An artist who painted a picture of Donald Trump nude, with a very small penis, possibly even a case of bona fide medically diagnosable micropenis, has been threatened with legal action via an “anonymous filing of a Digital Millennium Copyright Act notice” if she sells it to anyone.
U OK, Don?
It’s currently being exhibited in London, to the general edification and amusement of all. In the USA, meanwhile, the artist received thousands of death threats and galleries chickened out of hanging it because they feared violence from Trump’s thuggish, quasi-fascist supporters. QED.
Anyway, let’s all spite those imbeciles and Streisand Effect the shit out of the deranged, shit-for-brains, racist, rabble-rousing, hypocritical, incoherent, child-handed, small-dicked, candyfloss-haired, ignoramus psychopath megalomaniac robber-capitalist they idolise by looking at Illma Gore’s painting of Donald Trump and posting about it everywhere.
Make America Great Again by Illma Gore, 2016.
Artist threatened with lawsuits if she sells nude Donald Trump painting
“As far as I can judge, I am not actually mentally ill.” Vincent Van Gogh, shortly after cutting off part of his ear and giving it to a prostitute.
Kirk Douglas as Vincent Van Gogh in ‘Lust for Life’, 1956.
Poor old Vinnie has been pathologised in a hundred different ways: epilepsy, chemical poisoning, bipolar disorder, alcoholism. Clearly there was something seriously wrong with the paint-eating, ear-slashing, self-medicating and ultimately suicidal painter who sold almost nothing and was known to almost nobody during his lifetime. But in that last fact, it seems to me, lies a large and relatively simple part of the answer. As somebody who’s spent their whole adult life battling to become and remain a worthwhile artist and writer, and to much more success while I’m alive than Vincent ever had (albeit still not very much, and only really by default because he had no success or recognition at all), I can wholly sympathise with and understand his sadness, frustration and depression upon finding that his passion was deemed ridiculous, that his way of seeing the world got him labelled a lunatic, and his vocation was dismissed as a hobby that had no value either monetarily or artistically. Continue reading
From ‘Paint by Number’ by William L. Bird, Jr, published by the Smithsonian/Princeton Architectural Press, 2001.
“ANYONE CAN DO IT” THE LADY PAINTING THIS PICTURE IS NOT A PAINTER. JUST PUT COLOR NO.17 IN SECTION NUMBERED 17 ETC. IT’S AS SIMPLE AS THAT. SURPRISE YOUR FRIENDS WITH A BEAUTIFUL OIL PAINTING ON CANVAS PAINTED BY YOU. THEY CAN BE WASHED WITH SOAP AND WATER.
A lady (not a painter) demonstrates paint by number sets at a trade show, 1953. The oxymoronic “this painter is not a painter” reminds me of Magritte:
Rene Magritte, The Treachery of Images, 1948.
Ceci n’est pas un artiste… Also from 1953, this Woolworth’s Annual Report image:
I like the artist’s get up, especially the huge and completely unnecessary blue bow. I might try to put this outfit together, next time I have to appear in public and talk about being an artist.
I’m sure coulrophobes will appreciate me pointing out the lovely John Wayne Gacy clown painting, top right. NB: anyone who paints sailing ships may not be a serial killer but they are definitely mental.
“Felix, darling, try not to whine when we get inside because this is daddy’s work, OK?”[Islingtonista dragging her son against his will into the London Art Fair. Daddy, grim faced, trails behind.]
I can certainly sympathise with Felix’s determination to have a little tantrum at the London Art Fair. Perhaps Felix already knew he’d be compelled to commit a homicide if he saw another frigging art work with skulls, butterflies and/or cut-outs from old books, maps and prints. Seriously, everybody knock that shit off. I wish I was exaggerating when I say that every third or fourth gallery was showing something involving butterflies. I think we could also usefully impose a ten year moratorium on white box frames, anything involving birds or feathers, and figurative painting with a few token smears, runs or drips to denote that it’s “contemporary” or “gestural” or whatever because being able to paint without making drips or smudging somebody’s face is boring and square, apparently.