It is Finished!





"Blue Self Reflection," by Karen K. Remus, Copyright 2012
Acrylic on Canvas, 26" x 53"

How do you know when a painting is finished?  Especially an abstract, expressionistic thing for which you had no specific "destination" in mind to begin with?

In the case of this painting, I was finished before I knew it.  Not that I did it quickly--no-sir-ee!  This thing took YEARS, on and off.  It started out vertically as a window block intended to cover a depressing, dark, barred, window in a prison-like Chicago apartment in 2003.  Then we moved, (window idea out the window), and it turned into a "sun over water" scene, still in the "portrait" position.  That went nowhere, so it flipped horizontally, and became the story telling "triptych" that it is today.

I started with the skeletons conversing on the left and the "blue self" looking back on that interaction.  I got stuck on that for a while, because I couldn't figure out the "style," or degree of "finish" or overall look I wanted to achieve.  I also didn't know what the third "panel," or the area to the right of blue self would contain.  That part represented the future.  I experimented with different things--heads mainly--that didn't work.  Then I got MAD at it.  I attacked with ratty brushes and pallet knives, and colors straight out of the tube.  I told myself "I don't give a shit!"  And then it started to come to life.

Then the "sparkler" idea came to me.  I didn't think of it as a sparkler at first, but that's what it ended up looking like, so that's what I call it.  I think the sparkler and the dubious environs surrounding it causes my friend Dalton to call this painting, "Fourth of July in Hell."  If he sees it that way, more power to him!

But my feelings about this painting are not hellish.  Well, maybe a little, regarding the skeleton interaction, but on the whole, I see it as a positive statement.  The blue figure looks back on the past and evaluates it, while ahead, waits a bright future where she can use what she has learned.  

But back to the issue of "when it was finished."  After painting the "hand" beneath the sparkler, I had no idea what to do next, so I put this painting away, frustrated, for months and didn't look at it.  Then one day, I looked at it and thought, "I have nothing more to say or paint with regard to this.  It is done."  At it was!  That's what I meant when I wrote, "it was finished before I knew it."

So now, it's hanging in my living room.  Sometimes I think it's too busy.  Sometimes I think it's too dark--or I should put a blue/violet edge on the hand.  Sometimes I tell myself to stop criticizing and just accept it as another experiment.  If I want something different, I just need to do another painting.  

I'm through with those skeletons on the left.  One was me as a young, naive art student, and the larger one was a teacher who should have realized and respected that.  Old enough to know better but too desperate and egotistical to care.  Now he's just old.  A big old phony who ended up in my painting, and now, I'm done with him and all of the crazy mental and emotional tentacles that wove their way throughout my psyche.  Eradicated like a heart worm.  Have you ever seen a heart worm?  Our vet has an advanced one in a jar of formaldehyde in her office.  EEEEEEEWWWWW!

Someone + Someone = Someone Else

by Karen Kay Remus
Copyright 2012

Installment #2

Alternate Title:  What's Happening to Dr. Oz's Face?

Obviously, the anti-aging guru is getting little lifts & injections here and there, but lately, when combined with heavy make-up, this dude is starting to look Dr. Odd.  The photo of him below isn't even the most extreme example.  My equation here isn't as dead-on as "Installment #1" (see previous post), but it gives you the general flavor of what I'm trying to express...

Someone + Someone = Someone Else

By Karen Kay Remus
Copyright 2012

Installment #1

I'm always looking at people and thinking, "He or she looks like a cross between so-and-so and what's-'s-face,"  and I am always DEAD ON.  So I decided to start documenting these observations as I discover them.

The first is entitled, Tom Cruise + Jackie Kennedy = Mary Kennedy (no blood relation)

Bobby Petrino: LUCKY!

Does anyone besides me think that Bobby Petrino should be THANKFUL THAT HIS HEAD WASN'T RIPPED OFF? No one is mentioning this. He should also be thankful that:

1) His mistress got off without a scratch, and
2) His entire face wasn't scrapped off (later to be unveiled live w/ Ophra as part of her continued effort to raise awareness about the dangers of pet monkeys and motorcycles).

This is a modern day miracle, people! What disturbs me most is that this guy didn't deserve it. He couldn't handle his hog, he was riding without a helmet, and he was endangering a passenger! Perhaps he also neglected to tell police that he'd been showing off to his girlfriend by juggling lighted cans of Sterno. "Look Jess, no hands!"

Getting fired and called out on an affair are REALLY SMALL potatoes compared to what might have befallen this red-faced, neck-braced, idiot who now admits to having made “bad decisions.”

I love that buzzword for high-profile philanderers who are busted and forced to confess. Bad decisions. It’s as if these guys receive life-or-death proposals and are pressured to give instantaneous “yes” or “no” answers—only to regret it later. It can happen to anyone, right?

For example, one day, a man in a tuxedo walks into Bobby Petrino’s office, holds a gun to Bobby’s head (for some reason, while sitting at his desk, Bobby is wearing his motorcycle helmet) and says, “There’s a 25-year old, blonde, athletic chick who wants a job, $20k, and your body. Is it a deal, or isn’t it?”

Bobby hears the gun cock against his helmet and thinks, “If sound travels through my helmet, perhaps bullets can too,” and a second later screams, “Yes! It’s a deal.”

Bad decisions. They happen every day.

Duncan and Me

By Karen Kay Remus, © 2012


Chance Meeting in Columbus Georgia

You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. You may find yourself in another part of the world. You may find yourself having dinner with Sir Winston Churchill’s great grandson, Duncan Sandys (pronounced Sands). And you may ask yourself: What do I say to him?

Well, you needn’t worry, because Duncan Sandys, like his g-g-pop, will do most of the talking and do it eloquently. Furthermore, he’s such a dead-ringer for The Greatest Briton of All Time, you’ll probably just sit there, staring at him with your mouth hanging open. And you may ask yourself: How did I get here?

How does anyone find themselves suddenly supping with Churchill’s doppelganger descendant? Well, for me, it was like this: my husband Tom had helped assemble a gallery show featuring the artwork of President “Ike” Eisenhower. Churchill had been one of Ike’s great friends, sharing many of his interests and talents, including painting. Sandys had been asked to speak about their friendship and his great grandfather’s artwork, as part of the Eisenhower exhibit and lecture series. After his speech, the founders of the event took him to dinner, and there you have it.

Dinner with Duncan

So, we’re all sitting there in the back room of the Loft, which, for conversational purposes, has the most horrible acoustics imaginable. The canned music is blaring, the kitchen is clanging, and the collective conversations from the front of the restaurant are bouncing off the tin ceiling, over the partition wall, and onto our table. The home-made potato chip appetizers create a deafening crunch that blots out intelligible speech, and I am located on the end of the eight-top table, several feet and people away from our visiting dignitary.

Duncan is a gin and tonic man. He has two. He orders steak and potatoes—just like me! He’s big and tall, so he holds his liquor well. He’s dignified and well-spoken—a total aristocrat--but he blushes like a little kid and dimples when he smiles. He’s absolutely adorable, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying.

I Cup my Ear

I decide to use physics to my advantage. Cupping a large hand to a large ear, I fashion a flesh gramophone horn and focus it on Duncan. Now I look dorky, but I can hear his lovely British accent, so who cares?

He was going to take his American drivers test tomorrow. He had observed a very large female driving instructor, and thought that perhaps his test could consist simply of driving through a McDonalds and getting a few Big Macs. I ask if they have drive-throughs in England, and he says, “No, that’s a purely American phenomenon.”

Then he tells of going into a Starbucks in Tennessee, where he’s the only customer, but they still ask his name and insist on writing it on his cup. He tells the girl that his name is “Duncan,” and she writes, “D-U-N-K-I-N.”

“Like the doughnuts,” I say.

“Yes,” he says, “I can’t believe how incredibly thick some people are—and I did once get THREE free Dunkin’ doughnuts, because I was 'named after the store'(said in falsetto, mimicking the thick, American doughnut slinger)!”

America, the embarrassing.

Me and George Takei

I LOVE LOVE LOVE George Takei!! In fact, I'd like to sing a little song in his honor. Eh hem...

Georgie is just alright with me

Georgie is just alright, oh yeah

Georgie is just alright with me

Georgie is just alright--Oh YEEEAAAAAH!!

Georgieeeeeee is my frieeeeend.... (etc. etc.)

OK, so I stole the tune. Sue me, whoever wrote "Jesus is Just Alright."

And I'll have you know, I actually SANG it. I didn't "talk" it, like some bitchy former George Takei co-stars--yes--co-stars. No, I haven't forgotten the title of this blog, but my reverence for the William has suffered some cumulative blows of late--some at the expense of my beloved George--and so my formerly infinite mercy toward Bill is starting to wane. I mean, before these blows, I had even forgiven him for "Rocket Man--" but no more. Now I say, "HEY ROCKET MAN--SWING ME CLOSER TO THE SUN SO I CAN LIGHT MY CIGARETTE & GET PUT OUT OF THE MISERY YOU'VE CAUSED BY BUTCHERING THAT SONG!"

The first major hit came when Bill claimed he hadn't been invited to George's wedding, when in fact, he had. He just wanted to use this fake "conflict" to get attention. This is all well documented on line, with interviews of Takei and Shatner. It's so obvious which one is lying.

You might be saying, "Hey, if you're so down on Shatner, why use his name in your blog title?" I would reply, "I use Shatner's name for the same reason he does: TO GET ATTENTION."

The second hit was this awful video of Shatner telling Carrie Fisher that fitting into her old Princess Leia costume in the present day would require "serious uplift." His evil, contorted facial expression, combined with the way he physically "reels up" to deliver this message (complete with "uplifting" hand gestures) actually made me scream with revulsion. "EEEEWWWWWWW!" I screamed, as I ran from the computer into the living room, where my mild-mannered artist-husband had been peacefully reading. "I can't believe the hideousness of what I just saw!"

"What was it?" Asked my husband. "William Shatner being a BITCH!" I replied.

George would totally understand this. He suffered with it for years. I feel like I know George, having read his awesome autobiography (which, unlike Shatner's, did not require a ghost writer) and basically grown up watching him on TV. He is honest and brave. His contributions to Man-kind extend far beyond his acting career. He has class. He's funny. He's smart. Plus, he has a cool blog and a great Facebook page. And finally, no one but George Takei can generate so much love simply by saying, "You are a douche-bag."

Me, Paul, and Elvis

Dear Reader,

As of this writing, I can tell you this about me, Paul McCartney, and Elvis Presley: Paul and I are alive, while Elvis is dead. I believe this, despite rumors to the contrary about both Paul and Elvis. No one makes rumors about my death, as far as I know.

Back in the 70s, when Paul was perhaps at the pinnacle of aliveness, rumors surfaced that he was dead. "Clues" as to his death were supposedly hidden in Beatle songs and album covers. "Oh No!" We rabid Beatle fans screamed, "Paul is dead. We miss 'im, miss 'im, miss 'im, miss 'im..." We played parts of songs backwards (because we could, back in the good ol' vinyl days), and searched the Abbey Road album cover, finding such evidence as "28 If (he hadn't blown his mind out in a car)" on a license plate, and the metaphorical pose and dress of the Beatles crossing the road, wherein John = God, Ringo = undertaker, George = grave digger, and Paul = Dead. Everyone knows, of course, that "bare feet = dead."

At the time, I found this mystery darkly intriguing, but looking back as an adult, I can't help but notice the vast lameness and implausibility of it all. I mean, if Paul had really died in a car crash at that point in history, we survivors would have been inundated with ALL PAUL ALL THE TIME for a year or more--just like with Lady Di--only worse. You could not have picked up a paper or magazine, or turned on the radio or TV without having seen or heard the latest about Paul's tragic death, his gigantic funeral, and the horrific toll his loss had taken on fans the world over. Girls would have been leaping off bridges en mass. I would have thought about it, but if I had actually reached the railing thought, "I am doing this WHY?"

Paul's death would not have been covered up and then "leaked" with stupid ass "clues." If it had been covered up and leaked, the clues would have been a lot more blatant. The music would have conspicuously lacked a melodic bass line, and the chorus to Yellow Submarine would have been, "We all live in a yellow Paul is dead."

So now, about Elvis, who John Lennon once said that Paul McCartney resembled. Elvis died in 1982 (I think, correct me if I'm wrong. I'm too lazy to check Wikipedia), but shortly thereafter, rumors started surfacing that he was still alive, and his death had been faked. The "clues" to this rumor included the misspelling of his middle name on his headstone (no one ever fakes death and spells their name correctly on a headstone; it's unlucky), and poorly recorded audio tapes of slurring Elvis impersonators blathering on about how they'd been hiding out in cabins, going to diners, talking to sobbing waitresses, eating fried food, and what not. I must say that "Elvis is alive" was a tad more believable than "Paul is dead."

At that time in the 80s, I really wanted to believe that Elvis was still alive, because it gave me some kind of weird hope. I reasoned that Elvis had become so famous, that his only option for having a "normal existence" at that point was to fake his death. I even wrote a song about it entitled, "EIA." The song was actually kind of catchy.

The idea of Elvis having risen from the dead is consistent with the religious power many people associated with him. Some fans had elevated him to sainthood, perhaps due to his musical crossover into the gospel genre. Religious Elvis fans looked right past his pulsating pumping pelvis into his eternal God and Mama lovin' soul. A righteous man like that simply cannot OD on the crapper!

I guess I should tie this all together now, since I have to go to work. Hmmm... Paul was alive but they said he was dead. Elvis was dead but they said he was alive. I am alive and I have to work at five. And some day we'll all know the root of this jive.