but is it art?
Spent last week holed up in a Tennessee lakehouse with our friends.
The last goodbye for a while before they fly off to Jakarta.
Annoying them with a million questions about a life they will lead in some mysterious place in some mysterious future.
"What do they eat in Indonesia?"
"How do you say coffee in Indonesian?"
"Where will you live?"
"How will you watch TV?"
"Are you scared?"
"How do you say you are scared in Indonesian?"
This huge psychic freight train bearing down on them and they have the curious kittens asking them a million silly questions.
So my friend Chad and I arrive at this awkward place where I've pretty much exhausted him with goofy questions and we turn to the only thing that can save us... found art.
We dove into our new project with gusto.
Fueled by our desire to escape the great unknown we threw ourselves into this fabrication of a new beast.
A wehrstag began to claw its way from the loamy soil at the edge of Lake Hickory. A white trash manifestation of the old horned god began to take shape, assembled from the detritus of a million endless summers and the good will of the TVA.
Spongy driftwood, soaked in fetid lake water, propellants, and household cleansers, began to magically self assemble between the rotting framework of a childhood nightmare. A crisscrossed web of melted wirework, rusting chains, and spun sugar helped support and restrain the structure. We clawed at our god, scratching and scorching our prayers on its rough hewn surface. We were both creators and servants of this thing that should not be blogged.
In the end, the spirit released us to our individual quests satisfied for now with our rough sacrifices. Under the gaze of the beast, we said our goodbyes and made our separate ways through the early morning mist to slay orcs, ride dragons, and converse with elves.
Rakh Im Gakh my friend.
Rakh Im Gakh.