Stillwater Cottage, Badwater Vibe

In this picture we are once again safe and secure in familiar Thomas Kinkade Nightmare Village Hell. As you may remember, Friendship Cottage, the previous entry and just below this one, entered strange and unfamiliar territory for a Thomas Kinkade painting: It did not immediately snap your aesthetic-sensors into a seizure of vibrating electroshock paralysis that caused horrific, uncontrollable screams and shrieks to fly from your voltage-besparked vocal cords. But here, with Stillwater Cottage, we are once again on old, reliable, familiar Thomas Kinkade loam. Once again we feel that acrid constriction of the spirit and we gaze into the abysmal dark, uniformly bland, contrast-free bizarro cartoon world of invisible beheaded bunnies and decompression-chamber dogs long-since hauled away. We once again stand in front of a world of sad, clinically-depressed ghosts staring back at us via the spirit-wires of haunted communication and we feel their pain and their sadness and their fear at the scarily distorted world around them. Bad as both paintings are, this one has NONE of the positice aspects that somehow crept-in and almost overtook the one below it. In this one that claustrophobic glut of revoltingly colored STUFF surrounds everything in sight. Glut overpowers more glut, like looking into the bweilderingly occupied interior of an obsessively-gathering, ritualistically-collecting, human packrat's house. Except Kinkade collects plants, ducks, streams, buildings, off-putting colors, dismal non-existant shadings and non existant variegations of impossibilities of the color spectrumin known life forms and compresses them all together into a two dimensional wall of STUFF that by sheer accumulation of supposed NICENESS is somehow going to make us yearn for it. Let's look at the molten mercury stream for a moment, a standard artifact in all Thomas Kinkade maelstroms of inanimate entities. In THIS cottage picture it drips languidly in lazy, meandering slumber down a 90 degree cliffside in complete obliviousness to gravity and six other laws of Nature, which if this was a properly depicted stream in that location would be a wall of decending mudslick and brown water sheets. It would NOT be in a dainty little streambed
of restraint and delightfulness. Kinkade's idiot Christian customers, blinded by the light of Jesus that makes you walk into walls, and mesmerized by the painter's proclamations of his personal sanctity, are somehow as a result not bothered by such
fuckass bits of defiances of the laws of nature. For this is a fantasy cottage. This is what his emaciated, withered, soon-to-see-Jesus-and-hopefully-not-get-sent-to-hell customers think that heaven is like: a lifeless, paint-pasted shoe-sucking sodden vertical landscape of dementedly illuminated two-dimensional ooze. Trees from a thousand different galaxies line the paths and surround the house and rise up into the skies in the distance and create an environment unlike anything either on earth OR in fairyland. It is just a morass of trees of all shapes, sizes, colors, varieties, some of the probably even mammalian and reptilian, we just cant see the tails, but they are probably there. Not that meteorology counts for shit in a Kinkade forest but that configuration of warm clouds in that fairness of sky and in this balminess of scene, with, you know, the geese and the
suffocating bursts of growth in the tropical density of jungle growth in the palpably humid air would NEVER generate a freezing wall of fog such as is visibly advancing from some invisible sub-zero Arctic ice-flow onto this toxically barometric pressure cooker. I mean, NOTHING makes a lick of fucking sense here, even for a fairy picture. Only in the mind of Thomas Kinkade is the alls-well bell sounding in this emergency room of madness.