e-book Dust To Dust: Number 7 in series (Diane Fallon Series)

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Greasy-headed drool locked up in a tote bag of championship Total. Total is good enough for me. I walked into the gallery with Harmony. First room off the elevator. Once a series of office rooms, now converted into a generic showroom. Low ceilings, no windows. I immediately like.

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Heart it. Right off. Right off the bat.

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Grand slam. Jimmy Piersall. Happily surprised. Feeling good. In front of art. Nothing better. Fear strikes out. Terms usually associated with music sometimes can be applied to visual art. Gaslight Moondog. The digital part is the phone. The analogue is the traditional materials, canvas, stretchers, paint. Not everyday. The medicine is a little of this, a little of that. How hard can it be? Gummed up. He no judge.

He no scold. He no moralize.

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Sentimental soul. The place is the phone. The post is the art?

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A virtual orchestra of completely unhinged Willie Bobo—level solos. Gales of canned laughter. Six art handlers show up.

Art made. Then photographed.

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Then the art that was made and photographed was abandoned. So what was made and photographed was a record. More music. Back in , post-studio was a good fit for me. We watch the six art handlers move more paintings into the room. Gallery Army. Be all you can be. You used to be on the phone. The past is the past. We all agree. All together now. You used to be on the phone in the kitchen. There was usually only one phone per family and it was hardwired to a wall.

Depending on the flexibility of the curl in the cord, you could maybe walk six feet without letting go of the receiver. Right before the dawn.

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In I got my first phone hooked up in my first rental up in the state of Maine. Way up, north of Rockport, Andrew Wyeth country. The Now Phone. Somewhere between Children of Men and cosplay. Kind of.

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I guess. Sort of. And sort of. Do androids dream of electric sheep?

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  • Even in fair condition, a first edition goes for north of 5K. One was a Sub-mariner. The other, a Superman. This presentation did not go over well with readers. An Edsel. Detroit quickly retreated and went with Falcons and Fairlanes. Nothing to do with the Grateful Dead. Richard brought these heads with him to NYC when he moved there in There were about twenty of them. They were drawn from the heart. He wanted nothing to do with himself. He wanted to change places with someone else, even just for a day.

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    Just to see what it would be like to be someone else. He wanted something realer. Realer than real. For twenty years he lived in a lot of shoes. Next came the Hippie Drawings. And at least. The gallery he was supposed to show the Hippie Drawings with ended up publishing a book of the Hippie Drawings.

    He put a self-portrait of himself on the cover, from , when he had long hair and a beard. The portrait was about looking, not being. So he took the catalogue and sat in a chair and ripped into it. Some of the de Kooning drawings in the catalogue reminded him of his own Hippie Drawings.

    De Kooning had style. Filled the whole thing up. A new head. A new arm. A leg. A new gender. All things body. Everything at the same time. Men and women. Women and women. Men and men. There was talk about buying it. They passed.