Carrie Ann Baade - a funny tread on Facebook about Lisa Frank, someone I was blissfully unaware of until now. My world will never be the same again! 
It culminated in me taking part of a quote from Carrie Ann and re-posting this:

The following is a embedded post from Carrie Ann's Facebook page - I hope it remains, because if deleted, the embed will disappear also:

What are we talking about here? Just to illustrate the subject, here is one image:

To recover from the shock, please 
check out the art of Carrie Ann Baade here:

Ah, last night, good friends, and indulgences in the spirits at Saint Rossi's place where I marvelled at the efficiency of the attractive waitress in serving and at the same time generously spreading winning smiles into the crowd, like releasing doves of peace among the rabunctious revellers. The atmosphere was filled with the collective wisdom of the patrons, and became ever so more poignant and insightful in tact with the emptying glasses that begged for refills. I could swear the entity that hounds my liqueur cabinet at home, leaving only empty bottles while I am supposedly fast asleep, had somehow followed me here and did the same to my glass. But never mind, lets have another one!

Well into the night, and copious libations later, I decided to make my way home. As usually the case, the metro left just as I got to the station, and I had to wait for the next one, 15 minutes later. Just as I loudly lamented the fact that after 15 minutes the overhead display still showed 6 minutes left, the train arrived and the noise of squealing brakes drowned out my complaints. Nobody had listened to it anyway.  At this time of the night, other riders are usually in the same shape as I, so I did not attract undue attention talking to myself, since they were all busy doing the same or singing merry tunes, interrupted only by the hissing of the doors at every stop, people getting on and off and the occasional swoosh and sparkle of falling stars whenever my head banged against the window. What seemed like an eternity of clickedy-clack, stops and starts, hisses and squeals, the angelic voice of the canned announcer intoned "last stop, please leave the train" - which I obediently did.

I found myself walking the rest of the way, since there were no more buses from the metro station. What normally is a automatic activity requiring little thought input other than steering into the right direction, became under these circumstances a mental exercise of iron willpower over the conflicting actions of some of my appendages that seemingly rebelled against me and annoyingly did exactly the opposite of what I intended them to do. 

So just setting one foot in front of the other, alternating left and right, and not stepping forward simultaniously with both, became a task requiring full concentration. It did not help any that my right leg at some point decided to go to sleep and refused to move, and my left marched unerringly forward, which put me into a round-about spin that only a passing lamp post halted. Clamping onto it with both arms, the post ignored my exclamations of thanks and acted like he would sooner I'd leave him alone and be on my merry way. From the opposite side of the street, my better self that had detached from me  and watched all this in puzzled amusement, finally told me to get on with it and threatened to go home without me if I didn't get my act together.

Somehow I did manage to carry on and even find the keyhole to my apartment door, in spite that it misschieveously moved around whenever I tried to insert my key and only a stern warning to stop that nonsense made it hold still long enough for me to open the door. I don't remember getting undressed, which I managed only partially, because since I did not remove my shoes, my pants just went no further than my ankles - thats where they stayed as I flopped onto my bed. 

Rummaging through my library of dreams, I selected one pleasant enough to not give me any additional headaches. 

It is afternoon now, the next day (or so I hope.... must check the calendar....) but after a shower and a hearty afternoon breakfast I feel like .... well, like: 

I am still alive! 
Hallelujah! 

'The time has come,' the walrus said, 'to talk of many things: 
of shoes and ships - and sealing wax - of cabbages and kings.'

The times of manning the barricades have long since past for me. I no longer hold my breath waiting for change. Hoping, against all hope, perhaps, but I have no illusion that pissing against the wind will change the course of the Titanic. 
From time to time, articles such as "Successor states to an empire in free fall" appear that would promise a glimmer of hope:
"I believe that something different really is happening in today's cultural jungle. Something is stirring that hasn't been seen for 30 years. New theories are emerging with strange and wonderful names that aim to describe in detail a culture and society they say are found on the far side of postmodernism." - Alan Kirby -but alas, the triumphant proclamation: 
Postmodernism is dead. Wail and rend your clothes. Postmodernism is dead. The tyrant is vanquished! 
was probably a little premature. Like I said, don't hold your breath! From time to time, I might indulge in the occasional rant, such as in my post About "Modern Art" and its excesses or I may also pass on some observations such as I'm sick of pretending: I don't get Art - but.... refer to my Titanic quote above.

However, I cannot help throwing the occasional firecracker, little barbs that I am well aware of won't change the course of history one iota, but doing so is catharsis - it makes me feel better (hopefully, it makes you feel better also, that's the whole point).   Jeff Koons could probably care less about what I write, nor would he even know who the hell I am or why he should even care. But I do want to say right here that I find him to be a very engaging and likable individual, and I enjoyed the way he talked about his art.

Lets get to the point, after all this preliminary banter:

Nothing on the conceptual art scene today really surprises me: during my student days (77-82) I was involved with our student newspaper. I wrote critiques, also for our local newspaper and a few times for a national art magazine. Hence my signature "Self-portrait with the Critical Eye" from that period where I tried, tongue in cheek, to show the conflict between being an artist and a critic at the same time.
When I say nothing surprises me: I contributed on several occasions conceptual ideas to our spin-off paper that came out irregularly during carnival and at April Fools Day. It was called "The McLiarist". A few of these conceptual head-slappers I now recognize in contemporary con-art - could it be that somehow they read yellowed copies of this rather obscure (fake) student paper from way back when? Or was I simply clairvoyant?

So now, in the same spirit I hereby conceptualize the following (no need to actually make the object): As in the sixties the Vienna School had reacted to Lessing's Laokoon and particularly Ernst Fuchs had created his monumental work "The Anti-Laokoon" (from his period 1960 to 1970); the first artwork that Jeff Koons sold to a collector (for $ 3.000.-) was a basketball in a fish tank.

I therefore propose the 
"Anti-Koons" 
being  imaginary basketballs turned inside-out and filling the space of an otherwise empty gallery.

But unlike the space above, which is derived (or better said: "derivative") of Brian O'Doherty's "Inside the White Cube", this gallery space is not empty, but filled to the brim with imaginary inverted basket balls.

Last, but not least, I would like to share a bit of humor:

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