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Bloodmother's Journal


Bloodmother's Journal

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2 entries this month
 

Art + Art =

20:44 Nov 25 2007
Times Read: 696






Stretching the limits of perception, punching holes in human concepts of reality were Yakov’s joy.



The hermetic corridor with cracking pillars entered the viewer’s domain. Using perfectly balanced geometrics and shading, and with the addition of innocent children engaged in anonymous, but exotic play, he created a graphic novelist’s dream.



Their pink skin outlined in bold contrasted with the yellow-hued visitors, but who is to say where the canvas stopped?



Yakov liked to play, and blended the geometries with pattern and humor, stylishly painting in a photographic style that left nothing out — the mucousy gleam of teeth, the blood behind the eye, the carefully balanced crouch, the sweep of hair and pointed shoe.



The two women in the forefront of the piece were from the artist’s imagination, as well. Yakov and painted art interacting with art.

COMMENTS

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The Icing Twins

20:39 Nov 25 2007
Times Read: 697






The old man’s hooded eyes barely seemed open as he looked down at the photo of two teenaged girls smashing their faces into slices of birthday cake. He tapped the picture and said, “Snuck up on them for this one, but they heard me coming. Yep, last picture of the girls we have.”



The reporter glanced at the picture. “That’s the picture the FBI used?”



The old man nodded. Sighed. “Lotta good it did them. Change their hair color. Use a different color of icing and all youse got is a headline—”



“The Icing Twins Strike Again!” The reporter said, as if he were announcing late-breaking news.



“Most successful bank robbers ever. Never been caught. Never heard from them once they began their life of crime.” He looked down at the picture again. His hand trembled. “Broke her mother’s heart.”



The reporter consulted his notes. “Debbie and Ellie swore they were twins even though they had different parents?”



“They had a connection. It ran between them strong. You ever have a dog and an electric fence?” The old man didn’t wait for the reporter to answer, but continued on, warming to his subject, “it was like that, a line of electricity between them that warned everyone away as if they might get shocked if they got too close. We figured it was just teenaged lesbo stuff.”



The reporter cleared his throat. “Yes, well, according to reports Debbie and Ellie finished each other’s sentences, had the same gestures and facial tics, and made the same impulsive decisions.”



“Yep, they sure did. They got tired of people saying, ‘But you don’t look anything alike.’ It made ‘em angry. ‘Nobody sees us,’ our Ellie said. It was then they decided to never have their pictures taken.



“Why do you think they started their life of crime?”



“If I knew that, mister, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here in my pajamas talkin’ to you. Oh sure, maybe we shoulda told Ellie she was adopted, but how was we to know Debbie was adopted, too.” The old man set the picture down and twisted his arthritic hands together, agitated. “What are the chances of them endin’ up in the same neighborhood? Plenty of folks is adopted and they don’t rob banks!”



“Hmm, do you think Ellie and Debbie, um, became lovers?”



The old man struggled to his feet. “What kind of a sick sonabitch are you? That’d be incest.”



He showed the reporter to the door, and went over to the mantle to raise a picture he’d lowered just before the reporter arrived. He smiled down at the photo of Debbie and Ellie with their children, each with their face smashed down in birthday cake.



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