Fitas

Ah... a tradição académica... Há lá coisa mais divertida que andar todo vestido de preto cheio de capas e camisas e gravatas sob um sol abrasador a passear uma pastinha atafulhada de fitas de cetim amaricadas? Aparentemente não, porque todos os anos lá vão milhares de finalistas tipo ovelhinhas negras pastar para o relvado da Avenida da Cidade Universitária.

Já alguém me disse que a malta vai pelo convívio, mas uma cerimónia religiosa ao ar livre onde as miúdas envergam 2o kilos de roupa complicada não me parece o sítio ideal para conviver.

No entanto, apesar da cerimónia me parecer tão apelativa como uma ida a um dentista estrábico com Parkinson’s, tenho muito gosto em escrever ou decorar fitas de quem comete a insensatez de gastar comigo um pedaço perfeitamente bom de cetim. De vez em quando só me dá para desenhar bonecada, e saem coisas como esta.

Se lhes parecer que vale a pena gastar pixels para ver a imagem ampliada, é só clicar...

The Standard Catholic Church Funeral Pack

Being alive means a lot of things, one of which is you’re going to die.
Dying is an important moment in life, whether you believe in heaven or reincarnation, a heavenly orgy with 70 virgins or nothing at all, it’s a big deal, and we should have some say on the manner in which we are laid to rest.
Sadly we don’t, at least not the average dead person (filthy rich people don’t count). There is very little about your own funeral you can really control, and I don’t mean just because you’re dead. You get the standard ceremony your community’s religion dictates and that’s it, instant satisfaction for everybody except the dead guy.

I live in Portugal, so I guess I get the catholic church funeral pack - a priest I’ve never seen in my life telling everybody what an amazing, fabulous and unbelievably good guy I was; at least five really old ladies no one knows crying their eyes out; me dressed in a suite I never wore; a statue of a guy pinned to a cross hanging on a wall; and tons of flowers stinking the place up more than my rotting corpse. Not the farewell party I had in mind.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the church’s commitment on saving my soul and renting me a nice little place to rot, but if I may, I would rather have a funeral with lesbian strippers doing a coffin dance, a half-naked girl band singing Queen´s greatest hits and a barbecue.

Does that sound more fun than being stuck in a dark room with a dead guy or what?

South Park Studio

If I was a South Park character...


Check out the South Park Studio by Zwerg-Im-Bikini at http://www.sp-studio.de/

Krippmeister’s Series of Unfortunate Events

Dying is a great career move for artists.
The dead artist is like any other dead person, the greatest most incredible and amazing human being on earth (at the time of the burial), with the added bonus that his work is now worth ten times more. Of course, the problem of dying is that you get dead, and that may pose a bit of a complication when collecting the money for the artwork.
So the question is: Is there a middle ground where the artist can boost his value and get a shitload of money for crappy artwork without having to jump off a building? Maybe there is.

One solution is to become a socialite like Andy Warhol. Andy got recognition through social engineering. Lots of parties, sex, studios in New York and a ridiculous hairdo were the most important aspects of his art, those colorful paintings called pop-something were just props.
The other solution is something much more appealing than wearing a stupid wig. Promote your injuries. The concept is not entirely new, but as a certain Mr. Gogh discovered, chopping off an ear doesn’t quite cut it (so to speak). You have to be a bit more creative and dramatic than that. This is where the piece Krippmeister’s Series of Unfortunate Events comes in. It is a satellite view of my neighborhood where I’ve marked a few of the many injuries sustained during a normal childhood jumping barbed wire fences, crashing bikes, trespassing, climbing rooftops... In short, all the things normal children did before there was free porn on the internet.

So there you have it! It’s not as good as dying, but then again, not as inconvenient. It has dramatic and narrative interest and is a great excuse for all of you loaded pitiful pseudo-intellectuals to pay lots of cash for my artwork and feel important for it.

Just click on the picture to see it full size.

Aviso à navegação

Avisam-se todos os interessados que este blog vai passar a ter posts em português e em inglês, conforme me der na cabeça.
Não só porque pareço mais inteligente, mas também porque segundo alguns especialistas as pessoas bilingues têm mais hipóteses de conseguir sexo descomprometido. Aparentemente há muita gente que pensa que um bilingue é um homem com duas línguas...

Momento Literário

Isto dos blogs é novo para mim. E até me queria parecer que o KrippArt se integrava bastante bem na blogalhada de tendências artísticas e culturais, quando na verdade percebo que falta algo fundamental... O post do momento literário! Ou o pensamento do dia ou o que lhe queiram chamar.
Este é o post que pretende indicar uma forte entrega ao profundo, ao conceptual, ao romântico, mas que na verdade só indica uma forte entrega ao copy-paste de material fatela para encher um post em menos de 3 minutos.

Vejamos alguns exemplos típicos:

A primavera é o tónico da alma...

ou

O sol da vida é o sorriso de quem ama...

O facto de não fazer sentido nenhum garante um maior impacto cultural, e as incontornáveis reticências no final dão-lhe o genuíno toque bucólico. E claro, tem que ser em português.

Posto isto é com muito prazer que vos apresento o meu post literário.
Felicidades!

Num dia de folga conheci a Olga,
Metemos conversa num tapete persa,
Num bar muita feio apalpei-lhe um seio,
Já com um grão na asa, levei-a pra casa,

Olga! Olga! mas que grande folga!
Olga! Olga! mas que grande folga!

Ená Pá 2000