This painting - or # 9,000 in a run of 25,000 lithos, or whatever number it is - is actually not too oppressively congested with two dimensional sludge, for a Thomas Kinkade painting. It is almost observable without wincing or feeling like you have entered a land of psychotic teenage girls living in the attic with dusty dolls and deranged smiles on their eternally silent faces as they look at you, each with a dead infant in their arms they are trying to rock to sleep while giggling unnervingly.
This painting, unlike his claustrophobic "gardens" and "gates" and garishly vile miniature-golf bridges, is not like those. It almost has the pleasant freshness of an illustration in a 2nd grade school reader. "This is the story of Billy Goes Fishing!!" Something like that. I mean, don't get me wrong, it still has that crappy reflectance of bad craftsmanship, as though it is painted on glass or metal. I mean it comes nowhere close to demonstrating even one micron of painting or artistic talent: the mill looks like a fucking toy and the body of water looks like a greasy oilslick. But there is actually an open space between the lackluster tree and the condensed stone structure and above the building that seems to have some breathable air in it, or, if nothing else, a place to flee to to escape the rest of the painting.
And the water crashing over the rocks, seeming to fly upward into the air as if from a conduit, in fact, has a kind of cleansing aspect to it, as though it has gathered a lot of the excess paint in the picture and poured it off into the black eerie lagoon below.
In fact, it is this very waterway that I would like to focus my attention on. There is such a thing in all art forms called "license." Artistic license is what, in Western Culture, is the concept or practice or allowance or decree or some similar sort of vague idea of "permission" that "permits" the artist to - if he wants to - render null and void every law of Nature if he so desires to "make his point," or - if he is not making a point - to "do his thing, you go, girl." That sort of thing. The viewer, in other words, closes his own personal rulebook and becomes a willing sponge to drink-in the artist's effort to visibly depict his own viewpoints or expectations or ideas or convictions, or as L. Ron Hubbard might say, him and the viewer are "getting into the game." That sort of thing. Still - we do hold the artist to some
conventions and agreements within the silent contract between the creator of the art and the audience. Whether the audience is just the artist himself alone, or another person.
As L. Ron Hubbard also says in his very interesting short treatise on art, art is communication. Communication involves two people at least. Before you think I am touting Elron's Empire of Avarice, he also said Jesus Christ is an implant in our heads and that he never existed. I know of no other being in earth history he has ever said this about. Only Jesus never existed, to Ron. He never existed!! Even the Jews - Jesus' killers - say quite matter of factly that of course Jesus existed. Nobody in the business of "historian" denies that Jesus actually lived and died as a recorded fact of recorded history. Nobody denies the historical fact and reality of the man Jesus. Only Elron says.....he never existed!!!
It's, like, it is very important to him personally that Jesus never existed. And actually I know why he must deny the reality of Jesus' life and existence but right now I am discussing this Thomas Kinkade painting and I do not wish to be interrupted. Whoever it was that got me sidetracked, no more questions, I have work to do here.
So an artist is entitled to "do his thing." He can also expect to get ridiculed and shredded for it whether or not he fucks up in the process. And so it is, therefore, that I would like now to discuss this waterway that is gushing like an Army Corps of Engineers-constructed diversion tunnel at Hoover Fucking Dam.
This river or creek is an anomaly even in a cover painting for Astounding Stories.
The river comes from two different directions such that it either divides at the mill or else it comes from two different waterways. If it divides at the mill it has to be eating-away at the terrain upon which the mill stands because this is no babbling brook or thought-relaxing rivulet meandering through the tranquility of time. It's a fucking monster. It could turn that waterwheel and a couple of turbines besides. Leave it to Thomas Kinkade to fuck-up Nature in ways that no other artist could ever manage to do even if on mescaline. It's like he is some form of barely-functional imbecile who has no understanding of even the simplest aspects of the "nature" that he so reveres and admires and slaughters in his paintings.
What the fuck kind of river is this? It is surging with such force from all directions at this location... what keeps the mill from being washed away in this annual snowmelt tsunami? I mean if this is summer, what the fuck happens here in the fucking Spring? It's gotta be like a fucking
typhoon at this location when april rolls around.
As you may or may not have noticed, the water enters the waterwheel from a structure on the second-floor level on the right of the building. How is the water from the river getting way the fuck up there? Kinkade says "Don't know, don't want to know."
The sun is on the left, judging from the shadow of the tree, but the inexplicable rainbow on this summer day is dead-ahead. A phenomenon impossible on this planet. The rainbow would have to be 90 degrees to our right where there is no image, based on where the sun appears to be. Even in a science fiction cover this is ridiculous, as any fantasy painter would agree. But Kinkade's customers are unlike any known creatures in any known or unknown scenario of life, either on this planet or on any other. They are like idiot androids, devoid of judgment or discernment or intelligence or experience or education or sense. Their money is every bit as spendable as Einstein's or Neils Bohr's and that's what counts in the Kinkade Kanvas Krap Kult.
Someone really needs to do a PhD research paper on the nature of a Kinkade Kustomer. A full blown exploration of the nature of the faulty psyche that says "Ok," to the salesman closing the deal on a Kinkade horror. It would be the first doctoral thesis to hit the NY Times best seller list.
This painting is actually exhausting me with it's bewildering mixture of near-pleasantness combined with its flagrant abuses of God's Natural Laws. Even by Satan's rigid standards of perversion and nightmare this is a mind-boggler.
I would like to add, speaking of L. Ron Hubbard, that not only did he say Jesus never existed - he also says that he did exist and that he was a boy-lover. So whether he existed or not, he gets a large barbed pole rammed up his ass by Elron. So take that, Jesus; whether or not you existed; for as far as Elron is concerned you are shit, whether you are real or whether you are not. I would call that quite a hatred, hating not only the reality of Jesus but also the non reality of Jesus. He hates the very idea of Jesus. I wonder what Jesus did to piss Elron off so bad he hates him as a reality and as a myth. Wow.
I would also like to add - getting back to the painting - that the millhouse depicted, where murders abound and where the rapist's laughs and the victims screams go unheeded - it is built apparently in the Ccenter of the river. It could clearly accommodate two waterwheels; or maybe even three, there is that much water flowing. It could house many more waterwheels at least for the short time it will remain standing before it is washed away when the two channels of flowing caustic soda eat-away the foundations where the bodies are buried. I mean this is not "artistic license." This is "How brazenly insulting architecturally and engineeringly can I get before my mutton-headed customers catch on that I am fucking with them like no bullshitter in history." Apparently pretty brazen. 100 million dollars worth of brazen. And people wonder why a Muslim Kenyan illegal Marxist homosexual is President of the United States.
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