Picture Me This

picture.jpgFidgety Feet, Eddie Condon once said, “Krupa’s drums went through us like a triple bourbon.” It was always a booze reference with him. Allen Ginsberg understood that “poets are damned, but see with the eyes of angels.”  Some would say that Jackson Pollack clearly knew what he was saying “that a painter really sees who he is in his work.” e. e. cummings believed we should not waste a day without laughter. Anais Nin wrote to experience life more than once. An advocate for theater, the arts for all, Joe Papp believed that loosing them to the “rich” would be like paintings with pieces missing from them. Dawn Powell knew all too well that the need for going overboard is a requisite for a full-grown mind. Freewheelin’ and scruffy, Bob Dylan’s rollin’ stone gathered no moss. Emma Goldman saw red. She wrote red. Red led her to the Soviet Union and back; lonely, alone and a whiter shade of red. Eugene O’Neill’s last words: “I knew it. I knew it. Born in a hotel room and died in a hotel room.” Poor, dear, feminist Edna St. Vincent Millay was burdened because men, women, everyone fell in love with her, annoyed her, excited her, distressed her so. When is a urinal not a urinal? When Marcel Duchamp titled it a Fountain. An honest man, Marlon Brando said  that “The only reason I’m in Hollywood is that I don’t have the moral courage to refuse the money.” A pro-choice advocate, controversial Margaret Sanger spoke some bold and chilling statements.   She wrote in 1939 that “We do not want word to go out that we want to exterminate the Negro population.” “Good writers,” Edward Albee stated,  “define reality; bad ones merely restate it. A good writer turns fact into truth; a bad writer will, more often than not, accomplish the opposite.”

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