Chronics -most of us- are machines with flaws inside that can’t be repaired, flaws born in, or flaws beat in over so many years of the guy running head-on into solid things… (Ken Kesey, One flew over the cuckoo’s nest) American geography nurtures a suburban imaginary confronted between the pristine pools of glass Californian houses and backyard inflatable tubs of southern big rambling shed, among armfuls of those young bodies chiseled by the libido […]
Life is a game of chess lost beforehand; the important thing is to participate. Medieval painters represented death playing chess with their victims, a time when our provisional, ephemeral nature was more accepted than now. macabre dances, vanitas… were reminders not exempt from underground sarcasm. A black humor that somehow was lost with the pathos of the Baroque memento mori. Gino Rubert recovers the irony associated with our existential decay, adopting a festive-pop tone debtor […]
