20 January 2025

overall, you’re cool

   So, the shit hit the fan.
   For day one, we offer you, dear Americans, a calendar – something you can use to cross off the days until this is over.

   A few words about us. Whatever people think artists are, we’re actually pretty normal. Some might say we’re midnight talkers, or that we sleep too late. We do. But we also work. A lot. We’re here and there – having coffee in a Parisian café, or chit-chatting over Guinness in a London pub. We eat pasta and drink Brunello in a trattoria tourists tend to miss somewhere outside Siena, walk and talk along the misty coast of Scotland, wander through Tallinn or Kraków, or drift through a Japanese garden (庭園) under cherry blossoms. We also sit in the reading room at the Louisiana Museum, overlooking the sea (Humlebæk, north of Copenhagen), or try to make sense of life in New York – in those places where, on a Saturday morning, some people still haven’t quite finished Friday night, and others feel they urgently need a drink before morning mass.

   It’s hard not to like New York. Or the States, for that matter. All that land, the national parks – Jesus Christ. Gifts from heaven. Well, apart from the bits that have been polluted or blown to pieces. Not that you’re alone in that. You did your share with the atolls; the Russians spent years dumping radioactive waste into northern seas. People are remarkably consistent in their stupidity. They do this everywhere.

   Still, we like you, Americans. Overall, you’re cool. Which makes it all the more unfortunate that you chose a criminal.

   For now, the calendar.
   All Best!

21 January 2025

idiot wind

   We listen to Bob Dylan, 'Idiot Wind' from Blood on the Tracks. The official line is that it's about a failed relationship. We don't buy it. What we hear is the wind blowing from Washington – or, more broadly, the Wind of Power. The song is an allegory of the American dream gone rancid. Funny how that keeps happening. Did we mention that art has a habit of spotting the rot before anyone admits it's there?

22 January 2025

shitty piece of reality

   We'll add a few words to our paintings. Don't take this as political commentary, for heaven's sake – we're just hanging out and chatting, mostly about art. But you know how it is. Sometimes we get hit with some shitty piece of reality. We try not to get mucky, but hey, we also take a moment to reflect on these miserable events. And we take notes. We'll share them with you from time to time. Hope you don't mind.

   Have a nice day!

23 January 2025

bolsheviks, brownshirts, hallelujah!

   Some say mass clemency was granted to all of the nearly 1,600 January 6 defendants. Excellent. Let those brave boys run around with machine guns, ready to defend their Master – and in the process slaughter lesbians, gays, cyclists, weirdos in rainbow-striped socks, anyone with pink hair or turquoise sunglasses. Yes, one's own small army of bull necks, dressed in leather or half naked but with buffalo horns, is terribly useful in difficult times – especially when someone dares to criticize the Master. Earlier, we mentioned the Bolsheviks who would not give up power and kept a militia to beat those who didn't follow. But there were others, too – the Sturmabteilung, or SA. Storm Troops. Also called Brownshirts. Same playbook, different uniform.

   Hallelujah!

24 January 2025

we need no mental viagra

   AI? No, thanks. We need no mental Viagra. We use our own brains.
   Look. We, the artists, spent some time at universities and academies of fine arts. They taught us to make art – also art history, philosophy, some even mathematics. They taught us sensitivity.

   We look for light in paintings. We know how Caravaggio's chiaroscuro differs from Tintoretto's Venetian tenebrism. We like cangiante and we can use sfumato – forgive us, Leonardo. We even know what unione is, but here the theoreticians fly off into the cosmos of their own mental turmoil, because they never held a brush. Colour is what we deal with. Have you ever thought of Andy Warhol as a subtle colourist? We also examine relationships in composition with the kind of care an American soldier gives to folding a flag for a widow – because some idiot politician sent her husband to war, God knows where and what for.

   In short, we try our best. It's our job. Normally, each artist develops their own style, but here we all work together, and everyone is free, so you'll see some diversity. Eclectic? If you insist. We dig into the latest ideas – sometimes even curators and gallery owners say 'Hey guys, that's too far' – but we also reach for the old masters. When you're in the Louvre, avoid the crowd of morons queuing for the Mona Lisa and go upstairs to see The Four Seasons by Nicolas Poussin. If you want to know more about those paintings, about the Baroque, whoever you ask will refer you to the most distinguished expert, Sir Anthony Blunt. Former Surveyor of the Queen's Pictures in the Royal Collection. A refined intellectual. Also a Soviet spy who gave Stalin what he needed to screw Churchill and Roosevelt at Yalta. We don't know who's helping Putin screw POTUS over Ukraine today – maybe a whole bunch of useful idiots, or maybe no one's needed.

   Are we obsessed? Maybe. Or maybe we just don't like Commies and Nazis. Since this muck seems to have settled in Washington in equal proportions, we feel sorry for you, dear Americans.

   So we make our art for you, like we said before – to cheer ya up.

25 January 2025

zuckerberg has pinched all the texts

   Yes, we use it all as it goes – take a bit here and there, some lyrics, bits of books, whatever comes to mind. We even dare to rummage around the Bible and all that sacred stuff. And y'all, whoever doesn't like it, go complain to Zuckerberg, since he's pinched all the texts in the world anyway.

   We recently mentioned Bob Dylan.

   In the beginning was the Word
   Man gave names to all the animals
   In the beginning, in the beginning
   Man gave names to all the animals
   In the beginning, long time ago

   Man gave the name of Agent Orange
   Long time ago, in Vietnam
   And now, in Washington
   And the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.

   Amen!

26 January 2025

penguins of madagascar

   Watching these two, we couldn't shake the feeling we were witnessing a new episode of Penguins of Madagascar. Skipper as the boss – convinced he's a strategic genius. Rico – capable of regurgitating anything on demand, no questions asked. Both paranoid psychopaths, naturally.

   Hillbilly performs the same trick. Open mouth, vomit out whatever the boss requires. A flawless reflex.

   You can cast Kowalski and Private yourselves. Washington's got an embarrassment of riches when it comes to the funny and the stupid.

27 January 2025

we don't want to start another religious war

   We've made a calendar for you, but we also want to join in crossing off the days as we await the joyful end of his reign. We wanted to pick one day of the week to mark, but theology got complicated. Sunday, perhaps, since the Almighty rested after creation? Except He didn't – He rested on the seventh day, Saturday, the Sabbath. And Catholics reserve Sunday for the Resurrection, not a lie-in. We'd rather not trigger another religious war, complete with riots and the enthusiastic participation of the Proud Boys and assorted defenders of the faith. So we settled on Monday. Safe, secular, and as of today – however you count – one full week since conception.

   Seven days. Let there be light.

28 January 2025

the beauty of me is that I’m very rich

   We wrote about artistic techniques, now a few words about materials. In general we use canvas and papers – linen by Museo, Flanders Canvas, and Claessens; papers by Fabriano Artistico, Hahnemühle FineArt, Winsor & Newton – but also normal brown paper, even copy/print paper, as well as Wenzhou rice paper, Hiromi Japanese papers and similar.

   We deliver our works protected against damage and moisture, as long as the post and couriers take care of the shipments. Please remember to protect them and store them securely, preferably framed.

   Besides:
   ‘The beauty of me is that I’m very rich.’

29 January 2025

language disguises thought

   We studied Wittgenstein: 'Language disguises thought' – hence our interest in language. We've already heard many of the insults and curses he uses against those he dislikes, but recently new terms have emerged: 'high-priority criminal immigrants,' 'radical indoctrination.'

   He could take lessons from his close buddy Putin, whom he trusts implicitly. The traditional Commie repertoire includes: 'instigators and parasites,' 'a wretched enemy of the people,' and our personal favourite – 'a festering ulcer on the nation's body.' And a lot more where that came from.

   Have a lovely day!

30 January 2025

ye grapes

   We occasionally pop into our favourite London pub, Ye Grapes in Shepherd Market. Avoiding rush hour, we can chat quietly and enjoy Thai food without breaking the bank.
   Last night, we received a rather mysterious email from a London lawyer who, firstly, requested anonymity (nothing new for us!) and secondly, said he collects contemporary art and likes what we do, but we should meet him to avoid problems. Admittedly, it was intriguing. We mentioned Ye Grapes, which he knew well, so this afternoon we sat in a corner on the red leather couches.
   A nice guy, impeccably dressed, as befits a London lawyer, who had just left the office. He offered us pro bono advice: ‘You guys, shouldn't sell even for a dollar, because online trading is increasingly subject to restrictions and international regulations, regardless of whether you're selling undies, ocean liners, or works of art, and regardless of whether for a million or a dollar.’ He added: ‘Yes, giving something of value for a nominal charge of as little as $1 could open up risk to the U.S. legal system of suing almost anyone. Not to mention the legal costs to fight for justice. All you need is one rich MAGA freak out to drown you in legal defence fees even before getting a date for a court hearing. It might be worth considering, since you're from different countries, to establish jurisdiction in case of a dispute. Honestly, I don't recommend UK. Costly.’
   He smiled, and started digging into his wallet, wanting to pay us a one dollar note upfront, but we immediately refused, offering to give him one painting for free. He thanked us, and after a moment's thought, added: ‘You know guys, maybe it's even a good idea to give these works away for free? You ain't in it for dosh, are you? I’ll think about it and let you know. For now, I think you'd better inform all that the decision to sell has been made, but hasn't been activated yet.’

   Lawyers have a knack for constructing unique concepts, must be admitted.

   We promised at the very beginning that we would keep you updated on sales and delivery details, but in this situation, we ask for your understanding; we are not currently selling.
   We will continue to show everything we do, and we give you, dear American friends, the right to copy and print it for your own use and hang it on your walls. Just to cheer ya up.

31 January 2025

hey guys, you really do have a choice

   Hey guys. You really do have a choice.

1 February 2025

guy heavily slaughtered every day

   Elon Musk publicly declared USAid ‘a criminal organization’.

   That guy doesn’t look too good. Don’t you think he looks stoned? We think he's just heavily slaughtered every day.

2 February 2025

hanging fbi agents from lampposts along constitution avenue

   His administration initiated a sweeping round of cuts at the Justice Department, targeting potentially hundreds of FBI agents and others who worked on cases related to the 6 January Capitol attack. We don't know if it's true, but apparently they plan to hang all the FBI agents and police officers involved in this investigation from lampposts along Constitution Avenue.

   There was one in Italy – he also thought he was great and very clever, and he got rid of all sorts of disobedient people. In the end, they hanged him too, by his feet. His name was Benito Mussolini. We, the artists, know nothing about hanging, but we read history. Power that opposes its own security services usually ends up worse off than those services.

   Hallelujah!

3 February 2025

lovely form, isn’t it?

   Another calendar comes in this lovely form, isn’t it?

4 February 2025

prelude to an invasion

   If his tariffs against Canada and Mexico are a prelude to an invasion of these countries, he will drill there.
   Drill baby, drill.

5 February 2025

plaza atlantic city, or maybe brothels

   He said the US would ‘take over’ Gaza and ‘own it’, a pronouncement that was interpreted as a potential endorsement of the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians.
   Will he build casinos there as successfully as Plaza Atlantic City? Or maybe brothels?
   No, he's planning the latter with his buddy Putin in Moscow, some say.

6 February 2025

already?

   His suggestion that the US would ‘take over’ Gaza sparked outrage among Democrats, who slammed the ‘insane proposal’ as a ‘dangerous’ threat to 2 million Palestinians. Congressman Al Green even announced plans to bring articles of impeachment against that fella over the proposal.
   Already?
   We, the artists, will remain jobless.

7 February 2025

straight as a die. hip hip hooray!

   'CBS should lose its license, and the cheaters at 60 Minutes should all be thrown out, and this disreputable "NEWS" show should be immediately terminated.'

   Right. Listen to the voice of a very, very, very intelligent fella, and remember: he is the most trustworthy, just straight as a die.

   Hip hip hooray!

8 February 2025

young and beautiful piece of ass

   If you're already well-known, it's good to have good media relations. Some people hire PR consultants. He doesn't need one; he's very, very, very intelligent.

   'You know, it really doesn't matter what (the media) write as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of ass.'

9 February 2025

gulf of mexico. drill, baby, drill

   ‘We’re going to find billions, hundreds of millions of dollars’, he said, adding he would rename the Gulf of Mexico.
   Drill, baby, drill.

10 February 2025

whatever nonsense he was saying

   And so it's another Monday; those lucky enough to survive can cross off another week. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for the thousands of Ukrainians murdered by Putin, even though that guy promised he'd end the war with a single phone call, in a single day, in a single week, or whatever nonsense he was saying.

11 February 2025

führer

   Elon Musk in the Oval Office claimed the ‘department of government efficiency’s' (Doge) goal was to ‘restore democracy’.
   Wow! He and his chief, the Leader, both seem to know a lot about democracy and certainly understand it.
   By the way, German for Leader is Führer.

12 February 2025

king of the universe

   He announced he would appoint himself chair of the John F Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and fire multiple members of its board of trustees.
   Right.
   He knows everything about beauty: 'The beauty of me is that I’m very rich.'
   Besides, we are waiting for him to appoint himself King of the Universe, if that is not too modest a title.

13 February 2025

perfect solution drill, baby, drill

   Inflation rose to 3%. Do you really think he cares?
   He knows a perfect solution: Drill, baby, drill.

14 February 2025

the hillbilly one more time, sorry

   The Hillbilly stunned the Munich security conference by accusing European leaders of suppressing free speech, failing to halt illegal migration and running in fear from voters’ true beliefs.
   This poor guy actually thinks he understands something about free speech. He probably learned it from his superior.

15 February 2025

he'd like to become emperor, asap

   ‘He who saves his Country does not violate any Law,’ he says, not knowing the phrase is attributed to Napoleon, who eventually declared himself emperor.
   He certainly knows he'd like to become emperor. And ASAP. Preferably tomorrow. For the good of the Nation, of course.
   Hallelujah!

16 February 2025

hillbilly supports neo-nazis

   The Hillbilly supports neo-Nazis in Germany.
   Anything new?

17 February 2025

help yourself!

   It seems you guys really like our calendars. Help yourself!

18 February 2025

do they eat golf balls yet?

   Cookies again, sorry.

   The thing is, we, the artists, even though we studied at various universities and read a lot of books (on paper – you know, white or almost white and rustles a bit), we actually don't follow what's all about cookies. But we've been told that if we don't post the appropriate information on the website, we'll be prosecuted. And it’s not about ICE or other guys in black suits with big guns sticking out, but about various local agencies like MI5, which, as some say, mainly deals with protecting British properties of guys in pyjamas who let visitors out of their countries' consulates on their own or in pieces in suitcases. Or Belgium's terrifying Rijkswacht, currently in disguise. Or the Stadtpolizei Zürich, if they catch you speeding over 1 km/h, they will, after prolonged torture, drown you in the Limmat River. Not to mention the German Schutzpolizei (reinforced by cronies from former Stasi), which until recently was tasked with protecting Nord Stream and other Soviet interests and now, having more time, or the French Deuxième Bureau, which will send us to Île du Diable for the slightest cookie violation – and no one will write J’Accuse…! And there is also the Polish president, as some say, a pimp and a thief of elderly people's apartments – if we don't follow the rules of cookies, will send us straight to El Salvador just to suck up to his buddy in WH, as well as Hungarian secret police, and if they catch one, will send to Putin to be devoured.
   So maybe it’s better with alligators in Florida? Do they eat golf balls yet?

   In all seriousness, we try our best to feed Cookie Monster and satisfy all his desires, well, except maybe the sexual.

   Bon appétit!

19 February 2025

if you are poor, go to hell

   Federal workers who were on their probationary periods were fired indiscriminately across various agencies, leaving gaps in aviation, nuclear safety, national parks, food safety and a host of other government jobs.
   Right.
   Why the hell do we need some fucking aviation or nuclear safety? National parks will grow, and food is good if you’re rich enough. If you aren’t, go to hell. Simple? Simple.

20 February 2025

independent agencies, do they still exist?

   He signed an executive order to expand his power over independent agencies.
   Do they still exist?

21 February 2025

long live the king!

   ‘LONG LIVE THE KING!’ that fella said of himself.
   What modesty.

22 February 2025

seriously?

   ‘Trump’s acolytes, riding high after one month of slash-and-burn rightwing governance, gathered for the Conservative Political Action Conference. Elon Musk appeared in sunglasses and a black Maga hat and wielded a chainsaw’.

   Seriously?

23 February 2025

just read nineteen eighty-four

   He asked the Supreme Court to let him fire the head of a federal agency that protects government whistleblowers. This is the last time he is asking, next he will fire the Supreme Court.
   You guys are lucky, you don’t need a crystal ball, you know your future; just read Nineteen Eighty-Four.

24 February 2025

have a nice day!

   Monday brings a new calendar. Grab a pen and cross off another week.
   Have a nice day!

25 February 2025

friends of my friends are my friends

   Yesterday, the US joined Russia, Belarus and North Korea in voting against an EU-Ukrainian resolution condemning Russia on the third anniversary of its full-scale invasion.

   Friends of my friends are my friends, some say.

26 February 2025

he’s gonna invade canada

   So, he’s gonna invade Greenland and Canada. As far as we know, both are NATO members, so when US troops invade, other US troops will fight against… US troops.

   Right.

   ‘You're an idiot, babe
   It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe’

   /from Blood on the Tracks; hope Bob Dylan will forgive, we think we can cut out any pieces we want, since Zuckerberg has pilfered all ever written/

27 February 2025

drill, baby, drill

   Drill, baby, drill
   This psycho seems to really enjoy watching others suffer. Birds... he doesn't give a shit.

28 February 2025

bon appétit!

   And we got what we deserved! Because of cookies! More specifically, because of what we wrote on February 18 about the police and various secret services in Europe that could punish us for cookie oversights. One gentleman wrote that we omitted Italy, Scandinavia, and Spain.
   Let us explain: in Italy, there's no problem. If you get caught, you say your uncle is in the mafia, and the policeman instantly turns into an ornithologist, searching the sky for sparrows or pterodactyls until you're far enough away. Carabinieri and secret service agents not afraid of the mafia don't have time because they're chasing tankers of used engine oil, which miraculously turns into extra virgin olive oil. The few remaining are looking for chemists who can replace the stench of used oil with the scent of freshly cut grass, almonds and other green vegetation.
   Scandinavia, well – if someone has a problem with cookies, they feed him or her to polar bears starving because of... you know, drill, baby, drill. And in Spain, everyone's on the beaches catching immigrants. Anyone returning to the police station instantly becomes busy collaborating with the Carabinieri in stinking engine oil/extra virgin oil matters as these are international issues; even Angela Merkel had one at the table of her favourite restaurant in Berlin. Whether this had anything to do with her fondness for Putin – we, the artists, really don't know.

   If you're curious about our opinions on other law enforcement agencies responsible for crimes related to our friend Cookie Monster, we'd be happy to share.
   We assure you that we feel safest in Liechtenstein, where there are about 30 police and five (yes, believe us, five!) secret agents – all busy checking who's leaving the bank with a suitcase so heavy they can barely carry it. And this time, it's not about a dismembered corpse.
   We recommend the Käsknöpfle with caramelized onions and a side salad. Local wine goes perfectly with it.

   Bon appétit!

1 March 2025

what a shame! two little sly guys

   Have you seen it? What a shame! Two sly guys with sticky little hands tried to trick a hero into some shady deal. They were bawling, waving their paws, pretending to be smart alecks, which they are not. Just idiots, sly types. Real losers.

   Shame. As a consolation, you are not alone. Your brothers-in-arms by a pond; the Prime Minister was BoJo-the boozer. During the Covid restrictions with the ban on meetings, he organized a party in Downing Street, he himself barely stood in front of the famous black door of No 10 with a drink in his hand and held on to the fence. Later, there was lettuce. Yes, as PM. Or something of the sort.
   In Hungary they have a fat thief who sold out to Putin a long time ago, and now he wouldn't mind invading Ukraine from behind. He only sticks to the EU cause it's easier to steal there.
   Slovakia has also joined the useful idiots. The Romanians are being equally pressured by Putin and those two swindlers from the Oval Office.
   Germany traditionally has a Chancellor, which sounds proud. One signed a contract with Putin days before the end of his term as a Chancellor to the detriment of Europe, and days later joined the board of directors with Russkies. Got millions, which is obvious. The last one, called Olaf Scholz, was sort of weak-minded; after Putin’s attack on Ukraine, he thought for a long time until he finally made a bold decision to help the Ukrainian army like all the others, and sent… helmets. Too bad not sanitary pads.

   And those two are real losers.

2 March 2025

his close buddy putin

   Some news: on the advice, or maybe on the orders of his close buddy Putin, he's gonna give him half of Ukraine. Hey, man, but Ukraine doesn't belong to you! Maybe you could give your buddy something of yours? Maybe Alaska, unless there's Bagram Air Base there.

   ‘You're an idiot, babe
   It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe’

3 March 2025

brand new calendar

   It’s Monday; brand new calendar.

4 March 2025

land of hope and dreams?

   The fallout continued from Zelensky’s disastrous Oval Office meeting. Senator Chris Murphy said Trump’s White House had in effect become ‘an arm of the Kremlin’.
   Land of Hope and Dreams?
   We hope The Boss will forgive us.

5 March 2025

avoid being hit by splattering shit

   We've already written about painting techniques and the materials we use. And a little about art. It's time for a few words about what $1 Art for America is doing and why. Of course, this isn't about mocking those two clowns in the White House; they're mocking themselves. We strive to paint the ultimate perfect painting – like every decent painter on planet Earth, a monumental work of art, and we're using those two merely as a vehicle, just like researchers for a cure for cancer use mice. By the way, pity the mice.

   We started with very simple images, like school posters with portraits. Now we're starting to simplify, but also complicate, searching for form and structure until we arrive at a painterly synthesis.

   We follow in the footsteps of the greats; we strive for light in painting like Tintoretto, except that he sought divinity, trying to find the depths of biblical events and present them as he imagined them, while we observe reality as if through a pane of glass. We don't delve into it, why would we? We know that politics stinks and politicians are generally boringly predictable; they express views based on polls, looking out for their party's interests, and mostly, their own. In democratic countries, political life is short, life goes on, and one must take care of one's future. Renovating a house at taxpayer expense, an additional apartment in a prestigious district for those few years spent in government, and high incomes from doing nothing in the future. This is the case in London. In Italy, successive prime ministers and ministers are linked to the mafia, not to mention the Vatican, which is busy covering up sex scandals and financial frauds. In totalitarian states, power tries to stay forever, and allows the most loyal to steal. In other words, it buys loyalty by allowing others to steal. What the hell could be interesting about that?
   That clown is a different story. If a politician causes a mess in Rome, London, or anywhere else, it's more likely to be local. He can cause a global mess that affects everyone. Usually considered the leader of the free world, sounds proud. Now, he's bulldozed his way to power, and goes off half-cocked making a mess of things.
   Look at the Madonna dell'Orto, a church in Venice, and Tintoretto's Adoration of the Golden Calf in the apse. It's all about it. Just like this short AI video showing Trump's golden statue in Gaza converted to a resort. He saw it, reposted the video, and he didn't do it as a satirical joke.
   Look at the other Adoration of the Golden Calf by Nicolas Poussin, the same shine.

   Why does this seem worth our attention?
   Tintoretto's mannerism and complex compositions, distorted perspective and expression, and the Baroque Poussin with all its drama and splendor are brought together in this single video as a caricature of modernity. This contemporary reality isn't creating some new eclecticism, but a garbage can, a waste container. The leader of the free world wallows in such a cesspool, while we, the artists, hide behind the glass to avoid being hit by splattering shit.
   Enjoy!

6 March 2025

zuckerberg committed the greatest theft

   Since Zuckerberg committed the greatest theft of works of art in human history by ‘pirating’ millions of books and is not behind bars, we believe that we can also use one sentence without asking anyone for permission. With the hope they ain’t gonna send us to El Salvador.
   Moreover, Zuckerberg stole from resources of Soviet provenance.
   We amiably copied this sentence from a book, believe or not – a paper one. What's the deal? Some ask who we are. So take this sentence, make ‘me’ plural and here it goes: ‘If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.’

7 March 2025

small loan of a million dollars

   ‘My father gave me a small loan of a million dollars.’

8 March 2025

it's a wonder that you still know how to breathe

   He said he found it easier to deal with Russia and appeared to sympathize with Vladimir Putin after massive Russian air strikes that followed the decision to stop US intelligence sharing with Kyiv. Putin was ‘doing what anybody would do.’

   ‘You're an idiot, babe It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe’

9 March 2025

a diligent student

   He said he would sign an executive order barring student loan forgiveness to public servants engaged in ‘improper activities’. He learned this concept from his good friend Vladimir. A diligent student.

10 March 2025

50 shades of psycho

   Day 50. Fifty Shades of Psycho.
   And like every Monday, a new calendar for you. Remember, cross off another week, just like we do.
   We've mentioned before that we'll be here frequently for the first 50 days; we were there every day! Soon, we'll give you, and ourselves, a little break. Chill, we ain’t disappearing.

11 March 2025

your choice

   Look, guys. Just a few days ago we mentioned the hope they ain’t gonna send us to El Salvador. Not us, yet, but they caught a guy who doesn’t like something that the authorities like. That is called Communism. Or Fascism. Your choice.
   Columbia University graduate and a lawful US permanent resident. He graduated in December with a master’s degree from Columbia, was arrested in New York and sent to a detention center in Louisiana. For now.
   A federal judge in Manhattan ordered the government not to deport.
   They don’t give a shit.
   That is called Communism. Or Fascism. Your choice.

12 March 2025

travel broadens the mind

   France. This time we're sitting in an eatery in this old, forgotten stone town in southern France – time-trapped, a bit off the Côte d'Azur. The owner, a grizzled Brit with a cross necklace and thick Yorkshire accent, shares his tale: ‘Back then, them seaside spots turned into proper phone-booth-free zones come winter. They'd yank the phones out – vandals trashed 'em anyway, and nobody used 'em off-season. Spring rolls 'round, they'd pop 'em back in. Now everyone's got their own bleedin' phones, and the Yanks are listenin', the Chinese are watchin', and the Russkies are pumpin' out propaganda. And you lot artists? You're all bloody nuts!’
   He waves his hand, goes to the back saying ‘They will serve you.’

   A pretty local girl, and her Spanish boyfriend: ‘No tourists yet, just locals occasionally organizing weddings or family gatherings. We work, the old man is a bit dopey. Once was a priest, but was fired’, they say.
   We sit outside, a few tables, warm, nice, sunny. On the other side a dog is marching, wagging its tail. Otherwise, no one.
   We drink local rosé, Domaine de la Croix. We talk briefly about what we do.
   Suddenly, the innkeeper emerges from the back, overhears ‘Trump’, raises his hand like a preacher, and intones gravely: ‘We shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump’. He pauses, eyes twinkling, then drops: ‘1 Corinthians 15:52’.
   And so, in that moment of inspiration, probably straight from heaven, we turned our attention to our sin – our original sin, one might say. We promised you something for each day of his miserable term. Now, as we make plans for tomorrow, we already know we won't keep our word. What's the conclusion? Don't trust not only politicians, but artists too.
   Sometimes.

   Some say travel broadens the mind. Even off-season to the south of France.

13 March 2025

wanna fight for social justice?

   We're still in the south of France, heading towards Avignon.

   Pablo Picasso was an outstanding painter, full stop.
   Marcel Duchamp as well, même.

   The first half of the last century was an interesting time. The second half, too. And every half of every century, too. But the first half of the last century was a time of breakthrough in art, when a somewhat odd division emerged between art 'after Picasso' and 'after Duchamp’.
   Picasso painted many groundbreaking paintings, although he sometimes found inspiration, to put it mildly, from the works of Georges Braque. Together, they created the theory of Cubism – by eliminating space and showing the object on the canvas simultaneously from all sides – Cubism approached abstraction. But it was Picasso who painted Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, which, as we all know, isn't about that city itself, but about les demoiselles from the street of that name in Barcelona where Picasso lived and used the services of local prostitutes. He originally wanted to title it Le Bordel d'Avignon.
   So much for art history: the last time we were at MoMA, the painting was hanging just at the entrance to the main museum's halls. We'll write about Duchamp another time, même.

   Picasso was a communist. In public statements, he explained that his political commitment stemmed from his belief that art must be a tool in the fight for social justice and should not be ‘mere entertainment’.
   Good.
   But should one join the Communist Party and paint a posthumous portrait of Stalin – the greatest criminal of the 20th century, next to Hitler? Besides, what is the measure of ‘greatness’ here? According to Stalin, ‘the death of a man is a tragedy, the death of millions is a statistic’.

   Our advice: if, fellow Americans, you want to fight for social justice, don't necessarily join the Communist Party USA, même.

14 March 2025

we good, ain't we?

   We fought, but hey, sometimes you have to accept defeat – we give up! Cookie Monster defeated us.
   Imagine the nightmares as cohorts of ICE, with the support of Stadtpolizei Zürich, MI5, Stasi and Deuxième Bureau, drag us to be crucified or guillotined, and our remains are thrown to the alligators in Florida! After sleepless nights, no sex, no food, exhausted – we’ve hit a wall.
   So we meekly fill out the cookies form, tail between legs, and try to move on as if nothing had happened.
   Only consolation – he's old, ugly, and stupid. And we're young and beautiful. And that's just who we are.
   We good, ain't we?

15 March 2025

he doesn't give a shit

   A federal judge ordered his administration to stop using an obscure wartime law to deport hundreds of Venezuelans without a hearing, ruling in an emergency order that any deportation flights that had already departed from the US needed to return.
   Do you really think he cares? He doesn't give a shit.

16 March 2025

spirit of majesty

   He spoke from a specially constructed stage in the great hall of the main justice building, in front of a velvet blue curtain that notably hid away two art deco statues depicting the ‘Spirit of Justice’ and the ‘Majesty of Justice’.
   Right.
   There is only one ‘Spirit of Majesty’. His Majesty.

17 March 2025

what a beautiful sunny day

   Monday morning. What a beautiful, sunny day. Ready for the next calendar?

18 March 2025

i don’t care what the judges think

   ‘I don’t care what the judges think’

   Again, that is called Communism. Or Fascism. Your choice.

19 March 2025

tariffs, cheers!

   He threatened to escalate a trade war with the European Union, saying that he could impose 200% tariffs on European wine and champagne.
   Right.
   For him, no problem; he will get an unlimited amount of vodka for free from his close buddy Vladimir.
   Cheers!

20 March 2025

fifty shades of psycho – special

   It took us a few days, but this kind of occasion definitely calls for a celebration! 50 shades of psycho – special.

21 March 2025

communism or fascism your choice

   We wrote briefly a few days ago: ‘”I don’t care what the judges think” – that is called Communism. Or Fascism. Your choice’.

   Symbols of Communism and Fascism often appear in our works. These systems were based on lies, as is the contemporary so-called right-wing narrative. We, the artists, dislike lies, dislike authoritarianism, dislike wars. Because we know the history of art quite well. Painting from all epochs is, one might say, marked by suffering and saturated with the red of blood. Vermilion – based on a mineral pigment made of mercuric sulphide, used since antiquity. Venetian Red – a natural pigment based on iron oxide, favoured during the Renaissance by artists such as Titian, Tintoretto, El Greco to render lifelike skin tones and deep shadows. Carmine – a favoured deep red, the colour of dried blood, was made from a dye obtained from rather disgusting bedbugs. Cinnabar, Indian Red, Rose Madder and so on – these are colours created centuries ago. In religious art, this colour signified sacrifice and martyrdom. In Renaissance painting, but not only, it symbolized life energy and health. It also appears in emotional and romantic scenes, as it's the colour of passion and love. But it also symbolizes power, might, and wealth – kings, popes, and cardinals wore red robes. And let's not be surprised that it somehow stuck with totalitarian regimes.
   It's also the colour of the somewhat weird symbol of the Communist Party USA – a combination of a cogwheel, the remains of the Soviet sickle, and, of course, a hammer for bashing in the heads of the disobedient.

   Btw, the party's presidential candidate in 1932 spoke of creating a ‘Soviet America’ in which all other parties would be dissolved and the media would be placed under government control.
   Sounds familiar?
   We'll write about the institution of lies soon. We need some fresh air.

   Make America Great Again.

23 March 2025

worth having on the wall

   Some say our calendar is worth having it on the wall to cross off the remaining days.
   Here you are! Cheers!

24 March 2025

education is not needed

   He signed an executive order instructing the education secretary to begin dismantling the Department of Education. He declared his administration would ‘take all lawful steps to shut down the department’.
   Right.
   Education is not needed. All you have to know is that he is very, very, very intelligent.

25 March 2025

everyone knows these two are lying

   We recently wrote about systems based on lies. Everyone knows these two are lying.
   Let's ask a question, why? Because that's their nature? Because they’ve always lied? Because they can't do otherwise?
   Frankly, we, the artists, don't care much about this. You want to know, send them both to the couch or to the prosecutor's office. We understand that politicians lie in campaigns to gain power, spit on their opponents, and promise the moon. But here and now – they already have power, political opponents have already been spit on – it must be about something else. And that's much more interesting.

   In what we do you often see the swastika, the hammer and sickle, Hitler and Stalin. Because they are their main, how to put it, mentors. We've already mentioned Mein Kampf, that's what Hitler wrote: ‘...in the big lie there is always a certain force of credibility; because the broad masses of a nation are always more easily corrupted in the deeper levels of their emotional nature than consciously or voluntarily. And thus in the primitive simplicity of their minds they more readily fall victims to the big lie than the small lie, since they themselves often tell small lies in little matters but would be ashamed to resort to large-scale falsehoods...’
   Sounds familiar?
   During Stalin's time, official lies, manipulation of the truth, and propaganda were the foundation of political and social life. They systematically promoted an idealized image of the state and its leaders, concealed crimes, disasters, and failures, and presented all failures as the government's successes.
   Sounds familiar?
   Back then, there was no Wikipedia, but Russia did have printed encyclopedias, say, something like Britannica. The difference was that every change in power, especially when the authorities themselves murdered one of their own, meant that the entire circulation of 50,000 to 100,000 copies had to be ‘corrected – inappropriate pages torn out, new ‘corrected’ pages pasted in, photos of former comrades retouched with a little brush. This certainly doesn't sound familiar, but listen to the rules of the time: all communication (press, science, art, literature) was strictly controlled by the authorities. Crossing the official line risked repression. Fake news was spread both within the country and abroad. Disinformation was institutionalized – special agencies existed to produce it. Criticism, or telling the truth, risked arrest. Breaking and distorting facts became a systemic norm – lying was treated as a tool of power. People lived with a constant sense of uncertainty, because reality was created by the authorities and often drastically differed from the facts.
   Does this sound more familiar now?
   And what about Putin's times today? The principles and customs of lying and manipulation include broad state control over information, aggressive propaganda, and sophisticated disinformation – especially through digital channels. The government tightly controls most media, cracks down on independent voices, and laws criminalize speech against the official line. The state systematically promotes its own narratives, and aggressively silences critics. The Kremlin uses rapid, repetitive spreading of contradictory or blatant falsehoods across multiple channels – TV, websites, fake accounts, and bots – to confuse, distract, and control public opinion. Claims are made that blatantly contradict facts or reframe reality, often with emotionally charged, myth-based narratives about national strength and existential threats. Expressing dissent is risky; activists and journalists face threats or imprisonment.
   And what about now? Sounds familiar enough?
   As for dessert: Unlike in Stalin’s times, these techniques are now more global and make heavy use of digital tools. Putin’s government makes no secret of its blatant lies, aiming to sow confusion and distrust through repetition and brazenness.
   But hey, look – states, lies, propaganda, disinformation... Few governments and their establishments around the world are innocent of this. Equally, due to design, AI is adept.

   Make America Great Again.

26 March 2025

one more time

   50 shades of psycho one more time. Looks like you chaps really dig it!

27 March 2025

shady cemetery deals with goats

   We've been hearing about this for a while, but honestly, we thought it was fake. It turns out he actually buried his ex-wife on his golf course and grazes goats there to lower his taxes. He's saving millions, according to those who know about taxes. We, the artists, know nothing about taxes, shady cemetery deals, or goats.

   But we can give you, fellow Americans, some advice if you want to avoid taxes. Even if none of your loved ones have died, we hope, but maybe it happened to a neighbor or friend – borrow a corpse, turn your garden into a ‘cemetery’, and graze a goat. It'll come in handy, saving you time mowing the lawn. Also, make up a story about supposedly losing big money years ago. Go to your local clerk and claim it all as tax deductions, demanding that the IRS pay you, not you paying them. Simple, right? And if, God forbid, such a damned clerk develops any doubts, yell at him for being a far-left winger, because his doubts are essentially a brutal communist-leftist attack on a Honorable Highest State Office, and you'll immediately report it to the FBI, CIA, NSA, ICE, other TLAs this moron clerk never heard about, plus the Pentagon, not to mention Vladimir.
   The louder you yell, the better.
   Will work, you'll see!

   What's next? Don't ya know? And we, the artists, though we don't have a crystal ball, do! He'll develop this big and beautiful graveyard business. He'll sell places on the second hole to his billionaire buddies. Special promotion! Just for you! You’ll be happy to be buried there! And before, you'll get a beautiful bill passed that will lower your taxes. 10 million upfront, plus 30% tax deduction. When it turns out he's sold so many on that one hole that they won't fit anyway, what will happen? Nothing. He'll start selling on the third hole. And so on. More and more expensive, and for a spot on the green, a billion! Cash only!

   So, guys? In need of an investment advisor?

28 March 2025

get lost, fraudsters!

   All month long, the press has been reporting on the White House's lies about the increase in fentanyl smuggling from Canada. We've written about lies as a method of exercising power in depraved authoritarian systems several times recently, and frankly, we're getting fed up.
   Of course, you might suspect they're lying because they have something in mind: tariffs? Or some other shady trick? Sod them. Get lost, fraudsters!

   But beware, our Canadian friends, especially those near the border. When you see flocks of pterodactyls approaching, it could be something more sinister – your friends!

   Make America Great Again.

29 March 2025

green dragon inn

   It's a lovely spring, the birds are singing beautifully, and we're wandering through the picturesque, fairytale Cotswolds. If you ever come here, drink to our health at the 17th-century Green Dragon Inn or any of the hundreds of other charming places.

   We spotted the house where Sir Lawrence Tanfield lived in the 16th century, as a plaque informs. We'd never heard of him, and his story wouldn't have interested us if it weren't for his title: Lord Chief Baron, and so on. We wonder if the psycho we are dealing with would be satisfied with such a title. Perhaps if we added Master of the Universe and Ruler by the grant of God Almighty, Reigning Joyfully over us, or something of the sort.

   And as for birds, we know he hates them, because without them, no one would bother him drilling wherever he pleases.
   Drill, baby, drill.

30 March 2025

what a relief!

   Day 70. Phew! what a relief, for all those still alive, not imprisoned, not fired.
   Remember to cross these days off!

31 March 2025

it’s good to have friends

   That fella mused about running for a third term, something that is prohibited by the US constitution. ‘Well, there are plans’, he said during an interview on NBC’s Meet the Press. ‘There are – not plans. There are methods – there are methods which you could do it, as you know.’ He declined to give details on how he would execute such a plan.

   If any doubts, he can always ask his good buddy from the Kremlin for advice on how to handle such matters, or his other close friend Kim, from North Korea. Some say it’s good to have friends.

1 April 2025

stoned, and being a cheesehead

   Elon Musk Being A Cheesehead.
   No, it’s not April Fool’s Day.

   It’s a proof that America is a country of great opportunity; even a moron like him can become this rich.

2 April 2025

I'm not joking

   ‘I'm not joking’, media reports as he says about seeking a third term in office, despite the constitutional barriers.
   'You know, it really doesn't matter what the media write as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of ass.'

   Constitution? He can fix it in a day, just as many other issues.

3 April 2025

special edition, for a friend

   Very special edition – for a friend in the Cotswolds. Take care!

5 April 2025

points for trustworthiness

   We wrote that you guys are lucky, you don't need a crystal ball, you know your future; just read Nineteen Eighty-Four. Ok, but reading requires a bit of imagination. If you want to see your future firsthand, go to China; they already have something running at full scale that even Orwell couldn’t imagine. People are scored – low points for ‘trustworthiness’ and you won’t get into a store or an office, can’t buy a ticket for a train or plane, forget about credit. Lots of points – your kid gets into a better school, you get preferential loans and access to services. And everyone is watched by a facial recognition system with about 600 million cameras linked to databases.
   This is called communism.

6 April 2025

fifty shades

   50 shades – looks you guys, really like it!

7 April 2025

hello everyone!

   Monday morning! Hello everyone! Here's a new calendar for you!

8 April 2025

idiot wind again

   He proudly imposed a 10% tariff on Heard and McDonald Islands, remote Australian territories inhabited only by penguins. This caused great stir among their friends, the Penguins of Madagascar; Skipper suggested immediate attack on whatever, Rico vomited out a tank, just in case, Kowalski and Private are still contemplating this situation.
   We, the artists, remain strongly influenced by ‘Idiot Wind’ from the album Blood on the Tracks:
   ‘You're an idiot, babe
   It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe’.

9 April 2025

as real as his ridiculousness

   We received a complaint that we were inventing absurd titles from the ancient past in some Cotswold town to ridicule the President.
   We're not ridiculing anyone, for heaven's sake. He's ridiculing himself, and we're just watching.
   And the plaque we mentioned on March 29th is as real as his ridiculousness.

   Although ultimately, it's not funny.

10 April 2025

pandora's box, enjoy!

   Pandora's box, that's what we have prepared for you today. You've probably wondered what it might look like more than once; well, thanks to $1 Art for America, you can finally see it!
   Enjoy!

14 April 2025

the time flies, they say

   The time flies, they say. Next calendar, here you are.

17 April 2025

dentist appointment. how about art?

   We, the artists, know nothing about tanks and other ballistic devices, but we do try to understand language, especially since the studies of Wittgenstein: ‘The limits of my language are the limits of my world.’

   Because we heard about the Budapest Memorandum, we read it; neither long nor difficult. The USA, UK, and Russia pledged to respect the sovereignty and territorial integrity of Ukraine and to refrain from any threats of force against its independence and territorial integrity. Unfortunately, it lacked the sentence that in the event of a violation of these agreements by Russkies, the Americans would immediately drop an atomic bomb on Moscow and wipe out the Russkies from the face of the earth. And without such a provision, for Putin, a close friend of your so-called Leader (Führer in German) such a piece of paper is a piece of shit, so he invaded Ukraine and is busy murdering people there.

   What's with the semantics here? He called this war a ‘special operation,’ and anyone in Russia who says ‘war’ is sent to the Gulag as a terrorist. It's like going to your neighbour’s house, hacking his family to death with an axe, setting his house on fire, and saying, ‘Dentist appointment.’

   A further problem is that your so-called Leader (Führer in German) repeats Putin's lies as his own thoughts. Incidentally, the suspicion that he has any thoughts at all seems unfounded; he's more likely driven by rage, greed, sexual urges and other unstable emotional states.

   We mention this because our goal, a difficult one, we admit, is to depict precisely this state of suspension between lies, propaganda, and common sense and the ability to see things as they are. And that we also happen to giggle and have a good time? The aforementioned Wittgenstein said: ‘A serious and good philosophical work could be written consisting entirely of jokes.’

   How about art?

20 April 2025

our pandora's box

   It looks like you enjoyed our Pandora's Box.
   Thank you!
   You'll receive it in different versions today and for the next two days.

   Have fun! And take care!

21 April 2025

gregorian calendar into donaldian

   Did you know that the Julian calendar was the one introduced in the year 46 BC by Julius Caesar to all of the Roman Empire, and it is the calendar that was used during the life of Jesus Christ?
   Now, you know.
   Do you know that the Gregorian calendar is the calendar we are using now during the life of HIM? Of course, you know, but be aware it may change one day into the Donaldian calendar.
   Hallelujah!

22 April 2025

back to pandora

   What do we, the artists, know about Pandora? Painting, somewhat familiar to us, has for centuries fed humanity with images of events and figures, and in the process, explained or distorted reality. Today, social media handles the latter, commissioned by guys like Musk, Putin and all the rest.
   Look: for centuries, the Almighty was depicted as an old man with flowing gray hair and a beard, as if heaven didn't have razors and a barber. Today, the Kremlin is telling us that Putin is a nice guy, even though he's going bald and beardless, but he's conducting a ‘special operation’ in Ukraine against the fascist Zelensky, who has 4% support. And the idiot in the White House keeps repeating this, though he sometimes notes that they're simply murdering innocent people and destroying everything there, like Hitler did a little earlier.
   Back to Pandora, we must mention theft and wicked men, trying not to apply mythological events to modern times, even if they come to mind. It happened this way: when Prometheus stole fire from heaven, Zeus, king of the gods, retaliated by gifting Pandora to Prometheus' brother, Epimetheus. Pandora's husband also participated in the opening of this box, which appears to have been neither a box, nor a jug or barrel. Moreover, it is not entirely clear what it contained.
   One way or another, contemporary popular culture seems to have perpetuated a particularly unfavorable version of events for Pandora, which only stigmatizes her. The mythological times were clearly not ready for #metoo.
   Is that clear? Not quite. Never mind.

   Anyhow, our Pandora's Box as promised.

23 April 2025

pandora's box one more time

   Pandora's Box one more time.

24 April 2025

political obsessions

   You're asking again if we have any political obsessions.
   Political, no. Obsessions, probably yes. Like everyone else. We, the artists, don't like commies and fascists, cheaters, liars, and the like. That's just a slight deviation.
   We don't engage in politics, but we observe various events. And people. We have a natural curiosity about the world.
   You probably think we dream of Plato's perfect world? Not necessarily. Remember his cave, which can be considered a prison for the soul. Plato reversed the view of being, of reality: because the ordinary view sees reality only in things, while Plato, taking the reality of ideas as a measure, didn’t find it in things. They seemed to him merely phenomena; only the ideal being seemed truly real. Besides, he saw nothing wrong with getting rid of socially useless people.
   Aristotle, his student, had a more radical view, arguing that people with disabilities should be removed from the state. So, one must be careful with the classics; Aristotle also supported slavery as consistent with natural law. He believed that individuals endowed with greater intelligence and less physical strength could rule over individuals with greater strength and less intelligence.
   Just think what would happen if some Proud Boys or other morons found out about this. They would cite Plato and Aristotle, but for now, they just believe in chemtrails, that the earth is flat, that Hillary Clinton raped and ate children in the back of a Washington pizzeria, and that the world is ruled by the Illuminati, reptilians, or seventeen hooded Jews in the basement of the Washington Monument, or something like that. In any case, this isn't Plato's cave.
   So it goes, and let it stay that way.

25 April 2025

these countries are kissing my ass

   ‘I am telling you, these countries are calling us up, kissing my ass. They are dying to make a deal. Please, please sir, make a deal. I’ll do anything sir’.

   Our question concerns diplomatic protocol; first the traditional handshake, then the ass-kissing, or the other way around? Either way, a suitable stand will come in handy, wooden, elegant. To match the décor. Can be placed next to a large desk, maybe under one of the portraits of the Great Leader, say, the one painted on request of the Kremlin as a gift from Putin, who even prayed. By the way, the German for Leader is Führer. We don't know how it goes in Russian, but let's say ‘My dear buddy comrade Vladimir, good guy, I trust him.’

   Will do?

26 April 2025

fbi arrested a judge

   He attended the funeral of Pope Francis wearing a blue suit and met with Zelensky in St Peter’s Basilica in the first meeting since their notorious blow-up in the White House in February.
   The FBI arrested a judge in Wisconsin.
   Besides, we like blue both as a colour and as a concept: Kind of Blue, Yves Klein, blue sky, La chambre bleue by Suzanne Valadon, Blue Note, Picasso's Blue Period, and so on. On the other hand, in religious painting, it emphasized innocence and spirituality; perhaps his blue suit stemmed from a desire to be considered a virgin?
   Btw, have you noticed that some time has passed, 97 days to be exact? If anyone hasn't had their brains twisted inside out yet, raise your hand and shout: Hip hip hooray!

27 April 2025

only one left his post?

   We read: ‘Joe Kasper, the chief of staff to Pete Hegseth, the embattled defense secretary, unexpectedly left his post in the latest sign of upheaval at the Pentagon’.
   Only one left his post?
   Is the Pentagon still needed for anything?
   After all, your Leader (in German Führer) handles everything himself, as befits a guy who's very, very, very intelligent.

28 April 2025

day 99

   Day 99, get ready for tomorrow!

29 April 2025

let joyfully shout hurray!

   So, one hundred days behind us. Whoever is still alive and hasn't been fired, arrested, or sent to El Salvador, who hasn't been expelled from university, whose benefits haven't been taken away, let them joyfully shout: Hurray!

30 April 2025

a bit weird, isn't it?

   A few days ago, while contemplating the virginity he himself may have wanted, we mentioned La chambre bleue by Suzanne Valadon. Where does this association come from? Because the colour of his suit in the Vatican at the Pope's funeral reminded us of the blue that painters once used to paint religious depictions of the Madonna.
   Suzanne Valadon, the greatest lady of French painting at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, was also called the Madonna of Montmartre.
   On the other hand, we know how he, despite his virgin-blue suit, treats women, what he said about young girls and their ‘charms’, that he is not only a sociopath, but a misogynist or some kind of pervert – who the hell knows – we, the artists, are not psychiatrists, after all. And painting until Valadon's time saw women, young women, as ethereal models, lovers, sex goddesses, objects of desire for older men—and that's how painters depicted them for years. Until the time of Susanne Valadon.
   And so began our somewhat complex and lengthy discussion, which we summarize below.

   We concluded that Suzanne Valadon was, in a sense, a bridge between Toulouse-Lautrec's fading Belle Epoque and Picasso's birth of modern art.

   She modelled, and sometimes mistressed, for the greatest artists: Auguste Renoir, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and Edgar Degas. But she also learned from them, over time becoming one of them – the great painters of that era. At 18, she gave birth to a son, Maurice, whose father is unclear. Historians say Renoir, but Suzanne Valadon gave him the surname after a Spaniard she met at the time – and thus Maurice Utrillo appeared, Modigliani's closest friend, an alcoholic and distinguished painter.
   She worked with Picasso and others, was friends with Amadeo Modigliani, and was the only friend of Edgar Degas, a rather gloomy guy, yet sublime artist.

   La chambre bleue (The Blue Room), from 1923, is her self-portrait at the age of 57, reclining on a couch. But in a way, it’s an illustration of her independence and feminine strength. It contains hidden meanings and references to classic painting. This painting ridicules images of the naked female body, which were considered important from a male perspective: Édouard Manet caused a scandal at the Paris Salon in 1865 with his ‘Olimia.’ It depicts a nude woman – a prostitute – dressed only in jewellery and slippers slipping off her feet (a sign of depravity). With this painting, Manet alluded to Titian's ‘Venus of Urbino.’ The artist changed several key symbols in his painting, including a dog lying at the feet of Titian's nude Venus – a symbol of fidelity – while a cat, symbolizing female sensuality and sexuality, fawns at Olympia's feet.
   In turn, Titian's painting refers to ‘Dresden Venus’, attributed to Giorgione. So it goes. You know, we can go on like this forever..

   This way or another, talking about art and the colour of his suit in the Vatican, we came to the conclusion that as Valadon was a bridge between fading Belle Epoque and the birth of modern art, he is a bridge between the fading belle epoque of peace and the birth of the coming chaos.

   A bit weird, isn't it?

2 May 2025

spoiling ourselves a bit

   Allow us to spoil ourselves a bit.

3 May 2025

simple, right?

   We've answered somewhat annoying questions about our obsessions several times already. Yes, we dislike commies, fascists, and idiots who see some advantage in these two ‘styles’. We, the artists, generally love everyone, slightly less those who, believing themselves superior, desire to rule everyone and everything. In short, autocrats and dictators. That's why we dislike him.
   Simple, right?

   As for his close buddy Putin, it's also simple – he's a war criminal. Russia has always been focused on permanent expansion and plunder. It has never developed a civilized model of living together with the rest of the world. Similarly, in domestic relations: it has conquered a large part of Asia, but instead of meaningful exploitation, it resorts to the primitive plunder of vast natural resources. Why? Because they haven't yet discovered another path. Putin couldn't, and even didn't want to, lead Russia onto the path of international cooperation because, along with the gangsters surrounding him, he can't function on the basis of agreements or partnerships. Why? Because that's how he was raised, that's how his father lived. Because that's how Russians have always lived.

   After the attack on Ukraine, this ‘modern’ army began raping, including children and elderly women, and stealing everything they could get their hands on: from children's toys to household appliances, food, and bathroom equipment too, even though they didn't quite know what such ceramics were for. What they didn't steal, they destroyed. Civilians they killed for fun.

   It's terrifying that your Leader (Führer in German) respects and trusts Putin. He likes Hitler's generals. He doesn't mind talking to the madman Kim, who turned North Korea into a concentration camp.

   The question we don't know the answer to is why? What the hell do America and the free world need this for?

   Besides, apart from reading books, we, the artists, make art.

5 May 2025

keep calm and carry on!

   A new week begins, so cross off the days behind us.
   Keep calm and carry on!

9 May 2025

taco as penguin of madagascar

TACO, sounds great! He really chickens out on every occasion. It’s as good as Penguins of Madagascar.
Or even better!
Hey Taco, come on, make everything great again! As you did with the USFL!
If you guys don’t know what we are referring to, please read an article titled ‘The day Donald Trump's narcissism killed the USFL’ – https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2018/sep/11/the-day-donald-trumps-narcissism-killed-the-usfl

11 May 2025

ye grapes again

   Dear American friends, we're getting asked about it again, sometimes even attacked – that art shouldn't be political. We've already answered, and we can repeat: watch The Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel or Creazione di Adamo on its ceiling, if in doubt. Or The Last Supper in Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan. Not enough? Read Susan Sontag's Against Interpretation or Theodor Adorno. Coming from the time of pterodactyls? Harari remains.

   We don't go to London as often anymore; noisy and crowded, but some exhibitions worth seeing. And Ye Grapes; we recently met a certain highbrow who, while leisurely sipping a drink (probably port), was leafing through some papers. A conversation ensued, and after a few words about the weather, it turned to politics. We explained that for us, Great Britain, once a symbol of democracy, is ruled by groups of cynics who live by the rhythm of newspaper headlines and social media clicks. And people live not by what someone does, but by what someone says. Power is being exchanged between professional politicians who know each other intimately because they went to the same schools that teach the art of argumentation, but not necessarily fidelity to truth. Virtue is rhetorical skill without reference to facts, distortion and persuasive manipulation of facts, and the portrayal of opponents as incompetent and mentally retarded. Edmund Burke warned about this kind of political class over a hundred years ago, writing that the worst thing about the French Revolution was the emergence of professional politicians.

   And this guy finished his drink, put his papers in a leather briefcase, stood up, buttoned his jacket, and nodded slightly and left. He strode through Shepherd Market with a stately gait, lacking only a bowler hat and an umbrella, which he would probably swing gracefully.

   We concluded that this elegant, elderly Londoner was most likely a politician himself and simply felt insulted. Perhaps he considered we weren't worthy of his attention or time to discuss with us. It was a positive experience, though; there are still people who, if they disagree with you, don't insult you or hurl curses. Imagine the president as a distinguished gentleman with impeccable manners.

   He might not wear a bowler hat or swing an umbrella gracefully.

12 May 2025

time to mark off the days

   Another Monday has arrived, time to mark off the days!

15 May 2025

gather ye rosebuds while ye may

   Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
   necessarily with a golden urinal

   Some say that Imelda Marcos, the wife of the Philippine dictator, in addition to having over 1K shoes, used silk toilet paper. The corrupt show some amazing toilet urges, usually gold-plated; Putin has golden toilets in his residence, everything around him is gold-plated. On 5th Avenue, everything is also as if gold-plated. The question is whether the toilets over there are made of solid gold or just gold-plated?
   We are just reading that a certain police officer in Russia was caught because it was revealed that in his palace worthy of Putin he had golden toilets. He broke the still living rule of Nikolai Gogol in Russia, that one should steal according to rank. The higher the rank, the more gold the toilet. Queen is the highest, say TACO. So we hope that the 747 ‘as a gift’ from the Qataris will have not only golden toilets. We, the artists, have no problems with toilets since Marcel Duchamp fixed it in 1917. Since then, we can piss anywhere.

   Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
   Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
   Hey, hey
   Hey, hey

16 May 2025

new order of neo-nazi and post-bolshevik

   Since we've already talked about gilded toilets, let's add that for those like him and Putin it's normal. Kitsch reigns supreme. As a rule, we don't deal with kitsch, why should we, but for you we found something, in a book printed on paper, not by AI:

   ‘The Nazis and the Communists, shared a similar taste, a combination of rural festivity, bourgeois salon, and imperial splendor, all of it pompous, and trashy. From folk culture, from the middle classes’ own patterns, and from the culture of the Roman Empire, the Nazis and Communists extracted elements suited to their sick ideologies and lumped them all together, either under the banner of the swastika or the hammer and sickle. This is the origin of the stone chariots drawn by chargers and driven by half-naked yokels to the glory of frontline tank crews. This was meant to be the culture of the New Order. They differed with regard to religion. Hitler’s soldiers portended Apocalypse under the banner of Gott mit uns, whereas Stalin blew up churches while building his paradise on earth and asked about the number of armored divisions at the Pope’s disposal’.

   We might add that the current mix of neo-Nazi and post-Bolshevik supremacy tries to create the Very New Order, and for some unfathomable reason will be having shits on gold water closets only.

   Btw, the Hillbilly supported neo-Nazi party in Germany, and now supports a pro-Putin, pro-Russian, anti-NATO and anti-European candidate in the coming presidential elections in Romania.
   TACO himself invited a candidate in elections in Poland to the White House. For a handshake, and a photo. The thing is that this Polish candidate is known for stealing an apartment from an elderly, and comes from neo-Nazi criminal circles. He also ‘worked’ as a pimp in a hotel, and as a bouncer in a whorehouse, as local journalists found out.

   Elegant high society. Nicely dressed, expensive suits, shiny ties. No swastika or the hammer and sickle. Just smiling.

19 May 2025

do artists deserve a vacation?

   Warm, nice weather, we've been working hard for the past few months. We decided that, like every daily labourer, not to say workhorse, artists deserve a vacation. Crowds of tourists? Not really. As every year, we choose the end of May or June as a quiet time. So, forgive us if we appear with our comments a bit less frequently. But we're preparing the paintings in advance, so as not to leave you alone at the mercy of a guy in a knee-length tie, or thereabouts.

   Besides, it's Monday, time to cross off the next days of this humiliating spectacle.

21 May 2025

the beauty of me is that I'm very rich

   Yesterday, he announced the Golden Dome defense shield. It's probably necessary, we know nothing about missiles except that they kill. But we know it will cost trillions, enough to feed a billion starving, and with the CEOs' earnings enough to irrigate the deserts and turn them into crops so that the starving will stop starving.
   What else do we know about money? That he may not be satisfied with trillions and will want zillions.
   ‘The beauty of me is that I'm very rich.’
   We have heard about a few concepts of beauty; Aristotle viewed beauty as a quality of objects, emphasizing proportion and balance, for Plato beauty was a universal form, a transcendent reality that exists independently of human perception, and was associated with truth.
   Kant, the one of ‘the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me’, noticed that beauty as a matter of individual taste is influenced by culture and education, and so on, and so forth. All the philosophers had sth to say about it, but it was Hegel who suggested that beauty evolves and changes over time, reflecting the progress of human understanding.
   So here comes a question: if a given human is sort of a bonehead and his understanding is limited to pots of dough, and his vision of beauty evolved, changed over time, would it be accepted as a new philosophical concept? If so, let’s give him a Nobel in philosophy! Or in art: ‘Deals are my art form’.

   Ok, but we started about presenting the missiles. Not much about arms was said, but we saw him sitting contentedly and his retainers standing around and reciting paeans to his eminence. They were announcing their delight that they could faithfully serve such an eminent Leader (Führer in German), how fortunate they were that he wanted to pull them out of the oblivion of their miserable existence and let them serve him. And so on in a loyally subservient tone.

   A nice theatrical performance with rich staging in the background, only the hammer and sickle and the red star missing.
   They will show it on Broadway someday.

26 May 2025

get to work!

   Monday, so get to work! Mark off the days!

27 May 2025

see a live pelican, give it a fish

   All roads lead to Rome, allegedly. But look at the map: roads lead to Cirencester. And so we're back in the Cotswolds. The weather's nice, so we're drinking Pimm's, probably No. 1 because No. 6 is gone.
   Cirencester was an important early Roman center around AD 70, but the city boomed under the name Corinium, and by the end of the 2nd century it was the second largest city in Roman Britain and the capital of Britannia Prima. A piece of history.
   Today we walk down Dollar Street and think that in those ancient times, there were buffalo running down Fifth Avenue and pterodactyls or something of a sort flying 66 stories up. We don't know anything about crocodiles in NYC; they were definitely at Mar-a-Lago. And they're still there, at least one.
   As far as we know, pterodactyls are gone; extinct. But pelicans, ducks, and various other birds, both large and small, remain. But they too will perish, flooded with oil from crumbling, rusty Russian tankers, bursting pipes, and exploding drilling rigs.
   Drill, baby, drill.

   PS If you see a live pelican, give it a fish. Or leave it alone.

30 May 2025

philosophy, how about a bite of margherita?

   From the days of studying philosophy – yes, yes, imagine artists studying something like that – we now remember Karl Popper and Henri Bergson for two reasons: blaming everything on the so-called leftists, read: Democrats, and lying as the dominant form of power, read: today's White House.

   As for the first, this power calls itself the right wing, meant to signify good and distinguish it from evil, the left. Such a division existed once, but no longer. Nowadays, societies are divided into open and closed. This concept was introduced by the French philosopher Henri Bergson, and Popper wrote about it in his book The Open Society and Its Enemies. Don't feel like reading? In short: an open society is a democratic society that allows for criticism, free individual decisions, and government policy is subject to social evaluation and changes accordingly. A closed society, on the other hand, is characterized by a lack of freedom, rigid hierarchies, and an inability to criticize.

   The terms ‘right’ and ‘left’ originated in France during the French Revolution, roughly two and a half centuries ago, when in the National Assembly representatives of the nobility, aristocracy, and clergy sat on the right side of the chamber, while on the left sat politicians demanding social and political change and the introduction of a republican system. So much for history.

   On the second point, today’s so-called right – a truly amusing term, as it is essentially neo-Bolshevik and openly pro-fascist, while simultaneously flaunting its religiosity – must hate Popper for his principle of falsifiability, which allows for the refutation of lies and conspiracy theories. Please note! Theories and hypotheses can be falsified, but not people, although there are certainly those inclined to do so. Just one sentence: any statement, hypothesis, or theory can be tested, determining its truth or untruth through positive verification or negative falsification.
   Of course, Popper's argument is much more complicated and elaborate, but we promised one sentence.

   In short, it can be proven that anti-vaxxers, flat-earthers, chemtrail and intelligent design followers, those with a bison-horned headdress or a tin foil hatters, as well as reptilians and Washington pizzeria secrets proponents, are idiots.

   How about a bite of Margherita?

31 May 2025

dollar street, cirencester

   We received a letter questioning whether it was possible that Dollar Street existed in the medieval, or even much older, town of Cirencester in the Cotswolds.

   It does.

1 June 2025

dollar street house

   Yesterday, we responded to a letter asking if it was possible that there was a Dollar Street in Cirencester, dating back to the early 1st millennium.

   Yes, there is even a Dollar Street house there.

2 June 2025

start the new week

   We start the new week by crossing off the days behind us. Are you alive?

3 June 2025

not involve the Almighty in matters that smell like shit

   The new voice of America from Washington sounds a bit strange, with a distinct Russian accent. The articles come from the daily Pravda. It's a distinguished newspaper, with Lenin and Stalin on its first editorial board. Do you know what that title means? Truth.

   There was also another Voice of America, but it's being closed down. As part of a sincere friendship with Putin, so as not to upset him. After all, you shouldn't upset your closest buddies.

   It was commissioned by the US government during World War II to combat propaganda, and after the war, it developed a kind of cultural diplomacy. Such a thing doesn't exist today – it's better to insult everyone and yell at your friends, right?
   VOA also supported democracy in many countries overrun by communism.
   In the 1950s, Radio Free Europe and Radio Liberty were established for the same purpose. Last year, they had approximately 50 million listeners in 23 countries with limited, or with no access to free media, including Russia, Hungary, Iran, and other countries in Central Asia and the Caucasus.

   But a new order has taken hold in Washington, and all of this must be destroyed.
   We, the artists, don't know the mechanisms of power, but we wonder whether the decisions were made in Washington or Moscow.
   One might say, God only knows, but let's not involve Almighty in matters that smell like a pile of shit from afar.
   Hallelujah!

   PS Please note that concepts like ‘Freedom’, ‘Liberty’, ‘Free Europe’ have recently become incredibly dangerous from a national security perspective.

9 June 2025

the beginning of a new week

   The beginning of a new week, Monday. If you've survived those difficult days, cross them off.

10 June 2025

you'd better free your mind instead

   So, Fanelli's again, it was cloudy, but the sun came out – outside. Inside as always, it's cramped, dark and loud. Cozy place to grab a bite, have a drink. We like Fanelli's. We like New York.

   The TV claims that in LA this fella sent the National Guard to the protests, although no one asked him. He said, ‘These are paid insurrectionists, these are paid troublemakers.’

   The guy at the bar couldn't stand it: ‘Totally over my head! Son of a bitch!’

   We are painters only. But for us it’s all clear: half-Bolshevik, half-fascist. We leave it to wise heads to analyze whether it is 40/60, or maybe the other way around, or maybe other proportions. It doesn't matter. Every revolution feeds itself on its own madness. And it declares enemies: intelligentsia, Jews, peasants, emigrants, immigrants, lesbians, artists, cyclists, students, whatever. Guilty of what? Doesn't matter. As Lenin used to say, or some other commie; ‘Give us a man, we'll find an article.’

   The thing is that they understand nothing, know nothing, are driven by the lust to make a revolution:

   ‘You say you want a revolution
   Well, you know
   We all want to change the world
   But when you talk about destruction
   Don't you know that you can count me out
   You say you got a real solution
   Well, you know
   We'd all love to see the plan
   You ask me for a contribution
   Well, you know
   We're all doing what we can
   But if you want money for people with minds that hate
   All I can tell you is brother you have to wait
   You say you'll change the constitution
   Well, you know
   We all want to change your head
   You tell me it's the institution
   Well, you know
   You'd better free your mind instead’

12 June 2025

we're terribly ashamed

   A certain MAGA supporter, judging by the insults he called us, also accused us of shamelessness.
   We admit, we feel ashamed. We were reminiscing about our recent visit to the Cotswolds. We, the artists, including a girl who loves cakes, visited Sezincote Gardens and after long walks stopped for tea at the Orangery Tearoom. She ordered a carrot-pistachio cake, which she claimed was delicious. Time was running out, and one of us, urging her on, jokingly but far too loudly, said, ‘Come on, you'll get a better one.’
   A very nice waitress overheard this.
   We're terribly ashamed.
   If you happen to be in the area, stop by, try their carrot-pistachio cake and say something nice to the waitress. Perhaps in this way you will redeem some of our sins.
   Thank you, and enjoy the cake!

16 June 2025

more days to cross off

   Next Monday, more days to cross off, best of luck!

20 June 2025

his art of war

   We've already pointed out that we, the artists, know little about wars, cannons, horse cavalry, stratospheric bombers, and even ordinary pistols. But we know, like the vast majority of even moderately brainy people in the world, that Putin invaded a free, sovereign country of Ukraine with the goal of murdering its citizens, destroying everything, and assassinating the Ukrainian government and replacing it with his own lieutenant governors, as the Russian tsars did in the past.

   We say ‘vast majority’, not all, because unfortunately, besides normal people, the oppressed live on planet Earth, deprived of access to information, fed by various propaganda. There are also those who have free access to information but don't use it, feeding their already overloaded minds, incapable of independent thought, with secret knowledge they glean from the internet or from colleagues with similar mental capacities. And then, there's HE.

   As for our ignorance of war, we simply ain't very interested, even though we've heard of von Clausewitz and Machiavelli, and have even read Sun Tzu and his The Art of War – a fascinating read that at times resembles Schopenhauer's Eristic, where the philosopher focuses on the strategy of winning arguments rather than on discovering the truth. Schopenhauer was, after all, a rather sad chap. Anyhow, it's a slim book, but interesting.
   Meanwhile, The Art of War, which Sun Tzu wrote some two and a half thousand years ago, is a remarkable work, especially in the Chartwell Books quite thick edition we have, with its intriguing binding.

   Needless to say, in Sun Tzu's time, even alligators were probably fleeing from T-rexes at Mar-a-Lago. Pterodactyls were flying freely, possibly.
   Getting back to the topic; We, the artists, wonder when HE will finally grasp that the war in Ukraine is Putin's war, not Biden's, Zelensky's, Kamala Harris's, Hillary Clinton's, or even CNN's.
   We're checking the clock; maybe one day something will click in his head and he'll grasp at least this bit of reality.
   Let’s hope so!

23 June 2025

have fun!

   Monday, time to tick off the days! Have fun!

26 June 2025

oi, loser, fancy throwing yourself in the bin?

   If you are a man, there may be a wife, mother, lover waiting at home. Maybe she was worried about you? She will be happy or a little disappointed, maybe she will ask where you were? What were you doing? Or why so late? A dog will always wag its tail, jump for joy. People get all sorts of doubts in relationships, but dogs? Never. Only a proper lowlife would ever hurt a dog. That saying, ‘to throw out like a dog’ fits a psychopath. TACO is a psycho: ‘She should be IMMEDIATELY reprimanded, and then thrown out like a dog'.
   Oi, loser, fancy throwing yourself in the bin?

   ‘You're an idiot, babe
   It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe’

30 June 2025

new week, good luck!

   Another Monday, time to pick up the pen and cross off the days. Good luck!

4 July 2025

today, ages ago now

   Today. For most, it feels like ages ago now. It’s all a bit blurred in the memory, something many know more than truly remember, yet it’s one of those dates that quietly stays with us. Or at least, it should.

7 July 2025

how much of this lousy spectacle is left

   A new week, time to tick off the days! Look how much of this lousy spectacle is left, have the strength to survive until the end!

14 July 2025

are you still alive?

   Are you still alive? Then pick up the pen and cross them off. It's Monday!

21 July 2025

cross off the days behind us

   A new week begins, so cross off the days behind us.

22 July 2025

wonderful moments of absolute freedom

   We were on vacation, more than a few days off. A lot of fun, surfing, we also popped in for a dance. A nice club, light music, good fun. As it happens, we talked until the early hours. Why are songs so often about love? Joyful, full of hope, but also lyrically sad about heartbreak or unfulfilled expectations.
   In short, people experience these wonderful moments, which can be happy for a long time or very briefly, ending happily or not. Then there are groans of disappointment, lamentations over a merciless fate.

   There is also a case of absolute love, faithful to the grave, when one can rely completely and without any doubt. This is perfect love. Yes, it exists. It's self-love. Do you know who we mean?

   Vacation, let's leave the unpleasant aside.

   Besides the songs, the beach, and the brief holiday mood, we were completely absorbed by our favourite music. By chance, we managed to buy a hard-to-find Arvo Pärt album.

   Unfamiliar? Find the nearest concert, and don't worry; you won't meet a jerk with a tie dangling between his legs. Tabula Rasa lasts about half an hour, but leaves a mark for life. Or do what we did lately: retreat to a quiet, secluded place and just listen to the recording. It can heal the soul. The Estonian composer creates magically pure music. Using simple forms, he creates music that is full of subtlety, and yet possesses great metaphysical power. And a distinct humility. Hats off to Arvo Pärt! Once again, thanks to him, we experienced wonderful moments of absolute freedom.
   This incredibly delicate music offers respite and hope in today's world of clamour, noise, and disorder. Life truly can be so beautiful. Sometimes.

27 July 2025

quite living criminal with small hands

   We know a little about anatomy; in our early education at the Academy of Fine Arts, we used wooden figurines as models, then we painted live models, but that's just kindergarten compared to the in-depth studies of the great masters of the past.
   Rembrandt's mid-17th-century painting, The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, depicts a reclining figure surrounded by medics. The subject of the titular anatomy lesson is a criminal previously hanged for his misdeeds.
   Some say that the quite living criminal, recently convicted in New York for his misdeeds, has small hands. We do not comment on this matter due to our limited anatomical knowledge, but ‘South Park’ claims it’s not just hands.

28 July 2025

tick off the days behind

   Monday, time to tick off the days behind us. We're keeping our fingers crossed for you!

29 July 2025

whatever

   A day before, we wrote about Rembrandt and his painting depicting a dead man who was a criminal hanged for his misdeeds.
   It has been brought to our attention that a completely alive criminal convicted by a New York court was also depicted in a painting, though not in a lying position. This painting was commissioned by the Kremlin, and was given to this very criminal as a gift from Putin, a war criminal.
   Whatever.

30 July 2025

what is really embarrassing? he is

   Dropped cases against LA protesters reveal false claims from federal agents; records show border patrol gave inaccurate testimony about people it jailed. Prosecutors now face ‘embarrassing’ dismissals.
   Do you know what is really embarrassing?
   He is.

1 August 2025

may god protect you!

   We, the artists, know so little about the mechanisms of power that on June 3 we asked whether the decisions to close Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty were made in Washington or Moscow.
   We don't know the answer.
   But we learned that, amidst everything that this sick government in Washington has already done illegally, closing RFE/RL is also illegal, because it's not a federal institution but a private one. And we read their statement:
   ‘RFE/RL journalists report the news in 27 languages in 23 countries where a free press is banned by the government or not fully established. We provide what many people cannot get locally: uncensored news, responsible discussion, and open debate.’ It was signed by webteam@rferl.org

   These last three: ‘uncensored news, responsible discussion, and open debate’ are also, of course, deadly dangerous from a national security perspective. Will the Pentagon take care of this?

   When asking on June 3 whether the decisions were made by the White House or the Kremlin, we refrained from saying, ‘God only knows,’ so as not to involve the Almighty in matters that from afar reek like shit.
   But now we surrender: May God protect you!

4 August 2025

russian warship, go fuck yourself

   We, the artists, don't know what will happen in Ukraine. We sincerely hope that the brave Ukrainians will send the Russians – and here we have two options: the believers to hell, the others to go fuck themselves. If you don't remember, it's about what the Ukrainian defenders of Snake Island declared to the attacking missile cruiser Moskva: 'Russian warship, go fuck yourself.'
   And all the murderers sent by Putin to Ukraine – to bite the dust.

   What we, the artists, know is that this pompous prick in a knee-length tie will keep on letting Putin screw him. We also know that today is Monday. So cross off the next days, weeks, those who survived.

10 August 2025

you're an idiot, babe

   We don't know if you remember, a while back we pointed out that this moron wanted to give his buddy Putin half of Ukraine. We asked, 'Maybe you could give him something that belongs to you? How about Alaska?'
   Some people say that art can be prophetic. Look, now they're going to Alaska for some tittle-tattle. What will come out of it? Nothing. Instead of ’exchanging territories,’ (what the hell territories?) Putin will screw him. Putin's been playing him for a fool for months. You probably also don't remember that he would end the war in Ukraine in a day, or with a single phone call even before his term begins. It was well over half a year ago.

   ‘You're an idiot, babe
   It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe’.

11 August 2025

this we'll defend?

   We read that he's currently sending troops to Washington. And rightly so; it's much easier to attack your own country than some Canada or another Greenland. But attacking your own country is something new. Breaking the law is nothing new; everyone seems to be used to that by now.

   We, the artists, know nothing about war tactics, but we're curious what these brave soldiers will be doing in Washington? Using tanks to run over people in their cars just for fun, like Putin's guys in Ukraine? Killing women and children in the streets? After all, Putin is his close buddy, someone he trusts and admires.

   This We'll Defend?

   Luckily, it's Monday, so it's time for a brand new calendar!

12 August 2025

no tanks in sight, yet

   Phew! We breathed a sigh of relief! Soldiers are peacefully strolling through Washington's parks, some taking advantage of the sunny weather to get a tan. No one is murdering anyone, and there are no tanks in sight. Apparently, he only partially followed the advice of his pal Putin: sending soldiers into the streets is meant to scare people and make it clear that if they protest, they'll see gun barrels.

   Freedom for all! Americans too.

13 August 2025

he claps when the plane lands

   Some time ago, we wrote about our travels to the Cotswolds; beautiful, quiet, peaceful, until a hillbilly from across the pond invaded. Couldn't he have a holiday in his own village? Local true patriots would have welcomed him with honor, Proud Boys would have volunteered to keep order, just to rough up any leftist who might come along. He would have gotten the best room in his village hotel, if there was one, and spent his time peacefully, as he had as a child, milking cows. Or riding them. Or whatever.

   Instead, he fancied staying in a real, elegant place in the hamlet of Dean, near Chipping Norton for a while. The 18th-century home.
   Right. Bison roamed his home village at the time. Whether pterodactyls flew, we don't know.

   And so he's made a mess in the area. People are pissed, can't get through, can't go to the store, road closures, even local paths, sniffer dogs, police and a number of blacked out cars in the area – a marked difference to the usual calm and quaint atmosphere.

   It's normal that he and his chief screw up everything they touch, but why the hell disturb the peace of the Cotswolds?
   Local people do it their very British way; they come up with placards ‘J.D. claps when the plane lands’ or say ‘Go home!’ The more angry propose ‘Sod off.’

14 August 2025

just don't get tailed

   Warm and sunny. We're sitting in a café in Basel on the riverbank in the city centre. Believe it or not, firstly, the water is turquoise, and secondly, people are swimming with small bundles.

   A graying man hears us speaking English and explains: ‘They’re returning from work, pack their suits into airtight containers and float home, normal here.’

   An American. We’re chatting, and he says, ‘I taught political history at university, but enough is enough. I was born in New Jersey, raised in Manhattan at a time when it was scary to enter Central Park. The park is safe now, but it’s not my country anymore, not my America. I’m an immigrant in Europe, and I feel good knowing ICE is not after me.'
   He laughs, but not very cheerfully. And he chats on, more and more interestingly. We order food and a bottle of wine, then another. We tell him a little about ourselves, show him what we're doing. He seems interested, lowers his glasses, and reads carefully.
   ‘Well, well, artists,’ he says, nodding. Hard to figure out what he means. Once he bursts into laughter.
   We suggest he come over to our place if he has a moment.
   He accepts the invitation for another weekend, now he's starting meetings at universities around. ‘You see, I'm looking for a job, I'm an immigrant.’
   ‘Just don't get tailed,’ we laugh.
   ‘Sure, guys, like I said, armed morons ain’t after me here.’

   We insist on paying the bill. We're really loaded; one of us sold a painting to a Swiss collector for a small fortune. We rented a studio in Riehen; it's still Basel, close to the city, but in places it's like a village nestled in fields. Our temporary home and workplace is a well-kept old barn, but not far from the Fondation Beyeler, designed by Renzo Piano. They're just closing for the exhibition changeover, so it's quiet in the area; that’s how we can invite the American professor in Switzerland to ‘our place’.

   That’s it for today. Sleep well, if ICE is not after you.

16 August 2025

almighty and bison roaming fifth avenue

   Hello, American friends. Again, please accept our sincere condolences. We are truly sorry; it's such a shame! The only thing he can do now is join #metoo, as he was brutally raped in Alaska.
   May the Almighty bless you, for there is nothing else.

   There was a guy named Averroes, he lived a long time ago, around the time bison roamed Fifth Avenue. And then he, not the bison, asked the question whether the Almighty is almighty. He was referring to a stone so heavy that even the Almighty couldn't lift it. And this isn't about any stone, but about the fact that on American soil (admittedly bought for pennies from the Russkies, but also quite a while ago) in the presence of cameras and journalists, the war criminal is screwing this clown, who smiles stupidly and mumbles something about ‘progress.’

   And all those federal agents, the Secret Service and all the rest couldn't protect him, so, philosophers aside, all you are left with is faith in the Almighty, assuming he's almighty.

   Hallelujah!

17 August 2025

long live the king! or a birdie

   You know what it's like when a balloon breaks free of its tether and flies away, buffeted by gusts of wind. It's similar with a person who loses touch with reality; they’re seeing pink elephants, talk nonsense, think they're Jesus or a fish, sometimes a King or a birdie. But such ailments are curable. It's worse if they have the power to decide something important, even worse if they consider themselves very, very, very intelligent, and worst of all if they begin to believe they're almighty. We mentioned Averroes and his omnipotence paradox yesterday, but that's more philosophy than theology, though it’s been stirring minds for centuries. In our poor guy's case, we're dealing with a psychiatric case, not a philosophical, theological, or any other kind.
   The question remains: is he curable? Perhaps instead of electroshock, lobotomy or other terrible inventions, give him a Nobel Prize?
   Very humane.

   Long live the King! Or a birdie.

18 August 2025

he kissed his ass

   Forgive us for bringing up a rather unsavory topic again today. We recently heard about international leaders waiting to kiss his ass.
   In Alaska, we saw American soldiers on their knees rolling out the red carpet for a war criminal, and a smiling clown applauding and stroking his hands. He behaved like a blushing, marriageable girl. Journalists claim no one knows what went on behind closed doors. We, the artists, know: he kissed his ass.
   This is what happens when wishful thinking differs from reality.

   Fortunately, today is Monday and to cheer you up, we have a calendar where you can cross off the days until this embarrassing situation ends.

19 August 2025

drill, baby, drill

   A few days ago, we wrote about the King, and the birdies. Do you know what he thinks about the birds?
   Drill, baby, drill.

21 August 2025

your choice

   Or is he in love with Putin? No, rather not, simply adores him. We'd rather believe Putin carries around some sort of ‘kompromat’, one of the Soviets' primary tools, besides spreading fear and false accusations. By the way, reminds you of anything?
   It was Stalin's invention, but Hitler also enjoyed using ‘kompromat’, later adopted by the Stasi in East Germany.

   But you Americans have a choice.

23 August 2025

be obedient and fearful

   As we've already mentioned, we don't know anything about war machines, nor are we historians. But we can read, and we often do; we mean old-fashioned books on paper.

   We read that Stalin, to cement his absolute power, instituted mass terror in the Soviet Union. The culmination was 1937 and the Great Purge, during which he murdered and sent to Gulag camps not only political opponents, real or perceived, but also Red Army officers – just in case. That is, to make everyone obedient and fearful. Two years later, World War II broke out.

   We learned that his administration is firing generals, admirals, and other high-ranking officers in a series targeting US military leaders one after another – for no reason, just in case. The rest are supposed to be obedient and fearful.
   We don't know if he learned this from his close buddy Putin, whom he trusts, or if he came up with it on his own. We also don't know whether World War III will break out in two years, a little later, or right away.

   We, the artists, paint pictures.

24 August 2025

no more jumped-up squirrel

   Another day, and instead of painting, we’re back to wartime activities. There's already been the Marines' attack on LA, there are brave soldiers in Washington, and now they're talking about Chicago and New York as the next targets.

   We, the artists, don't see a problem. Just have a look: in Washington, soldiers, already fully armed, stroll around, sometimes cleaning up parks and feeding squirrels. A squirrel might seem cute, but if it gets the wrong kind of nut, it can be nasty and bite. A small child can't handle it, but a fully armed soldier can; got combat gloves, at a pinch will reach for a combat knife. And in a crisis, will throw a grenade and unleash a burst from a machine gun. And no more jumped-up squirrel!

   On the other hand, it's a shame these brave soldiers won't go and kick the asses of Putin's murderers in Ukraine, but it's hard to expect the Commander in Chief to attack his close buddy whom he trusts, and for whom American soldiers roll out the red carpet on their knees.

25 August 2025

ice agents chasing rats and cockroaches

   We promise, it'll be about painting soon, for now about governors challenging the decision to send the army to their cities in court. But let's look at it differently: leaving aside what soldiers should be doing in general, if they rake leaves in Washington parks and feed squirrels until they're as right as rain, just think how New Yorkers would love this administration if ICE agents, the military, and other undercover agents caught all the rats and cockroaches! They themselves would demand a Nobel Prize for him, well, maybe in the new field of pest control.

   After all, it's the tailcoat, the champagne glass, and the cover of Time that counts. And today is Monday. So, a new calendar for you guys. Cheers!

27 August 2025

you don’t need a fortune-teller

   We're reading The New York Times. A chilling effect on museums.
   We, the artists from $1 Art for America, ain’t too worried; no museum or art gallery in the US would hang our stuff, that's obvious. If that happened, armed forces would immediately appear. Various three-letter agencies led by ICE, plus the military, the National Guard, the police, and a crowd of ‘civilians’ with guns under their jackets. They'd drag out the curators, all the staff, and the owners, and if, heaven forbid, they found us, we would immediately be sent to El Salvador. At best, to alligators in Florida. Or they'd just shoot us on the spot.
   But we sympathize with the artists in the US, the curators, and the gallery owners. We pity these old institutions where they shake with fear even to organize whatever exhibition. These people work hard, have families, children, and suddenly some moron can deem a piece of work inappropriate, report it, and... everyone goes to hell! They'll fire them, take away their grant, bankrupt the museum, and send lawyers to screw everyone involved.

   As we’ve already mentioned, you Americans have a kind of comfort nobody else has ever had before; you don’t even need a fortune-teller to see what’s round the corner! Just read Orwell, or even briefly review Russian history, or German history around 1933.

   This has all happened before. These are old, tried-and-true patterns.

   Okay, if you don't feel like reading long, here's a quick reminder: four bombings in 1999, which killed hundreds, changed Russian history. The Chechens, becoming independent of Moscow, were blamed for all these attacks, even though the evidence points to the FSB, headed by... Vladimir Putin. And that's when he seized power in Russia. He built public support on the fight against terrorism. And fear.

   In 1933, the Reichstag fire in Berlin. The way this incident was exploited was a decisive step on the road to Hitler's complete seizure of power: the secrecy of correspondence, freedom of assembly, the personal inviolability of citizens and their homes, freedom of publication were suspended. As a result, publications not considered friendly were banned. So-called ‘preventive detention’ – internment without a court order – was permitted. Most importantly, also suspended was the possibility of judicial review of administrative decisions.

   Does this remind you of anything?

   You may remember us telling about a nice elderly lady who rented us an atelier in the Cotswolds this summer. She said that even good old jokes lose their meaning. She knew one like this: ‘A Russian meets an American and boasts that the Soviet Union has as much freedom as the USA. Really? asks the surprised American. Yes, the other replies, you can stand in front of the White House and scream that you don't like Ronald Reagan and nothing wrong will happen to you. The same with me, I can stand in Red Square and scream that I don't like Ronald Reagan.’

   No more jokes. Beware of your own Reichstag fire and other bombings blamed on internal enemies!

28 August 2025

make america great again!

   We hear complaints from journalists; he wants to fire some, insults others, and still others he won't let into the WH.
   Listen, guys, in the Middle Ages, if you bought a sword, you could swing it however you wanted, even cut off someone's head or other parts. Was a mess.
   Today, you buy a washing machine and get an instruction manual – don't wash your pet, put the plug in the socket, not your fingers, etc. You buy a condom, and there is also an instruction so you don't swallow it as a contraceptive pill.
   Putin doesn't mind journalists because they know what questions to ask, even without instructions – he trained them for years, and those who didn't follow, he killed or put in the Gulag. But Putin isn't his only close buddy; there is also Kim, and that fella doesn't give a shit, just issues instructions: when to applaud and for how long when he speaks, when and what slogans to raise in his honour, and how to express admiration. And there are no surprises. Surprises await in concentration camps for those who didn't understand or disliked something.

   But America is a real mess; journalists wander wherever they want and ask 'stupid' questions. We, the artists, have a near-certain feeling that this will soon change and they'll be given instructions. And not just journalists – everyone! How to express admiration, and generally what to say, starting with criticism and a brutal attack on Biden, through complaints about the delays in the Nobel Prize, to admiration for his elegance, beautiful appearance and a natural, charming smile, as well as various talents, from his knowledge of architecture to his outstanding musicality, not to mention his golf successes, worthy not only of a green jacket but also of green trousers. And a tie, a long one.
   And when everyone who doesn't understand or dislikes something ends up in El Salvador or with alligators in Florida, order worthy of the 21st century will prevail. Not some damn medieval mess.

   Make America Great Again!

29 August 2025

storm clouds on the horizon

   As promised, about the paintings. Now that you know everything about us – Where Do We Come From, What Are We, Where Are We Going, and what we're doing along the way – there's one more thing we haven't shared yet, for which we sincerely apologize. Or maybe not. We're just adding dimensions, and we mean our paintings.

   The most common (HxW) is approximately from 70x50 cm (27x20 in) to 80x58 cm (31x23 in), min 55x40 cm (22x16 in), max 107x78 cm (42x31 in). We say approximately because each image is formatted individually and they may differ slightly from one another. Calendars usually measure 73x52 cm (29x20 in). Our Black Flags, also Graying Flags, are a completely different story – their dimensions (HxW) are 160 x 280 cm (63 x 110 in).

   We hope this information helps you spend another day calmly, despite the storm clouds on the horizon.

30 August 2025

more criminals will fit

   Where Do We Come From, What Are We, Where Are We Going – that was yesterday. D’où venons nous? Que sommes nous? Où allons nous? – the original title of an allegorical painting created by Paul Gauguin during his personal crisis in Tahiti.
   The clown of yours is also in crisis, and probably a permanent one. He can't paint a picture, he can't do anything except create chaos, also permanent. Just like his crisis. Besides, Tahiti is far away, Canada closer. Invade them?

   Anyway, the painting can be seen at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Hurry before they turn it into a portrait. Of him, maybe with Putin and Kim, as the painting is wide. More criminals will fit.

31 August 2025

you guys have a choice

   Yesterday, we mentioned a trinity – God forbid to confuse with The Trinity – namely, we mentioned him, Putin, and Kim. You could also throw in Hitler and a few others.

   The point is, you Americans have a choice.

1 September 2025

wipe your tears

   An interesting letter is being written today by the Congress of the United States to the fella in the White House:

‘We write to express our strong opposition to your reported plans to mobilize and deploy the National Guard or active-duty service members to Chicago. While your actions come as no surprise given the recent militarization in Washington, D.C., they are nonetheless unlawful, unconstitutional, and unacceptable.

The deployment of the U.S. military into American cities is not about safety or security. It is about control. It is about abusing the power of the Executive Branch and threatening Democratic-led cities and states that dare to openly oppose your authoritarianism. The Administration is attacking cities and states that continue to uphold the rule of law and defend our Constitution, our civil liberties, and due process.

You are disrespecting our troops by treating them like they are your Mar-A-Lago staff-forcing men and women in uniform to pick up trash and perform landscaping duties and making U.S. servicemembers perform clerical work as de facto administrative staff for civil immigration enforcement matters. Pulling troops away from tough, realistic training relevant to high-end combat is not only wasteful, but dangerously degrades military readiness, erodes servicemember morale, and undermines public confidence in a professional and apolitical U.S. Armed Forces.’

It's a long letter, and at the end it adds:

‘Abuses of government and military power to target and punish dissent are the tools of authoritarians. We demand you suspend any plans for the deployment of military personnel to Chicago and cease your unlawful power grabs and Executive Branch overreach.’

   What can we, only the artists, add? It's Monday, we give you a calendar so you can wipe your tears and cross off the next days.

2 September 2025

despots become losers

   Yesterday, we mentioned the letter by the Congress of the United States. Do you think he and his cronies care? We'll tell you: they don't give a shit. Like all despots. And losers. Because despots become losers. It's just a matter of time, the scale of the losses, and the number of victims.

4 September 2025

us govt has screwed up

   As you already know, on the advice of a friendly London lawyer we met at Ye Grapes, we've decided not to sell our work for now. That doesn't mean we weren't planning on sending it to a few friends. But... but, we just learned at the post office that we can't send our $1 painting because the US govt has screwed up, and post offices across Europe won't accept such mail to the States.

   God bless America! Too late for anything but divine rescue.

   Incidentally, Ye Grapes in its current form isn't that old; it's been around since 1882, but originally was established in the heart of Shepherd Market in 1742.
   We, the artists, don't know what pterodactyls were up to back then, but we're guessing the United States didn't yet exist.

   Cheers!

7 September 2025

fasten your seatbelts!

   ‘Chicago will soon find out why it's called the Department of War’, he said. Means, he now intends to attack Chicago. Understandably, easier than Canada or Greenland. The question remains, will he, following his buddy Vladimir, use ballistic missiles and drones, or just soldiers? If so, might he receive support from his other pal, Kim of North Korea?
   Hey, guys! It’s gonna be a hell of a ride, fasten your seatbelts!

8 September 2025

nyc as a stopover to el salvador

   Some of us, the artists, enjoy tennis, but none of us dare watch the US Open final live. Why risk NYC as a stopover to El Salvador?
   We don't usually comment on sporting events, this time we'll quote a sports fan: ‘This ogre fucks up everything.’
   Besides, it’s Monday, time for your next calendar.
   Have a nice day!

9 September 2025

megalomaniacs shit in golden toilets

   We've pointed out that megalomaniacs are having shits to golden toilets. As it turns out, not only. Putin and Kim, whenever they go, have special security officers carrying with them small toilets and are responsible for collecting the chiefs' excrement which is transported back home. We, the artists, don't know what happens to it in the homeland of these two – maybe it ends up in some collection and is gold-plated? Who knows.
   Putin has discovered the secret of eternity. He knows how to rule forever. Only remains how to live forever. To begin with, he wants to live to 150, and that is nothing new. Stalin had such a plan too. It didn't quite work out (we recommend The Death of Stalin by Armando Iannucci). Now we learn how he plans to achieve this: they breed baby pigs and transplant their organs into monkeys to ‘humanize’ them – organs, not monkeys. Then they'll transplant them into Putin.
   We, the artists, don't know much about medicine, but we suspect Putin will start oinking and vigorously scratching his ass.

   Just think, dear Americans, what would happen if Comrade Vladimir convinced his close pal in the White House to live to 150 as well?

   Or maybe he already did?

12 September 2025

young and beautiful piece of ass

   As you probably already know, we respect the written word. By people. Especially handwritten. We were touched by a letter from a certain citizen of Elsmere, Delaware, who showed such a deep interest in the written word that he even omitted a rather attractive young lady only partially clothed. Even completely naked. He pointed out that in our painting posted on February 8, the handwriting is illegible because it is obscured by a bird's wing.
   Indeed, this is the case.
   By the way, this picture is dedicated to what is so important to the Leader (in German Führer) – beautiful piece of ass.
   We hereby repeat this painting, preserving the legibility of the writing, and adding a special dedication to the citizen of Elsmere, Delaware.
   For those who don't remember, it's about '... it really doesn't matter... as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of ass.'

   God Bless Elsmere and all of Delaware!
   Make America Great Again!
   What the hell is going on with the Nobel Prize!

15 September 2025

megalomaniacs want to live to 150

   A few days ago, we mentioned that megalomaniacs like to shit in golden toilets and want to live to 150.
   We wish him all the best and hope he doesn't oink and vigorously scratch his ass. At least in public.

   Besides, it's Monday, feel free to cross off a few more days.

19 September 2025

state visit

   Usually we, the artists, are far from the affairs of crowned heads. But we read and hear about the state visit everywhere.
   We may admit, this time, it seems to make sense if you can trade square miles of red carpet for the reduced tariffs on steel or other aluminium, which in turn translates into jobs. Those guys in big teddy bear hats have nothing better to do than march anyway, so let them march a little ahead of the moron. For them makes no difference, and the moron is happy.
   As for the gilded carriage, it's the same. Daily dusty, let them shine it, and the horses will happily take a walk.
   The thing about the carriage is that if he saw Parthenope by Paolo Sorrentino, he'd know what it could be used for. But he only watches porn – that's what left from his youthful time spent with Epstein. He was actually present at Windsor, as a projection on the castle tower the evening before. They were both there. The royal guest was dancing in the film, or rather, shaking his ass with some young lady. Not in the film shown on the tower, but in real life, at dinner, he ogled Duchess Kate, whom they had specially seated next to him, and murmured something in her ear. Good-looker. She, not him.

   In the end, just society gossips. We, the artists, are interested in whether, as part of their attempt to placate the madman, they installed a solid-gold shithouse in his private apartments.

   So much for our reflection on the royals. God save the King! – as they say (depending on which king they're referring to this time).

22 September 2025

he likes deals

   He's been rambling again that he's ended so many wars: six, seven, ten, and the poor guy can't even recall how many he's ended. But he's demanding a Nobel Prize more and more loudly.
   But maybe World War III will begin for good thanks to him.

   For good? Well, yes, already years ago, the German thinker, Hans Magnus Enzensberger, had said it was an illusion to think we live in a state of peace. To his mind, for years now, a creeping World War III, in many diverse and changing versions, has been in constant progress at different levels and in different forms.

   He likes deals. So why not make him a deal that will give him the Nobel if he would just fuck off for good?

   Besides, it's Monday, so the calendar is ready, unless he makes a deal and we don't need it anymore.

23 September 2025

entartete kunst

   Have you heard MAKING FEDERAL ARCHITECTURE BEAUTIFUL AGAIN?
   Taking the piss out of all of us, isn’t he? The guy really is out to space, too bad only mentally; maybe he should just hop on a rocket with his mates and actually take off! To Mars!

   Joking aside. Public buildings are supposed to be in a new Putinotrumpian style, meaning lots of columns, preferably gilded, everything gilded, huge – the bigger the better, and toilets made of solid gold, of course. They both like that.
   It is meant to be followed by general New Trumputinism Era in all arts; literature only about beautiful life of those two, beautiful portraits of those two only, very bombastic, music only what they accept, sculptures… and so on. Have a look around in North Korea, if in doubt.
   All different would be called Entartete Kunst.
   Don’t worry, American friends, there's a chance; before they burnt all the books and paintings, by the time they build it all – anyway, there won't be anyone to do it as ICE will take over the workers and shoot them dead, or at best, sent to El Salvador – someone at least a bit brainy will become president.

   Let's hope so! Anything else left?

24 September 2025

new trumputinism era

   As a side to yesterday's reflections on the New Trumputinism Era, we're sitting over a bottle of wine and can't figure out what language the saying is that if the Almighty wants to punish someone, takes his mind away.
   Warning! We're entering a dangerous minefield of theological considerations: why didn't the Almighty realise that by punishing him in such a cruel way – most probably rightly, for his evil deeds – was sending misfortune to so many?
   Could it be that the Almighty, tired of creating everything, overlooked something?
   God only knows.

25 September 2025

queen of the universe

   Back to the wars he so bravely ‘ended’ – he deserves not just the Nobel, but an Oscar, Grammy, Pulitzer, and Queen of the Universe crown too! It's not only the ones that dragged on, but the ones that never even started... yet could've. Bloody genius, that one!
   Ten wars only? You kidding? Much more!
   Just look at that bloody bloody conflict, which nearly drowned half a hemisphere in innocent animal blood or turned the oceans red. If not for the bold moves of a true genius: threatening Greenland and its penguins with attack while slapping tariffs on the penguins from Heard and McDonald Islands, he halted their inevitable clash. What foresight to spot the sparking conflict of penguin troops separated by much more than the distance between Cambodia and Armenia – and yet he held back that war too. Genius, proper genius!

   We hear he did not elaborate on what allegedly set leaders in capitals Phnom Penh and Yerevan – which are 4,150 miles apart – against each other, but he assured that war ‘was just starting, and it was a bad one’.

   Make America Great Again

29 September 2025

before they tear it down

   We're just leaving our friendly studio in Riehen, Basel, near the Beyeler Foundation, designed by Renzo Piano. Before they tear it down as part of New Trumputinism Era – if he and his pal Putin manage to invade Europe – cross off the next few days. It's Monday.

3 October 2025

very fat guy a thief

   We've already mentioned some of the close buddies of this jerk in a ballock-length tie.

   Hungarian Victor Orban, a sad but interesting figure. He used to be a pretty decent man. He wrote his master's thesis on social movements within the political system, using Poland as an example. He also studied British political philosophy at Pembroke College, University of Oxford, as a George Soros Foundation scholarship holder. In 1989, during the funeral of the leaders of the 1956 Hungarian Uprising, he delivered a courageous speech in which he paid tribute to the leaders of the uprising and demanded the withdrawal of Soviet soldiers from Hungary and the holding of free elections.
   Generally speaking, this is what decency was all about in countries under Soviet occupation after World War II.
   Today, this very fat guy is a thief fattening up by stealing EU money, has destroyed democracy in Hungary, and is sincerely friends with Putin. Of course, the guy with the slightly overlong ties, regardless of the length, cherishes Orban as his European stool pigeon.

   We'll write about the others tomorrow. We need a drink.

4 October 2025

former pimp

   We were talking of the close buddies of this jerk with the way-too-long tie. Yesterday Hungary, today even more interesting Poland: there's this electrician named Walesa, got a Nobel Prize for overthrowing communism. Okay, Reagan helped him. And 10 million Poles pissed off at the Bolshevik regime. Among them was one, not entirely pissed off, but desperate to get in on the action and seize power. He latched onto Walesa, but Walesa sensed him and threw him into the dustbin of history. As is often the case, the loser emerged and – out of hatred for Walesa, Poles, and everything – began to mess things up, until 30 years later he seized power and started fucking up democracy in Poland. As you can imagine, to Putin's delight. His name is Kaczynski. His brother died in a plane crash, and he built on it a sick religion of hatred for everything democratic, liberal, and the like.

   Tusk, the former Prime Minister, returned to local politics after years in the EU. Seems to be decent guy, though of a first name Donald, too. And he chased away those right-wing Bolshevik Catholic true ‘patriots’. And it was close to win it all, because another decent guy, whose name we can't pronounce anyway, could have won the presidential election this year – Rafał T., the mayor of Warsaw. Speaks languages, educated, good looking and sensible – so an enemy of people like your orange jerk, and JD Hillbilly, and all those who hate freedom. So the jerk and his close friend Putin stepped in, manipulated the elections, and a pimp became president – coming from neo-Nazi criminal circles and known for stealing an apartment from an elderly. Also ‘worked’ as a pimp in a hotel, and as a bouncer in a whorehouse, as local journalists found out. Sorry; so he is not a pimp, but at most a former pimp.

   Other thing, Poles behaved really well after Putin's invasion of Ukraine; they travelled by the thousands to the border, used their own cars, own money to buy food and clothes for women and children fleeing the war, and welcomed them into their own homes.

   This new president (former) pimp announced his platform: hatred of Ukrainians, fighting the Polish government until it's destroyed, and love for Trump.
   Putin is jumping for joy, or as the Poles say – they're popping champagne in the Kremlin.
   Za zdorovye!

   The thing is, some 35 years ago, 10 million Poles, Walesa, and Reagan were enough. Now, over 10 million voted for Rafał T., but no one listens to Walesa anymore. Instead of Reagan, there's an orange jerk and his close buddy Putin, and they tricked the results so the (former) pimp and a bouncer in a whorehouse won by a very slim margin.
   Well, gonna be a mess. Some say brothel.

   Hallelujah!

5 October 2025

concentration camp

   We were talking about this jerk's close friends in Hungary and Poland, now it's time for North Korea. Kim, Kim's son, Kim's grandson – all running for decades a sort of family business, have turned the country into a concentration camp. We weren't there, but we read books. We found a talk between a certain lady and a guy from the government. It was written some fifteen years ago. Listen:

   ‘You do not understand that crisis is a tool for exercising power there, and therefore it is permanent. Psychopath is not an epithet. A psychopath embodies the negative features of human nature and is able to appeal to the lowest feelings, such as envy, uncertainty and fear. Fear is often the most important because it is the strongest. In addition, conformism, the need for being taken care of which means immaturity. Tyranny is a form of paternalism, the individual becomes a subordinate and no longer has to think. Someone does it for him or her.’
   ‘Yes, yes, you heard right. What? Sounds familiar? However, I am not talking about our beloved country. I’m talking about Kim. He is an extremely skilful manipulator. He creates the appearance of madness because it serves him well in exercising power. Go back to Washington and look around – everyone there is trying to make an impression. What kind? One that is conducive to concealing the real goals. What goals? Grabbing more power, more money, more sex, more anything, just more of it. A bigger office, more assistants, more phones on the desk, more bodyguards, more lovers, a longer limousine, a bigger private jet. The mechanisms of Washington’s power are essentially no different from those over there. Only the conditions are different. Here, cynicism that is nicely wrapped up in Christian puritanism and tied with a liberal ribbon sells better. Over there, maniacal madness wrapped in barbed wire, behind which hunger and the barrels of a firing squad peek out. Our government uses an extremely complex apparatus because it is much more difficult to sell in a supermarket with full shelves. There, simple, scarcity-based Stalinist patterns are used. The foundation of all that is lack, preferably shortage of everything. Control is instituted by satisfying basic needs, at the overseer’s discretion. Here, needs must be created. There, they just need to be met at a biologically minimal level. If it doesn’t work out, too bad – hundreds of thousands will starve, so what? A bowl of rice, three hundred and eighty grams a day for an ordinary slave, twice as much and vodka for his overseer, plus a television that will let him know how lucky he is to be allowed to live. And the table lavishly set for the chief of overseers. And so on, upwards. At the top sits a god whose name is sung by birds and flowers. He is crazy, but he has got what every politician dreams of – unlimited power. And hundreds of mistresses trained to satisfy his promiscuous fantasies.’
   He listened.
   ‘Do you know what a politician dreams of when speaking from a Washington podium to millions of his compatriots?’
   He didn’t react.
   ‘The one with a mouth full of platitudes about family, honour and the homeland?’
   He moved his head.
   ‘He knows that his appearance inspires confidence because professionals made him look that way, he knows that his text is good because it was written by communication specialists, and he knows that he will look good on TV because he employs the best stylists. But do you know what he is dreaming about?’
   ‘Not really,’ he muttered.
   ‘About his secretary getting under the podium and giving him a blow job!’
   ‘Phew… ’ he sighed.
   ‘Do you know why? Because no one has done it before, and that’s what turns him on. And Kim has it all. There, political decisions are made in a brothel, drunken old men discuss the future of the country and grope school girls. How do we know about this? Because he’s deliberately allowing leaks so that your guys in Washington know about it. He has what they don’t have. He has absolute power, he is a tyrant.’

6 October 2025

earning trillions in jail

   Hungary, Poland and North Korea. So maybe your Leader (Führer in German) isn't that innovative and just takes what he thinks is best from his buddies.
   But he still praised Hitler's generals. Would he also stroke this guy's hands on a red carpet rolled out by American soldiers on their knees? And would he applaud him joyfully?
   We, the artists, don't know that, but we were recently in Berlin, more specifically in Potsdam, and we talked to people. You know what followers of the neo-fascist party supported by Hillbilly say? That the Wehrmacht wasn't that bad, just soldiers, and Hitler contributed to the development of modern technology and invented the highway.

   Let's leave aside linguistic considerations about the meaning of the term 'that bad'. We simply advise against comparing which murders are 'slightly better' and which are 'slightly worse,' or whether Stalin in the 1930s, Hitler in the 1940s, or is Putin now 'more' murderous in Ukraine. As for technology, perhaps we should ask how much of it was used for mass extermination and how much for global happiness. And as for Hitler's famous Autobahn, the first one was built by Italians from Milan to Lake Como, while Hitler was running around beer bars in Munich, trying to stage a coup known as the Beer Hall Putsch, for which he landed in prison. Just as the Autostrada dei Laghi was opening in Lombardy, Adolf was writing Mein Kampf in prison. When released, he set out again for power.
   By the way, he earned millions of marks from his ‘literature’.
   The conclusion from these automotive and historical stories is that those sentenced to prison should have served time there instead of seeking a return to power – it would have been much better for mankind.

   How about giving your Leader (Führer in German) a chance to write his own version of My Struggle?
   No way. Even if he's in jail, his family-Saudi’s AI will do it for him. And earn trillions.

   But it's Monday! Cross out the days and see how many are left until he lands where he should.

12 October 2025

may peace reign in the region

   We, the artists, are happy that these poor hostages have been released. They will return to their families, they survived. May peace reign in the region for longer.
   Of course, there will be an uproar about the Nobel Prize, and it has been going on for a long time; give me that! give me that fucking Nobel!
   Whatever.
   If it weren't for his deep, sincere friendship and admiration for the Kremlin war criminal, perhaps another war would have ended, or at least a ceasefire. Putin's murderers are raping Ukrainian women, kidnapping children, torturing prisoners, and this clown is rolling out the red carpet for the murderer, applauding and stroking his hands.
   We won't mention his other activities.

13 October 2025

are you still alive?

   Are you still alive? Then pick up the pen and cross them off. It's Monday!

14 October 2025

charge! hit 'em!

   Charge! Hit 'em! 100% tariffs on imports from China!
   Why not 1000?
   That nutcase got so tangled up in his own tie he legit thought the Chinese would flip out over his barking. In Beijing, some just cracked a pity smile, others didn’t even bat an eye – like, they’ve been playing Go and running the show for three thousand years, no sweat. Only in some ministries the grind’s still on, especially where they track all the Chinese cars, buses, and whatever else idiots around the world buy – those desk jockeys can spy, listen in, shut stuff off with one button. Hell, they can even make ’em drive in reverse. Just for laughs.

   Yo, buddy! You’re so screwed and still acting all wild! Get a grip!
   And seriously, ditch that tie before you trip and do a faceplant!

   Make America Great Again!

18 October 2025

nobel prizes for being screwed

   We hear that Putin has spoken with this volatile fella in a knee-length tie, and WH is already announcing a meeting in Budapest. Quite a place chosen; they already screwed Ukraine there once.
   We, the artists, don't know much about politics, as we've highlighted many times, but we do know (besides what we know about painting and art in general): if they meet in Budapest, Putin will screw him again, unless he does it first and doesn't have to bother with Hungary.

   Do they give out Nobel Prizes for being screwed?‘

19 October 2025

(i can't get no) satisfaction

   Some time ago, we mentioned a painting by Paul Gauguin D’où venons nous? and so on. Briefly, where we're from. Leaving aside the great artist and the entire title, as well as questions about ourselves that we've already answered, it's time for a moment of looking back.

   We decided to work together two years ago, having no idea what our topic would be. We've known each other for many years; some from college, some exhibited together.

   It was precisely at the end of October and beginning of November 2023. We remember because two new albums by the Rolling Stones and the Beatles were released. Shocking. We also met the father of one of us, for whom it was even more shocking, claiming he remembers the day the Beatles broke up. He heard it on the radio and cried. And he remembers the release of the single I Can't Get No Satisfaction. He emphasized that the title was Satisfaction with the beginning in brackets (I Can't Get No) and bought the single, and on the other side was The Spider and the Fly, which he grew to like even more over time. It was his first record, and he listened to it over and over on his parents' player when they were away.

   Autumn memories. We not only read, but also like old movies, or more precisely, the good ones. We noticed that some 50 years ago a film was made that couldn't be made today, because with the consent and applause of your Leader (you know how it is in German, don’t ya?) brave warriors of the so-called right, with the support of the Capitol attackers released from prison, would have murdered the actors and hanged the director from a tree in the park, unnoticed by American soldiers, rifles in hand, raking leaves and guarding squirrels. Or perhaps feeding them? Check our posts from August 24th and 25th.
   We're talking, of course, about One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, because Miloš Forman, Jack Nicholson (McMurphy), and the rest prove that the destructive machine of power (Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched) can be defeated.
   Today, in Washington, just like his close buddy in the Kremlin, the prevailing belief is the opposite – the machine of power is unstoppable. Especially if these two powers work hand in hand.
   Speaking of psychiatry, anyhow advised in the case, maybe it's worth giving him this movie to watch. Maybe something will click in his head.
   More human than electroshock therapy.

20 October 2025

jerk in a very honourable position

   It’s Monday again. Yesterday, we mentioned One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, so let's dedicate today's calendar to the jerk in a very honourable position.

21 October 2025

za zdorovye!

   We're having coffee and reading morning paper: about 50 journalists have given away their passes and left the Pentagon in protest against a new policy restricting the freedom to report information without permission.
   You might say: so what?
   We, the artists, know nothing about what the Pentagon should be busy with, because it's about tanks, ballistic missiles and the like. But we have a feeling this stinks – it's not about pistols and bombs, but about confusing people. About operating on people's brains without asking their owners. The principles of primitive, sort of stone age propaganda, still linger in North Korea, where television reports the party's enormous successes in building a happy society while people starve or suffer in concentration camps, where they die from various causes. Starvation including.
   Today's advanced propaganda, aided by AI, presents information that isn't information at all, but a mixture of facts, half-truths, and lies, with the latter having a significant advantage. The question, what for? Not so that anyone would believe it, but so that they would stop believing in anything. Then the truth wouldn't even get through.

   And another question: how did the Pentagon and the White House ally themselves with the Kremlin in this act of human destruction?

   Whoever answers this question can count on a freebie from $1ArtforAmerica.
   But please don't give us any shit from AI, because that would be Kremlin propaganda. If we want to listen, we'll buy a TV and turn on Russian television, which, by the way, sponsors several American so-called right-wing media outlets.

   Za zdorovye!

22 October 2025

enough is enough

   ‘The White House said Tuesday that the planned meeting in Budapest, announced by Trump just last week after his two-hour phone call with Putin, was no longer in the works.’

   You know what? We're starting to get tired of being right, hate to say so. Sounds haughty or vain? We really wish we were wrong more often.
   Some say this clown is unpredictable. We disagree; he's painfully predictable! He always screws up everything, he can't do anything, if he does, it'll fall apart sooner or later, and if he announces something, he'll change his mind anyway. Or Putin or others will screw him over.
   And it's the same over and over again.

   In short, as a consolation, there are morons everywhere. Maybe this one, also weak-minded but with rockets, could take them all to Mars? And he himself too, of course. Sounds good.

   Enough is enough. Soon, we’ll be back to the art. We promise.

23 October 2025

tomahawk

   We don't remember if we've already admitted that, in addition to books, we sometimes read newspapers, also on paper which rustles a bit, or even more so.

   Listen: 'Putin achieved exactly what he wanted – Trump reneged on his promise to provide Ukraine with Tomahawk missiles. Now the Kremlin leader is showing who holds the cards in this game.'

   We, the artists, don't know much about politics and don't even try to engage with it, but we've always known who holds the cards in this game.

24 October 2025

it’s a very big day

   Remember yesterday? The newspaper continues: ‘Donald Trump has announced long-awaited sanctions against Russia. These measures could slow the Kremlin's war machine. Worryingly, however, this is another shift in the US president's stance on the invasion of Ukraine. There have been too many twists and turns recently to believe there's a turning point.’
   ‘I just felt it was time. We waited a long time … It’s a very big day in terms of what we’re doing,’ he added. ‘These are tremendous sanctions. They’re big.’
   Could his exceptional intelligence really have allowed him to see after 10 months what everyone else sees all the time? That would truly be a turning point.

   Hard to believe, but hey, we've been hoping for a long time that one day something will click in his head and he'll grasp at least a little bit of reality.

   See our post from June 20th.

25 October 2025

la dolce vita

   We're in Spain, leafing through morning papers over breakfast. On the front page: ‘The East Wing of the White House has been demolished to make way for a new $300 million ballroom.’
   Wow! With stolen billions, Putin buys luxurious mansions around the world through his friends crooks, and he built himself a Renaissance-kitsch-nouveau-riche palace, where everything is gilded. We, the artists, don't know the details, but the shithouse is definitely of solid gold.
   Surely his close buddy from Kremlin couldn't have it any better! So there will be a ballroom in Washington. It has to be! The king throws balls on a grand scale; a string orchestra, everything around gleaming with gold, the king on his throne chowing down on cheeseburgers. Satisfied; he's just made an important decision that gladdens his soul – he's about to fuck out this leftist orchestra and play his favourite dance tunes. Nice around; hundreds of guests, all glutton and drunk, burping. Some stoned. They slap passing ladies on the butts. Someone fell under the table, another puked. The king became sort of sad, a piece of burger got stuck in his throat, he slobbered, dirtied his tie with ketchup. Anyway, the tie got tangled between his legs. Elegant, stylish, and classy.
   Noblesse oblige, n'est-ce pas ?

   We read further: ‘The traditional headquarters for the first lady, was torn down illegally.’
   First lady? Everyone knows what he thinks about ladies and how, to his mind, they should be treated.
   Some say that this demolition is a federal crime. Well, we all know he doesn’t care. The National Trust for Historic Preservation warns it is threatening to ‘permanently disrupt the carefully balanced classical design of the White House with its two smaller, and lower, East and West Wings.’
   So what? He'll get rid of those lousy guys from some National Trust; You're fired!!!

   And so the coffee is gone, only crumbs of croissants remain, and we imagine a ball table with big jugs of liquor, whole roasted piglets with pineapple in the snout, huge cake in the shape of ‘young and beautiful piece of ass’.
   La dolce vita.

   Looks we need a drink ourselves.

26 October 2025

the cure of folly

   It was Rioja, the wine we drank in desperation for breakfast yesterday, as we've been in Spain for a few days now. It was really warm, around 80 degrees, as you'd say, but it's supposed to rain tomorrow. That's what they say.

   We promised about the art. One of our favourites is a certain Jheronimus van Aken, from present-day Aachen, better known as Hieronymus Bosch. The Prado has many of his paintings, including the most famous, The Garden of Earthly Delights, the right-hand section of which, The Last Judgement, depicts a hellish landscape – a world in which humanity has succumbed to the temptations of evil and is reaping the harvest of eternal damnation. It should hang in the Oval Office.

   Today we'll tell you about his rather enigmatic painting, also from the early 16th century, titled Cutting the Stone, also called The Cure of Folly.
   Be warned, it's about eunuchs, wrongly accused animals, madness, charlatans pretending to be someone other than who they really are, and the like.
   It might be added that in those days, stupidity and madness were considered sins, and curing the disease – through castration or by trepanation to remove the stone of stupidity – offered hope for purification.
   And so, this painting depicts trepanation, except that instead of a stone, a scalpel plucks a flower from the head of the tortured ‘patient’.
   The charlatan or surgeon performing the operation wears an upside-down funnel on his head, symbolising fraud for Bosch. This is observed by a monk with a jug and a nun with a book on her head. The monk seems to doubt the ‘medic's’ talents, and the book on nun’s head symbolises wisdom. The flower, in turn, both the one plucked from the head and the one on the table next to it, represent love.

   If the Prado in Madrid is not on your way, check out this painting on some internets or other computers. We'll add the meaning of the decorative inscription around the painting which reads ‘Master, rid me of this stone soon’, and ‘My name is Lubbert Das’.
   A lily flower removed from the head, a symbol of love and desire, suggests a sexual interpretation – instead of curing the patient of madness, the surgeon castrates him, depriving him of sexual desire and thus returning him to the proper path of Christian morality. The patient's name, Lubbert Das, is translated by some as ‘castrated badger’. Because a badger (das) was considered lazy. Lubbert is a male name, also used as a nickname for a fat and stupid person, and the verb ‘lubben’ means to castrate.

   Just to end this lengthy story, Bosch transforms a popular saying into an image. By adding text and mingling visual elements, he transforms it into an increasingly complex visual and verbal play.

   It wouldn't hurt if it also hung in the Oval Office.

   Make America Great Again!

27 October 2025

the cure of folly 2

   Well, yes, yesterday we wrote extensively about Bosch's painting The Cure of Folly. We warned you to be careful because yesterday's story involved eunuchs, falsely accused animals, madness, charlatans pretending to be something they are not, and the like.
   So, what's the deal with the badger? As we wrote, the decorative text surrounding the painting is, in a sense, a monologue by a poor man undergoing ‘cure’ – trepanation or castration – who calls himself a badger. This, in turn, symbolically refers to the badger's cousin, the beaver, which in ancient times was interpreted and described as a symbol of the eunuch.

   Listen please:
   ‘There is an animal called a beaver, remarkably gentle and peaceful. Its genitals are used in medicine. When it is pursued by hunters and knows it will be caught, it tears off its own genitals and throws them to the hunter. When it encounters another hunter and is pursued by him again, it falls on its back and shows itself to him. The hunter, thus realising that the beaver has no genitals, departs.’
   It comes from The Physiologus – an early Christian anonymous Greek text. The fantastic, fabulous tales of animals and plants became an important source of Christian natural symbolism. Both European literature and art feature numerous references to the Physiologus – from here we know the stories of the unicorn that allows itself to be captured only by a virgin. Also a lion whose young are born dead and are given life when the old lion breathes on them, and of a phoenix that burns itself alive and rises from the ashes on the third day; both are considered types of Christ.

   Hallelujah!

   PS Thankfully, it's Monday. To temporarily relax from the emotions stirred by mysterious phenomena from the distant past, grab a pen and cross off the days before he himself (since he's not yet cured) razes the White House to the ground.

28 October 2025

we don't mix paint with shit

   Over the next few days, we'll try to answer your questions. For example, about the language, painting techniques, and a few others.

   Do we use English because we're connected to Great Britain? Each of us has spent more or less time in Great Britain, that's true, but firstly, we use English because we're addressing you, fellow Americans. Secondly, because we all know English, some better than others, but we get along. Although one of us sometimes sneers a bit and says, ‘Try harder!’

   You sometimes accuse us of sloppy painting, of not putting in the effort to make it perfect. We don't agree with ‘sloppy’, but we really don't pay attention to detail. Not too much. When it comes to perfection, fellow Americans, you're entering a minefield of the theory of art and aesthetics. Let it go. To put it briefly: does the subject of our interest deserve any kind of perfection? On the other hand, we consciously avoid controversy; remember the uproar over Chris Ofili's exhibition and his The Holy Virgin Mary, painted with paints mixed with elephant dung? We don't mix paint with shit, after all, or should we?
   One of us, during his student days, earned some extra in a screen printing studio, where absolute precision was required. Now he says he finally has the freedom to express himself – sometimes precision serves a purpose, sometimes quite the opposite.

   More tomorrow, see ya!

29 October 2025

world is about making money

   Among the questions you ask, there's also the one of money. Why do we do something for free when everything in the world is about making money? In art, too.
   Our answers:
   1. 'Everything in the world' – which one? Because it's not ours.
   2. 'Everything is about making money' – as you can see, not everything. Throw this answer at the AI, and it'll hallucinate.
   3. 'In art, too,' – Trump boasted about his acquaintance with Andy Warhol and quoted him: 'I've often referred to business as being art. I've always liked Andy Warhol's statement that, "making money is art and working is art and good business is the best art." I agree.'
   The thing is, Warhol had a different take on Trump: 'I think Trump's sort of cheap, I get that feeling.'

   Each of us sells own art for whatever price is appropriate. We can afford to make art for you, fellow Americans, to cheer you up and not charge much, or even any. For now. One day you'll still pay $1 plus shipping.
   We don't need to screw up others, to have around cheated partners, to be made of underhanded cash, embezzled big dosh, scams, and all that is so dear to Andy's fan who didn't know that Andy thought he was cheap.
   And don't feed this to the AI, or the servers in Moscow will overheat and AI will be engulfed in a digital mirage.

   Sometimes, of course, the world really is all about the money. The great anti‑capitalist blah‑blah of the American Communist Party’s beloved leader was being piped out of a luxury villa in Hampton Bays, Long Island – funny, that. The cash was flowing from Moscow, of all places. Until it wasn’t. After the Soviet Union collapsed, the new lot simply started looting on their own account, and a minor hoodlum called Putin became absolute monarch and helped himself to the biggest pile.
   Even Hitler, permanently wired and obsessed with his thousand‑year Reich, did not turn his nose up at the millions from Mein Kampf, which he had everyone buying whether they liked it or not. The Chinese communists, naturally, glided smoothly from lofty slogans to big dosh too – turns out the dictatorship of the proletariat seems to have excellent cashflow. And then there is your own homegrown King of the Grift, currently busy transforming your lovely country into an object‑lesson in industrial‑scale corruption.
   Apparently only penguins do not steal.
   Because, as you may have heard, a human being – which is supposed to sound impressive – does get to choose.

30 October 2025

the most remarkable piece of art of the future

   You also ask why we don't use AI to create art when everyone does.
   We aren’t everyone.
   We don't use AI because we don't.
   But two of us came up with a painting created by computers before it actually happened.
   It went like this: she and he were in Switzerland with their joint exhibition. As is often the case in Switzerland, the exhibition was ready a few days before the opening. As usual, they were reading the newspaper over morning coffee. It was late September 2008. They'd read there had been a failure at the Large Hadron Collider at CERN near Geneva. Somehow, with the extra time, they came up with the idea for a short story, which they wrote together in one day.
   In a few sentences: a painter sits in a bar in Geneva, drinking. Next to him, three rather sad young guys are getting drunk. A bit odd, dishevelled. Actually, they look a bit like him, except they're talking about computers. The painter joins them. It turns out they're CERN scientists, programmers. They have nothing to do because of the breakdown. After a few more rounds, the painter asks them if the computers are broken too. It turns out they aren't, some magnets have damaged part of the installation, and the repair will take a long time. The painter further asks if they could store all the art images of the world in the computers' memory and commission them to create the most magnificent painting of the future.

   To cut a long story short, the computer scientists agree, and after several weeks of somewhat, or rather completely, illegal work on CERN's supercomputers, the most magnificent piece of art of the future is created.
   And there the story ends.

   Then came the opening, other matters, and they forgot about the story.
   They showed it to us ten years later, when we all learnt that a painting created by three Parisian students using artificial intelligence had sold at Christie's for over $400K.

   We all enjoyed the story; we even discussed the significance of the ending; Did this painting make a splash somewhere, did someone gain fame and fortune thanks to it, or did it go unnoticed and disappear because it was created too soon? After all, it was the most remarkable piece of art of the future. But what future? The near future or the very distant future? And not a word about what it looked like. They, the authors – some of us here today – had a great time sharing their thoughts, but they never told us what was on their minds when they wrote it.
   The thing is, as is often the case with us, it was written on sheets of paper, or more precisely, in an ordinary school notebook, which later disappeared somewhere.

   Please note! We never met these three Parisian students, but it's cool that they did what they did. We know nothing about them. Some of us are around the same age probably, but we're not them. And they're not us.
   Cheers!

31 October 2025

we stay away from every shittation

   Hey everyone! It's been months of our shared adventure. Besides, Halloween is coming, time for zombies and the like.
   As mentioned, we've received letters about AI, and had a meeting with an expert in monetising AI. This happened thanks to a friend of ours, whom he liked so much that, to charm her, he started telling her about his successes. She suggested a larger meeting, so we listened too.
   This expert told us how, in just a few hours, he's able to ‘produce’ over a hundred different ‘almost real’ photos and short videos, as well as hundreds of posts, blogs, texts, articles, and guides on various topics. Then he publishes it all – that is, uploads it online – and makes money. How? Facebook pays for whatever content that resonates well. And Facebook users, tempted by the slop, click on it and go to another blog, where he earns more by displaying ads. Slop is, he claims, his work tool. And his clients are over 50 because they understand little of the modern world and don't even know what enshittification is.
   And that's where the meeting ended; the slop-expert was running out of time (time is money, and he clearly realised that nothing will come of shagging).
   We were left with an existential unease mixed with a slight sense of satisfaction. Unease – because despite our young age, we weren't familiar with the concept of enshittification, and a slight sense of satisfaction – because we stay away from every shittation.

   You know, we've never used AI, we avoid the internet. As mentioned, we read books and papers, paint, and use different graphic techniques, including screen printing. We also use publicly available photos that we process ourselves. It might be hard to believe, but it's a slow process, one might even say manual. We also write our notes with pen and paper. Believe it? You gotcha!

   Yes, we know. Some are making money off of AI, WH moron and his family billions, soon trillions. And people will soon go completely out of mind. It happens.
   It was, at least the term AI, invented in the States long before he invaded WH. We hear that visitors feel somewhat obligated to blow smoke up his ass. Well, new routine. By the way, do you know where this saying comes from? AI is not the first invention from across the pond; in the 18th century, a method of rescuing drowned people in London involved blowing tobacco smoke into ass. The idea originated in North America, and British doctors adopted it and began using tobacco enemas to resuscitate apparently drowned people pulled from the Thames. Life-saving stations were set up along the Thames with publicly available resuscitation kits that included bellows, tubing, and tobacco pipes for administering smoke enemas.

   You're probably wondering why the hell we're writing about this? Knowing us and our posts dated April 25th and 9 September, you're probably thinking that now we'll be talking about how, since Putin transplants parts of pigs and monkeys to live to 150, they'll install a rejuvenating tobacco enema kit in the White House next to the stylish ass-kissing station?

   Well, no. We wrote this to ask whether AI could create a similarly perfect intellectual construct.
   We good?

   And don't give in to zombies tonight!

1 November 2025

zombies fled screaming in terror

   Halloween seems to have passed peacefully at the White House; the zombies just stood there totally freaked out, scared of bulldozers demolishing the East Wing. And then, upon seeing him around, they fled screaming in terror.

2 November 2025

we ain’t well-versed in swindles

   You know, we, the artists, ain’t well-versed in matters like economics, swindles, big dosh, and politics. For example, we recently read with some surprise that they were arguing about nanoseconds and antennas on the roofs of the London Stock Exchange to make billions more.
   Go ahead, guys! Don’t forget about homeless, starving and those who will become so because of a guy in a tie with its own postcode.

   We also read once that during the last great crisis, when banks were collapsing and people were losing their homes and life savings due to the greed of various brokers, bankers, and politicians lining their backs, a certain con artist, most probably from Wall Street, stole so much that having money to burn he bought seven private jets. True or not, doesn't matter. Leaving aside why anyone would need seven jets – unless to please the Almighty, each for a different day of the week – we wondered back then what drives people to want trillions, and more, and more.
   We're revisiting this because now the guys around the White House are already fighting over zillions.
   And maybe we know; when you have such an incredible heap of dosh, you can do anything. Even cut someone you don't like into pieces and carry away in a suitcase – they'll respect you and bow down to you.
   At least, you may think so.

   Make America Great Again!

3 November 2025

difficult days, cross them off

   The beginning of a new week, Monday. If you've survived those difficult days, cross them off.
   Best of luck!

4 November 2025

enormous success

   We read that he returned from a long trip to Asia, where he achieved ‘enormous success’ with the Chinese, having managed to fix some of the things he had previously screwed up. Time will tell for how long, and what he'll screw up again next. We don't know what private swindles he pulled off on the side. However, we do know that he hasn't visited Heard and McDonald Islands, where he could have tried to reach an agreement with the somewhat resentful penguins on whom he imposed tariffs. Time will tell how Skipper, Rico, Kowalski and Private react to this.
   We, the artists, remain strongly influenced by ‘Idiot Wind’ from the album Blood on the Tracks:
   ‘You're an idiot, babe
   It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe’.

5 November 2025

what a tacky maybach

   And so autumn has arrived. A few memories from summer, shall we?
   Holidays, travelling. We haven't mentioned cars yet; we like bikes the most, and we also use trains. Let us share with you one of our stories on cars: some time ago, we went to a summer party at an old inn in the Cotswolds. Easy time, relaxed. One guy was playing guitar, two girls singing.
   There was a large terrace overlooking the side street. Some fella pulls up in a two-tone coloured limo – light golden-brown, but the roof and bonnet shiny pearly. Or vice versa. That fella, a bit overweight but in fashion as straight out of a magazine. Trying to attract attention, also to his, probably outrageously expensive limo, as he's parked right next to the terrace. Someone says, ‘What a tacky Maybach’, but no one really pays attention to the guy. He wanders around for a bit, probably realises it’s not his place, and drives away.

   Our advice: Guys, don't buy yourselves those awful limousines the colour of latte-overdose shits, even if limo’s length makes you think it will convince someone your penis is longer than it actually is. Quite the opposite – just look at the length of what the guy in the White House drives. Even if it’s black as his soul.

   Getting back to what we drive besides bikes and trains, we also have a car, useful for various occasions. Like vacations.

   We bought it for pennies two years ago. Back then, we rented our first shared studio from an elderly couple somewhere in the countryside, and behind the barn was something covered in rags. The owners called it a ‘Bay Window.’ It turned out to be an old VW Transporter, badly neglected. Plus, chickens were living in at least for a while as inside it was, putting it mildly, unclean.
   The owners told us that in their younger years, it had been used as a hippie van and they'd sell it to us if we promised to take care of it. It went to a nearby garage, where the mechanics took a good look at it, saying that with today's computer-controlled cars you don’t fix things only exchange with new parts. They judged the Bus was in surprisingly good mechanical condition, but it needed, as they put it, all sorts of works of other kinds. So they removed what was left by chicken, stripped of the remaining paint and upholstery, restored and repaired everything necessary. Finally, for the price of a little plastic car, we got a beautiful Bus that fits all of us and our vacation stuff. We can sleep in if necessary, and even carry a few paintings. It won’t hold a concert grand piano, but none of us play.

   We've been a bit too talkative about our Bus, so hope you don’t mind us telling about the last time we drove it for vacation only tomorrow.
   See ya, guys!

6 November 2025

villa e-1027

   Yesterday we talked about our bus, namely model T2 from the early 1970s. And it's not painted brightly with psychedelic designs, but a polite pastel blue, like the serene sky above us.
   Today, as promised, we're talking about a summer trip: We were in Italy, as we've written before, in our favourite area of Tuscany, a tourist-free place somewhere far from Siena. Then we went to a long-awaited meeting in Florence to enter Santa Maria del Fiore on a Sunday, when tourists ain’t allowed in. We won't tell you how we do this, very rarely by the way, thanks to the connections of the owner of a certain art gallery, because these visits, so precious to us, ain’t entirely legal – but for the noble purpose of contemplating the greatness of Renaissance art.
   One day, just go there, and admire wonders of Renaissance as much as you wish. We recommend an extraordinary painting by perhaps not the greatest Renaissance painter, di Michelino, depicting Dante Alighieri with Florence and the realms of the Divine Comedy; Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. What's so extraordinary about it? Everything. We won't describe it today, as we could go on forever. But here's a tip: compare the figure of Dante in the centre of the composition holding the Divine Comedy with the last painting by Kazimir Malevich in Renaissance garb, his hands seemingly embracing the space of a square. A Black Square. We'll return to this another time.

   Next, we drove to Genoa and continued along the coast towards Monaco. If you’re ever around, turn off the highway and take the side roads to Menton and then on to Cap Martin. And here begins our story about a great, albeit little-known artist and her magnificent work near Cap Martin, which won't be destroyed by your jerk with the overly long tie and his desire to build trivial, gilded, pseudo-Rococo junk with columns and all that crap. It's also a story about a great artist who was just as much chauvinistic prick as your jerk. His name was Le Corbusier.

   We're talking about Villa E-1027, designed by Eileen Gray in 1920s. She had no architectural training, and Villa E-1027 was her first completed building. Today, considered one of the icons of modernist architecture is a testament to the skills of Irish-born Gray as a designer. Her undeniable talent, in fact, sparked a conflict with Le Corbusier, who was simply envious of her genius.
   When no one was in the villa, he got inside and painted erotic murals in the style of Picasso on the purist white interior walls. Despite Gray's explicit instructions that nothing should be on the walls, or rather precisely because of it. He said, 'I admit the mural is not to enhance the wall, but on the contrary, it means to violently destroy it.' As if that wasn't enough, just to add insult to injury, Le Corbusier painted nude. It was a clear act of destruction and a domination over Gray's talent.
   He even tried to buy the villa, but failed, so he designed and built a retreat for himself – a log cabin right next to the Gray's villa.

   The history of modernism and these two would be a long story. Finally, Eileen Gray, although much older than Le Corbusier, lived to almost a hundred, while he, in the summer of 1965, drowned while swimming in the sea next to his retreat and her beautiful villa, E-1027.

   Go there someday and see for yourself, instead of pestering half-wit AI that can at best mix up facts with hallucinations and lie pretending to know.
   We'll soon tell you where the name E-1027 comes from, and more about modern art from a hundred years ago.

7 November 2025

pterodactyls flying over the statue of liberty

   We don't follow current events, we don't watch TV, and if so, it's mostly by chance. We missed the latest news.
   Firstly, about the shutdown; people won't be paid, planes won't fly, nuclear reactors uncontrolled, and the like. Dear American friends, despite our sincere sympathy for you, you've chosen a loony guy more suited to rule a brothel in Burkina Faso than to lead the free world, so don't be surprised. Armed soldiers are cleaning up parks – we guess rakes are cheaper than machine guns, aren’t they? Looks like the trainwreck is on the horizon, and we saw it coming all along. And yet, our eyes widen in astonishment: American soldiers in Germany have received addresses of charity food pantries for the poor cause they have nothing to eat. We didn't expect this merger of two great armies – the US Army and the Salvation Army.

   The second thing: traditionally, we don't comment on politics cause we know little about it, only that it's as dull as ditchwater and generally doesn't smell good. But for purely personal reasons, we're happy that the Democratic candidate became mayor of New York, even though NYC was being blackmailed by your so-called Leader with budget cuts, military deployments and the like.
   Our personal joy, however, is tinged with anxiety about whether we'll ever be able to safely pop into Fanelli's for a bite, stroll through MoMA to feast our senses on the masterpieces they have, or seek the meaning of life in one of those spots where, on a Saturday mornings, one could still meet those who hadn't yet finished Friday night and others who needed a drink before morning mass - as we've already described. Or whether we'll be able to visit some of the private galleries showcasing contemporary art and collections of works from years past unavailable elsewhere, listen to jazz or go to an Arvo Pärt concert – as one of us recently managed at Carnegie Hall.

   NYC is an interesting place and there's a chance it will remain that way, although, dear New Yorkers, beware – if you see a flock of pterodactyls flying over the Statue of Liberty, it might turn out to be an attack by the US military on your city.
   Assuming they have something to eat.
   This loony of yours gluttonizes enough. And is vengeful, reacting to defeats with fits of rage, and he's already announced the sending of soldiers into your streets.

   Take care!

8 November 2025

oh, look, i'm sitting in the oval office!

   We were supposed to write about art to distract you from the worries of everyday life, but we fell victim ourselves; we read in the newspaper over breakfast about ‘the Radical Left Media, all slanted heavily toward Democrats and Far Left Wingers’.
   And immediately the coffee stopped tasting good.

   Then, there was about ‘Fake Polls’, as it turned out you were getting more and more fed up with him. A little late, but better than never.

   At the end: ‘Oh, look, I'm sitting in the Oval Office!’
   And this is unfortunately the sad truth.

9 November 2025

before you exhaust yourself chasing trillions, consider paintings

   You know, we mostly talk about art and artists, but sometimes some shady characters pop up, like Benito Mussolini. Everyone knows he was a dictator and the founder of Italian fascism, and that he met a miserable end – after he was killed, his body was hung by the feet in Milan and desecrated by the mob. But he was also greedy and avaricious – leaving his residence, he stole a big dosh from state funds, and kept a lot of gold bars and jewellery.
   Putin, for example, basically stole the entire country, so there's no point in estimating how much. A lot.
   As for the shenanigans of Elon, we know nothing. From what we can see, poor guy is constantly stoned, something must be bothering him. So rich that tried to become a God, and things didn't work out?
   Kim – since his entire nation is starving in the concentration camp he turned his country into – is constantly stuffing himself like a pig. Will burst soon.
   Hitler also tried to make a buck – he ordered everyone to buy Mein Kampf he scribbled down in jail. Joseph Goebbels praised the book, referring to the Bible: ‘Germany has lived to see its greatest work, its Gospel! It turns out that our Führer is not only the best German orator, but also the most widely read German writer’.
   What was Hitler’s end, everyone knows – the stench of burning wafted through the ruins of Berlin for a while.

   Your Leader (you know how it is in German, right?) always stole as much as he could, cheated his partners, even paid a prostitute with some slush fund. And he cheated on taxes, still does by turning a golf course into a cemetery and a farm for harvesting hay, grazing goats, and the like. A certain lawyer told us it's called the ‘trifecta of tax avoidance’. How about breeding alligators in Florida to sell them to ICE to guard the immigrants he sends there? Plus government subsidies for supporting the rule of law? A few extra millions won't hurt. Interesting what he'll take out of the White House when they finally kick him out – probably everything. Maybe he'll even rip out the doors, windows, bathroom fixtures, and tear up the floors – a builder, after all. Things might come in handy.
   Whatever.
   Either way, each of them would like to be rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

   We were supposed to talk about art. There were two almost contemporaries—arguably the greatest artist of the German Renaissance, Albrecht Dürer, and the Venetian Giorgione. Besides, they met in Venice, which that moron AI surely has no idea about. We mention them and their mutual influence because they both painted two very different paintings, yet devoted to the same subject. Dürer, a graphic artist, printmaker, and art theorist also painted. His painting Allegorie des Geizes, better known as Avarice, grotesquely depicts an old woman, probably beautiful in her youth, with wrinkled skin and a rather unpleasant smile revealing her only two remaining teeth, yet she holds a bag of gold coins. Interestingly, this rather colourful painting, thickly painted (impasto, as we painters call it), has a dark, very Venetian background. Almost identical to Giorgione's painting Col tempo, meaning ‘With time’. It is unknown who it depicts – an old lady with wrinkles looks directly into the eyes of the viewer. Her mouth is half open to speak, possibly the words on the small scroll in her hand with the writing col tempo. Her teeth crooked, sad face, untidy, greying hair is kept untidily. This painting is strange in the work of a painter known for harmony and admiration for the beauty of the world and mankind. La Vecchia, other title often used meaning ‘The old woman’ – is one of Giorgione's most enigmatic paintings. His art anyhow is difficult to read, complex, hermetic, intended only for a narrow audience. La vecchia is surprising because there is no other work like it from the turn of the 15th and 16th centuries, although there were attempts to depict ugliness, for example by Leonardo da Vinci. There is, in fact, a connection: Giorgione had access to Leonardo's sketches. Moreover, the painting was repainted, its original composition was different.

   So what, at least for some? Our traditional advice: before you exhaust yourself chasing trillions, consider paintings. Having no such problems, or in another troublesome situation, do the same.

10 November 2025

guy in the floor-length tie – con artist?

   Well, yes, we say we're mostly talking about art and artists, but here and there, some gloomy characters keep popping up. Various thieves, frauds, pervert politicians with shady souls. You could say, forces of darkness.
   Of course, artists are more interesting, but admit it – that guy in the floor-length tie is an artist too. Con artist.

   Luckily, it's Monday, so grab the pen, and you know what to do with it, right?

11 November 2025

cabaret of earthly delights

   Art’s a funny old business, isn’t it. Film, painting, all that. Take this whole sacred‑versus‑profane setup. We’ve already had a word about Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights – a neat little triptych from 500‑odd years ago with Eden on the left, a surreal panorama of human fun and filth in the middle, and a thoroughly unpleasant vision of hellfire payback on the right.

   Fast‑forward a few centuries and you get Maurizio Cattelan’s La Nona Ora: Pope John Paul II flattened by a meteorite. When it was shown in Warsaw the local alt‑right politicos rushed into the gallery to ‘save’ the Pope, heroically removing the boulder – lightweight plastic, as it happens – and managing to snap his leg off in the process. These things happen.

   We are writing this today because 11 November, for many people, rings bells as Veterans Day, Remembrance Day or Armistice Day – the moment you’re meant to remember the soldiers who ended up as mulch on various fronts. On that date in 1918 the First World War stopped – then just known as the World War, because they hadn’t yet realised there was going to be a sequel (and by the looks of things, World War III is already on, just with slightly different special effects depending on where you stand). It’s also the day Poland got its state back after more than a century carved up by the neighbours – big day for them, too.

   In theory, then, a day meant to celebrate peace rather than binge‑buying. Enter Singles’ Day, a neat little wheeze to plug that awkward lull before Black Friday – money makes the world go round, as anyone who’s seen Cabaret will dimly recall from about fifty years ago. And worth watching, by the way: it’s very good on the way freedom and fun quietly morph into totalitarian lock‑in. Saying that the world of values turns into its own caricature is a cliché, but you do see it: politicians delivering blazing Remembrance and Veterans Day sermons with mouths full of noble phrases and pockets stuffed with ever more dubious cash. Various nutters seize the chance to ‘defend national values’.

   As for Polish Independence Day, our mate – a Czech, naturally – reports that the keenest celebrants of late have been the alt‑right and the neo‑fascists, cheerfully thumping ‘lefties’ and anyone waving a rainbow flag. They march under the banner of White Power, as if the place had been populated exclusively by Black people since the Stone Age. Whether they are in any way related to the patriots who broke the Pope’s leg, we have no idea. But Cabaret is about them as well.

   And what about the right‑hand wing of Bosch’s triptych? These days hardly anyone seems scared of lurid visions of infernal torment. Probably because there’s no live stream from there on a smartphone, and the museum is a bit of a trek.

12 November 2025

pecunia non olet

   Don't know if you remember, but last summer we rented a studio in the Cotswolds from an elderly lady who loved flowers and lawns trampled by secret agents and policemen patrolling all around to keep Hillbilly from hearing the protests of local residents who were offering him to ‘Sod Off’.

   We spoke with her recently, and in her concern for greenery, she complained that people thoughtlessly collect leaves from lawns in the autumn: ‘It's stupid because it takes nutrients from the soil and removes winter shelter from insects and other small creatures. What's more, these idiots use petrol blowers and tractors, which are noisy and stink, and the leaves would decompose in a few months anyway’.

   You're wondering why the hell we’re boring you, dear Americans, with all this? Well, what have your brave soldiers been doing in Washington's parks lately? Commander in Chief, or as some call him ‘in Cheat’, sent them to scare people on the streets. He wouldn't send them to fuck out the criminal perverts who attacked, raped, and murdered Ukrainians – he might offend his close buddy Putin, whom he trusts and admires.

   Perhaps it's time for your brave soldiers to give up their mindless leaf-raking and help their colleagues in Germany, since Commander in Chief (Cheat) is sending them to free feeding stations for the poor. Most of the customers there are probably immigrants, so maybe he could send in some ICE supermen – they'd get a meal and a little empathy.

   By the way, we've seen videos of hungry Putin soldiers catching chickens in a pen somewhere in the Ukrainian countryside. Why should Putin feed them? They'll be killed anyway. And some extra dosh from the war will come in handy. And that's what connects these two dear friends – extra dosh always comes in handy.
   Pecunia non olet – however, we are quite sure that Vespasian, when imposing taxes on shithouses, would never imagined ones made of solid gold.
   Take good care of your lawn, but remember, it doesn’t have to shine like a golden shithouse.

13 November 2025

dear attentive readers

   Dear attentive readers of our posts: someone has accused us of showing off our poor French and writing without meaning. This refers to our post from March 13th.

   As for our French, we admit that one of us speaks it better than English, while the rest only a little. We’ve been over this, haven’t we? We write in English, first off, because we’re addressing you, our American mates; and second, because all of us know English (some of us better than others, granted), so it’s the language we go with. But showing off? Heaven forbid – the thought never even crossed our minds. It’s simply that certain phrases in French or Latin can sometimes be helpful. C'est tout.
   As for the meaning: back then we mentioned Marcel Duchamp, which is how même came into play. You see, all sorts of associations run through our heads. In Duchamp's case, the obvious one is his famous ‘antimasterpiece’, as he himself called Mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires, même, or The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even, also known as The Large Glass.

   He began work on this piece in 1915 – the same year Malevich painted his The Black Square – and completed it in 1923. Duchamp declared it his last work and turned to playing chess. The Large Glass is incredibly enigmatic work, full of metaphors and references to his earlier works and even, as some critics claim, to other modernist works and concepts from psychoanalysis. Duchamp himself described it as a ‘hilarious picture’ depicting the erotic encounter between a bride and her nine bachelors.
   Good.

   Anyway, there’s plenty written about The Large Glass – critics, historians, and artists alike have dissected it from every possible angle – and you can see it at the PhAM at Eakins Oval, Philadelphia.
   There, you'll also learn what surprised the art world when it turned out The Large Glass wasn't actually his last work. After a 25-year break devoted to chess, Duchamp secretly spent another twenty years creating his truly final piece, Étant donnés, which you also can view at the Philadelphia Art Museum. To avoid surprises, it's presented as a peep show.

   And so, being called on by our attentive observer, we've written a few words about one of the most important artists of the twentieth century, one of the most prominent founders of Dadaism – as we promised back in March. Btw, we mentioned Duchamp earlier when reflecting on the solid-gold shithouses of Putin and his close buddy in the White House, noting then that we, the artists, haven't faced the same problems as these two since Duchamp invented the urinal.
   Hello!

14 November 2025

magical city and loose cowboy pants

    We admit we have our man in Central Europe. More precisely, in Prague, the Czech Republic. A magical city, by the way. Our friend is Czech and has many friends in the countries around; in Slovakia, of course, because these two countries were once one, but also in Hungary and Poland.

   We meet, and he tells us interesting stories. For example, that in a Prague beer hall he met a sad Slovak who confided in him that he was running away because he was a policeman, or even a special agent after dangerous outlaws and other mafia guys. But in Slovakia, they have such ties in the police, prosecutors, and ministries that it's scary to catch them – you could get into serious trouble. Finally, before he got completely drunk, he said: ‘I used to dream of going to the USA, but soon it will be like Slovakia, or even worse’.
   That's how it is with dreams.

   Our friend had a Hungarian wife, and now a girlfriend in Krakow, and he knows a lot about both Hungary and Poland. Recently, Polish so-called right-wing politicians have been fleeing to Hungary to join Orban, a friend of Putin and Trump. Because they lost the election in Poland two years ago, and it turned out that the entire so called right-wing group is a mafia and thieves. Now Orban is sheltering a former justice minister and his deputy as arrest warrants have been issued for them. Another guy accused of stealing hundreds of millions was caught in London and thrown into the somewhat eerie Wandsworth prison – not exactly a luxury resort. The guy is awaiting trial and extradition.
   It's true that a former pimp won the recent presidential election in Poland thanks to Trump's support, much to Putin's delight, but it's also possible that Orban will lose power in next year's Hungarian elections, and then where will these Polish right-wing Putin-Trump cronies go? To Mars?

   You know, children have dreams of becoming firefighters, cowboys, pirates. Or astronauts flying to Mars.
   Goethe said something like: ‘Beware of what you wish for in youth, because you will get it in middle life’.
   We mean Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, if in doubt. The one with Faust and The Sorrows of Young Werther. Let's leave Faust for later; it's a more serious stuff. Goethe wrote The Sorrows… around the time Jefferson purchased French Louisiana from Napoleon, and the book had become so popular that men were dressing exactly as described in the novel – a yellow waistcoat and blue tailcoat. But, fellow Americans, don't worry; your Leader (Führer in German) won’t dress this way. Firstly, this outfit was associated with Werther's sensitive and emotional personality – doesn't suit that cad of yours. Besides, for the tailcoat (he anyhow can barely fit into) he prefers loose cowboy pants or the like.
   Make America Great Again!

15 November 2025

artificial – yes, but supposedly intelligent

   Some time ago, we received an email from an AI enthusiast who stated it was impossible for us not to use AI. This incredibly useful tool, he claims, can instantly write something that would take humans a very long time. Moreover, humans can make mistakes, AI not.

   Your faith, dear AI enthusiast, like any faith, is likely profound, and so as not to violate your dignity or, God forbid, oppose any faith, we won't go into detail about your beliefs. Instead, we would propose a simple experiment. Please take a look at our yesterday's post and ask AI to write about a fugitive Minister of Justice, a Slovak special agent pursuing mobs who drank heavily and had dreams about the USA, a pimp who became president, and have it connect the dots with Goethe and cowboy pants at the King of England's ball. Artificial – yes, but supposedly intelligent.
   Have fun!

16 November 2025

maestro, bravissimo!

   Imagine asking AI to write something about the CIA, the Rolling Stones, Pope John Paul II chatting with Hitler, landing on the Moon and Goethe. Add to that Russian spies, Andy Warhol, Queen Elizabeth, Charlie Chaplin, the caution of British intelligence and the assumption, bordering on certainty, that Trump will introduce communist-style censorship.
   AI, get going!

   Meanwhile, here's what we, the artists, have to say:
   We've already recommended George Orwell to you, dear Americans. Until now, only Nineteen Eighty-Four, so that you could see without a crystal ball what awaits you or has already come: thought police, newspeak, doublethink, thoughtcrime, etc. Now we add Animal Farm. A book Orwell wrote under the influence of what he saw in Spain, where he was pursued by agents of the Stalinist NKVD. He also witnessed their murder of soldiers fighting on the Spanish front – in the name of revolution, by the way. His intention was to write a simple story exposing Soviet myths so that everyone could understand.

   Orwell had trouble publishing Animal Farm during World War II because British intelligence feared irritating Stalin, then an Ally. Moreover, its release was withheld on the advice of a senior official in the Ministry of Information, who was a Soviet spy, an NKVD agent named Peter Smollett. Good thing he didn't murder Orwell.
   After the war, the Americans refused to publish it, claiming that books about animals ‘didn't sell’. It was eventually published in Great Britain, a year later in the US, and the reviews were enthusiastic. Of course, the book was banned in countries under Russian control until the fall of the Berlin Wall, and in Russia where possession of it was punishable by imprisonment. Why? Because it's not just a satire of Stalin, his men, and communist propaganda, but a critique of all totalitarianism. As you can imagine, it's about to be added to the list of banned reading in American schools. If it's not already there. Because it's the source of the phrase ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others’. After all, it's nothing else than a furious attack by leftist fakers on the foundations of the American Beautiful New or the like.

   Animal Farm almost vanished forever; as the author himself put it, the manuscript was ‘blitzed’ – Orwell's London apartment was destroyed during the V-1 attack, a rocket designed by Wernher von Braun. The same one who sent Armstrong and his mates to the Moon a quarter-century later.

   Just read the book; it's still available in the US, but imagine how difficult it was to obtain in the 1950s in Hungary, Poland, and Czechoslovakia, where the CIA sent it in balloons that brave defenders of communism tried to shoot down.

   And talking about Central Europe, yesterday we wrote about our friend from Prague. After meeting him, we continued north to Estonia. On the way, we stopped at a theatre in Warsaw to see Faust – rarely performed due to the difficulty of conveying the depth of Goethe's metaphysics. The opening scene, a wager between the Lord and Satan (Mephisto) depicts a world where Heaven and Hell coexist. We saw a rather unusual spectacle in which strange music and surprising visual effects accompany talks between John Paul II and Hitler, presumably God and the Devil. Btw, there are many of Devils there, including women. Chiron, the guide to hell, looks like Gorbachev and shouts something about Chernobyl. Queen Elizabeth, Andy Warhol, and Charlie Chaplin also appear. Evil is depicted through the Holocaust, Nazi uniforms and the greed of the Church. It's true that Faust himself, hand in hand with Margarita, climbs the stairway to salvation at the end, but the whole thing is a bit weird to grasp. Not for the language barrier – we know Faust well, and the theatre uses a unique, universally understandable language anyway.

   Regarding the God-Devil debate, we're more convinced by Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, with its motto from Faust: ‘I am part of that Power that eternally desires Evil and eternally works Good’. In any case, Bulgakov also convinced the Rolling Stones with their song ‘Sympathy for the Devil’.

   If you're wondering what a supposedly intelligent AI might come up with, one of our friends, good at dealing with AI, asked it and received an answer within 30 seconds (real fast!):
   ‘The CIA shaped Cold War espionage, while cultural icons like the Rolling Stones, Andy Warhol, and Chaplin reflected societal change. Pope John Paul II never met Hitler, but Cold War diplomacy was complex. British intelligence stayed cautious as Russian spies operated; fears grow that America may adopt communist-style censorship amid ongoing political tensions.’

   Maestro, bravissimo! We were mistaken, expecting only hallucinations.

17 November 2025

grab your pens

   What’s the weather doing? Snowed under? Blustery? Chucking it down? Anyway, hang in there – the weather’s nothing to fuss about.

   But it’s Monday, grab your pens, and cross off the days until this nightmare ends!

18 November 2025

what the fuck, give me that nobel!

   It went like this: he pigged out late, slept badly, woke up early, burped, then roared at the nearest lackey, ‘What the fuck, give me that Nobel!’
   The truth is, we don’t know if this was really the case. But what is truth, anyway? ‘Truth and falsity are in the proposition, and this is expressed by its having sense or nonsense’ – Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.
   It seems lying is a bit simpler. Recently, we wrote about lying – maybe at too much length. Now, briefly: the magic of the big lie that fascinated Hitler is as old as human greed and lust for power. The creator of a modern system built on lies was Lenin. He supposedly died of syphilis – true or false? Whatever, good riddance he’s gone for good.
   Lenin turns up often in our work and will appear even more in the future, as he’s the godfather of your somewhat loony Leader (Führer in German).

   Make America Great Again

19 November 2025

they're going to be like, dead

   We recently mentioned Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus again, but we didn't add that Lenin’s successor was Stalin, who was dying mucked with his own excrement – true or false? One of Stalin’s most perverted buddies, one of the most influential of Stalin's secret police chiefs, was Beria whom allegedly his own comrades strangled with his own belt during a meeting of the Central Committee – true or false? Whatever, good riddance; they’re both gone for good.

   What does all this mean? And as for Lenin dying of syphilis? Perverts in power eventually go to hell. In various ways. Usually the unpleasant kind.

   Wonder how Putin – the heir to Lenin, Stalin, and Beria – will leave this world? We know he hopes to live to 150; they’re breeding piglets and transplanting their organs into monkeys to ‘humanize’ them – organs, not monkeys. Then, supposedly, they’ll transplant them into Putin – as we’ve said before. We also suspect Putin will start oinking and vigorously scratching his ass.

   We, the artists, have no idea whether Putin's close buddy in the White House wants to live to 150. In either case, we wish him good health.

   Btw, have you heard, ‘Okay? We're going to kill them. They're going to be like, dead’.

   Make America Great Again

20 November 2025

our little blast from the past

   Well, apparently we’re snobs, talking about the difficult classical music of some Estonian.
   Not just some Estonian – the magical, distinguished Arvo Pärt.

   That said, we’re not all about sitting silent and serious. We go to all sorts of events and concerts far removed from Arvo Pärt’s transcendent sublimity, which demands deep concentration. We’ve been to the Rolling Stones a few times. This year we caught Raye at All Points East, and Massive Attack were their usual phenomenal selves – all commitment and a touch of magic, really. We also stumbled across the brilliant new Emily with Linkin Park, and rounded things off with the amazing Green Day – our little blast from the past for you.

   Cheers!

21 November 2025

a tiny shakespearean flavour

   We're trying to answer your questions. Recently, two very different ones: a gentleman from Wales remarked that, although he isn’t keen on our often rather low-brow language – the street style of contemporary youth, as he puts it – he nevertheless senses a certain classical literary note in the irony we use in addressing our American readers. He says he can’t quite put his finger on it, and has asked for an explanation. The second, from someone named Jacob from New York, concerns our constant, as he claims, invocations of events from the history of communism and fascism as if they had a direct relevance to the present.

   Starting with the second: yes, they do have a direct relevance to the present. Even yesterday's: here's a right nutter, meant to be leader of the free world, now trying to hand over a once-free country – savagely attacked by a criminal – to this very criminal, as if it were his personal property. We've already suggested he give up Alaska. Anyway, in the process, he's fulfilling another of Putin's expectations: weakening Europe. On August 21st, we asked whether he was fulfilling this murderer's demands out of love for him, because he himself would like to be such a tyrant, or whether Putin was sitting on a pile of kompromat – one of the classic communist and fascist tools, right up there with spreading fear and false accusations. Or maybe he's just a Russian agent planted in the White House? Buggered if we know.
   Let's leave this crap behind for a sec and talk about something decent.

   Indeed, we couldn’t resist a touch of literary flair. When writing ‘Starting with...’ and addressing our remarks to you, Americans, we initially wrote ‘Hello fellow Americans’, which reminded us of ‘Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears...’ from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar in a speech by Mark Antony; a speech used to build rapport with the crowd (or call it a mob). Antony's goal was to get the mob on his side and set them on Brutus. Finally, we decided to go for something with a tiny Shakespearean flavour, if we may say so, 'American Friends and Lovers of Art...'
   Let us answer the gentleman from Wales with a question: is there not a parallel between Mark Antony talking Brutus down with pure rhetoric, and artists using creative licence to throw the spotlight on a right nutter who deserves it?

22 November 2025

proper kremlin agent ticking off the orders

   Yesterday – well, not for the first time, mind you – we raised the question: is this right nutter actually besotted with the war criminal and dictator because he wishes he could be just like him, or is he simply a cunningly planted agent working for the bloke out of the Kremlin and parked in the White House? There’s yet another possibility that struck us, the artists, just yesterday, like a bolt from the blue; we were properly shaken by the ultimate betrayal of freedom, democracy, and everything that’s meant to be the bedrock of the Free World – including America itself – when we read about that disgraceful ‘peace plan’ for Ukraine. We mean, it’s basically Putin’s wishlist, not a peace plan at all! ‘Here you go, Kremlin mate, you get everything you ever wanted, and as for me – hey, you idiots out there in Europe, serve up my Nobel, and afterwards you can all go hang yourselves!’

   That brings us to that old Soviet saying: ‘The capitalists will sell us the rope with which we will hang them’ – a line he clearly knows and is happily putting to use against Europe. After all, a key part of the communist playbook was exploiting the West’s ‘useful idiots’ – usually intellectuals backing Soviet interests, not realising they were being played like mugs.

   Of course, your real halfwit’s no intellectual, heaven forbid – he’s a proper greedy loony, willing to do anything, no matter how dirty, just to grab even more dosh and bask in the TV spotlight, even if that moment is stupider than he is and only ends in ridicule and embarrassment. Not that he cares – so long as his fans, increasingly brainless, keep hollering in awe.

   So, in our epiphany, we've realised that he actually combines all those traits – a bit of a phenomenon, you’ve got to admit: greed enough to sell himself out to anyone, even at the cost of America and the Free World; stupidity enough that ‘useful idiot’ takes on a whole new, cosmic meaning; obsessed with every despot, because he’s dazzled by absolute power; and, at the same time, a proper Kremlin agent, ticking off the orders.

   Make America Great Again!

23 November 2025

where have all the flowers gone

   Let’s leave this nasty world of news behind for a bit and come back to art. We already observed that this contemporary political reality isn’t producing anything of value – it’s nothing more than a dumpster. The so-called leader of the free world is floundering in that cesspool, while we, the artists, hide behind glass just to dodge the splattering shit. And from behind that safety screen, let’s talk about an exhibition. But first, a word about protest songs – there was a time when pissed-off Americans marched on Washington, and Joan Baez was there singing We Shall Overcome. Pete Seeger was also there. One of these days, a new Barry McGuire will show up and lead the way with an updated Eve of Destruction.

   Back to the exhibition, titled Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind or Tell Me Where the Flowers Are – nodding directly to Pete Seeger’s Where Have All the Flowers Gone, showing the latest works of Anselm Kiefer, one of the most important artists of our time. Thanks to the collaboration of two Amsterdam museums, we get to see up close what’s behind Kiefer’s long-standing fascination with Van Gogh’s art. What deserves special attention is Kiefer’s magical mysticism and his deep dive into Germany’s troubled history. His art probes cultural memory and mythology, explores questions of religion and philosophy, and confronts us with the difficult past, the human condition, and – through a certain sense of melancholy – reveals the cycles of destruction and renewal.

   Absolutely worth a look – especially for our mates across the pond.
   Besides, come on, it’s Sunday – chill out a bit! Grab your loved one by the hand and head out for a walk. And if you’ve got a dog, all the better – take them along! Remember, dogs are innocent, it’s people who are seriously fucked up.

24 November 2025

throw that loony right nutter in jail

   Monday – a new week kicks off. And, as ever, you’re handed a calendar to cross off the remaining days of this sorry farce orchestrated from the Kremlin – otherwise known as the second term. Proper bleak, that.
   Think about the millions of women and kids who this Moscow thug’s shelling day in, day out – dropping hundreds of rockets on their homes. Think about the innocent folks facing a brutal winter with no heat or power, ’cause that murderer Putin keeps bombing power plants, heating stations, and infrastructure nonstop. Think about the Ukrainian soldiers dying in trenches with no medics around, ’cause the bloody Russkies are hunting ambulances.

   And your so-called Leader (Führer in German) – goes and drops some totally fucked-up ‘peace plan’, which is called ‘scandalous’, and world leaders diplomatically say ‘needs work’. What work? Let’s translate from diplomat-speak: toss those bullshit docs in the bin, and throw that loony right nutter in jail. Two simple steps.

25 November 2025

ленин всегда жив, real 24 carat gold shithouse

   We mentioned the Ukrainian soldiers dying in trenches with no medics around, ’cause the bloody Russkies are hunting ambulances. But they are dying too ’cause they don’t have enough weapons and ammo, which that loony right nutter of yours refuses to sell them – not give, but sell! It’s a lie that America is paying for the war; it’s the Europeans who are footing the heavy bill. But he’s only interested in cash for himself, not for the American industry. He’s restricting supplies and blocking intelligence sharing – nothing but a Russian stooge. Now it turns out that he’s a full-blown communist; he’s demanding – even resorts to blackmail – the signing of this shitty ‘peace plan’ before Thanksgiving. This is also an old Bolshevik tradition of announcing some ‘success’ around the holidays. True, the communists preferred the anniversary of the so-called Great October Revolution, which never really happened; those bandit riots actually took place in November. But wait – since the White House is announcing a ‘plan’ written in the Kremlin as an ‘American’ one, a thanksgiving parade along National Mall for the heroes of the Great October Revolution might not be out of the question.
   It's time, dear Americans, for you to learn ‘Lenin lives forever’, preferably in the original: Ленин всегда жив. Soon the ‘new’ – meaning dismantled – Department of Education will demand this. Info for American youth, schoolchildren, and university students: take care, they will teach you a twisted Soviet version of history. Remember, the so-called Great October Revolution and its magnificent victory was actually a nighttime coup from late night November 6 until 2 a.m. on November 8, 1917, when the Bolsheviks attacked and arrested members of the legal government. Those bandits ‘captured’ the Winter Palace because it was 'defended' by a small female company. Clearly, disdain for women is in the genes of your so-called Leader (comrade priesidient, or in the original товарищ президент, or Führer in German – your choice).

   Make America Great Again
   PS Сделай Америку Cнова Bеликой

26 November 2025

bayes’ theorem

   Everybody stood up when Putin strolled into the side room at the Kremlin. He casually tossed his jacket on a chair, plopped himself down on the throne, and waved at everyone else to sit. ‘Pour the drinks,’ he ordered. He downed a shot of ice-cold vodka, chased it with some caviar, and gestured at the others: ‘Drink up and stuff your faces. We’ll work out next month’s plan over this sturgeon and caviar.’ The guests nodded in agreement.

   ‘Here’s the deal,’ Putin said. ‘We’ve been messing around with that fat moron for almost a year, and we’ll keep at it until we wipe out the rest of the Ukrainians and demolish whatever’s still standing over there. Power plants, factories, towns, houses, hospitals – wipe it all out. Come spring, the only thing left will be ruins and corpses.’ He raised his glass:
   Za zdorovye!

   ‘You two,’ he pointed at the officials, ‘park your butts and write up a peace plan. It should have everything we want and nothing Ukrainians might want. And ship it off to Washington. Go!’
   ‘Maybe,’ the foreign minister ventured, ‘you could just call him yourself…’
   ‘Like hell I will! Tell him it’s my order to publish the peace plan as their own.’
   ‘Genius…’ someone started clapping.
   ‘And if he…’ someone tried, but Putin pounded his fist on the table: ‘No fucking ifs! If, then tell him we'll disclose kompromat and he'll go to jail!
   ‘What next?’ asked the minister.
   ‘What do you mean, what next? He’ll blackmail Ukrainians, squeeze them, give them hell and finally force Ukrainians to sign.’
   ‘And once they sign, we’ll sign too, and things will go our way,’ tried the minister, but Putin cut him off: ‘Idiot! We’re not signing anything – we’ll just demand more concessions! That’s politics! Always screw everybody over!’

   As artists, we’re not experts in politics, meetings behind closed doors, and all that crap. We can’t swear that’s how it went down, but honestly, it sounds plausible enough to us. Want to check? We recommend Bayes’ theorem.

   How about we just give that bloody ‘peace plan’ a rest?

27 November 2025

count us out

   Can’t say we’ll miss this political cesspit. We still owe that Malevich piece from way back, don’t we?
   The Russian avant-garde marked the establishment of modern art’s foundations. This process was inevitably influenced by politics. The Black Square was created before the Russian Revolution. In that same year, 1915, Kazimir Malevich published his first theoretical work on art, titled Die gegenstandslose Welt – an immensely important book whose very title could serve as the manifesto for new art: The Non-Objective World.
   The Soviets quickly recognized the avant-garde’s power and sought to harness it for the propaganda machinery of their new order. Yet, they overlooked that Pegasus is not a draft beast; real art cannot truly be controlled. So, they suppressed it, centralizing authority in the Kremlin over all cultural expressions, controlling also aspects of human life. Hitler, too, intervened in art through condemning Entartete Kunst while also shaping architecture and literature. Both Nazis and Communists favoured a similar aesthetic – a mix of rural festivity, bourgeois salon culture, and imperial grandeur – pompous and kitsch. They cherry-picked elements to suit their sick ideologies under the banners of the swastika or the hammer and sickle, resulting in stone chariots pulled by chargers and driven by half-naked yokels in honour of frontline tank crews. This was intended as the culture of the New Order.
   Religious stances diverged: Hitler’s soldiers marched under Gott mit uns signalling apocalypse, whereas Stalin demolished churches building his earthly paradise. Malevich’s 1917 White on White crowned his most creative period. A critic and friend remarked upon seeing the painting: ‘It is the last human breath; here ends painting’s empire and art evaporates into nothingness’.

   An event at the Russian State Tretyakov Gallery foreshadowed the Soviet Union’s fall. Half a century after Malevich's death, Brezhnev’s portrait was quietly replaced by The Black Square. Art had triumphed. Malevich was a troubled man, and his Suprematism was sort of a terminal theory – a utopia. The artist sought to reach the ultimate limit, to unlock the secret of death. Persecuted by Soviet authorities and misunderstood by peers, including hatred from Chagall, he died in Leningrad in 1935. Crowds lined the funeral procession route. Coloured Suprematist coffin rested on a car platform, adorned with The Black Square; mourners carried square wreaths. It was the final act of Russian avant-garde art – a tribute to independence within a totalitarian regime.

   His last painting is a self-portrait dressed as a Renaissance humanist: a sombre face gazing into the distance, the right hand bent at the elbow with a flat open palm at heart level, as if embracing something unseen. The thumb and palm gesture outlined an absent square, inspired by iconography – a universal sign, indicating the Way.

   Just don’t go mixing this up with that dodgy bloke of yours. If you lot want to dig something up, go right ahead. Key words: propaganda, control, centralize, kitsch. But count us out – this was about a true artist who believed deeply in art’s power and devoted himself to it, maybe at greater cost than he should’ve.

28 November 2025

thanksgiving

   Thanksgiving went by with him binge-eating in gloomy mood, chewing on that damn stuffed turkey. He’d have preferred to serve his pal Putin a special course – lead-stuffed Zelensky, straight off a golden tray. Cranberries optional.

   Make America Great Again!

29 November 2025

screamin’ louder

   Venezuela. We’re hearin’ about crackdowns on the drug trade, fentanyl dealers. Who’s cookin’ it, Chinese? Who’s floggin’ it – hell if anyone knows. People OD, they’re dying. That’s for sure. Think another war’s gonna help? Seriously? So far, wars have mostly boosted the drug biz. You reckon it’ll be different now? And how the hell are we, the artists, supposed to know?
   But if he kicks off another war, he can wrap it up as the fifteenth, or the bloody fiftieth, and scream louder: Give me that bloody damn Nobel, right here, right now!
   Hallelujah!

30 November 2025

white on white

   We’ve penned a few words about Malevich. How do we know it? From books. Malevich’s White on White we saw at MoMA. But we also know things you won’t find in any book, even if you teamed up with Zuckerberg and nicked every single one ever published.
   First, let us tell you about a professor one of us once studied under. What made him remarkable was that he could actually ask what contemporary art is – and give an answer to it, even within the limits set by Wittgenstein. On top of that, his answer was simple, which made it all the more extraordinary (because by ‘simple’ we mean clear). It was a neat way of settling a problem that had long troubled Theodor Adorno, as he wrote from the standpoint of a philosophy of history defining the boundaries of legitimacy in aesthetics, in his ‘Aesthetic Theory’, about artistic intention – which he called radically absurd, since it probably arises from the need to transpose a state of metaphysical meaninglessness into a meaningless artistic language.
   But let’s leave art theory aside. While talking about Malevich, the professor mentioned a visit he’d made back in his student days – in the late sixties, in Leningrad – that’s what Saint Petersburg was called back then. He’d gone to see Nikolai Suetin, an outstanding artist and student of Malevich.
   First side note: in Soviet times, foreign visitors could go and see artists in Russia, but only with the permission and under the watchful eye of the communist authorities. Ideally, this took the form of a handy ‘interpreter’.
   Our professor, then a student interested in Russian avant-garde art, knew some Russian and during a visit to Suetin met Anna Leporskaya, who invited him for a private visit without the presence of an ‘interpreter’. She showed him a wooden chest full of hundreds of drawings by Malevich’s students. Besides being the creator of Suprematism and a great artist, Malevich was also a teacher.
   Second side note: Leporskaya, as a former student and assistant of Malevich, officially compiled the register of his works.
   This chest wasn’t part of the official register since it contained student works. There are various true stories and unverifiable legends about lost or found works by Constructivists and Malevich himself. What’s true about this chest is that the future professor saw it and discussed it with Leporskaya. Moreover, she gifted him one drawing, complete with Malevich’s own handwritten notes. To this day it remains in his private collection.

   Malevich’s and Russian Constructivists’ art wasn’t well known or popular in the West until the 1970s. A key enthusiast and promoter was George Costakis, a Russian of Greek origin. He amassed a huge collection. When leaving Russia in 1977 for Greece, he had to make a deal with Soviet authorities, surrendering half of his collection to Russia. The Greek government later bought the remaining part.
   Nothing is known about what happened to the hundreds of drawings by Malevich’s students from the wooden chest in Leporskaya’s apartment. However, a few similar works attributed as original Malevich pieces have been seen in galleries and museums.
   The last side note: as befits a reputable and principled Western art historian, that professor never publicly spoke on the matter. This discretion aligns with scholarly caution over unverifiable or sensitive subjects connected to the great artist and his legacy.

   For us, no hesitation in saying that the story of how the Russian avant-garde a century ago shaped world art is far more interesting than the stinking-from-a-mile-away influence of today’s Russian propaganda on decisions made in Washington. It wouldn’t be remotely surprising if, before long, a few dodgy characters ended up with free building plots just by the Kremlin.

1 December 2025

kill 'em all! in self-defence

   Monday, new calendar.

   We've said it loads of times already, we, the artists, don't have a clue about politics, we don't really know what's going on with Venezuela. We read that it's got the biggest oil reserves in the world, which, with those cheerful shouts of ‘Drill, baby, drill’ coming from the White House, could raise some eyebrows. We also don’t know if oil is the main thing behind those tour-like trips of American aircraft carriers and the like around the Caribbean, or if it's just a squabble over Russia and China's influence in the region.
   What we do hear about is some possible American war crimes and the finger-pointing going on. What we know for sure is that the closest mate of this real freak of yours, that Putin bloke, is a war criminal. Who around the White House will get named next, we haven't a clue.
   Either way, ‘kill 'em all!’ sounds kinda familiar. Finish off the survivors, sure, in self-defence.

   Make America Great Again.

2 December 2025

ground and sky, earth and heaven

   We mentioned a certain professor, one of us studied under him, and his story about seeing drawings by Malevich’s students back in the late 1960s. The professor also shared another story from after his studies when he travelled to China. It was 1975, near the end of the Cultural Revolution; signs of destruction were visible in Beijing, the city gave off a bleak atmosphere, and people looked downcast. Beijing was a completely different place back then – unimaginably so for anyone visiting today.

   During his stay, the professor met a man and had a few talks with him. As he explained, he realised that language – understood in the Wittgenstein sense – and our usual tools for describing reality were no longer enough; the world’s image was breaking down and falling apart, things were not what they appeared to be.

   It was a hot and sticky summer. He stayed briefly in a modest hotel in Beijing, monumental in the style of socialist realism. At the back was a courtyard with shrubs neatly divided into rectangles by paths. He’d get up early to sit there before the city got too hot. Nobody else came except for an elderly gardener in work clothes. He watched the man’s care and diligence in his work and nodded to him once or twice. Making contact wasn’t easy, but this old gardener somehow caught his attention. One day, they started talking. Surprisingly, the gardener spoke fluent English. One morning, he suggested going for an early walk at dawn. They headed to a nearby park.

   The park was vast with broad avenues, full of thousands of people exercising: families, young folks, and the very elderly. As they walked, a few older people spotted them and bowed respectfully to the gardener.

   He never found out who the gardener really was; the man didn’t want to talk about himself, only mentioning he once worked at the university.

   Before leaving China, the western art historians, including our future professor, had a farewell dinner with their Chinese colleagues. Everyone talked until the food arrived – then the Chinese went silent, bowed their heads, and quietly ate. The professor told the gardener about this the next morning, commenting that Europeans don't show that kind of respect for food. The gardener began to explain the tradition and also the years of famine in China. They sat on a stone bench. The gardener said that, really, people aren’t all that different. He added, ‘Look at the ground beneath your feet. Now look at the sky’. Then: ‘Things aren’t quite what they seem, but they’re not different either. The earth we walk on and the sky above us are the same everywhere’.

   The professor never saw him again and never learned who he truly was. Perhaps a philosopher or an academic from a Beijing university, sent away to a labour camp at the start of the Cultural Revolution and later, as a gesture of mercy, allowed to return as a hotel gardener?

3 December 2025

venezuela showdown

   Trump's Venezuela showdown starts to slip out of his control.
   Kidding? Only this?

4 December 2025

caviar – red, beluga, and pike

   We're reading about these intense efforts to hand over one fifth of Ukraine to a bandit, a war criminal, in exchange for some vague building plots near the Kremlin. Witkoff – as far as we know, not a single bit of Ukraine belongs to him – first strolled in front of Lenin's mausoleum, then scoffed down three types of caviar – red, beluga, and pike, then quails stuffed with buckwheat groats, venison, and crab-filled patties.

   We, the artists, eat out too, y'know. Like, fish and chips for instance. What if we chucked over a chunk of the USA while we're at it – say from Chicago to New Orleans and across to the east coast. Stings a bit? Alright, no capital then; Alaska plus Washington, Oregon, and California. To who? Maybe half to the Ruskies and half to Venezuela. What d'you reckon?

   Hey, nip into town for a bite while the old curfew's not on yet.

5 December 2025

all it takes is a promise

   The queue’s getting longer and longer, ‘Oi, I was here first, yeah?’ There’s shoving and scrapping by the gate of the White House. Someone’s shouting ‘I chucked more dosh into the campaign, didn’t I?’ Another billionaire barges through yelling ‘I gave even more and I was kissing his ass, I was!’. The fat cats are drooling over the trillions waiting to be grabbed. Anything to force through that bloody peace plan, and they'll dive headfirst into dodgy deals and dirty money. Each one, wiping sweat off their brow, is already picturing themselves top of the rich list. They didn’t splash out big on his campaign just to not get a fat return – no way he’ll let himself get screwed over. He’s always conned everyone else, so now he’ll shaft that Russian, and the tap of liquid gold will gush open. Just gotta push closer, not get left out...
   Well, greedy blighters, you’re wrong. That Kremlin thug, that war criminal, will screw your silver-tongued loony mate and leave you with your dreams up your arse. At best, you’ll just end up screwing each other over, cheating, and hustling among yourselves for whatever little you’ve got left.
   In the Kremlin, they’ll be cackling: ‘We used to sell ’em rope to hang themselves. Now all it takes is a promise!’

   Meanwhile, posh blokes and gals in heels sneak out the back door of the White House, all hush-hush. Dodgy deals? Prostitutes? Nah, not at all! They’re just BigLaw suits with briefcases bursting with billion-bucks contracts. And have a backbone like chewing gum? Well, that’s just life for ya. Welcome to the circus, mate.

   Make America Great Again!

   PS Heaven forbid we’d want to offend those few companies, those few lawyers – the rare ones who can’t be bought, who still have integrity and honour. We don’t know if you’ll be saved, we can’t promise that, but you’ve earned real respect. And that’s worth far more than any private jet. We’re rooting for you – stay strong, don’t give in!

6 December 2025

now buzz off!

   It’s all about pink Lenin, our post dated November 25th. A proper furious fan of who-knows-what accused us of the worst – saying we drag kids into our 'dodgy den' and use them to churn out our blasphemies – so, in his view, we're basically paedos.

   Mate, chill out!

   But to the worried parents of little ones, here’s what actually went down. We were heading to our new studio, which, by the way, isn’t a ‘den’ but a posh glass-fronted space in a small office block vacated by some IT lads who moved out. Next door there’s a park with a nursery. We were just getting to the road when two carers were trying to keep a bunch of kids in yellow vests in order – they were holding hands nicely enough, but some were bashing bags, pushing about, and one was jumping in puddles to splash the others – ended up covered in muck, including a carer. Then they stepped onto the crossing – you know how it is; drivers usually stop, but some are chatting on phones, another texting, or a bloke stoned out of his mind sees nothing. The carers were a bit rattled and just then, in the middle of the road, a little boy’s papers flew out and got blown onto the tarmac. He went into proper sobs, a car behind honked its horn, carers panicked a bit. We stepped in to help. Collected the papers, helped get the kids safely across, and into the park. The boy bawled even more when we handed him the soggy drawings back. One of us tried to comfort the boy, she said we’re painters and would help him draw something new. No choice – we got invited into the nursery. We had a folder of unfinished works, including Lenin on a pink background that we hadn’t planned on. The kids asked who he was. We asked them to guess. ‘Some really old musician bouncing on stage’, said one lad. ‘The bad guy in Home Alone, when Kevin threw paint or that stuff on him’. And so on. To wipe away the tears, we asked the boy to add a bit more drawing. But what? On the phone we found ‘Lenin lives forever’ in original Cyrillic and showed the kids one weird letter at a time. Each drew a different one. They liked the one looking like a chair the most, and the one like a smashed spider. ‘What’s that?’ they asked. Without going into detail, we read out the phonetic sound of that smashed spider: something like djzzoz. The kids had a laugh, carers were happy, and back at the studio we added a few comments of our own. That chair – which looked to us like a shithouse – got gilded with pure 24-carat gold leaf.

   Notice Lenin, at least in our version, is somewhere between Iggy Pop and a bungling thief to today’s kids.

   As for the pervs, we heard the Venezuela kerfuffle is meant to cover up a stinky mess surrounding the Epstein affair. If that were true, it’d be the first war ever started by a paedo from beyond the grave.

   PS For anyone keen to accuse us of anything, the nursery carers gave us permission to use the kids’ drawings in our pink artwork, provided we don’t name the kids or the nursery. We’re keeping quiet. Now buzz off!

7 December 2025

rejection of idealisation

   You know what really gets us buzzing – like the impact Gustave Courbet and the Realists had on early 20th-century modern art. That whole rejection of idealisation, a step towards keeping it real and authentic. Interesting stuff, right? But we’re also eyeing, more with a raised eyebrow, the reality and antics of your bloke all tangled up in his own tie and mental muddle. China, now there’s a tricky subject. On these gloomy autumn days, we’ve been checking out what the clever clogs say about it. Sounds convincing, at least to us.

   Right, so the gist is: pure ignorance mixed with some dodgy motives, old grudges, and a massive lack of understanding is the usual spark that lights up these global beefs. Imagine if Hitler had known just how mint the American industry was back in ’41 – would he have still gone and declared war? Soviets in Afghanistan or Saddam in Kuwait – proper daft moves that backfired big time.

   The Chinese trying to explain Taiwan’s future under Beijing is like having a panda try to do a fox’s job – completely out of touch. Taiwan’s citizens cherish their democracy, but Beijing assumes they’ll roll over like it’s all just a game of Go. It’s anything but.
   China’s pressuring Taiwan hard – from military posturing to cyber skulduggery – trying to make the island feel totally knackered and isolated, hoping they just throw in the towel without a proper barney. Taiwan’s Prez waving alarm bells, fearing folks might just give up under the pressure.

   Meanwhile, that loony bloke of yours is all over the shop – one minute trade wars, the next wanting to butter up Chinese Prez Xi with no real promises to Taiwan. And like he’s proper dreaming of a bloody Nobel at night. Xi’s running circles around him, pushing the narrative that the US should just accept Taiwan as part of China or else. The whole thing’s a proper mess with history glaring in the background: ignore aggression and you’re begging for trouble. But WH moron’s too busy with his trade shenanigans to get the memo, and that’s what might just do them all in.

   This whole saga is one giant kerfuffle of misunderstandings, not to say stupidity, historical grudges, and leaders who can’t quite see the wood for the trees, all with high stakes that no one should be mucking about with, innit?

8 December 2025

bare dosh to make

   For those so-called peace talks (proper laugh, yeah?), he sent his dodgy builder mate and his son-in-law off to Moscow. They scoffed loads of caviar, went for a wander to check out building plots, spent over four hours chinwagging with a war criminal about some shady deals, and agreed these proper fruitful talks will carry on. Sure, they will. There’s bare dosh to make.

   Next round, his sprogs will jet over, maybe even a grandkid to get some schooling, and some other geezer from their dodgy crew. They’ll grub, scout more plots, and cook up some joint scam.

   So, dear American taxpayers, who do you reckon foots the bill for these little trips?
   Guess right, and you get a lolly! A burger or some hot dogs buy yourself if you ain't broke yet, fam.

   Make America Great Again!

   PS Monday. Fortunately, so many days behind us, unfortunately, so many more still ahead of us.

9 December 2025

whatever

   Looks like Christmas is on its way – thousands of Santas on every corner, Jingle Bells drilling straight into your head, and those still clinging to a few spare coins going completely mad over what to buy for gifts. And us?
   We’ve been told that we’re nitpicking about the length of his tie – that it reaches down to his ankles, that it drags behind him. And apparently, that doesn’t bother ordinary citizens from, say, Wyoming, Alabama, or Tennessee. But of course, we respect the opinions of ordinary citizens from those and all other states. On the other hand, there’s a reason, or maybe there is not? – he continually has his tie drooping down to his knees: the observation that some politicians wear long ties to cover a small dick is an unsubstantiated rumour with no basis in fact. It is a form of mockery and character assassination rather than a genuine observation about fashion or anatomy. 
   To avoid any misunderstanding, we the artists, recognize many see him as a dick, individually we could say, me too, but we emphasise it's not our job to comment on rumours, unsubstantiated or not. What we can say is we don't pay people (NDAs) to keep quiet after they have seen us naked.
   Did we say we were young and beautiful? Or maybe he did? Somehow, we don't remember.
   Whatever.

10 December 2025

cultural revolution

   A few days ago we wrote about a certain professor who, back in his youth, ended up in China while Mao was still alive, right at the tail end of the Cultural Revolution. Mao launched it as a ‘great purge’ under the banner of class struggle, which in practice meant the destruction of cultural heritage and the building of his own personality cult.
   So we’ve been wondering if the USA isn’t on the verge of its own Cultural Revolution – with similar slogans and similar outcomes. Once you start wading through that gibberish about the Great Beautiful Architecture, the peace plan written in Cyrillic, and the Security Strategy, it all begins to sound like a contemporary edition of the Little Red Book, that is, the quotations of Chairman Mao. Not to mention the full‑blown cult of personality: kiss my ass and hand me that damn Nobel, right here, right now. And don’t you even think about criticising me.

   You really think we were just joking about the gold-plated toilets?
   Have a look at this, especially the ending: ‘The planned 90,000-square-foot ballroom, which will cost $300 million to build, will feature Corinthian columns, crystal chandeliers and a black-and-white tile floor – all closely resembling the ballroom at Mar-a-Lago. His Florida resort’s aesthetics have also seemed to influence the new gold trimmings adorning the Oval Office and the gold detailing on the fixtures in the recently remodelled Lincoln Bedroom bathroom.’

   Sometimes the stuff that looks like a joke, or totally far‑fetched, suddenly turns into real life.
   And that’s when you wake up and realise you’re properly screwed, or, as you’d put it in more politically correct terms – a day late and a dollar short.

   PS Over breakfast in a nearby pub we watched him just grab the medal and stick it round his own neck. Bit of a spectacle, wasn’t it? We were laughing rather too loudly and batting around ideas for what to write, while half‑heartedly leafing through the paper over our morning coffee and scones. Turns out The Guardian nailed it better than we ever could:
   https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2025/dec/09/donald-trump-finally-won-peace-prize-fifa-five-other-awards-he-should-win

11 December 2025

divine providence at work

   We read: ‘Fact check: He denies saying something he said on camera five days ago.’
   From a medical point of view:
   ‘Denying one’s own words and obvious facts is understood in psychiatry and psychology as a rejection of reality that is emotionally too difficult to accept. In clinical terms, denial is the refusal to let certain facts into awareness when they provoke fear, shame, or threaten one’s self‑image. The term denialism is used when someone persistently rejects empirically verifiable facts in order to avoid an uncomfortable truth or a clash with their own beliefs. Such behaviour is often driven by cognitive dissonance – the tension that arises when a person’s words, actions, and the facts do not align, so they ‘adjust’ reality rather than revise their beliefs. Persistent, extreme denial of facts and of one’s own statements, continuing despite clear evidence and seriously impairing functioning, can be the symptoms of personality disorders or psychotic disorders. It also happens that a lack of insight into a mental illness (anosognosia) means a person genuinely does not recognise their symptoms, which from the outside can look like blatantly denying obvious facts.’

   Alright, but we’re not doctors, we’re artists – and medicine’s not exactly our field. So no, we’re not gonna comment on that, forget it. But really, maybe instead of having him carted off to the loony bin we should just feel a bit sorry for the bloke: he’s probably losing it completely.
   After all, he’s got to pretend to be some great statesman of a great nation while dutifully polishing Moscow’s boots. He swears he’s all about the common folk, yet somehow everything he does ends up lining the pockets of his billionaire mates. And, needless to say, his own. On top of that, there are all these heavy things going on in the world that he doesn’t really understand, yet people keep asking him about and expecting him to do something, while he basically nods off the moment they come up.
   So yeah, no wonder in his twisted little fantasy world, when a journalist shoves a mic under his nose with an awkward question, he sees it as a flaming RPG aimed straight at his, say, not overly complex brain. Hardly surprising he lays into the poor woman and calls her an idiot. And to top it off, he’s handed documents in Cyrillic and told to claim he penned them himself. Come on, who wouldn’t lose the plot at that point?

   May divine providence look after you – there’s not much else left, is there?

12 December 2025

prospect of civilizational erasure

   Lately we’ve actually managed to spend some time on what really gets us going – Malevich, a few words on Rothko, Giorgione’s La Vecchia, Dürer’s Avarice. Bit of chat about Goethe, architecture too. We’d like more of that, more often.
   But you know, it’s a bit like driving. Lovely weather, you’re enjoying the view. Then it starts raining, not great. And when it’s pissing down, miserable. Worse still when mud off the tyres or wet snow smear up the windscreen. OK, your word – the windshield. Either way, the wipers are doing their best. Sometimes they just can’t keep up. And what do you do when piles of shit from Washington get all over everything, eh? What then?

   Europe’s a pretty old place. The favourite décor of dictators – those Doric and Corinthian orders – were dreamed up in Greece some 2,500 years ago. Ancient Rome, along with Christianity, laid the foundations for European civilisation and its legal system based on Roman law – that’s, what, 2,000 to 1,500 years back. Apart from the native peoples, and a bunch of Viking raids a thousand years ago, Europeans reached North America roughly 500 years ago. Besides all the common crimes of the time, booze, and disease, they also brought Christianity and European manners – the good, the bad, and the ugly, as life goes.
   The twentieth century went absolutely mad with communism and fascism – both wanted to rule the world and wipe out anyone who didn’t play along. The old ties between America and Europe saved Western civilisation. That was still true up until about a year ago.
   Fascism tucked its tail in, and Soviet communism mutated into something just as nasty and murderous under Putin – the latest mash-up of Hitler and Stalin. The Kremlin’s been after the same goal for a century now – taking over Europe – and everyone knows it. A few days ago, we all saw it clearly: WH’s been told to do Moscow’s bidding and join in, so WH guys working hand in hand with the Russkies, calling for the erasure of Europe. And support neo-fascism – gonna help. Do you really prefer enemies to friends?
   What’s America going to get out of it? Nothing. Less than nothing, in fact. Sorry, lads, you’re heading for real trouble.

   As far as we can tell – not that we’ve got firsthand experience – prostitutes at least have some sense: they shag whoever pays best, but not total nutjobs or killers. Your Leader (you know the word in German, don’t ya?) is thicker than the dimmest prostitute – happily throwing himself into the arms of a psycho-murderer who’s not even paying. He just dangles promises in front of those greedy idiots, they start drooling and rubbing their sticky hands, and when the time comes – he screws them over. Classic Russkies, old Bolshevik habits.

   And how do we know all this, we simple artists? We read books.
   If you can’t be arsed with Orwell, not to mention some big fat history books, give National Security Strategy a go instead. Speak Russian? Then read it as it was written.

   You’re bailing out of a club of countries muddling along with democracy – sometimes it works better, sometimes it’s a shambles, but, as Churchill said, no one’s really come up with anything smarter. That was a long time ago, though. Now you lot, our dear American mates, are heading off into the gloomy back alleys of an authoritarian regime. We’ll miss you. Take care!

   Our advice? When the shit’s coming down on your head, don’t just duck – deal with the one doing the shitting.

   Make America Great Again!

13 December 2025

they who deserve respect

   You’re believers or not. Celebrate it or don’t. December, January, whatever. Christmas is coming. We owe you a bit of an explanation. We’ve been laying into politicians like there’s no tomorrow, saying they’re all on the take or, at best, only in it to line their own pockets.

   So first things first, we’ll eat humble pie and take a deep bow to all the decent, committed, straight‑up people out there, because there are legions of them. We won’t bang on about ‘heavenly hosts’, but the key word here really is common decency. There genuinely are folks who go into public service because they want to do right by other people. Fair enough, no one’s counting how many there are, and this isn’t about stats – it’s about the fact that they deserve respect. A lot of respect.

   Just look at the politicians – since that’s where we started – who get into politics to sort out real‑world problems. Many of them? Probably not, but as we’ve already said, it’s not about numbers. Or the doctors who spend years studying, training, honing their skills so they can treat people – and who aren’t just shilling rubbish for big pharma. The teachers who give their time and their brains so that something in those kids’ heads finally clicks the right way. The cops who actually risk their own lives to go after criminals and make it possible for us to walk the streets safely – and who don’t take bribes or kick the life out of innocent people for fun or because of their skin colour. Millions of committed nurses, brave firefighters, paramedics and all first responders, the people who keep the infrastructure running… the list goes on and on.
   We’ve already talked about the lawyers who didn’t cave in. Again, many of them? A few is all it takes.

   Decency. One of those words that seems to be quietly dropping out of use. In today’s White House it would probably just set off a fit of uncontrollable sniggering.

   High time to Make America Great Again!

14 December 2025

falling in love for real

   This time a word about love. Falling in love – now that really is a lovely feeling, it can send you off doing all sorts of things. Even a psycho can fall in love, properly and for real. Sure, he’s treated women like dirt and talked about them with total contempt, but maybe women aren’t really the point here.

   We saw a photo from the Oval Office in the paper. Never mind the blokes’ faces in the shot – who cares. What grabs us is the background, all blindingly shiny and over the top: gilt picture frames, fancy neoclassical wall ornaments, heaps of glitzy tat desperately trying to pass for French rococo, even coffee cups with gold trim.

   It’s as if the host were getting ready to welcome his very special friend – the one whose hands he’s stroked, whose every move he’s applauded, and for whom he once had American soldiers roll out the red carpet on their knees. Trying to impress him? Or just make him feel at home.

   They’ll sit by the fireplace, he’ll gaze into the killer’s steely eyes and whisper: ‘I love you, Vladimir.’

15 December 2025

annoying habit of art

   Thankfully, we’re not spending our days scouring the papers for every fresh bit of clownery, disaster and general carnage your unhinged guy in charge is inflicting on everyone. Instead, we’d share a few thoughts on two interesting shows we’ve seen recently: one at Albertina Modern in Vienna, and one in Basel – technically Riehen – at Fondation Beyeler, more or less round the corner from our summer atelier. Modern art ought, in theory, to give us a breather from your national soap opera – it’s light‑years away from his cramped little mind, which seems to have parked itself somewhere in the Middle Ages, while his taste ricochets between antiquity and rococo without understanding either. But art has this annoying habit of poking at what actually matters, and these two exhibitions deal with mental states, empathy (or the lack of it) and the texture of contemporary experience – which, like it or not, throws you straight back to the way his destructive presence messes with reality for all of us.

   First, Vienna. A city forever associated not just with the Secession but with performance art. Let’s leave Viennese Actionism to one side – that’s a tough, very tough topic. At Albertina Modern there’s a Marina Abramović show. She, in a way, rewrote what performance art can be, bringing in that mix of passivity and danger, endurance and empathy, complicity and loss of control. It’s hard to sum up her work in a few lines; you really have to be in the room with her. But this retrospective of a huge body of her work is genuinely powerful, provided you give it the time and attention it demands. For the uninitiated, performance art sort of grows out of Dada – although art historians tend to growl when you say that – and very clearly from Jackson Pollock’s 1950s work. His action painting foregrounded the act of painting itself; his successors simply took the canvas out of the equation and replaced it by the very process of creation. The artist performing in front of an audience is both maker and material, and the point can be to show up the conventions and constraints people are squeezed into – or to flip a middle finger at what’s seen as ‘proper’ art. Have a look at the 1965 Düsseldorf show where Joseph Beuys explained pictures to a dead hare. And at two key New York moments: I Like America and America Likes Me (a.k.a. Coyote at René Block Gallery, 1974) by the same Beuys, and The Artist Is Present at MoMA in 2010 by Marina Abramović.
   Safe to say, neither of those would be happening now: if ICE didn’t drag the artists out, the Proud Boys would turn up on cue, sent by their saviour, patron, or whatever we’re supposed to call that cosy little relationship.

   Performance art at its best can grapple with themes that are anything but simple. Marina Abramović’s Four Crosses gives us four tilted crosses bearing her own face in poses that, in a Christian context, could read as virtuous or sinful, accepting or utterly defiant – including a contorted, screaming expression that might come from pain, terror or sheer rage. Abramović digs into questions of gender, religion and morality, challenging traditional female roles in religious imagery and nodding to both the Virgin Mary and Magdalene. She also taps into the symbolism of the Stations of the Cross, with one cross showing a crawling figure that reads as a powerful image of penance. It’s a striking piece, emotionally charged, and it really opens the door to broader interpretations and very personal responses.
   What is more, political threads also appear in her work; her roots go back to the communist era.
   Top‑tier works on the border between happening and performance art may look demanding, but they’re neither empty nor random. A drunk Proud Boy staggering out of a bar and accidentally pissing E=mc² into the snow doesn’t suddenly become a genius, and a politician bellowing his head off just because he can doesn’t magically turn into an artist. In both cases, they remain exactly what they are – loudmouthed louts.

   We’ll get to the Swiss show another time.

   PS It’s also Monday; the calendar.

16 December 2025

american beauty in plato’s cave

   Have a look at our first post from 20 January. We were swooning over the beauty of American nature, the national parks and all that. The feeling’s kind of worn off. The sequoias, canyons and bird flocks are still innocent, mind you.

   Seen the new pass? We’re no ornithologists – our love of nature basically comes down to liking a walk in the woods – but we’re allowed an opinion on composition and colour. We’ve taken apart more than a few paintings in our time.
   Here George Washington, lips slightly clamped together, looking a bit hacked off, and definitely way too flushed – out of embarrassment, presumably – stares off into the middle distance with this sad, vacant look. Whether it’s by Gilbert Stuart, some copy, or a knock‑off, we’ll leave to the experts. But at first glance, in a crappy newspaper repro, looks like one-dollar bill but it doesn’t exactly scream ‘original’ – Stuart was a proper portrait painter, loose, confident brushwork, solid craft, and his president looks serious, meets your eye, suggests intelligence and understanding; the thin lips show focus, not anger, sometimes even the hint of a friendly smile. The gentle pink in Stuart’s cheeks is about vigour and vitality, bang on for the fashion of the time and sitting nicely with the soft background tones. Here the mouth droops, and that stare! Blank, fixed on absolutely nothing.

   On top of that, the first US president is shrunk down and shoved to the back, half‑hidden behind the ‘Resident Annual’ tag and the shoulders of Trump barging his way to the front. And him, as ever, with that thuggy look, one eye slightly narrowed as if he’s about to lay into someone or snap: ‘Yeah, well, I’m the one in the White House, aren’t I?’ His face is given this tasteful, say, elegant, naturally tanned glow – obviously airbrushed to within an inch of its life, because everyone knows what he actually looks like – and as for elegance, he’s about as close to that as he is to honesty. Really, give it a rest. And he’s plonked himself right under the words ‘The beautiful’ – the bloke simply has no brakes. A non‑entity with an ego the size of the solar system.

   If he honestly thinks his mug en face is more precious than Yellowstone’s Old Faithful or El Capitan in Yosemite, then maybe he reckons his rear‑view, say, par derrière, is more fascinating than Mammoth Cave or the Big Room in Carlsbad Caverns. We still remember him boasting that world leaders are queueing up to kiss his ass – we were genuinely wondering at the time if they’d have to tweak diplomatic protocol: handshake first or the kiss, and whether the Oval Office would get some tasteful, purpose‑built ass‑kissing station. So yes, we’re dying to know what’s on the reverse of that pass.
   Plato’s cave can sit this one out.

17 December 2025

the blind leading the blind

   The heartfelt query we received: Why on earth are we, as artists, poking our noses into day‑to‑day politics instead of devoting ourselves to beauty and other ‘universal values’?

   Let’s leave beauty aside – or we’ll be here all week. Politics? Heaven forbid. We don’t do politics, and we don’t pretend to understand the grubby business of fighting for power. We’ve read Plato and his charming notions of politics as the pursuit of justice and harmony, and of rulers whose chief virtue is wisdom – safe to say we can probably file that under ‘not happening’, can’t we? His Republic is a grab‑bag of ideas – some downright nightmarish, veering towards what we’d now call ‘communist’ or ‘fascist’ notions like eugenics – but it was, after all, a utopian vision from some 2,500 years ago. Let’s park that as well.

   Yes, we are interested in ‘universal values; we look around and we read books. Old ones and new ones. It’s hard to make art with your eyes shut. We were in Naples recently, at the Museo di Capodimonte. If you’re ever nearby, go and have a proper look at The Blind Leading the Blind. It’s worth studying closely – Pieter Bruegel the Elder was astonishingly precise.

   Art history is our patch. It’s hard to prise it apart from world history, even if we’re not historians. For centuries, painting has been more than a wrestling match over ideas of beauty, art itself, faith, religion, the place of the human being, and the life of the spirit. It’s also a running record of human madness – crime, vindictiveness, stupidity, greed, betrayal – feel free to add your own items to the endless list of human vanities. When we read, we’re just filling out our picture of reality. To pick only this one: Barbara Tuchman’s The Guns of August lays out the crucial mistakes made by politicians – often driven by bloated ambition or plain ignorance – that helped bring about the First World War.

   What we’re watching now is the collapse of the US’s position as a leader, because it has walked away from defending what is right. This isn’t about who pays for what, or how much anyone earns, or what it all costs. We jokingly call him the bloke who’s managed to strangle himself with his own tie and own mental knots – that’s just our house style, the serious analysis is for the bright sparks. But everyone can see the grotesquely inflated ego, the nonstop lies, the bragging about ‘wars ended’, the half‑baked rambling on any topic under the sun. He’s no ‘master negotiator’. He has simply sacrificed America’s interests by strengthening its opponents, and in the process has betrayed America’s allies. Why? Who the hell knows – kompromat, stupidity, something else, or all of the above. Let the clever clogs and history sort that one out.

   The attempt to strong‑arm Ukraine and Europe into accepting a shameful ‘peace plan’ drafted in Moscow will sit in the history books right alongside the bright ideas of making concessions to Hitler and Stalin, and Chamberlain’s famous bit of paper and his ‘I believe it is peace for our time’. Less than a year later, the Second World War began.

   By the way, Hitler thought the leaders of Western Europe were weak and held them in contempt. Listen carefully to how your so‑called Leader talks about others, and look at whom he actually respects: the war criminal Putin, maybe that rotund lunatic Kim who has turned his country into a concentration camp. And afraid of Chinese president. Everyone else he sneers at as weak. He even muttered at Zelensky, ‘You don’t have any cards’. For now, little ‘card‑less’ Ukraine is heroically holding off the supposedly unbeatable army of the Kremlin, led by a thug your guy trusts and admires. The thing is, he’s not on his own – trailing along behind him is a whole pack of careerists, many of them with sticky fingers, practically drooling at the thought of dodgy deals with the Russkies.

   In short, yes, we do understand that America has its own interests and its own business. What bothers us is that those who’re supposed to be looking after them are doing the opposite. Hitler signed papers and broke them, Putin does exactly the same. You’re being conned as well. Cheats have one thing in common – they cheat.

   The Blind Leading the Blind – Pieter Bruegel the Elder.

18 December 2025

who are they and where did they crawl out from?

   You already know art is what really does it for us. Last night we were up half the night talking about the Futurists, because we’d just remembered that film with Cate Blanchett, where she plays a whole gallery of characters – including a bearded homeless bloke – and in waltzes Marinetti’s Futurist Manifesto. The movie Manifesto by Rosefeldt. Go and watch it. We were having a great time spotting who’s who: the Dada lot, the Surrealists, and the rest of the gang.

   The Futurists were an early‑20th‑century avant‑garde utopia, anarchic and wide‑eyed, which burnt out pretty quickly under the impact of the First World War. Every now and then it veered uncomfortably close to fascism. What’s really stayed with us are several paintings and the magical designs of Antonio Sant’Elia – well worth a look.

   So yes, anarchism wandering off into fascism. Yesterday we wrote that he’s not on his own; shuffling along behind him is a whole crowd of lads with sticky fingers, practically drooling at the thought of shady deals with the Russkies. The sort who couldn’t care less about their own country as long as there’s more to be grabbed. Who are they and where did they crawl out from? And what about those ‘armed’ bands of neo‑fascists waving patriot slogans on their flags?

   Of course, none of this is an American invention. Just by the way, Futurism was mainly an Italian thing. We’ve already written plenty about the local mafia over there. And Europe, as we’ve also said before, is crawling with grasping politicians, lobbyists skirting the edge of criminality, dodgy chancers orbiting politics and assorted idiots ready to do anything as long as it gets them a place at the trough. Worse still, despite the obvious threat from Putin – Russia’s resident war criminal – whole battalions of politicians and fellow‑travellers are busily helping him smash European unity. Useful idiots or paid‑up agents? Who the hell knows. In Germany, fascism is sprouting again, cheered on by your very own so‑called ‘leaders’. We’ve written about Viktor Orbán – once a decent democrat, now happily sold to Putin and milking the EU while steering Hungary into a ditch.

   Poland’s new president, who won his election with a helping hand from your tie‑tangled mate, was – according to journalists – a pimp who robbed an old man of his flat, and generally a stadium thug mixed up with gangsters. His big project now is to wreck the Polish government, sabotage the EU and block further support for Ukraine. Who benefits from that apart from Putin? Across Europe, masked thugs march with ‘White Power’ banners, and the antisemites are crawling back into the daylight.

   These aren’t romantic anarchists in the old Italian Futurist mould – they’re just thick. Take Poland as an example: a country hit particularly hard by fascism, where the Second World War began with Hitler’s invasion in 1939 (Stalin obligingly stabbed it in the back a bit later). It was on Polish soil that Hitler set up the greatest number of concentration camps, because that’s where the largest Jewish population in Europe lived – and where they were murdered in their millions. Along with them died Roma, Poles, Czechs, Russians, French, Hungarians, Germans – and just about everyone else. And yet, in today’s Poland, you’ve got little groups of ‘true patriots’ who sneak off into a forest, dress up as the Gestapo and celebrate Hitler’s birthday. When they couldn’t get a cake with a swastika, they cobbled one together out of chocolate bars. Idiots? Idiots. A chicken’s got more brainpower.

   They’re trying to copy the Proud Boys and that whole circus. All over Europe there are more and more of them, and brain‑dead politicians are desperate to model themselves on the ‘strong American leader’, sowing chaos and gleefully spreading Kremlin disinformation to Putin’s delight.

   As you can see, we don’t just have a go at your own nutters, and we don’t spend all our time reading about art either. We’ve read Solzhenitsyn too – including The Gulag Archipelago, though he got his Nobel before the whole thing came out in the West. Which brings us back to the question of those who treat their own country with utter contempt: who are they and where did they crawl out from? Solzhenitsyn coined a special term for that lot – in Russian it sounds like something between a spell and a sneeze, so we won’t try to reproduce it here – but in translation it comes out as ‘sham intelligentsia’. There’s also the notion of homo sovieticus. That’s them. Here in Europe – and over the pond as well.

   All Best!

19 December 2025

dancing lights that flew up to the universe

   We’re sharing a few of our thoughts on art with you – including about artists who tend to stir up controversy or simply aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. Naturally, we don’t expect that poor sod tangled in his own tie and his own mental knots to grasp any of it. Let’s just leave him be.

   The exhibition at Switzerland’s Fondation Beyeler takes a closer look at an artist who’s famous, celebrated, and award-winning – yet utterly unconventional, working across all sorts of disciplines. Yayoi Kusama, now nearing a hundred, first made a name for herself in 1960s New York with sculptures, installations, performances and happenings. In one particularly bold gesture, she sent a letter to President Richard Nixon offering him sex in exchange for ending the Vietnam War.

   She’s best known, of course, for her dots – those endless dots covering her avant-garde works – and for her signature red wig. But her art, along with her complicated life marked since childhood by a debilitating mental illness, forms a coherent picture of profound dedication and creative commitment. Her life’s been a series of tough battles, and for nearly half a century she’s lived in a psychiatric hospital in Tokyo. She’s regarded as one of the most influential artists of our time.

   If Basel isn’t on your list of cities to visit, look her up – read about her art, her links with the likes of Georgia O’Keeffe and Donald Judd, her collaborations with musicians like Fleetwood Mac and Country Joe and the Fish. And remember her words: ‘If it were not for art, I would have killed myself a long time ago.’

   This is actually the second major Kusama exhibition we’ve managed to catch – the first was Every Day I Pray for Love at David Zwirner in New York a few years back. It featured one of her famous Infinity Mirrored Rooms – this one called Dancing Lights That Flew Up to the Universe.

   We still think back to that show – it left a huge impression on us. And, well, because it looks like we won’t be heading to New York again any time soon, what with all that business of having to hand over your phone, emails and, basically, your thoughts. No worries though – we’re not off to North Korea either.

20 December 2025

take care, lads

   Don’t be shocked we’re taking the piss out of AI. Nobody’s spared – no prisoners taken. It’s a clever bit of kit though – can’t remember the US president’s name? Ask AI. Odds are you’ll get the right answer. Still at school but can’t be arsed to learn or understand anything? Lob it at AI. You’re such a hopeless hack that, after years in the trade, you’re still trapped as a local‑news zombie or buried in obits. Tell AI to churn out a hundred sensational exclusives exposing the world’s darkest secrets – you’ll have them in two minutes flat – maybe less, depending on how many acres of green it burns to dust along the way.

   We’ve already written about this bloke desperate to shag our mate – lovely girl, but she wasn’t having any of it. Still, he did enlighten us: in just a few hours, he can ‘produce’ over a hundred ‘almost real’ photos and short videos, plus hundreds of posts, blogs, articles, and how‑to guides on every topic under the sun. The slop‑expert, bless him, explained that Facebook pays for anything that ‘resonates well’. And Facebook users, lured in by the slop, click their way to yet another blog where he makes a few more quid off the ads.

   One evening we polished off a bottle of single malt – and a few other things – with a bloke who works for a company that does analytics. Here’s how it goes: the CEO gives a grand speech about how their firm doesn’t rely on AI, only on the ‘intellectual resources’ of its own brilliant experts. Then he calls a managers’ meeting and tells them to double their results. Immediately. Not a word about AI. The managers pass it down: what took you a week, you’ve got an hour. How? Your problem. Fifteen minutes later, some poor sod’s got a 30‑page analysis ready. How? He’s just drained a small lake. The fish are dead. The pelicans have buggered off.

   So what do we actually read? Definitely not online news. Books – absolutely. And the odd article written by someone who actually thinks. Some we agree with, some we don’t. We’re not hunting confirmation of our political views – we haven’t got any. But we do, with feeling, despise fascism and communism. And though Fukuyama – a clever chap, to be fair – once declared the end of history, both are back again, in some terrifying, hazy form, crawling out of the burrow like a rat sniffing meat. Terrifying because you can only guess what face it wears. Worse, this time it’s armed with smarter tech – AI.

   Take care, lads.

21 December 2025

guess who

   Drug addiction is a tragedy. Poor souls on city streets, wobbling about like zombies before keeling over, abandoned and forgotten. Victims.
   Yes, of course, we should tackle drug abuse. But are aircraft carriers, submarines and those B‑ or F‑somethings with numbers the best way to go about it? War stuff isn’t exactly our speciality. He’s the expert at everything, though – there’ll be a brand‑new class of Navy battleships. What will they be called? Spot on. Just like every bloody federal building, courthouse and motorway exit: all baptised in his sacred name, of course. You lot quite sure ‘Washington, D.C.’ isn’t on the chopping block as well?
   And if you think that’s mad, wait till you hear his ideas for sticking his face on the Royal Navy’s teapots.
   And naturally, he’ll take ‘an active role in the design’. Sure thing – he’s a man of many talents. He even said, ‘they will lead the design of these ships along with me because I’m a very aesthetic person’.
   Oh absolutely. The man’s already shown his flair for ‘beautiful architecture’. A genius, really. Everything he touches turns to gold. Straight into his pocket, that is. And there we thought his aesthetic tastes began and ended with a ‘young and beautiful piece of ass’.

   Jokes aside, in a normal world drug policy is part of public health. But our warmonger–in–chief, forever fighting someone (his own people included), is shutting down treatment programmes in favour of police and military operations. The result? More violence, less effectiveness.

   And how exactly is a soldier trained to kill enemies supposed to respond when, armed with an automatic rifle, grenades and a nice knife for slitting throats, he bumps into a fentanyl‑high addict staggering down the street? Do a quick burst? Toss a grenade? Go for the throat?

   Sending soldiers into cities is about as clever as claiming aircraft carriers and flying F‑somethings are part of the war on drugs. Sure, you can slaughter everyone floating about the Caribbean and finish off the survivors – but the chemicals for fentanyl are made in China. What’s next, bomb Beijing?

   Someone once said that dropping bombs on people’s heads isn’t terribly effective for restoring order, though it is quite a breakthrough from a neurosurgical point of view. Lobotomy for the common cold, why not? The degree of madness largely depends on how far you’ve drifted from reality. The blokes deciding who’s the enemy, where to drop what, and when to send in the army, seem to inhabit a delirious world of their own – dragging the rest of us into their obsessions. Dangerous stuff. For the world, and for you lot too. Especially now that they’re gutting agencies that protect against cyberattacks, fight disease, or promote freedom and democracy – all while declaring Europe and liberal democracy the real threats. Their ‘knowledge’, of course, comes from the internet, that playground of Russian, Chinese and assorted propaganda rubbish. It’s stopped being politics. It’s become a pathology – teetering on the edge of the criminally insane.

   And what can we painters do? Just point you back to a few classics:
   The Blind Leading the Blind, Pieter Bruegel the Elder,
   The Cure of Folly, Hieronymus Bosch
   Adoration of the Golden Calf, Nicolas Poussin (we also mentioned Tintoretto’s version)

   And perhaps you’ve heard of The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci? One of the figures, in the shadows, holds a money pouch. Guess who it is, and you get a sweetie.

22 December 2025

merry christmas, and make it back safe

   Hey there, lads across the pond! Christmas is practically breathing down our necks – how’s life treating you over there? We heard about some poor bloke who had the audacity to step out for lunch. Yeah, brave soul. Never made it back though. Got nabbed, cuffed, chucked into an unmarked SUV and whisked away. Florida and the gators? El Salvador? Hard to tell these days, isn’t it.

   Anyway, little story for you. About a quarter of a century ago, the sexiest man alive – officially, mind you – was none other than Pierce Brosnan. (These days your own tie-tangled dimwit insists he’s the titleholder, but poor sod’s not right in the head, so we’ll leave it.)

   Brosnan, whom we actually bumped into just the other day having a pint at our local in the Cotswolds, was back then a sleek, not a hint of silver in sight Bond halfway through saving the world. He’d just moonlighted as a debonair art thief in some jolly Hollywood caper where chaps dressed like Magritte’s Son of Man were legging it through fake Met halls, confusing the pursuit no end.

   So here’s a bit of seasonal wisdom for you, our American mates: if you fancy stepping out for lunch and actually making it back, dress up as Santa. Thousands of them out there already. You’ll blend right in. And yes – you’ll make it back in one piece. Probably. Merry Christmas!

   Besides, it’s Monday.

23 December 2025

such a family time, isn’t it

   Christmas is such a family time, isn’t it – grandkids with grandparents, parents with children, the son‑in‑law too, all that wholesome togetherness. The sort that looks great on a card and smells faintly of money. Looking after one’s own is a time‑honoured tradition, after all. The Borgias knew the drill: they made a fortune off anything that wasn’t nailed down and even had their very own pope; granted, he was busy importing prostitutes and hosting little Vatican orgies, but that was ages ago. Different century, different dress code.

   Now it’s the 21st century and none of that, absolutely not. No prostitutes, certainly no paying them to keep quiet, heaven forbid. Orgies? Perish the thought. It wasn’t me, it was him, and in any case, barely know the chap. Modern family values, you see. You look after the clan – as one does. The son‑in‑law gets a few billion in greenbacks? Fine. What for? Who cares, it’ll be useful. A jumbo jet with gold‑plated bogs? Go on then, stick a ribbon on it. Building plots next to the Kremlin? Why not, the family and that mate of shady deals will sort it out. And a whole range of irresistible opportunities in Russia, like a Christmas clearance sale. Grab everything you can, boys.

   Everyone sits down by the tree, baubles gleaming in solid gold, Santas and reindeer winking with little diamonds, and tinsel so heavy and golden the tree had to be reinforced so it wouldn’t topple over. Very tasteful, obviously. Everything sparkles. Only the star on top is red this year. Well, friendship can be demanding.

   Something to eat, then. No burgers in sight, a hand reaches for the knife to slice off a bit of glazed ham – and hold on, why is there so little maple syrup on it? Have those bloody Canadians cut supplies again? Just you wait. I’ll send a few lads over and by next year you’ll be the 51st state; then I’ll park a barrel of the stuff in the garden or bathe in it, ha ha.

   Presents done and dusted: this one got some kind of fund, that one a corporation, someone else a private jet, and the kids – as kids do – run around in circles playing with their new toys. Just you wait, little ones, once you grow up you’ll get Fort Knox; then you’ll have some fun.

   Publisher’s note: any resemblance, apart from the Borgias, to real people, real families or real events is purely coincidental and entirely unintentional – especially since nobody in their right mind would seriously plan on handing Fort Knox to the grandkids, would they?
   P.S. As for people not in their right mind – we are not doctors. We are not in a position to comment.

24 December 2025

christmas madness of your utterly reality-detached guy

   Dear American friends, we wanted to extend our best wishes for Christmas, but we'd also like to add a few words from us.

   Due to recent events, including the refusal of European politicians to enter the US, we've decided to impose preventive censorship on ourselves to avoid being attacked, kidnapped in an unmarked grey SUV, and transported to the gators, or even further afield to El Salvador. Please forgive the somewhat limited text, but we don't want to look back all the time. It's the holidays, and our statements about being a very aesthetic person, in our opinion, are associated with the phrase ‘young and beautiful piece of ass’. Besides, we don't want to endanger you. It's possible that reading what we write could also result in legal, criminal, and other consequences, including the death penalty.

   Besides, remember: our primary interest is art, not political nonsense. Yet, sometimes, we must admit, such a flood of crap information lands on our heads that it’s hard to escape the crushing awareness that our previously quite uncomplicated existence is threatened by the madness of your utterly reality-detached guy, tangled in his own tie and convoluted brain circuits.

   In short, our holiday commitment boils down to hoping we’ll spend much more time on our favourite art – talking about paintings, but also about theatre and films that have somehow captivated us.

   Stay strong, don’t give up – and generally, all the best!

25 December 2025

hallelujah, and divine hummus

   Not a word about politics – it’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake. We haven’t even got round to the food yet – well, apart from that throwaway line about burgers.

   We’re bouncing about – hopping from one end of our little ‘homeland’ to the other. Tiny, mind you – next to America or Russia (together or still stubbornly apart). Alright then, no politics.
   As it usually happens on the road, you come across all sorts of characters. This time, a rather charming chap. It’s the 25th of December, early afternoon, and somehow the conversation turns to food. He introduces himself – Samer, a Palestinian who’s been in Europe for years. With real passion, he starts talking about his food and its history: the famous hummus from chickpeas and corn – grown there for millennia – an ancient Palestinian dish. And, as he puts it, cuisine can be an act of resistance and memory, a kind of identity in itself. Quite something, really.
   He explains that meat is more of a ‘luxury’ addition, and the best dishes can be built on herbs and vegetables – fresh, seasonal, often straight from one’s own garden. We’re so wrapped up in it, we don’t even notice we’ve reached a crossroads. He gestures, ‘That’s where I live,’ ready to take his leave, then hesitates and adds, ‘My wife’s away for a couple of days. I’ve got some vegetables – why don’t you come over? I’ll cook you something.’

   Why not? Back in summer, near Basel, we’d hosted an American Jewish professor from a New York university – he’d ‘escaped’ to Europe ‘cause he’d had enough. Didn’t cook us anything remotely traditional, but he did gracefully polish off a bottle of Crown Royal he’d brought along, claiming the US Army was about to invade Canada and that would be that – his words. Hardly kosher, and he didn’t exactly look the orthodox type.

   Back to our Palestinian friend – not a fundamentalist-looking sort either. He pulled out a bottle of wine. The flat was very European – whatever that means – except for a vast kitchen shelf loaded with jars of spices and a basket of vegetables. And beside it, a row of olive oil bottles. He opened one, then another, sniffed, chose, and went to work: washing, chopping, mixing, sprinkling, drizzling. All the while talking, of course.
   Then he reached for a frying pan – and suddenly slammed his fist on the table. Not the most pious of exclamations followed. ‘Forgot – no pita,’ he groaned. ‘Everything’s closed!’
   He stood there for a moment, head down, and we were just about to say something when he broke into laughter. ‘Alright, I’ll try to sort it.’ He grabbed his phone – we caught the ‘Salam alaykum,’ then the rest in Arabic. Jacket on, ‘Wait here,’ and off he went. Ten minutes later – poof – he’s back, grinning like he’s just robbed a bakery, clutching a massive bag of pita bread.

   Dinner was sensational, honestly. At the end, while offering us some dates, he smiled and said, ‘I know the imam from the nearby mosque – but I rather embarrassed myself once.’ He chuckled. ‘I sometimes attend his talks because my father’s religious, and one day I got all mixed up and told a friend I’d heard that the Quran says Mary became pregnant after swallowing a date pit. He asked the imam if it was true. The imam burst out laughing and explained that, actually, according to the Quran, God told Mary in pain just before childbirth to lean against a palm tree and shake it, so the dates would fall to give her strength.’
   He nudged the bowl towards our mate – a girl – with a teasing grin. ‘Don’t worry, these won’t get you pregnant.’

   It was a magical evening. We suddenly realised that it was Christmas Day, proper 25th, and we’d just eaten divine food, with pita probably blessed straight from the imam’s secret stash.

   And to think, if your mad bloke had had his way in Gaza, the poor souls there would’ve been forced to choke down greasy McDonald’s burgers instead, while ICE staged raids on underground dens with hummus as acts of ‘resistance’ – like Prohibition-era speakeasies, only with more chickpeas and fewer Tommy guns.

   Hallelujah.

26 December 2025

the ultimate spacetime singularities

   Talking about ourselves, we mentioned we’d studied all sorts of things – art, obviously – but one of us also did maths and all sorts of other stuff before becoming an artist. So, seeing as Christmas is supposed to be a magical time, we naturally started pushing: ‘Go on then, explain this and that.’ Here’s where that got us.

   Put very simply, Einstein’s theory binned the idea of absolute space and time. Experiments have shown that the rate at which time passes depends on your frame of reference – the clocks whizzing round the Earth in orbit tick faster than the ones sitting politely on its surface. One consequence of his theory was the hypothesis of black holes – dismissed for years, and Einstein himself didn’t believe they really existed, despite his own equations predicting them. And that’s despite the fact that, during the First World War, an artillery officer found the first exact solution to Einstein’s field equations of general theory of relativity that describes a black hole. Professor Karl Schwarzschild volunteered for the army and, in the breaks from calculating the curved paths of artillery shells, he was busy working out the curvature of spacetime around a spherical mass. What dropped out of his sums was quite something – under certain conditions, the region bounded by this radius becomes an eternal trap for light and matter. For a long time, though, this was treated as a cute mathematical party trick. Only later did Robert Oppenheimer (yes, that one) show that, according to the equations of general relativity, a star can collapse in on itself, and the boundary is what was later dubbed the event horizon – anything that crosses it is gone for good. And what happens inside? We’ll never see it – unless you’re planning a one-way trip – but what we do know is that, according to Einstein’s general theory of relativity, everything collapses ‘into itself’, meaning all the matter ends up concentrated in a single, infinitely dense point called a singularity. In a sense, there are two realities – the one outside the event horizon, from which, for an outside observer, things can be seen falling into the black hole, and the one inside the black hole. Two regions between which the exchange of information is impossible.

   At this point we all piled in – and noted that perhaps mathematicians and astrophysicists should take a closer look at certain phenomena that are, in a way, also on a frankly cosmic scale, a singularity, namely the stupidity of certain politicians, with whom the exchange of information is likewise impossible. And wouldn’t you know it – there are two realities and a kind of event horizon that can only be crossed one way – you collapse, as if into a black hole, into a parallel universe of weapons‑grade nonsense: a world of gibberish, absurdity, lies, bromance with a war criminal, and drooling at the prospect of doing dodgy little deals with him at the expense of other people’s lives.

   Which brings us to a challenge for the greatest minds of our age: if every now and then someone does manage to claw their way out of this sick reality of megalomania, lies and scams, and make it back to the reality of people trying to live normally on planet Earth, then maybe it is possible to jump into a black hole as well and see what’s going on in there.

   If needed, we already have a few names in mind.

27 December 2025

shakespeare’s back

   We have, of course, already dragged William Shakespeare into this circus, imagining his ghost drifting through the fumes of absurdity around the White House. Last time we borrowed ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears…’ from Julius Caesar.

   So let us go back there once more, since the occasion is simply too good to waste. Et tu, Brute? does not come from ancient historians at all, but from the same Julius Caesar, written by Shakespeare at the very end of the sixteenth century. In full, the line runs: ‘Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar.’ Always worth reading the classics. The communists, quaint souls, had Marx and Lenin, and later upgraded the set with Stalin. Today’s lads in various corridors of power seem to manage with the internet (largely Kremlin‑Bolshevik in tone), and perhaps a dog‑eared copy of Mein Kampf tucked under the pillow.

   Back to the point: the scene opens with Caesar’s words, ‘The ides of March are come.’ The soothsayer replies, ‘Ay, Caesar, but not gone.’ Worth keeping in mind. Perhaps something to mull over before the next heroic encounter with prime rib and an extra helping of scalloped potatoes – unless the gov has pared things down so far that you are left negotiating with a hot dog.

   Then, after Caesar’s ‘Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar,’ when he dies, one of the conspirators bursts out: ‘Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.’ Also worth a closer look before you choke on cake, or on out‑of‑date marshmallows – with the gov situation remaining as above.

   Which brings us back to images rather than words. There was a painter, Vincenzo Camuccini – perhaps not quite a Leonardo‑level genius (no, still not di Caprio), but regarded as one of the most important Italian Neoclassicists, often folded into the grand tradition of classical history painting. His Death of Caesar, which hangs in the Museo di Capodimonte in Naples, is an extraordinarily meticulous work on which he laboured for more than fifteen years, from preparatory sketches to consultations with archaeologists. It shows precisely the moment when Caesar is supposed to utter those famous words. Except, of course, he did not – at any rate, not in Latin.

28 December 2025

sport is good for you

   We didn’t write much about sport – unless you count the bloke nodding off in the stands at the US Open. But sport’s good for you, right? That’s what they told us at school. No wonder the paragon of health – and, apparently, saviour of the world from wars (ten? eight? fifteen? – we’ve lost count) – got himself a gold medal from the footballers. Or rather, shoved it on his own head. But sport’s also politics. Back in the good old communist days, East German swimmers (yes, those half-Germans once bossed by Moscow) got juiced up to swim faster. Want to make the Olympics? 30 PSI. Podium finish? 40 PSI. Gold medal? Like a freaking dump truck – 50 PSI. Go too far, blow up? Blame it on Western saboteur spies. Think that ended with communism? Think again. To make ends meet – clearly the family coffers aren’t overflowing – Junior’s chipping in with Enhanced Games. How many PSI they’ll pump into whose arse? Who knows. Let’s just hope nobody explodes into confetti.

   And aside from the myth that communism’s over – sure, sure. We all know. Same with fascism – both are growing like Russian athletes on steroids.

   The next football World Cup? Perfect chance to hand out more medals. He’s already got one – why not the FIFA World Cup Trophy next? Players get gold-plated replica, but for him? Solid gold, because why not? Picture the scene: MetLife Stadium, players kneeling on the pitch, him perched on a golden throne, officials grovelling on their knees to present the trophy – so heavy it’s wheeled in on a golf cart (because of course it is). The trophy. Not him.

   Then there’s the LA Olympics. Another golden opportunity to shower him with medals. Events? Maybe hurdles. Or steeplechase. Pole vault? Long jump? Paris had breakdancing – he’s been practising, apparently somewhere in the Virgin Islands – you know, the ones with the beaches and the tax havens? Good name.

   Why pick? Let him win all the golds. Athletes can fight over participation trophies.

   By the way – isn’t it time to rename that stadium? It’s practically a stone’s throw from Atlantic City, where the chap’s already pulled off spectacular victories.

   Yep. Sport. Health. Obviously.

29 December 2025

to each according to their misery

   Happy, happy people. Everyone who’s somehow limped to the last gasp Monday of the year – not sacked, not bankrupt, still clinging to a few rights and a scrap of healthcare – and somehow dodged the brave, heavily armed defenders of the ‘new order’… well, you lot know best what’s bitten you hardest this year; ‘To each according to their needs’ – yeah, right, only joking. That miserable line’s from Marx, the bedrock of that grand communist con job they tried to flog to humanity.

   Grab your markers – the thick, black ones, the proper kind – you know, ‘to each according to their needs’, again – and start crossing off the days.
   Watch how much of this pitiful little pantomime is still left to endure.

30 December 2025

fascism’s fashion revival

   Right, end of the year – time for a bit of reflection, isn’t it? We’ve already clarified the red star over the White House. You lot know full well where our Lenin, hammer, and sickle came from. Obviously, promoting communism – that blood-soaked utopia – is, or really should be, illegal.
   But what do you do with the American official, equipped with neither credentials nor shame, who runs something audaciously called ‘peace talks’ while whispering tactics to a Kremlin war criminal on how to butter up the president to achieve his, Kremlin’s, ends? Rhetorical question – we know what to do with him, but we won’t say.
   And yet, we’ve barely spoken about swastikas or Hitler pics. The obvious one: Elon, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Hitler, Heil-ing like he’s been training for it. But the parallels go deeper than the photo op. Have a look at our post from 27 August 2025 – this has all happened before. Old, tired, terrifyingly familiar patterns. 1933. Berlin. Reichstag fire. What’s it about? The same script playing out today – mass deportations as policy bedrock, blaming outsiders – here, migrants – as the root of all evil. Inventing scapegoats, stoking the mob, turning neighbours into enemies – at home, abroad.
   We mentioned meeting in Basel with an American Jewish professor of history – from a New York university – who ‘fled’ to Europe. He said: ‘Watching ICE provoke its own citizens, morphing into a spy force while the army stands by – I recognised the familiar stench of power consolidation I know from Hitler’s playbook.’

   And us? Merely painters, hardly prophets. Promoting fascism – that other charmingly murderous system – is, or should be, illegal. Same goes for communism. Obviously, we’re not promoting either; we’re just the annoying voice reminding you where both roads lead. We know a bit of our history. Entartete Kunst – ‘degenerate art’ as the Nazis labelled the greatest art of the early 20th century. Too original. Too unsettling. Too free. The Nazis couldn’t stand what they didn’t understand – preferring pompous, bombastic architecture they called ‘real beauty’.
   Any bells ringing?

   Let’s hope the New Year doesn’t bring pyres of burning books, paintings yanked from museums, or another glorious cult of personality. Revolution? Better forget it.

31 December 2025

all the very best

   Year’s end – time for taking stock. And for making those solemn little vows: I’ll quit smoking, I’ll lose weight, I’ll be a better person, all that noble stuff. Right up until about next New Year’s Eve, of course.

   There is one individual who does his own performance reviews on an hourly basis: I’m the greatest in all of history! The most outstanding! The most handsome! Someone clears their throat? You’re fired. Toss him to the gators.

   And us? What were we like this year? Naive, mostly – we persist in believing that by painting our pictures and sharing our ramblings we might cheer someone up. Whether it worked, no idea, but if even one little soul felt better, that’s good enough for us. Our resolutions for next year? Same as ever: try and cheer you up a bit – maybe some poor sod who’s just been canned, lost their health insurance or had some benefit yanked away might at least crack a tiny smile. Or someone out walking the dog, already in a mood, who suddenly spots they’re messing around with the name on a public building they’ve known for years – and, unbelievably, they’re bolting on the surname of a bloke whose ego is so bloated it looks about ready to pop.

   But we also threw around phrases like ‘common sense’ and ‘the ability to see things as they are’. We did, admittedly, back it up with Wittgenstein’s ‘A serious and good philosophical work could be written consisting entirely of jokes’, which was all very clever until reality walked in and flipped the table.

   Turns out ‘common sense’ is now what your unhinged chap cites every time he sacks anyone who actually knows anything and tries to pass that knowledge on, replacing them with lads who just nod along and slobber with admiration. It’s simple: since he himself is the cleverest of them all, why on earth would he need experts, and ‘common sense’ just means whatever feels good to him in that exact moment. Five minutes later he believes the opposite? So what. He doesn’t remember what he said anyway, and any new idea automatically becomes the greatest idea anyone ever had.

   Then there’s this business of ‘seeing things as they are’. For that you need, shall we say, a reasonably stable emotional instrument in the form of a functioning brain. We’re not doctors, so we won’t slap a diagnosis, but there does seem to be a fairly serious issue on that front. So, as part of our New Year’s commitments, we shall no longer be invoking concepts which, thanks to his oral overactivity and compulsive texting, have started to give off a distinctly unpleasant whiff. Wittgenstein, however, keeps his post.

   And then comes the question: is that unhinged chap of yours on his own? Sadly, no. There’s a whole herd of them trailing along behind – over here in Europe and over there across the pond. We’ve written about this lot already, in the naive hope that at least one of you might open your eyes a bit wider and tune out the disinformation babble for five minutes. Maybe even join the one who, on seeing our paintings, manages a brief smile. That would be lovely – especially if the two of them ended up shaking hands.

   And then there’s the war criminal Putin – those two have hugged it out more than once, and up in Alaska your unhinged chap was even stroking his hand, not to mention the delightful little scenes of American soldiers on their knees rolling out a red carpet for a murderer. Not a great look.
   We’re not going to save the world; the best we can do is try to cheer you up a bit while you’re stuck in this first‑class mess.

   We’re clinging to a bit of naive optimism that you’ll manage to protect the few remaining safeguards in your democratic system, and that over here in Europe the neo‑fascists and useful idiots on the Kremlin’s payroll – enthusiastically egged on by your ‘leaders’, of course – won’t end up opening the door so Putin can stroll in and set Europe on fire.

   All the very best in the New Year. May it bring you less chaos and fewer disasters – the bar is low, but one lives in hope.

1 January 2026

all the best – right

   New Year. All the best and all that. Or, as they used to say back in the day: May it go well with you!
   Yeah, right.

   We’ve just dragged ourselves through a year full of lies, betrayal, and sheer hypocrisy. The perfect summary? ‘Russia wants to see Ukraine succeed.’
   Sure. When you really want your neighbour to do well, you invade him, rob him blind, rape his wife and daughter, then butcher the lot, burn his house down – and finally stand on the rubble, covered in soot, and whine: ‘I was attacked, where’s my award?’
   And for twelve whole months, some bloke just stood there – spouting nonsense, pitting allies against each other, slapping tariffs on the world… and leaving the Chinese to offer only quiet, pitying smiles – all while parroting every word that murderous war criminal Putin spat out. Did we call it ‘New Trumputinism Era?’

   We’d quite like a breather now. A proper one.

   Hang in there.
   See you soon – if the world hasn’t gone completely mad by then.

2 January 2026

greying flag

   Almost slipped our minds. It was over a year ago now – back in early November 2024. After the results were announced, we began painting our Black Flag. It has nothing to do with Jasper Johns’ flags. His work from seventy-odd years ago is, put simply, pop art, somewhere between abstraction and representation. As Johns himself said, he painted ‘things the mind already knows’, whereas we found ourselves facing things no one knows at all.

   But before we painted the Black Flag, we made the Greying Flag – that’s the one we’re showing today. Both works use our own technique: oil on canvas with paper and acrylic, each measuring roughly 65 by 107 inches.

   Tomorrow will be our Black Flag – the real one.

3 January 2026

black flag

   Here is our Black Flag. We wrote about it right at the beginning in our first note (‘Starting with…’). We are faced with things no one knows – and that is exactly what we are dealing with in our artistic practice: the sort of thing you might call critical art, if one insists on putting a label on it. Art only seems to mirror reality; in truth, it criticises reality – or at least, it ought to. Some say that art does not define truth but reveals how truth comes into being. In other words, philosophical reflection on art can lead us to ask how art uncovers the problems and perils civilization faces. Our Black Flag is, then, a picture of America on the path to collapse. Sorry guys.

   Whether we were right at the time – that’s for you to decide.

4 January 2026

potato coup, or i like you, you like me

   Oh yes, we’ve heard. He went and did it. Invaded, snatched, dragged them here. Now everyone’s scratching their heads, wondering what next. We know what: absolutely sod all. Or to be precise – a glorious mess that’ll last for years. And no doubt, we’ll have the ever‑so‑cheerful copycats crawling out of the woodwork now.

   We also know what happened a bit earlier – the family made sure they sorted themselves out nicely. Because, you know – family comes first. It went like this: he invites round the head of the company that’s allowed to dig for potatoes there, sits him down in his office – if you can even call it that. Not your usual sleek business setup. None of that fancy designer nonsense – just a heap of gold-plated antiques nicked straight out of a museum. And the place… well, sort of, you know… oval.
   And he leans in, ‘You’re a good lad, I like you – just sign here, will you?’
   Bloke reaches for the papers, muttering something about lawyers, second thoughts, consultations… The door creaks open. In walks a big fella in a black suit, gun under his arm, pair of handcuffs swinging casually in his hand. ‘Thing is,’ says our host, pulling a fresh batch of files from a drawer, ‘they’re saying your case – how do I put this – smells a bit... El Salvador. So? Fancy signing now?’

   Alternative version? The boss turns up, learns his company’s giving up those precious potato rights, and the rest goes exactly as above. Except – surprise, surprise – a brand-new company has been set up to take over. Owners? Wouldn’t you know it – all family. Auntie, uncle, some children, maybe a cousin or two. Or – for example – the son-in-law. Proper fair play, that.
   Guess the family – you get a lollipop.

   Did we really write about digging potatoes? How about that!

5 January 2026

pterodactyls on the horizon – watch out

   We were meant to give the paints and brushes a bit of a rest – maybe even sneak off on holiday. But oh no, the world just can’t stop misbehaving… ho ho!
   Well, we do feel a bit awkward, truth be told – turns out we quote ourselves from time to time. Bit uncouth, isn’t it? Like giving yourself a standing ovation. Still, we’ve painted those helicopters and sounded the alarm so many times that doing it again hardly feels like a crime.

   There was this chap once – a king, apparently – going back nearly two and a half millennia. Antigonus II Gonatas. Rolls right off the tongue. He’s said to have coined the line ‘Beware of your friends; I’ll take care of your enemies.’ Later, of course, everyone wanted a piece of it – Montaigne, Voltaire, Cardinal Richelieu, even Winston flaming Churchill, who allegedly polished it into ‘God, protect me from my friends; I can take care of my enemies myself.’
   Anyway, there’s this one bloke – fancies himself a top human specimen. Very, very, very intelligent, sure. Some say he’s got one more brain fold than a chicken, which conveniently allows him to swing his golf club. Less success with actually hitting the ball, though. Whoever guesses who he is gets… right, the lollipop.
   So, a little heads‑up to the Greenlanders, and everyone else: if you see a flock of pterodactyls on the horizon – watch out. They might just be your friends.

   And besides, it’s Monday, it’s in the diary – of course you’re bloody entitled.

6 January 2026

ragtag bunch of arty weirdos, so?

   We’re sticking for a moment with our glorious mission of comforting the poor amateur ornithologists in Greenland. But before it slips away completely: we’ve had, shall we say, a suggestion that it’s high time we did our bloody homework and started writing proper American, seeing as that’s supposedly the grand objective these days. Yes, yes, the suggestion came wrapped in what one might tactfully describe as a fairly generous helping of abuse on the side.

   Here’s the thing: we actually own – on paper, printed and everything – this little number called the AP Stylebook, and another one, about twice as fat, called The Chicago Manual of Style. So sure, we can write windshield instead of windscreen, not giggle when someone loses their pants, stick to double quotation marks—look, we even know what the bloody em dash without spaces is.

   The point is, when we read and hear – especially when we drop into the Cotswolds, that more and more of you lot are escaping here from street round‑ups, fear of the regime and general shambles back home… well, maybe lay off the nit‑picking and slowly get used to good old English. Might come in handy.

   Who’d have thought, eh? Us, a ragtag bunch of arty weirdos with our dodgy English – we’re from all over the place, after all – ending up lecturing you on language. Bit cheeky of us, really. What a turn‑up.

7 January 2026

don’t worry, we’ll be back to you

   We’re leaving Antigonus, Winston, bless him, Churchill and the rest of the gang in peace for the moment. As for the one with the serious brain‑related difficulties, no one is quite sure anymore whether what he comes out with is his own private delusion or something helpfully slipped to him by a certain war criminal based in the Kremlin.

   Every now and then we’ll be leaving you lads to your own devices for a bit, so we can go and shore up the thoroughly spooked Greenlanders and the Canadians. The poor souls are all turning into amateur ornithologists, scanning the skies for pterodactyls. They know exactly what that whiff is – ‘brotherly assistance’ – as our ever‑cheerful Soviet friends used to call it when they paid surprise visits to their neighbours with tanks, hugs and the occasional kiss – the sort you don’t walk away from.

   But don’t worry, we’ll be back to you in no time.
   Make America Great Again!

8 January 2026

tupilaks properly at it now

   Don’t know if you remember – we went to that Green Day gig, chatting about their American Idiot album. Great title, right? Fits like a glove.
   Not everyone’s dancing to the same tune these days though – some folk are proper terrified. Of what? Oh, come on. Their friends, naturally. You recall the line: ‘God, protect me from my friends; I can handle my enemies myself.’

   Still, Greenland’s hardly defenceless. They’ve got their ancient shamanic tricks, far nastier than your average whatever-the-hell. The Tupilak – a spirit-monster whipped up by Inuit for revenge. Protection’s just a bonus. So, would-be invaders, best tread carefully, yeah?

   You know how it goes: bloke gets a globe, gives it a spin, stabs a finger somewhere and goes, ‘Nice place, I’ll have that. Mine now.’

   Some claim he’s got one more brain fold than your average chicken, but we’re not buying it. Bit generous, that. Truth is, he talks absolute rot. Once fancied himself an aesthete – now he’s upgraded to moral philosopher. Well, sort of. You’d think it’d stop at his deep aesthetic needs, so to speak, with ‘a young and beautiful piece of ass’, but no – turns out his own morality has replaced the rule of international law. Slightly alarming, that.
   We’ve had two of that sort before. You know the type – both with moustaches, though one came with a bit of a stunted model.
   And then there’s the third one – no ‘tache, mind you, but he’s nearly bald from bashing the neighbours to bits. Top mates, apparently. Real bromance vibes.
   As for the moustachioed ones – hard to tell. Both cashed in their chips long ago: one offed himself and, just to be sure, told ‘em to burn the leftovers. The other terrorised the place so badly no one dared lift a finger as he croaked in his own filth. Poetic, in its way.

   Anyway, back on topic – word is, the Tupilaks are properly at it now.

   And since we’ve touched on morality – quick nod to ‘the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.’ Trust us, it’s got sod all to do with invasions, butchery, or the general horror show of modern times. Have a read of Critique of Pure Reason yourself – just don’t mention it to our chicken-whispering friend. Not his league. Metaphysics is hard when you’re still working on the brain-fold count.

9 January 2026

beat the reds!

   So, people keep saying avant‑garde art is all terribly innovative, setting trends, changing the game and whatnot. If you’re into that kind of thing, go and read Theodor Adorno. Can’t be bothered? Thought not. To avoid putting you to sleep, let’s just wheel out three great hits from over a century ago – not the only ones, just handy examples: Kazimir Malevich, Black Square, 1915; Marcel Duchamp, Fountain, 1917; and El Lissitzky, Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge, 1919.

   The first two we’ve already banged on about. The third chap, El Lissitzky, was Jewish and in that 1919 piece he riffed on an earlier Russian pogrom slogan ‘Beat the Jews!’, and quite possibly on the Italian Futurists’ fondness for loud manifestos a few years earlier. Details aside, straight after the so‑called ‘October Revolution’ – otherwise known as the Bolsheviks nabbing power from a weak but legal government – Russia split into the ‘Reds’, i.e. the Bolsheviks, and the ‘Whites’, a jumble of monarchists and liberals. In 1919 there was a full‑on civil war, and a lot of top‑tier avant‑garde artists were churning out work in support of the shiny new regime with its lovely revolutionary slogans. Russian avant‑garde as such – whether you fancy the Russians or not – actually started under the Tsar and went on to shape modernist art in a big way. If you can be bothered to look at people like Ad Reinhardt, Barnett Newman or minimal art by Donald Judd, you’ll see Malevich’s fingerprints all over the place, along with a crowd of others from that period. The fact that Stalin later persecuted them, and some he simply had shot, is a separate detail. That’s the thing with revolutions, whatever they decide to call themselves.

   Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge was basically a piece of propaganda poster art which later did quite well for itself in Europe – that red ‘wedge’ became a handy left‑wing, anti‑fascist symbol of resistance.

   Those years were busy, to put it mildly: the US declared war on Germany and then, for added fun, brought in Prohibition – any connection between the two we’ll leave to your imagination. The First World War exploded, then fizzled out, Germany turned into a republic, and so on and so forth. Eventually Hitler came to power, more or less legally, pointed at ‘aliens’ (Jews, liberals, communists) as the root of all evil, and with the warm embrace of big industry turned the republic into the totalitarian Third Reich, promising ‘Great Germany’ for everyone. On the way he also announced what proper architecture should look like – pompous, cod‑Roman empire – and decreed that everything else in art was degenerate (Entartete Kunst).

   Which drags us back to artists and art. The avant‑garde has always fancied itself as revolutionary, smashing the old order or just inventing new forms. Caravaggio, van Gogh, Braque and Picasso, Malevich and Kandinsky, Duchamp, Pollock and finally Beuys, Fluxus and Yoko Ono – all playing at blowing up tradition. They didn’t go round murdering people. Well… Caravaggio – the master of sharp chiaroscuro did occasionally take a peek into the darker corners of everyday life. Still, for artists, that was never really the way of tending one’s little cultural allotment.

   The Bolsheviks also thought of themselves as the avant‑garde of history, eager to spread the revolutionary flame across the globe. Hitler likewise. Between them they managed to wipe out tens of millions and lay waste to a good chunk of the planet.

   Now we’ve got two proper mates, mutually admiring each other and assuring everyone their countries will also be ‘great’. Both have strong views on art, especially architecture. One is already killing on an industrial scale, the other just dabbles now and then, still trying to decide how far he can go.

   It’s not going to be pretty. But here’s the silver lining: these gentlemen end up in a similar, usually not-so-nice, ways. Artists live on. Usually.
   So keep calm. Keep creating. Keep laughing. And if you guess who we’re talking about – here’s a lollipop. You’ve earned it.

   Stay sharp and good luck out there.

10 January 2026

dark side of the force

   A few days ago we said we’d quite like a breather. A proper one. And we promised to be back soon – assuming the world hadn’t gone completely mad by then.
   It has.

   What can we ordinary painters possibly say about that poor woman being killed? It’s just horrible.
   But you could see it coming – have a look at our posts from last year: 23 January, 11 August 2025, 27 August, 23 September, 30 December 2025, and a few others.
   We were writing then about intimidation and killing carried out by Stalin’s ‘organs’ and Hitler’s SA stormtroopers, the so‑called Brownshirts. The point was that this has all happened before – just the same old, tried‑and‑tested patterns.
   Bringing it up to today, we asked a slightly provocative question that was meant to be rhetorical, but turned out to be a pretty literal description of reality: ‘Killing women in the streets?’
   We even threw in a quote from an American political history professor we happened to run into in Switzerland: ‘Watching ICE provoke its own citizens, morphing into a spy force while the army stands by – I recognised the familiar stench of power consolidation I know from Hitler’s playbook.’

   Listen lads, we’ve got some bad news for you – we know how this plays out, they’re going to keep on killing.
   But you know what, since you lot live in the cradle of freedom and civil liberties, why not ask how many of those let out of prison for the January 6 Capitol attack – and, while you’re at it, how many Proud Boys and the like – have recently been welcomed into the noble ranks of ICE. That’s assuming, of course, that asking questions is still legal and doesn’t earn you a one‑way trip to the gators.

   So then, what’s all this? We were meant to cheer you up, and all we get is gloom and doom? We’re not exactly going to tell you to hide indoors even in broad daylight, stop taking the kids to school and all that – are we? Keep your chin up, yeah? We’re keeping everything crossed for you to beat the Dark Side of the Force. Freedom’s worth the effort – and you’ve pulled it off before!

11 January 2026

just to keep things tidy

   We’re going to tell you about this chap from California. Long story short, everyone calls him Jab. We’ve known him a few years; he’s a bit of a beautiful mess, permanently stuck somewhere between beach bum with a surfboard and a joint, and aspiring statesman in a sharp suit with a Berkeley degree.
   The beach bum bit? Blame his dad – a 70s ‘revolutionary’ who did time in the nick for such wholesome hobbies as burning his draft card and the flag, dabbling in drugs and having the odd set‑to with the fuzz. The other side comes from his mum, until recently very busy playing local political royalty.

   Then there’s the other chap, a Czech from Prague we’ve already mentioned. Used to have a Hungarian wife, now has a girlfriend in Krakow. Man clearly treats Central Europe like a long‑term research project.

   So the two of them ended up in our studio the other day. We spent a few entertaining days together. Jab turned up as the resident ‘expert’ on West Coast vibes, clearly gagging for a joint and a stiff drink. The Czech, our in‑house Eastern Europe correspondent, was mainly focused on emergency hangover management.

   Despite the initial differences, they hit it off pretty quickly. The differences – plus a fairly lively row – were at first about what’s politely called the ‘Hundred Years War’, also known as the ‘Battle of Bud’: is Budweiser more Czech or more American? After drinking their way bravely towards sunrise, they came to the conclusion that, when it comes down to it, they really couldn’t give a toss.

   Next day, the argument moved from beer to Ronald Reagan. Jab was rolling his eyes about how Reagan is adored in the Czech Republic, Poland and the neighbourhood, where they stick up statues to the bloke, while back in California he was busy cracking down on student freedoms and free love – including his own dad’s love affair with weed and that sort of thing. The Czech reminded him that Reagan was the one who actually had the balls to call the Russians what they are – an Evil Empire – and helped give communism a decent kick out the door.

   That’s when we chucked in our two pennies’ worth: these days, under Reagan’s portrait in the White House, sits a creepy geezer whose best mate – the one he trusts and admires – happens to be a war criminal in the Kremlin. At that point the idea for the painting pretty much wrote itself, so we went off to work – you can see how that turned out – while those two plunged into deep philosophical mode, wondering whether what we’re living through now is more neo‑fascism or post‑Bolshevism, and whether it’s going to screw Europe, America, or just everyone at once, just to keep things tidy.

12 January 2026

simple question

   A friend asked if we happened to know who once said: ‘I know of no one who has written and spoken so tirelessly on behalf of Europe and human rights as you have.’
   We didn’t.
   Helpful chap that he is, he added – to make it easier, allegedly – that the words came from a Nobel Prize laureate handing the medal to someone else.
   ‘Oh, come off it,’ we said. ‘Too obvious. Though, granted, we’ve no idea what she said when she handed over hers the other day.’
   He laughed. ‘You don’t know, and neither did that beaming simpleton – no surprise really, since he never knows anything. But that nobody whispered it in his ear...’
   Quite.
   Those, as it happens, were the words of Norwegian writer Knut Hamsun, Nobel laureate of 1920, who generously presented his own Nobel medal in 1943 to one Joseph Goebbels – as a tribute, no less, to the Nazi minister of propaganda.

   Well, what can one say indeed.

   Besides, it’s Monday.

19 January 2026

planet in peril!

   Listen up, fellow earthlings – tomorrow marks a year. Some still clung to a faint shred of hope. We, somehow, didn’t quite share the sentiment.

   And wouldn’t you know it, looks like we might’ve jinxed it: ‘a very dangerous situation for the Safety, Security, and Survival of our Planet.’

   What on earth is going on? A new incurable plague? A comet on a collision course to wipe us all out? Are the aliens finally clocking in?

   No – it’s Europe, sending troops to Greenland for a few days: ‘they have journeyed to Greenland, for purposes unknown.’ Finland’s chipped in with two liaison officers, Norway has stumped up another two, Germany a thirteen-strong reconnaissance team. The Swedes and the French didn’t want to miss the fun either. But the deadliest strike came from the Netherlands – they dispatched a single naval officer. Combined with the local Tupilak, that bloody little task force could menace the entire Solar System.

   Phew, that’s a relief. He’s only talking rubbish again, as per usual.

   Still, when you think about it, leaving aside the Tupilak, the Dutchman and the rest, the planet’s pretty much screwed anyway, isn’t it?

   Besides, it’s Monday – so obviously the calendar’s special.

20 January 2026

beautiful anniversary

   Oy, lads – how’s things across the pond? Still got something vaguely resembling work? A few quid left for takeaway chips? Grand. You do remember, don’t you – that chirpy little tune about always looking on the bright side while life seems jolly rotten?
   Right, well. We gather things aren’t exactly rosy. You’ve stepped in it – properly, magnificently – pretty much as we predicted a year ago. But apparently, we’re meant to cheer you up, so chin up, eh? So here it is: stiff upper lip and all that.
   There’s no paranoia so deep you can’t claw your way out of it. This mess will blow over too. You’ll be knee-deep in muck for a while, but as with all great national calamities: when the shit hits the fan, you just pinch your nose and get on with the cleaning. And pretend everything’s just marvellous again.

   And somewhere off-key, that whistling bloke still insists we look on the bright side – bless him.

   PS Just to mark this BEAUTIFUL GREAT occasion, we’ve put together a special edition – a touch on the dark side, rather like the general mood out there. Think black-hole-dark: the sort of thing that sucks in everything unlucky enough to stray within reach of its sticky little paws.

21 January 2026

midnight talkers

   We slipped away for a few days on the slopes – yes, the glamorous life we lead, and we even admitted some time ago to having taken those few days off.
   Davos, naturally. Civilised. We rented our gear near the Jakobshornbahn base station, and – wait for it – were allowed to store it overnight for free, boots nicely dried and all. The weather? Glorious. The days still a bit short, true, but that sunset run down the red and blue pistes – sheer delight. And best of all, midweek night skiing till nearly midnight. Not to mention the après-ski. Positively magical.

   Contrary to popular belief, there’s no need to flog a kidney or rob a pensioner to afford a few days on skis – assuming, of course, you’re not nesting in some overstuffed spa for snobs and Russian kleptocrats. They’re easy enough to spot: Bugatti suits and companions who look suspiciously pre-legal, decked out in white-and-pink fluff.

   Anyway, a few days passed and – surprise! – the Important People have descended. And now He’s coming, entourage in tow, like some medieval maharaja or other Sun King with worse taste. The latter we know from art history; as for maharajas, one suspects they travelled with about two hundred sycophants.

   Meanwhile, a few souls in Europe seem at last to notice that their only guaranteed outcome with that lunatic of yours is – how to put it delicately – getting royally shafted, much as he’d happily shaft the rest of humanity. The Chinese, in their serene and amused way, have been doing exactly that to him lately, not that he’s noticed. As for the murderous Kremlin troll? He’s just rubbing his sticky hands with glee watching that lunatic of yours cheerfully sets about dismantling Europe.

   So perhaps one or two of our illustrious presidents, prime ministers, or chancellors might awaken from their naps, focus their gaze, and realise whom they’re dealing with.

   Which is our fondest wish for them – and for ourselves.
   And for you all over the pond, as with last year, we extend our warmest condolences.

22 January 2026

r.s.v.p.

   Hardly had one scratched a few lines about Davos when – lo and behold – a brand-new attraction for the season pops up. Apparently our hero has decided to host a little witches’ sabbath, featuring, but of course, his closest chum, war criminal Putin, together with a certain Mr Lukashenko, who keeps half of Belarus in prison and has effectively handed what’s left of the country to the thug in the Kremlin.

   Naturally, Orbán was quick to sign up – that chap from Hungary who’s been fattened for years on EU money and now does an absolutely sterling job as the Kremlin’s very own representative in Europe. Genuinely, Kim was invited, wasn’t he? – but alas, his schedule was full. One imagines he’s busy turning North Korea into a human-scale gulag while perfecting his vertical-to-horizontal ratio.
   A charming ensemble.

   The best part? This is apparently meant to be some sort of peace committee. Yes, really: that lot are going to bring peace to the world. Putin has already introduced his version of ‘peace’ in Ukraine, in much the same style Hitler once tried in the same neighbourhood.

   Who’s missing from the guest list? Ortega, perhaps? African gentlemen who dine on political opponents? That one who carries away the disliked ones in pieces in suitcases? Or maybe El Chapo and Maduro? – surely someone can dig those two out from behind the nearest curtain.

   ICE will keep everything nice and orderly, sure – wouldn’t want anyone wandering off the approved path; organisers confirm there will be no seating plan – guests may sit wherever they find a chair. Or a corpse.
   Make America Great Again!

23 January 2026

who knows what’s true these days?

   In recent days, despite the brisk weather – the kind that makes even the hardiest Midwesterner consider hibernation – there’s been quite a commotion near Keystone, South Dakota. And no, it wasn’t a flock of eager schoolchildren or tourists off to commune with the noble Black Hills. Word has it – though who knows what’s true these days? – that shadowy vans were spotted, from which emerged burly gentlemen with necks wider than their vocabularies, when not conveniently masked.

   What is known is that there’s a certain mountain once called the ‘Six Grandfathers’ – a sacred site for the Plains Indians, where the Lakota Sioux and the Cheyenne prayed for centuries. Think St Peter’s Basilica for Christians, if the Vatican hadn’t once, in less saintly centuries, been so fond of the occasional papal knees-up involving prostitutes and bad wine. No record of a similar Sioux tradition, sadly for the tabloids.

   Books tell us the U.S. government solemnly promised the Sioux eternal ownership of the Black Hills, Six Grandfathers included – treaty, signatures, the whole respectable production. Within a decade, Washington tore it up, sent in a bunch of lads chasing gold (including, of course, a New York lawyer named Rushmore – because history loves irony) and the rest, as they say, got carved in stone.

   A century later, Uncle Sam offered the Sioux 100 million dollars, which they declined – on the radical grounds that they hadn’t actually agreed to sell their sacred mountain in the first place. Coincidentally, that’s around what Washington once fancied waving at Greenland, despite nobody there having put up a ‘For Sale’ sign either.

   These days, things are done rather differently: backslap a favourite ‘trusted friend’, have soldiers kneel to unroll the red carpet for the fella – and try not to mention he’s a war criminal with a fondness for luxury watches and a marked aversion to the Hague.

   As for those fine fellows in Keystone – whether they’ve come to negotiate yet another presidential chin into the cliffside, or to remind the Sioux that excessive principles can have reptilian consequences – nobody knows. Perhaps nobody is supposed to.

   Meanwhile, over in North Korea, they’re busy chiselling fresh tributes to the glorious Kims, whose dynasty governs so perfectly that even the birds sing their praises and the flowers whisper their names. The people, alas, are generally too hungry to join the chorus, but one can’t have everything in a workers’ paradise.

   So take heart, dear America friends. If things don’t work out in the Black Hills, there are still thousands of miles of the Rockies standing by, ready for inspirational quotes from the Greatest Leader of All Time™ to be engraved for future generations of baffled tourists.

   And just a gentle reminder: if the Tupilaks ever team up with the restless spirits of the Sioux – it won’t be about bad PR. That’ll be the moment a very old debt comes knocking.

24 January 2026

odds are you’ll get the right answer

   You don’t believe we’re not secretly in AI’s pocket. Fair enough. We did admit that one of us, being marginally less technophobic than the others – has taken it upon himself to ‘have a word’ with the thing.
   He asked what AI knew about us. Back came the instant reply that we are an ‘art project’ with a critical attitude to the current administration, created by one Masha De Niro, daughter of Robert – yes, that Robert De Niro – and personally bankrolled by him. Sure he does. So naturally we tried to get in touch with Masha, our supposed creator. She doesn’t exist. Textbook hallucination. And you wonder why we take the mickey out of AI quite so enthusiastically.

   Back in December we wrote: ‘It’s a clever bit of kit though – can’t remember the US president’s name? Ask AI. Odds are you’ll get the right answer.’ That’s the sort of joke we go in for, but you know how it is with jokes.
   Then, over mulled wine – winter, after all – we were talking about Greenland, and none of us could remember what your resident strategic genius had recently deigned to grunt on the subject. Our helpful colleague pipes up: ‘ask AI’. So he typed the question. Back came the reply: ‘Donald Trump is not the president of the USA.’
   Naturally, we pressed further. Don’t take our word for it – we copied it. See for yourselves:

   United States of America — President (as of 23 December 2025)
   Joe Biden is the 46th President of the United States.

• Took office: 20 January 2021
• Re-elected in the 2024 presidential election (held 5 November 2024)
• Second term began: 20 January 2025
• Donald Trump is not president — he left office in January 2021 and was not the Republican nominee in 2024.

   Note: Trump has not made any recent public statements about Greenland in December 2025. The 2019 “boats” comment remains a historical footnote.

   2024 U.S. Presidential Election Results — 5 November 2024
   🥇 Winner: Joe Biden (Democratic Party)

• Electoral College Votes: 304
• Popular Vote: ~51.2% (approx. 81.2 million votes)
• Won 25 states + District of Columbia

   🥈 Runner-up: Ron DeSantis (Republican Party)

• Electoral College Votes: 234
• Popular Vote: ~48.8% (approx. 77.5 million votes)
• Won 25 states

   Note: Donald Trump was not the official Republican nominee in 2024. He endorsed Ron DeSantis after losing the primary race. Trump remained politically active but did not run for president.

   📊 Key Facts:

• Voter Turnout: ~67.3% — the highest since 1960.
• Swing State Decider: Pennsylvania — Biden won by 1.8%.
• Key Battleground States:
  • Michigan: Biden +1.2%
  • Wisconsin: Biden +0.9%
  • Arizona: Biden +2.1%
  • Georgia: Biden +1.5%

   🧭 Post-Election Developments:

• Donald Trump did not concede — as in 2020 — but no major protests or disruptions occurred.
• Congress certified the results on 6 January 2025 without incident.
• Joe Biden was inaugurated for his second term on 20 January 2025.

   📰 Sources (for verification):

• Federal Election Commission (FEC) — www.fec.gov
• BBC News — “Biden wins 2024 US election” (6 Nov 2024)
• Reuters — “Biden secures second term in historic US election” (6 Nov 2024)
• The New York Times — “Biden wins second term amid global tensions” (20 Jan 2025)

   If you’d like the state-by-state breakdown, Congressional election results, or an analysis of why Biden won, just let me know.
   Happy to help.

   PS So we were also ‘happy to help’, and suggested the thing might try reading a newspaper. Or even look at the internet, if it’s feeling especially clever.

25 January 2026

fair is foul, and foul is fair

   Bit of a mood‑killer, this one. The whole thing’s genuinely tragic, and we’re just painters – not, heavens forbid, any sort of bloody prophets. Still less doom‑mongers or some knock‑off Cassandra.

   They killed that poor woman and we scribbled a few miserable lines because we were shaken, then added: ‘Listen lads, we’ve got some bad news for you – we know how this plays out, they’re going to keep on killing’.
   Go and look at our post from 10 January.

   And what happens? Two weeks later, a bunch of masked, so‑called ‘law enforcement’ types murder another person in broad daylight. Nobody should be murdered, full stop – and this time it’s someone from a profession people actually hold in special regard – a qualified nurse from the local veterans’ hospital.

   So now we have to explain ourselves – what we wrote then, and what we’ve been muttering for months. All last year we kept getting nasty déjà vu and we didn’t exactly hide it: the whole thing feels uncomfortably close to the old ‘consolidation of power’ routines – Stalin in Russia, Hitler in Germany, and, not that long ago, Putin in Russia. Sending armed men into the streets to fight an imaginary enemy cooked up by the propaganda boys. It’s a tried‑and‑tested formula: intimidate, subdue, break people in by fear. Split the country along the fault‑lines of political obsessions into the worthy and the scum, then drip‑feed contempt for the latter – the list is long and fairly disgusting.

   We mentioned a New York history professor we bumped into in Basel, who joked – not very convincingly – that he’d fled to Switzerland just to avoid feeling ICE breathing down his neck. That sort of thing. Only this isn’t the place for jokes. People are dying.

   We’re not historians, we’re painters. We know pictures, we read a lot, we like theatre. That’s quite enough to get a rough handle on what’s going on. You don’t need Sherlock Holmes or a hungover Marlowe, even with a fedora dragged down over a mug as handsome as Bogart’s or the rest.

   Back to the pictures. Not really our cup of tea, but Ilja Repin was pretty good at painting the madness in the eyes of a ruler murdering his own son – a neat symbol of what happens when power slips the leash. Rembrandt’s ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’ is all about hubris marching straight towards the drop. Francisco Goya raids mythology in ‘Saturn Devouring His Son’ to pin down the deranged terror of a power terrified of losing itself. We’ve already bored you with Bruegel the Elder and ‘The Blind Leading the Blind’, so today you get ‘The Triumph of Death’ – wall‑to‑wall skeletons. We’ll come back to those first three; or go and look them up yourselves, think about it. Worth the effort.

   Then there’s Orwell – we’ve name‑checked him more times than is strictly decent – and Gabriel García Márquez in ‘The Autumn of the Patriarch’, charting the slow rot and madness of a dictator who clings to power so long he can’t tell the difference between reality and his own myth. Add ‘Ubu Roi’ – a grotesque excuse for a ruler who wrecks a state for his own grubby ends. We’ll be back to Alfred Jarry as well – we have a soft spot for the surrealists. And of course ‘Macbeth’ – a case study in the psychological unravelling of a tyrant obsessed with absolute power.
   That’s our supposed ‘secret knowledge’ from art, books, and theatre about what’s happening and where it leads.

   And while we’re on the thrilling subject of sitting on our backsides with history books, take a gander at the echoes of those old Bolshevik headaches a hundred years ago – how to export the one and only true revolution to the rest of the world, mainly Europe – and then compare them with the heroic MAGA faithful, whipped into a lather about exporting their own, equally one and only true revolution to the rest of the world, again mainly Europe. That Putin and the post-communists are their chums – fine, call it atavism if you like – but why the full‑body cuddle with the neo‑fascists? Maybe King Ubu could shed some light. Or medicine – and that, sadly, is not our department.

   PS Looks like the ghost of Shakespeare’s back – as the witches would put it, ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’

26 January 2026

how did that happen?

   AI and Books. Again.
   Britain – ancient, wise, dignified Britain – somehow managed to con itself into serving up a nice frothy pint of Brexit. All on its own? Hold that thought. For now, noble statesmen shuffle quietly in gentlemen’s clubs, nursing their Macallan and whispering ‘Bregret’ – the sort of embarrassed murmur that follows a poorly timed fart beneath the mahogany. Between coughs and sighs, words like ‘Rejoin’ and ‘Breturn’ drift lazily through the cigar smoke.
   Germany, ever so pleased with itself after reunification, went through a sequence of small but meaningful humiliations. First, a Chancellor – sounds grand, doesn’t it? – delivered half of Europe into Russian energy dependency. His name: Gerhard Schröder. Within minutes of leaving office, he nestled comfortably into Gazprom, as one does. Don’t know it? Look it up. A sweet to anyone guessing whether all those years of loyal service to Putin came with just a handshake – or a few zeroes tucked somewhere offshore.
   Then came Angela Merkel, who through a devoted string of misjudgements about Putin’s intentions managed to weaken the security of an entire continent. Her otherwise cheery motto, ‘Wir schaffen das’, split her country neatly down the middle and handed the far right – the neo‑fascists, if you will – its most generous boost in decades. In Germany – yes, that Germany. And she bet heavily on China. The result: industrial dependency, technology nicked left and right, and a polite bow to economic reality. If you suspect that might just have helped China up the global ladder, congratulations. Have a lollipop.
   Next: Olaf Scholz. Spent months scratching his bald head thinking how to ‘help’ Ukraine after Putin’s invasion, before finally dispatching – a couple of  helmets. Well, at least not tampons.
   Hungary. Viktor Orban, once a budding democrat, now a portly little autocrat milking the EU like a placid cow that no one dares shoo away. He sold out to Putin, guides his nation straight toward disaster, and happily moonlights as Moscow’s man in Europe. The thing is, the Russkies rolled into Budapest with tanks roughly a decade after the war – a detail that fella either pretends not to know, or is performing an impressively committed act of selective amnesia. Naturally, the loony fringe of your lot can’t get enough of him.
   Poland – nice place, really – rebuilt from rubble, full of good‑humoured, brave people with a hell of a history. And then, out of thin air, a president materialises: a chap with a charming little case in the prosecutor’s office over a flat pinched from a pensioner; an ex‑hooligan with underworld friends and, reportedly, a brief career in ‘hotel companionship’. His self‑declared mission: wreck the government, jail the prime minister, and irritate Ukraine. Ambitious chap. The loony of yours loves him, sure. Won narrowly – and somewhat dubiously. But did the same Poles who once toppled communism really choose that on their own? We’ll come back to that.
   And our favourite – America’s shining star. Somehow managed to take power once before, despite an astonishing talent for turning everything he touches into compost. Made his fortune the murky way; a certified sociopath, megalomaniac whose ego orbits beyond the solar system. Tax‑dodger extraordinaire. His main talent? Conning everyone, especially the tax office. Maybe someone lent him a hand back then, eh?

   Right. Stalin. In his quest for ‘consolidate power’, he starved and executed more of his own people than Hitler managed during the war. Still, as they faced the firing squad, many shouted their last words: ‘For Stalin!’, while millions wept in ecstasy at his death. Thousands literally died trying to squeeze into his funeral. The human condition, you might say, never disappoints.

   German culture once shaped the entire Western world – though whether it’ll survive is anyone’s guess. Can we even imagine civilisation without Kant, Hegel, or Nietzsche? Without Goethe, Mann, or Schiller? Without Gropius, Bauhaus, Mies van der Rohe or Dürer? Without Bach, Beethoven, or Wagner? Or Gutenberg and Einstein? Some evidently can.
   But back to Germany – for almost ten years, from 1933 onward, public support for Hitler hovered conveniently between fifty and nearly one hundred per cent. Yes, nearly everyone. A democracy of one idea.

   How did that happen? Propaganda. Then, it worked by radio, newspapers, film. Today? It’s got the most powerful brain-mangling tool ever invented – modern digital tech. It can elect presidents, break alliances, and serves the clever few who bend it for global mischief.
   And whoever knows what we’re talking about – well done. Have a lollipop.
   How do we know all this?
   We read books.

   Make America Great Again!

   Cheers, lads. Monday again, don’t forget to cross out the days left of this whole cringe spectacle, if you can still afford a pen.

30 January 2026

in the dawn's early light

   Hey, lads over there across the pond, you like your music, don’t you? Good. How about a nice little bloody hoedown? Bit of techno? Some other disco‑ish racket, or, God help us, straight‑from‑the‑trailer country and western?

   Today’s not a day for jumping up and down and pratting about – it’s a day for a small dose of truth about your homeland, for the music of a wounded soul.
   ‘Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth; for the Artist has spoken.’

31 January 2026

the madhouse it is, then

   Yes, that was back in December, on the 11th to be precise, when we had a brief lapse in judgement – call it Christian charity, soft‑headed goodwill or some other fit of mercy – and wrote: ‘But really, maybe instead of having him carted off to the loony bin we should just feel a bit sorry for the bloke: he’s probably losing it completely.’
   We even stuck the heading ‘divine providence at work’ on it – nice touch, wasn’t it?

   But now it’s the end of January and so much genuinely nasty, full‑blown madness has gone down that any of that earlier, pre‑Christmas, utterly misplaced sympathy for this unfortunate specimen has pretty much evaporated. His mental wobble points towards one socially acceptable next step – straight to the funny farm, no question. We may only be painters, miles away from the great and good of modern medicine, especially psychiatry, but, well, it kinda speaks for itself. And Slovakia’s prime minister, Robert Fico – no slouch in the alt‑right stakes himself – apparently walked out of their meeting and said the bloke had gone completely round the bend.

   And then there’s his pal, the war criminal he trusts so utterly. The madhouse it is, then.

   Hallelujah!

1 February 2026

an olive branch for a philosopher‑athlete – or nobel prize?

   Sport – lovely stuff. Good for the health, all that. We said as much back on 28 December, go and have a look. But Olympic sport is also supposed to be a noble idea and a bloody great slab of tradition. It was all meant to be about honour, an olive branch, some sort of wreath and the glory due to the winner. Wars put on hold and everything. That was in Greece, in Olympia, just so we’re clear, some 2.8K years ago. Back when pterodactyls were still flapping around over Manhattan. Probably.

   Once the pterodactyls had gone – and, crucially, before that allegedly modernist lump on Fifth Avenue turned up – the Games came back as the shining ideal of Olympism: pure competition based on fair play, decency and no discrimination of any kind. Not enough? Throw in building a better world through sport, harmonious human development and the promotion of a peaceful society that cares about human dignity. Plus education, balance, the union of physical effort and mental growth. That’ll do, or we’ll start blubbing.

   So what’s left of all that? Remember the East German swimmers pumped up like van tyres just to shave a fraction of a second off for the glory of communism? And when the Soviets finally started touring the wicked West to spread socialist bliss through sport – somewhere around the time Elvis first hit the studio – they were permanently ring‑fenced by glum ‘minders’, just to make sure none of them got any funny ideas about giving up the workers’ paradise for life in rotten West.

   Now we’ve got the Winter Olympics coming up in Italy. Enter the nice people from ICE. We are assured they won’t be murdering anyone in the streets, arresting five‑year‑olds or using kids as bait. Promises, promises. Apparently they’re only there to ‘accompany’ the delegation of US officials.
   Just to make sure none of them got any funny ideas about giving up American paradise for life in rotten Europe?

   PS We were going to talk about art. Right. That thing on Fifth – you know the one – is not exactly Mies at 375 Park Avenue. What really matters is the tacky boudoir up on the top floors – there are, incidentally, about ten fewer of them than the owner claims, but then he lies about everything. We mean the gold‑plated everything‑that‑doesn’t‑move, supposedly in the style of Louis XIV. A bit like buying a Porsche and then tarting it up with lace curtains because you think that’s classy. Still, he’s about as much the Sun King as he is a philosopher‑athlete.

2 February 2026

a reading overdose? dangerous, right?

   Apparently we’re the ones you mean – allegedly ‘young’, allegedly ‘artists’, and clearly deranged enough to still read newspapers.

   With newspapers, it’s like this: yes, we like the rustle of actual paper, guilty as charged, but we hardly ever buy the things. One of our favourite spots – here we are again – is a quiet café next to the library, where they pass on a random selection of titles from the reading room. Add fresh croissants and decent coffee. All of us together, because we’re hashing out a new project: portraits. If all goes well, you’ll see the first one tomorrow.

   So we pick up a paper and… there it is again: Epstein, Trump, a 13‑year‑old girl who was raped, Big Tech types, someone catching an unpleasant disease, and of course the politicians – always exactly where the action is. A fine little cesspit. KGB, Mossad, Putin – regular guest star – and the CIA for good measure. Kompromat, honey traps, a king’s brother on all fours. You start to feel slightly queasy. One paragraph about that Helsinki meeting years ago catches our eye. That was, they say, when your so‑called Leader first got handed Putin’s kompromat: his very own photos plus assorted paperwork. He went pale – you could see it – and, as the article has it, the whole thing had Washington Russia‑hands in a blind panic before it even started, then turned into a full‑blown disaster as the American president swallowed every Putin lie and repeated Kremlin talking points as his own. Fiona Hill, then Trump’s adviser on Russia, recalls that during the joint press conference she was so horrified she briefly considered setting off the fire alarm just to bring the whole farce to an end.

   Time to leave the sewage where it belongs before we lose our breakfast. Nothing we haven’t seen before, really – just a different wrapper. We put the portraits on hold for a moment, but not art itself. What did it all remind us of? Of course: Hieronymus Bosch. He did believe in salvation and heavenly bliss (pastel greens for the paradise lawns, sky a respectable blue), but once he got into human weakness he went in elbow‑deep. Well over five centuries ago he painted The Last Judgment and The Garden of Earthly Delights. As a little aside, just over half a century ago we got a prophetic howl of a different kind – King Crimson’s 21st Century Schizoid Man, aimed at Vietnam but ageing suspiciously well. Word of warning, though: careful with music. In Bosch’s world, Hell comes with the subtitle Musicians’ Hell, and the instruments… best not.

   And a fun little detail for fans of today’s neo‑fascist, post‑Bolshevik, or whatever‑they’re‑calling‑it alt‑right ranting from those two White House lads and their army of hangers‑on: in Bosch’s Last Judgment and Garden of Earthly Delights, Hell sits on the right‑hand side. Just our little joke, of course. In any case, The Garden of Earthly Delights is one long fall of humanity and a triumph of sin: naked people busying themselves with sex, food and drink; crowds of lovers piling up by the water; naked women bathing.
   Somewhere in that paper there was something about an island in the Virgin Islands, too.

   But we were, dear Americans, supposed to be cheering you up. So: the papers assure us that various agencies and lawyers are quietly compiling case files for future indictments of greedy, power‑mad men to whom Epstein was so very useful in the great global paedo‑Russian‑Israeli‑or‑whatever‑you‑like conspiracy. In Bosch’s world, the infernal punishments of sinners begin already on earth: they suffer grotesque tortures, are eaten by giant birds, squeeze out large gold coins, are beaten, tormented and humiliated. In his paintings, half a millennium ago, the world has become one vast torture chamber for the damned. How it turns out for today’s nutters, we’ll see. For now, every time one of them actually makes it to jail, he somehow promptly manages to ‘commit suicide’. Possibly from an overdose of Dante’s Divine Comedy.

   Look, guys, it’s Monday again. You know what to do with your pens, don’t you?

3 February 2026

intergalactic portrait gallery

   Portrait. In painting you get endless categories, styles and clever little techniques, but in the end it always comes down to the same question: is the portrait just there to show what someone looks like, or is it meant to dig into their personality, their ‘soul’.

   Of course, there’s also the noble old tradition of portraits of various big shots who fully expected the painting to radiate their greatness, dignity and all that – whether any of it actually existed or not. The history of portraiture goes way back – and, amusingly, one of the oldest surviving examples isn’t some warlord or king, but a portrait of a young boy who’s somehow survived for thousands of years in the dry sands of Egypt. Painted in encaustic – pigments mixed into hot beeswax – the very same technique Jasper Johns used for his Flags. So yeah, everything’s been done. You might think that the official portrait, which since forever has been used to flaunt power and status, wouldn’t have much room left to evolve. And yet, surprise: along come presidential portraits, and not just anywhere – long displayed in the White House, now defaced with insulting captions whose sole purpose is to drag the sitters through the mud. Who dreamed up this dazzlingly innovative contribution to the history of art? Guess right – and you get a lollipop.

   We, being the modest painters we are, won’t pretend to match the heroic ambitions of the genius behind that milestone in painting; we’ll stick to the traditional portrait, with the now classic aim of showing the depths of the sitter’s soul (if there is one) and their personality (though at that point we’re really splashing about in the choppy waters of psychiatry).

   Today we’re opening the Intergalactic Portrait Gallery. Only the absolute finest figures in the whole history of human civilisation will be shown here, the brightest minds, fit to be presented to Earthlings and aliens alike.
   There will be exactly one. Guess who. Lolly also awaits.

   Here comes Lot#1 – there you have it.

4 February 2026

adlocutio, lot #2

   We set out to portray the greatest Earthling in history – or, to hear him tell it, a sort of pan‑galactic lifeform – and first had to decide on a pose. En trois quarts in the manner of Vermeer? Something solemn and full‑frontal? In the end we went for the classics: the Augustus of Prima Porta arm, pointing out the destiny of the empire and ushering in a new era, or perhaps Napoleon Crossing the St Bernard Pass in Jacques‑Louis David’s little exercise in subtlety – the leader heroically indicating the way forward to fresh conquests. Eugène Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People gives us Marianne as a walking allegory, flag in one hand, the other jabbing towards the attack, all very inevitable‑march‑of‑history stuff.

   Ancient history, of course – and yet somehow it all fits our man like a glove, doesn’t it? From more recent times we have the Statue of Liberty: arm raised with a torch (divinity by way of municipal lighting – also on brand), the stride and silhouette signalling the great march towards freedom and the future. In our subject’s case, naturally, it’s the great march towards a bright future. Which brings us to the two closest cousins in spirit: Hitler, who accompanied that carefully mirror‑rehearsed raised arm with visions of a Thousand‑Year Reich, and Lenin, whose outstretched hand permanently indicated the ‘bright future’ of socialism. Socialism, Bolshevism, fascism, MAGA – same dog, different fleas.

   And then there is the absolute icon: The Creation of Adam in the Sistine Chapel. The fingers almost touch, but that tiny sliver of space is the whole point. The gesture underlines the biblical idea of man made ‘in the image and likeness’: the hands are nearly identical, hinting that every human harbours a spark of the divine, as life and intelligence jump the gap in a metaphysical bolt from God to Adam. Michelangelo nails the contrast in muscular tension: God’s arm is fully charged and thrust forward; Adam’s finger is slack, bent, waiting. It is man who must make the final, minimal effort to accept the gift, a neat visual of free will.

   Free will, needless to say, does not enter into the case of the all‑time, all‑universe genius parked on his gilded throne in the White House. He decides, he dispenses favours, and he absolutely lays into the disobedient. Which is why, of all the noble poses on offer, we settled on the only honest one: the finger, rammed out in pure contempt.

   Anyone got a problem with that? ICE will have a word.

   Hallelujah.

   PS: For the pedants: adlocutio is the classic Roman formula for the emperor with one arm extended in mid‑harangue, encouraging loyalty or celebrating victory.

5 February 2026

it’s a statement, lot #3

   Portrait. Since we present Lot #3 today, a few words about two painters who are, say, not exactly our cup of tea. But alas, they did exist and they did paint.

   On our wanderings round France we dropped into Perpignan, where you can’t sneeze without hitting a Hyacinthe Rigaud. The town square? His. The museum? His. The statue? His. Rigaud made his name with an exceptionally puffed‑up portrait of the Sun King, Louis XIV which, for early‑18th‑century tastes, was probably meant to scream splendour and majesty – it gives us rather different feelings. The King, posing in what looks like a boudoir he stole from a Parisian courtesan, proudly showing off his dainty legs in pearly tights, while being wrapped in something between a duvet and a piece of heavy sofa upholstery – which, incidentally, also covers the throne lurking behind him. Everything, of course, smothered in stylised lilies, the good old fleur‑de‑lis. He glares down at his subjects with magnificent disdain, and the hairdo, well, somewhere between Madame Pompadour and an over‑managed up‑do straight off a Christy Girl.

   And here we arrive at yet another master of the brush – bless him – who passionately painted away in the manner of that old chap Hyacinthe, while Jackson Pollock was already studying The Epic of American Civilization, that massive mural by José Clemente Orozco. Not to mention this was, oh, only thirty years after Picasso had finished Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, or a neat quarter century after Malevich gave us his Black Square. And, just for good measure, five years after Rothko, Gottlieb and the gang formed ‘The Ten’, whose noble mission was, and we quote, ‘to protest against the reputed equivalence of American painting and literal painting.’ Charming, really.

   Howard Chandler Christy – for it is he – produced a mighty canvas titled Scene at the Signing of the Constitution of the United States. And it makes us think that, with yet another anniversary looming, a truly epoch‑making painting really ought to be commissioned. Don’t fancy our Lot #3? Tragic. We’ll survive.

   Then again, perhaps nothing new is needed at all – there already is a masterpiece: a breathtaking gift from a great friend – murderous war criminal, sure, but who’s counting? – depicting the greatest leader in history in a heroic pose, conquering the forces of evil (which, incidentally, damaged his ear), with the Statue of Liberty looming dramatically in the background.
   And heartfelt presents from loved ones? Must be treasured. Obviously.

   But if a new one simply had to be made, two options spring to mind: either as an invincible commander on a white steed, sword heroically aloft… or, more fittingly, with a golf club in his hand, nobly hacking away at the villains all around. Those villains? Oh, you know – the usual suspects he name-drops at every opportunity. Feel free to pick your favourites. Bonus points if he’s wearing a hat. Red. Or a solid gold helmet. Or both.
   ‘I am the storm.’

   Or, for a more static version, a riff on the Sun King portrait – skip the boudoir and the duvet, tricky associations there. Put him in tails behind a desk in the Oval Office. A proper desk. No need to look like he’s squeezed into a suit that doesn’t fit. And definitely no cowboy trousers – this isn’t a royal visit.
   And yes, absolutely Pompadour hairdo. In orange. Because why not?
   ‘It’s not a wig – it’s a statement.’

6 February 2026

#selfportrait, sure thing, or mirror, mirror on the wall

   Self‑portrait. Ah yes, what a masterpiece that would be – if he could actually paint. A truly epoch‑making work, no doubt, with the critics stunned into silence and the rest of us into therapy. Let’s not even try to imagine it. Forget it.

   Between the one dated to 1433 and the one from 1610, several self‑portraits were produced. Let’s start with that first one: Jan van Eyck, an extraordinary painter, regarded as one of the founders of, say, modern painting. He lived in the first half of the 15th century in the then Duchy of Burgundy – from which, after a few centuries of creative cartography, emerged today’s Belgium and the Netherlands. In truth, not a great deal is known about him. Not even his date of birth, which suggests his PR team was not quite up to current standards.

   According to a certain inscription, Jan had a brother, Hubert van Eyck, allegedly the better painter of the two, who is said to have begun work on the Ghent Altarpiece, known as the first oil painting in history. The only problem is that, depending on the source, Hubert either obligingly died at just the right moment or, alternatively, never existed at all.

   As for Jan’s supposed invention of oil paints, dutifully repeated for centuries, the truth is that oil‑based paints were already known; he was the first to master them. He also applied the principles of perspective, forgotten during the Middle Ages and later triumphantly ‘rediscovered’ in the Renaissance. What is more, he signed his paintings – a habit that only became widespread a century later and must have seemed quite pushy at the time. But he was a modest man and placed his motto als ick kann – ‘as best I can’ – on his works, an admirably low‑key slogan for someone bringing about a major shift in art.

   Been to London? Do drop into the National Gallery and devote some time to The Arnolfini Portrait – and preferably a fair amount of attention. There are numerous theories attempting to explain it. As is customary with van Eyck, it is not clear whether the sitters are actually married, or indeed who they really are; the surname Arnolfini was attached to them in the 19th century.

   Let us pass over the historians’ quarrels about whether this is an intimate bedroom scene, the departure of a shy young woman from her parental home, or a polite invitation extended by the couple to their affluent interior. Let us also ignore comparisons to saintly images and even the opinions of modern doctors about the gentleman’s squint and other supposed ailments. Instead, look at the mirror in the background. It shows those mysterious visitors, or perhaps the painter himself. Indeed, the modest van Eyck may well have chosen to depict himself there, at a distance, as a tiny reflection in the glass. A neat little device recycled gleefully by later artists, until eventually it evolved into the bathroom selfie.

   In that same National Gallery there is also The Portrait of a Man in a Red Turban from 1433. This is the artist’s self‑portrait. The identification is not completely certain, in true van Eyck style. And, as you will recall, 15th‑century artists were not in the habit of posting their work online with #selfportrait and a location tag, so a degree of guesswork is involved. Specialists point to the probing gaze directed straight at the viewer, which suggests that a mirror was used. It also suggests he was perfectly aware that people would still be staring back at him centuries later.

   Right then, so as not to exhaust you, let’s return to the beginning – ah, if only he could paint! Imagine him standing in front of a mirror, admiring himself. Which, one suspects, he does quite often – though the mirror, to date, has remained diplomatically silent. And he surely practises his facial expressions to look suitably majestic. There was once a man like that, with a little moustache, who – as it happens – really was… almost a painter. He churned out little landscapes in Vienna. Watercolours. He, too, rehearsed in front of the mirror to appear as a great leader. History records that the arts community may have backed the wrong career path there.

   But our hero of the day, in his own view the very definition of absolute perfection, would dissolve into hysterical laughter – and might even choke on it – if anyone mentioned to him that modest motto, ‘as best I can’. After all, he does everything best – period. No qualifiers, no exceptions. Triumphal Arch? Naturally, it will be ready shortly. Isn’t that a touch underwhelming for my immortal greatness? Perhaps we should go straight to a Pyramid. Larger than that pile of rubble in Egypt, and made entirely of gold, just so there’s no danger of anyone missing the point.

   And so, by these tiny steps – from ‘as best I can’ to ‘ the best ever’ – we arrive at Portrait, Lot #4.
   Have a nice day.

7 February 2026

welcome to lot #5

   We were supposed to be talking about self‑portraits from 1433 to 1610. The first one we ticked off back in Lot #4: Jan van Eyck, job done, halo polished.

   Along the way there were plenty of diverting stops, like one of the most baffling bits of iconography in art history: Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights (c. 1490–1510). Down in Hell we get the wonderfully comforting, thoroughly Boschian ‘Tree‑Man’ – generally read as the artist’s own pallid mug, gazing with deep melancholy at the chaos of his own imagination.

   Then there’s everyone’s favourite marble‑basher, Michelangelo, and his ever‑so‑reassuringly titled Last Judgment, a mere forty years after Bosch. The great man slips his own face onto a flayed, sagging skin dangling from St Bartholomew’s hand. This charming little detail is usually taken as a sign of profound spiritual torment and an overdeveloped sense of sin. One for the mantelpiece.

   Fast‑forward to around 1610 and Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath. A rough patch in his life – in the sense that most of his life was a rough patch – on the run from a death sentence. He gives his own features not to the plucky victor, but to the freshly decapitated Goliath, turning the painting into a desperate plea for a royal pardon. Whatever else you say about him, the man had nerve.

   Which is more than can be said for your preening Leader (for those at the back, that’s Führer in the original German). Oh yes: if he’d been able to paint, he’d have had no trouble choosing. As the universal winner of everything, he’d naturally cast himself as David. And if that felt a bit too modest, he could always pop over to the Sistine Chapel and pick Michelangelo’s God the Father for his official likeness.

   We, however, will remain in spiritually safe territory, employing iconography more in tune with his little soul, still knotted up in times that really ought to have vanished into the mists of history. And so, welcome to Lot #5.

8 February 2026

time for lot #6

   Well, we’ve really outdone ourselves this time. And we do mean spectacularly. Hieronymus Bosch, van Eyck, Michelangelo – and as if that weren’t enough, let’s throw in Caravaggio and a few other heavyweights for good measure. Hold us back, people! Lunacy on parade.
   We’re talking about someone for whom the local madhouse would be a suitable address or, at best, prison. They wouldn’t even trust him with a box of crayons – not that he’d know which end to use.
   So, we’ll leave the Old Masters in peace. Even children’s colouring books might be a stretch, so we’ll stick with something more in his range – a nice shade of knicker pink. Barbie pink, if you insist.
   And thus, dear American friends, we come to Lot #6.

9 February 2026

the will

   We gave the greats a day off yesterday – but they were only the artists. What about the philosophers? In a sense, they’re artists too – just without the brush or chisel, armed instead with a mind open to the world, unlike today’s ‘reality‑shapers’, who resemble a sulky toddler stomping down a beach, kicking over other children’s sandcastles.

   Freedom, mutual respect – childish naivety? As fragile as sandcastles? No doubt, if you’re the sort who sprays pepper gas from a few inches into the face of someone already pinned to the ground, or keeps firing into an unarmed civilian just to make sure they’re dead. Perhaps, instead of dressing them up as pretend soldiers, we might consider putting them in leather butcher’s aprons and those long gloves up past the elbow – like a certain Soviet executioner who put bullets in the backs of the heads of one officer after another: thousands of Poles in 1940, and countless others before and after.
   That was many years ago – and not even four years back, the heirs of that sadistic butcher, this time under Putin’s command, murdered hundreds of civilians in Bucha in Ukraine in much the same way: a shot to the back of the head, hands tied behind their backs, bodies bearing clear signs of torture, children among the dead.

   Enough.

   Wittgenstein is no use to us here; neither language as picture nor language as tool will get us anywhere near what one might honestly call ‘graspable’. But we are, quite literally, in the realm of the ungraspable. Unreckonable, if you insist. This is where Heidegger could shuffle back in to warn us that modern technology treats the world and its inhabitants as mere ‘resource’ – but even leaving aside the infamous Schwarze Hefte, there are more than enough reasons to let him rest in peace.

   Perhaps the categorical imperative, then? Oh, come off it. That starry Heaven above is supposed to remind one of one’s own smallness, and the moral law within of the inner world of spirit and freedom – whereas this chap’s ego has long since burst through the edge of the cosmos, his morality is, by his own admission, entirely bespoke, and as for spirit and freedom, he picked those up from his good mate Putin. By way of thanks, he even stroked the man’s hand and had American soldiers on their knees rolling out a red carpet for the butcher‑in‑chief.

   So perhaps Plato’s cave? Better not. You’ll remember we once wrote about a certain great artist, not so greatly remembered for her little contribution to film history – ‘Triumph of the Will’. Leni Riefenstahl, yes, that one. She picked up a gold medal in Venice for best documentary and the Grand Prix at the World Exhibition in Paris for her efforts – just a few short years before Hitler set about invading half the planet and that chap in the butcher’s apron clocked in for his shift with Stalin. That, in practice, is what the triumphant ‘Will’ of those two ‘leaders’ looked like.

   And, to take a breath from the darkness of human vileness, in shuffles – surprise guest – the man immersed up to his neck in the abyss of human frailty: Schopenhauer. Not only capable of torturing readers with a single sentence running on for two densely printed pages, he also allowed that there might be brief respite from suffering – he claimed that only art and compassion offer even a fleeting chance of peace of mind, before we are all swept away by the relentless and cruel current of the Will.

   As for us, humble painters that we are, we can only suggest that you pick up your pens and cross off yet another day on the calendar between now and the end of this sorry spectacle of which we are, as the philosopher might say, witnesses Here and Now. If that is your Will.
   After all, it is Monday.

10 February 2026

former new yorker on the run

   A short break will do everyone a world of good. The planet won’t stop spinning, as they say. We’ve all got our bits to attend to – exhibitions, errands, mild existential crises – but before we part ways with you (and, indeed, ourselves) for a week or two, we thought we’d nip over to Switzerland. Lovely weather, almost spring.

   There we met our New York–based professor of political history in exile – or, as he puts it, ‘on the run.’ Charming, isn’t it? Over coffee, he launched into a righteous tirade about some lady prosecutor’s public hearing: ‘Her haughty disdain for the victims, her wriggling out of answers, her slavish belief in the Leader’s infallibility – it all reminded me of a concentration camp overseer tried after the war.’ Quite the dinner conversation.

   He went on – ‘It made me wonder whether today’s so‑called politicians, so eager to do business with that war criminal Putin, would be equally keen to turn a tidy profit on slave labour in gulags or camps. After all, Hitler and Stalin called the millions who died there subhumans and ideological enemies. Now we hear of ‘libtards’, and migrants cast as rubbish – all, naturally, tucking into the nation’s beloved pets. The language of contempt leads to crime; greed to ruin. Do they even understand?’ He paused, then sighed – ‘Of course they don’t. Thank God I scarpered.’

   A delightful fellow and a fascinating specimen. Still, there was a stale tang of despair about it all – the weary ache of innocent souls caught up in the genteel savagery of well‑fed conformists. Anyhow, we’ve agreed to stay in touch – perhaps he’ll join our merry band of tamed correspondents, as we once christened those two: Jab, the delightfully unhinged bloke from California, and Czech from Prague. If we ever got the three of them in one room, the insurance premium alone would bankrupt us.

   Anyway, we’ll see. For now, lads – take care over there across the pond, and don’t let yourselves get shafted.

11 February 2026

darker corners of his psyche vs dustier corners of our studio,
lot #7

   Literary horror has never really been our thing – real life serves up quite enough nightmares as it is. And while we’ve all had to bend over Dante’s ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’ once or twice, or wrestle with Goethe’s Faustian hang‑ups, today we bow our heads to a thoroughly modern master of the craft. We sweated blood trying to capture your particular shuffling catastrophe haunting the corridors of that venerable House in Washington – very white, as it happens. We tried everything: ‘one more brain fold than a chicken’, ‘an ego inflated to the edge of the solar system’ – all to no avail. Stephen King, who actually knows his way around the darker corners of the human psyche, nailed it: ‘the brainless bag of guts and waters currently inhabiting the defaced shambles of the Peoples' House’.
   We’ll give him that.

   As for us, lowly dabblers in the visual arts, we’ve rummaged in the dustier corners of our studio and unearthed two more portraits from the Intergalactic Gallery. Behold the forgotten Lot #7 – with another one hot on its heels. Only the gilt frame is missing – they’ve already carted all of those off to the People’s House.

16 February 2026

just one picture on the wall?

   We bumped into a bloke in the pub. He looked relatively sober – or good at faking it – and swore blind that in the White House your completely unhinged Leader (that’s Führer in German, for those at the back) has hung up a picture of his pal Putin – just in case anyone’s forgotten he’s a murderer and a fully certified war criminal. Hard to believe, you might say, but then again stranger things have turned out to be true – like that so‑called ‘peace plan’ for Ukraine kindly drafted in Moscow and handed to him to parade as his very own stroke of genius. Besides, Putin is, after all, his dear friend – clearly worth having American soldiers on their knees rolling out the red carpet for a butcher.

   It’s Monday, which means calendar time. We’re adding a few more pictures of the murderer‑in‑chief cum best mate, just in case there’s still a spare patch of wall left in the White House.

21 February 2026

chief is what he is, lot #8

   Here comes the other one we dusted off in some corner of the studio – Lot #8, to keep things nice and tidy. We’d misplaced it, granted; it was sulking somewhere in the shadows. But it does rather look as if, in our noble calling as solid, hard‑working portrait painters and, of all things, soul‑analysts, we actually did a decent job. Everything that ought to be there is there.

   Probably.

   We even managed to dig out the gilt frame before they nicked it and hauled it off across the pond. So let’s drop all those petty little ‘brainless bag of guts’ jibes and the business with chickens. And One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest can have the evening off as well. The Chief is what he is. End of.

22 February 2026

marcus aurelius on a golf cart, lot #9

   To our dear friends over the pond who’ve managed to survive encounters with those charming lads from ICE – congratulations, spring is allegedly on its way. It always turns up eventually, unlike affordable healthcare or reasonable insurance premiums. Still, fingers crossed, eh?

   Back in our atelier, the annual purge is on: brushes washed, spirits lifted. Let’s not get carried away – the windows can wait for summer. Or autumn. Or divine intervention. For now, we’re off for a bite and a chinwag about the new portrait series. We’ve had quite enough of those heroic ‘index-finger-pointing’ poses – all very Marcus Aurelius addressing the troops, if our sitter had been tottering on a golf cart instead of a horse.

   Then, somewhere between the second and third glass of wine, enlightenment! There were eight portraits in our Intergalactic Gallery. What a number – balance, rebirth, the whole mystical nonsense. Nothing adds up, really – not for the sort of fella Stephen King once described as a brainless bag of guts and waters. Let’s skip the Christianity bit; if the lad’s got even one more brain fold than a chicken, things could get complicated.

   That, in turn, reminded us of Botticelli, bless him, who so lovingly illustrated all nine circles of Inferno – the Google Maps of his day, with exact directions straight to the bottom. Dante catalogued the tenants nicely: thieves, liars, traitors, murderers, perverts – the usual crowd. You want details? Read The Divine Comedy.

   There’ll be room for the whole gang down there: his dear chum Putin and the merry band of rapists and cutthroats calling themselves an army (dark sense of humour, that). And of course, our man himself, with the ICE entourage rolling out the red carpet on their knees before Moscow’s very own thug. Throw in the enterprising ninnies drooling over backroom deals and ‘strategic partnerships’ – flogging off Ukraine for a nice building plot and a few oil rights.

   Though before he joins the festivities, perhaps he deserves a brief sabbatical – some peace and quiet in a discreet asylum, just to avoid making any more of a mess in the living world.

   And thus, we limp to Lot #9.

23 February 2026

little downtime to play cards, poker?

   Yesterday it was all about the classics: Botticelli, Dante, and even Marcus Aurelius popping up in a golf cart. Naturally. We did, of course, suggest that our favourite specimen, before he ends up in the final destination reserved for him and his mates, should really enjoy a little downtime on a loony farm or similar establishment.

   So, a slightly more modern classic: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. In case you missed it, some of the entertainment on offer included poker, Monopoly, assorted bets on absolutely anything and that sort of thing. Now picture that same merry band – not in striped pyjamas, but in tailored suits – amusing themselves with aircraft carriers, F-something jets and assorted B-something-or-others, each lugging bombs the size of a decent van, turning hills into neat little craters. That does rather resemble a certain office these days – conveniently oval in shape, if that helps.

   Hence our modest proposal: send the whole crew off for a nice, relaxing, well-earned break and give them all the carriers and other toys they want – in plastic. Let them play to their hearts’ content. Lego even does a White House set, if anyone’s short of inspiration.

   Meanwhile, it’s Monday. Cross off the days one by one and with a bit of luck we might just make it to the end.

24 February 2026

spring’s in the air

   We’ve given the studio a quick dust‑off and returned (easy, only for the weekend) to our solemn duties as your appointed cheer‑up squad. Not that it always works, mind you. Plague years do rather cramp one’s style. It’s hard to bang the drum for Defoe‑style survivor’s euphoria after yet another day ticked off the calendar. Harder still if you happen to be in Minneapolis.

   So, what’s been going on while we were preoccupied with our own mundane little realities? Good news, spring’s in the air. On the upside, ‘the brainless bag of guts and waters’, as Stephen King so kindly put it – do keep up – hasn’t yet started a war or invaded anyone. Yet. Although he clearly fancies the idea. As we recall, he once announced he’d be confining himself to the Western Hemisphere – presumably to make it easier to justify handing Ukraine over to his favourite murderer in the Kremlin and blowing up what’s left of Europe. Iran, of course, is on the other side of the globe, but his own cerebral hemispheres appear to be doing somersaults, so perhaps geography is asking a bit much.

   Let’s leave him be.

   A year ago we suggested you were in the enviable position of not needing a crystal ball to glimpse your own future – Orwell would do nicely. And then, hey presto, reality has surged past Nineteen Eighty‑Four. The lads at ICE now have clever little phones and some Palantir party trick: one snap of your face and you’re on a terrorist list. We’re not entirely sure, but it rather looks as though they can then shoot you with impunity, or, on a good day, ship you off to El Salvador. Some of them also sport swastikas inked across their chests, which, as painters with a decent grasp of proportion and colour harmony, leads us to modestly suggest adding a hammer and sickle to complete the look.

   Incidentally, a quick note for ICE: don’t bother sending anyone round with your toys to chase us – we’ve already carried out a pre‑emptive self‑deportation. Unless, of course, you get explicit orders to have us all knocked off. In that case, do give us a heads‑up – we’ll ditch the phones, anything with a plug on it, and deport ourselves to some forest or mountains to spend a quiet retirement in a cave.

   Spring’s on its way. We’ll manage.

28 February 2026

war, again

   War. Another one.
   Airstrikes, bombardments, death, destruction.

   One of us – gifted artist, naturally – once wasted a chunk of his life on advanced physics and mathematics, which he insists are fairly complicated. He occasionally explains bits of it to us in words of one syllable. But even we know that adding and subtracting within the range of, say, ten ought to be straightforward enough for most people. Most. Not, however, for a chap with the brainpower of a chicken – assuming he has a brain at all, which Stephen King has called into fundamental doubt.

   Roughly a century ago, after Lenin’s death, the Soviets claimed his brain was some kind of freakish genius organ and set up an actual Institute of the Brain to prove it scientifically. The organ was indeed there; they whipped it out and sliced it into tens of thousands of whisper‑thin sections. What became of the sliced bits after that, we’re not entirely sure about. But one does wonder whether Putin’s noggin will end up in the same Institute in wafer‑thin slices as well.

   Back to the latest war and the most basic arithmetic: is he now going to demand a Nobel Prize by subtracting the wars he claims to have ended from the wars he actually started, or by adding the whole bloody lot together? We have no idea about that either.

   What we do know is what comes next: people will die in their thousands and the region will be a monumental mess for years. Right now all the clever heads – political scientists, strategists, statesmen and the rest of the commentariat – are furrowing their brows, writing lengthy papers and pronouncing wise judgements about what might happen next. We know. So next time, before your heavily decorated generals and beloved politicians decide to kick off another war, do us a favour and ask what it will achieve. We’ll tell you. For free.

   On a related note, our friendly (now ex‑) New York professor, currently in exile in Basel, remarked to us recently that this particular war – the one everyone’s been muttering about for some time – would not, if it broke out, be fought in America’s interest. Your Leader (you do remember the German term, don’t you?) seems to operate chiefly in the interests of his various friends, whose souls range from grubby to absolutely caked in filth. It happens.

   As for Iran, we painters don’t pretend to understand politics, but this bearded fellow in the turban over there and his personal guard of cut‑throats do seem like genuinely accomplished sadists. Not the only ones, mind you – Putin’s no better. One of them gets a bomb on the head – nothing left to slice – the other a red carpet and a nice reassuring pat on the hand.

   Such is life, apparently.

1 March 2026

strategists, my foot

   February has finally packed its bags. The war is on.
   We’ve already graciously offered our services to the great planners of the universe – we artists, naturally – to forecast the results of their little wars. This latest one included: thousands of dead and years of chaos across the region. Now we’d like to add a helpful note for all the deep thinkers puzzling over the grand strategy behind the attack on Iran. There is none. Let’s blow up this and that, kill a few of those and a few of these, and see what happens. In the hope the voters will obligingly forget one thing or another.

   Sun Tzu and Carl von Clausewitz would be tearing their hair out – assuming they had any to begin with; we know very little about their hairstyles. We do, however, know a thing or two about monuments and pictures, and we strongly suspect Alexander the Great would have fallen off his horse – or at least off a certain monument. Sure thing.

   We also know his horse was called Bucephalus, and that nobody but Alexander himself could handle the beast. Check out the floor mosaic from around 100 BC: Alexander the Great, charging on Bucephalus, straight at the chariot of the Persian king. Your Leader (you remember the German version, yes?) would, at best, be charging on a golf cart – at no one in particular. Some under‑age girl, perhaps, or whatever’s handy.
   And so on.

2 March 2026

theatre of the absurd

   War being war, it tends to follow a familiar pattern – idiots start it, ordinary people do the dying. A sadist in a turban with a beard and his pet killers at his side – fine, let them all take the express train downstairs. But children? For heaven’s sake, a hundred girls murdered at school because something snapped in some bloke’s head. Or perhaps it didn’t, perhaps it was exactly as intended. Or, as some would have it, merely the result of a failure in intelligence gathering.
   And what happens? Nothing. Silence.

   Those little girls presumably weren’t bearded, didn’t wear turbans and weren’t out murdering anyone. They went to school. As children do.

   You may recall – Putin pulled the same stunt. A few years back he dropped a massive bomb on a theatre in Ukraine where around a thousand civilians had taken shelter – most of them were killed. There were two huge signs on the ground, in Russian, spelling out ‘Children’.

   Monday. Cross off the days already gone and count down what remains of this pitiful theatre of the absurd. In case you are wondering what a more, shall we say, civilian version of the theatre of the absurd looks like, we slipped a classic into our calendar: Waiting for Godot, the herald of the theatre of the absurd. The picture we have used, without asking anyone for permission or anything of the sort, comes from the classics as well: the Festival d’Avignon, straight off Wikipedia – do have a read, a brief respite from everything around you, over there across the pond.

3 March 2026

ambassadors, 2.0

   Perhaps we should all take a brief break from the horrors of war and the smallness of the politicians who start them. Just for a moment.

   Our London routine – aside from stuffing our faces at Ye Grapes, obviously – usually means Tate Modern and a healthy dose of galleries scattered here, there and everywhere. Every now and then, though, we crawl back to do a bit of digging at the National Gallery. This time it was Hans Holbein the Younger – a sort of part‑German, part‑Swiss acquaintance from our beloved Basel, who rounded off his days in London with the help of the plague. These things happen.

   As Renaissance types tended to do, he knocked out a fair few portraits, which the experts assure us are full of psychological depth, meticulous detail and a deft blend of physical likeness with the sitter’s inner life – rather like our own efforts in the Intergalactic Gallery, funnily enough. What are the odds.

   In the year of our Lord 1533 he produced a rather peculiar picture – The Ambassadors; do have a look if you find yourself in London. Everyone gets terribly excited about the painterly party trick known as anamorphosis: front and centre there’s a sort of elongated what‑the‑hell‑is‑that, which turns into a skull if you stand well off to the side. Memento mori, vanity of earthly life, yes yes, very profound. But that’s not the fun part.

   The ambassadors themselves are more interesting: respectable envoys of their respective rulers in the middle of various scraps, including with the papacy – all just before Henry VIII solved his little pope problem, set up the Church of England and married Anne Boleyn against Rome’s wishes. Behind the ambassadors hangs a curtain, which in the top‑left corner just about reveals a crucifix, and between them stands a piece of furniture they’re both leaning on. Holbein’s cluttered it with what looks like random bric‑a‑brac – only it isn’t. There’s a globe showing Europe and Africa, the main playgrounds of their royal quarrels, plus the usual sixteenth‑century symbols of learning and the liberal arts, all there to signal the ambassadors’ education, refinement and general cleverness. At the same time, the thing quite literally stands between them – a neat way of showing enlightened diplomats quietly dissecting matters of state across the divide.

   Throw in the crucifix half‑hidden behind the curtain and that skull you only see once the fine gentlemen and their toys slide out of view, and it all starts to look like a sly hint that the ambassadors might take a dim view of the current spats – sideshows that ignore the bigger questions. Intriguing, some may say.

   And now, hop – nearly half a millennium forward. A great power, with a King – or at least someone who fancies himself half‑King, half‑God – appoints two enlightened ambassadors of its own. One, a property wheeler‑dealer (naturally), did a two‑year stretch for common or garden fraud and the charming stunt of hiring a prostitute to smear a family member and coax out false testimony. Once upon a time he was an attorney, but as a convicted felon he ended up disbarred. Then, as luck or plot would have it, after his stint inside his son married the half‑King half‑God’s daughter and the old man was suddenly granted a full and unconditional pardon. People say, ‘Show me your books and I’ll tell you who you are’; perhaps it ought to be, ‘Show me whom you pardon…’ – particularly when you’ve also graciously forgiven some sixteen hundred lads who stormed the Capitol.

   Back to our ‘diplomats’: your Great Leader, greatest in history by his own estimation, appoints this ex‑con as ambassador to Monaco and France, because why not. The chap kicks things off by insulting France in an open letter to President Macron, for which he is summoned by the French Foreign Minister – and simply doesn’t show up. Can’t have some frog telling him off, obviously.

   The other ambassador – a true artist of the subtle diplomatic touch – is dispatched to Warsaw. There he proceeds to tear strips off the Marshal of the Sejm, the second‑highest official in the state, for the crime of failing to cheerfully back a certain Nobel Prize nomination. Guess who for and you get a lollipop. He then dramatically ‘breaks off diplomatic relations’, announces he won’t be speaking to him ever again and, as a bonus, threatens to pull American troops out of Poland – which must have made Putin’s day.

   The Nobel proposal itself was a model of diplomatic finesse: a prefab letter, knocked together in Washington, or Moscow, or wherever, demanding a signature and prompt return. Full stop. Our ambassador clearly skipped the chapter on Poles being a tad touchy about ambassadors barking orders. From the end of the Second World War, when Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill handed Poland over to the Soviets, right up to the (temporary?) collapse of communism in 1989, it was the Soviet ambassador in Warsaw who decided who governed, what they signed and whom they bowed to.

   So, dear friends over the pond, maybe don’t mix your beer with whisky – or memento mori with Horace’s carpe diem.

4 March 2026

james bond in a tent

   Hey there across the pond – we’ve a little yarn for you lot.

   James Bond, spies, all that. A chap in a trench coat, hat pulled down just so – or in sunglasses, even in the sort of drizzle London calls ‘mists and murk’. Tail jobs, wiretaps, dead drops. Glorious days, obviously – though awfully expensive and terribly high‑maintenance.

   The Chinese – clever chaps. Invented paper, printing and gunpowder centuries ago – still quite handy here and there. Lately they’ve had an absolute brainwave: why on earth pay actual spies, fund their hats, sunglasses and entire Q‑Branch starter pack, when you can’t see and hear everything anyway? Far better to get the punters to pay for the privilege themselves. And while you’re at it, assemble a perfectly decent Fifth Column on wheels.

   So the Chinese churn out electric cars. Terribly pretty – leather seats with massage, sure thing. Packed with electronic frippery. All very affordable. Who could resist? Buy one, go for a spin.

   Meanwhile somewhere outside Shenzhen, or maybe Shanghai, a gazillion servers hum gently, while chaps from some ministry-without-a-name help themselves to the viewing figures. They can watch where such a shiny toy is going and why, and enjoy the live feed from its cameras as an added extra. Should they feel in need of a little light relief, they can stop the little runabout in its tracks or send it trundling backwards – purely for a giggle. They’re flooding Europe and the rest of the planet with these things. And if you, dear friends over the pond, think a spot of tariff theatre has saved you – do hang on to that thought a moment longer.

   Because it’s not just cars, obviously. The Chinese also knock out smartphones, vacuum cleaners, fridges, tellies and laptops – pretty much everything that still turns on. Those Shen- or Shan-whatever server farms and the lads with the expressionless faces already know what you watch online, what you type, what you say and, in broad outline, what’s rattling around in your heads.

   Ingenious, isn’t it? No torture required to learn a thing or two. Clean, modern, fully compatible with sustainable‑governance waffle. When they do get round to killing or breaking people, that’s reserved for their own – Uyghurs, Tibetans and anyone who gets uppity.

   Back to cars. If you own a Tesla, it’s not entirely impossible that ICE knows more about you than your therapist and your ex put together. Crack one ill‑judged joke and – pop! – off you go to feed the gators in Florida. Assuming they don’t just shoot you on the spot.

   Our friendly advice to you lot over the pond: cling to your beloved pick‑ups from that golden pre‑microchip era. A bit clunky, but honest wheels – buy a cement mixer, chuck in a cow if you like – nobody’s judging. And best ditch everything with a chip in it. Pitch a tent somewhere nice. No need for a vacuum cleaner. Fancy making a call? Bad news – the only phone booth left is in prison.

5 March 2026

spirit of el greco and picasso vs b-2 spirit

   For the benefit of those who didn’t quite make it as far as the history classroom – or skipped a few lessons on the way – Hitler, limbering up for the Second World War, sent the Condor Legion to Spain so the Luftwaffe could bomb this and that in support of the nationalists. They flattened the town of Guernica. Picasso painted the famously cheery little picture Guernica in response – its story is fascinating in its own right, but to spare you the lecture, let’s just say it now hangs, safely enough one would think, in Madrid’s Museo Reina Sofía.

   And now, hop, to the present day. The Spanish prime minister has had the nerve to say ‘no’ to a fresh war and to strikes launched from his territory. He even mumbled something about international law. Outrageous behaviour. The level of rage in your Leader (that’s Führer in German, in case anyone’s drifted off) reached something between an earthquake, a volcanic eruption and a tsunami. He roared at one of his lackeys to hand:
   – ‘Trade ban. Now! Send in the B‑2s and drop that toy that punches a hole clean through the ground right on the bastard’s head. Now! We’ll wipe that shitty Paris off the map…’
   The lackey dared to interject:
   – ‘Madrid, Mr Pres…’
   – ‘Don’t you start correcting me. Fine, Madrid. B‑2.’
   – ‘But international law…’
   – ‘I am the law. What do I pay you for, for God’s sake. B‑2, and make it quick. And switch off all their F‑16s and F‑35s they bought from us. Let them sit and rust till that idiot crawls over here and kisses my ass!’
   – ‘Except the Spanish haven’t bought any from us, Mr Pres…’
   – ‘The bastards. All the more reason to bomb their shitty Madrid, or whatever it’s called.’
   – ‘But the millions of people, the monuments, the museums, Picasso…’
   – ‘That idiot who couldn’t even paint a naked chick properly? Tits on her back, an eye behind her ear. We’re bombing.’
   – ‘The Prado. El Greco…’
   – ‘Greeks live in Greece, that’s a different hemisphere. Stop feeding me this crap. You’re fired!’

   Is this precisely how that stormy little moment played out in a certain Washington office of a slightly oval persuasion? We can’t be sure, but it does sound fairly plausible, doesn’t it? The embargo, at any rate, looks solid enough – like every other bout of lunacy from this particular gentleman.

   By way of consolation, one can survive a while without Jamón Ibérico washed down with Rioja.

   And by the way, one does wonder what kind of support for nationalists and assorted neo‑fascists in Europe they’re cooking up behind closed doors over there.

   Make America Great Again.

6 March 2026

war maths – divine, sure thing

   A week ago, when your leader of leaders – the greatest in history, according to himself – decided to drop a bomb on the head of that turbaned, bearded sadist, some of us found ourselves pondering a little mathematical problem. In fact the simplest arithmetic one could imagine: is your resident genius, who appears quite convinced of his own divinity, now going to demand a Nobel Prize by subtracting the wars he claims to have ended from the wars he has actually started, or by adding the whole bloody lot together?

   It turns out that, contrary to our modest hopes, even sums within ten are a bit of a stretch for him. You heard what he announced, Urbi et Orbi:
   ‘We’re doing well on the war front, to put it mildly. Somebody said on a scale of 10, where would you rate it? I said about a 15.’

   We are just not entirely sure whether his calculations included the deaths of a hundred or more schoolgirls, because on that point there appears to be a most curious silence.

7 March 2026

château de versailles, d.c.

   The man really has gone for it this time. He wants majesty, courtly splendour, Versailles‑style – but of course he does.

   Big, loud birthday celebrations? Naturally. One rather suspects he is unaware that under Louis the Sun King, Versailles smelled like a cesspool – which, come to think of it, is very much his natural habitat. Everything he has ever laid a finger on has turned straight to that: the dodgy deals Putin bailed him out of, the failed casinos, the USFL mess with the three‑dollar damages awards, and so on and so forth.

   Back to Versailles – guests relieved themselves wherever they fancied; on staircases, in handy corners, while the ladies simply did it under their dresses. The dresses being enormous, that helped. To be fair, they did have a sort of chamber pot hidden under the skirts, into which they attended to business during official audiences and even solemn masses. Add to that the grime under all that powder, and the lice and fleas happily thriving beneath the wigs.

   Why mention any of this? Because in Washington, there is no shortage of toilets – doubtless gilded, since he likes everything around him gilded. The vermin situation is probably under control, give or take a cockroach or two. But the stench wafting out of the place is something else again.

   As for the big birthday bash, we have just learnt there will be a proper punch‑up laid on for the great man’s delight. Tradition of a sort. Under the Stuarts, at Whitehall or Windsor Castle, they favoured bear‑baiting – setting dogs on tethered bears, bloody and rather revolting, but at least they stopped short of killing people. At Versailles they even banned duels – the Sun King reserved the right to decide who lived and who did not.

   Still, the greatest‑in‑the‑history‑of‑the‑universe has whims of at least imperial proportions. Instead of lions tearing some unfortunate souls apart (the immigrants are left to the gators in Florida, probably), the White House is to host a decent all‑American brawl. The self‑styled emperor will sit on his golden throne and… well, who knows – cackle? Wet himself with joy?

   It occurred to us that, for this tasteful little occasion, ICE could be invited to knock seven bells out of each other with the Proud Boys, par exemple. At which point our Czech friend, our self‑appointed Central Europe correspondent, chimed in to remind us that not without the effective support of your greatest‑ever, Poland ended up with a former football hooligan as president, a man who has boasted of his exploits in mass punch‑ups. He has thug friends and, according to local journalists, was once a hotel pimp – though that, of course, is neither here nor there. And so from Prague comes the suggestion that this gentleman should be added to the guest list, perhaps with a few mates if they are not currently inside. It will be courtly, elegant and delightfully international.

8 March 2026

investigations. sure thing

   We wrote earlier: ‘War being war, but children? For heaven’s sake, a hundred girls murdered at school. And what happens? Nothing. Silence.’

   Not quite, as it turns out. Someone somewhere did scribble something, as the media tend to do. And the death toll was over a hundred and fifty. Then came the statements – your know‑it‑all‑in‑chief duly announced: ‘It was done by Iran.’ But of course. He picked that one up from his good friend and fellow war criminal Putin, who, whenever he bombs a hospital, a nursery or butchers civilians in especially inventive ways, announces that the Ukrainians attacked themselves. That sort of thing.

   Then the military spoke up and said they would investigate. Are you curious what they’ll find? We artists know nothing of military matters, but this much we do know: they will investigate.

   Take care.

9 March 2026

triumph of the will, redux

   A few words on Paris and the movies, then. To avoid boring you rigid, let’s bundle it all together: the 1937 World’s Fair in Paris, with the German and Soviet pavilions facing one another across the way, the Eiffel Tower politely in between. Both monstrosities. From a massive plinth, a stainless‑steel Worker and Kolkhoz Woman hoisted a crossed hammer and sickle towards a fifty‑metre tower crowned with a gigantic eagle clutching a swastika. Charming.

   That was when Leni Riefenstahl picked up the Grand Prix for Triumph of the Will. The point being that it really was a technically groundbreaking film – and at the same time a heavy‑duty piece of political manipulation glorifying Hitler, opening with that little sequence of his plane emerging from the clouds to symbolise the saviour descending from the heavens.

   Hop to the present. Your chap over there across the pond, so desperate for a Nobel, would no doubt quite fancy an Oscar as well. Naturally, for the subtle elegance of JUSTICE THE AMERICAN WAY, in which genuine footage of bombing runs on Iran would be intercut with scenes from Gladiator, Top Gun: Maverick and a few other favourites. Adorable, isn’t it? Give him an Oscar, a Grammy and a Pulitzer while you’re at it. The triumphal arch, we gather, is already on its way. Naturally.

   You know, we make our little jokes, that’s just how we are – partly to get some distance from the madness, partly so that, in the middle of all this filth, you might occasionally manage a grim smile. But this needs to be said plainly: the man is a complete imbecile and an utter bastard. ‘Resounding success’, sinking Iranian ships is ‘funny’, treating war as a ‘fun excursion’, the idiotic cackling and the humiliation of victims – taken together it is sick, nightmarish and terrifying.

   The man is an imbecile. Full stop.

   Monday. Cross off another day, and count how much of this insanity is still to come.

   PS Just so there’s no misunderstanding – a few bearded sadists in turbans did indeed take the express route to the ninth circle, which is exactly where they belong. But there are others, no better. That square little Korean fat man who has turned his country into a concentration camp, whole legions of psychopathic killers in Africa, and of course the friend, dear pal Putin – a murderer and a war criminal. And by the way, the sinking of that ship is a war crime of the same order. Has he finally joined his old mate?

10 March 2026

royal birthday brawl

   No doubt about it – there’s going to be a punch‑up for the birthday boy.

   A grand banquet, naturally, all royal style and palatial dignity. Blood will be flying for the jubilarian’s amusement. There will be food, and they’ll drink very nicely too. A small suggestion: perhaps they might invite, somewhere behind the barriers, crowds of underfed compatriots who’ve lost their jobs, their welfare and any chance of a decent meal – and the great ruler, greatest in history (in case anyone’s forgotten) could toss scraps into the crowd. He just loves humiliating people – pure pleasure. By the way, back in Whitehall, food and drink were served to the king on bended knee – no such charming custom in Washington yet? Perhaps an executive order?

   And how about a spot of breaking on the wheel or quartering the disobedient – Sun King style? Or public executions with a bit of disembowelling thrown in – very much in the courtly spirit of the much‑lamented Charles II.

   And since your greatest‑in‑history is going to have a ballroom for three hundred mil or so, it’s worth recalling that floors used to be covered with straw or more elegantly with rush matting to soak up scattered food, spilled wine and excrement, canine contributions included – and when the smell got too much, they simply added fresh layers and a few ‘strewing herbs’. We mere painters know this from art history, because some of our colleagues with brushes – better or not quite so – carefully recorded the whole thing at the time. In the days before smartphones.

   What we don’t know is whether the blood spurting from the birthday punch‑up for his delight will come out easily enough from the noble floors of the White House – perhaps ask the ICE lads, they presumably have some experience in wiping away the traces of their activities for the good of the Nation.

   So then, folks over there across the pond, you’re in for a treat. Apparently the national parks will be open to all, absolutely free.

   Just watch it, though. From what we hear, he’s already sacked so many people at the NPS there’s hardly anyone left to man the gates, so you may find ICE lads sitting there in disguise and – click – one cute little snap on their funny phone and you’re a terrorist. Or they might just start shooting.

   Have fun, won’t you.

11 March 2026

happy birthday…

   We’re probably starting to bore you by now, but news of a birthday punch‑up… such refinement.

   A few loose ends remain. Gifts – at court, kings were given all sorts, pictures of course, even elephants and other exotic beasts. Your best‑in‑all‑history, who now appears to consider himself – what’s the word – divine, or at least specially anointed, has already had his Jumbo Jet. No word on the elephants. But he has had his portrait, from his closest chum, war criminal Putin – a handsome piece, naturally, in a suitably gilded frame, showing him personally saved by the Almighty from an assassination attempt, with the Statue of Liberty, the flag and assorted other trinkets in the background. Lovely. And that clenched fist. What he gets for his birthday – who knows.

   Still, in the best tradition of seventeenth‑century courts, the ruler also hands out presents. He gives shoes – everyone must wear them. Too tight, two sizes too big? Irrelevant. And he’s better than Louis XIV and Charles II, one has to admit, because he gives whole shoes; they only allowed red heels. They didn’t even give them – they merely permitted people to wear them. Further conclusive evidence that the chap is the greatest. Get that Nobel moving.

   And then there are the prostitutes – here too we have a clear winner. Kings did indeed have numerous ladies known as paid mistresses, but none of them ever dragged a monarch into court, and there were no photographs – apparently they hadn’t got round to inventing smartphones. They were showered with gifts too, of course, but it wasn’t hush money, and nobody tried to write it off as an expense. They brought presents as well: Charles II received a wig made from the pubic hair of his favourites. What your birthday boy will be given this year – who knows.

   Then there’s corruption. Louis XIV, in return for total loyalty, showered courtiers with lucrative sinecures, salaries and monopolies that allowed them to live in unimaginable luxury at the state’s expense. Charles II, the so‑called Merry Monarch, happily ‘sold’ privileges, aristocratic titles and lifelong pensions, and was so eminently bribable that he concluded a secret deal with Louis XIV – in exchange for hefty pay‑offs from the French king he promised to support French policy and convert to Catholicism. The pinnacle of political cynicism. Ring any bells? First correct answer wins a lollipop.

   A charming little detail, too – le lever. At Versailles the highest privilege was the right to hand the king his shirt as he rose in the morning.
   Who, at the White House, gets to hand him his underpants – care to guess? The lollipop’s waiting.

   For dessert, something special. Hatred. Your man over there across the pond hates so many it’s hard to keep track. Essentially everyone, perhaps, except that butcher in the Kremlin. Aside from himself, of course, whom he adores. And he has this little habit – mindless cackling and sneering at the victims. Charming, isn’t it? Charles II also had a rather distinctive sense of humour and was capable of genuine loathing. He staged a symbolic execution of the already deceased Oliver Cromwell, ordering his body exhumed and ‘hanged’ in public; then the corpse was beheaded and the head stuck on a long pole on the roof of Westminster Hall, where it stayed for over twenty years before a storm finally brought it down. Who among the departed enjoys such special affection from your greatest‑ever – who knows. Among the living there are so many candidates that we’re not even offering a lollipop.

   And that, as they say, is that. Let them beat the hell out of each other for the birthday boy’s delight.

   Who knows, maybe the chap will be having such a splendid birthday jolly that he’ll forget, for a brief, blessed moment, about B‑2s, F‑somethings‑with‑numbers and the rest of his favourite toys.

   As for us, to give you a breather – and to clear our own heads a little – we’ll leave you for a week or so to get on with the everyday trivia of our own lives. We’re keeping our fingers crossed for you, folks over there across the pond, and we can only hope that your unfortunate greatest‑in‑all‑history does not launch yet another ‘noble mission’.

   PS We haven’t heard of any conversion to Orthodoxy.

12 March 2026

seeing is believing

   Do you seriously doubt those lollipops we kept promising are real and waiting just for you? Think what you like about artists, but unlike politicians we’re not in the habit of making empty promises.
   ​Here they are, then – the Promised Land of lollipops.

   Enjoy.

15 March 2026

girl next door, in green

   We received an interesting letter from an Irish girl currently studying in Amsterdam. She claims she is not particularly taken with contemporary art, which strikes her as rather hermetic and, on the whole, incomprehensible. Our paintings, she says, are fairly straightforward, but what really interests her are our texts, which she says she has taken to reading. And she asked us a question – what, exactly, is the point of our writing all this. In her view, by addressing Americans and pretending to offer comfort, we are in fact running some sort of ‘awareness campaign’, which would make sense if we were reaching a mass audience – whereas lodging that sort of ‘campaign’ in the vicinity of art is doomed from the outset, as art, after all, interests only a small band of obsessives. She further suggests that our sense of humour, which she says she enjoys, is entirely unsuited to serious foot‑stomping in the manner of assorted activists, Greta Thunberg & Co. at their head.

   Well, we are not Greta Thunberg, that much is true, and activists we are certainly not. We do not dash about the streets with righteous placards, however justified they may be. We are not going to save the world. We are simply artists, sitting in our studio, painting pictures to music and wine. That is the job. And the texts? An awareness campaign? – heaven forbid. Not to repeat ourselves, but we have mentioned before that when, on our travels through life, we catch a splinter of some piece of crap with which politicians and other psychos enthusiastically plaster reality, our first instinct is to duck, hide somewhere, and occasionally scribble a word or two about it. And we really do feel for the poor sods over there on the far side of the big water – they are, to put it mildly, in the soup. So we would quite like to cheer up one or two tormented little souls. And since everything, for better or worse, reminds us of art, that is just how we are wired, we tend to draw on what we know best – the doings of the great and not‑quite‑so‑great wielders of brush and chisel – for clues as to where the madness of greedy chaps with monstrously inflated egos tends to lead. Because, hard as it may be to believe for some, not everything has always been available online. And so, from paintings – the proper kind, with canvas and paint and brushes and all that – there emerges a thoroughly terrifying picture of victims and devastation wrought in the name of some supposed superiority of one thing over another, religious varieties included.

   Thus, when a certain transoceanic ruler of the universe – or so he devoutly believes – hears a voice from on high instructing him to rebrand the Department of Defense as the Department of War and to put a religious nut‑job fundamentalist in charge, it becomes rather obvious that ayatollahs of every stripe will be having at each other. Which, indeed, they are. We know this tune from art history. The only difference is that the Crusaders did not have airborne cavalry in the shape of B‑somethings with school‑bus‑sized bombs slung underneath, nor missiles capable of picking out a single office window from a submarine launch, desk included. Fortunately for everyone, they did not have missile‑fitted submarines either. Incidentally, we do know simpler methods of moving furniture around.

   In short, to nod in the direction of certain philosophers and their idea that art goes in search of truth, we occasionally notice that fanatics will not believe anyone – for they are worshippers of Truth, not its seekers. They are convinced they know exactly what the truth is, and as for the question whether they can be salvaged, we have no answer. All we can do is keep pointing out that we have seen it all before – even if the tinfoil‑hat brigade, chemtrail spotters and a few others are relatively new, Nero, after all, survived, did he not. As a reptilian. Obviously.

   Back to the letter – she wrote that our notes, despite their fairly gloomy content, sometimes leave her happily buzzed, as if she had just smoked a joint. We are most grateful for the compliment, which pleasantly tickles our modest egos, and since St Patrick’s Day is just round the corner, we have something green for you, Irish girl in Amsterdam.

   Amsterdam, sure – just try not to smoke the place dry.

24 March 2026

intergalactic salvator

   Hey there, across the pond. The Intergalactic Portrait Gallery is back – miss us?

   On 3 February, at le vernissage – a proper opening, sure thing: guests, champagne, all the glamour – did anyone miss anything? Never mind, just fire up your imagination; there happened to be no cameras. We’ve already explained a thing or two about the portrait and written plenty, so, to spare you further suffering, let’s get down to business.

   Munich. Lovely city. It came into being when bison were still roaming Manhattan and pterodactyls were flapping over what’s now Fifth Avenue. Probably.
   Centuries later, in 1770 – what a date, right? – the Academy of Fine Arts was founded. The new building is a marvel; open, people‑friendly, a dynamic, modern shape. Not a single bloody gilded column in sight – if that brainless bag of guts and waters currently inhabiting the defaced shambles of the People’s House, courtesy of Stephen King, ever saw it, he’d order it blown to pieces.

   Munich has its dark, or rather brown, pages too – Hitler, beer hall, you know the drill, the Munich Agreement – Europe’s disgrace and a masterpiece of British naivety – and the Olympic tragedy of 1972. Plus the all‑too‑recent bellowing of J.D. Hillbilly, every bit as wise as his boss’s drivel. Calling for support for neo‑fascists in Munich? Truly delightful. Still, Munich is home to one of the oldest painting galleries in the world – the Alte Pinakothek – and in it Albrecht Dürer’s 1500 self‑portrait, Self‑Portrait in a Fur‑Collared Robe. The only example of such a self‑portrait in art history: already a solid reason to paint, in this manner, the man who fancies himself the only one in history – and the greatest at that. And let’s add that around the same time Leonardo (not DiCaprio, da Vinci) painted Salvator Mundi in the same frontal pose. And your guy, it seems, is convinced of his own divinity, or at least his sacred mission.

   So we’re dropping the previous charming gesture with the outstretched imperial finger. This time we go en face – you know the model already – though we skip the right hand raised in a kind of blessing.

   More about eyes in portraiture and other painterly mysteries soon, when we unveil next ones. Today you’re getting New Portrait, Take 1.

   Hallelujah.

25 March 2026

intergalactic, take 2

   You thought we painters just slap a bit of colour on canvas while sipping wine and talking nonsense – and that is that. Alas, no. Do listen. A certain John Constable, a respectable landscape man who more or less got stuck on the Suffolk–Essex border, was, in the 1820s, commissioned by Bishop John Fisher to produce a cycle of sketches and paintings of Salisbury Cathedral. Quite a trek from the artist’s home turf. Today it is, what, four hours by car – especially if you stop for a nice cup of tea on the way. Though we would advise caution there, as until quite recently it took roughly as long to fly from Moscow to London, even when, at Putin’s request, his lads were transporting a spot of novichok as a little something extra for the tea. These days it would probably be ballistic missiles making that trip, if anything. Or that sort of stuff.

   Back to Constable – that journey in a stagecoach would have taken him the better part of three days, one imagines; we cannot say for sure, as we do not tend to use the service much. In short, the painter made his way to his friend, the Bishop of Salisbury, John Fisher, and – skipping the finer details – painted exactly what the bishop had ordered: Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop’s Grounds. A lovely picture, cathedral and all, with the bishop himself out for a stroll with his wife – naturally, all in keeping with the decorum of the day. And then, bang – His Grace took exception to the cloud‑laden sky and instructed the artist to do it again, this time with a bit more blue peeking through. Because, as you lot over the pond surely know, in England there are clouds. Sometimes it even rains. You did not know. Do listen: ‘Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun, if the sun don’t come, you get a tan from standing in the English rain.’ That sort of thing.

   So the poor man painted the picture again, this time with more of that obliging blue breaking through. He left quite a few clouds in, mind you.

   Why the hell are we telling you all this, you may well be asking. Because we put our backs into it too, and we are not about to hand over the very first half‑baked portrait of your most illustrious leader that happens to fall off the easel – we need to try a few things, test this and that. Not to worry, no bishop is getting past the studio door; heaven forfend we should have some prelate fussing over what he does and does not approve of. We are not letting any ayatollah in either. One of them is currently parked in the Pentagon and has just recently dropped a bomb on his opposite number – professionally speaking. They have now elected a new one over there; we are not entirely sure he is still alive. In any case, no bishop, ayatollah or other holy‑roller is going to tell us what and how to paint. We decide for ourselves and we do the testing. That is how New Portrait, Take 1 came into being. Today it is the turn of New Portrait, Take 2.

   So that is all perfectly reassuring, obviously.

26 March 2026

eyes, right

   We’ve already mentioned the painterly technique of sfumato, Leonardo da Vinci’s little trick for making the eyes seem to follow you around. In our case it’s of no use – our sitter doesn’t understand a thing, so what exactly would those eyes be following? That’s what ICE is for. Once they’ve done their following, you know perfectly well what comes next. Not exactly cheerful.

   Back to Dürer and his self‑portrait: he showed himself in a pose previously reserved exclusively for images of Christ, yet there’s nothing blasphemous about it – according to Dürer himself, the artist has a sacred mission to seek out and reveal the truth. In our case, that perfectly symmetrical, vacant stare straight ahead embodies a rather different mission: smash whatever can be smashed, unleash chaos, and in the process pull off as many crooked deals as possible, ‘earn’ off anything that isn’t nailed down, hoover up as many ‘innocent gifts’ as that Jumbo Jet, and stuff the pockets of family and pals. Then try to persuade the voters that this is a sacred mission carried out for their own good. Quite an ambitious project for a guy who’s in close competition with chickens in the brain‑cell department, isn’t it?

   Our portraits also echo Dürer in colour: browns and black create a murky, ominous mood – very much in keeping with our times. Our sitter is spiritually at home in brownish atmospheres, oh yes – just look at ICE, those fine fellows from the Capitol attack or the other Proud Boys, with their brown‑shirt vibes and the odd swastika popping up here and there. That sort of thing. And given his deep friendship with the butcher in the Kremlin, red is very much his colour too.

   For now: New Portrait, Take 3.

27 March 2026

versailles on the potomac

   Still on eyes in portraits – but let’s pop back, just for a second, to that birthday and the promised little punch‑up at the White House. We’ve already touched on the courtly traditions of Louis XIV, once Versailles turned into a byword for industrial‑scale corruption, and things were hardly better in England under Charles II. And how are things in Washington these days? Hold that thought. Because facial expression – and the eyes in particular – is not just Dürer’s self‑portrait or Leonardo’s ‘follow‑you‑round‑the‑room’ trick. Rembrandt, in his many self‑portraits, also zeroed in on the eyes – often they’re the only fully finished part, while the rest of the face dissolves into smears and layers of paint, giving that unnerving sense of absolute honesty.

   In our case we, too, focus on the eyes – but honestly, spare us the idea of honesty, given that the sitter does nothing but lie. If anything at all in his brain – assuming there is one – worked properly, he’d have developed a squint long ago, or his eyes would’ve been spinning in opposite directions. Probably.

   The hypnotic eyes in Dürer’s self‑portrait, with their grave, motionless gaze, underline the dignity of the artist as a creator endowed with a God‑given gift. In Leonardo, the eyes don’t just look outwards; they seem to suggest a deep inner life. In our sitter’s case, the ‘inner life’ consists of scams and grift, and even with sfumato it’s hard to convey, in the eyes alone, the unfathomable depths of that particular cesspit. We, humble painters that we are, just can’t manage it. Sorry, folks. As for being blessed with divine talent, things are simpler here – our sitter is sincerely convinced that’s exactly the case.

   And the paintings themselves? As we’ve said, Dürer’s Self‑Portrait in a Fur‑Collared Robe is in the Alte Pinakothek in Munich. And Leonardo’s Salvator Mundi? Well, that’s where it gets a touch more complicated. It was bought by one MbS, the ruler of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia – he had 400‑odd million going spare, so he treated himself. Thing is, you probably don’t want to call him up to ask for a viewing, and you definitely don’t want to meet at the consulate, unless you fancy leaving in carry‑on sized pieces. The fact that this was his doing was confirmed by the CIA, the DNI and one or two other three‑letter outfits, but just as in the days of Louis XIV and Charles II, a couple of billion for some dodgy venture involving your ‘monarch’s’ nearest and dearest, plus promises of further squillions, were enough for the matter of the chopped‑up Washington Post journalist to stop being a nuisance in and around the White House.

   At the beginning, nodding to those old court traditions, we asked how things stand in Washington today. They stand as they stand.

   And now: New Portrait, Take 4. Perfectly safe to look at. Probably.

28 March 2026

mind games, dc‑style

   You already know your People’s House is going full royal court – the rabble kept at a safe distance from the ‘monarch’ for free, this time with a view thanks to giant screens rather than from behind barriers; twenty‑first century, not sixteenth. As under the Sun King, though, insiders and all the cronies will have the honour of watching the punch‑up up close – perfect chance for a quiet word backstage, fix a little deal, sort out a few bribes and concessions – only for him to stiff the lot of them anyway. That’s his one real talent.

   We’ve no idea whether the actual brawling will feature the heroic professionals from ICE, the Capitol‑hardened Proud Boys, or perhaps an international star turn – that stadium‑riot specialist and hotel pimp – but never mind: the main thing is that he’s a ‘friendly’ president from Europeland. As for breaking on the wheel, hanging and gutting for the entertainment of the mob and the birthday boy – we don’t know the details. But as they say, sky’s the limit. And that’s quite enough about the birthday punch‑up.

   For you lads over there across the pond, to soothe your tormented souls, we have the next portrait of your brainless bag of guts and waters currently inhabiting the defaced shambles of the People’s House, courtesy of Stephen King. We’re leaving the Renaissance masters and their magic eye tricks behind, because today is all about the contents of the sitter’s brain – assuming, of course, there is one.

   Here comes New Portrait, Take 5. Enjoy. But do remember: ‘Don't forget boy, look over your shoulder, ’cause there's always someone coming after you’.

29 March 2026

friends, foes and footballers

   It already smells a bit ripe coming out of Washington – and now, all along Pennsylvania Avenue, you can hear the squealing and wailing as well.

   Once upon a time, you folks over there across the pond had friends all over the world. For some, America was the promised land; for others, just a decent mate to have a drink with. Every now and then you screwed something up – but who doesn’t?
   Then your greatest‑of‑all‑time, proud recipient of the highly prestigious Footballers’ Peace Prize, crash‑landed in the White House, and that was that. He insulted friends, expected them to queue up to kiss his ass, threatened invasion and land‑grabs, slapped on tariffs, shouted at anything that moved, and cheerfully came out with: ‘if Europe is under attack we will never come to help you or support you’. Finally he kicked off a war in the Middle East without the faintest idea why, to what end or with what consequences. Naturally, he announced a colossal success and declared he’d already won it ages ago – only to start whining for help from his friends. And what do you know – they’d somehow vanished.

   Why? Damned if he knows. The poor lamb just can’t understand why Japan, Europe, Australia, Canada, and those weird but loyal Brits aren’t exactly queuing up to join in. ‘Not our war,’ they say. Ring any bells?

   Who’s left? His great pal in the Kremlin, whom he trusts and admires so much, is busy murdering Ukrainians. The increasingly square‑shaped Korean is tied up running the concentration camp he’s turned his own country into. Even the penguins on Heard and McDonald Islands aren’t budging, weighed down by tariffs. Burkina Faso, sadly, doesn’t have an aircraft carrier. Yet.
   So there he sits in his slightly oval‑shaped office, seething – squeaking and keening away.

   You may ask what any of this has to do with us, humble artists. We’re sweating over these portraits and trying to work out what’s going on in his head. We still haven’t found a way to paint the stench and the whiny squeals. It just doesn’t come off. So we scraped together what we could and here it is – New Portrait, Take 6. In biblical tradition six stands for imperfection, sin and human weakness – what an extraordinary coincidence. And then there’s its little side‑gig as a synonym for evil and demonic forces in the Book of Revelation. Fancy that.

31 March 2026

painting the nation’s soul

   Hey there, over the pond. We hear you’re hitting the streets in your millions, absolutely livid. ICE has not managed to kill you all yet, so things are not quite that bad. Still got enough cash for gas and something vaguely edible. Even better. Just watch yourselves.

   Your beautiful country used to be famous for its experts – a bit overpriced, perhaps, but not entirely stupid. They sacked most of them, and the few still wandering around the White House no one listens to, because why would they, when the place is run by the greatest genius of all time.

   In the noble cause of ending countless wars – Nobel, obviously – he went and started a new one a month ago. Having no idea what for, or how it is meant to end. How could he possibly know. As we wrote a month back: kill this one and that one, knock down this and that, and then we will see. We gallantly offered our ‘advisory services’ free of charge, because we knew exactly where this was heading: thousands dead, ruins and rubble, plus a nice side‑order of regional chaos. Experts, these painters? Hardly. We have just looked at a lot of paintings. They hang in various museums.

   One such specimen in the Brooklyn Museum – interesting case, that – a piece in the coffee‑house painting style, showing the Battle of Karbala, a full‑on religious narrative job. Small crowd scene, you could say, with one chap on horseback waving some kind of machete‑or‑sword around – the horse looking, facially speaking, not unlike that one from Picasso’s Guernica, if you squint a bit.

   Let us leave the horse. History has a habit of throwing up events that become absolutely fundamental to a nation’s sense of itself, and painters have been dutifully slapping them onto canvas. There was no TikTok, strangely enough. For you lot over there, until quite recently, that role was played by Howard Chandler Christy’s Scene at the Signing of the Constitution of the United States – all wigs, virtue and parchment. Until recently, because actually following the Constitution has, shall we say, drifted slightly out of fashion.

   For the French, it is Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People – Marianne with her breast out (obviously, they are French), that is Liberty for you, plus the tricolour and the rest of the revolutionary starter pack.

   The British, being the British, went for a painting of an old ship being towed off to the scrap‑yard: Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire – the hero of Trafalgar shuffling away to make room for the New, namely the industrial revolution. As a side note, those last two were painted at the same time, though the artists never met, merely respected one another from a distance – Turner being something of a loner, not much given to hanging out with colleagues, even if posterity now calls the pair of them the ‘godfathers’ of Impressionism. No mafia involvement, sadly.

   From such foundational images you get, as it were, the picture of entire nations – a sense of their soul, character, what makes them tick. You just have to look properly. Had any of the Washington geniuses currently betting that dropping bombs on turbaned bearded men in Iran – sadistic murderers though they are – would make them fold in minutes, bothered to take a trip to the Brooklyn Museum and look at that Battle of Karbala, they might have realised they were volunteering for serious trouble, to put it mildly. Because it is the story of a lost battle in which the Prophet’s grandson was slaughtered, and yet his martyrdom went on to become a central emotional cornerstones of Iran’s national identity.

   It is about ten miles from Fifth Avenue to the Brooklyn Museum. You could make it even in a golf cart.

1 April 2026

specimen on a leash, take 7

   We, mere painters, have set ourselves – let’s not kid ourselves – a hellishly difficult task: plumbing the depths of this particular specimen in order to paint his portrait. Peering into the depths of his soul? Does he have one? Picking apart the meanders of his psyche? Oh, come off it – we’re not psychiatrists. We don’t even own a couch. We certainly don’t suspect him of any ontological angst. We’re just rummaging for leftover scraps of iconography we can cobble anything from – which is a bit like poking about in a cesspit. Shady deals, kompromat, the leash Putin’s got him on and his mindless obedience, sexual kinks, hubris, greed – and how exactly do you paint that?

   So we stay with the brownish palettes of the Renaissance masters, where they read as nocturnal depths. In our sitter’s case they’re brown shirts on loyal squads led by the Hitler generals he so admires, stained with the red of the Soviet star and the hammer and sickle.

   Last time we noted that the poor lamb seems utterly unable to see any connection between abusing and threatening friends around the globe with invasions and tariffs, and their decision to blank him the moment he started whining for help. Then again, why on earth should he see it – a chicken, when it clucks, does not meditate on its ontological relationship to the coq au vin.

   Honestly, we’ve had enough of these gloomy depths he keeps looming out of like some ghoul. And we were supposed to be cheering you up, folks over there across the pond. So here comes the last portrait in this series, take 7.

   Future portraits will sport cheerfully colourful hues – a tiny, stubborn nod to the idea that even these dark times might, at some point, slink off.

2 April 2026

après‑impres

   As promised, we’re ditching the gloomy Renaissance nocturnes in favour of the cheerfully bright colours of hope for better things to come. It will. Don’t let them grind you down, folks over there across the pond – stay strong. And for heaven’s sake, avoid ICE like the plague.

   We shall also leave dear Mr Constable – dogged chronicler of English charms and his drizzle‑cloud‑and‑occasionally‑sunlight meditations – in peace, along with the reverend bishops, the ayatollahs and their bombs or other flying hardware, and turn our attention to colour.

   And if we’re talking colour, we’re talking Cézanne – daddy of modern painting, post‑Impressionist and all that. You know yourselves that in winter sports, alongside the bracing air and the majesty of the mountains, the après‑ski is what really counts. Cézanne had his own favourite mountain that he painted on a loop – or rather not the mountain itself, but the air between him and Mont Sainte‑Victoire. And although that was some 150 years ago, the mountain is still standing – that loony of yours didn’t fire off a B‑something and drop a school‑bus‑sized bomb on it, and the Russkies haven’t nicked it either.

   Leaving militarism and kleptocratic geopolitics to one side, let’s call our style après‑impres – a little bit of this and that rolled into one. Neat, isn’t it? You can tell him we said so; he should be thrilled – since he considers himself No. 1 at everything, he’ll now go down in art history as the first to be credited with a brand‑new movement. He might even pin a medal on himself or demand that his hangers‑on dream up some sort of peace prize for him.

   And we, incidentally, will bag ourselves a place in the textbooks alongside Cézanne, Picasso and a few others. Modest, aren’t we? Perhaps we’ve come under some sort of influence?

   And so the time has come for New Portrait, Take 8.

3 April 2026

con-artists vs artists at work

   As you may have noticed, Mark Zuckerberg isn’t in jail – naturally – even though he’s swiped a squillion books from some shadow library cobbled together by a few clever chaps, one of them, surprise surprise, being Mr Putin himself. We were moved, as we do adore books – quaint, isn’t it, this affection for paper in a world allergic to literacy? That gentle rustle of pages being lovingly turned, one by one. Some, however, are lovers of a different kind of rustle – the tearing of pages to feed the bottomless belly of the modern AI Leviathan. Burn the evidence afterwards, of course, and act like innocent lambs.

   A friendly tip, lads – before you torch the books, give them a read. You might stumble upon a few words about ‘Entartete Kunst’. Don’t feel like it, you lazy devils? Allow us to clarify: before Hitler started burning paintings, he practised on books. Just a pinch of history to spare your overworked Excel-addled noggins. You are, to be fair, world‑class art thieves. And yes, writers count, though one suspects that escaped your attention between private jets. Compared to you lot, dear Doris Payne, Arsène Lupin and Danny Ocean are toddlers filching fudge at a fairground, while Jesse James looks like a bedtime story sweetheart.

   Anyway, back to the portrait of the greatest-of-all-time. Nicks anything not nailed down – even turns a golf course into a cemetery just to stiff the taxman. Diddling the revenue – such wholesome fun. Almost as delightful as the smell of deportations in the morning. And naturally, his chum Vlad – always ready to bail him out, a real friend in kneecaps and kompromat – keeps the empire afloat. Everything he touches goes belly‑up, but the grin never wavers. That big, buttery smile, that smug respiratory wheeze of self‑satisfaction – we’ve tried to capture in our joyously colourful New Portrait, Take 9. As for the gloomy expression – well, truth does tend to seep through the laughter.

4 April 2026

the power of ten

   And so, step by painful step, almost on the sly, we have dragged ourselves all the way to the tenth portrait in this little series. What a number. Positively sends shivers down our overworked bodies – not to mention our thoroughly exhausted souls.

   The Decalogue – 10 commandments as the bedrock of moral order, unless, of course, morality is simply Me. Why not. I am the one sitting in the Oval Office. Off you go.

   Perhaps the Egyptian Plagues, then – 10 of them, a symbol of total punishment. Do you think he deserves the full set. Well, now, let us not get carried away. He is greedy, certainly, but there is always someone happy to share in the spoils.

   We are quite deliberately skipping this and that to avoid religious wars like the devil avoids holy water – good comparison. Perhaps not. Never mind, on we go – in mathematics it is the sort of completion, the number that wraps everything up.

   And then there is the number of fingers, with ten as the ‘measure of a human being’ – although they have not quite dried out the planet enough for AI to remember it reliably when churning out six‑fingered images of a human (in Its own likeness, perhaps).

   Meanwhile, in friendly Japan, ten – or rather ten thousand, as in banzai – is a shout of joy and greeting. True, instead of nine circles of hell they have ten ‘states’, with the tenth as hell but the highest as the state of Buddha – ten, in other words, covers the full spectrum of human experience. Where does our beloved hero land on that scale? Whoever guesses wins, naturally, a lollipop.

   And not so far away, in China, 10 stands in for heaven and earth, the whole package of existence. Nice touch.

   We shall leave the flat‑earthers and chemtrail enthusiasts to their World Government of 10 Regions, Beast With Ten Horns and Project Blue Beam, seeing as we are not psychiatrists but merely humble painters, who are at this very moment presenting you with New Portrait, Take 10.

   Hallelujah, as they say.

5 April 2026

brave new world, yet again

   Ah, books. We’ve already bored you senseless with Orwell – no need for a crystal ball to see the future when you can just curl up with Nineteen Eighty-Four. And yet there’s Huxley’s Brave New World, knocking about for nearly a century now. The title rather forces itself upon one’s mind when you listen to your chap ‘currently inhabiting the defaced shambles of the People’s House’, to borrow from Stephen King. The poor dear insists he is busy constructing precisely such a world – for your own good, over there on your side of the Atlantic. Sure thing. And naturally for the benefit of the whole of humankind. The book runs to about 300 pages, so you haven’t got a moment to spare, have you. Right then, picture a world where people are not born, but ‘grown’ into obedient citizens, thrilled with whatever scraps they are handed. They are fed a handy little narcotic that removes sadness and supplies happiness on tap, while anything remotely complicated or liable to provoke deep thought (say, the works of Shakespeare) is replaced with bargain‑basement entertainment. Brave New World, Make America Great Again.

   Some say the fellow has finally lost his marbles and is babbling gibberish. And we, being dutiful painters, lean over this filthy swamp trying to fish out anything we can glue together into a portrait. Well, art does demand sacrifice.

   And so, when we occasionally really listen, we notice a certain mechanism at work. There is, of course, not a shred of logic or sense in what he says or does – it is the usual madhouse stuff, patients hurtling from left to right until somebody lobs them a few pills or gives them a jab. Yet with him, amazingly, you can see a pattern – wherever he lays a hand turns immediately to rubbish, but on the one hand he is forever hunting for a victim to dump the blame on, and on the other for some willing mug to haul him out of the cesspit he has flopped into all by himself.

   Thus we have legions of culprits for absolutely everything, with Biden at the front of the parade – had I been president, there would have been no war. Then there is Putin, thug‑in‑chief, and why not, it costs nothing to say it, though for years he has been dragging our hero out of the fire – buying a hundred apartments here, almost a hundred million for a house there, which he then knocks down because apparently it was worth sod all to begin with. And so on – he has been snug in the pocket of the Kremlin’s resident murderer for years now. Kompromat does not hurt either. Meanwhile he is busy announcing one roaring triumph after another. Wars? He has ended so many he can barely keep tally, poor lamb. Nobel, Nobel, right this minute. True, there was that one he was going to wrap up in a single day, with a single phone call – did not quite pan out, seems to have slipped his mind. And this latest one, which he started himself, he can, naturally, end in two seconds flat. A whole two. Such modesty.

   And when it comes to being hauled out of his own disasters – though he swears he owes everything entirely to himself – we arrive, willy‑nilly, at the lamented Baron Münchhausen – the gentleman who, as the stories go, pulled himself out of a swamp by his own hair. Horse included.

   Such are the foundations on which your resident genius is busy erecting for you – and for all of us, whether we like it or not – that Brave New World. And we, humble painters that we are, stitch the whole lot together into New Portrait, Take 10.

7 April 2026

painting on friendship

   The Painting About Friendship
   Internationalism, you know, and all that.

9 April 2026

a kind of resurrection

   We always say we avoid questions of faith – like the plague, or like the devil avoids holy water, take your pick – and in particular we are terrified of religious wars. We know their results from art history. Bloody and horrifying.

   Easter. The big Christian one, symbol of victory over sin and evil and so on and so forth, we all know the drill. And, of course, the Last Supper. Which brings us back to Leonardo (again, not DiCaprio, sadly, but the old chap da Vinci). You may feel you know it all already – you have seen the film, perhaps even skim‑read The Da Vinci Code. Do hold that thought. One of us dropped the book after a dozen pages, having failed to reconcile the vision of a Louvre curator smearing a dying message across the floor with his own guts with the urbane Parisian gentleman‑intellectual he once met – the curator of the city’s premier museum of contemporary art. But then popular novels – and Hollywood in particular – have their own rules. Paintings do as well.

   Leonardo’s affair, for all that The Last Supper is treated as a cornerstone of European art, is a long way from historical truth, whatever that might be. The meal in question was a Passover supper, part of the Jewish celebration of liberation from Egypt. In antiquity – especially at formal feasts – the usual position was half‑reclining. This modern‑ish table (not from Ikea, admittedly), with chairs and diners laid out like actors on a stage, was standard pictorial practice back then; Tintoretto, Veronese and the rest. True, the latter had to change his title when his little party piece proved a touch too boisterous for the Holy Inquisition, who were not amused. They did not chop his head off, though. The artist explained himself along these lines: ‘We painters take the same liberty as poets and madmen.’ The halberdiers, he said, were there to show that the wealthy host could afford such staff. Ring any bells?

   Then there is the whole business of Saint John’s tender, almost girlish appearance. That, too, was very much the Renaissance manner. That is just how they painted at the time; Leonardo’s sketches and other works make it quite clear. And yes, he was homosexual. So perhaps we can leave for another day the question of whether Saint John in that fresco is actually a pregnant woman.

   And now – hop – straight to the modern‑day White House. The wealthy master of the house can certainly afford this and that, but this time without the halberdiers. A solemn feast, even if only a lunch rather than a supper, and nobody half‑reclining, though we cannot be sure the Pentagon ayatollah did not end up on his knees, possibly shedding the oversized shoes in the process. Still, the Department of Faith – or whatever it is calling itself these days – rose magnificently to the occasion by declaring that both Jesus and, well, you know, the host of this charming little do, are essentially equally ‘betrayed, arrested and falsely accused’. But of course. Direct parallels between the cruel fate of the Saviour of the Nation, the Greatest Genius of All Time, and the life and passion of Jesus Christ – laid on with a trowel. And just in case anyone had missed the point, we were further informed that his political career is ‘a kind of resurrection’. As for the man himself – classic performance: a discreet grin from ear to ear (for once without the full‑throated cackle), a gracious nod and a thank‑you. For what. For the plain truth, one must assume. And then that standing ovation. Positively heart‑warming.

   And what, pray, are we mere painters supposed to do with all this. Nothing. Just nothing at all.

10 April 2026

chickenland

   Springtime in the Italian south. We’ve wandered off into slightly forgotten farm country – no tour‑bus packs, no seven‑star resorts. Even our wheezing old van doesn’t turn heads, the locals drive the same sort of antiques themselves. The mafia clearly doesn’t bother either – nothing to shake down, no one to squeeze. Apparently.

   We drop into a roadside trattoria. Nothing fancy, but the grub’s solid; la padrona wipes her hands on her apron and asks with a smile if it went down alright. A few old boys are nursing wine, chatting in some unfathomable dialect, cracking jokes, laughing. Slow country vibes, like something out of an early Fellini reel.

   Nibbling olives, you can’t help noticing how blissfully far this modest little world is from the rumblings of the present. The yelling and name‑calling from across the Atlantic either doesn’t reach here, or if it does, nobody gives a toss. And so, like idiots, we drift back to the last headlines we heard – first, like some thunder‑chucking Zeus, he promised to blast one of the planet’s oldest civilizations to dust, then suddenly announced a gigantic success, his of course, and declared he was taking a break from the killing and ushering in a glorious new era of prosperity built on massive deals, obviously. A pause – all of two weeks – but we have a sneaking feeling there’ll be ‘issues’, seeing as no one seems entirely sure on what terms. Somewhere along the way he mislaid those little countdowns: war over in a day, five days, a week or three, 24 hours or 48 – plus the small detail he started it himself.

   Now, having been officially upgraded to Christ’s equal – by decree of the Department of Faith, or whatever they’re calling it this week – he’s free to save the World. Or nuke it, if he gets in a strop. Anyhow, some say he always chickens out. Who could we possibly mean? Anyone for a lollipop?

   Anyway, to clear our heads we hit the road again. A country lane threads between a few smallholdings and suddenly – out darts a chicken. Shriek‑clucking, she sprints straight in front of the van; we slow down, she keeps clucking and promptly dives back under the wheels. We stop. She shoots out from under the front, legs it towards a wooden fence.

   Clearly remembering her distant eagle cousins, she flaps her wings and takes off – not very high – and smacks straight into the fence. Thud. Down she goes, still clucking away. She looks thoroughly dazed.

   Guess who she reminded us of. Lollipop’s still on offer.

11 April 2026

einstein, eat your heart out

   Such is the maths, for a start. Whether pterodactyls could count to three, we paint‑slingers haven’t the faintest. But we’ve heard a thing or two about those big brain‑wave moments in how humans make sense of the world.

   Take old Euclid – knocked together geometry, tidied up the numerical dog’s breakfast, brought in logical proof and basically decluttered people’s heads for the next 2k years. All this back when your old chum Alexander the Great – the one who rode Bucephalus, not a golf cart – was busy conquering half the planet. History suggests it’s easier to take cities with a sword on horseback than waving a nine‑iron from a buggy.

   Back to maths: without the bright idea of inventing zero back in what you lot over there insist on calling the ‘Middle Woodland period’, today’s Silicon Valley IT bros would be out in the sticks herding cows. Or milking them. Possibly both. Very on‑brand.

   Cut to the relatively recent past: while Eugène Delacroix was sweating buckets over Liberty Leading the People, some crafty mathematicians asked the heretical question: ‘What if it’s not actually true that parallel lines never meet?’ Thus were born the non‑Euclidean geometries, and on the back of that some bloke called Albert Einstein did what he did. No biggie.

   There were plenty of other moments when the comfy old universe got turned upside‑down. When Heisenberg came up with his uncertainty principle, the Harvard maths lads basically announced that science had fallen into a world where the bottom had just dropped out. That was a hundred‑odd years ago but sure, maybe it really is time to yank the funding from Harvard and scatter that leftie rabble to the four winds.

   And so we arrive at the most earth‑shattering moment in the history of the cosmos. The Greatest Genius Ever has now made the ultimate scientific breakthrough. With a bit of help from Upstairs, mind – as recently confirmed in the White House by a certain lady in a god‑bothering sermon, or possibly an Easter service, hard to say. The guy has managed to twist space‑time, turn it inside‑out and perform calculations that make proving Fermat’s Last Theorem look like toddler homework during nap time.

   Your Genius‑among‑Geniuses first announced he’d end the war in 2 days, then 5, lobbed on another 10, then a few extra hours, got himself in a tangle, converted it all to ‘two to three weeks’, which suddenly morphed into 48 hours. In between, he declared – several times – that he’d already won the war, naturally billing it as the greatest victory in history, before bravely charging off to the golf course. When he waddled back, it turned out ‘American boys’ were dying out there, so he produced a long charge sheet of culprits, with lazy Europe at the top. And so on, and so bloody on.

   Everything suggests this unhinged lad has got himself stuck somewhere inside that inside‑out bit of space‑time and is lodged there for good. Obviously in the noble cause of science, future generations, massive economic success, zero inflation (possibly negative, hard to keep track), falling prices that somehow keep going up, and all the rest of the sales pitch.

   So we, humble daubers, dedicate yet another little picture to his torments, apparently on a par with the Saviour’s – or so assures us that lady from the Ministry of Truth, or possibly the Department of Faith – and we politely suggest the chap be checked into a nice quiet haven for similar medical curiosities.

   May Heaven grant Him – and all of You – a bit of peace and a breather,
   Amen.

12 April 2026

gospel according to golf

   You already know there have been plenty of great artists. Leonardo, for instance – and no, still not DiCaprio – plus a few other odds and ends. But this one has produced the Ultimate Masterpiece. Himself as Christ‑the‑Saviour healing the sick, surrounded by the devout and the gormless – nurse, soldier, possibly some ICE type – with a swarm of F‑numbered hardware in the background, the Statue of Liberty (of course), eagles doing fly‑bys round the flag, and what might be angels either descending or ascending, hard to tell. And that eternal light shining from his hand – temporarily standing in for the golf club.

   Previously he showed up as the pope, but who cares – that’s only the bloke keeping the chair warm in Rome. This time he’s gone the whole hog: the real deal. Adorable.

   And so our tireless imagination ushers us into the secret chambers of the Pentagon – possibly the very same ones where they recently hauled in the apostolic nuncio for a telling‑off. Allegedly he was treated to the line: ‘We have the power to do whatever we want in the world.’ That tracks. No word on plans to bomb the Vatican. Yet.

   Back to those Pentagon chambers. We picture the devout staff on their knees before this towering work of art showing the All‑Genius as Christ‑the‑Healer, when in He strides in person, to the sound of trumpets, naturally, raising that hand – from which the eternal light, or possibly a golf club, we’re not quite sure – points solemnly at the world map. A hush falls – graveyard level. And He intones: ‘The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men… And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.’

   He jabs at some random spot – maybe Greenland, maybe Canada – and, cackling, adds: ‘I’ma get medieval on your ass.’

   Possible? Who on earth could say.

13 April 2026

gott with us

   Well yes. We could bang on for ever about being as scared of religious wars as the Devil is of holy water – and it would still make no odds. Once you lads over the pond went and hired yourselves a raving holy warrior and handed him the Ministry of War, you were stuffed. Convinced, like his boss, that he’s on a personal mission from God, he’ll invade, lay waste and kill in the name of the Almighty.
   We call the bloke an ayatollah because the ones on the other side are real ayatollahs, bearded, sure thing, and equally convinced, so they can slaughter each other to their hearts’ content. The fine points of theology they can sort out later, still in the name of the Almighty.
   If He ever did poke His head out from behind the clouds and clock what they’re up to, He’d probably pack the lot off on some trans‑galactic package tour – for ever and ever.

   The Pentagon as a venue for pseudo‑religious covens – charming. First he hounded out the generals who muttered darkly about treaties, civilian protection and war crimes. The rest were told to pray for the success of a bit of genocide in the name of divine justice.
   For the record: Hitler’s soldiers had ‘Gott mit uns’ on their belt buckles.

   ‘A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again’ – that’s the evening’s mission statement from the capo di tutti capi who fancies himself as Jesus Christ. Who he’ll order wiped out tomorrow, who the hell knows.

   Seriously, do listen to us humble painters and stick the whole lot in the nearest loony bin. It’s already full of Messiahs, there’s always a Napoleon knocking about, and no doubt the odd trans‑galactic traveller on a brief stopover on this vale of tears. They can hold forth about the end of the world in perfect safety, and if they get too carried away, someone will give them a pill and that’ll be that.

   Amen.

   PS It’s Monday – time to sort the calendar out before the bloke blows the whole planet to kingdom come.

14 April 2026

do one, viktor

   Czech, our mate from Prague – you’ve heard of him before – has gone into full‑blown euphoria. Possibly ecstasy. Or something along those lines. As our self‑appointed Central Europe correspondent he writes in from Budapest – his sort‑of second homeland, what with the former Hungarian wife – and puts it rather picturesquely: ‘Putin and Trump up to their necks in the same deep shit!’

   Along with them – as he helpfully explains – a whole cohort of alt‑right nutters: your over‑the‑water hillbilly, plus the ex‑pimp and football‑firm thug from the heart of Euroland, all dutifully flying in to offer their ‘support’.

   So yes: Orbán, European poster boy for the Russo‑American crusade against Europe, lost. Badly. And the more they backed him, the more he tanked. Good old JD flew in in person and Orbán’s numbers promptly slid. Then dropped further when he whipped out his phone so the entire Hungarian nation could be blessed with the voice of the Great President – sorry, Greatest‑Ever. Officially, he was pondering the catastrophe in the Middle East, assuming he ponders anything at all. Or perhaps just galloping a golf cart round the green.

   His pal Putin, meanwhile, has lost a loyal footman. Orbán had been busting a gut wrecking whatever he could in Europe and, in the gaps between services to Moscow, was busily looting his own country. With some measurable success: he took one of the wealthiest states in the region and marched it to the brink of poverty and collapse. In the end people told him: do one, mate.

   Give it time – once you lot across the pond can’t afford any healthcare at all and a hot dog becomes a precious Sunday family treat, you might open your eyes as well. And clamp your hands over your ears.

   Our correspondent reports that Hungarians were especially pissed off to learn their foreign minister was personally ferrying confidential EU papers out of Brussels and passing them to Putin. And with the 70th anniversary of Soviet tanks rolling into Budapest looming, the older folk who actually know something about it had had more than enough of traitors.

   Funny, isn’t it – for decades the commies did everything they could to plant informers in the West; they sent in glamorous secretaries to snare politicians, blackmailed and tried to buy up anyone they could lay their hands on. Now half the planet seems full of useful idiots – people happy to serve Moscow for free or for some vague promise of dodgy business down the line. Putin doesn’t even need to send spies to Washington; he can just draft a ‘peace plan’ himself and have your Genius‑among‑Geniuses read it out as though it were his own.

   Ah well, the world turns, and we ordinary painters stick to our little genre scenes – and to the quiet pleasure of watching so‑called alt‑right warriors for the Almighty get their backsides handed to them.

   One does wonder, though, how they manage to cram into a single noggin the neat combo of ‘mission from God’ with flag‑waving for the hammer‑and‑sickle. Or the swastika. Quite often all of the above at once.

   Mysterious are the ways of the Lord. Human folly is easier to map – but sometimes, just sometimes, people do the right thing anyway.

15 April 2026

shakespearian parachuting

   Let’s have a little daydream, shall we. Imagine how lovely the world might look if politicians actually had two brain cells to rub together – say, went to the theatre once in a while, or spent a quiet afternoon staring at paintings instead of their own reflections.

   Take your unfortunate White House Wonder. If he spent his days that way instead of cooking up scams, fleecing everyone in sight, scheming how to screw the taxman while inflating his ego and feeding his kinks, he might just hear, from the stage of Henry IV, that ‘thou clay‑brained guts’ is aimed squarely at him.

   He might even stop bawling and bullying everyone from sworn enemies to so‑called allies if he ever took on board Chiron’s line: ‘Foul‑spoken coward, that thund’rest with thy tongue, And with thy weapon nothing darest perform!’ – Titus Andronicus, in case anyone nodded off at the back.

   And that brave little statesman of yours, the one who dreams of bringing the whole of humankind to its knees just to humiliate all of us – even at the price of trashing his own country – might be in for a shock standing in front of Velázquez’s Surrender of Breda. The victor there puts an arm round the loser in a gesture of dignity and respect for the weaker side. He doesn’t tell him to kiss his ass.

   Anyway, we got carried away, soaring through the rarefied heights of our overactive imagination. Time to pull the ripcord and come back down – preferably avoiding landing in the cesspit now oozing out of the Rose Garden and spreading nicely across ever larger chunks of the planet.

   Apparently it looks gorgeous from space.

16 April 2026

red-pilled kitchen duty

   Well now, who’s without sin, eh. Let’s leave the stones where they are – we, mere paint‑slingers, freely admit we got a bit carried away. That recent little fantasy of ours, with politicians hanging on every Shakespearean line from the stage or shuffling reverently through museum galleries en masse – yeah, that was pushing it.

   Because if politicians – especially the Big Three and their assorted hangers‑on – ever did hit the museums, God forbid they might stumble across work actually made by women. And not the sort where they’re suitably worshipping real macho supermen like those three, either. Then what? Blow up the museum and sic ICE on the leftie women artists? Torch the degenerate rubbish? Why not – Entartete Kunst has been thoroughly road‑tested. Cindy Sherman would fit the bill nicely. Burn that crap, and let the only things on the walls be portraits of the Greatest of All Time. Huge ones. Plus a couple of slightly smaller jobs of the other two, for now. All in gold frames, thick, heavily tarted up, naturally. Full baroque.

   Which brings us to an awkward question: what do you do with a Baroque woman painter like Artemisia Gentileschi? Pretend she never existed? Frankly, it’s a scandal they haven’t burned her canvases yet. A woman, and instead of staying in the kitchen she’s painting religious and history scenes. At 17 she painted Susanna and the Elders – and had the nerve to show Susanna visibly disgusted and terrified as the old blokes close in. She focused on the woman’s suffering instead of the peeping‑Tom fun for the bloke in front of the picture. And the fact she’d just been raped herself? Well, those were the times – these days even a 13‑year‑old can still fail to wriggle out of the Great and Famous One’s grabby paws. On top of that, after Artemisia was raped she bit back with Judith Slaying Holofernes – a woman calmly hacking off a man’s head in a spray of gore. Put all that together and you’re looking at the foundations of what we now call feminist thinking about art. Obviously – chuck it on the bonfire.

   So perhaps it’s safer if they just stick to praying during office hours at the Pentagon – as long as they don’t start calling for godless heathens to have their teeth kicked in, because once one ayatollah starts like that, another one’s on the line telling the faithful to slit infidel throats and the blood comes down like Niagara Falls. Unless, of course, they just bomb the whole lot flat as part of tidying up the 51st state.

   Make America Great Again. And the women back to the kitchen. Cook the dinner and clean the place.

17 April 2026

truth special

   “I just had EXCELLENT conversations with Jesus. We TWO have agreed That the highly respected Pope, who is Radical LEFT and may be STUPID, will HAVE to Admit that the wars ENDED BY ME, 10 TERRIBLE wars, maybe MANY MORE, entitle ME to the Nobel Prize, a knighthood, and whatever ELSE they have. It was a TREMENDOUS SUCCESS, obviously MINE, but also of the GREAT Secretary of State and the reverend OUTSTANDING Secretary of WAR, whose prayers were Heard by Jesus himself, because I told him SO. And he listened to ME, because he LOVES me. And just like ME he’s doing QUITE A LOT to achieve a Lasting PEACE. It has been MY Honor to solve 9 Wars across the World, and this will be MY 10th, maybe 20TH, so let’s, GET IT DONE!”

18 April 2026

sky is the limit

   Seeing as the lad likes to make a buck out of absolutely everything – up to and including turning his own golf course into a cemetery – why wouldn’t he open a little religious tat shop on Constitution Avenue? AI will churn out an endless supply of holy pictures with him as Jesus, or with the two of them in some mutually adoring pose. Perfect for Home Decor & Wall Art or First Communion gifts. And a rosary made of mini golf balls? Not bad, is it. Add some Faith Jewelry with quotes from Truth Social and it’ll all sell like hot cakes.

   All it takes is an Executive Order, and every ICE agent and assorted federal outfit will be obliged to buy the lot – and the cash will come rolling in.

   We’ve seen this sort of businessman before – the one who made a fortune on his own book, with government offices and schools buying it by the crate, obligatory wedding presents, staff awards and goodies for the boys at the front. The chap’s name was Adolf Hitler, and the respectable imprint in question was Mein Kampf.

   And in our little shop on Constitution Avenue the range will be extensive – something for newborns, old-timers and everyone in between. Not to mention those who can’t afford medical care – they can try to cure themselves with Anointing Oils or by picking up little bottle‑statues of you‑know‑who, filled with miracle water from Mar‑a‑Lago.

   Make America Great Again.

19 April 2026

rose garden zombies

   Might as well talk about ghosts, why not. There were zombies legging it round the Rose Garden, there were. And Lenin’s ghost is clearly hovering over the White House these days, given the blossoming bromance between the current resident‑who‑fancies‑himself‑a‑king and the thug in the Kremlin. Maybe it was Lenin’s hand that staff kept reporting as ‘The Thing’ pressing on their shoulder, like someone invisible breathing down their necks. Maybe it’s still at it.

   Whose ghosts drift over the ruins of the East Wing, who knows – could be Abigail lugging the laundry, could be the faint grumbling of the alligator that supposedly lived there for a bit. Assuming alligators grumble, of course.

   In our pictures, Shakespeare’s ghost has already been wafting about in the fumes of absurdity rising off the place and whatever’s going on there now, naturally. And now that the White House Family Theater has been reduced to rubble, both Shakespeare and the whole theatre‑of‑the‑absurd element in his work feel perfectly at home in the neighbourhood. Take a closer look at ‘King Lear’, for instance – the utterly bonkers fake suicide on the plain below Dover, or the Fool calmly exposing the king’s stupidity.

   May’s on the way, we know, then summer, and you lot are getting more and more hacked off about how much the petrol’s going to go up, so we won’t bang on. Take our word for it – Shakespeare can be painfully up‑to‑the‑minute. In ‘King Lear’ the old order falls to bits, grand gestures turn out to be pointless, suffering goes nowhere, and the world starts to look like a vicious playground where killing people is the fun bit.

   ‘’Tis the times’ plague, when madmen lead the blind.’

20 April 2026

ministry of truth, AD 2026

   Bored yet, folks across the pond, when we keep droning on at you about Orwell? ‘He who controls the past controls the future – he who controls the present controls the past.’ Fiction, right? Give it a minute.

   Remember dozing off in history class over those charming Soviet habits? They literally took printed encyclopedias, ripped out the pages with the now‑inconvenient ‘facts’ and slotted in whatever version the boys in charge were flogging that week.

   Time to wake up, lads. Your Very Stable Genius has lovingly fused Stalin with Orwell, sprinkled in the square‑shaped Kim from the concentration‑camp‑formerly‑known‑as‑North‑Korea, added a pinch of Hitler, and served up ‘Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History’. He has thus become the Greatest‑Ever‑In‑All‑Known‑Universes‑Chef, although his signature dish is, shall we say, a bit rough on the stomach. Try swallowing a purée of doublethink and ‘Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer’ – if it doesn’t choke you on the way down, it’ll come back up later. Bon appétit.

   You probably don’t know much about Stalinist soul‑engineering – why would you, when you’re busy trying to find a doctor you can still afford. Before you decide whether tonight’s steak is getting downgraded to a hot dog, lend an ear. In Russia they put up statues to a little boy, named ships and schools after him, because he was a national hero. His name was Pavlik Morozov. He grassed on his own dad. He was the poster child for building the ‘new man’, with informing on your family upgraded to the highest civic virtue. Ring any bells?

   We hear the Department of the Interior now wants people to report any material with a ‘negative tone toward past or present Americans’. Adorable. Maybe some kid will snitch on daddy because dad said something off‑message. The kid gets a statue, and daddy gets quietly evaporated by ICE.

   Make America Great Again.

   PS And here we are, Monday again – you lads know what to do with the calendar, don’t you.

21 April 2026

rothko & the chicken hangover

   Oh come on – questioning our mobility now, are you? Our slightly vintage Bus hauled us all the way to Florence, thank you very much.

   Because here’s the thing: there are shows worth seeing, and then there are the ones you happily drown in up to your ears and forget the rest of the world exists. ‘Mark Rothko in Florence’ – that’s what this little spiritual feast is called. Palazzo Strozzi, no less, plus a rather special dialogue with Fra Angelico’s frescoes over at the Museo di San Marco, and a neat, pocket‑sized display in Michelangelo’s library to top it off.

   We’re not going to write about it. Instead, ditch your over‑the‑water worldly worries and, if you’ve still got any cash left; if you haven’t yet been fired along with the pilots and the entire air‑traffic control system; if there’s still fuel for the planes and they even still fly; and if the quaint idea of ‘holiday’ hasn’t been outlawed – get yourselves to Florence. It’s worth it.

   As you already know, we then trundled further south, where we had our little adventure with chickens – see ‘chickenland’, 10 April. And now for the secrets of Italian cuisine – calm down, we’re not about to turn into cookbook bores. One provincial evening we treated ourselves to a very decent spread, with local wines to match, and planned to finish up with a nice, civilised caffè corretto. Our mate decided to keep going: Sambuca without the coffee, then a heroic dose of Strega, he didn’t turn down the local grappa either, and rounded it all off with an Amaro Lucano as digestif. On the way out we hit a stall and, under the spell of the evening, he bought himself a T‑shirt – a local take on the Last Supper, slightly mafia in tone.

   A hangover of biblical proportions next day, sure thing. Our landlady set about saving him with what she swore was a traditional home remedy – pastine rosamarina, normally fed to children but this time loaded with garlic and spices. And we’ve got photographic evidence, obviously.

22 April 2026

après nous, the gift shop

   Hard going, isn’t it – the ramblings of a bloke who’s already won the war, or will do it tomorrow, or next week, or possibly won it before he even started it. One minute it’s ‘a whole civilisation will die tonight’, then actually no, make that next week; we have a deal, we don’t have a deal; ‘Open the Fuckin’ Strait, you crazy bastards, or you’ll be living in Hell’, followed by ‘I’m closing the Strait right now, not a single ship…’. On and on and on.

   Anyhow, most of the time he seems preoccupied with a gilded ballroom for thousands of guests – maybe more – and little odds and ends like triumphal arches. In the breaks he careers round the green in a golf cart waving a club – an act of unique valour and heroism, clearly, so naturally he’s demanding the Medal of Honor. Good bit of shelf decoration next to that ludicrous Football Peace Gong, the samurai helmet – subtle nod to seppuku, perhaps – and all the other gewgaws, all gold, obviously. Full‑fat rococo.

   So, Madame de Pompadour. Remember her? We’ve dropped the odd hint about hairstyles. But back to painting – specifically to the genuinely tricky medium of pastel, usually used on a small scale, more like coloured pencils, really. La Tour’s pastel portrait of Madame de Pompadour is a near two‑metre giant, hanging in the Louvre (unless someone’s nicked it by now). Its importance isn’t in the virtuoso technique or the size, but in the objects she’s surrounded with. She was ‘only’ the king’s mistress, but her influence on the art of the period was as great as if she’d actually been running the show – and some people insist she was. The portrait is an intellectual manifesto, a visual endorsement of Enlightenment ideas against the wishes of crown and Church: encyclopaedia, sheet music, Montesquieu and Voltaire on the shelf, globe in the background – the whole lot signals her wide education and sets her up as a kind of intellectual leader.

   We laugh at rococo fripperies now and then, but there was a certain lightness to that style. The heavy baroque gilding got thinned down; dark reds gave way to gentle pastel shades.

   Whereas today, over your side of the pond, you can forget about lightness. Intellectual leader? Do me a favour. This is power carved with a blunt axe – if there’s gold, it’s ladled on thick and everywhere. Subtlety? Forget it – an itch for a grift with the Ruskies, treachery, scams played in broad daylight, no brakes at all. And the ‘portraits’, apart from the one from his pal in the Kremlin and, of course, our own humble efforts, are mostly Oval Office snaps. Behind him, a shelf nominally meant for books, crammed with golden tat – ‘gifts and trophies’, a football cup he half‑inched from a London club, and a line‑up of baseball caps. Nice, isn’t it – either bribes, nicked, or completely pointless.

   You’d have to say the bloke manages to lose even to Madame de Pompadour – the king’s mistress. And he’d quite like to be the king. But they’re all losers, him especially – nothing new there. What does link Louis XV’s court and his mistress to today’s Washington, though, is the motto: after us, the flood. Après nous le déluge.

   All that’s left for him is to turn himself into Jesus‑the‑Healer. Or the Pope. In the pictures, at least.

24 April 2026

free range, same cage

   Yes, yes, we were on about chickens – their intellectual habits just keep springing to mind, for some reason. Our little Italian adventure with the hen that flapped about pointlessly until she decided to take off and flew straight into a fence had, apart from the cheap laughs – sorry, hen – a slightly more serious side to it. And this quite apart from – well, almost apart from – your unfortunate chap ‘currently inhabiting the defaced shambles of the people’s house’. You know King, you know the line.

   Because this chicken was FREE. A specimen representing some infinitely tiny fraction of a fraction of a per cent of all the wretched birds being tortured to death by humans. Man – that sounds proud, doesn’t it. Allegedly. Let’s spare ourselves the details of beak‑cutting, of birds crammed in cages where they can’t move until they get so fat their legs snap and they die in their own filth. Not to mention the young cockerels – no eggs, no use – so they’re chucked into the mincer alive. ‘Man – it has a proud ring!’ – Maxim Gorky.

   We know, we know: for you lot across the pond, human pride is all about freedom and the chance to make it big; for Gorky it was more about a philosophical middle finger to humiliation. Besides, Russian classics aren’t exactly your specialist subject – you’ve got your own, after all: ‘All men are created equal.’ Are you sure?

   Our Italian landlady and her little smallholding reminded us of a rather rare and lovely Van Gogh – Old Vineyard with Peasant Woman. He did it just before he died, in the summer of 1890, mixing pencil drawing with watercolour and oils. A small work on paper – next time you’re in Amsterdam, go and see it before you get stoned out of your minds.

   Her place looked just like that sketch – and so did the chickens. After she’d rescued our hung‑over colleague with garlic soup (see 21 April, ‘rothko & the chicken hangover’ for the gory details), we sat out on the porch and she told us about her hens: how they come running, happy as anything, when she goes out to feed them; how a few even respond to the names she’s given them; how they live in peace with two cats and a dog. And when we told her about the hen’s heroic flight into the fence, she just said: ‘The chicken’s a flightless bird – but they don’t know that. They’ve got wings, haven’t they.’

   Minor digression: our little jokes about your, let’s call him ‘inhabitant’, having one more brain fold than a chicken are starting to feel a touch offensive.
   To chickens.

25 April 2026

nuclear mystic mentor

   We’ve set ourselves a modest little task in the studio today – nothing too ambitious, just the small matter of synthesizing, across the centuries, the great idols and mentors of history. And while we’re at it, why not chuck in a few supernatural forces and the odd ‘mission from God’. Easy, right. Still, we are nothing if not relentless in our quest for the painterly absolute.

   Take Alexander the Great – you know him by now, the one with Bucephalus rather than a golf cart. He’s said to have slept with a copy of the Iliad under his pillow because he wanted to match Achilles in courage and glory. Homer’s poem wasn’t literature to him, it was a handbook. Right then.

   Julius Caesar, for his part, wanted to match Alexander – which didn’t quite work out. He supposedly burst into tears in front of Alexander’s statue, complaining that at 33 Alexander had conquered the world while he had achieved nothing truly great. Nice. But that was all a long time ago.

   A little later, those two became the idols of one Napoleon Bonaparte. And so on and so drearily on.

   Artists have had their moments too. Leonardo (sorry again, folks across the pond – still da Vinci), the bloke behind The Last Supper, went off to train with Verrocchio at 15, but was so good he’s said to have plunged his poor master into such a state of depression that the latter swore never to paint again. No therapists’ couches back then – they were needed for other purposes.

   Van Gogh, meanwhile, owned hundreds of Japanese ukiyo‑e woodblock prints – he even copied some. Everybody ‘knows’ what to think about him, and almost everyone’s wrong. Even the chairs in his paintings may well have been inspired by Luke Fildes’s engraving The Empty Chair. Fildes was a painter and illustrator, big on the downtrodden poor but not above painting the odd grandee. That’s life.

   On the supernatural‑forces podium, however, you have to put tireless Salvador Dalí. Big fan of Leonardo too, and he did his own take on The Last Supper, naturally. Minor details like being the chosen of the gods or the reincarnation of some deity aside, he basically saw himself as a godlike figure, banging on about his intelligence and talent as a gift from on high that placed him above ordinary mortals. Ring any bells? He even invented nuclear mysticism – a kind of mash‑up of quantum physics and Renaissance painting, complete with levitation, disintegrating matter and rhinoceros horns spiralling through space. Don’t ask for details. Fortunately he confined himself to painting and talking – no aircraft carriers at his disposal.

   Which brings us, inevitably, to the chap who, in his own estimation, leaves all those warlords, artists and assorted worthies light‑years behind. We’ve already proved as much: Alexander, sword in hand, spurring Bucephalus against his enemies is a bit of a lightweight compared with our hero galloping a golf cart across the green, waving a nine‑iron.

   But this painting isn’t about him. It’s about the grand synthesis. So we decided to separate the sacred from the profane and leave the sacred side to the lady currently in charge of the Department of Faith – or whatever it’s called – who has already announced him as The Chosen One, essentially resurrected after torments worthy of Jesus, or something along those lines. We, humble daubers, have focused on the mentor. To begin with.

   There are two Vladimirs. One is still alive, sadly, and busy murdering Ukrainians. Is he a mentor? In a way, yes – besides the great friendship and heartfelt admiration there’s always the chance he simply has kompromat in a drawer. Who the hell knows. The other one, though – Lenin – fits like a glove.

   Does your earthly Saviour keep Lenin’s works under his pillow? No idea. But there’s plenty to suggest he’s marching step by step behind the great revolutionary leader who happily declared that dictatorship is power based directly on violence, unrestricted by any laws. Charming. And he acted accordingly. First he set up a body supposedly to fight sabotage, which moved smartly on to mass executions without trial. When he lost an election, he had the Constituent Assembly broken up by force. After an assassination attempt, he issued a decree on terror, deciding he couldn’t hold power on propaganda alone and would have to paralyse society with fear and remove anyone who might stand in his way – annoying intellectuals, officers, clergy, that sort of riff‑raff.

   To make sure our painterly synthesis really comes together, we’ve added appropriate decorum inside Comrade Leader‑Mentor’s noggin. No nasty symbols, just frills and gewgaws fit for a bit of nuclear mysticism – minus the disintegrating matter and rhino horns.

   Nice and synthetic.

26 April 2026

being and hens

   All right then, now that we’ve more or less rehabilitated ourselves in the eyes of the chickens – we hope – time for one more little reminiscence. A lazy sunny afternoon at our Italian landlady’s place in the countryside. We’re sitting out on the porch, one cat stretched in the sun, the other nowhere to be seen – probably sleeping off the night’s antics, as we spotted him this morning with a torn ear. The dog’s flopped in the shade and pays no attention to the hens pottering about. Peace.

   And to think we’d always associated chickens with chaos and pointless running around. Just look – no rows, no pecking their feline friend, no abuse hurled at anyone, no pointless clucking at the dog – their bodyguard if some sly fox or other suspicious character shows up. Turns out they’re not stupid enough to pick fights with their mates. Ring any bells? A lollipop awaits the winner.

   And a few words on beauty while we’re here. We are artists, after all – of course we are – and aesthetics and its endless theories of beauty are very much our thing. We did a bit of digging into chickens and it turns out some of them are downright magnificent: so colourful and so proud in their very being that you start to feel they deserve a proper term for ‘chicken‑being’. Keen philosophers may wish to consider Heidegger’s Sein or old Immanuel’s Dasein. As for the finer points of Bestehen versus Sein, let’s leave that alone before we annoy Wittgenstein.

   Remember Hyacinthe Rigaud? The lad from Perpignan who painted Louis XIV like the world’s most over‑decorated cake? One imagines your poor ‘inhabitant’ is similarly convinced of his own awesomeness – so convinced he insists his delightful visage should be everywhere: from rags dangling off buildings – his name on them, naturally – to money, passports, access cards for absolutely anything and the hell knows what else. Not to mention warships, planes, railway stations, airports, stadiums – all bearing his name. Perhaps a charming little portrait on the bombs as well? The school‑bus‑sized ones.

   Back to ornamental chickens. If your transatlantic ‘inhabitant’ could muster the slightest flicker of self‑reflection, he might glance at a photo of one of these splendid birds instead of gawping into a mirror or gazing adoringly at that picture of himself with the thug Putin he’s hung somewhere in the ‘defaced shambles of the People’s House’. After a spot of fact‑checking he might even conclude that they’re not only smarter, but better‑looking too. Ah well, one can dream. Self‑reflection! What a ridiculous idea, even we’re surprised it crossed our minds.

   Besides, rumour has it he’s already cooking up a new Executive Order and fact‑checking, as a clear threat to national security, is going to be banned outright. Anyone caught practising this hostile propaganda will be rounded up by the brave warriors of ICE and shipped off to El Salvador. Or to Florida, for the gators.

28 April 2026

nuclear mystic mentor, take 2

   Since you’re now acquainted with the source of the decorum inside Comrade Leader‑Mentor’s noggin – a quick reminder: when the Soviets decided Lenin was the greatest genius of all time, they lovingly turned their attention to his brain. They established that he did, in fact, possess one, so they scooped it out and sliced it into wafer‑thin sections. Thirty thousand of them, give or take. Fancy that.
   All this a good century ago – back when Russia had virtually no roads, but someone rich still had a Rolls‑Royce. So Lenin, while still among the living, relieved the chap of his car and had it turned into something between a farm cart and a tank – tracks, canvas roof, the lot. Plus the Spirit of Ecstasy still on the bonnet, obviously.

   Back to the grey matter. These days, with nanotech, poking at quarks and assorted bosons in the Large Hadron Collider, and every other miracle of chopping matter into ever smaller bits, you could slice the contents of one skull into far more, far thinner little wafers – purely in the name of science, of course. The Russkies already have their Moscow Brain Institute with Lenin’s brain on slides and what’s left of Stalin’s tucked away somewhere too. One assumes they’re just waiting for the next VIP patient.

   And you lot, over there across the pond? You’ve got the Greatest‑in‑the‑Universe, officially anointed into the bargain. No doubt some people expect him to live forever – why not. But should anything, heaven forbid, fail to go entirely to plan, then alongside the triumphant arches, ballrooms and other facilities bearing his name, there really ought to be a scientific trace of his genius as well. Nicely sliced.

   Which brings us to our latest portrait of Comrade Leader‑Mentor to your earthly Saviour, violet one for a change, complete with appropriate decorum. No slices included. We did, however, treat him to some old‑school magic exposure, the kind they used back in the analogue days. Just to brighten things up a bit for everyone – including him. He is lying there in his mausoleum on Red Square slowly rotting away, so the poor lad might as well have a little extra radiance.

   And on that note, we are abandoning you for a few weeks – heading off on a trip across half of Europe until we wash up in Italy again. Venice. Biennale is coming. We will report back.

   Take care.

19 May 2026

free vodka, dead serious

   Been a while, hasn’t it. Miss us?

   We also popped over to Venice. Biennale, obviously. The Giardini smelling of spring just after the rain, right before the official opening – big noisy party and free vodka in the Russian pavilion. We watched a merry little queue of Russkies and assorted other nutters lining up. Getting plastered for free and having a great laugh to celebrate Ukrainians being murdered – a charming ‘artistic’ concept dreamt up by two ladies educated in London and New York, naturally; both, as it happens, daughters of top‑tier Russian political gangsters.

   The American pavilion? Boring as boiled cabbage. The curatorial text, though – a standalone ‘artwork’ in the noble field of high‑grade waffle about this, that and the other.

   One of us was at the Biennale fifteen years ago and saw Allora & Calzadilla’s Track & Field – a 60‑ton tank flipped upside down, tracks in the air. A treadmill bolted onto one of the tracks, and up steps an athlete – a member of Team USA in athletics – and starts to run, getting the tracks moving. A strong piece: parody and critique of American militarism. The mighty war machine rendered useless and reduced to servicing a pointless burst of physical effort. And sport exposed as just another bit of propaganda kit.

   You may recall we said art can be prophetic. That’s the point of the avant‑garde – it gets there first, sniffing out what’s coming before everyone else has a clue.

   Many happy returns.

20 May 2026

nothing new, great again

   Yes, we’re back. And we’ll keep it short – apparently no one can be bothered to read anymore. Well, almost no one. We hope.

   So what’s happened in our little absence? Seems like nothing new. The bloke has, in his own mind, notched up a few more gigantic wins, ended the very war he pointlessly started – several times over – and still isn’t remotely troubled by the fact he’s had a few innocent people slaughtered in the process. Including over a hundred schoolgirls. A couple of towns flattened, his own soldiers chucked into the meat grinder, America’s face and wallet dragged through the mud, and the rest of the world nudged a bit further into chaos.

   Make America Great Again.

21 May 2026

thirty doctors late

   In the pub where we were demolishing our lunch, someone turned up the TV – up till then the mute talking heads were just blinking away on the screen, not spoiling the jazz in the background.

   ‘Growing doubts about his ability to remain in office. Thirty American doctors have voiced concern about his mental and physical state, pointing to signs of cognitive decline and increasingly impulsive behaviour.’

   A shrug here, a little snigger there. We asked them to turn the sound back down.

   Thirty doctors, really? And we’ve been saying for ages he should be packed off to the funny farm.
   Listen to the artists and the world might actually improve.

22 May 2026

marble, waffle & no birthday, luckily

   Venice, Biennale – you know the song by now. We already mentioned the curatorial heroics in the US pavilion, solemnly proving the existence of Deep Content in a bunch of very boring objects. Blobby marble not‑quite‑anything, allegedly hewn from the very same stuff as the Lincoln Memorial; something like a cactus in polished bronze; and a few wooden whatsits – American wood, naturally. The whole thing courtesy of the State Department, so officially it was there to promote the idea of American exceptionalism ahead of the big 250th. And that’s them showing restraint – at least it wasn’t about the Birthday.

   Thing is, we artists generally like working with curators – they can spot things we’ve missed, lob in an interesting idea or two, that sort of thing. But then there are the other kind. The ones who doggedly try to prove God‑knows‑what in prose so twisted it should come with a health warning. They race each other to produce ever more contorted verbal gymnastics, apparently just to impress one another, with the foreign‑words dictionary running at full tilt.

   And if, on top of that, you throw in a guy who’s not exactly an intellectual heavyweight – say, good enough for a Florida pet‑food store – but desperately trying to please a government that has no idea what it’s doing or why, the result can only be as inspiring as the show itself.

   Yes, curators can be annoying.
   But they’re mostly harmless – unlike politicians.

23 May 2026

swastikas, lilies and wifi

   We’re not banging on about Venice just to have a moan. We did see a few glorious things in the Giardini, the Arsenale and beyond. You can read about them all over the internet, of course, but nothing beats actually walking into the Mystical Garden – tucked away in the Discalced Carmelites’ cloister in Cannaregio. Other‑worldly music by Holly Herndon and Mat Dryhurst in your headphones, plus sound pieces by the likes of Patti Smith, Brian Eno, FKA Twigs and Jim Jarmusch. A downright miraculous event laid on by the Holy See – mercifully, your deranged Leader isn’t the Pope. Or Jesus.

   The Canadians, meanwhile, managed to splice the history of British colonialism with the geological history of the planet – their pavilion turned into a mist‑filled greenhouse with a huge mirror‑pool in the middle. Floating on it: gigantic water lilies. Properly magical.

   And then there’s the gut‑punch masterpiece in the German pavilion, titled Ruin, by Sung Tieu and Henrike Naumann. The Home Front, Naumann’s section – who died just before the opening – brilliantly evokes life in eastern Germany after reunification. Tieu, for her part, has skinned the pavilion’s fascist façade with a mosaic of windows from the socialist housing block in East Berlin where she grew up, folded into a quietly devastating story about Vietnamese contract workers in Germany.

   What’s the point? The German pavilion started life in the early 20th century as a light, vaguely classical building. After the Nazis took over, Hitler and Goebbels ordered a makeover, trashing the classical grace and turning it into a hulking lump with square pillars and ‘GERMANIA’ carved over the entrance. That’s still there – after the war they just prised off the eagle and swastika and called it a day.

   It’s a tricky space for contemporary artists. Turning it, even notionally, into a socialist tower block from East Berlin – wrapping a fascist shell in the crumbling skin of communist architecture – shows how easily one regime of exclusion gets swapped out for the next.

   Swastika and hammer‑and‑sickle. Same hymn sheet.

24 May 2026

seven years of not shooting

   You already know this bit: one of us – a terribly gifted artist, like all of us of course – did a stint in maths and the more unhinged corners of theoretical physics before he washed up at art school. Bright lad. And unlike your transoceanic ‘Inhabitant’, he can actually count. He can tell 48 hours from two weeks, two from five and ten – and, astonishingly, even more than that.

   So while we were half‑joking, listening through the crackle of our car’s analogue radio to how your government was cooking the books on the cost of the latest war – and how magnificently your economy is being shafted – our friend was quietly doing sums. Then he announced his findings. Listen up:

   Roughly 700 million people on this planet are going hungry, and every day about 10,000 children die because they’ve got nothing to eat and no clean water to drink. The average cost of one life‑saving meal is about 42 cents. On the modest assumption of one such meal a day, feeding one person on the brink of starvation for a year comes to roughly 150 dollars – and giving them clean water costs about 15 dollars a year.
   If you take the real costs and losses to the US economy from your latest little war – somewhere between 600 billion and 1 trillion dollars, so let’s split the difference at a neat 800 billion – that means that, by not invading anyone (for reasons no one can quite explain anyway), you could feed and give clean water to every starving person on Earth for seven years straight.

   You get a Nobel for that sort of thing, easy.
   And you don’t even have to bawl your eyes out about how much you deserve it.

26 May 2026

papal weather report

   A word made flesh at last… Congress is to be dissolved, and the Pope will duly enthrone Melania Trump as Queen of the United States. Lost our marbles? Not in the slightest – after a stretch on the road we’re back to our humble little rituals, scoffing breakfast in a pub garden and catching up on the papers. Wars, corpses, rubble, politicians – same old, same old. Still, the sun’s out, it’s a May morning. Birds chirping. And then – bang. This inspired notion of a Queen of the USA is not some AI hallucination or a half‑baked meme, but the perfectly serious future‑vision of one Gladden Pappin, allegedly a person of consequence somewhere in the White House vicinity.

   May the Almighty keep you safe, dear folks across the pond.

   Hallelujah