Being museum rats that we are, Sharon Duckman and I went to an Atget show at the Norton Museum. Because of the construction of a new wing (a condition which makes it free), we entered through the main entrance, as opposed to the one near the parking lot, strange and true. As far as we know, Donny and the clan didn’t make a donation.
On each side of the door way, were two Paul Manship sculptures which I had never studied, let alone paid any attention to. You may be familiar with his work, if you ever visited Rockefeller Center and looked at Prometheus. Manship ranks at one of America’s most treasured sculptors on a par with Daniel Chester French.
So, while museum visits are part of our normal stretch, we have increased our visits to cultural sites to drown out the noise on TV and the words in print about our country’s Constitutional Crisis. Everything seems to turn into a discussion about Donald the Romanov and the royal family Trump. Why should this be any different?
The sculpture here features Diana. While bathing in the nude, she was observed by a mortal hunter, Actaeon. Sort of like being groped, eh. She turned him into a stag and let her dogs rip him apart.
I will get the dog’s picture on the next trip.
Raymond Sackler did the world a lot of favors. He donated art to improve our knowledge of the history of man and built a company which created the drug, oxycontin which threatens to destroy it.
Ironically, he built one of the world’s biggest drug empire based on product which numbs the taker, interfering with physical pain and inhibiting perspicacity, delivering it in measured doses, packaged in hermetically sealed containers, guaranteeing the absence of harmful additives. In most cases, the Government even pays for it.
Just for fun, figure out whether the net balance of his life added or subtracted from the human equation.
We encountered this lizard who will remain nameless at Morikami in Del Ray Beach. He left Mar A Lago because there were no free lunches and no health care. He’s looking forward to being a member of the hoo poilloi.
What I really need to do is stick to a fitness plan. When I travel or shoot, I am moving. To keep abreast of the worlds of photography, US Government and art, including movies, books and museums, I sit. While my knowledge grows, my health suffers. Mmmmm.
This guy works at PURLIFE, a gym for the healthy in Del Ray. Too far to drive. 1/2 hour in the car for exercise leads to more sitting, even though NPR or a podcast is on the radio which defeats ignorance. Tough choices. I will go for a walk.
Never buy more than you need or pay too much for it. Here, we need water. Getting too old to push the cart around or fill it with cases of plastic bottles, which when empty are not good for the environment.
Get the car, Sharon. And don’t buy 60 rolls of toilet paper.
George Romero died. He taught me to be scared of the dark. Hell, I am old, which means I don’t carry heavy things and I get tired earlier. But age, the early age of television, let me watch Bela Lugosi while my parents were in the other room doing whatever.
Dracula didn’t scare me, because Zacherly was there to intercept them.
But, no one helped me with George. He made me believe in zombies.
“They’re coming to get you, Barbara.”
So, if you are one of the three in the room, you can do what you want to whomever you want. They tried to get Bruno. He not only had his conviction overturned, but his lawyers were paid. Sheldon Silver won, too.
Me, I am just a schmuck. Two of the three in the room signed the complaint against me. I didn’t have a chance. Like Donnie, Jr. said, “…, nepotism is a good thing.” The problem with nepotism is you need a family.
Good for Shelly. Good for the permanent government. Bad for the people.
So, he sits on the corner of Boynton Beach and 441. His dog sits under his chair. He asks for help. Lots of people give it. Some question his need. But, as far as I am concerned, if he sits there, it is for a reason and I don’t need to know why. His story is his story.
So I walk around with a camera, using it to document the race, humans etc. It may not make me smarter or stronger, but I feel better about life. Meeting and talking with others makes me less stupid and more aware how we are all different. I don’t ask for stories. I ask if I can help. Felix didn’t want help. He said he was ready to die. No one knows for sure, if he went. I learned when I went to the food pantry and my images of him were on the door. Last people heard, he had been taken to a hospice.
Felix lived here, right off the highway. He lived in the woods. He could have had a place if he wanted one.
His front yard.
Garage and reading room.
So, Donny Douchebag, our coldhearted faux President of the United States proposes to cut funds for the poor. What will happen to these people? Yes, they could work if they had homes, places to store their things and health care. What would you want them to do?
I feel Bannon’s bum body pushing this legislation. His boss doesn’t understand poor. Bullies squash their adversaries and then either walk over their bodies or joke about their predicaments. The President and his buddies would rather see dead and decaying bodies in the street than offer support. More money for them. More power for them. And less for those who due to either not being born rich, being a victim of a social or medical disease or having a diagnosable mental problem, don’t have a chance.
I have never been hungry, poor or without a place to live. Have you?