The title of this blog makes me think of P Diddy, in a tongue-in-cheek-I-hate-that-effing-guy kind of way. Still, here I am dubbing Sting in order to pay homage to Biggy Smalls.
Sue me, Sting. Sue me.
It’s pretty rare that I take an unfocused photograph and don’t delete it. For some reason, I love this one.
These shots (I should probably clarify) were taken at the Boston MFA (Museum of Fine Arts) and are of glass works by Chihuly. I want desperately to shatter the shit out of a few of these works on some train tracks or some shit, then take pictures of their corpses. That isn’t an option, sadly – though maybe if I pow wowed with the artist, he might have some outcasts of the artistic variety that he wouldn’t mind seeing destroyed in the name of art.
We decided to go on a Sunday afternoon, unaware of how severely such a decision would affect our day. The place was packed. Sheeple were strolling through the lunch tables on their way to the Chihuly exhibit. We managed to sneak into the crowd on our way to the bathroom. Thank you Brian, for your week bladder.
This was one of my favorite installations. I would LOVE to do something similar in the guest bathroom of my future mansion. Now that I have said that out loud, it will be done. Though technically I didn’t say it out loud, I typed it, but whatever.
Once upon a time, I visited the Waterford Crystal plant and fell madly in love with the notion of paying out the nose for blown glass made by serious glass fascists. In Waterford, an artisan isn’t allowed to touch a piece of crystal until he has trained for somewhere around eight years. That notion made the glass all the more appealing to me. They had chandeliers that were reminiscent of this. This was nigh on fifteen years ago. They were bulbous and gawdy to me. Now, they are cosmic.
Does anyone else feel almost uncomfortable at the mention of the world ‘bulbous?’
I do.
