A neurotic-thrill Q&A ensued: Is this all packaging? Fast food fooling? Where’s the edge? The next throb, here? My concentration, who cares?
I had forgotten for a while about “visual culture,” its own mostly wordless and mostly self-sufficient way of touring around (of being?). One figurative drawing lingered on after I closed the cover. It was something by an artist named Supermundane, something like this:
It wasn’t this picture, but the hollowly full, buggy eyes were there; as was the mouth, slurping or spouting its primal doodles.
I wanted to see something new, and be devoured and born by it. Primordial faces, cushioned among flourishes of wings, shells, and clouds, oppose a geometric metropolis. This was some kind of creation myth, perhaps, in a yin-yang form. A scribbler’s newsstand Gaia, with a city for a brain. An example of how we see in art what we are, what we desire.