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Get the Rack on the Racks – Man Made Image- Time Magazine Madly Milks the Mamma

12 May

Time Magazine, oh yes you milked it with your man made image. Get the mother’s rack on the racks, we’re gonna make millions this Mother’s Day!

Here’s the bouquet: a prompting, hard-core; a provocation, jizz.

The question posed is: Are You Mom Enough?

*See painting at bottom of blog for a comparison*

Some folks are up there in a Time Warner building in Rock-A-Feller Center thinking about print.

Thinking about mothers and money and how to make it. Yeah, about how to make it, yes, the money.

Oh, I”m just running to Fed Ex my Mother’s Day card back to Telle-hussie, FL – BRB guys to continue this Mother’s Day Cover convo, and I just got to say, I think we’re headed in the right direction…

Really Love the leading question, Are You Mom Enough…..just like I loved your mother last night.

I sure was dad enough for that, boy, let me tell you. Heh heh.

Yeah- we get it, man, we got your mothered selves splayed.

Great concept, team. Job well done.

Hey – listen, men, it’s all going to be ok. Your wounds can be well heeled I mean healed well in therapy.

This image, this magazine, the cover, the text.

–Is that child really wearing camouflaged army pants? So freaking brilliant. Another great art director lives.We see the text referring to other articles on the upper right hand corner – “God of Cricket”- and then on the upper left hand corner “The French Rejection”….yes, in life there are no accidents.–


This image, text included, has everything we totter on, up, or against: The Child and his War Pants, The Boy Child’s Gaze and his Intonation: What, you want some of this? Well, of course we do. We want all of it. God, war, and the mother’s body.

Everyone, and it’s all going to be ok. Attachment Parenting Gal, just get back to bed now with your husband and your son and leave the photo studio now, like pronto. Life will never be the same. Promise. It’s digital.

And again, the question posed here is: Are You Mom Enough? Pardon moi, but who is doing the asking?

The Blonde with The Breasts, They Are Lacking, So Small They Are: Are You Mom Enough with your Boy-Chest?

OR is it:

Look At Me With A Direct Address To the Lens, Are You Mom Enough, Because This is How I Talk To All My LadY Friends, With One Boob Sticking Out And Posing A Snotty Question Like This One.


Great concept, team. Job well done.

Heh heh.

So obviously male, the construction. And it is aged, as in dated. This is not from guys I know. All up in Rock-A Feller Center in a room with a white board and all white men 60+ and attending. Get a mom that’s into this attachment parenting crap, but the “kicker” will be we’ll give her small tits. Yeah, that’s a good one. Gonna tie into the tagline…..real nicely.


People, the breast, it is natural. And it is for all three: woman, man, and child.

And the breast milk, it is God given, it is nurturance, liquid form.

And the building of child – it’s a fluid transmission: attraction, union, yes – mount to chasm, sperm to egg, milk to mouth.

It is double bonded, it is about bonding -yes – all of this is about bonding.


So repressed, us not the French

so us this cover is, yes

so very, very, American.

So forsaken. Life, the life of us, life of a child, life of women and the man who is absent here. All forsaken. Ripped apart here in this image. Everyone is so solo here, when what we are talking about is: closeness. Indeed, attachment.

And breastfeeding is the closest thing to the healthiest thing. By it’s nature – an uncontroversy.

Irrelevant how long it takes to feed and to ween. Private matters for our little private in his war pants.


But, baby, breastfeeding, it is animal, extreme B, they are saying,

And I’ve got to make,

make a living.










Here is an image I found online which represents the idea of attachment parenting much better – in 1630 a painting by Pieter de Grebber…..Mother and Child. See how circular is this feeding, the bodies are really touching. There is a feeling of closeness and peace.


…. Familial Objects. Camera Ready.

Here we see a young woman who looks like she was in my AP English class in High School, she looks like a “blogger” (guys we’re going for the modern woman here don’t forget), she looks UES, she looks West Side, she looks like she just moved to Williamsburg from Ames and she’s on the L train with her new skinny jeans gonna get off at 14th st + get a burrito at Chipolte, and she’s skinny, and she has looks, and she looks like she’s been set up ?can you be so unawares? yeah no really, and her son he is sucking her very small breast (that’s so sexy) and he’s standing on a baby wooden chair dating back to the 50’s (heh heh yeah I remember when I sat in one of those chairs as a boy myself )(everyone don’t worry -he’s an old guy, gonna die off soon), and the kid—————– man, he’s tall, yeah, tall like a Big Boy, and I get this magazine for the articles, really and on the Today Show Jamie Lynne Grumet, 26, said as her three-year-old son Aaron sat on her lap, that the firestorm around the magazine cover went beyond her expectations.

Hand On My Shoulder, I See Dead People: GIs in Afghanistan Posing with Corpses

20 Apr

“As objects of contemplation, images of the atrocious can answer to several different needs. To steel oneself against weakness. To make oneself more numb. To acknowledge the existence of the incorrigible. ”
Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others

PLAYING WITH DOLLS. Los Angeles – 4/19/2012

I’ll never forget seeing the stacking. The pyramid of people. Man on man, all aces, the sadist’s cards, and we all fall down.

All told, Abu Ghraib is old news.

Then again, what news is new when it comes to war. Variations on a theme.

Some people do the dying, some people do the killing, and some are stuck in between. Stuck in a stack. Stack of parts: of people and their remains, of photos and the roles we play.

Yesterday I read in The New York Times that the LA Times published some photos of GI’s in Afghanistan. The GI’s? They been posing for photos with dead people. And the US officials? They be asking the LA Times not to publish the photographs. So give them a hand for publishing the photos. Yeah, give the LA Times a hand – dead hand on the shoulder. Give them a pat on the back with a dead hand. Give it to them, since they gave it to us.

Oh and the soldiers? Come on man, they just messing around with their newfound dead dolls. Army’s 82nd Airborne Division in the house. Afghanistan. 82nd Airborne’s Fourth Brigade Combat Team from Fort Bragg, N.C. Can’t anyone lighten up around here? Jesus. We’re just playing around.


War has it’s own version of the carnivalesque. All fool’s day. Puppet playing. Here, the actors become directors, the pawns become kings. And here is the snapshot of trauma: A solider looks to the side smiling. In the background is a dead man. Someone ‘s put the dead man’s hand on this soldier’s shoulder. And someone took a photograph.

It’s a pinched smile. Yeah, something’s pinched a nerve.

We’ll take a photo and we’ll post it on FB! We were here. See, this is when we were at war and I stayed alive and my friend, I killed him. But it’s all good, he’s got his hand on my shoulder. Yeah, he’s got my back. Get it?!

That’s not exactly what happened. These guys are paratroopers. They were told to find the remains and get fingerprints of an insurgent suicide bomber. They totally found their Disneyland destination in the middle of hell. And hell, they decided to grab a photo with Mickey, or whatever his fucking name was.

A souvenir of sorts.

The evidence of living, and yes of dying. In a temporal space; interiors. To me, this photograph maps the topography of spirit gone wrong. Spirit done gone. Spirit is dead, man. Nothing’s here but a machine.

The lens: both witness and buffer. This is real, I am here, I am not here, I am here-not-here. And everyone in the room is saying: this is so fucked up, actually, this is hilarious. Dude, get your camera, yeah and grab his arm. War is so fucking Godforsaken, it’s funny. Are you to tell me that anything is holy here, because, look, I don’t feel a thing.

Yes, Sontag: to steel, to make numb. Yes, to essentially mock the system of war and it’s outcome – that being, Death. Yeah, do it like that. Now hold still!

I look at the photograph, I notice the soldier’s smile lines. Smile lines – probably got them back in the day, before all this, being over here, before reality changed. When I look at the photograph, it reminds me of South Park. Something about Kenny. How shamelessness is how you get a reality TV show and millions in the bank. How everything is up for grabs, yeah like a dead man’s hand.

When I look at the photo, the first phrase that came to my mind was: I see Dead People. Wherever that came from, it came. Came from one lexicon or another, but I never even watched that movie in the first place. I go to YouTube to just watch the clip from The Sixth Sense, going over the lines.

Cole Sear: I see dead people.
Malcolm Crowe: In your dreams?
[Cole shakes his head no]
Malcolm Crowe: While you’re awake?
[Cole nods]
Malcolm Crowe: Dead people like, in graves? In coffins?
Cole Sear: Walking around like regular people. They don’t see each other. They only see what they want to see. They don’t know they’re dead.
Malcolm Crowe: How often do you see them?
Cole Sear: All the time. They’re everywhere.

Trauma, it’s an altered reality, where all the players, paratroopers and suicide bombers have death in common, in different stages, yes in the theatre of war. They only see what they want to see. They don’t know they’re dead. The dead man’s dead, he doesn’t know shit. But he might be better off than everyone out of the bunch. Living dead can be the worst.

Sontag writes, “Photographs objectify: they turn an event or a person into something that can be possessed. And photographs are a species of alchemy, for all that they are proved as a transparent account of reality.” This photograph is an overlay, it’s an expression. At face value, it’s an expression of ownership, soldiers dominate the dead and in turn the war, by making light of it. In the dollhouse, bringing light to the dark. To own that shit. The art directed moment – hand on a back- an attempt to express supremacy over circumstances. It’s clear that movement towards dominance is always rooted in fear. We’re all wrecked. Whatev.

War requires shut down, it’s trauma. The spolier is that Bruce Willis has been dead all along. Just a ghost.

The whole thing is real-not-real. Spirit is long gone. We’re past a Memento mori drive-by: “Remember your mortality” “Remember you must die” “Remember you will die.” Death to all, done deal.

And I’d say that everyone’s a victim, and no one’s a victim. This depends on our make up. How we metabolize and respond to events. We make choices to join in- spectator, actor, author. What preceded the photograph? What happened after? Count the cospectators, count the ghouls.

Yes this act is morally wrong, indecent, has trumped the rules of war. Yes. But that is not the first thing I see.

The thing I see in total is a document of trauma. I see a failed attempt at dead soldier and his dead soldier pals using a dead man like a doll for comfort. I see some guys with a camera working to transmute what they all got, the fucking pain of it all. The war churned the pot. The debasement of each soldier’s spirit is intact. A death mashup of varying degrees.

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