Received In Good Order At Saint-Gaudens; A Brief Art Shipping Chronicle

It’s all about networking.

If I hadn’t attended a recent opening at the part-time, artist studio exhibition space The Big & Small/Casual Gallery in Long Island City I still wouldn’t know who the heck Saint Gaudens was.

A few weeks earlier when I first met contemporary sculptor David Henderson at B&S/Casual we discussed transport of his biomorphic, tree hugger of a sculpture from the Pratt campus in Brooklyn to the Saint-Gaudens National Historical Site in New Hampshire, I thought why not?  A chance for a woodsy sojourn up I 91 along the Connecticut River.

Due to my glaring lack of formal art history studies I thought perhaps Saint Gaudens was some kind of French Canadian explorer on his way to Lake Champlain.

I hadn’t yet grasped the significant irony of delivering a sleek piece of recent Brooklyn sculpture to the magnificent palatial estate of this preeminently classical, Victorian era art tycoon.

In fact, it wasn’t until Jeanne and me were halfway to New Hampshire in my truck that she mentioned something about were we going to that famous 19^th century American landscape sculptor’s old digs. I do take some solace from acknowledging that the Gilded Age was just never my thing.

After getting some good advice from Annette Compton, the curator at Saint Gaudens about dodging the old low overhead bridges crossing the river from Vermont, we arrived at the secluded locale.

Aspet, the main house near the visitor’s center, overlooks acres of sprawling field and lawn. (once a 9-hole golf course, no wonder I’d wished I’d had my clubs!) 

The sculpture was going to be installed on the other side of the property, so I got to drive around on the grass. I love driving on grass; it makes me feel agrarian, like I’m driving a tractor.  Someone should figure a way to make a grass interstate, quieter, a lot less glare, much easier on the eyes.

The crew of Park Service rangers quickly helped off-load the two disassembled sections of the relatively lightweight ”Skylark”. While David and his National Park Service crew got started installing, Jeanne and I got a quick guided tour from Annette.

The sweeping view west out past the Connecticut River towards Ascutney Mountain is spectacularly serene. Complimented by a foreground dotted with gardens, hedges, and sculpture, Saint Gaudens evokes the splendor of art and nature, each patting the other on the back.

At the end of a long hedgerow sits the “Little Studio” (which I guess it might seem, situated in that expanse of sun drenched greenery), that was St Gaudens’ primary studio. There is a spacious, inviting porch with Doric columns, and a pleasingly pink stucco façade with casts from the Parthenon. Theres a certain symmetry to parts of the Hearst Castle, which also utilize architectural elements (“acquired” shall we say?) from indigenous locations.            

There is a kind of romantic association with this robber baron decorating scheme. Perhaps the allure of far away places, and saintly idols that Saint Gaudens embraced was fostered by his “Cornish Colony” crowd that included Maxfield Parrish’s saccharine saturated sensibility.

However overbearing his oeuvre may have been, Saint Gaudens was a dedicated craftsman. His meticulous and finely tuned figures gain a stately and dignified demeanor that imbue a narrative credibility to their idealized stature.    

His gasp of profound historical moments is epitomized by the Shaw Memorial on view to great effect in its own hedgerow niche. This monument to the 54^th Massachusetts regiment made up of former slaves is a compelling piece of public art that captures the drama and momentum of the march to war.

The gold coinage commissions were also intriguing. His strong allegorical abilities are put to good use in these tiny tondos. Saint Gaudens’ allegories were earnest, non-ironic tributes to the virtuous moral rectitude of the day. Combining detailed etching with nuanced contour, these tour-de-force miniatures employ dramatic visual metaphor helpful for conveying a “gold standard” to currency.     

Since the capitalist ethos demanded devotion to greed, what better way to profit as an artist than to design valuable money? Talk about conceptual art!

Spying my white beast of burden shimmering by the distant tree line, we headed back. I wondered what previous generations of art conveyers had used to bring precious objects de art to this pastoral pasture. Donkey carts no doubt.

As David hoisted Skylark into its final position, we bid adieu to Aspet and hit the road. In a little while we were back by the non-grass interstate, with it’s attendant strip mall rude awakening.

  

http://www.bigandsmallcasual.net/

http://www.nps.gov/saga/index.htm

http://davidhenderson.org/

View of the Little Studio (left) and Aspet.

 

 

 

 

Could it be? The great White Elephant On Wheels!

Unloading.

Shaw Memorial.

Little Studio.

View of Mt Asctuney

Aspet

Bushwick Open Studios, June 2011

Its amazing I’ve lasted as long as I have at Brooklyn Fireproof. This once out-of-the-way building of relatively unimproved artist studio spaces now features a rock’n roll bar downstairs (albeit cash only)

The building next door houses the studios of big shot artists such as Amy Sillman and Fred Tomaselli (oh god, now I’ve become a name dropper. You’ll have to shoot me.)

I’ve always had to vacate the premises as soon as these kinds of hip ventures appeared. I did have to downsize last year, but perhaps as the elder statesman (Jeanne and I always feel like someone’s parents when sitting at the bar) in the building I’ve gained some equity.

So even though my cynical side thought why bother, no one ever goes to open studio days, we decided to give it a shot again this year, after missing last year due to apathy.

We could only open for Sunday this year (Sat was the busier day according to some other artists in the building), but nonetheless we got a pretty good crowd (including a 6’4” cross dresser with purple tights and pancake make-up, who was quite pleased that she fooled me briefly).

We didn’t get offered a show at Gagosian, but we did have a good time putting up some new work, sipping some vino, and hanging with some like-minded hipster artist types.

We really all should grow up and get jobs! (nah)

    New crochet pieces by Jeanne.

 

    Crochet and new oil paintings on paper by Jeanne.

    New Beach Rope sculpture by me, with oil stencils on marmoleum.

 

    More by me.

   My painting table.

    Taken of some other open studios in the building:

   

Soutine/Bacon at Helly Nahmad Gallery

A long way from the mean streets of Bushwick (or Soutine’s Montparnasse for that matter) the swank environs of Madison Ave and the Carlisle Hotel host the comparison shopping spree of Soutine/Bacon.

But wait a minute! Unlike the neighboring big buck boutiques, according to HNG no art’s for sale here. If you believe that I know about a lower East River bridge that’s not for sale either.

There has been some discussion of how the upper echelons of NY galleries are moving in on cash strapped museums to mount their own mini blockbusters. But these high end gallery exhibitions are really more akin to auction house action than museum retrospectives. Collectors and dealers are testing the waters in uncertain times. Unwilling to take risks with unsold lots at auction, they’ve camouflaged big ticket gallery extravaganzas with out price tags as a way to gauge market viability.

This harmless bit of backroom scheming bothers me not a wit. In fact it represents a chance to see work from private collections that might otherwise rarely see the light of day. There are some well known museum pieces in this show, obviously on loan and truly NFS. However, I would imagine that some of those same museum trustees that had a hand with these loans also might have serious interests with inventory still in private collections.

Indeed there are some rarely exhibited beauties here which I had never seen, including Soutine's Portrait of the Sculptor Oscar Mietschaninoff (1923-24) and Bacon's Untitled (Study for Dog), ca. 1960.

The unassuming little Study for Dog turned out to be my favorite Bacon in the show. This intimately blurred gesture of what I’d guess was a beloved pet seems untouched by the torment and angst that holds sway with most of Bacon’s more prodigious work.

Although Soutine’s still lives’ and portraiture are what distinguish his painterly exploits in a more formal context, I’m always floored by his landscapes. The impenetrably entangled vegetation choking off any chance of escape from the houses of Cezanne or Van Gogh in “Group Of Trees” confirms this artist as an undeniable powerhouse of paint.

You wonder if the so-called distortions in Soutine’s compositions are really just a keen extension of the way he felt space and light unfolding in his psyche. Was this representational art to him?

On the other hand, Bacon’s dastardly deeds sometimes feel stiff, even contrived in comparison. 

Bacon’s agony never seems to be followed by Soutine’s sense of release. The caged-in notion of Bacon’s being trapped in his canvases parallels Soutine’s inevitably chaotic contours. However while the hand of an unseen specter guides Soutine’s claustrophobic density, Bacon’s sheer force of will overcomes any extraterrestrial effects.

Bacon was a determinedly angry painter, who demanded respect, while Soutine owned nothing; he was simply the tip of the brush.    

http://hellynahmadgallery.com/ 

The Van Gogh Project, a blog by Paul Studtmann

By far the most amusingly sly piece of art blogging I’ve yet to stumble across.

Concocted by a crackpot/visionary philosophy professor in Indianapolis (I think), the episodic vignettes revolve around a piece of art called “Falling Down Man” shipped to said professor that was damaged by USPS.

But the philosophical constructs thicken when the artist decides that this mishandling has markedly improved the painting. 

Our intrepid blogger has also hatched some kind inscrutable scheme to acquire a Van Gogh based on a wacky comes around/goes around, trade up in the universe premise.

You have to have been there.

Excerpt:

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Waiting For Mordot

It is funny how greedy I can be. I haven’t yet received an offer for Falling Down Man that I want to pursue and so have been wondering why the Universe has abandoned me.

But that’s crazy! It’s only been a few weeks since the Universe gave me a great gift.

The USPS chucked a spear into Charlie’s painting thereby doubling its value and allowing me trade up along the OJ scale. The Universe couldn’t have given me a clearer sign that getting a Van Gogh is a genuine possibility. 

http://thevangoghproject.blogspot.com/ 

Bike Lanes, by Casey Neistat

Lets face it, its not just us art movers that hate bike lanes, it’s also the riders themselves. Although mostly for the wrong reasons, but I’m posting this anyway. No one can accuse me of being partisan

This deadpan comedy is astoundingly kinetic, prepare to wince has the all-to-real stunts must have been bruising.

I particularly laughed when he ends up in the back of a truck! Could they be art movers? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=bzE-IMaegzQ

Pat Steir at Cheim & Read

http://www.cheimread.com/artists/pat-steir/

Steir’s elegant, larger-than-life paintings flood into the hushed expanses of the concrete floored gallery at Cheim & Reid, diffused daylight illuminating these vast draperies of monochrome lushness, whose beckoning surfaces are not unlike a crusty frosting on the artist’s succulent canvases. 

You might expect some dramatic personage to emerge from behind these shimmering curtains, yet they remain quietly stoic for such ambitious edifices. The artist’s ego is famously in check, for this is Pat Steir, Buddhist powerhouse extraordinaire. She may be supersizing, but has left her hubris at the door.

Embracing eastern philosophy using a painterly approach might seem like a dicey proposition, too many potential pitfalls of clichéd metaphysical verbiage. But Steir steers clear of becoming doctrinaire, relying on an astute sense of well-crafted chromatic nuance to deliver a series of compelling, if not intimate, scenes sourced from nature.

That these artworks are essentially landscapes disguised as luxurious gowns does not detract from their seductive allure. I’ll bet Courbet would have relaxed with a beer in front of these pieces and have soaked up some essence before returning to his roguish labors.

Indeed Steir’s deft touch connotes an ornamental flourish; her work would look good in either a bank lobby or a fancy yacht. This may not be her intent, but décor haunts her results, and lingers like an aftertaste. The paintings are just a tad too pretty and melodious.

The delicate distinction between challenge and accommodation fluctuate with Steir’s impeccably painted vistas, rewarding the viewer with a wistful remorse that they wished they could have one.

The Changing Face of William Shakespeare; The Diary: Three Centuries of Private Lives at the Morgan Library

http://www.themorgan.org/home.asp

Want to know how to spot a real Shakespeare portrait? Then get thee to Mr Pierpont Morgan’s palatial pad of precious prizes.

Hint: wink, wink (*answer below).

It was my sister’s idea to visit the Morgan. Sarah is a bigwig of sorts at the Boston Public Library and is enthusiastic about all things librarian. I hadn’t been to the Morgan in many years and was only tepidly anticipating gazing on the Bards musty continence. 

Wrong again! This Morgan field trip proved to be an illuminating and provocative little adventure. Although the Morgan’s see through elevator and glassy, corporate looking atrium seem out of place architecturally, the library and his study have been restored beautifully. 

The current crowd draw exhibit is the Shakespeare portrait and is an intriguing but small collection of about 5 portraits. The one supposedly done from life features an amusingly youthful looking Willy in his mid 40’s with a full head of hair.

Maybe he just lived right.

(*I suppose some Shakespeare aficionados might know that he had a wandering left eye, but I enjoy discovering minutia about historic bigwigs that bring them up close and personal)

However the Diaries are the real eye openers here, and provide plenty of opportunity to visually wander through rambling, but revealing narratives of creative luminaries.

Although photography was not allowed I snuck in a phone photo of the Stuart Davis tome. His manifesto is professed in block lettering, perhaps informing his graphic interface with art.

Steinbeck complains about too many visitors and the loud phone ringing.

Einstein scribbles algorithms like sketches, etching out his vision of the universe.

Bob Dylan actually does sketch, a view out his window of an urban landscape evoking Matisse.

Many of the older diaries were written in tiny cramped script, I’d guess that paper and ink were precious commodities in the 17^th century. The languid, flaccid handwriting, and copious piles of pulp used by 20^th century diarists might have shocked those antique scribes.

Wastes not want not.

Stuart Davis diary

WEOW NetFlix pick of the week: The Kings Speech

In lieu of royal wedding hysteria we at WEOW recommend Geoffrey Rush’s tour de force performance in The Kings Speech.

Based on the diaries of the real speech therapist Lionel Logue, Rush takes this role and runs with it. Some scenes are shot in Logue’s actual flat with a colorful but mysterious mural serving as backdrop. (not a set as I understood it)

Rush’s Logue gradually coaxes Colin Firth’s Prince George out of his royally stuttering snit by insisting on such indignities as calling his royal highness “Bertie” as do only his closest family members.

After a hilarious scene in which Logue encourages some prolific and loud foulmouthed ranting from the future king, we hear the gripping story of Bertie’s abuse from his nanny as a 4 year old.

Tom Hooper who also made the HBO series John Adams directs this wonderfully woven tale of royal privilege and dysfunction. His expertise as a documentarian delving into the private lives of significant historical figures is showcased by an amazing cast in KS.

The supporting roles of women in this film lend a theatrical foundation to the script. Seen all too briefly, Eve Best from Nurse Jackie plays a conniving Wallis Stevens. The Ice Queen Mary is aced by Claire Bloom, and of course everything Helena Bonham Carter touches is golden.

 

Baby trashes bar in Las Palmas, from Rooftop Films

The concept behind the short film is simple but genius. Inspired by new fatherhood, Johannes decided to make a short film featuring his one year old daughter as a drunk and disorderly middle aged woman in a bar in Las Palmas. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cds7lSHawAw

THE AWARD FOR MOST SCARY DISPLAY OF AGING FLESH BY A WARHORSE ROCK STAR, GOES TO:

Iggy Pop for his back from the dead live (but shirtless) performance of Wild One on American Idol
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phBpFVviZBA

Shop ‘till you drop (to your knees); Charles LeDray, WorkWorkWorkWorkWork Whitney Museum

http://whitney.org/Exhibitions/CharlesLeDray

LeDray’s mid career survey includes an installation piece “Mens Suits” that harkens back to the good ‘ol days of musty bargain basements, perhaps populated by invisible little denizens from a Twilight Zoned dimension.

A “worms eye view” perspective of seedy looking suits neatly arranged on racks, with carefully folded tee shirts, and “back room” paraphernalia such as dollies and hampers full of hangers is spread out on the floor in 3 segments in a large darkened gallery. Getting a good look at these mini dramaturgies requires bending at the knees (watch out for your back!), but is rewarded by an entrancing glance into the compact psyche of an artist model maker extraordinaire.

The issue of scale is first and foremost in these intricately conceived sculptures. This universe of shrunken garments, never meant to fit our bodies or perceptual norms, magnifies our ungainly physical presence as giant viewers tromping about the delicacies on display.  

The notion of missing persons and departed souls engages the artist’s prosaic intentions. Detritus from lost childhood innocence and a sentimental longing for a father’s long gone uniforms, informs our sense of the vacated space that these constructions inhabit, a void surrounding and insulating the artist’s sensations of loss and memory.

LeDray has made his marks in the art world playing “small-ball”, at times barely managing to avoid clichéd lapses into Peeping-Tom dollhouse fascination, and then emerging with impeccably crafted objects profoundly freighted with the dysfunctional trauma’s of abandonment and abuse.   

His obsessive compulsion to grind out in exacting detail, the myriad components of midget clothing accessories right down to tiny miniature shirt buttons is astounding. Its kind of like going to a freak show without the freaks, just their accoutrements are on display.

But these leftover garments are poignant symbols of the fragile interrelationship between father/son, work/duty, and homosexual mores.

“Overcoat” epitomizes the artist’s approach to eloquently layered levels of metaphor and fabric. This freestanding edifice couples a suave formal classicism with an outsider vernacular. Displayed on a ubiquitous hanger, resembling an overstuffed tent protectively cloaking many smaller coats, it insinuates lives within, containing a collective consciousness of unknown identities.   

“Jewelry Window” pays stark homage to victims of AIDS. Set in an inky dark room the hushed acoustics mute the raw emotional resonance portrayed by gracefully sweeping necklines of empty black jewelry display forms. This funereal vitrine is backlit by a diffuse pale fluorescent source that sustains a disturbingly dreamlike, otherworldly effect of dissolved souls gone to the other side. 

It was with some relief that I reemerged with my physical body intact in time/space.  

Its not all doom and gloom with LeDray. He has a whimsical side that manifests itself with delightful results in some of his flat pieces. Associations with quilted matrix and collage are seen as inventive takes on those traditional media. Although there is no painting or drawing in this show, the artist’s deft hand convincingly substitutes thread for the drawn line and colored cloth for chromatic fields of pigment.    

Like other virtuoso talents, Ledray can get carried away by his own golden touch. There are instances when his neatness and perfectionist tendencies can get tedious and precious. The devotion to preppy men’s jackets in various states of shredded mayhem repeats itself a few too many times. The cuteness factor of fashionably adorable apparel occasionally veers treacherously close to product placement.

The artist could also be accused of self-absorbed, autobiographical indulgence but we don’t know this for sure. Even though his work is rooted in representation he keeps us guessing as to context. You have to carefully consider relationships to not only implied personal histories, but the cosmic condition as well.

One thing for sure, LeDray’s unflaggingly macro dedication to prolific micro art making is interwoven into the fabric of his deliciously nuanced and multitudinously tiny & tidy creations.

"Mens Suits"

"Overcoat"

"Busy Line" from Rose Murphy

The "Chi Chi" girl from the 30's & 40's. Played "intermission" piano for the Duke uptown. Her squeaky little girl voice has an Afro version of Betty Boop written all over it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQBQMklZ1aM

The Ruins Of Detroit

The French shaming us convincingly and compellingly.
http://www.marchandmeffre.com/detroit/index.html

Worker Safety Posters from English Russia

More gleefully graphic mayhem from the Soviet era, ouch!:
http://englishrussia.com/index.php/2011/01/15/look-out-soviet-bloody-posters/ 

“PILL POPPERS”, FRED TOMASELLI AT THE BROOKLYN MUSEUM

http://www.brooklynmuseum.org/exhibitions/fred_tomaselli/

Being the SoCal surfboard maker dude he was Tomaselli’s exhilarating ride of a mid career survey does hang ten, but he doesn’t catch every wave in this polyurethaned miasma of natural and art history.

Tomaselli’s earlier work that got him a measure of renown in the late 80s featured painstakingly arranged rows of pills and herbal tablets that fan out into psycho pharmacologically inspired mandalas. His signature ”move” of coating his flat creations with a thick pour of poly created a novel visual read, imbuing his montage with an “under glass” intrigue, much as amber entombed insects invite scrutiny.

Speaking of which, as his later work branches out he does indeed begin a fruitful investigation combining art historical, entomological, and ornithological sources that includes intricately cut out images from magazines and books inserted into tightly composed diagrammatic motifs.

However the tactile theatricality of these collages become ornate to a fault. Wherein lies the dilemma inherent with visual art that relies on the literalism of assemblage materials to impress. At worst Tomaselli’s work risks lapsing into a “bar countertop” convention of overly precious eye candy you’d put your beer on and gaze dreamily down at. But then this artist proves his painters savvy when employing abstract gestures that elevate content of works like Echo, Wow, and Flutter to an exalted level of artistic rank.

It pains me to say the uneven nature of this earnest artists efforts result chiefly from his devotion to craft. I admire his dedication to art historical references, and the flora and fauna that inhabit his psyche, but he seems to lose sight of the forest for the trees. He gets so wrapped up in technical execution that some of his work begins to feel forced. To Tomaselli's credit some of the recent panels like “Big Raven” largely forgo the use of extracurricular media, and display a nuanced use of pigment to achieve a taut chromatic scheme and are quite successful.

Yet clunkers like his owls eye piece are bafflingly tiresome clichés of prettily painted pointillism. There are also lapses into Arcimboldo-like portraiture and science museum “transparent body” figuration that if they’d been done with a witty intent might amuse, but here just disappoint.   

You can’t help but enjoy this artist’s overall decorative talents and inventive take on collage; I just wish the polished virtuoso were not so highly prized in today’s art market.

Echo, Wow, and Flutter

Detail, Big Raven.

SEDUCTIVE SUBVERSION: WOMEN POP ARTISTS, 1958–1968 / THE DINNER PARTY, JUDY CHICAGO- THE BROOKLYN MUSEUM

No I’m not writing this just as an excuse to post some naughty pictures, but after all it seems to have been what these pop art feminists’ preferred.  

This eye opener of an exhibit is not all ironic smut, the captivating sculpture of a sea cucumber (not really, but the floppy fabric phalluses could be underwater) encrusted easy chair by Yayoi Kusama, a protégé of Louise Bourgeois grabs your attention.

Directly adjacent are the very 3-D busty busts of Marjorie Strider. The triptych of a carved wood bikini clad lass owes much to Warhol & Lichtenstein, but would have made a good backdrop for an episode of Johnny Carson.

Dorothy Iannone’s kooky canvas “I Love To Beat You” displays a primitive looking Amazonian goddess enjoying the attentions of her real-life partner known for sculpting in chocolate. Yummy.

Kay Kurt’s large-scale homage to super realism manifests as an open chocolate box. Pick your poison.

Since 2007 the Brooklyn Museum has devoted a significant portion of the 4^th floor to a well designed home for “The Dinner Party” Judy Chicago’s iconic sculpture/memorial to women, goddesses, and go-go girls.

I’d never seen the original and wasn’t expecting to be particularly enthralled being the macho chauvinist that I am, but I was won over immediately. This sincere yet at times irreverently playful compendium of ancestral sisters centers around 39 ceramic 3-D plates placed in a triangle. The engaging conceit that these place settings represent a party about to take place adds urgency to the sense of presence. Although not all the platters entice, the better ones are cleverly crafted innuendoes glorifying the female genitalia in a delectable manner.

Wish I’d been invited.

 

Sideshow Gallery “ It's All Good apocalypse now!!”

Attendance at Rich Timperio’s (Williamsburg own impresario) annual opening night come one, come all group grope of a salon style conglomeration of mostly little known artists hepped-up on even the remote possibility of being noticed, is always invigorating.

If there were any doubt concerning survival of the clan of “The Hardscrabble Group” after a couple of rough years for continuing art production without much compensation (job or art related), this exhibit should quell such worry.

Even the live chicken (a fancy looking, well quaffed bird at that) in its cage (metaphor?) mounted directly over the entryway door seemed keen on networking.

To quote from Mr Timperio’s press release:

You don’t find yourself playing in this, or any other Timperio scenario by way of a letter of recommendation. Nor does he pour through slides. His door is open, the work makes it way to him to talk or howl to him in person, as in the good old days, in this case still here and now.

Timperio is a Prospero who by arcane magic commands some Ariel to conjure up this whirlwind of mostly shattered, vacated, and fractured images; so when it hits you in the eye like a big pizza pie, if you don’t immediately know its amore, hang in.

http://www.sideshowgallery.com/index.html 

Rich Tiemperio

My sculpture piece between pink canvas and swirly star.

Jeanne's crotchet piece above black squares.

Vincent Dion, top row, second from left w/ frame.

Lydia Viscardi, fish image, right.

During opening.

Trying to get in.

The Big Shove.

THE AWARD FOR MOST EMBARRASSING COMEBACK ATTEMPT BY A WARHORSE ROCK STAR WHO SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER, GOES TO:

Paul McCartney for his recent SNL appearance while performing an excruciatingly painful off key version of Band on the Run.

Alas! Poor Paul, we thought we knew you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUJTyVQSS3M&feature=related 

JOIN THE NAVY AND SEE…WELL YOU KNOW.

(former) Captain Honors in his infinite Cinéma vérité wisdom had nothing on early 20^th century queer illustrator Frank Xavier Leyendecker.

This patriotic, wish-he-coulda-been-a-homo-sailor would have made Popeye blush. Shiver me timbers!

Found on Washington Ave near the Brooklyn Museum on a particularly dog shit littered section of side walk. 

Believe me, I understand why people hate King Bloomie, but please, either clean up after your canine or just let 'em poop on your kitchen floor.