Madness... well, it's March, isn't it? I'm mad about this show. Even so, I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. But instead of throwing my TV out the window I'll just vent my esthetic vapors in a safari into the realm of creative insanity and delerious delight at the same time.

I'm mad about you, too!

 

 
 

Rebecca Darlington really hangs out the baby bottle laundry in her 3-D mammo-vision assemblage correctly titled Boobs On Line. The clothes pins represent cable mammo-modems on the telegraph clothesline of modern motherhood.

 

There is no better corner on the market of madness than the Lewis Carollian pencil twizzled puzzles of Bronson Eden. There is a secret undercurrent of Da Da running through Da Da Dance. Mind if I cut in?

 

 

 

 

Someone clue me in to the identity of DAB.. I was just getting used to one word named artists and now I must take serious medication to get my personality adjusted to acronymic artists. No matter... It's a bust, not a bummer! DAB's Madness busts in front of Mighty Xee's blazing swastika that tells The True Story.

 

Kari Feuer got Lost in the Woods and sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one to where it disappeared into the undergrowth. A better description of split personality disorder I never heard even if it did fall in the forest.

 

 
 

Mmmm - your skin looks so soft- Can it be felt? Perhaps, if it's felted by Alisa Brown who really feels the skin of the skein in Look. However, this furry feelie is under glass so you can look and be looked at, but not touch.

 

The woman voted least eligible to win the touchie-feelie award is  the stunning Dakota Lane. Her equally stunning ouchie-freely decomposition  Crazytown dredges up several simultaneous combustions while extinguishing the flames of passion with the blood curdling panache of a pseudophyllic fireperson in a golden shower of cray-pas.

 

 
 

While I'm on the subject of mysterious femme fatales, Christina Varga unlocks the doors of Apocalypse, now with keys that fit precisely in the lock of a gilded Cage Aux Folies. She really puts the lips in apocolypse. The hair shirt burlap scratches exactly where I itch, ahh, a little lower.

 

Time for a cold shower! Let's go swimmin' with the Esopus Winter Birches by Robert Selkowitz. He yearns for a place beside the rapid waters where wanderers in the wasteland might find a place for the night, a bowl of soup, frost whistling through their ears!

 

 
 

 

You know how guys hate to ask for directions. So does Sandra Nystrom in her cosmic convergence called I'll Find My Way. In this case, two roads converge in a hoary wood, not to be confused with Hollywood, in which case, you must turn around and make a left at the neon light.

 

Marcia Wolf goes Blau Rider in a fauve mode of POTUS. Obama is the man on the '09 dollar bill and this is a prototype in its currency.

 

 
 

 

I knew there was another surrealist in the house. Why else the rash of Da Da reverencing? Da Da Dalis is Tom Fraser's way of popping his cork. Next, he and Bronson will be sprouting handlebar mustaches and tossing cats in the air..

 

Sweetbriar rules triumphantly through her empire on canvas, Astarte. This godess of fertility, sexuality and war, knows how to take it lion down.

 

 
 

 

First I thought it was just my medication running away with me, but now I'm sure that all these paintings are hanging at screwy angles. A whole room full off kilter. And Richard Treitner offs the kilters with Angry Young Man. This one is a view from behind the behind - a rectangular proctoscopic glimpse of a nervous breakdown in progress.

 

Pete Giambrone delivers a minty fresh toe chilling dip in the quenching waters of Winter Woods. Just right for snapping us back to reality.

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