Cobblestone Bridge

This is called Cobblestone Bridge. It could be called Jimmy Horowotz, it wouldn't affect one's response to the "painting." The bridge leads to a structure that has 7 funnels of smoke coming out of 5 chimneys, and which smoke is rising to the cartoon skies above. What the fuck is going on in there, Nazi's burning Jews? It can't be that fucking cold in there, it looks pretty calm on the outside, there's a fucking swan relaxing dead beneath the surface in the sewer, so what's with the fucking infernos? The building next to it has the fires on too. There's another house on the left that has the coalfires blazing. Is everyone inside all the houses insane? Are the buildings actually on fire and the flames just haven't come through the windows yet? Let's see what our artist has to say about this inspiring wonderland of incineration:

"Recently Nanette and I explored a new corner of the British Isles: the Hampshire region in southwest England. As we walked its quaint paths, I felt a longing for a time when rambling was a preferred mode of transportation. Cobblestone Bridge is bathed in the light of a golden nostalgic sunset, the glow of oil lamps, firelight in the thatch-roofed cottages, and the yearnings in my heart. The stately old bridge is constructed with fieldstones and the thatched roofs are built up from bundles of reeds. In the world of Cobblestone Bridge, man and nature live in God's perfect balance. While we visited, Nanette and I shared in that harmony.

— Thomas Kinkade"


Cobblestone Bridge is bathed in the light of the yearnings in Thomas Kinkade's heart. Good God Awmighty. If this ain't poetry and inspiration in a bottle I don't know what is. I thought I liked the painting before, but now, reading this, I am squirting cum all over the room from my now astoundingly-huge-with-delight dick. I am driven to wonder, amid all this poesy, what would actually constitute the yearnings in Thomas Kinkdade's heart? After all, he is never too specific about his swooning, Life's Super-OK utterances, you know. They are generally pretty fucking vague and nebulous and nougat-like in their ease of digestion. They are not really measuring rods of exactitude. They are not exactly words that would push anyones' buttons. He does not use a highly-charged communicational tone. Things are generally pretty laid back and relaxed, in a kind of "Jesus is right here with us thanks to me, don't you know" sort of way, you see. Returning to the picture if I may?....this truly is a wonderland alright; the stream in the backround portion appears to be terraced. As though it is a cobblestone stream. That IS nice. A stone-terraced stream. It's like Disneyland for parchment-brained octogenarians with Alzheimers who see this sight new, every second, with no ability to accrue any kind of judgement upon it. So let's install a terraced stream!! Who gives a shit!! Only geezers will ever see it: and geezers are, as I believe I said before, totally fucked up, so, as I believe I said before, who gives a shit. For this is the Disneyland of Little Painted Pik-tee-yew-werzz. A world of eye-pablum for idiots. He says the scene is bathed in the light of sunset. This is clearly something only Thomas Kinkade can see, for one reason or another. Nothing in this picture is bathed in any kind of light other than the all-present pallor of uniformity. It is like the viewer has just operated a gigantic flash attachment that has illuminated all surfaces equally. Paintings of things in the sunset do not get any worse than this. What gets me is that he actually ruminates on this artistic squalor and rambles on about things nobody else can see, like someone talking about a giant rabbit next to them. There is one good thing to be said about the Thomas Kinkade "art" phenomenon: it should efficiently destroy the litho, glicee, paint-spray painting-duplication business once and for all. So all you painters with some actual talent who live off your reproductions?....when enough of this guy's pissed-off customers accrue enough knowledge from their own folly and get halfway educated about art and as a result your own business falls victim in the backlash, you'll have this guy to thank. He's like a one-man mortgage-loan
house of cards Or in this case, house of lithos, glicees, computer-inked dupes, and inherently worthless originals.

Thomas Kinkade In His Own Fawning Words

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Garden Of Promise

"When a close friend lost loved ones, I was amazed to see the serenity and peace that filled his heart. It was almost as if, despite the hardship of parting, he was already anticipating the joyful reunion that lay ahead. He reminded us that he would "see them again soon." I chose a garden with a rambling stone walkway climbing up through flower hedges to illustrate my tribute to the hope many of us share of the better times that lie ahead.

— Thomas Kinkade"

This is the Garden of Promise. Would you go in there? The silvery fog of eerie chemical particulates wrapped in vapor is encroaching pretty close in this one. Usually this spectral fog is farther off in the distance. Here it's right on the other side of the gate. The gate of the garden of promise. Whenever I see someone with peace and serenity in their heart at the loss of loved ones I start to look for a motive for murder. Thomas Kinkade however sees things different. He admires the guy. And why is the fellow going to "see them again soon"? Because of the suicide after the family slaughter? And where IS the fucking garden he "chose." You can't even see it. There could be an alligator pit in there. He HAHA also "chose a garden with a rambling stone walkway..." When the fuck does he NOT choose a rambling stone walkway, fa crise sakes. He's got the things coming out his and our asses. And how the fuck does that illustrate hope. You can't even see IN to that fucking garden. It's crawling with toxic gas. This painting, just as a painting, does not present a garden: it depicts a barrier. There is not even a subject matter in this painting. It's just some stuff with creepy-colored plants all over the place. He chose a garden with a rambling stone walkway. My fucking ass he did. I can't get over this. Where the fuck is the stone walkway rambling to. It never gets the CHANCE to fucking ramble. It's hardly even present. It's like he's taunting the reader of the description to try not to get pissed. I guess he knows his readers, none of them ever do. They go-along with all this muck and blather.

The Girls

I hate to pick on the guy's kids, but he has four girls, Everett, Chandler, Merrit, and Winsor. Anyone but me see a pattern here? Or perhaps the AVOIDANCE of a pattern? He's giving MIchael Jackson a run for his money in child nomenclature. I see red flags, like a Childe Hassan painting from hell, all over the place.

Kinkade Christmas Action Toys

Above is this year's Christmas Abomination from Thomas Kinkade: the Ken&Barby versions of Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Jesus looks a lot like a sleeping Gerald McBoingBoing. Joseph and Mary look like Watusi-length inhabitants of a Star Wars planet. Joseph seems to be carrying a shepherd's crook, even though he was a carpenter. Maybe he's holding it for Jesus for later when Jesus becomes The Good Shepherd. If it's a walking cane Joseph will have to stoop to use it, it's so fucking short. Perhaps it is an umbrella against the fierce Bethlehem rainstorms. The two modeling-agency Protestant American Jews seem to be both wearing Ed Hardy-designed dresses, or, perhaps, Bobby Trendy bathrobes. For someone like myself who comes up with expressions like "Jesus Jewboy Christ," and "the goddamned fucking Bible." you would think I would be the last person to throw stones with the word "blasphemy" painted across them. But, I dunno, I think this mess outstrips even my worst offenses. I am especially admiring of Mary's hair, it is very fetching, reminiscent of Kat Deely or Farrah Fawcett. It would not surprise me if Thomas Kinkade does not come out with a lingerie line of dollwear for Jesus' mom, then his little Mary figurines can be sold in Victoria's Secret, which I do not think would jostle his sensibilities one bit.

The Garden Of Prayer

"Perhaps in a garden we are closer to our creator. We certainly are closer to His creation. My prayer is that this painted garden will be a meeting place for many that would speak to their God in the silence of morning.

— Thomas Kinkade"

The above quote is what we in the writing business call "twaddle." It is not just ordinary twaddle, it is a sterling example of it. Three short sentences, each of them blatheringly meaningless. In the first sentence creator is not capitalized. If Kinkade is Christian , which he goes out of his way to imply, then he is a very rude one. The Christian God's synonyms are always capitalized. Except when I use them because I AM a very rude Christian. Perhaps in a garden we are NOT closer to our creator. Especially one with a gazebo because gazebos are where you try to get to first base. That's what they are FOR. Seducing females. Since gardens are man made we are closer to a human creator in a garden, which is hardly a divine being. Bow your heads now, Thomas Kinkade would like to pray a moment: his prayer is that people will assemble somehow inside this terrible painting and and speak to "their God." Not necessarily his God. But theirs. Whoever the fuck he may be. Baal? GAOTU? Zeus? Dagon? Cthulhu? Sure, that would be fine. No actual Christian who knew what the fuck his religion was all about would ever have THIS for a fucking prayer: that everyone pray to "their God." And praying in a gazebo ain't what you do in a gazebo. Trying to get a handful of tit, or trying to get a handful of female fingers under your ballsack, is what you do in a gazebo. Who the fuck's he kidding. I don't think Senyore Kinkade has started painting minarets yet, but when he does I suppose the twaddle will have a more Middle Eastern flavor to it.

Something For The Children

"My Sugar and Spice Cottages is the first collection solely devoted to "dollhouse" cottages that any little girl would love to live in - especially my own daughters, Merritt and Chandler!

- Thomas Kinkade"

Of all the Kinkade abominations, this cottage takes my prize as being by far the most foul. It isn't likely that his daughters had any more choice about whether they would actually want to live in this suffocating enclosure, as he says they do, anymore than they had a choice about their own male names. I can only guess he wants them to grow up tough, and if they survive school, having those names, I am sure they will.
   This kiddie structure has creepy oilyness splashed all over its lurid surface. Any child who entered this lace-roofed, cloth-covered, deep-woods den would have to have a screw loose, and if he didn't they would all be loose when he emerged. If he emerged. If ever an artist was desperately issuing a subliminal cry for help, then he would paint this. It screams "Please keep an eye on me: I'm not sure I can hold it together much longer." You will notice that the grotesque overgrowth, present in all of his paintings, is even more menacing here. The plants, and whatever those trees are, are compressing against the squat little claustrophobic isolation tank with an added hollow enthusiasm. The house itself might be a plant, it certainly isn't masonry or any other known building material. It appears to be bizarrely-shaped clothing, or a blowup tent covered in
sound-muffling moving-mat material. John Wayne Gacey would not go in there. But Kinkade's sending his girls in. WTF????

The Robert Girrard Years

" Gazing takes us to just such an exquisite French vista as inspired the original Impressionists. A lithe, graceful young lady, dressed in white and wearing a bonnet, gazes out across a glittering lake toward a distant village. She stands under a single, slender tree, entirely absorbed in the scene that captures her gaze. The mood is one of breathless anticipation. It is not only the girl who holds her breath in order to enter into the perfect tranquility of the moment; it is us as well. As she gazes at far horizons, we, in turn, gaze at her, hoping to join in her beautiful world.

-Thomas Kinkade"

Astounding even to me Thomas Kinkade once used a "brush name," as he calls it. I have never known of a painter to do this. This is weird even by Kinkade standards and he more or less has a lock on the aberration. This actually-endurable painting is called "Gazing." Mr. Kinkade-Girrard is not a master of titles by any stretch of anyone's imagination including Timothy Leary's.
He also is possessed of, among other things, the habit of telling you what he has painted in words that are not representative of what he ACTUALLY painted. He tends to optimize, in other words. Or in fact exaggerate. Or rather he creates an entirely new work altogether in his blurbs from what he painted on the canvas, later to be offset lithoed hundreds of times at 500 bucks per sheet. An Actual Artist does not tell you what he has painted. He just paints it. You are on your own as to what or why or where he did it, it is not the painter's job to do YOUR job for you. Your job is to respond, or react, or contemplate, or stare, or ignore, or scratch your balls or pick your asshole. The painter's job is to move on to painting a new painting, and, I really hate to say it, more or less tell you to go screw yourself. In fact a lot of them will tell you that right to your face. Thomas Kinkade would never dream of behaving in this manner, even if he really was chomping at the bit to do so. In fact, this horrific monstrosity of the paintbrush does exactly the opposite: he tells you what he wants you to convince yourself that you are looking at, first on the list being A Good Painting. Now, while this particular painting is actually a cut above all the others I have brought to your attention so far, his declarations of its merits are equal in vigor as his declarations regarding the Clearly Putrid ones, like "Bridge of Hope," for example. So in other words, he either has no clue what the fuck he is painting and thinks they are all equally wondrous, or he is lying about either the good ones or he is lying about the bad ones. So he is either an idiot or a liar. I personally think he's a liar. I am pretty sure that he knows he is painting swill for idiot, half-blind 90 year old bath-free-for-20-years old ladies who think Obama is a credit to his race and that real music died with Lawrence Welk. In fact that would be a great name for Thomas Kinkade: the Lawrence Welk of wall-decor.

Living Waters, Golfer's Paradise, Hole One, Par Three Hundred Thousand

"If there were a golf course in Heaven ..."

" Like many people of faith, I have often contemplated the glories of heaven. Christ said he would prepare a mansion for us - could he also prepare a divine garden setting where in we might pursue a recreational game or two? (Or two or three thousand?)

Imagine the possibilities: not a care to interrupt the stroll through the verdant grounds, not a deadline to interfere, not an interruption to beckon. Bliss, pure and simple, and a fragrant walk through the morning light as one pursues the perfect round.

-See you on the links! Thomas Kinkade"

This is Thomas Kinkade's idealization of the Perfect Golf Course. One created by God Almighty. I am not a golfer but I know enough about golf to see that if this is the first tee, it's gonna be a tough game. This ain't a course where the players got there by not swearing. Because there's gonna be some whopper blasphemies breaking the clouds right from the get-go. Do you see a fairway anywhere in the vicinity? I see a sand trap dead smack in the middle of the grass 50 yards to the left that ends in the usual Kinkade diseased brush, and if the fairway bears to the right, that purple tree is gonna catch 50% of the balls and that
unwatered, stick-dry orange tree on the left is gonna snag the other 50%. That fucking terracotta vase thing right near the tee is gonna rattle the equanimity of even the most serene golfer, wondering what the fuck it's doing there, and that stone
patio in the foreground has got to rattle the guys waiting to tee off. Maybe it's there so they can grind out cigars with their feet. Though that's tough to do in cleats on stone. Sadly, the Kinkade heaven looks just as grotesquely painted as the Kinkade earth, with that same silver-white mystery fog in the far distance to make one wonder if a chlorine cyanide truck exploded upwind, loosening its lethal airborne chemicals from its barrels into a death-forming cloud and sending it quietly on its way toward the viewer.

Streams Of Living Water Killing All The Fish

"The stone walls of the chapel seem to grow out of the earth itself, while the pristine waters of the stream cascade in the distance. Deer, birds, rabbits, even a frog gather in humble and silent witness to the unity and harmony of the creation. And over all, the glorious vault of the heavens unfolds another glistening morning.

— Thomas Kinkade"


Just because Thomas Kinkade pronounces something To Be So, does not make it so, unlike when the real God does it. Nothing in this creepy cartoon suggest via any artistic virtuosity that the stone walls of this "chapel" grew out of the earth. This does not make even one lick of sense, not visually, not metaphorically, not symbolically, not with even the most muscular imagination available to the most imaginative human being on either side of an insane asylum. It looks like a frigid, cold uninhabited structure made from blueprints drawn-up by a simpleton who failed design school that is just plopped down into place by the hand of a gigantic cupie doll. And what is the "creation" that these farm animals are so mystically attracted to like
enlightened renunciants? That sterile wooden eerie lifeless structure in the middle of nowhere? This is what has so mesmerized them? And why is that: because of some potion in the purple trees that leeches into the water supply? "...even a frog...." Well, my, my: a FROG, you say!....I'll take it!! These animals ARE Christians, I take it? I only ask because I do not see any cross of Chrstianity depicted on this building. Maybe it hasn't come up out of the ground yet.

Bridge Of Faith

"For me, the world is enriched by images of faith. In the Garden of Promise collection, I look for those moments of revelation, of joyous acceptance, that comprise our common spiritual experience. Then I look out into the world to find visual images that reflect the truths of my walk with God.

— Thomas Kinkade"

In these three sentences above the ever self-effacing "Thom" uses a personal pronoun regarding himself four times: me, I, I, my. Then he mentions God. Who Thom walks with. I know a little bit about God. I don't see Thom anywhere in His vicinity. I know I would never allow Thom to walk with ME. As I look at the Bridge of Faith and as I look at the words of Thomas Kinkade regarding the Bridge of Faith I don't see any fucking connection between the two at all. The words are one big ball of PROSE blather and the bridge is another big ball of PAINT blather, and I don't see any interaction or connection or referencing between the two of them other than them both sharing the blather connection. I don't see much difference between the Bridge of Faith, here depicted, and the Bridge of HOPE, elsewhere depicted. They both share the same pink, purple, and silver flora, and they both look like they have invisible trolls living underneath them. I DO notice, though, that the Bridge of Faith has a rope guardrail on one side. I suppose for people of LITTLE faith, or at least people whose faith is not as firm and resolute as Thom's is. The Bridge of Faith, I cannot help but notice, passes from one location into another location very similar to the location preceeding. Or in other words, the Bridge of Faith, once it is traversed, doesn't take you very far, either in physical distance or in spiritual distance. Things look pretty much the same whether you are on one side of the Bridge of Faith or the other. It goes from one group of lichen-infected trees on one side to another similar group of day-glo colored trees on the other, from freaky over here to just as freaky over there. So why is this a Bridge of Faith? God only knows. Maybe Thom, during a lull in the happy banter between him and God, maybe he can inquire why, since God most likely inspired him to paint it in the first place, he might ask Him why He had him do this. Or in other words, Thom?....why is this a bridge of faith and not just of stones, there, buddy? Or maybe I should ask you, why is it not a Bridge of Bullshit? But perhaps I can answer my own question. Perhaps it is a bridge of faith because Thom believes that bad as this picture is, it will be a sellout in all editions. And in fact it happened just that way. So in other words, Thom's faith in the stupidity of others has been reaffirmed. Now I see it. I can only pray that he makes another 100,000 copies available soon. I will buy them all.

The Mansion Series

"In my new Mansions in Paradise series series, I try to create mansions truly worthy of a paradise, whether earthly or heavenly. At once majestic, comfortable yet human in scale, Lakeside Manor, first in my new series, nestles along the shore of a cobalt blue lake. The gardens are lavish with flowers; radiant sunsets last for hours. This grand mansion is complete with cozy nooks where you might comfortably settle in for a warming cup of tea. A weathered old stone bridge invites visitors to stroll the verdant grounds, while the brook at the left provides a tranquil background murmur sure to make the spirit soar

-Thomas Kinkade"

Thomas Kinkade not only paints inferno-engined cottages that are burning with the fires of hell within tranquil purple and maroon forests, he does the same goddamned thing with larger structures too: dwellings more suitable to the tastes of the
upper-echelon demons of Perdition to live in, not just the tossed-off mini masonry elf houses for the drones and worker-soldiers of Lucifer. Welcome to Lakeside manor. Notice the "lake." It's two feet across. What would Kinkade consider to be a pond: something wiggling in a petri dish? He describes it as a cobalt blue lake, even though to me it looks a more sewagey grey brown ash mud amalgamy stagnant asphalt-methane tar pit color. But, yeah, I would say "cobalt blue" would also describe it. If I was a 99 year old delusional great grandmother two days away from eternity at the hands of a pillow-plunging male nurse in the home. As with the cottages, the back-end of the mansion picture, and most of the stone structured paintings, have a peculiar whitish haze of light emanating from some mysterious source behind the blue trees or on the other side of the violet hedges, as if it is overcast over on that side of the forest or if a supernatural ice storm has erupted amid the tranquil Spring evening. Or morning. Or whatever time of day is supposed to be occurring, which is impossible to tell in a Kinkade painting because the "light" that he paints, being the "painter of light" that he fucking is, this light has no visible source other than some monochrome illumination much as one might find in a Daffy Duck cartoon, but without the entertainment value. A vague silver sheen penetrates the backside of the Kinkade Woods like an oncoming radiation cloud of phophorous isotopes. Or is it receeding? Has it already passed through? That would explain the inexplicable colors of the Kinkadian Life Forms: the blue trees: the brown leaves: the lime treetrunks: the pink bushes: the maroon hedgerows: the orange lawns: the yellow cows: the lavender ducks: the silver streams. I SUPPOSE, in the Kinkade Religion, this Spackle-hued emanance is supposed to be the light of some diety or force or vapid atmospheric confluence of barometric oddities designed to put one in mind of "the eventual rightness of things," so that 90 year old women whose vaginas are dragging on the ground behind their wheelchairs can take some comfort in the delusion that they are not really about to go out of existence for eternity. Hey, Tom, whatever works, I'm good with it, bro!

Kinkade Fucks Up Sin City

Moving from single dwelling nightmares to fucking-up the greatest city on earth is nothing at all for this virtuoso of the ghastly. He has turned the greatest monument to capitalism and the human enjoyment of life on earth, Las Vegas, into a cartoon swath of lifeless paste. And isn't this what a real artist does? Take life and energy and transform it through the miracle of his talent into an imbecilic glut of paint? You would think he would at least take the trouble to put the buildings in their proper locations with each other, but he was apparently too busy inventing a few listless structures to plop into the motionless maelstrom of stale, sticky visual cotton candy to bother himself with anything resembling locational accuracy. For you see, to him, Thomas Kinkade, The Grand Architect of the Universe, creation - human or otherwise - is his to reshape and turn into a deviant's vision of unholy ugliness. Sanctified and spiritual as he is I don't know if he has ever gotten around to gracing us with his own personal visions of his Own Personal Jesus, but I bet when he does - and he sure as fuck will - Jesus will be in a dress, wearing garter-belts, he'll prance with a Nijinsky-like nonchalance, and be tossing flowers behind him over his shoulder with a gay insouciance. He'll turn Jesus into a monstrosity like he turns everything else he paints into one. Look at what he did to Las Vegas: he managed, with his unstoppable genius for pablumizing the planet with his syrup and spongecake version of the Midas Touch, he has managed to do a rendering of the Strip that not only has no known relation to the accurate configuration of the world-famous structures on the world famous Strip, he has turned the very terrain and reality and LIGHT of the place into a
vapid, dreary dollhouse painting that you would find on the side of a cheap schoolyard lunchbox. I emphasized "light" because this eye-assaulting menace calls himself a "painter of light." In fact he is a destroyer of light and a replacer of light with an atmospheric ichor. No life form with any amount of internal health could long survive on a Thomas Kinkade planet. Even if they were to manage to endure the Kinkadian pressure cooker of vapid, caustically colored shellacked miasmic weather and the invisible steam of suffocating vegetation drowning in its own treacle, their souls, and even the souls of their pets, would be pulled down hard into a torpor of despair and hopelessness. This truth hits even harder when one views the actual painting of his called, of all things, "Bridge of Hope." You have no choice while looking at it and contemplating the title other than to say over and over in your head "Whaaaat thuhhhhhh fuuuuuuuuhkkk..." For the Bridge of Hope is a bridge even the most optimistic Pippi Longstocking would blow her brains out on as soon as she saw it and saw that it harbored no hope, no help, no sustenance, no reassurance, only hollow laughter from underneath it where the deformed troll laughed at you for even being here. But fucking up the landmarks of the most famous stretch of road on earth is not enough to satisfy Mr. Kinkade's need to
debauch everything he depicts, nope, he needs to alter the rotation of the earth as well. He, as you can see, has the sun rising or setting - whatever the fuck it's doing - at the end of Las Vegas Blvd. Either the north end or the south end, it's impossible to say since he has completely raped and then killed the building topography that actually exists there. However the sun never sets OR rises at either the north end or the south end of the Strip Road: it rises and sets in the east and the west. In other words, this picture could not be more fucked up even if it WASN'T badly painted.

Blogger has to backpedal: It has been brought to my attention via Kinkade's own atrocious blog that the view of Las Vegas is looking West. This SORT of makes sense, even allowing for the missing sight of The Strip Roadway. I am not sure the famous Welcome to Las Vegas sign is at that location but I do know that the light from the Luxor pyramid looks like smoke from a Kinkade chimney. I have fucked up. The building are more or less properly located after all. So this is now a fantastic work of great art. My apologies to Mr. Kinkade. UPDATE DEC. 28, 2009.......Hi everyone!! Long time no been here!!! Well!! I was in Las Vegas for Christmas and I stayed at the Luxor. As I looked out the 25th floor window of the pyramid room, I was able to see the vantage point that Tommy Kincady was at when he painted the "unusual view" of the Strip. It turns out he would have had that view of the Strip that he painted if he was at the Hooters Hotel and Casino!!!!! - which is just due east of the strip with the MGM Grand on the right and the Luxor on the left. That Jesus-loving rascal. It's like he wanted to get caught. I wonder if the wife and kids saw the same view of the Strip that Tommy did when he was getting that "unusual view" of the Strip. From that unusual perspective. That the Hooters Hotel provides. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I love these pious Jesus Fucks, "Oh I'm so holy, I pray to Jesus, you can trust me now!!!" Fucking swine. There's a sucker born every minute.

"Evening At Swanbrooke Cottage, Thomashire

Walking trails accompany even the smallest stream in England, and on a summer's evening a peaceful stroll beside a gently whispering brook is guaranteed to restore even the most burdened soul. On one such evening walk in England, my family and I came upon the idyllic cottage on which I based this painting. With lush gardens and the constant murmur of the tiny brook, I can't imagine a more enchanting setting!

— Thomas Kinkade"

This is certainly one of the most heinous cottages in his whole panoply of sanity-rattling paintings, and before you start checking your bank balance I have to tell you, this image is, I hate to tell you, sold out. Mr. Kinkade "can't imagine a more enchanting setting!" I think I could if I didn't have my skull circuits overloaded with mescaline. But if I had a headful of PCP I have to admit, this is about as tranquil a spectacle as I could conjure. I wouldn't want to be even on this property much less in the house. I would be too afraid of whatever three headed lavender cyclops would come out of the psychedelic woods, which appear to be in the process of encroaching upon the structure, probably to devour it, since it looks a lot like food. Living in what appears to be a gigantic cake cannot be anyone's notion of enjoyment, but like I say, this particular masterpiece has been sold out. It is on the walls of ten thousand clearly deranged residents who are gazing upon this scene with sighs of longing and quiet frustration that they cannot actually be inside the place.

Pinecove Cottage

Ya know, I wouldn't be pickin' on this guy's art if he wasn't selling more paintings and photo offsets than Rembrandt. I mean, these paintings shit to high heaven, a place he mentions often in his self-promoting confessions of sanctity. I mean, lookit THIS fucking nightmare of glowing sludge. What the fuck is going on in that house that the fucking yard is being illuminated like Candlestick Park at 8 o'clock in the morning? And why isn't there a fucking breath of onshore-flow from that Straits of Magellan hammering the sea is giving the two inch frontage of that ship-wrecking shoreline that has a pine forest two feet away. Pine trees do not grow tall and thick by crashing seas in locations pleasant enough to build an elfin cottage so becalmed by magic that the smoke ambles airward as relaxed and serene as if basking in a Death Valley mid August summer. What the fuck is going on in that house that merits interior lighting strong enough to cook the grass outside?....nuclear experiments with heavy water? Wouldn't the fucking eye-searing lights inside be enough to heat the place, you need TWO fucking fireplaces going too? What's going on in there, is a volcano bursting through the goddamn floor? Who besides a moron would find this a relaxing scene? It's a fucking supernatural nightmare of impending disaster about to spill-over onto half the continent in an explosion of horrific cataclysm! But actually, nope, not at all, it's a normal Thomas Kinkade lunatic tribute to H.R. Giger and Howard Phillips Lovecraft disguised as Christianity as experienced by a possessed madman. It's a whirling cornucopia of Natural Law run amok. Let's see what the Artist has to say about this:

"I especially enjoy coastal areas where the rugged rock of the shoreline is densely grown with lush pine forest. Here life is doubly dramatic—for the surging crash of waves is answered in turn by the song of the wind in the sturdy evergreens. To clear a secluded piece of ground in the forest and build a cozy stone cottage suitable for a lifetime of seaside moments—that is a dream I'm sure is hidden deep in each of us.

— Thomas Kinkade"

As usual he begins with himself. He tells us what he "especially" enjoys. Well, that's great, Tom, probing ever-deeper into your
profoundly intriguing likes and enjoyments is something no one could ever get tired of, it is like mining a goldfield of thought, insight, and philosophy. The "dramatic...song of the wind" seems to run out of energy as soon as it reaches the languid smoke of the chimneys. Judging from my admittedly amateur status as a meteorologist I would say the "lifetime of seaside moments" in that cottage at that location would last about two days into the first storm of October. Perhaps however this is a rocky, pineland coastline in rural Nebraska. Or maybe it's on a planet in the Dagobah System of Episode Two of Star Wars. I wonder, has anyone but me has noticed that a lot of the trees in the "lush pine forest" are dying? Oh, and is that a STREETLIGHT out there in the middle of the yard? Is that thing supposed to reassure me that the owner is sane, and come on in? All it tells me is that the owner is nuts. And is it electric? Where are the power lines? Am I supposed to assume that this remote cottage of Gramma and Grampa on an uninhabited peninsula of Northumberland has underground powerlines? Is that where the owner stands to read the paper at 3 in the morning?

Clocktower Cottage

"Clocktower Cottage is a meditation on the nature of time. Two events inspired the painting: the birth of a friend's baby, followed by a visit to a dear old man, who calmly told me we would probably not meet again in this life. I was struck by how, from first breath to last we are enmeshed in the mystery of time.

— Thomas Kinkade"

I have not altered the color of the ink in this painting or print. It really is done in various shades of grape. I was ESPECIALLY moved by the poignant philosophies expressed in the Thomas Kinkade Thought Process and Meditational Insights regarding things that probably never actually happened. I mean this son of a bitch just has a few too many Poignantly Pat situations and memories to suit me. I wonder if his customers are also so studiously aware of the passage of time as is the fellow painting the offset lithos they are buying for hundreds of dollars with gargantuan print runs and if they realize that the older they get the more worthless these prints will be, sort of like the Oreos package in your trashcan right now. which, incidentally, is easier to look at than this painting. But what the fuck, let's take a LOOK at this painting. It's a cottage with a clock tower. So he says. Even though I cannot actually see a clock. I do see what looks like a pendulum in a window, a very huge one that could not possibly swing through enough degrees of arc in that confined an area considering it's size, to ever operate. Not to mention that it is far too short to function either. The ichor-like meandering stream outside the place has what looks to be standing water, not flowing water, being slowly released from a collecting reservoir in the backround with a very small dam, such that if it did overflow it would uproot the cottage and disintegrate the mud and sand that likely holds the larger blocks together. It would disappear during its first winter on that flood plain upon which it has been built. I don't mean to interrupt my critique but I want to know why he would never meet the "dear old man" again. Was he on his way to San Quentin to be executed? And who the fuck does this motherfucker think he's kidding with this load of horsecrap about two incidents "inspiring" this particular "painting." EVERY GODDAMN PAINTING HE DOES IS IDENTICAL TO EVERY OTHER! NOTHING "INSPIRED" THIS ONE OTHER THAN HIS OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE NEED TO PAINT SHITTY COTTAGES!!!! I have decided that the thing in the tower is a bell. The cottage has a BELL tower, not a clock tower. This make no difference to Kinkade, as far as he's concerned it's a clock tower. I do see what appears to be the face of an analogue clock below the bell. Surreal apparitions in his paintings are never a problem for Mr. Kinkade, they add to the jumbled charm, and after all, they are going to be purchased by jumbled people, why confuse them with an actually good painting at this point? And just to illustrate how unintellectual this horse's ass is, he knows and I know that this painting is not a reflection of any kind of meditation on the subject of time and time's implications. He would not be able to have a meditation about anything except how to sell a shitty painting to an idiot. This is just another shitty-cottage garish mess. There is no "depiction" of any kind of "reflective thought process on a theme of mortality" here.
There's just a shitty painting of a green cottage surrounded by purple trees in a soulless environment.

The Christmas Cottage

" A dream has come true with the release of Thomas Kinkade's Christmas Cottage, the first in a number of inspirational movies about my difficult boyhood. As I re-live what were, despite many hardships, golden years, I realize that God must have had a hand in some of our miraculous escapes. The home payments we scraped together, the injuries we barely avoided, the holidays we somehow managed to celebrate - these are my small dramas.

In the film, I'm at work, painting a study of Christmas Cottage, -- the radiantly lit, loving home that sheltered and supported the development of my character. We are releasing the official Christmas Cottage print especially for my many loyal collectors.

-Thomas Kinkade


More collectables and information at the Thomas Kinkade's Christmas Cottage movie store

Visit the official movie site for the latest movie information including a personal video greeting from Thom, movie trailer, photo gallery, cast information and more. www.ChristmasCottageDVD.com"


I will not be especially critiquing this painting or print or whatever the fuck it is, because the printed material accompanying it is so astounding. I mean, you have to almost admire the colossal fucking Ten Times Jew level of sheer utter nerve and moxie
of this guy: he's a billionaire selling shit and he's whining and weeping about how tough his childhood was. Oh for a private detective to actually research this long suffering saint. I smell a load o' bullcrap huge enough to absorb all the water in New Orleans from the storm George Bush caused. Is it possible anyone on earth actually gives a rat's ass about this self-absorbed- painter version of an Amway Representative? I mean, ok, ok, ok, he's been married for 300 years, he has ten daughters, he had things tough, this crap shack on the river means so damn much to him, and he hides his kids' initials in the trees like Bev Doolittle hides ducks in the reeds, Jesus Christ, God Almighty, His very own Lord and Savior, give it a fucking rest, dude. He has learned THIS and he has learned THAT and his life is peaceful, and the storms are quieted, and he sees that the path of tranquility is the path of pancakes and syrup.....I mean when you are this low-a-level of pontificating narcissist, can you imagine the below-low level of SYCOPHANTS that he must have adhering to his skin? And another thing: about this "shaping of his character." How did this godawful apparition of a haunted whorehouse manage to "shape his character." And what IS his character: someone who is CAPABLE of painting pictures you can actually look at without having to spend two subsequent weeks in the hospital to recover from, but instead paints the overturned contents of psychedelic toilets? What kinda "character development" DOES that. Is his "character" someone who can spill as many blathering bromides and rancid platitudes onto a page as he spills gargoyle-ugly colors onto a canvas? And what the fuck is it with the goddamned mother fucking "Christians" who are convinced it is so fucking important for YOU to know - not only what unprovable supernatural events THEY believe in - but you also need to know that THIS FUCKING PREOCCUPATION WITH PERSONAL HOLINESS THAT THESE FUCKING MONSTER SELF RIGHTEOUS CHRISTIAN BASTARDS WALLOW IN is, heh heh, psssst, always a little bit of a sideshow come-on to get you into the tent. I was raised in a traveling carnival. I can smell a self-righteous con ten miles away. Whether it's bad painters claiming a good seal of approval from the diety, or whether it's the Masons dressing you in their buttless apron and saying with self-righteous insistence that it aint gay..... it's all the same bullroar.

Nanette's Hellhole

"Peacefulness and tranquility are such precious commodities. As I look upon the undisturbed waters surrounding Nanette's Cottage, I am reminded of simpler times in my own life. Some sixteen years ago I had the chance to lead a quieter existence - some might even say that it was during this period that I first learned the serenity that has become the essence of my art. It was during an extended stay in southern England that I first discovered that life moved at a kinder and gentler pace for those who would seek it. Our evening walks as a young family often led us to the cottages that lined the meandering stream at the center of our village. It was on one such walk that I discovered a cottage that in my mind would always be linked to my life partner, Nanette. "I would love to live in a cottage like that someday" Nanette had remarked at the time. Now, as we prepare for our 27th anniversary and the advent of my wife's birthday, I at long last give to Nanette the gift of that cottage as in years past I have given painted cottages to my children.

Surrounding Nanette's Cottage are the distinguishing elements of the good life: an enduring faith as symbolized by the spire in the distance, physical recreation as symbolized by the row boat with its proud sailor aboard (Nanette's childhood teddy bear); and the glowing lights from within the cottages symbolizing the pleasures of hearth and home. Here is a place for all to rest from life's toils. Perhaps, like me, you long for such places as the seasons of life get busier and more filled with stress. Here then is a resting place for all who long for simpler times.

- Thomas Kinkade"


It's good to know that this son of a bitch's life is going so well even though he is the most hideous painter making more than 100 dollars a year on his sales in history. It is especially heart warming to know that he is aware how important the details of his evenly-keeled emotional states are to YOU. Because he is going to never stop telling you about them. They add so much to his art, don't you think?....hearing him speak as vapidly and pastily as he paints. Well, let's take a look at Nanette's Cottage, shall we? As we gaze relaxingly through the green and red and orange and blue and grey and yellow and brown and ocre and maroon and violet and tan trees, we see that the sun is still somewhat high above the horizon and yet all the lights are on in Nanette's Cottage. Fortunately she can afford the light bill, her husband is a trillionaire selling shitty paintings inspired by Jesus. If this is true Jesus is one fucked-up connoisseur of art. If this is true Jesus really needs to get himself into a remedial fine arts program and try and shake the shit out of his system. I THINK we are supposed to assume that electricity is not really the light source in the cottage or even in the invisible village in the distance with the Gothic cathedral, the steeple of which rises 5,000 feet into the sky. Which means that fire is the light source in all the rooms with windows. We are supposed to look at the lights in the windows of this cottage and wish we were inside, which would EXPLAIN Kinkade's insistence upon painting hellish exteriors that would frighten a werewolf into galloping away into a dark forest of death and despair in order to lift his spirits. I am not sure that is in fact his motive, to get the viewer to want to flee inside the house rather than stay outside, but it would, like I say, explain the gruesomeness of the outside areas a little. But I don't think Mr. Kinkade is really that satirically alert. I have a good radar system for satire myself and I don't really see any satire at work here in the OUVRE of Thomas Kinkade. I see only calculated crap at work here in the ouvre of Thomas Kinkade.

The Bridge Of Hope

This (above) Thomas Kinkade assault upon humanity, in all of humanity's rightness and wrongness, and its (above) assault on all of the history of the visual arts in the long, long journey of mankind and humanity; this, assault (above) and atrocity (above) and malformed blasphemy upon all that is right and holy (above) is called the...... "Bridge of Hope." Now then, you would expect something called the bridge of hope would be maybe just a little bit BIGGER than this, wouldn't you? I mean, given our history as a species? Ya know, what with the wars, and the diseases, and the executions, and the mishaps, and the follies, and the miseries, and the travails, and the taxes, and the jury duty... you would expect that that Bridge of Hope would be something with just maybe a little bit more steel and span-length to it THAN THE TWO-FOOT CADAVEROUS CONSTRUCTION OF PEBBLES AND GARLANDS AND FUCKING TEA LEAVES THAT YOU SEE HERE, WOULDN'T YOU???? Yes, of course you would. You would in fact think that that fucking goddamn Bridge of motherfucking Hope would at LEAST be able to carry a tad more weight and have a tad more elbow room for more than one person at a time, wouldn't you? And maybe for someone who WEIGHED A BIT MORE THAN THE THREE OUNCES OF AIR THAT THIS NARROW PIECE OF HONDURAN TINKERTOY CONTRUCTION OF A BRIDGE WOULD BE ABLE TO SUPPORT, wouldn't you???? Well, whatdafuck, maybe that is what the "hope" is: the hope that the goddamn shitty little homosexual footbridge constructed by the the Lollipop Guild while on mescaline doesn't collapse if anything larger than the embryo of a ferret scampers over it. But apparently Thomas Kinkade doesn't put much stock in hope. Apparently HE has very little need of any hope. What does he need to hope FOR?.....he already is worth ten billion dollars, and climbing daily, due to the sales of paintings like this, and offset-reprint sales of paintings like this, and, my lordy, just admitting you LAID EYES ON ONE of his paintings should
require of you some sort of royalty payment to the man I would think, since he is so spectacular a talent. So why does he need hope? So maybe that is the meaning of Bridge of Hope. It's the bridge of hope for Thomas Kinkade. A bridge he does not need.
For he has nothing to hope FOR. He has more than he deserves already. The balance ledger is wayhayhay out of whack: what he gets for handing you one of his "artworks" is a whole hell of a lot more than what you get for receiving it. For after all, he gets cold cash. While you get a worthless piece of shit. You think this disparity bothers Thomas Kinkade? Fuck no, he thanks JESUS for it, fa crise sake. But I WOULD think it would bother YOU, if you ever PURCHASED one of these Treblinka Holocausts in two dimensions. But I ain't never heard a complaint yet from anyone. Thomas Kinkade paintings are kinda like the arts and crafts version of Obama, Michelle, and The Range: never is heard a discouraging word about any of 'em.

The Kinkade Creed

"Family And Faith

A devoted husband and doting father to their four daughters, Kinkade strives to lead a balanced life, committed to family values. Kinkade creatively fills his paintings with "love notes" by hiding the letter "N" in his paintings as tribute to his wife, Nanette. His daughters also find their own messages of love from their father as their names and images often appear in many of his paintings.

Kinkade credits the Lord for both the ability and the inspiration to create his paintings. His goal as an artist is to touch people of all faiths, to bring peace, and joy into their lives through the images he creates. The letters he receives every day testify to the fact that he is achieving this goal."

This is one of the positive, Goebbels-like, propaganda utterances on the Thomas Kinkade site. He actually, Lucifer-like, credits the Diety - in this case, Yahweh, the God of Moses, the Father of the Messiah Jesus, the Creator of the universe - with his own unyeilding need to sin against aesthetics, beauty, wholesomeness, joy, art, and his relentless dedication to creative acts most foul and artistic behaviors most unnatural. In other words, he blames God for his own sins. And then, knowing no limits and obeying no sane or decent constraints, he hauls his innocent, unsuspecting wife, and his stainless, unsuspecting children, into his slathered universe of hogslop paintings and vile aborted landscapes of
creative perversion. Nothing stops him. His crimes and felonies multiply themselves before our eyes and ears and all of our senses. The paintings aren't bad enough, he runs to push his family into the frames, to embed them there, like bodies in cement barrels, to sink, not into the sea, but into the History of Bad Art. Forever. For a thousand eternities of unending punishment and hell. Oh, villain most foul: what evil have these innocents done to you or anyone else to deserve this treatment? Ha: he will be slow to answer truthfully. For they have done nothing to deserve it. Why hide them, Tom? Why hide them inside the pictures via bits and pieces of cryptographic lettering? Why not just impale them, whole and entire, in their own dripping flesh and blood, onto the canvases? Just flay them alive and use their own skin in the pictures!! At least then at some point they would return to the dust from which they were made!! But, no, you have to paint their names into the canvases so that they will last as long as the pestilent houses do. MONSTER!!!

The Green Felt Jungle

Walking into a Thomas Kincade "gallery" is like walking into a perpendicular pool table universe: everything is empasted into green felt that is dimly lit, like one of the subterranean passageways in Alien, except the walls aren't black They're green. All that is missing for that perfect creepy Kinkade Charm is the wetness dripping down the walls and the vapor rising up off them and Sigourney Weaver walking around terrified, with a flame thrower. The emerald green of the dark parlor is decorated with reproductions of Thomas Kinkade "paintings." I put paintings in quotes because - in my opinion - they are more like warning signs. Things you would post on a wall behind which were biohazards from other planets, other universes, other realities. His "Paintings" are lifeless, evenly lit little fairy scenes of cottages that the deranged, not the happy, elves from Brigadoon live in. A Mirror Brigadoon, a nightmare Brigadoon, that never disappears but remains above ground. Forever. The scenes within the frames are like Brigadoon scenes but kind of diseased versions of them, like a plague of bad, tasteless candy swept through the land and everyone ate some and then died of a dull and listless form of diabetes. If there was an occasional body hanging out a window, it's belly draped across the sill and its arms hanging down into the lawn, it would give the scenes a little more life, ironically. It would make them a lot less anemic and a lot less spooky. They would at least have the charm of an ill-attended cemetery. But there are no bodies, either dead or alive, no flesh, no blood, no bone, no muscle, no cartilage, no cells, no pulses, no energy, no blips, no beeps, no bags of oxygen expanding and deflating, no buzzing even of the flies upon the dead. For there are no dead. There are no bones. There are no flies. There are no evidences of anything ever having lived or died within
these zero-dimensional outposts of a soulless and pallid arena of spiritual emptyness. They are created by a rancid mentality and empty spiritual contagion of something beyond death, and almost beyond existence. And people cannot get enough of them.