Rauschenberg Runts

Rauschenberg Runts
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

January 10, 2008, New York City:

Ten of the photos in this set were taken of the crowd at the new Robert Rauschenberg Runts exhibition on opening night at Pace Wildenstein.

I kept hearing everyone asking, “Are these paintings?” Amazingly, they really do look like photographs.

“The paintings Runts on exhibit each measure approximately 5' x 6' and are the smallest works the artist has produced in many years. These channel surfing montages are assembled from Rauschenberg’s archive of photographs, which he then transfers onto polylaminate synthetic material mounted on aluminum panels. Runts represents a decades-long involvement in transfer images that began over 50 years ago transferring the medium of photography into painting.”

And yes, Jessie, he was there; he’s still alive, in a wheelchair, but after 60 years of shows and hundreds of solo exhibits, he's still quite alive…

The Exuberance of Enervation

The Exuberance of Enervation
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

“Youth is a gift of nature, Age is a work of art.”
— Scott Allen, Senior Citizen, World Class Ironman Triathlete —

The alarm went off at 6:15 this morning, blaring like a feline-bitch in heat.

I wanted to throw a rock at it, but there were no rocks around and I was in the middle of turning 15 again.

I tried to pretend the high-pitch mewl was melodic, a euphonic complement to our phrenetic rhythm. Alas, pretending didn’t work.

Then I tried to simply focus on the slippery—and—the somatic, the brushing-touching-feeling, the almost-there, the novelty of never-before, the challenge of overcoming all obstacles, and the sheer pleasure of feeling like an utter brute within the soothing grasp of ineffable beauty.

At last, the release and the relief were immeasurable. I had to hit the top of the clock a number of times before I could get it to shut the fuck up.

Catching our breaths, we both acknowledged the aching desire to just go back to sleep.

Alas, there were ailing patients to attend to and piles of paper to push. The warm stimulus of the shower offered some consolation, and the promise of a good-sized cup of coffee also helped allay the consequence of our all-night revelry.

Once again, we had marked the passing of time with an exuberant embrace of one of life’s simplest, yet greatest, pleasures.

Once again, youthful vigor usurped age and reason.

Once again, I am elated to suffer utter exhaustion—for it is a small price to pay for the exhilarating experience of feeling 25 years younger.


“Youth is when you're allowed to stay up late on New Year's Eve. Middle age is when you're forced to.”
— Bill Vaughn —

The Price of Happiness

The Price of Happiness
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

The sun had set at 5:30 and I was on the 6 o’clock bus rolling through the Meadowlands.

My eyes grew heavier as the rush hour slowly came to a halt, eventually proceeding as a puttering surge forward.

Worn down by another day of biding time, biting my tongue and nothingness, I was suddenly piqued; energized, my eyes popped open and a stream of dopamine careened downward through my shoulders and onto my toes.

Thoughts of wet spots and exhausting passages into the unknown made my valves open and close faster.

A touch of lingering laughter and remembering your smile released a deluge of soothing Serotonin—and I felt serene, once again.

Sometimes, I wonder who will pass out or die of bliss first; sometimes I yearn for more.

Yet, I often end up reminding myself to be careful of what we ask for.

For albeit perfect moments can be priceless, I’ve learned along the way the price we pay when we futilely attempt to extend them is not—it costs plenty.

Alas, only experience teaches us this. And even then, it is easy to forget—love has ways of erasing everything, especially if everything stands in the way of happiness… as short-lived as that may often be.