. He was 87. Peck was married twice. From 1942 till 1955, he was married to Greta Kukkonen. They had three children: Jonathan Peck (1944-1975), Stephen Peck (1946), and Carey Paul Peck (1949). His second wife was Veronique Passani, whom he met at the set of Roman Holliday. They married in 1955 and had two children: Tony Peck (1956) and Cecilia Peck (1958). The couple remained together till his death.

 

Sources: Tony Fontana (IMDb), and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

This image is copyright, all rights reserved, and not part of the public domain. Any use, linking to, or posting of this image is prohibited without my consent. If you want to use this image in any fashion, please have the common courtesy and decency to ask.

 

With the power of the Pacific below one's feet,

Lies a door to the underworld beneath the sea.

Awesome power of crushing blows,

Sending shivers of fear even the brave knows.

Tidal surges hitting with a fury pace,

Even the strong-willed feel Thor's rage.

With no protection keeping the sea at bay,

Fierceness of each wave can make for a bad day.

Twisting and churning with primitive chaos,

An invitation to the underworld paradox.

Clad at the entrance with layers of foam,

Even the strongest amongst us call for home.

If one so chooses to knock at the door,

Faces the farewell locking rush of the tidal-bore.

The mighty hammer hits with a vengeance,

Breaking wills of those serving penance.

Standing before the door struck with utter awe,

Chancing something beautiful amidst death's call.

 

Purple Dude Poetry

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French Journal Day 107 (Travel Diary Day 187)

 

Journal Title – The mis-education of HDR Photography

 

This post is designed to offend and educate. It may also bore the non-photographer section of my readership.

 

Why must it offend anyone? Well, being offended is often a choice and for one reason or another, there’s always a person who chooses to be offended, even in the least offensive of communications.

 

I live a life of HDR. When I’m not taking or editing photos, I’m running HDR One or writing this HDR journal, or even chatting with people about HDR who have no idea what I’m talking about. It’s a form of autism, my wife thinks.

 

Every now and then I see a wonderful image that I’m compelled to inquire about. On one such occasion I commented on an image that I was convinced was an HDR and said ‘Wonderful photo. Is this an HDR?’ What I hadn’t realised was that this very popular photographer’s facebook page was in fact a breeding ground for supposed HDR-haters.

 

I’d stumbled upon a beast that was waiting to be unleashed. The photographer replied ‘I would never do HDR. These are manually blended exposures!!!’ This comment received almost as many Likes as the initial image. The comments from his fans that soon followed were equally abrupt but far less flattering to the what they considered HDR.

 

This, however, was not the first time I’d encountered this response from ‘professional photographers’. While I didn’t have the time to reply, the lack of manners and common decency would have prevented me from doing so anyway. I have no time for bad manners, especially when the argument in question is horrendously misinformed.

 

This is for those HDR haters:

 

HDR stands for High Dynamic Range. That’s it. If you hate HDR, then you hate High Dynamic Range. Manually blending exposures is increasing the dynamic range of light in your image. Your image, therefore, is HDR.

 

It really is that simple.

 

There are different HDR processes which produce different results, like Manual Blending, Exposure Fusion and Tone Mapping.

 

There’s even lots of fancy names for the same thing. Some people invent new names for HDR processes in an attempt to create a new field in which they hope to be pioneers. But, I’m almost sorry if I’m bursting a bubble here, it’s all just HDR.

 

Some people may even say, ‘Oh, right, well in that case I hate tone mapping’. Again, this is such a ludicrous thing to even think. Tone mapping is nothing more than a way to represent an HDR image. However, tone mapped images can look extremely different – they don’t all look alike. Why would anyone want to ‘hate’ something that can have such a huge amount of variation?

 

And what about tone mapped images that have some of the original exposures blended back into them. Do you partially hate those images?

 

Why hate anything at all? I mean, hate murder, by all means. Hate racism – that’s pretty bad. But hating a way of representing imagery that you don’t fully understand yet? That seems like an awful amount of hate for such a meaningless thing.

 

If it makes you feel better, even slightly elite, or even just part of a special little group, then fair enough. But at the very least, educate yourself on the thing you’ve chosen to hate.

 

Today’s Photo – An Unknown Place

 

You’ll probably hate this image – it’s Tone Mapped. I don’t even know what the place is – It’s in France, though.

 

strange-lands.com/daily/2013/01/18/the-miseducation-of-hd...

Hundreds of people gathered in Plano for two rallies; a morning one and an afternoon one. We protest the continuing evil, stupidity and graft of Trump, the Republican Party, MAGA, and anyone who supports them. It is critical that this evil man and his accomplices in crime be voted out of office come November. Vote and stop this wanna-be dictator and his fascist party once and for all.

If you don't know this is Owen Paterson, unfortunately it's not his real face as you might have noticed. This ' man ' is secretary of state for environment, food and rural affairs, he is responsible for the imminent slaughter of 5000 of this country's best loved and most legally protected animals. If he has his way he wants 100 000 of these beautiful, enigmatic and utterly blameless animals slaughtered nationwide. He doesn't even have the decency to look evil as most tories do which is almost more sinister than his openly malevolent chums.

 

He claims on his website to be ' an expert on bovine TB ', I suspect the average nine year old child has a better understanding of science and certainly morality. It's interesting that whenever they mention badger culling on Springwatch they always stress that it's a ' complex issue ', seeing Michaela Strachan utter those words when she clearly opposes a cull was almost painful. It must be very frustrating for the presenters that they can't express their real feelings about it on the BBC. The truth is though that bovine tuberculosis IS a complex issue, whether culling badgers will help reduce it though isn't complex at all, IT WON'T.

 

Anyway, this wasn't really the shot I wanted but I do love the look on the cub's face, I'm fed up with looking at Paterson' smug face three nights running so this will have to do.......

 

From the ' Stop The Cull ' site :

 

' Owen’s priority when he got into his new job was to attack the co.uk version of this website, he got his team of lawyers in the treasury department to put an injunction on the site, because the site had encouraged people to play the badger badger song to him in his office. '

 

The response was this website :

www.badger-killers.com/who/owen-paterson/

 

Here's his favourite song ' Badger Badger ' :

weebls-stuff.com/songs/badgers/

 

www.badger.org.uk/Content/Home.asp

justdosomething.org.uk/

epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/38257

 

The Manic Street Preachers song :

www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVDwqNe1AXw

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

BY STELLY RIESLING

Featured below is another original art work of mine in homage to THE PIONEER OF INVISIBLE ART — PAUL JAISINI. Forget all the copycats that came after him — Master Paul Jaisini was the *FIRST* of a totally original concept and the *BEST*. My favorite thing about him is that he’s a voice, not an echo, which is quite rare.

DISCLAIMER: This is for anyone who is a hater OR wishes to better understand me, what I’m all about, so you can decide whether I’m weird or normal enough for you — a kind of very loose manifesto, rushed and unrevised, full of raw uncut emotion that I don’t like to be evident in my writing as lately I prefer a more professional, formal style, so we can consider this a rough draft of the more polished writing to come when I have extra time. I might return to this text later and clean it up or break it into separate parts. Right now it’s a long-winded hot mess, so if you manage to make any sense of it, BIG PROPS TO YOU. lol …and if you manage to read it ALL, you have my solemn respect!!! in a day when reading has been reduced to just catchy headliners and short captions of images once in a while. The consequence of this one-liner internet culture is non-linear, tunnel thinking, which is baaaaaad.

There lives among us a most enigmatic and charismatic creature named Paul Jaisini who led me into the wonderful world of art, not personally, but through descriptions of his artworks in essays written and published online by his friend, which painted the most fascinating images in my mind. Early on as a kiddo, I experimented with photography, simple point and shoot whatever looked attractive to me. Digital manipulation of my photographs with computer software followed… and somehow I learned useful drawing techniques along the way to combine existing elements with nonexistent ones, which allowed me to elevate the context for my ideas. Later, I started creating my own digital art from scratch for my friends and family as a favorite pastime. They would shower me with praise and repeatedly encouraged me to share my “different” vision with the rest of the world… it took a while and wasn’t easy to overcome the insecurity of not being good enough along with a gripping fear of being harshly criticized, but one day I woman-ed up and started publishing my work on the web, reminding myself that my livelihood didn’t depend on a positive reception.

Paul Jaisini’s role in all this has been to not disgrace myself, even if what I do is just a hobby. And I would never do him and other genius artists the disservice of calling myself a professional because I know I’ll never be as good as any of the GIANTS of pre-modern history. Be the best or be nothing, no middle ground.

People’s jealousy in the past, future and present over my obsessive love of Paul Jaisini, which they are well aware is purely plutonic, has caused them to despise the man and has made many relationships/friendships impossible for me. I refuse to have such people in my life because by harboring any negativity towards Paul, they unknowingly feel that way about me and express it to me. It’s their own problem for not realizing this. Paul’s new art movement, Gleitzeit, shaped me into the allegedly awesome girl I am today, giving my art more edge, more “sexy” because it refined my vision of the world and propelled me to attain the skills necessary to not dishonor my family name through tenacious pursuit of perfection. Since the beginning of my life, I attempted to depict what I saw in visual, musical and literal forms, but continuously failed without adequate training and determination. Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit was the answer to my prayers. Who I am today I owe mostly to him and his selfless ideals of the artverse that I’ve given unconditional loyalty to (he has this cool ability for hyper-vision to see whole universes, not itty bitty worlds, hence I call it an artverse instead of art world, with him in mind). So again, anyone who hates Paul Jaisini hates ME because, regardless of what he means to you, he is the most important person in my life for making me ME. The way a famous actor, dancer or singer inspires others to act, dance or sing, Paul inspired me to become a better artist, better writer, better everything. More people would understand if he was a household name because they’re wired to in society. But we’re inspiring each other all the time in our own little communities without being famous, so if someone has the ability to change even ONE person’s life immensely with creativity, it is a massive achievement. And passionate folks like myself are compelled to scream it from the cyber rooftops. So here I am. It’s whatever.

Furthermore, I’d like to address here a few pressing matters in light of some recent drama brought on by both strangers and former friends. To start, I never judge the passions, interests or likes of others, which are often in my face all over the place, so likewise they have no right to judge any of mine. It is quite unfortunate and frustrating how very little understanding and education the majority of people have or want to have. Their logic is as primitive as a chipmunk when it comes to promotion of fine art on the web: “spamming, advertising, report!” It’s their own problem that they fail to understand what it’s about due to the distorted lens through which they see the world or inability to think for themselves; an inherent lack of perception or inquisitiveness. Well, guess what? Every single image, every animation, every video, every post dedicated to Mr. Paul Jaisini and “Gleitziet” (to elaborate: a revolutionary new art movement Paul founded with his partner in crime and personal friend, EYKG, who discovered him and believed in him more than anyone) has an important purpose. Every one of those things you run across is a piece of a puzzle, a move in a game, an inch down a rabbit hole; the deeper you go, the more interesting it gets; the more levels you pass, the more clues unfold, the greater the suspense and nearer the conclusion (yet further). You earn awesome rewards like enlightenment, spiritual revelations, truths, knowledge, wisdom and the most profound reward of all: the drive to improve yourself to the absolute maximum, so an unending, unshakable drive. People often make a wrong turn in this cyber game and go back a few levels or get stuck. Those that keep on pushing, however, will come to find the effort has been worth it. And what awaits you in the end of it all? The greatest challenge to beating the game: YOUR OWN MIND. You will be forced to let go of every belief you held before you had reached the last level, to completely alter your mindset and perception of the world, of life, of yourself. But by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it will be as easy as falling off a cliff! (It is a kind of suicide after all — death and rebirth of spirit.)

Paul Jaisini does NOT, *I repeat* does NOT use mystery and obscurity to his advantage as a clever marketing ploy, no, he’s too next level for that with a consciousness so rich, he should wear a radioactive warning sign (he’ll melt your brain, best wear a tinfoil hat in his presence as I certainly would.) The statement he makes is loud and clear, hidden in plain site for those who take the time to connect the dots and have enough curiosity to fuel their journey into unknown territory (an open mind and flexible perception helps a lot). Actually, anyone with an IQ above 90 is sure to figure it out sooner or later. Hint: You don’t have to SEE an extraordinary thing with your eyes to know it exists, to understand it and realize its greatness — you can only feel it in your bone marrow, your spinal fluid, your heart and soul. The moment you do figure it out, as the skeleton key of the human soul, it will unlock the greatness and massive potential buried deep within, changing the doomed direction humanity is undoubtedly headed. I don’t speak in riddles, I speak in a clear direct way that intelligent humans will understand, so I’m counting on them.

GIG is an international group of artists and writers that support Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit. We started off as an unofficial fan club of Jaisini in 1996, comprised of only 6 individuals spanning 3 countries, and eventually escalated in status to an official fan group across the entire globe. A decade later it had grown to hundreds of fans. Nearly another decade later, there are thousands. Let’s not leave out another delightful group of vicious haters that have been around for nearly as long as us since the late 90s and have also grown in impressive numbers. Now, for the record (and please write this one down because I’m sick of repeating myself), Paul Jaisini himself is not part of our group and has nothing to do with us. He loves and hates us equally for butchering his name and making him appear as a narcissistic nut-job in his own words. He casts hexes on us for the blinding flash we layer over the art that members contribute to GIG — “disgusting-police-lights, seizure-inducing-laser-lightshow, bourgeois-myspace-effects retarded-raver shit” in Paul’s words. Ahh, how we love his sweet-talking us. In a desperate attempt to please him, those among us who make the art and animations have spent countless hours and sleepless nights trying to solve a crazy-complex quantum-physics type of equation = how to not create tacky or tasteless content. He does fancy some of it now, we got better, that’s something! In the reason stated below, our mission just got out of hand at some point.

What little is known about Paul Jaisini, even in all this time, is he’s a horrible perfectionist who slaughtered hundreds of innocent babies — I mean — artworks of remarkable beauty created by his own right hand (mostly paintings, some watercolors and drawings). He’s a fierce recluse who wants nothing to do with anyone or anything in life. But those few of us who know of an incredible talent he possesses (one could go as far as calling it a superpower), could not allow him to live his life without the recognition he FUCKING DESERVES more than any artist out there living today and, arguably, yesterday. We use whatever means necessary to reach more people, lots of flash and razzle-dazzle to lure them into our sinister trap of a higher awareness. Mwahaha! The visual boom you’ve witnessed in both cyber and real worlds, that is GIG’s doing — two damn decades of spreading an art virus — IVA. InVisibleArtitis… or a drug as in Intravenous Art. It’s whatever you want it to be, honey.

Our Gleitzeit International Group (GIG) started off innocently enough and gradually spiraled out of control to fight the haters, annoying the hell out of them as much as humanly possible. They don’t like what we do? WE DO MORE AND MORE OF IT. But never without purpose, without a carefully executed plan in mind collectively. If we have to tolerate an endless tidal wave of everyone’s vomit — e.g., idiotic memes and comics; dumbed-down one-liner quotes; selfies; so-called “art photography” passed through one-click app filters; mindless scribbles or random splatters by regular folks who have the nerve to call themselves serious/pro artists; primitive images of pets, babies, landscapes, random objects, etc… then people sure as shit are gonna tolerate what we put out, our animated and non-animated visual art designed for our beloved master, Paul Jaisini, who has shown us the light, the right path to follow, taught us great things and done so much for us — and so in our appreciation of him, we stamp his name on everything, for the sacrifices he has made in the name of art, to save our art verse, he’s a goddamn hero. There’s a book being written in his dedication where little will be left to the imagination about him.

If Paul Jaisini was as famous as Koons or Hirst, for example, people would know it’s not him posting stuff online with his name on it but fans creating fanart like myself among others. But noooooo, such a thing is unfathomable to most people - the promotion of another artist. Like, what’s in it for us? Uhh, nothing?? This is all NON-PROFIT bitches, the way art should be. It’s a passion FIRST, a commodity/commercial product/marketable item LAST and least. Its been that way for us since the early 90s to this day. Not a single member of GIG has sold an art work (neither has Paul Jaisini who’s a true professional) and we want to keep it that way. We do it for reasons far beyond ego. So advertising? Really? How the hell do you advertise or sell thin air, you know, invisible paintings, invisible anything? Ha ha, very funny indeed. The idea here is so simple, your neighbor’s dog can grasp it. Our motives: replace fast food for the mind with fine art, actual fine art. You know, creativity? Conscious thought? Talent? Skill? Knowledge? All that good stuff rolled into one to bring viewers more than a momentary ooohand aaahh reaction. Replace the recycled images ad nauseum; repetitious, worn-out ideas; disposable, gimmicky, money-driven fast art for simpletons. Stick with the highest of ideals and save the whole bloody planet.

Fine art is often confused with craft-making. This often creates bad blood between classically trained artists who put out paintings that leave a lasting impression, that make strong conversation pieces, that are thought-provoking and deep… and trained craftspeople whose skills are adequate to create decorative pieces for homely environments — landscapes, still lifes, animals, pretty fairies, common things of fantasy, and other simplicity. Skills alone are not enough for high art, you need a vision, a purpose, the ability to tell a story with every stroke of your brush that will both fascinate and terrify the viewers, arousing powerful emotions, illuminating. I have yet to see a visible painting in my generation that does anything at all for me, other than evoke sheer outrage and disgust. What a terrible waste of space and valuable resources it all is.

Paul Jaisini leads, we follow. He wishes to remain unknown - so do most of us. I’m next in line, slipping into recluse mode, no longer wanting to attach my face, my human image to my art stuff. I wish to be a nameless, faceless artist as well, invisible like P.J., and in his footsteps I too have destroyed thousands of my own artistic photography and digital art made with tedious, labor-intensive handwork. The whole point of this destruction is achieving the finest results possible by letting go of the imperfect, purging it on a regular basis, to make way for the perfect. I love what I do so it doesn’t matter, I know I’ll keep producing as much as I’m discarding, keeping the balance. Hoarding is an enemy of progress, especially the digital kind as there’s absolutely no limit to it. It’s like carrying a load of bricks on your back you’ll never use or need.

The watering down of creativity that digital pack ratting has caused as observed over the years is most tragic. For the creative individual, relying on terabytes of stock photos or OSFAP as I call them (Once Size Fits All Photos) instead of making your own as you used to when you had no choice, being 100% original, is a splinter in the conscience. It’s not evil to use stock of, say, things you don’t have access to (outer space, deep sea, Antarctica, etc.), but many digital artists I know today can’t take their own shot of a pencil ‘cause they “ain’t got no time for that!” How did they have time before? Did time get so compressed in only a decade?

Ohhhhh, and the edits, textures, filters, plug-ins and what-have-you available out there to everyone and their cats… are responsible for the tidal wave of rubbish that eclipses the magnificent light of the real talents.

I can tell you with utmost sincerity there is no better feeling on earth than knowing your creation is ALL yours, every pixel and dot, from the first to the last. It’s not always possible to make it so, but definitely the most rewarding endeavor. I’m most proud of myself when I can accomplish that.

Back to Paul Jaisini, from the start there have been a number of theories floating around on what his real story is. One of my own theories is that he stands for the unknowns of the world who can’t get representation, can’t get exhibited at a decent gallery because highly gifted/trained artists aren’t good enough - those kind of establishments prefer bananas, balloon dogs, feces, gigantic dicks/cunts, and all kinds of what-the-fucks…

So again, you don’t get the Paul Jaisini thing? That’s your problem. Don’t hate others for getting it. People are good, very good, at making baseless assumptions and impulsively spewing it as truth. They criticize and judge as if they’re high authorities on the subject yet they clearly lack education in fine art or art history and possess little to no talent or skill to back up their bullshit. My little “credibility radar” never fails. When they say I know this or I know that, I reply don’t say “I know” or state things as fact as a general rule of thumb - instead say “I assume/believe” and state the reasons you feel thus to appear less immature, especially about a controversial topic like invisible art. I have zero respect or tolerance for egomaniacs who think they know it all and act accordingly like arrogant pricks. Who can stand those, right? Once again, a good example would be: I, Stelly Riesling, believe everything I’ve written in this little manifesto to be correct based on personal experience and observation from multiple angles, thorough research and sufficient data collected from verifiable sources (and don’t go copying-pasting my own words back at me, be original). Just because you or I say so doesn’t make it so. Just because you or me think or believe so doesn’t make it true or right. I only ask that my opinions are regarded respectfully and whoever opposes them does so in a mature, civilized manner. We should only be entitled to opinions that don’t bring out the worst in us.

I don’t normally take such a position, but the time has come to stand up for what I believe in! It’s quite amusing and comical how haters think calling me names, attacking me or my interests or members of the project I’m part of for years is going to change something. It only makes more evident the importance of what I’m doing so I push on harder still.

Words of advise to those who can identify with me, with my frustrations over people’s reluctance to change their miserable ways, with our declining art world…

DON’T waste time on people who sweat the small stuff, whose actions are consistently inconsistent with their words. DO waste time on people who always keep their eye on the ball—the bigger picture of life.

Paul Jaisini’s invisible paintings are more than hype, more than your lame assumptions. Here’s one I got that’s pure gold: a cult! It started out as A JOKE OF MINE that was used against me. I told a then-good friend that he should come join our little “art cult” in a clearly lighthearted manner, and later he takes this idea I put in his head first and accuses me of being in an (imaginary) cult—the jokes on me eh?. But wait, aren’t cults religious? Our group consists of people around the world of different faiths (or none at all) so how could that ever work? If religion was about making fine (non-pop) art mainstream and bringing awesome, fresh, futuristic concepts to the collective consciousness, the world would not be so fucked up today because talent, creativity, originality and individuality would be the main focus, not superficial poppycock; those things would be praised and encouraged and supported in society by all institutions, not demonized and stigmatized.

Here is one thing I CAN state as solid fact: only one person close to Paul Jaisini knows the TRUE story, or at least some of it: EYKG. Everything else that has ever been said about him is myth, legend, gossip, speculation, the worst of which is said by jealous non-artists (wannabes, clones, posers, hang-ons, unoriginal ppl in general) and anti-artists (religious psychos, squares, losers and -duh- stupid ppl). Sadly, people are unable to see the bigger picture by letting their egos run their lives or repeating after others as parrots.

Commercial art, consumerism, and ignorance of the masses truly makes me want to curl up in a ball, not eat or drink or move until I die, just die in my sleep while dreaming of a better world, a world where real fine artists rule it with real fine art as they used to and life is beautiful once again….

Well I hope that settled THAT for now, or perhaps inadvertently made matters worse. I hope I didn’t sound too pissed from all these issues that keep popping up like penises on ChatRoulette… just got to me already! Can you tell? I had to put my foot down, stomp ‘em all!

To be continued, still lots more ignorance and pettiness to battle… Till then peace out my bambini. MWAH!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

PROLOGUE

Paul Jaisini was like a messiah, as you wish, who saw/understood the impending end and complete degeneration of Fine art or Art become and investment nothing more than that. He predicted the bubble pops art when everybody would eventually become an artist, including dogs cats and horses, because they as kids followed the main rule: express yourself without skills or knowledge or any aesthetic concerns. J. Pollack started pouring paints onto canvases; Julian Schnabel, former cab driver from NY, suddenly decided he could do better than what he saw displayed in galleries, so he started gluing dishes on canvases; A.Warhol, an industrial artist who made commercial silk-screen for the factories he worked in, started to exhibit "Campbell's soup" used for commercial adds... and later the thing that made him an "American Idol": by copying and pasting Hollywood celebrities (same type of posters he made before for movie theaters).

When Paul Jaisini stood out against the Me culture in the US by burning all of his own 120 brilliant paintings (according to the then-new director of Fort Worth MoMa Museum, who offered hin an exhibition of his art in 1992, and later the Metropolitan Museum curator, Phillippe de Montebello, in 1994).Paul probably assumed all fellow true fine artists would join him or stand by him against corruption of the art world.

And after 20 years of his stand-off...the time has finally come today. Many artists and humanitarians around the world took a place beside him. His invisible Paintings became a synonym for the future reincarnation of fine art and long lost harmony. The establishment is in panic! The "moneybags" (as Paul Jaisini named them) are in panic, because they invested BILLIONS of dollars in real crap made by craftsmen. Now they realize that the reputation of American legends of expressionism was nothing but a copy of Russian avant-garde" Kazimir Malevich, Vasiliy Kandinsky and tens of others from France and Germany.. US tycoon investors were spending billions on "Me more original, than you". "Artist Shit" is a 1061 artwork by the Italian artist Piero Manzoni. The work consists of 90 tin cans, filled with feces. A tin can was sold for £124,000, 180,000 at Sothebys, 2007.

EPILOGUE

Before I resume promoting and admiring a very important art persona on today's international art arena, I'd like to clear up some BIG questions; people ask continuously and subconsciously, directly & indirectly: "Why does the name Paul Jaisini, flood the Internet in such "obnoxious" quantities that it's started suppressing some other activities that my friends might share with the rest of the Internet's Ego Me only Me www society? I can't just answer this... so I'll try to explain why I'm writing this: Jaisini's followers keep posting art and info about,

He IMHO the only hope in quickly decomposing visual fine art. "Paul Jaisini realized many years ago, in 1994, when he declared (at that time to himself only) the start of a New era, a New vision, that he is trying to redirect from the rat race, started by an establishment in post-war New York, long before the Internet culture.

Sub related information: Adolf Gottlieb, Mart Rothko, etc (after visiting Paris France in 1933):

"We must forget analytical art, we must express ourselves, as a 5 year old child would, without a developed consciousness. Forget about results - do what you feel, EXPRESS yourself with your own unique style"

With this statement Mark Rothko starts to teach his students, degeneration of fine art begins, and the generation of war of styles took a start signal of the material race, greatly rewarded by establishment "individual" - eccentric craftsmen - show business clowns.

Sub related Information: In the summer of 1936, Adolf Gottlieb painted more than 800 paintings, which was 20X more than he created in his whole art career as a painter, starting from the time of Gottlieb becomes a founding member of "The Ten" group in NYC "Group of Ten" was a very peculiar, enigmatic group... Based on a religious point of view;(where a human figure was prohibited from being created)

GLOSSARY

IN 1997, Paul Jaisini's best friend Ellen Y.K.Gottlieb started a cyber campaign by promoting on a very young Internet, back then, Paul Jaisini's burned paintings as Invisible Paintings, visible only through poetic essays. She and a handful of people saw his originals and were devastated that nobody could ever see them again. "We, his fans, believe that someday Paul will recreate his 120 burned paintings if he has any decency and moral obligation to his fans, who have dedicated decades to make it happen, for their Phoenix to rise from the ashes and the whole world will witness that all these years we spent to get him back to re-paint the Visuals again were not in vain," - said E.Y.K.Gottlieb in 2014 during the 20th anniversary celebration of Invisible Paintings to GIGroup in NYCity. So now, hopefully, this clears up why I and others do what we do - our "cyber terrorism" of good art, dedicated to Paul Jaisini's return, which is & and was our mission & our goal. We post good art to fight "troll art" which is worthless pics, after being passed through 1-click filters of free web apps. We are, in fact, against this www pops pollution, done with "bubble art" by the out of control masses with 5 billon pics a day: Pics of cats, memes, quotes,national geographic sunsets and waterfalls, not counting their own daily "selfies: and whatever self-indulging Me-ego-Me affairs, sponsored happily by photo gadget companies like Canon, Nikon, Sony...who churn out higher quality madness tools at lower cost.

This way Government taking away attention from the real world crisis of lowest morality & economical devastation. The masses are too easily re-engineered/manipulated by the Establishment PopsStyle delivered to them by pop music and Hollywood "super" stars. In 1992 Paul Jaisini's Gleitzeit theory predict such a massive, pops self-entertain madness, following technological explosion, but not in illusive scales.

Uber Aless @2015 NYC USA

NOTE Date's numbers and events can be slightly inaccurate.

#gleitzeit #paul-jaisini #invisible #painting #art #futurism #art-news,

OPEN LETTER TO PAUL JAISINI: “IF THERE’S GOD OR P. JAISINI

DEAR PAUL:

Please give us all hope for the new resurrection of the invisible and visible after the terror of the visual is overpowering and had removed all the essential human qualities.The visual had enslaved all human race into submission, we need the new INVISIBLE premises to be free of the visual terror to return to the DESIRE to possess to cherish. We had lost the desire with the possession of the images, of the unlimited choices. For example… I will SEE enough juice for my memory to keep me for craving it - my daily dose of the search — and the resources are vast - images of the imaginable future girlfriends I could had chosen but have no interest in… Another day of looking and processing. Same as the old girl who calls it: ALWAYS LOOKING AT AND ALWAYS JUDGING. I think I am now not a man — the visual terror had done me in. I turned into “the eyes”.

I can possess the images of so many young girls that in the end of the possession I forget my initial interest.

My voyage had one direction — I was looking for a treasure, but in the process I had forgotten all about the trip and reduced my purpose to the mere observation. I had even forgotten my normal routine and had changed personally. No longer do I want to hold the treasure. I am happy with the process. I don’t ever want to end it. And its something in my imaginable control. I can freely continue to consume the given information (the female images) as a collection of my new memory that stores these images to just process and not to choose.

Lucio-Fontana-cuts-Andy-Warhol-Campbell-Soup-Invisible-Painting-Paul-Jaisini

  

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

BY STELLY RIESLING

Featured below is another original art work of mine in homage to THE PIONEER OF INVISIBLE ART — PAUL JAISINI. Forget all the copycats that came after him — Master Paul Jaisini was the *FIRST* of a totally original concept and the *BEST*. My favorite thing about him is that he’s a voice, not an echo, which is quite rare.

DISCLAIMER: This is for anyone who is a hater OR wishes to better understand me, what I’m all about, so you can decide whether I’m weird or normal enough for you — a kind of very loose manifesto, rushed and unrevised, full of raw uncut emotion that I don’t like to be evident in my writing as lately I prefer a more professional, formal style, so we can consider this a rough draft of the more polished writing to come when I have extra time. I might return to this text later and clean it up or break it into separate parts. Right now it’s a long-winded hot mess, so if you manage to make any sense of it, BIG PROPS TO YOU. lol …and if you manage to read it ALL, you have my solemn respect!!! in a day when reading has been reduced to just catchy headliners and short captions of images once in a while. The consequence of this one-liner internet culture is non-linear, tunnel thinking, which is baaaaaad.

There lives among us a most enigmatic and charismatic creature named Paul Jaisini who led me into the wonderful world of art, not personally, but through descriptions of his artworks in essays written and published online by his friend, which painted the most fascinating images in my mind. Early on as a kiddo, I experimented with photography, simple point and shoot whatever looked attractive to me. Digital manipulation of my photographs with computer software followed… and somehow I learned useful drawing techniques along the way to combine existing elements with nonexistent ones, which allowed me to elevate the context for my ideas. Later, I started creating my own digital art from scratch for my friends and family as a favorite pastime. They would shower me with praise and repeatedly encouraged me to share my “different” vision with the rest of the world… it took a while and wasn’t easy to overcome the insecurity of not being good enough along with a gripping fear of being harshly criticized, but one day I woman-ed up and started publishing my work on the web, reminding myself that my livelihood didn’t depend on a positive reception.

Paul Jaisini’s role in all this has been to not disgrace myself, even if what I do is just a hobby. And I would never do him and other genius artists the disservice of calling myself a professional because I know I’ll never be as good as any of the GIANTS of pre-modern history. Be the best or be nothing, no middle ground.

People’s jealousy in the past, future and present over my obsessive love of Paul Jaisini, which they are well aware is purely plutonic, has caused them to despise the man and has made many relationships/friendships impossible for me. I refuse to have such people in my life because by harboring any negativity towards Paul, they unknowingly feel that way about me and express it to me. It’s their own problem for not realizing this. Paul’s new art movement, Gleitzeit, shaped me into the allegedly awesome girl I am today, giving my art more edge, more “sexy” because it refined my vision of the world and propelled me to attain the skills necessary to not dishonor my family name through tenacious pursuit of perfection. Since the beginning of my life, I attempted to depict what I saw in visual, musical and literal forms, but continuously failed without adequate training and determination. Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit was the answer to my prayers. Who I am today I owe mostly to him and his selfless ideals of the artverse that I’ve given unconditional loyalty to (he has this cool ability for hyper-vision to see whole universes, not itty bitty worlds, hence I call it an artverse instead of art world, with him in mind). So again, anyone who hates Paul Jaisini hates ME because, regardless of what he means to you, he is the most important person in my life for making me ME. The way a famous actor, dancer or singer inspires others to act, dance or sing, Paul inspired me to become a better artist, better writer, better everything. More people would understand if he was a household name because they’re wired to in society. But we’re inspiring each other all the time in our own little communities without being famous, so if someone has the ability to change even ONE person’s life immensely with creativity, it is a massive achievement. And passionate folks like myself are compelled to scream it from the cyber rooftops. So here I am. It’s whatever.

Furthermore, I’d like to address here a few pressing matters in light of some recent drama brought on by both strangers and former friends. To start, I never judge the passions, interests or likes of others, which are often in my face all over the place, so likewise they have no right to judge any of mine. It is quite unfortunate and frustrating how very little understanding and education the majority of people have or want to have. Their logic is as primitive as a chipmunk when it comes to promotion of fine art on the web: “spamming, advertising, report!” It’s their own problem that they fail to understand what it’s about due to the distorted lens through which they see the world or inability to think for themselves; an inherent lack of perception or inquisitiveness. Well, guess what? Every single image, every animation, every video, every post dedicated to Mr. Paul Jaisini and “Gleitziet” (to elaborate: a revolutionary new art movement Paul founded with his partner in crime and personal friend, EYKG, who discovered him and believed in him more than anyone) has an important purpose. Every one of those things you run across is a piece of a puzzle, a move in a game, an inch down a rabbit hole; the deeper you go, the more interesting it gets; the more levels you pass, the more clues unfold, the greater the suspense and nearer the conclusion (yet further). You earn awesome rewards like enlightenment, spiritual revelations, truths, knowledge, wisdom and the most profound reward of all: the drive to improve yourself to the absolute maximum, so an unending, unshakable drive. People often make a wrong turn in this cyber game and go back a few levels or get stuck. Those that keep on pushing, however, will come to find the effort has been worth it. And what awaits you in the end of it all? The greatest challenge to beating the game: YOUR OWN MIND. You will be forced to let go of every belief you held before you had reached the last level, to completely alter your mindset and perception of the world, of life, of yourself. But by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it will be as easy as falling off a cliff! (It is a kind of suicide after all — death and rebirth of spirit.)

Paul Jaisini does NOT, *I repeat* does NOT use mystery and obscurity to his advantage as a clever marketing ploy, no, he’s too next level for that with a consciousness so rich, he should wear a radioactive warning sign (he’ll melt your brain, best wear a tinfoil hat in his presence as I certainly would.) The statement he makes is loud and clear, hidden in plain site for those who take the time to connect the dots and have enough curiosity to fuel their journey into unknown territory (an open mind and flexible perception helps a lot). Actually, anyone with an IQ above 90 is sure to figure it out sooner or later. Hint: You don’t have to SEE an extraordinary thing with your eyes to know it exists, to understand it and realize its greatness — you can only feel it in your bone marrow, your spinal fluid, your heart and soul. The moment you do figure it out, as the skeleton key of the human soul, it will unlock the greatness and massive potential buried deep within, changing the doomed direction humanity is undoubtedly headed. I don’t speak in riddles, I speak in a clear direct way that intelligent humans will understand, so I’m counting on them.

GIG is an international group of artists and writers that support Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit. We started off as an unofficial fan club of Jaisini in 1996, comprised of only 6 individuals spanning 3 countries, and eventually escalated in status to an official fan group across the entire globe. A decade later it had grown to hundreds of fans. Nearly another decade later, there are thousands. Let’s not leave out another delightful group of vicious haters that have been around for nearly as long as us since the late 90s and have also grown in impressive numbers. Now, for the record (and please write this one down because I’m sick of repeating myself), Paul Jaisini himself is not part of our group and has nothing to do with us. He loves and hates us equally for butchering his name and making him appear as a narcissistic nut-job in his own words. He casts hexes on us for the blinding flash we layer over the art that members contribute to GIG — “disgusting-police-lights, seizure-inducing-laser-lightshow, bourgeois-myspace-effects retarded-raver shit” in Paul’s words. Ahh, how we love his sweet-talking us. In a desperate attempt to please him, those among us who make the art and animations have spent countless hours and sleepless nights trying to solve a crazy-complex quantum-physics type of equation = how to not create tacky or tasteless content. He does fancy some of it now, we got better, that’s something! In the reason stated below, our mission just got out of hand at some point.

What little is known about Paul Jaisini, even in all this time, is he’s a horrible perfectionist who slaughtered hundreds of innocent babies — I mean — artworks of remarkable beauty created by his own right hand (mostly paintings, some watercolors and drawings). He’s a fierce recluse who wants nothing to do with anyone or anything in life. But those few of us who know of an incredible talent he possesses (one could go as far as calling it a superpower), could not allow him to live his life without the recognition he FUCKING DESERVES more than any artist out there living today and, arguably, yesterday. We use whatever means necessary to reach more people, lots of flash and razzle-dazzle to lure them into our sinister trap of a higher awareness. Mwahaha! The visual boom you’ve witnessed in both cyber and real worlds, that is GIG’s doing — two damn decades of spreading an art virus — IVA. InVisibleArtitis… or a drug as in Intravenous Art. It’s whatever you want it to be, honey.

Our Gleitzeit International Group (GIG) started off innocently enough and gradually spiraled out of control to fight the haters, annoying the hell out of them as much as humanly possible. They don’t like what we do? WE DO MORE AND MORE OF IT. But never without purpose, without a carefully executed plan in mind collectively. If we have to tolerate an endless tidal wave of everyone’s vomit — e.g., idiotic memes and comics; dumbed-down one-liner quotes; selfies; so-called “art photography” passed through one-click app filters; mindless scribbles or random splatters by regular folks who have the nerve to call themselves serious/pro artists; primitive images of pets, babies, landscapes, random objects, etc… then people sure as shit are gonna tolerate what we put out, our animated and non-animated visual art designed for our beloved master, Paul Jaisini, who has shown us the light, the right path to follow, taught us great things and done so much for us — and so in our appreciation of him, we stamp his name on everything, for the sacrifices he has made in the name of art, to save our art verse, he’s a goddamn hero. There’s a book being written in his dedication where little will be left to the imagination about him.

If Paul Jaisini was as famous as Koons or Hirst, for example, people would know it’s not him posting stuff online with his name on it but fans creating fanart like myself among others. But noooooo, such a thing is unfathomable to most people - the promotion of another artist. Like, what’s in it for us? Uhh, nothing?? This is all NON-PROFIT bitches, the way art should be. It’s a passion FIRST, a commodity/commercial product/marketable item LAST and least. Its been that way for us since the early 90s to this day. Not a single member of GIG has sold an art work (neither has Paul Jaisini who’s a true professional) and we want to keep it that way. We do it for reasons far beyond ego. So advertising? Really? How the hell do you advertise or sell thin air, you know, invisible paintings, invisible anything? Ha ha, very funny indeed. The idea here is so simple, your neighbor’s dog can grasp it. Our motives: replace fast food for the mind with fine art, actual fine art. You know, creativity? Conscious thought? Talent? Skill? Knowledge? All that good stuff rolled into one to bring viewers more than a momentary ooohand aaahh reaction. Replace the recycled images ad nauseum; repetitious, worn-out ideas; disposable, gimmicky, money-driven fast art for simpletons. Stick with the highest of ideals and save the whole bloody planet.

Fine art is often confused with craft-making. This often creates bad blood between classically trained artists who put out paintings that leave a lasting impression, that make strong conversation pieces, that are thought-provoking and deep… and trained craftspeople whose skills are adequate to create decorative pieces for homely environments — landscapes, still lifes, animals, pretty fairies, common things of fantasy, and other simplicity. Skills alone are not enough for high art, you need a vision, a purpose, the ability to tell a story with every stroke of your brush that will both fascinate and terrify the viewers, arousing powerful emotions, illuminating. I have yet to see a visible painting in my generation that does anything at all for me, other than evoke sheer outrage and disgust. What a terrible waste of space and valuable resources it all is.

Paul Jaisini leads, we follow. He wishes to remain unknown - so do most of us. I’m next in line, slipping into recluse mode, no longer wanting to attach my face, my human image to my art stuff. I wish to be a nameless, faceless artist as well, invisible like P.J., and in his footsteps I too have destroyed thousands of my own artistic photography and digital art made with tedious, labor-intensive handwork. The whole point of this destruction is achieving the finest results possible by letting go of the imperfect, purging it on a regular basis, to make way for the perfect. I love what I do so it doesn’t matter, I know I’ll keep producing as much as I’m discarding, keeping the balance. Hoarding is an enemy of progress, especially the digital kind as there’s absolutely no limit to it. It’s like carrying a load of bricks on your back you’ll never use or need.

The watering down of creativity that digital pack ratting has caused as observed over the years is most tragic. For the creative individual, relying on terabytes of stock photos or OSFAP as I call them (Once Size Fits All Photos) instead of making your own as you used to when you had no choice, being 100% original, is a splinter in the conscience. It’s not evil to use stock of, say, things you don’t have access to (outer space, deep sea, Antarctica, etc.), but many digital artists I know today can’t take their own shot of a pencil ‘cause they “ain’t got no time for that!” How did they have time before? Did time get so compressed in only a decade?

Ohhhhh, and the edits, textures, filters, plug-ins and what-have-you available out there to everyone and their cats… are responsible for the tidal wave of rubbish that eclipses the magnificent light of the real talents.

I can tell you with utmost sincerity there is no better feeling on earth than knowing your creation is ALL yours, every pixel and dot, from the first to the last. It’s not always possible to make it so, but definitely the most rewarding endeavor. I’m most proud of myself when I can accomplish that.

Back to Paul Jaisini, from the start there have been a number of theories floating around on what his real story is. One of my own theories is that he stands for the unknowns of the world who can’t get representation, can’t get exhibited at a decent gallery because highly gifted/trained artists aren’t good enough - those kind of establishments prefer bananas, balloon dogs, feces, gigantic dicks/cunts, and all kinds of what-the-fucks…

So again, you don’t get the Paul Jaisini thing? That’s your problem. Don’t hate others for getting it. People are good, very good, at making baseless assumptions and impulsively spewing it as truth. They criticize and judge as if they’re high authorities on the subject yet they clearly lack education in fine art or art history and possess little to no talent or skill to back up their bullshit. My little “credibility radar” never fails. When they say I know this or I know that, I reply don’t say “I know” or state things as fact as a general rule of thumb - instead say “I assume/believe” and state the reasons you feel thus to appear less immature, especially about a controversial topic like invisible art. I have zero respect or tolerance for egomaniacs who think they know it all and act accordingly like arrogant pricks. Who can stand those, right? Once again, a good example would be: I, Stelly Riesling, believe everything I’ve written in this little manifesto to be correct based on personal experience and observation from multiple angles, thorough research and sufficient data collected from verifiable sources (and don’t go copying-pasting my own words back at me, be original). Just because you or I say so doesn’t make it so. Just because you or me think or believe so doesn’t make it true or right. I only ask that my opinions are regarded respectfully and whoever opposes them does so in a mature, civilized manner. We should only be entitled to opinions that don’t bring out the worst in us.

I don’t normally take such a position, but the time has come to stand up for what I believe in! It’s quite amusing and comical how haters think calling me names, attacking me or my interests or members of the project I’m part of for years is going to change something. It only makes more evident the importance of what I’m doing so I push on harder still.

Words of advise to those who can identify with me, with my frustrations over people’s reluctance to change their miserable ways, with our declining art world…

DON’T waste time on people who sweat the small stuff, whose actions are consistently inconsistent with their words. DO waste time on people who always keep their eye on the ball—the bigger picture of life.

Paul Jaisini’s invisible paintings are more than hype, more than your lame assumptions. Here’s one I got that’s pure gold: a cult! It started out as A JOKE OF MINE that was used against me. I told a then-good friend that he should come join our little “art cult” in a clearly lighthearted manner, and later he takes this idea I put in his head first and accuses me of being in an (imaginary) cult—the jokes on me eh?. But wait, aren’t cults religious? Our group consists of people around the world of different faiths (or none at all) so how could that ever work? If religion was about making fine (non-pop) art mainstream and bringing awesome, fresh, futuristic concepts to the collective consciousness, the world would not be so fucked up today because talent, creativity, originality and individuality would be the main focus, not superficial poppycock; those things would be praised and encouraged and supported in society by all institutions, not demonized and stigmatized.

Here is one thing I CAN state as solid fact: only one person close to Paul Jaisini knows the TRUE story, or at least some of it: EYKG. Everything else that has ever been said about him is myth, legend, gossip, speculation, the worst of which is said by jealous non-artists (wannabes, clones, posers, hang-ons, unoriginal ppl in general) and anti-artists (religious psychos, squares, losers and -duh- stupid ppl). Sadly, people are unable to see the bigger picture by letting their egos run their lives or repeating after others as parrots.

Commercial art, consumerism, and ignorance of the masses truly makes me want to curl up in a ball, not eat or drink or move until I die, just die in my sleep while dreaming of a better world, a world where real fine artists rule it with real fine art as they used to and life is beautiful once again….

Well I hope that settled THAT for now, or perhaps inadvertently made matters worse. I hope I didn’t sound too pissed from all these issues that keep popping up like penises on ChatRoulette… just got to me already! Can you tell? I had to put my foot down, stomp ‘em all!

To be continued, still lots more ignorance and pettiness to battle… Till then peace out my bambini. MWAH!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

PROLOGUE

Paul Jaisini was like a messiah, as you wish, who saw/understood the impending end and complete degeneration of Fine art or Art become and investment nothing more than that. He predicted the bubble pops art when everybody would eventually become an artist, including dogs cats and horses, because they as kids followed the main rule: express yourself without skills or knowledge or any aesthetic concerns. J. Pollack started pouring paints onto canvases; Julian Schnabel, former cab driver from NY, suddenly decided he could do better than what he saw displayed in galleries, so he started gluing dishes on canvases; A.Warhol, an industrial artist who made commercial silk-screen for the factories he worked in, started to exhibit "Campbell's soup" used for commercial adds... and later the thing that made him an "American Idol": by copying and pasting Hollywood celebrities (same type of posters he made before for movie theaters).

When Paul Jaisini stood out against the Me culture in the US by burning all of his own 120 brilliant paintings (according to the then-new director of Fort Worth MoMa Museum, who offered hin an exhibition of his art in 1992, and later the Metropolitan Museum curator, Phillippe de Montebello, in 1994).Paul probably assumed all fellow true fine artists would join him or stand by him against corruption of the art world.

And after 20 years of his stand-off...the time has finally come today. Many artists and humanitarians around the world took a place beside him. His invisible Paintings became a synonym for the future reincarnation of fine art and long lost harmony. The establishment is in panic! The "moneybags" (as Paul Jaisini named them) are in panic, because they invested BILLIONS of dollars in real crap made by craftsmen. Now they realize that the reputation of American legends of expressionism was nothing but a copy of Russian avant-garde" Kazimir Malevich, Vasiliy Kandinsky and tens of others from France and Germany.. US tycoon investors were spending billions on "Me more original, than you". "Artist Shit" is a 1061 artwork by the Italian artist Piero Manzoni. The work consists of 90 tin cans, filled with feces. A tin can was sold for £124,000, 180,000 at Sothebys, 2007.

EPILOGUE

Before I resume promoting and admiring a very important art persona on today's international art arena, I'd like to clear up some BIG questions; people ask continuously and subconsciously, directly & indirectly: "Why does the name Paul Jaisini, flood the Internet in such "obnoxious" quantities that it's started suppressing some other activities that my friends might share with the rest of the Internet's Ego Me only Me www society? I can't just answer this... so I'll try to explain why I'm writing this: Jaisini's followers keep posting art and info about,

He IMHO the only hope in quickly decomposing visual fine art. "Paul Jaisini realized many years ago, in 1994, when he declared (at that time to himself only) the start of a New era, a New vision, that he is trying to redirect from the rat race, started by an establishment in post-war New York, long before the Internet culture.

Sub related information: Adolf Gottlieb, Mart Rothko, etc (after visiting Paris France in 1933):

"We must forget analytical art, we must express ourselves, as a 5 year old child would, without a developed consciousness. Forget about results - do what you feel, EXPRESS yourself with your own unique style"

With this statement Mark Rothko starts to teach his students, degeneration of fine art begins, and the generation of war of styles took a start signal of the material race, greatly rewarded by establishment "individual" - eccentric craftsmen - show business clowns.

Sub related Information: In the summer of 1936, Adolf Gottlieb painted more than 800 paintings, which was 20X more than he created in his whole art career as a painter, starting from the time of Gottlieb becomes a founding member of "The Ten" group in NYC "Group of Ten" was a very peculiar, enigmatic group... Based on a religious point of view;(where a human figure was prohibited from being created)

GLOSSARY

IN 1997, Paul Jaisini's best friend Ellen Y.K.Gottlieb started a cyber campaign by promoting on a very young Internet, back then, Paul Jaisini's burned paintings as Invisible Paintings, visible only through poetic essays. She and a handful of people saw his originals and were devastated that nobody could ever see them again. "We, his fans, believe that someday Paul will recreate his 120 burned paintings if he has any decency and moral obligation to his fans, who have dedicated decades to make it happen, for their Phoenix to rise from the ashes and the whole world will witness that all these years we spent to get him back to re-paint the Visuals again were not in vain," - said E.Y.K.Gottlieb in 2014 during the 20th anniversary celebration of Invisible Paintings to GIGroup in NYCity. So now, hopefully, this clears up why I and others do what we do - our "cyber terrorism" of good art, dedicated to Paul Jaisini's return, which is & and was our mission & our goal. We post good art to fight "troll art" which is worthless pics, after being passed through 1-click filters of free web apps. We are, in fact, against this www pops pollution, done with "bubble art" by the out of control masses with 5 billon pics a day: Pics of cats, memes, quotes,national geographic sunsets and waterfalls, not counting their own daily "selfies: and whatever self-indulging Me-ego-Me affairs, sponsored happily by photo gadget companies like Canon, Nikon, Sony...who churn out higher quality madness tools at lower cost.

This way Government taking away attention from the real world crisis of lowest morality & economical devastation. The masses are too easily re-engineered/manipulated by the Establishment PopsStyle delivered to them by pop music and Hollywood "super" stars. In 1992 Paul Jaisini's Gleitzeit theory predict such a massive, pops self-entertain madness, following technological explosion, but not in illusive scales.

Uber Aless @2015 NYC USA

NOTE Date's numbers and events can be slightly inaccurate.

#gleitzeit #paul-jaisini #invisible #painting #art #futurism #art-news,

OPEN LETTER TO PAUL JAISINI: “IF THERE’S GOD OR P. JAISINI

DEAR PAUL:

Please give us all hope for the new resurrection of the invisible and visible after the terror of the visual is overpowering and had removed all the essential human qualities.The visual had enslaved all human race into submission, we need the new INVISIBLE premises to be free of the visual terror to return to the DESIRE to possess to cherish. We had lost the desire with the possession of the images, of the unlimited choices. For example… I will SEE enough juice for my memory to keep me for craving it - my daily dose of the search — and the resources are vast - images of the imaginable future girlfriends I could had chosen but have no interest in… Another day of looking and processing. Same as the old girl who calls it: ALWAYS LOOKING AT AND ALWAYS JUDGING. I think I am now not a man — the visual terror had done me in. I turned into “the eyes”.

I can possess the images of so many young girls that in the end of the possession I forget my initial interest.

My voyage had one direction — I was looking for a treasure, but in the process I had forgotten all about the trip and reduced my purpose to the mere observation. I had even forgotten my normal routine and had changed personally. No longer do I want to hold the treasure. I am happy with the process. I don’t ever want to end it. And its something in my imaginable control. I can freely continue to consume the given information (the female images) as a collection of my new memory that stores these images to just process and not to choose.

   

Queens Of The Stone Age, in a salt mine - 700m under Sondershausen, Germany

 

Double page spread in this weeks NME (UK). They chose to crop it down for some reason that I don't understand. Also in Shortlist magazine (UK) 17 Jan 2008.

 

VR virtual reality view from the show here

 

p.s. if you are gonna post my copyrighted images elsewhere on the internet at least have the decency to credit me with them or link them back to here, or i'll probably stop posting them or at least start putting big watermarks on them.

 

Vintage card. Photo: 20th Century Fox.

 

American actor Gregory Peck (1916-2003) was one of the most popular film stars from the 1940s to the 1960s. Peck received five nominations for Academy Award for Best Actor and won once – for his performance as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). He almost always played courageous, nobly heroic good guys who saw injustice and fought it. Among his best known films are Spellbound (1945), The Yearling (1946), Gentleman's Agreement (1947), Roman Holiday (1953), The Guns of Navarone (1961), and Cape Fear (1962).

 

Eldred Gregory Peck was born in 1916 in La Jolla, California (now in San Diego). His parents were Bernice Mary (Ayres) and Gregory Pearl Peck, a chemist, and druggist in San Diego. His parents divorced when he was five years old. An only child, he was sent to live with his grandmother. He never felt he had a stable childhood. His fondest memories are of his grandmother taking him to the cinema every week and of his dog, which followed him everywhere. Peck's father encouraged him to take up medicine. He studied pre-med at UC-Berkeley and, while there, got bitten by the acting bug and decided to change the focus of his studies. He enrolled in the Neighborhood Playhouse in New York and debuted on Broadway after graduation. His debut was in Emlyn Williams' play 'The Morning Star' (1942). By 1943, he was in Hollywood, where he debuted in the RKO film Days of Glory (Jacques Tourneur, 1944). Stardom came with his next film, The Keys of the Kingdom (John M. Stahl, 1944), for which he was nominated for an Oscar. Tony Fontana at IMDb: "Peck's screen presence displayed the qualities for which he became well known. He was tall, rugged and heroic, with a basic decency that transcended his roles." He appeared opposite Ingrid Bergman in Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound (1945) as an amnesia victim accused of murder. In The Yearling (Clarence Brown, 1946), he was again nominated for an Oscar and won the Golden Globe. He was especially effective in Westerns and appeared in such varied fare as David O. Selznick's critically blasted Duel in the Sun (King Vidor, 1946), the somewhat better received Yellow Sky (William A. Wellman, 1948), and the acclaimed The Gunfighter (Henry King, 1950). He was nominated again for the Academy Award for his roles in Gentleman's Agreement (Elia Kazan, 1947), which dealt with anti-Semitism, and Twelve O'Clock High (Henry King, 1949), a story of high-level stress in an Air Force bomber unit in World War II. In 1947, Peck, along with Dorothy McGuire, David O'Selznick, and Mel Ferrer, founded the La Jolla Playhouse, located in his hometown, and produced many of the classics there. Due to film commitments, he could not return to Broadway but whet his appetite for live theatre on occasion at the Playhouse, keeping it firmly established with a strong, reputable name over the years.

 

With a string of hits to his credit, Gregory Peck made the decision to only work in films that interested him. He continued to appear as the heroic, larger-than-life figures in such films as Captain Horatio Hornblower (Raoul Walsh, 1951) with Virginia Mayo, and Moby Dick (John Huston, 1956) with Richard Basehart. He worked with Audrey Hepburn in her debut film, Roman Holiday (William Wyler, 1953). While filming The Bravados (Henry King, 1958), he decided to become a cowboy in real life, so he purchased a vast working ranch near Santa Barbara, California - already stocked with 600 head of prize cattle. In the early 1960s, he gave a powerful performance as Captain Keith Mallory in The Guns of Navarone (J. Lee Thompson, 1961) opposite David Niven and Anthony Quinn. The film was one of the biggest box-office hits of that year. Peck finally won the Oscar, after four nominations, for his performance as lawyer Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (Robert Mulligan, 1962). He also appeared in two darker films than he usually made, Cape Fear (J. Lee Thompson, 1962) opposite Robert Mitchum, and Captain Newman, M.D. (David Miller, 1963) with Tony Curtis, which dealt with the way people live. The financial failure of Cape Fear (1962) ended his company, Melville Productions. After making Arabesque (Stanley Donen, 1966) with Sophia Loren, Peck withdrew from acting for three years in order to concentrate on various humanitarian causes, including the American Cancer Society. In the early 1970s, he produced two films, The Trial of the Catonsville Nine (Gordon Davidson, 1972) and The Dove (Charles Jarrott, 1974), when his film career stalled. He made a comeback playing, somewhat woodenly, Ambassador Robert Thorn in the horror film The Omen (Richard Donner, 1976) with Lee Remick. After that, he returned to the bigger-than-life roles he was best known for, such as MacArthur (Joseph Sargent, 1977) and the infamous Nazi war criminal Dr. Josef Mengele in the huge hit The Boys from Brazil (Franklin J. Schaffner, 1978) with Laurence Olivier and James Mason. In the 1980s, he moved into television with the miniseries The Blue and the Gray (Andrew V. McLaglen, 1982) in which he played Abraham Lincoln, and The Scarlet and the Black (Jerry London, 1983) with Christopher Plummer and John Gielgud. In 1991, he appeared in the remake of his 1962 film, playing a different role, in Martin Scorsese's Cape Fear (1991). He was also cast as the progressive-thinking owner of a wire and cable business in Other People's Money (Norman Jewison, 1991), starring Danny DeVito. In 1967, Peck received the Academy's Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award. He was also been awarded the US Presidential Medal of Freedom. Always politically progressive, he was active in such causes as anti-war protests, workers' rights, and civil rights. In 2003, Peck's portrayal of Atticus Finch was named the greatest film hero of the past 100 years by the American Film Institute, only two weeks before his death. Atticus beat out Indiana Jones, who was placed second, and James Bond who came third. Gregory Peck died in 2003 in Los Angeles, California. He was 87. Peck was married twice. From 1942 till 1955, he was married to Greta Kukkonen. They had three children: Jonathan Peck (1944-1975), Stephen Peck (1946), and Carey Paul Peck (1949). His second wife was Veronique Passani, whom he met at the set of Roman Holliday. They married in 1955 and had two children: Tony Peck (1956) and Cecilia Peck (1958). The couple remained together till his death.

 

Sources: Tony Fontana (IMDb), and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

Created with ChatGPT

 

The Book of Katarina by Adrian Keeley (Feat Kat Verde-Dillingham)

 

THE DAUGHTER OF ROME 1841–1860

 

For nearly six years after leaving the Archive, Marius kept his promise.

 

He spoke of Katarina Verde to no one.

 

Not to Armand.

 

Not to Maharet.

 

Not even to Pandora.

 

There were moments when the name rose almost naturally to his lips. While discussing lost Roman manuscripts. While arguing over forgotten philosophers. While listening to Pandora lament another library consumed by war, neglect, or stupidity.

 

Always the thought returned.

 

Always he remained silent.

 

A promise, once given, possessed weight.

 

Especially among immortals.

 

Pandora, however, had lived too long to mistake silence for emptiness.

 

She noticed the change in Marius almost immediately.

 

Not in manner.

 

Not in speech.

 

Marius had always been careful.

 

The change lay elsewhere.

 

He remembered differently.

 

That was the only way she could describe it.

 

He quoted sources he had not possessed before. He corrected dates he had once admitted were uncertain. He referred to obscure provincial governors whose names had vanished from accepted histories. Most curious of all, he occasionally stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence.

 

Not because he had forgotten.

 

Because he had remembered too precisely.

 

Someone had restored pieces of his own past.

 

Pandora knew that look.

 

Memory returning is not the same as memory continuing.

 

She did not question him.

 

Not directly.

 

Direct questions were useful only with simple men.

 

Marius was not simple.

 

Instead, Pandora began to follow the evidence.

 

The trail began in Rome.

 

It always did, with Pandora.

 

A bookseller near the Piazza Navona remembered a blonde woman who had paid too much for a worm-damaged bundle of Latin correspondence.

 

A Dominican librarian recalled a foreign scholar who had identified a miscatalogued Byzantine fragment without opening the index.

 

A retired collector in Florence spoke of a woman with pale hair and storm-coloured eyes who had purchased three worthless notebooks later discovered to contain copied references to vanished Roman court records.

 

Pandora listened.

 

She travelled.

 

She compared.

 

Venice.

 

Prague.

 

Vienna.

 

Ravenna.

 

Again and again the same shape emerged.

 

A remarkably educated blonde woman.

 

Perfectly mannered.

 

Exceptionally difficult to follow.

 

Always appearing near endangered manuscripts.

 

Always leaving before gratitude became conversation.

 

The name changed.

 

The description did not.

 

Once, in a Bavarian inventory, Pandora found it written plainly:

 

Katarina Verde.

 

She sat with that name for a long time.

 

Then she remembered.

 

Florence.

 

Decades earlier.

 

A cold evening.

 

A small shop near a courtyard full of rainwater.

 

A blonde woman had stood before a shelf of neglected Latin texts, holding a volume everyone else had dismissed as devotional debris.

 

Pandora had glanced at her only briefly.

 

The woman had looked up.

 

Their eyes had met.

 

Not long.

 

Only a moment.

 

Long enough for two immortals to recognize one another and choose silence.

 

Pandora had forgotten the encounter.

 

Or rather, she had stored it in the great unlabelled chamber where immortals placed moments without immediate meaning.

 

Now the memory returned with perfect clarity.

 

The woman had not been browsing.

 

She had been rescuing.

 

Only after reconstructing the pattern herself did Pandora go to Marius.

 

She found him in Venice.

 

He was reading beside an open window while canal water lapped softly below.

 

Pandora placed eight copied documents upon the table.

 

Marius looked at them.

 

Then at her.

 

He recognized every page.

 

Of course he did.

 

Pandora smiled.

 

"I know you didn't tell me."

 

Silence.

 

"I found her."

 

Another silence.

 

Then Marius smiled for the first time that evening.

 

"No."

 

He gently rested his hand upon the papers.

 

"You found her shadow."

 

"Is she real?"

 

Marius considered the question with the seriousness it deserved.

 

Finally he answered.

 

"Yes."

 

Nothing more.

 

Nothing less.

 

He had broken no promise.

 

Pandora had earned the truth herself.

 

The invitation Pandora sent required no elegance.

 

Only accuracy.

 

She wrote:

 

I found your shadow before I found your name. Rome remembers you owe her a conversation.

 

Katarina received the message three weeks later.

 

Lucien read it over her shoulder.

 

"Pandora," he said.

 

Not a question.

 

Katarina folded the paper.

 

"You know everyone."

 

"No."

 

His eyes remained on the message.

 

"Only the dangerous ones."

 

They met in Rome.

 

Where else?

 

Rome was less a city than an argument with death.

 

Every empire believed itself eternal.

 

Rome had at least possessed the decency to leave ruins proving the arrogance.

 

Pandora waited inside the Library of Santa Maria sopra Minerva after the human scholars had gone.

 

Candles illuminated long tables.

 

Shelves vanished into darkness.

 

The silence possessed dignity.

 

Katarina entered alone.

 

Pandora stood beside a table covered with manuscripts, her dark hair framing a face shaped more by intelligence than vanity. Her eyes were amber and unsentimental. They missed nothing.

 

"You are younger than I expected," Pandora said.

 

"I've been told the opposite."

 

Pandora laughed softly.

 

"Good. I dislike reverence."

 

"So do I."

 

"No," Pandora said. "You distrust it."

 

Katarina paused.

 

Then smiled.

 

"Better."

 

Unlike Marius, Pandora did not test her.

 

She questioned her.

 

There was a difference.

 

A test seeks weakness.

 

A question seeks truth.

 

For three nights they walked Rome.

 

Not the Rome of tourists, priests, or politicians.

 

The buried Rome.

 

The Rome beneath churches.

 

Beneath palaces.

 

Beneath pride.

 

Pandora knew courtyards where fragments of imperial columns had become doorsteps. She knew crypts where pagan stones were hidden behind Christian altars. She knew houses where widows guarded letters no scholar had ever read.

 

"So much survives," Katarina whispered on the second night.

 

Pandora touched a worn marble inscription half-swallowed by a wall.

 

"No."

 

Her voice was quiet.

 

"So much has already vanished."

 

On the fourth evening, Pandora produced a small leather notebook.

 

Its binding had been repaired many times.

 

She handed it to Katarina without ceremony.

 

Katarina opened it carefully.

 

The handwriting was younger than Pandora's face.

 

Impatient.

 

Elegant.

 

Occasionally furious.

 

The entries described statues, scrolls, household shrines, family records, copied poems, minor genealogies, debts, recipes, prayers, names.

 

Many entries bore one notation.

 

Lost.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Katarina closed the volume gently.

 

"You were already building an archive."

 

Pandora looked away.

 

"I failed."

 

"No."

 

Katarina's answer was immediate.

 

"You began."

 

The silence that followed was not empty.

 

It was recognition.

 

Weeks became months.

 

Pandora and Katarina travelled through Italy, Greece, and southern France.

 

Neither dominated the other.

 

Neither became disciple.

 

Neither became teacher.

 

They argued instead.

 

Endlessly.

 

About Rome.

 

About art.

 

About memory.

 

About whether civilisation revealed itself more truthfully through monuments or domestic records.

 

"Kings commission monuments," Katarina said one night in Florence.

 

"Yes," Pandora replied. "And monuments outlive lies."

 

"A baker's diary reveals more."

 

"About bread."

 

"About hunger."

 

Pandora smiled.

 

"You are insufferable."

 

"Accurate."

 

"Also insufferable."

 

The argument continued across three countries.

 

Neither surrendered.

 

Both enjoyed it.

 

During the summer of 1851, Pandora accompanied Katarina north.

 

Katarina did not reveal the greatest repository.

 

Nor the oldest.

 

Not yet.

 

Trust, like history, required structure.

 

She chose the Rhine Repository.

 

The same one Marius had seen.

 

When the hidden door opened, Pandora showed no theatrical astonishment.

 

That was not her way.

 

She simply walked inside and became silent.

 

Her silence lasted a long time.

 

That was enough.

 

Rows of manuscripts stretched beneath the stone vaults. Lamps burned in niches. Catalogues lay open upon tables. Greek, Latin, Arabic, Hebrew, Syriac, Armenian, and forgotten regional hands lived beside one another in disciplined order.

 

Pandora moved from shelf to shelf.

 

Reading.

 

Not touching until invited.

 

At last she reached the Roman collection.

 

Her fingers rested near the labels.

 

"You corrected three accepted chronologies."

 

"They were wrong."

 

"Historians dislike that."

 

"They'll survive."

 

Pandora glanced at her.

 

"History usually does."

 

"No," Katarina said. "History survives only when someone inconveniences its murderers."

 

Pandora laughed then.

 

Not loudly.

 

But with pleasure.

 

For nearly a month they worked together.

 

Not as guest and host.

 

As colleagues.

 

Together they reorganized the Roman materials.

 

Eyewitness accounts apart from later commentary.

 

Domestic records cross-indexed with political documents.

 

Private grief placed beside public catastrophe.

 

For the first time, one entire section of the Archive became more than preservation.

 

It became argument.

 

Every document questioned another.

 

Every contradiction became evidence.

 

Every silence became meaningful.

 

Lucien watched from a distance with quiet satisfaction.

 

Late one evening Pandora asked the question she had withheld.

 

"How many repositories exist?"

 

Lucien answered before Katarina could.

 

"Enough."

 

Pandora smiled.

 

"I expected that."

 

"You expected correctly."

 

She never asked again.

 

That mattered.

 

Before departing, Pandora entered one final chamber.

 

It contained nothing splendid.

 

No imperial correspondence.

 

No illuminated manuscripts.

 

No famous hands.

 

Only ordinary journals.

 

Farmers.

 

Midwives.

 

Teachers.

 

Stone masons.

 

Pilgrims.

 

Children.

 

Widows.

 

Thousands of anonymous lives.

 

Pandora frowned.

 

"I don't understand."

 

Katarina removed one volume.

 

"A miller's daughter."

 

She opened another.

 

"A shepherd."

 

Another.

 

"A widow who witnessed plague."

 

"They changed nothing," Pandora said softly.

 

Katarina looked at her.

 

"They changed everything."

 

Pandora was silent.

 

Then slowly she understood.

 

History had always preserved rulers.

 

The Archive preserved humanity.

 

Without these voices, kings ruled empty worlds.

 

Without ordinary lives, empires became maps instead of civilisations.

 

Pandora closed the journal.

 

"I was wrong."

 

"About what?"

 

"I thought your Archive preserved vampire history."

 

She looked around the chamber.

 

"It preserves theirs."

 

Then she smiled.

 

"No."

 

Her hand touched the nearest shelf.

 

"It preserves everyone's."

 

On the last night they stood outside the monastery beneath a sky crowded with stars.

 

Pandora prepared to leave before dawn.

 

She removed three wax-sealed scroll cases from her travelling chest.

 

Katarina understood their value before Pandora spoke.

 

"My journals," Pandora said.

 

Katarina did not take them.

 

"They're originals."

 

"I know."

 

"I don't require originals."

 

"I know that too."

 

Pandora placed them gently in Katarina's hands.

 

"Copies preserve words."

 

Her voice softened.

 

"Originals preserve souls."

 

Katarina looked down at the cases.

 

The stains.

 

The corrections.

 

The pressure of the original hand.

 

Perhaps even grains of Roman dust still trapped between pages.

 

These things could never be copied.

 

She accepted them with both hands.

 

"I'll protect them."

 

Pandora nodded.

 

"I know."

 

After Pandora vanished into the dark, Lucien joined Katarina beneath the monastery gates.

 

He watched the stars for a long time.

 

"What happened tonight?" he asked.

 

"A friend trusted me."

 

"No."

 

Katarina looked at him.

 

Lucien's gaze rested on the hidden entrance below.

 

"The Archive became larger than us."

 

For once Katarina had no reply.

 

Far beneath them, behind stone and iron, rested the memories of emperors and shepherds, philosophers and millers, immortals and children.

 

The Archive no longer belonged to Lucien.

 

Nor to Katarina.

 

Nor to vampires.

 

It belonged to history.

 

And history had begun entrusting itself to her freely.

 

The responsibility was terrifying.

 

She accepted it anyway.

 

Because memory, once abandoned, rarely found its way home again.

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Image Prompt - Ultra-photorealistic IMAX cinematic photograph, 16:9. Night beside the illuminated Colosseum in Rome during the late 1840s. Katarina Verde walks gracefully alongside Pandora through quiet rain-darkened cobblestone streets, both appearing effortlessly youthful yet carrying centuries of quiet wisdom. Katarina has long, voluminous golden-blonde curls, a heart-shaped face, luminous warm complexion, blue-gray eyes and wears an elegant lavender-and-black silk Victorian walking gown with fitted bodice, full skirt, black lace sleeves, matching gloves, bonnet and short velvet mantle appropriate to 1841–1860. Pandora is book-accurate: strikingly beautiful with dark chestnut-brown hair arranged in a refined Victorian chignon with soft curls, luminous pale olive complexion, expressive dark eyes, refined classical Roman features, slender graceful figure, wearing a deep burgundy and black silk walking dress with fitted jacket, lace collar, gloves and bonnet, understated jewellery reflecting ancient wealth rather than fashion. They stroll in quiet conversation beneath warm gas lamps. The Colosseum glows behind them, its arches dramatically illuminated against the night sky. Wet paving stones mirror the golden light. Sparse pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages remain distant. Romantic Gothic atmosphere, museum-quality historical accuracy, cinematic realism, razor-sharp detail, natural skin textures, no modern objects, no watermark.

 

Pic, Prompt and Story by Adrian

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

BY STELLY RIESLING

Featured below is another original art work of mine in homage to THE PIONEER OF INVISIBLE ART — PAUL JAISINI. Forget all the copycats that came after him — Master Paul Jaisini was the *FIRST* of a totally original concept and the *BEST*. My favorite thing about him is that he’s a voice, not an echo, which is quite rare.

DISCLAIMER: This is for anyone who is a hater OR wishes to better understand me, what I’m all about, so you can decide whether I’m weird or normal enough for you — a kind of very loose manifesto, rushed and unrevised, full of raw uncut emotion that I don’t like to be evident in my writing as lately I prefer a more professional, formal style, so we can consider this a rough draft of the more polished writing to come when I have extra time. I might return to this text later and clean it up or break it into separate parts. Right now it’s a long-winded hot mess, so if you manage to make any sense of it, BIG PROPS TO YOU. lol …and if you manage to read it ALL, you have my solemn respect!!! in a day when reading has been reduced to just catchy headliners and short captions of images once in a while. The consequence of this one-liner internet culture is non-linear, tunnel thinking, which is baaaaaad.

There lives among us a most enigmatic and charismatic creature named Paul Jaisini who led me into the wonderful world of art, not personally, but through descriptions of his artworks in essays written and published online by his friend, which painted the most fascinating images in my mind. Early on as a kiddo, I experimented with photography, simple point and shoot whatever looked attractive to me. Digital manipulation of my photographs with computer software followed… and somehow I learned useful drawing techniques along the way to combine existing elements with nonexistent ones, which allowed me to elevate the context for my ideas. Later, I started creating my own digital art from scratch for my friends and family as a favorite pastime. They would shower me with praise and repeatedly encouraged me to share my “different” vision with the rest of the world… it took a while and wasn’t easy to overcome the insecurity of not being good enough along with a gripping fear of being harshly criticized, but one day I woman-ed up and started publishing my work on the web, reminding myself that my livelihood didn’t depend on a positive reception.

Paul Jaisini’s role in all this has been to not disgrace myself, even if what I do is just a hobby. And I would never do him and other genius artists the disservice of calling myself a professional because I know I’ll never be as good as any of the GIANTS of pre-modern history. Be the best or be nothing, no middle ground.

People’s jealousy in the past, future and present over my obsessive love of Paul Jaisini, which they are well aware is purely plutonic, has caused them to despise the man and has made many relationships/friendships impossible for me. I refuse to have such people in my life because by harboring any negativity towards Paul, they unknowingly feel that way about me and express it to me. It’s their own problem for not realizing this. Paul’s new art movement, Gleitzeit, shaped me into the allegedly awesome girl I am today, giving my art more edge, more “sexy” because it refined my vision of the world and propelled me to attain the skills necessary to not dishonor my family name through tenacious pursuit of perfection. Since the beginning of my life, I attempted to depict what I saw in visual, musical and literal forms, but continuously failed without adequate training and determination. Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit was the answer to my prayers. Who I am today I owe mostly to him and his selfless ideals of the artverse that I’ve given unconditional loyalty to (he has this cool ability for hyper-vision to see whole universes, not itty bitty worlds, hence I call it an artverse instead of art world, with him in mind). So again, anyone who hates Paul Jaisini hates ME because, regardless of what he means to you, he is the most important person in my life for making me ME. The way a famous actor, dancer or singer inspires others to act, dance or sing, Paul inspired me to become a better artist, better writer, better everything. More people would understand if he was a household name because they’re wired to in society. But we’re inspiring each other all the time in our own little communities without being famous, so if someone has the ability to change even ONE person’s life immensely with creativity, it is a massive achievement. And passionate folks like myself are compelled to scream it from the cyber rooftops. So here I am. It’s whatever.

Furthermore, I’d like to address here a few pressing matters in light of some recent drama brought on by both strangers and former friends. To start, I never judge the passions, interests or likes of others, which are often in my face all over the place, so likewise they have no right to judge any of mine. It is quite unfortunate and frustrating how very little understanding and education the majority of people have or want to have. Their logic is as primitive as a chipmunk when it comes to promotion of fine art on the web: “spamming, advertising, report!” It’s their own problem that they fail to understand what it’s about due to the distorted lens through which they see the world or inability to think for themselves; an inherent lack of perception or inquisitiveness. Well, guess what? Every single image, every animation, every video, every post dedicated to Mr. Paul Jaisini and “Gleitziet” (to elaborate: a revolutionary new art movement Paul founded with his partner in crime and personal friend, EYKG, who discovered him and believed in him more than anyone) has an important purpose. Every one of those things you run across is a piece of a puzzle, a move in a game, an inch down a rabbit hole; the deeper you go, the more interesting it gets; the more levels you pass, the more clues unfold, the greater the suspense and nearer the conclusion (yet further). You earn awesome rewards like enlightenment, spiritual revelations, truths, knowledge, wisdom and the most profound reward of all: the drive to improve yourself to the absolute maximum, so an unending, unshakable drive. People often make a wrong turn in this cyber game and go back a few levels or get stuck. Those that keep on pushing, however, will come to find the effort has been worth it. And what awaits you in the end of it all? The greatest challenge to beating the game: YOUR OWN MIND. You will be forced to let go of every belief you held before you had reached the last level, to completely alter your mindset and perception of the world, of life, of yourself. But by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it will be as easy as falling off a cliff! (It is a kind of suicide after all — death and rebirth of spirit.)

Paul Jaisini does NOT, *I repeat* does NOT use mystery and obscurity to his advantage as a clever marketing ploy, no, he’s too next level for that with a consciousness so rich, he should wear a radioactive warning sign (he’ll melt your brain, best wear a tinfoil hat in his presence as I certainly would.) The statement he makes is loud and clear, hidden in plain site for those who take the time to connect the dots and have enough curiosity to fuel their journey into unknown territory (an open mind and flexible perception helps a lot). Actually, anyone with an IQ above 90 is sure to figure it out sooner or later. Hint: You don’t have to SEE an extraordinary thing with your eyes to know it exists, to understand it and realize its greatness — you can only feel it in your bone marrow, your spinal fluid, your heart and soul. The moment you do figure it out, as the skeleton key of the human soul, it will unlock the greatness and massive potential buried deep within, changing the doomed direction humanity is undoubtedly headed. I don’t speak in riddles, I speak in a clear direct way that intelligent humans will understand, so I’m counting on them.

GIG is an international group of artists and writers that support Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit. We started off as an unofficial fan club of Jaisini in 1996, comprised of only 6 individuals spanning 3 countries, and eventually escalated in status to an official fan group across the entire globe. A decade later it had grown to hundreds of fans. Nearly another decade later, there are thousands. Let’s not leave out another delightful group of vicious haters that have been around for nearly as long as us since the late 90s and have also grown in impressive numbers. Now, for the record (and please write this one down because I’m sick of repeating myself), Paul Jaisini himself is not part of our group and has nothing to do with us. He loves and hates us equally for butchering his name and making him appear as a narcissistic nut-job in his own words. He casts hexes on us for the blinding flash we layer over the art that members contribute to GIG — “disgusting-police-lights, seizure-inducing-laser-lightshow, bourgeois-myspace-effects retarded-raver shit” in Paul’s words. Ahh, how we love his sweet-talking us. In a desperate attempt to please him, those among us who make the art and animations have spent countless hours and sleepless nights trying to solve a crazy-complex quantum-physics type of equation = how to not create tacky or tasteless content. He does fancy some of it now, we got better, that’s something! In the reason stated below, our mission just got out of hand at some point.

What little is known about Paul Jaisini, even in all this time, is he’s a horrible perfectionist who slaughtered hundreds of innocent babies — I mean — artworks of remarkable beauty created by his own right hand (mostly paintings, some watercolors and drawings). He’s a fierce recluse who wants nothing to do with anyone or anything in life. But those few of us who know of an incredible talent he possesses (one could go as far as calling it a superpower), could not allow him to live his life without the recognition he FUCKING DESERVES more than any artist out there living today and, arguably, yesterday. We use whatever means necessary to reach more people, lots of flash and razzle-dazzle to lure them into our sinister trap of a higher awareness. Mwahaha! The visual boom you’ve witnessed in both cyber and real worlds, that is GIG’s doing — two damn decades of spreading an art virus — IVA. InVisibleArtitis… or a drug as in Intravenous Art. It’s whatever you want it to be, honey.

Our Gleitzeit International Group (GIG) started off innocently enough and gradually spiraled out of control to fight the haters, annoying the hell out of them as much as humanly possible. They don’t like what we do? WE DO MORE AND MORE OF IT. But never without purpose, without a carefully executed plan in mind collectively. If we have to tolerate an endless tidal wave of everyone’s vomit — e.g., idiotic memes and comics; dumbed-down one-liner quotes; selfies; so-called “art photography” passed through one-click app filters; mindless scribbles or random splatters by regular folks who have the nerve to call themselves serious/pro artists; primitive images of pets, babies, landscapes, random objects, etc… then people sure as shit are gonna tolerate what we put out, our animated and non-animated visual art designed for our beloved master, Paul Jaisini, who has shown us the light, the right path to follow, taught us great things and done so much for us — and so in our appreciation of him, we stamp his name on everything, for the sacrifices he has made in the name of art, to save our art verse, he’s a goddamn hero. There’s a book being written in his dedication where little will be left to the imagination about him.

If Paul Jaisini was as famous as Koons or Hirst, for example, people would know it’s not him posting stuff online with his name on it but fans creating fanart like myself among others. But noooooo, such a thing is unfathomable to most people - the promotion of another artist. Like, what’s in it for us? Uhh, nothing?? This is all NON-PROFIT bitches, the way art should be. It’s a passion FIRST, a commodity/commercial product/marketable item LAST and least. Its been that way for us since the early 90s to this day. Not a single member of GIG has sold an art work (neither has Paul Jaisini who’s a true professional) and we want to keep it that way. We do it for reasons far beyond ego. So advertising? Really? How the hell do you advertise or sell thin air, you know, invisible paintings, invisible anything? Ha ha, very funny indeed. The idea here is so simple, your neighbor’s dog can grasp it. Our motives: replace fast food for the mind with fine art, actual fine art. You know, creativity? Conscious thought? Talent? Skill? Knowledge? All that good stuff rolled into one to bring viewers more than a momentary ooohand aaahh reaction. Replace the recycled images ad nauseum; repetitious, worn-out ideas; disposable, gimmicky, money-driven fast art for simpletons. Stick with the highest of ideals and save the whole bloody planet.

Fine art is often confused with craft-making. This often creates bad blood between classically trained artists who put out paintings that leave a lasting impression, that make strong conversation pieces, that are thought-provoking and deep… and trained craftspeople whose skills are adequate to create decorative pieces for homely environments — landscapes, still lifes, animals, pretty fairies, common things of fantasy, and other simplicity. Skills alone are not enough for high art, you need a vision, a purpose, the ability to tell a story with every stroke of your brush that will both fascinate and terrify the viewers, arousing powerful emotions, illuminating. I have yet to see a visible painting in my generation that does anything at all for me, other than evoke sheer outrage and disgust. What a terrible waste of space and valuable resources it all is.

Paul Jaisini leads, we follow. He wishes to remain unknown - so do most of us. I’m next in line, slipping into recluse mode, no longer wanting to attach my face, my human image to my art stuff. I wish to be a nameless, faceless artist as well, invisible like P.J., and in his footsteps I too have destroyed thousands of my own artistic photography and digital art made with tedious, labor-intensive handwork. The whole point of this destruction is achieving the finest results possible by letting go of the imperfect, purging it on a regular basis, to make way for the perfect. I love what I do so it doesn’t matter, I know I’ll keep producing as much as I’m discarding, keeping the balance. Hoarding is an enemy of progress, especially the digital kind as there’s absolutely no limit to it. It’s like carrying a load of bricks on your back you’ll never use or need.

The watering down of creativity that digital pack ratting has caused as observed over the years is most tragic. For the creative individual, relying on terabytes of stock photos or OSFAP as I call them (Once Size Fits All Photos) instead of making your own as you used to when you had no choice, being 100% original, is a splinter in the conscience. It’s not evil to use stock of, say, things you don’t have access to (outer space, deep sea, Antarctica, etc.), but many digital artists I know today can’t take their own shot of a pencil ‘cause they “ain’t got no time for that!” How did they have time before? Did time get so compressed in only a decade?

Ohhhhh, and the edits, textures, filters, plug-ins and what-have-you available out there to everyone and their cats… are responsible for the tidal wave of rubbish that eclipses the magnificent light of the real talents.

I can tell you with utmost sincerity there is no better feeling on earth than knowing your creation is ALL yours, every pixel and dot, from the first to the last. It’s not always possible to make it so, but definitely the most rewarding endeavor. I’m most proud of myself when I can accomplish that.

Back to Paul Jaisini, from the start there have been a number of theories floating around on what his real story is. One of my own theories is that he stands for the unknowns of the world who can’t get representation, can’t get exhibited at a decent gallery because highly gifted/trained artists aren’t good enough - those kind of establishments prefer bananas, balloon dogs, feces, gigantic dicks/cunts, and all kinds of what-the-fucks…

So again, you don’t get the Paul Jaisini thing? That’s your problem. Don’t hate others for getting it. People are good, very good, at making baseless assumptions and impulsively spewing it as truth. They criticize and judge as if they’re high authorities on the subject yet they clearly lack education in fine art or art history and possess little to no talent or skill to back up their bullshit. My little “credibility radar” never fails. When they say I know this or I know that, I reply don’t say “I know” or state things as fact as a general rule of thumb - instead say “I assume/believe” and state the reasons you feel thus to appear less immature, especially about a controversial topic like invisible art. I have zero respect or tolerance for egomaniacs who think they know it all and act accordingly like arrogant pricks. Who can stand those, right? Once again, a good example would be: I, Stelly Riesling, believe everything I’ve written in this little manifesto to be correct based on personal experience and observation from multiple angles, thorough research and sufficient data collected from verifiable sources (and don’t go copying-pasting my own words back at me, be original). Just because you or I say so doesn’t make it so. Just because you or me think or believe so doesn’t make it true or right. I only ask that my opinions are regarded respectfully and whoever opposes them does so in a mature, civilized manner. We should only be entitled to opinions that don’t bring out the worst in us.

I don’t normally take such a position, but the time has come to stand up for what I believe in! It’s quite amusing and comical how haters think calling me names, attacking me or my interests or members of the project I’m part of for years is going to change something. It only makes more evident the importance of what I’m doing so I push on harder still.

Words of advise to those who can identify with me, with my frustrations over people’s reluctance to change their miserable ways, with our declining art world…

DON’T waste time on people who sweat the small stuff, whose actions are consistently inconsistent with their words. DO waste time on people who always keep their eye on the ball—the bigger picture of life.

Paul Jaisini’s invisible paintings are more than hype, more than your lame assumptions. Here’s one I got that’s pure gold: a cult! It started out as A JOKE OF MINE that was used against me. I told a then-good friend that he should come join our little “art cult” in a clearly lighthearted manner, and later he takes this idea I put in his head first and accuses me of being in an (imaginary) cult—the jokes on me eh?. But wait, aren’t cults religious? Our group consists of people around the world of different faiths (or none at all) so how could that ever work? If religion was about making fine (non-pop) art mainstream and bringing awesome, fresh, futuristic concepts to the collective consciousness, the world would not be so fucked up today because talent, creativity, originality and individuality would be the main focus, not superficial poppycock; those things would be praised and encouraged and supported in society by all institutions, not demonized and stigmatized.

Here is one thing I CAN state as solid fact: only one person close to Paul Jaisini knows the TRUE story, or at least some of it: EYKG. Everything else that has ever been said about him is myth, legend, gossip, speculation, the worst of which is said by jealous non-artists (wannabes, clones, posers, hang-ons, unoriginal ppl in general) and anti-artists (religious psychos, squares, losers and -duh- stupid ppl). Sadly, people are unable to see the bigger picture by letting their egos run their lives or repeating after others as parrots.

Commercial art, consumerism, and ignorance of the masses truly makes me want to curl up in a ball, not eat or drink or move until I die, just die in my sleep while dreaming of a better world, a world where real fine artists rule it with real fine art as they used to and life is beautiful once again….

Well I hope that settled THAT for now, or perhaps inadvertently made matters worse. I hope I didn’t sound too pissed from all these issues that keep popping up like penises on ChatRoulette… just got to me already! Can you tell? I had to put my foot down, stomp ‘em all!

To be continued, still lots more ignorance and pettiness to battle… Till then peace out my bambini. MWAH!

  

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015

PROLOGUE

Paul Jaisini was like a messiah, as you wish, who saw/understood the impending end and complete degeneration of Fine art or Art become and investment nothing more than that. He predicted the bubble pops art when everybody would eventually become an artist, including dogs cats and horses, because they as kids followed the main rule: express yourself without skills or knowledge or any aesthetic concerns. J. Pollack started pouring paints onto canvases; Julian Schnabel, former cab driver from NY, suddenly decided he could do better than what he saw displayed in galleries, so he started gluing dishes on canvases; A.Warhol, an industrial artist who made commercial silk-screen for the factories he worked in, started to exhibit "Campbell's soup" used for commercial adds... and later the thing that made him an "American Idol": by copying and pasting Hollywood celebrities (same type of posters he made before for movie theaters).

When Paul Jaisini stood out against the Me culture in the US by burning all of his own 120 brilliant paintings (according to the then-new director of Fort Worth MoMa Museum, who offered hin an exhibition of his art in 1992, and later the Metropolitan Museum curator, Phillippe de Montebello, in 1994).Paul probably assumed all fellow true fine artists would join him or stand by him against corruption of the art world.

And after 20 years of his stand-off...the time has finally come today. Many artists and humanitarians around the world took a place beside him. His invisible Paintings became a synonym for the future reincarnation of fine art and long lost harmony. The establishment is in panic! The "moneybags" (as Paul Jaisini named them) are in panic, because they invested BILLIONS of dollars in real crap made by

craftsmen. Now they realize that the reputation of American legends of expressionism was nothing but a copy of Russian avant-garde" Kazimir Malevich, Vasiliy Kandinsky and tens of others from France and Germany.. US tycoon investors were spending billions on "Me more original, than you". "Artist Shit" is a 1061 artwork by the Italian artist Piero Manzoni. The work consists of 90 tin cans, filled with feces. A tin can was sold for £124,000, 180,000 at Sothebys, 2007.

EPILOGUE

Before I resume promoting and admiring a very important art persona on today's international art arena, I'd like to clear up some BIG questions; people ask continuously and subconsciously, directly & indirectly: "Why does the name Paul Jaisini, flood the Internet in such "obnoxious" quantities that it's started suppressing some other activities that my friends might share with the rest of the Internet's Ego Me only Me www society? I can't just answer this... so I'll try to explain why I'm writing this: Jaisini's followers keep posting art and info about,

He IMHO the only hope in quickly decomposing visual fine art. "Paul Jaisini realized many years ago, in 1994, when he declared (at that time to himself only) the start of a New era, a New vision, that he is trying to redirect from the rat race, started by an establishment in post-war New York, long before the Internet culture.

Sub related information: Adolf Gottlieb, Mart Rothko, etc (after visiting Paris France in 1933):

"We must forget analytical art, we must express ourselves, as a 5 year old child would, without a developed consciousness. Forget about results - do what you feel, EXPRESS yourself with your own unique style"

With this statement Mark Rothko starts to teach his students, degeneration of fine art begins, and the generation of war of styles took a start signal of the material race, greatly rewarded by establishment "individual" - eccentric craftsmen - show business clowns.

Sub related Information: In the summer of 1936, Adolf Gottlieb painted more than 800 paintings, which was 20X more than he created in his whole art career as a painter, starting from the time of Gottlieb becomes a founding member of "The Ten" group in NYC "Group of Ten" was a very peculiar, enigmatic group... Based on a religious point of view;(where a human figure was prohibited from being created)

GLOSSARY

IN 1997, Paul Jaisini's best friend Ellen Y.K.Gottlieb started a cyber campaign by promoting on a very young Internet, back then, Paul Jaisini's burned paintings as Invisible Paintings, visible only through poetic essays. She and a handful of people saw his originals and were devastated that nobody could ever see them again. "We, his fans, believe that someday Paul will recreate his 120 burned paintings if he has any decency and moral obligation to his fans, who have dedicated decades to make it happen, for their Phoenix to rise from the ashes and the whole world will witness that all these years we spent to get him back to re-paint the Visuals again were not in vain," - said E.Y.K.Gottlieb in 2014 during the 20th anniversary celebration of Invisible Paintings to GIGroup in NYCity. So now, hopefully, this clears up why I and others do what we do - our "cyber terrorism" of good art, dedicated to Paul Jaisini's return, which is & and was our mission & our goal. We post good art to fight "troll art" which is worthless pics, after being passed through 1-click filters of free web apps. We are, in fact, against this www pops pollution, done with "bubble art" by the out of control masses with 5 billon pics a day: Pics of cats, memes, quotes,national geographic sunsets and waterfalls, not counting their own daily "selfies: and whatever self-indulging Me-ego-Me affairs, sponsored happily by photo gadget companies like Canon, Nikon, Sony...who churn out higher quality madness tools at lower cost.

This way Government taking away attention from the real world crisis of lowest morality & economical devastation. The masses are too easily re-engineered/manipulated by the Establishment PopsStyle delivered to them by pop music and Hollywood "super" stars. In 1992 Paul Jaisini's Gleitzeit theory predict such a massive, pops self-entertain madness, following technologicalexplosion, but not in illusive scales.

Uber Aless @2015 NYC USA

NOTE Date's numbers and events can be slightly inaccurate.

#gleitzeit #paul-jaisini #invisible #painting #art #futurism #art-news,

 

Un Sikh Amritdhari (initié dans l’ordre du Khalsa) doit garder sur lui en permanence cinq articles de foi.

1 Kesh: les cheveux et poils non coupés ni taillés (les cheveux sont attachés en chignon et couverts d’un Keski (Turban).

2 Kangha : Le peigne sikh,en bois, gardé en permanence dans les cheveux en tant que symbole de propreté.

3 Kacchera : un short sikh utilisé comme sous-vêtement et habillement minimum. II symbolise la décence et la chasteté.

4 Kara: un bracelet de fer porté au poignet droit (ou gauche pour les gauchers) qui protège le poignet et symbolise la retenue dans les actes.

5 Kirpan: une épée portée en bandoulière dans son fourreau par une bande de tissu (Gatra), souvent de la taille d’un poignard avec une lame de 12 cm minimum.

 

A Sikh Amritdhari (initiated into the order of Khalsa) must keep him permanently five articles of faith.

1 Kesh: Hair and hair uncut or cut (the hair is tied in a bun and covered with a Keski (Turban).

Kangha 2: The Sikh comb, wooden, kept permanently in the hair as a symbol of cleanliness.

3 Kacchera: Sikh shorts used as underwear and clothing minimum. It symbolizes decency and chastity.

4 Kara: a iron bracelet worn on the right wrist (or left for lefties) that protects the wrist and symbolizes restraint in action.

5 Kirpan: a sword carried slung in its sheath by a band of tissue (Gatra), often the size of a dagger with a blade of 12 cm minimum.

 

Ext. Gotham’s southmost shipping yard - A windless, cloudy night

 

We were at the docks before I could even process the journey. There wasn’t any talking, but our destination arrived just as quickly as if there had been. Ivy was walking on her own. The occasional bud springing out of a crack in the asphalt would give out a wretched squeal when she passed near it, and I remembered why it never worked. She never hid pain.

 

Zodiac was tense enough to jump at a shadow; even with him at the rear of our troop, I knew as much. Alternately, the “Electro” character was tromping ahead of even me, reciting at varying volumes what were allegedly alien war chants. Morgan’s leathery tail slapped the ground once we had halted; that, I could stand least of all. The thought that he too was straining at the leash, that he cared like I did. As if he ever could.

 

Without us having to question the exact meeting place, we were given an indicator. Above a makeshift arena comprised of industrial crates and truck cabs, a lone being was poised, wearing a conspicuous and showy cloak, like I myself might have donned, if I were in another mood. Fit for a painting, the moon was positioned just higher and beside him, concealing the face. I now led the party forward, noticing glints of light in windows and behind boxes as I proceeded. We were undoubtedly surrounded.

 

I don’t care. I draw my dagger. The one that first granted me the moniker of ‘murderer’, and the one that would likewise take my final target’s life. I call to the man, before Electro can blurt out an unwarranted speech of conquest.

 

Myself: Any part of you that continues to stand between my son and me, I relieve you of.

 

I hear a crackling sound as the figure rolls his neck and looks off to the side, as if weighing my ultimatum.

 

The man: That… will do. I do miss your more prolix ways of confrontation, but I suppose that was forfeited when you decided to once again embrace your old and truer… might I go so far as to say, BOVINE disposition.

 

He paces his words with his progress down the stack of crates, like it’s his hundredth rehearsal. The voice itself has less appeal than that of burning rubber.

 

The man: You will be resorting to more impressive shows of barbarism than that blade, I hope. I know your elasticity has been restored. It will be a shame to not see the tyrannical Clayface in all his odious glory, for what will be his grand finale. Eh, and your “co-stars”, as it were… you might have opted for greater star power than… this blue halfwit.

 

Electro (leaping at the chance): Ah! The cringing dictator acknowledges the bringer of his relegation! SOON you will address me as this sector’s indisputable…

 

Myself (stopping him again, turning back to my approaching prey): Let me be clear. I’m gutting you like a game bird. And I’ll be sure to miss vital organs at first.

 

The man (nearly underneath a lamppost): Oh, I like that one even better! But between you and I, I know that was misappropriated from an old Silverblade film. Which one… the ninth? They all run together at that point. Certainly so, with just how many we were privileged to work in, my friend.

 

And I feel a great empty swell inside me. No…

 

Familiar eyes set within a browned and mottled skull lock with my own, as Paul Sloane, alive and semi-well, is fully illuminated. The only man I could ever call a father without a hint of scorn. The only kill I ever went back on. Whatever I have in place of my blood boils now.

 

Myself: I let you LIVE…

 

Sloane (shouting, spitting): As any sniveling, false and unappreciative ward would! You made away with my identity as freely as dropped change. No identity of your OWN, mind you, no drive or aspirations, yet I took you in, when you would have otherwise been eaten alive by the industry! You didn’t have the decency to wait until I was dead and buried before you took every semblance of my career, my legacy, and I could only watch from afar and rot while you parasite… charlatan… smiled for the crowds that would have been mine.

 

I couldn’t help but recall similar words coming from my own mouth whenever I had made mention of the others who labeled themselves ‘Clayface’. No. That… that was different. My knife raises slightly. The others are nearing Sloane and me, except Zodiac, leaning from heel to heel and scanning the buildings.

 

Sloane (just a gravelly murmur now): And then you came back, after you ran all your undeserved glory into the ground… you came back to blame me. Mutilated me, in a fit of anger that would be ill-befitting of even a child…

 

Zodiac’s restlessness was evidently called for, as now, scores of dark figures have crept from every obstruction in sight. They are not strangers to me. Nearly all of them, markers of my criminal legacy. Standing over me as hateful, judging monoliths, erected throughout my selfish life.

 

Emile Dorian snarls from his vantage point. His fur mangy and matted, on an even more malformed body than I had last seen him with. His accomplices were nowhere in sight. Mitchell Mayo however, gripping his weapons and nursing an equally great grudge, was flanked by Sweet Tooth and the Pieman. Burke too hadn’t forgotten my betrayal after all these years, and Ulysses, inflammatory and rebellious to the last, was in attendance, dressed in his usual red. Even that lunkhead with a missing arm was back for more. I wouldn’t spare any one of them. Morgan bares his teeth, hunching in anticipation. Electro grins widely.

 

Myself: Where is my son.

 

Sloane (about to retreat behind his forces): There’s no need for that information just yet…

 

I won’t play this game. Before he can make a second step, I surge forward and grasp an enlarged hand under his arms and around his throat. The dagger all at once seems so quaint. I’ll absorb him. Slowly. I bark at the rest to back off, my allies included, but they’re all seemingly waiting patiently. Sloane is trying to laugh between his screams. I yank him closer.

 

Myself: What was the plan, you old fool? You think these cowards would…

 

I feel his mind as I tighten my hold. He is afraid, that much I know… but the anger… it’s hollow. It’s more like a wistfulness. It’s not him. It’s…

 

Myself (disgusted): You’re… indicating, Hagen. You amateur.

 

I toss the sod away, the dramatic and horrifying visage of a burnt Sloane smearing away into Matt Hagen, as he was before his accident. He looks even more petrified now than when I was peeling away his sanity. In unison with the first roll of thunder the night has produced, a strangled cry emits from behind the rows of opponents encircling us.

 

The voice (closer): No, no, NO… You’ve ruined it, both of you! He saw through you instantly, Hagen, you…

 

When I see him, it’s not the despair that came with thinking Sloane had returned, nor my annoyance at Hagen’s stale performance. It’s disbelief I’ve never known. All I can do is stumble back.

 

Harry Sims stomps up onto an overturned van, mask and all.

 

Sims (chillingly grim): It was going to be picture-perfect.

 

Ivy and Morgan share my speechless stupor.

 

Electro: The whelp is their informant!

 

Zodiac: How COULD you?!?

 

Ivy, Morgan and I turn to him.

 

Zodiac: … What? That’s like, really brutal, honestly.

 

Sims: ‘Brutal’. You want a refresher course on what ‘brutal’ looks like? A few images come to mind, for me…

 

Myself: Harry, you…

 

Sims: A childhood going down the drain when the kid comes to terms with the fact that he gets a kick out of capturing moments of pain and violence on his Polaroid. His parents, his friends, disowning him because they couldn’t show a single moment of empathy. Every job application denied, after they dug up his history…

 

Myself: Harr-

 

Sims (his pitch lowering): Spending his entire adult life in the service of a man that finally accepts him the way he is, until this man just decides to have a goddamned mental episode and throw away everything they’ve both worked for, to ease a guilty conscience that he was never bothered by BEFORE…

 

Myself: I’m SORRY, Harry!

 

Sims: DON’T YOU DARE say that now! You conceited bastard! You want to be some do-gooder now? Fine; heroes are historically great at getting their family killed. Yeah, you know what? The jig is up. Bring out the freak’s kid.

 

Otis Flannegan emerges only partially through the mass of villains. He has my son by the collar.

 

Flannegan (shrugging at Morgan’s guttural hiss and Ivy’s blazing eyes): Just a job. What are we, pen-pals?

 

Morgan (drooling): I’m gunna BATHE in your innards, rat.

 

My son has my exact outfit, and the same globular face that I’m not bothering to maintain. His elbows stick at ninety degrees like an unmanned puppet as he’s forced to kneel. His eyes won’t settle on anything. I look at Ivy. She knows it’s really him.

 

Sims (kicking at nothing on the ground, and shooting daggers at me with his stare): It’s as simple as it looks. You come and try to take him. I get to document the epic sendoff of the once-great Basil Karlo. Slain by his very own ‘Victim Syndicate’… everyone you’ve screwed over, while you were pinning ribbons on yourself.

 

Myself: I won’t give you a show.

 

Sims: No, you wouldn’t, would you? No I had to MAKE my show, just like I had to make everything else work out for us these past years. I had to recast Sloane, because that geezer is at death’s door, probably doesn’t even remember you. I scheduled this for an atmospheric rainstorm… You know how hard it is to make a death-ray that can kill something like you, when your main ingredient has been shanghaied across the country?

 

Myself: Kyodai…

 

Sims: Great meta-ability, “the death touch”. I’ve made some friends who’d kill to experiment with a cadaver with those properties, making it even more effective.

 

Behind him, a man in green and a rounded helmet snickers at the mention.

 

Sims (continuing): Me, I’d even go so far as to, say… accidentally reveal a young, vulnerable vigilante’s identity to a black ops organization, get her captured, use her best chum as cover just to reach my target…

 

I’m going to kill him.

 

Sims: … Then you went and got everyone out of their cells, and made it that much easier for me to find Kyodai while we were separated. I only needed a small sample from him, but man, it felt too good to get back at him for how insufferable he was on poker nights.

 

Sims’ goons have been inching nearer. They’re in need of an example, and Sweet Tooth is getting brave. Stupidly brave.

 

My arm lashes around him, and drags his gut straight across my blade. He gasps desperately as I throw him right back to his fellow degenerates. Mitchell comes to a dead stop and dry heaves. Simon weeps openly, collapsing next to Sweet Tooth, whose only sign of residual life is in his eyes. Sims appears genuinely surprised, or is he only mocking? I can’t tell any longer.

 

Sims: Christ, Basil, I still could’ve tried to salvage this, make it look really grandiose in post, but that was… pretty low. Was he even armed?

 

My son is watching. I swore he would never be a part of this side of my life, yet here we all stand. I feel Ivy’s disapproving gaze, Morgan’s growing ferocity.

 

Myself: This ends one way…

 

“I agree.”

 

The voice is from the rooftop blocking the street leading away from the waterfront. Every one of us knows that voice.

 

Sims (crossing his arms): The Batman.

 

Sure enough, the familiar, demonic silhouette of the Caped Crusader looms high above. Tetch and Mitchell immediately think to run away underneath him, but with glaring headlights and a rev that could shatter glass, the Batmobile swerves into view, braking feet away from the panicked throng of villains.

 

Sims (observing Hagen, still cowering): Well, you did one thing right, anyway, getting HIM here. That kid had better be pulp at this point.

 

Myself: Cassie… She’s..?

 

Batman’s is looking directly at me. I wish I had never seen him with that much anger on his face.

 

Batman: I’m taking every one of you in, tonight.

 

Electro (distraught): I DON’T KNOW ANY OF THESE PEOPLE!

 

Myself (yelling into the air): Lynns!

 

The fully-armored Firefly swoops in, his flamethrower already belching out an inferno before him. Batman has already leapt from his perch, tossing an adhesive grenades in his place. It bursts and clings to Lynn’s rotors. Shouting expletives, he spirals into a nearby crane. Before sticking his landing, The Bat unleashes wrist blades that incapacitate two of Tetch’s thugs. He flicks his cape out just before reaching the ground, directing the new momentum into a punch that lands between Thomas Blake’s eyes. He’s out like a light, as Batman doesn’t break a stride, backing every one of us towards the dock. A plume of smog has obscured Lynns’ fate.

 

Sims whistles, and I spot a newcomer. Everyone does. He’s bright yellow and orange with stripes decorating a clunky scuba suit, and he’s risen out of the bay on jet-powered skis.

 

Scuba man (holding a harpoon gun at a jaunty angle): ‘Kay Birdman. I’m your date.

 

Batman continues in a straight line, zeroing in on my group next.

 

Scuba man: Hey, I’m wearing this ridiculous shit for you, you winged wanker.

 

He fires a harpoon-cable that zips past Batman’s temple. It hits his true target, the Batmobile’s hood, and the newcomer reels the cable back in before Batman can dodge. The vehicle and its owner smash into the stranger, who has already pounced at the incoming crash. All three carom off a large container, and to the shock of us all, they hurtle beneath the harbor’s black surface.

 

Myself: And that’s our cue.

 

} Part 6 of 7; final battle will be uploaded sequentially. {

The candidate loves to "wind people up" with his outrageous statements. His words are not governed by reality or common decency , He is wound up, in turn, by dictators who he admires and by his adoring followers.

 

The original photo was taken a the famous Pike's Market in Seattle where a fish was being caught by a worker. Photoleap was used to create this image.

North Vancouver, BC

Batman: tip of the iceberg 1/2

 

(First scene takes place at the same time as the gunman 4/4)

 

Bruce wakes up to find himself hanging by his legs in the freezer room of what seems to be the iceberg lounge. Extremely ostentatious and really quite cold. A place he’s visited many times what with being one of the richest men in the world. He looks around the room for some way to make an escape. He notices the latch of a skylight on the ceiling behind him. He must be on the top floor. He begins to attempt to swing himself in order to take hold of the latch but it is not an easy task to do with tied up hands. He pauses for a moment. Once more he attempts to grab the latch but is soon distracted by the echoing sound of bullets. There’s a shootout in the bar. Just what he needs. Again he try’s his luck at the skylight, this time succeeding with the motivation of not being shot. His hands are tied by a single thick rope which now rests tediously around the latch. He begins to move his arms back and forth slowly weakening the bond of the rope and finally releasing his hands. Now with the use of his hands he removes a batarang from his pouch and cuts, in one movement the rope which ties his legs. He drops to the ground, landing on his feet and edges cautiously towards the freezer door. The shooting stops so unable to unlock the door he prepares for a fight

 

———————————————————

 

(Second part continues on from the gunman 4/4)

 

Oswald: and tell me Floyd. What compelled you to play along with carmine. The mans a shambles. I’d have to kill him if I ever met him in the flesh

 

Floyd: let’s just say I liked the cash he was paying me. I wasn’t tight for money or anything cos I usually demand a lot with my normal jobs but once he was willing to double my 5 grand, I knew it had to be done and not killing anyone seemed worth it at that point

 

Oswald: well we both saw how that worked out for The bastards. Haha. Excellent work on those two henchmen Floyd and the batman well. That’s not an easy task to carry out!...any way moving on here is the freezer. Shall we take a look

 

Floyd: I’ll go in first. There’s no knowing what he’s been up to in there

 

Lawton takes the key from Oswald and unlocks the door. Far easier than the paper clip he used before. He steps into the ice cold atmosphere of the room and notices there’s something missing. Or someone that is

 

Floyd: Oh shit...he’s gone

 

Oswald: what! Gone?! How?!

 

Cobblepott peers into the freezer room until his sight is blocked. Blocked by the black silhouette of the batman

He lurches forwards grasping the sharp end of his cane, Missing the batman who is now on the other side of his small,pale body

Floyd turns around and fired rapidly in the direction of the moving batman

 

Oswald: get the rat!!

 

Floyd puts his mask on and chases the bat. He fires several rounds but the bat drops from the balcony and heads towards the back door. Floyd begins to chase after him but is then bought to a halt by Oswald

 

Oswald: no no! He’s not worth it. We have plans to be acting upon. Once we have the power in this city the batman will have lead in his head. And you will put it there! Do not worry about that for one minute!

 

———————————————————

 

The batcave

 

After returning to the cave, Bruce takes note of a distant sound coming from up the stairs and within the manor.

He then recognises two voices. The first of course being the voice of his old butler and the man he for a long time has considered a father. The second

however, is completely new to Bruce and without hesitation he tears away his blood stained batsuit, proceeding to quickly dress himself in an un ironed shirt and some black chinos. Completely shoeless he makes his way up to the house to find Alfred and another sitting about the kitchen table talking as if they are two old friends from before Bruce’s time. Which is likely due to the fact that they are. The man talking to Alfred is around the same age as Bruce’s father and has short yet chaotic afro hair only slightly grey at the tips. Engulfing the mans small and narrow eyes are a pair of huge circular glasses. Alfred notices Bruce’s standing by the doorway and immediately introduces the man

 

Alfred: Bruce! You remember Lucius?

 

Lucius Fox: I don’t imagine you do. You were only a child when I last saw you

 

Yes. Lucius Fox. Bruce remembers the man instantly. An old and dear friend of both His father and Alfred, he held an important job at Wayne tech, being responsible for much of their technological innovations over the years

 

Bruce: yes. Of course. It’s been a long time. I do remember you though. A good friend of my father.

 

Lucius: most certainly Bruce. Your dad was a great man. I owe more than my life to that man. And it goes without saying that he had a hell of a lot more sense when it came to business than the new guy.

 

Bruce: yes it’s true. I’m all his time my father kept both Queen industries and lexcorp where they belonged. But ever since we lost him, nothings been quite the same really. In terms of both business and spirit....anyway enough of that. What brings you here Lucius? Besides, of course, friendship

 

Lucius: Alfie here was telling me about your new project and i thought I could lend a hand.

 

Bruce: you told him?!

 

Alfred: about your newfound passion for collecting classic sports cars. Yes I did. How else would the man know to develop these fantastic new blue prints

 

Lucius pushes several blue prints towards Bruce and begins to explain his work with a great sense of pride

 

Lucius Fox: now I’m sure you recognise this old car as your very own fathers from 20 odd years ago. If there was one thing besides family that that man loved with every bone in his body, it was that car. As well as mentioning your new hobby, Alfie brought up that it was merely just rotting away in your garage and that to me was a real damn shame. Something had to be done. So I drew up these blueprints, made some calls and orders and with some hope I’ll have her fixed up soon enough and she’ll be flying faster than she ever did back when your old man first took her out.

 

Bruce: wow. Lucius. You didn’t have to do this. These alone are a work of art. It’ll be a thing of beauty. I truly will owe you

 

Lucius: haha no. Let’s just say It’s payback for the things your dad did for me back in the day. Making it as an engineer in the 50s wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for a black man you know. He never judged me for what I looked like,where I came from. Luther did of course. But not him

 

Bruce: well I’m glad he didn’t Lucius. And you owe him nothing. Common decency should be free. We both know that

 

Lucius: thanks Bruce means a lot from his son....anyway I’ll be going now. Got a bus to catch. And I’ll have that car fixed up in no time

 

Alfred: don’t be stupid Lucius! I’ll drive you home. It’s all my pleasure!

"Master Timothy!"

 

"Hey Al, glad to see you're alright."

 

"The feeling is mutual Master Timothy......Is your father alright?"

 

Tim lowers his head without saying a word. Though he doesn't say a single word his silence says it all. I take a moment to inspect him, his suit is torn in various places and there's signs of bruising on his face. From the looks of it Alfred and I got lucky.

 

"Is he...."

 

"Dead? I don't know. They made a point of making sure I saw them take him."

 

"If they made a point of you seeing him then surely it's for you to know they have him. Maybe they plan to force you both into a trap of some sorts."

 

"It certainly explains their interest in taking someone close to us. Seeing as how they couldn't take the two of us they had to take the closest thing to father figures we have."

 

"Closest thing to father figures? That man is my dad Bruce! They didn't take him because they couldn't take you, they took him because he's my dad! He might not know it but the man means everything to me! Why do you think I was so angry when he left Gotham in the first place!?"

 

"Tim I promise we'll..."

 

"Get him back? E'd better, because the last thing I'm going to let happen is another innocent party suffers because of us. First Steph and her family, now my own family. I swear Bruce, I'm not going to lose him the way Steph lost her family."

 

"He'll be alright Master Timothy. I'm sure of it."

 

"I hope so Alfred. I really hope so."

 

Tim takes time to remove his cape and mask as Alfred comes to rest his hand on Tim's shoulder.

 

"How did he know about us?"

 

"I'm not sure. But he's known for a while."

 

"....He's known a while?"

 

"The night I faced him in the sewer tunnel he used my name. As far as I knew it was only me that was compromised."

 

"Yet despite the fact that you're Bruce Wayne, one of the most high profile figures in Gotham you thought that he only knew about your identity!?" I'm sorry Bruce but I'm sure Buddy Standler could figure out who Robin is if he knew who Batman was. You should of told me."

 

"It wasn't important to you at the time."

 

"WASN'T IMPORTANT?!"

 

"You were preoccupied with the Film Freak case, I didn't want to distract you from your work."

 

"I couldn't give a damn if I was tied up with Film Freak! If I had been compromised I'd tell you, so you could prepare for it. I thought you'd at least have the common decency to do the same for me."

 

"I'm sorry. I should of told you the moment I learned i'd been compromised."

 

"You should of. I swear to god Bruce, if something happens to him. It's your fault."

 

With that Tim walks away to remove his costume and clean his wounds. I've put that poor boy through hell tonight. Several near death experiences in the fight against the Crimson Knight and now his father has been taken, all because this man wants me dead. To complete his 'ascension' whatever the hell that means.

 

"What now?"

 

"Until the Crimson Knight is dealt with the Nightmare protocol remains in effect. None of us leave the premises."

 

"You're just going to sit here and wait for him to come here?"

 

"No Alfred. He took Jack Drake to force Tim and I to come to a battlefield of his own choice."

 

"Home field advantage sir?"

 

"Probably. We don't have to worry for Jack. He's the bait. All we can do for the moment is prepare ourselves. We won't know what we're walking into so it's important that every scenario is accounted for."

 

"Well make sure you get some rest. It's all well and good preparing all these counter measures but they're useless if you're too exhausted to use them."

 

"I will Alfred."

 

"I'll speak to Master Timothy. Hopefully calm him down a bit."

 

"Look after him Alfred, but don't try to calm him down. He has every right to despise me right now."

 

"It'll be alright in the end Master Bruce. These things always work out in the end."

 

-------------------------------

 

Twelve Hours Later

 

Based on the Crimson Knight's previous tactics it makes logical sense his home field advantage will focus on weakening me. It's what his first two encounters were focused on. The collapse of a warehouse on top of me to render me immobile making me an easy target. The second encounter in the sewer tunnels, intended to hinder Tim's agility. It's clear as day he tries to weaken his opponents strength, the question really is how will he attempt to weaken me?

 

Another explosion?

 

Small combat ground?

 

Maybe use Jack as a shield?

 

What could he be planning?

 

"Long night?"

 

"Victor? What are you doing here?"

 

"You missed your monitor duty. Barry isn't happy with you. He had to cancel a dinner date with Iris to cover your shift."

 

"Tell him I'll pay for their next night out. But until then I'm busy."

 

"When aren't you busy?"

 

"Monitor duty."

 

"Hard to believe people claim to of never seen the Batman smile."

 

"What do you want Victor?"

 

"I want to know what's going on Bruce. You've never skipped monitor duty. Heck at times you've volunteered to do shifts for others simply to avoid special occasions."

 

"Your point being?"

 

"Something serious must be going on for you to skip your shift without any notice. Not to mention when I interfaced with your computer it said you've activated your nightmare protocol. Isn't that for if your identity becomes exposed?"

 

"That information is on a need to know basis."

 

"Given how you're a member of the Justice League, I think we need to know."

 

I lean against my work bench and take a deep breath. My eyes are struggling to stay open, I think I've been awake for over twenty four hours. Maybe that's the reason I decided to tell Vic about what's going on.

 

"Yes. I've been compromised. Same for Tim as well. His father's been abducted by a man calling himself the Crimson Knight."

 

"Crimson Knight? Never heard of him."

 

"I have my suspicions, but he knows that I'm Bruce Wayne."

 

"Do you know how he found that out? What he wants?"

 

"What he wants is simple. He wants to kill me."

 

"Any particular reason?"

 

"Apparently if he's able to slay me he'll complete his ascension. Whatever the hell that means. In regards to how he knows the man behind the mask, that's still a mystery to me. But it's something I intend to find out."

 

"Is there any way I can help? Maybe I get the others to lend a hand."

 

"I have my leads and I'll figure this out Victor. This psychopath only wants me so he's my problem to deal with."

 

"You don't have to do this alone Bruce."

 

"Maybe I don't. But I'm going to anyways. My allies have suffered enough already. I won't let anyone else suffer because of me. I have to do this by myself Vic."

 

Vic pauses for a moment. Like the others he never likes it when I reject their offer of help which is completely understandable. In their eyes I'm just an self righteous ass who is letting his pride to dictate his actions. I should know, that's what I think when one of them rejects another Leaguer's help. Ideally it would be nice to ask the League for help. I bet we could find Jack with in an hour but for all I know he's prepared for such a scenario.

 

The Crimson Knight knows a lot about the Batman and his allies in Gotham. It's perfectly possible he's prepared for possible intervention by the League and I won't endanger any others.

 

"Alright. I'll cover your monitor duty shifts until you've dealt with this."

 

Vic turns to walk away as he prepares to remotely trigger the Watchtower's teleporter.

 

"Don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything."

 

I pause for a moment before walking towards him.

 

"Victor..."

 

He quickly turns to look at me.

 

"Where's Diana right now?"

 

"She should be on the Watchtower. Why?"

 

"I need a favour from her...."

 

Vintage postcard.Johnny Sheffield in Bomba: The Jungle Boy (Ford Beebe, 1949).

 

Johnny Sheffield (1931-2010) was one of Hollywood's most famous child stars. He was unforgettable as Tarzan's adopted son Boy in eight Tarzan films starring Johnny Weissmuller. Between 1949 and 1955, he starred in twelve Bomba films for Monogram Pictures.

 

Johnny Sheffield was born John Matthew Sheffield Cassan in 1931 in Pasadena, California, USA. His father was the actor Reginald Sheffield who began as a child star and later turned to character acting. In 1938, Sheffield became a child star after he was cast in the juvenile lead of a West Coast production of the highly successful Broadway play 'On Borrowed Time', which starred Dudley Digges and featured Victor Moore as Gramps. The seven-year-old Sheffield played the role of Pud, a long role for a child. He later went to New York as a replacement and performed the role on Broadway. That year he also played Napoleon's son in the short MGM film The Man on the Rock (Edward L. Cahn, 1938). When Maureen O'Sullivan wanted out of her Jane role in the Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan series, it was decided that she and Tarzan would adopt a son (they had to adopt, according to the Legion of Decency, because they weren't married) before she died. Weissmuller personally selected Sheffield from 300 boys for the part of Boy. The role was inspired by Bobby Nelson's portrayal in Tarzan the Mighty (Jack Nelson, Ray Taylor, 1928). Athletic by nature, little Johnny was taught to swim by swimming Olympian Weissmuller. Johnny Sheffield's feature debut in Tarzan Finds a Son! (Richard Thorpe, 1939) was such a success that MGM signed him to six more films as Tarzan's Boy. Sheffield played Boy in three Tarzan films at MGM, and in another five after Johnny Weissmuller, and production of the film series moved to RKO. Brenda Joyce played Jane in the last three Tarzan films in which Sheffield appeared.

 

In between the Tarzan films, Johnny Sheffield played supporting parts in other films. Sheffield appeared in the musical Babes in Arms (Busby Berkeley, 1939) with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, classmates of his at the studio school. Johnny and his brother Billy Sheffield were both in Knute Rockne All American (Lloyd Bacon, 1940), playing football player and coach Knute Rockne at different ages. By the time of Tarzan and the Mermaids (Robert Florey, 1948), Johnny Sheffield was too big for the part of Boy. The film merely said he was away at school. When Monogram Studios learned Sheffield had been dropped, they picked him up for s series of B-films based on Roy Rockwood's adventure novel 'Bomba'. The first was Bomba: The Jungle Boy (Ford Beebe, 1949). Between 1949 and 1955, Sheffield made twelve Bomba films for "Poverty Row" studio Monogram Pictures. Sheffield retired from films at age 24 after starring in his twelfth Bomba film Lord of the Jungle (Ford Beebe, 1955). He then made a pilot for a television series, Bantu the Zebra Boy, which was created, produced, and directed by his father, Reginald Sheffield. Although the production values were high compared to other TV jungle shows of the day, a sponsor was not found and the show was not taken up as a weekly series. In his later years, Sheffield sold bootlegged copies of the pilot to collectors on videotape. After leaving show business, Sheffield completed a business degree at UCLA. Turning his attention to other fields, he involved himself variously in farming, real estate and construction. For a time, he was a representative for the Santa Monica Seafood Company importing lobsters from Baja California in Mexico. In 1959 he married his wife Patricia and they would have three children, Stewart, Regina and Patrick Sheffield. In 2010, Johnny suffered a fatal heart attack at his home in Chula Vista, California, four hours after he fell off a ladder while pruning a palm tree. Sheffield was 79. His brother Billy Sheffield died two months later.

 

Sources: Ed Stephan (IMDb), Find A Grave, Wikipedia and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

Ah, the mammy, now there’s a place to start, he thought, but he hadn’t thought of her as ‘the mammy’ for years. She had been that f*cking c*nt-sow (Note. 1) for over 50 years. There’s a hill to climb, he thought, to be sure, to be sure. He didn’t talk in that mock-Irish way either, that was an affectation, an attempt to get back there, back to the point where that sorry sow was loved, and a time when he did talk like that, or tried to through his epiglottal stutter, and black first-teeth. Time, art, pretence, and disease had intervened. He recognised the monster he had become, but his excuse, to that point anyway, was that this was the only way he knew how to survive. He loved her in this image, he understood what had happened to her, her relentless choicelessness. This was a start at least.

  

He had survived in a queer sort of way, a running-away way. He had generated a life of leaving, of making an escape. He recognised this as a ‘classic’, or at least a classic story as far as his nation's gene-pool was concerned. It manifested a coping mechanism, something generations before him had honed into an over-arching description of themselves, a wistful, somewhat lyrical, travelling waterfowl. He had become, as if by instinct, one of those fabled ‘Wild Geese’. He liked the romance of that description, those coasting birds. There was that mythological cadence, that Barry Lyndon meets John McGahern of it all, those camaraderie-generating Irish bars and ‘come-all-ye’, wistful ballads about 40 shades of verdure and the sorely missed mammy, alone and pining over the wild Atlantic, or Irish, sea. Throw in Colm Wilkinson singing ‘Bring Him Home’ and you might be attaining towards a sort of gloriously mawkish, yet heart-rending, perfect storm. It would take 50 years before he could tell her that ‘home’ was, and always had been, the least safe place in the world for him.

  

Note 1: f*cking c*nt-sow: He had decided to veer towards subtlety, not to offend, to somehow make his hatred palatable, or to asterisk it to just within the bounds of decency. This was the best he could do for now, and the hope was, that with time and writing, this description would become obsolete anyway. He saw it as the beginnings of forgiveness, while recognising that the asterisks were a necessary, though transparent, cover-all. It was to be hoped that eventually a dawning softness might completely vanquish the need for this bitter descriptor.

  

But as it happened, nowhere turned out to be safe. There was no haven, in the same way that there was no heaven. He had successfully scorch-earthed London, New York, Paris, Helsinki, Stockholm, Chicago and a few other minor megapolises such as Galveston, centres of thriving settlers, places where he failed to generate the wherewithal to nurture that life-supporting instinct, and places that never even noticed his ‘scorched-earthing’ of them. These were, in essence, just ‘own goals’, self-damaging and nothing else. When it came to fight or flight there only seemed to be one option. Flight it was then. The nuns and priests had us by the maw, there was no getting away from it. But now, at least, he knew that this wasn’t the mammy’s fault, not at all, at all.

  

MAW

noun.

1. The mouth, stomach, jaws, or gullet of a voracious animal, especially a carnivore.

2. The opening into something felt to be insatiable: "I saw the opening maw of hell" (Herman Melville).

  

Some, obviously, managed it better, being born into it, and having that, perhaps inherited, temperament to survive and thrive with it. Some didn’t. It was the sort of generational abuse, seemingly eons of it, that might as easily cause you to sing as not. Some geese do sing, the best, perhaps with a trepone-mad Triestino gusto, even. The rest of us muddle along, squawking it out, flapping furiously, cutting that V formation through the sky-blue over that Joycean “snot-green”, searching for a landing-strip, Brazilian or otherwise, one that might temporarily offer some respite, some succour, in a ‘Girl from Treponema’ sort of way. The country didn’t really matter, all that mattered was the flight itself. But this was many years before they came up with that fancy word for us, that Celtic-Tiger attempt to re-embrace us, to re-teat us, to somehow makes us palatable. You were no longer the ‘Wild Geese’. You were ‘The Diaspora’, that not so blooming wandering Jew.

  

But back to that sad, lost, and sorry, abused sow.

  

He knew he was filling his head full of ideas through books, mainly books he had read before, adding back ideas he had forgotten, and would forget again if he didn’t write them down. He guessed that the idea was to follow a sort of meat-grinder progression, to tamp stuff in, hoping it might dislodge, and push out, the stuff that had become stuck, that stuff that had been forgotten or mis-remembered, either intentionally, or in that rush to survive. He knew there was meat there, he was beginning to see it already.

  

The sow, the sow, the sow, and why not the sow? He had described himself as a pig for decades, that noble beast had become his shameless badge of honour, equal to everything, and everyone else, two-footed, four-footed, on all-fours head in the trough with his rump, on offer, in the air shooting the breeze, or footless, even. He had been all of these at some stage or other. She, the mammy, didn’t get to eat him after all, but sometimes it seemed like a very close thing. Chronos would never have allowed that, he said never, but also recognised that this was debatable. Eating children was time’s purlieu, that border, that severing of the new forest from the old, and it might take Maupassant’s ‘Savage Mother’ to manage to circumnavigate that domain, with a little help. The mammy wasn’t savage, not wild enough by half, she was desperate and hurt, lost and parentless, uncontrollable, but never wantonly savage enough to set about intentionally eating her farrow. Maupassant embraced his savagery with that afore-mentioned little help, a certain spirochete driver having traversed his blood-brain barrier, to describe itself in all its glory, before discarding the vehicle that the writer was. He knew that his story was a description of those drivers, those multitudinous trillions, described, recognised, and named, and those we knew nothing about, those that hadn’t been yet named, and would probably never be. He knew that it was to be about that awesome all-consuming power of nature itself, and those who are driven to describe it, and those named or un-named ferocious drivers.

  

“Soon mercury will be my staple diet. My hair is beginning to grow again . . . the hair on my arse is sprouting. . . . I’ve got the pox! at last! the real thing! not the contemptible clap, not the ecclesiastical crystalline, not the bourgeois coxcombs or the leguminous cauliflowers—no—no, the great pox, the one which (King) Francis I died of. The majestic pox, pure and simple; the elegant syphilis . . . I’ve got the pox . . . and I am proud of it, by thunder, and to hell with the bourgeoisie. Allelujah, I’ve got the pox, so I don’t have to worry about catching it anymore, and I screw the street whores and trollops, and afterwards I say to them ‘I’ve got the pox.’ They are afraid and I just laugh.”

  

--Guy de Maupassant

  

It was a toss-up as to which would go first, in that loosened hail of bullets in his grey matter. It would be definitely one of two, he thought, either the priests or the nuns, this was sure. They would be first to go. This was certain in his head, in that blistering cacophony up there north of his gullet, perhaps the only thing that seemed carved in stone. It sat there like a ‘truth’, similar to those ten written down on that tablet, brought down from that holy mountain. There were miraculously few of those truths, but this was most assuredly one. He had quietened his howling voice-box, mostly by removing himself, but whoever that driver was, whether it was himself or something else entirely, it, or he, or she even, continued to chatter. Sometimes he wondered was it the disease itself or was it one of the by-products of the cure, those schizophrenia-inducing magic bullets, or whether these were both just stories he told himself to justify his outrages. It spoke mostly in the mornings, that waking-up period when dreams become confused with the past in a “did that really happen?” sort of way. It was becoming that now, all part of the aging process, he presumed. There was really no knowing what happened, or what was remembered as having happened, and what was dreamt. He thought to himself, that this must happen to everyone eventually, though he also thought that he could always be wrong about that too. There was consistently that

nagging voice, which might, or might not, be him. It was the only thing he could be sure of, that ‘ever-presence’, rather than what it might be telling him.

  

He was glad that he had kept a record, images and texts, emails, and immediate messages, over the years. He knew these might provide a groping way back. It was all ‘fiction’ anyway, stories he had told others, and stories he had allowed them to tell him, mutual self-justifications which, over time, generated patterns called relationships. He hoped that in the telling he might encourage them, or others, to tell their stories, even if these fables were completely mutually contradictory.

  

He had this vague idea that the sum of these stories, those we tell ourselves and others, describes our time, and that ownership is, perhaps, a moot point. We all tell the same story differently; it is impossible not to. But he would take it one step further and say we are all driven to tell the same story, even. It was those drivers he wanted to learn to know, identify, expose, and even celebrate.

  

Enter the driver, and it’s easy to say who or what the driver is. To put it simply it’s everything/non-thing and everyone else, the veritable soup itself. This, of course, leads back to that idea of universal innocence, that there is no blame to be apportioned, so that even the nuns and priests in his head must be forgiven, even the mammy who ‘pimped’ him, bartered him for sex, as a child has to be forgiven.

  

He had decided to start, but then realised he had already been at it for most of his sorry, and enjoyably sordid, life. He could remember some of it, but had forgotten most; those drugs, both life-saving and recreational, what could he say? At the same time, he also realised that he was just going to have to make it up, as he went along, in whatever time there was left. He had made extensive notes, and copious images, along the way. However, he wasn't at all sure where he had put them. He knew they were all on his voluminous external hard drives, but they would have to be retrieved and somewhat put in order, at least in such a way so that they might be fashioned into a story.

  

Sequester is a lovely word.

  

He thought, perhaps, that one of his drivers might be able to help. There was always that possibility, always that hope. He could already identify a few of those, and he was sure that more, with the welcomed unravelling, would emerge.

  

He was beyond ready to fully entertain forgetting, and to allow his memory to be something outside of him, sequestered on that steel-grey, blinking, external solid-state device. He was almost ready to begin.

  

He knew in his heart of hearts that all roads would eventually lead to ‘Rack and Ruin’.

  

You are dropped into life like you are being dropped onto an uncharted battlefield. It just happens, no time to prepare, no strategies to plan, no protective clothing or weapons, just a naked screaming you, ushered, even forced, through someone else’s protestations, into life.

  

That’s if you’re very lucky.

  

You are vaguely aware you are causing trauma even before your descent begins, you hear the noises around you echoed in the beating of your own heart. You hear the groans and screams and rallying cries from unfamiliar voices, all speaking a language utterly foreign to you.

  

You have to start somewhere, so you start with a ripping. You are both ripped out of, and you are the ripper, rending your way towards life or death, or ideally both, you are the traumatised and that bringer of trauma. Again, this would be the ideal situation, the best possible route and outcome, but there can be complications too; that once more unto that breach assault. You aren’t even aware, yet, that you have a tendency towards doing things arse-backwards, and you have no awareness of the outsize of your own head, that bringer of future trauma. You are frighteningly unaware that these red pulsating walls cannot be breached with a backwards ramming. You are unschooled, and no one ever sets out to be an inverted battering ram.

  

You have no idea during this rending, that the host, which is seemingly so violently rejecting you, is an entity called a mother, you are only aware that you are being aggressively sundered from the only safety you have ever known.

  

John: I'm still bouncing between image and extraordinary text.

  

Ruin: and I am still changing words and thinking about what another 'family' member has written to me.

  

His mother was not one for sharing the details of the birth, other than the wholesale and generous brandishing of the ‘miracle’ word around. Apparently, he was born dead, or strangled by the umbilical cord. He was also born at home, 20 Walkinstown Drive, in his parents’ bed. Then she told him that he was a ‘blue baby’, He didn’t even know if she knew what that meant, congenital heart condition and all that, or if he had just turned blue from the choking. Either way, there was no doctor there, just a midwife, and he weighed 10.5 lbs., a big-headed baby apparently. She mentioned breeched once or twice, but he never knew if it was true or not. Maybe a doctor had arrived by then, but he didn’t really know who performed that ‘miracle’, that reviving. So, he might have been breeched, and might have gotten entangled in the umbilical cord in the turning. He knew that this manoeuvre could happen and could result in this type of endangerment. Apparently, his mother was washing the floor, on her hands and knees, just as her waters broke. He was possibly enjoying some inversion at the time.

  

Ruin: I wrote the opening in the second person, for this reason. It’s obviously me, but it doesn’t have to be, the details don’t have to be true, but they might be.

  

I am saying yes to the primal and the universal. That is what I would like to head towards with the opening, and away from the particular. I would like it to resonate as a birth from the big headed, gender free, inverted, baby’s point of view. I will probably re-write as I continue, but I am pleased to have started anyway.

  

John: My Mother's legend was that I was walking and conversing by my first birthday. Many people say I've never shut up since.

  

Ruin: As Rack would always say to my Ruin, rave on John!

The second part is rough and unedited. The pronouns are not definite yet, as to which person it will be written in, but then, nowadays, do the pronouns really have to be defined?

  

Either way, he had attempted to start with something he could not possibly have remembered. He was fictionalizing himself already. This appeared to be the only way forward.

  

Giving Birth To Myself.

  

Laying that Egg, and, perhaps, taking 'Subtle (or Covert) Narcissism' to a new level.

 

He decided to make an icon of her, to go with the other icons, having realised that there was nothing at all to forgive.

 

You will find 190+ of my poems HERE. fno.org/poetry/index.html

  

No news is good news

 

The news

Such as it is

Lately

Offends

Alarms

And provokes me

Until I want to look away

Blind myself to the barbaric slayings

The killings

The murders

The hate crimes

The wars

The storms

The wildfires

And the political mayhem

That is the norm of the day

 

I want to pretend

None of this is real

And substitute my own version of reality

A life without Putin

And the slaughter of innocents

A world without Trump

And his cascade of lies and falsehoods

A time without mass murders

Shooters cutting down families

School children

And concert goers

A peaceful, gentle life

We can only imagine

With kindness, civility and decency

The norm

Not the exception

  

© Jamie McKenzie, all rights reserved

You will find more of my poems and songs here

and in The Storm in Its Passing and Flights of Fancy.

 

My songs are at

www.youtube.com/user/edtech2008/videos

"No nipples, please - we are Maltese!"

 

They are 'more Catholic than the Pope' here ;) Which doesn't stop them from killing their journalists, or politicians messing with shady business featured in Panama Papers and the like...

 

In the context of events, this decency appeal could be funny if it wasn't rather sad :(

The silence of the Colombian forests are disturbed by the sound of a tired engine and cracking twigs as the van meanders slowly down the dirt track road. From inside, Larry tries the best he can to steer the thing away from the ditches at either side of the road as he squints to look ahead.

 

Larry: You’re sure it’s down here?

 

Morden: Positive.

 

To the side of him, Eric leans forwards and observes the passing trees with the eyes of a small child on Christmas morning. He wipes his brow with his arm.

 

Morden: We passed a load of trees coming out. It can’t be far from here, I’m sure of it.

 

Larry: Well you let me know if you see any tree that looks familiar, okay?

 

Morden: Sure thing bo-Larry.

 

Behind them, Cliff sits perched on his seat eagerly listening to Rita, sat opposite him with a glowing expression. Any hostility obviously taking a break for the time being.

 

Rita: So I go in, and there’s me, Basil and this girl called Tammy. All very proper, thinks herself the next big thing.

 

Cliff: Uh-huh.

 

Rita: And the panel ask us to all come up one by one, stand on the spot and tell them something that makes us happy and something we fear. Do you follow?

 

Cliff: Yeah.

 

Rita: And Tammy of course decides she’ll go first, so up so goes and – Cliff, do tell me if I’m boring you?

 

Cliff’s head begins nod, but he catches himself and sits back with a start.

 

Cliff: Huh? No, no way.

 

Rita: What was I just saying?

 

Cliff: Actin’.

 

Rita: Acting. And?

 

Cliff: Uh… Tommy-

 

Rita: Tammy.

 

Cliff: Tammy was just about to… uh… to do actin’, or somethin’?

 

Rita: Are you asking me or telling me?

 

Cliff: …asking you?

 

Rita: Cliff, if you’re going to pretend to take an interest in my life, at least have the decency to-

 

But she’s cut off by Larry raising a hand to them from up front and the van slowing to a halt. She and Cliff turn to look at him, but before they can speak he brings a finger to his bandaged mouth to silence them. Cliff looks around restlessly and shrugs at him. Larry, still silent, brings his other hand to his ear and points outside. They listen for a moment, each staring out the windows, before Eric adjusts himself and speaks up in a nervous whisper.

 

Morden: What is it?

 

Larry: There’s someone out there.

 

Eric swallows and turns an alarmingly pale shade of white. Cliff ignores this and leans in to face him.

 

Cliff: If this has got somethin’ to do with you…

 

Morden: It hasn’t! I promise! I don’t know what’s going on.

 

They all look at each other for a second, basking in the glorious tension of the unknown.

 

Rita: Maybe it was a deer?

 

Larry: I don’t think you get deer in Colombia…

 

Morden: Oh no, I think you-

 

A rock smashes through the back window and thuds onto the carpet. For the briefest of moments there is calm, before the sounds of manic shouting fill the air around the van and Larry dives out of his seat.

 

Larry: GET DOWN!

 

Another projectile smashes into the front windscreen but fails to break it. Eric falls backwards off his seat and squeals as he hits the ground head first. Cliff and Rita get to their feet but dive for cover as something hits the roof and sends a loud bang echoing through the van.

 

The next few moments happen in a blur – Cliff struggles back to his feet as the door of the van is ripped open and a ragged, branch of a man dives in headfirst wielding a homemade spear. He goes to grab Cliff but is met with a robotic fist to the jaw. He falls backwards out the van as voices ring out from outside.

 

Voice: Protect the Idol! Protect him!

 

Rita grabs a hold of the window ledge and pulls herself up, but gasps as she notices two figures emerge from the undergrowth wielding spears and weighing up stones in their filthy hands. She attempts to make out who – or what – they are, but underneath their torn, faded clothing they could be anything. She can’t be sure, but it looks like one of them is wearing the worn remains of a Hawaiian shirt.

 

Rita: They look like crackheads!

 

Cliff: They are fuckin’ crackheads!

 

Cliff yells as another set of hands appear in the doorway and pull him outside. There is movement in the van and for a minute Rita thinks Larry has been knocked out, before she breathes a sigh of relief and watches as the Negative Spirit climbs out of his torso and darts for the door. It strikes Cliff’s attacker and he collapses backwards into the ditch. She goes to the door to look for Cliff, but shrieks as a stone flies through the window behind her and strikes her in the back of the head.

 

Rita trips down the step and lands on the dirty ground. All around her, emerging from the trees, are scatty, bedraggled figures, erratic in their movements and shouting unintelligible words at each other. She makes out about five of them before she notices Cliff, struggling as two more of the attackers attempt to restrain him. Overheard she sees the Spirit rear up and disappear around the other side of the van to the sound of more unintelligible shouting.

 

Voice: What is that thing?!

 

Voice: Forget it! We have the Idol! Protect him! Protect him!

 

She lifts her head off the ground as the figures surrounding Cliff produce a crude net and throw it over his head. She goes to shout, but is knocked back to the ground as another assailant tramples over her and goes inside the van.

 

Voice: There are more! More heathens!

 

Voice: Leave them! Protect the Idol!

 

She hears a groan from inside and watches in horror as Larry’s unconscious body is thrown across the interior of the van. The Spirit emerges from the other side and launches itself back into him, throwing Larry’s attacker off balance and sending them running back over her body and outside. She manages to pull herself up, noticing the skin on her arms beginning to melt, but regrets it as the man who had been inside the van turns and looks at her with wide, bloodshot eyes.

 

Voice: What about her? She is his muse!

 

Voice: Take the muse! Leave the others! Protect the Idol!

 

Rita goes to shout before the butt of a spear is brought down on her head and the world turns dark.

   

Vintage postcard, no. 3120.

 

American actor Gregory Peck (1916-2003) was one of the most popular film stars from the 1940s to the 1960s. Peck received five nominations for Academy Award for Best Actor and won once – for his performance as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). He almost always played courageous, nobly heroic good guys who saw injustice and fought it. Among his best known films are Spellbound (1945), The Yearling (1946), Gentleman's Agreement (1947), Roman Holiday (1953), The Guns of Navarone (1961), and Cape Fear (1962).

 

Eldred Gregory Peck was born in 1916 in La Jolla, California (now in San Diego). His parents were Bernice Mary (Ayres) and Gregory Pearl Peck, a chemist, and druggist in San Diego. His parents divorced when he was five years old. An only child, he was sent to live with his grandmother. He never felt he had a stable childhood. His fondest memories are of his grandmother taking him to the cinema every week and of his dog, which followed him everywhere. Peck's father encouraged him to take up medicine. He studied pre-med at UC-Berkeley and, while there, got bitten by the acting bug and decided to change the focus of his studies. He enrolled in the Neighborhood Playhouse in New York and debuted on Broadway after graduation. His debut was in Emlyn Williams' play 'The Morning Star' (1942). By 1943, he was in Hollywood, where he debuted in the RKO film Days of Glory (Jacques Tourneur, 1944). Stardom came with his next film, The Keys of the Kingdom (John M. Stahl, 1944), for which he was nominated for an Oscar. Tony Fontana at IMDb: "Peck's screen presence displayed the qualities for which he became well known. He was tall, rugged and heroic, with a basic decency that transcended his roles." He appeared opposite Ingrid Bergman in Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound (1945) as an amnesia victim accused of murder. In The Yearling (Clarence Brown, 1946), he was again nominated for an Oscar and won the Golden Globe. He was especially effective in Westerns and appeared in such varied fare as David O. Selznick's critically blasted Duel in the Sun (King Vidor, 1946), the somewhat better received Yellow Sky (William A. Wellman, 1948), and the acclaimed The Gunfighter (Henry King, 1950). He was nominated again for the Academy Award for his roles in Gentleman's Agreement (Elia Kazan, 1947), which dealt with anti-Semitism, and Twelve O'Clock High (Henry King, 1949), a story of high-level stress in an Air Force bomber unit in World War II. In 1947, Peck, along with Dorothy McGuire, David O'Selznick, and Mel Ferrer, founded the La Jolla Playhouse, located in his hometown, and produced many of the classics there. Due to film commitments, he could not return to Broadway but whet his appetite for live theatre on occasion at the Playhouse, keeping it firmly established with a strong, reputable name over the years.

 

With a string of hits to his credit, Gregory Peck made the decision to only work in films that interested him. He continued to appear as the heroic, larger-than-life figures in such films as Captain Horatio Hornblower (Raoul Walsh, 1951) with Virginia Mayo, and Moby Dick (John Huston, 1956) with Richard Basehart. He worked with Audrey Hepburn in her debut film, Roman Holiday (William Wyler, 1953). While filming The Bravados (Henry King, 1958), he decided to become a cowboy in real life, so he purchased a vast working ranch near Santa Barbara, California - already stocked with 600 head of prize cattle. In the early 1960s, he gave a powerful performance as Captain Keith Mallory in The Guns of Navarone (J. Lee Thompson, 1961) opposite David Niven and Anthony Quinn. The film was one of the biggest box-office hits of that year. Peck finally won the Oscar, after four nominations, for his performance as lawyer Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (Robert Mulligan, 1962). He also appeared in two darker films than he usually made, Cape Fear (J. Lee Thompson, 1962) opposite Robert Mitchum, and Captain Newman, M.D. (David Miller, 1963) with Tony Curtis, which dealt with the way people live. The financial failure of Cape Fear (1962) ended his company, Melville Productions. After making Arabesque (Stanley Donen, 1966) with Sophia Loren, Peck withdrew from acting for three years in order to concentrate on various humanitarian causes, including the American Cancer Society. In the early 1970s, he produced two films, The Trial of the Catonsville Nine (Gordon Davidson, 1972) and The Dove (Charles Jarrott, 1974), when his film career stalled. He made a comeback playing, somewhat woodenly, Ambassador Robert Thorn in the horror film The Omen (Richard Donner, 1976) with Lee Remick. After that, he returned to the bigger-than-life roles he was best known for, such as MacArthur (Joseph Sargent, 1977) and the infamous Nazi war criminal Dr. Josef Mengele in the huge hit The Boys from Brazil (Franklin J. Schaffner, 1978) with Laurence Olivier and James Mason. In the 1980s, he moved into television with the miniseries The Blue and the Gray (Andrew V. McLaglen, 1982) in which he played Abraham Lincoln, and The Scarlet and the Black (Jerry London, 1983) with Christopher Plummer and John Gielgud. In 1991, he appeared in the remake of his 1962 film, playing a different role, in Martin Scorsese's Cape Fear (1991). He was also cast as the progressive-thinking owner of a wire and cable business in Other People's Money (Norman Jewison, 1991), starring Danny DeVito. In 1967, Peck received the Academy's Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award. He was also been awarded the US Presidential Medal of Freedom. Always politically progressive, he was active in such causes as anti-war protests, workers' rights, and civil rights. In 2003, Peck's portrayal of Atticus Finch was named the greatest film hero of the past 100 years by the American Film Institute, only two weeks before his death. Atticus beat out Indiana Jones, who was placed second, and James Bond who came third. Gregory Peck died in 2003 in Los Angeles, California. He was 87. Peck was married twice. From 1942 till 1955, he was married to Greta Kukkonen. They had three children: Jonathan Peck (1944-1975), Stephen Peck (1946), and Carey Paul Peck (1949). His second wife was Veronique Passani, whom he met at the set of Roman Holliday. They married in 1955 and had two children: Tony Peck (1956) and Cecilia Peck (1958). The couple remained together till his death.

 

Sources: Tony Fontana (IMDb), and IMDb.

 

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