The Land of Bland

Yes, welcome to the Land of Bland, the Kingdom of Boredom, Home of the Inconsequential. Welcome to a place where everything is neat and tidy and on-time, where struggle is pointless.

What to see? What to do? Where to go?

All pointless.

All the same.

No ups and downs or even sideways. A misstep here, a mistake there and you end up in the exact same spot as if those steps and stakes had never been made.

Yes.

Welcome to Soybean Island!

There is nothing more to report. Oneninefiveseven over and out.

Goodbye from Soybean Island

More Art, Art Thou

I continue with my examination of public art here in the un-public arena of Soybean Island. Why? Because, I can.

This work and the following ones are from The University of Soybean Island--just south of Snailtown. There are other works scattered around the campus, but I did not scatter myself around so these examples will have to suffice.

I do not know what to say about this:

other than what it says about itself. I do notice that the creature in the bowler hat, being attended to by some small faceless grandmotherly minion, is slowly bleeding to death from his feet. I do not know why this is.

Here are some interesting ones:

For me, this depicts the intricately convoluted metallic web of of modern life--or at least the semblance of life here upon this desolate-ish isle. Or, maybe not. Maybe its but an odd yoga warrior pose . . .

Here we have a sharp, thin, ant like creation--a warrior ant! And as you can see in the bottom profile, it is almost one-dimensional. Not that ants are one-dimensional, but the rulers of Soybean Island are.

Okay. Let's move on:

Above, we have slave laborers cleaning up the spilled coins from an Elite's pocket. These coins look somewhat American in size and shape, though the locals would not know that as they have never seen an American coin or any coin other than the Soybean Island Dollop . . . Anyway, what follows is quite the feat of creation!

Yes.

I think you are allowed to sit upon them, in the shade of the tree, or the sun, or in the snows of winter.

I like these feet. I did not smell them.

Here we have the more typical type of artwork found upon the island:

A series of scrolled cage-like metal barricades.

Beautiful, in a prison-like manner.

The piece below I found rather interesting:

A blank black sign against a sun-struch marble wall. It says nothing to me. It says nothing to anyone.

Nice.

And here is a funny one:

Wow!

A fallen pillar of an ancient temple? (Possibly based upon the Eye-Nye Habs????)

A monolithic stelae? Mesoamerican or Paleo-Javanese or Scandinavian or Imaginarian?

To be honest--and I try to be honest, even when I'm not--it looks rather new to be old. Still, I don't know why it has fallen and sunk into the generous Soybean island soil.

Perhaps the last work explains that:

Yes. "Good Drainage" is the name of this one. No doubt it's very popular among the denizens. If the fallen stelae only had such good drainage it would not have fallen.

Well--that's it. I will continue this look-see at art.

Yes.

I will.

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Art for What's Sake

Now in the deep doldrums of a Soybean Island Summer--aye, in the doldrums of my incarceration upon this isolated splot of land--I have given myself ersatz projects to perform. Missions for my listless days and lassitudinous mindset.

One of these projects/missions/quixotic-non-adventures was to find and view (and catalogue for the free world to see) the artwork here on the island.

Though not all that difficult, it is nonetheless an uneasy task . . . Artwork--public artwork in public spaces--is there simply because it is there. That is, it exists because the powers who put it there think it should exist. It is an expression of expectation. A display of some psychological attempt to pacify the people into believing that they live in a nice society because, well, look around--there's artwork in our parks! In fact, there are parks!

I suppose that makes little sense to any of you who live outside of Soybean Island. You fortunate souls.

Perhaps a few photos are best . . . But first, this preface:

Setting out to see some artwork--statuary, I should say--I began my journey in Carretorgetplatz Park.

Why?

Well, as I like to say, "Why not?"

What follows is what I saw:

This edifice was erected in 2001, it says. A somewhat strange piece for the space--a space oddity, you could say . . . But, along with the following photo, it quite matches the bland surroundings with its bland and squarish design.

Nice! If only there were a depiction of an ear of corn within the gray square . . .

Here is a bit of metal scrollwork:

Here is a bit of metal face work:

The above, possibly a homage to the plastic surgery industry, most likely honors and glorifies the facial-recognition technology used throughout Soybean Island . . .

Anyway, more art . . .

Ah. Metal. Silver. Curves. Thin, bladed, sharp-edged with blunt trauma intrusions. A decapitating piece!


Here are some very interesting figurative works which deserve some contemplation. They exist separately but also as a whole beneath a grove of trees. Look:

This, obviously, depicts a boy picking ticks off a stray dog so that he has something to eat because he has been abandoned. The dog, as you can see by its unnatural posture, has been forced to submit to the homeless, starving lad.

Here we have yet another sad, hungry male youth who stands waiting for something to happen, anything, someday, somehow . . .  But in the next exhibit, we see what is waiting for him:

Yes. An unmarked grave . . . Well, not unmarked, but a gravestone lacking any pertinent inscription, that's for sure.

But cheer up--look at the next piece in this grouping:

A horse! A boy and a horse! A boy's and a horse's posterior! They are looking at the boy and the abused dog, no doubt salivating . . .

And here, a toppled unmarked gravestone!

All in one place!

Let's look at the tick-picking boy once again:

Fascinating!

And the horse with the boy, anterior:

Why is the horse smiling?

Why is the boy touching the horse?

Are there enough ticks to go around?

I think these boys are gathered here with the animals because there are no girl statues present.

Anyway, here's one more, rather pointless, photo:

Good.

But, there was more to see:

This, I think, shows us a stylized great marlin covered in blood and jumping for its life out of the heavily-mowed sea of grass.

A closer look shows us the empathy the locals have for the sharp, slicing, metallic features hewn into this fishy statue.

Here you can see the care and craftsmanship that went into the welder's labor to make this bloody obelisk come to life.

I was moved.

Well, I moved on . . .


What follows is the last work of art I looked at at Carretorgetplatz Park.

It is the only work that I felt a true connection to.

I think words are unnecessary.

Yet, here are some words anyway:

What we see here is a work of grace and subtlety. The fine ironwork and shiny hexagons give it a spidery and simian feel while overall it looks like a complete mess--a mess with a certain wiry order, if you will. And color! Yes. It has color. I can say that. I can also say, I like it quite a bit. Yes. I actually like something!

Ah well. Perchance I will visit Carretorgetplatz Park again.

Then, again, I may not.

But I will search out more art for the sake of searching out more art. I promise.


Oneninefiveseven reporting for all to see.

Until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

A Grave Sight

I was tromping along the neighborhood (as it were) recently and came to the park closest to my Apparatus-approved-and-provided apartment (as it were). That is, the infamous Ark Ark Park:

This was by no means unusual.

And certainly I saw more by-no-means-unusual things:

A pointless wooden post,

small colored plastic flags,

and a jumble of murdered sticks.

Yes.

And then I saw this:

Okay. This also is not so unusual . . . But what's that inside the bright orange plastic fencing?

Black dirt.

Fresh black dirt. So fresh and so dark and clean in its rich loamy darkness that it frightened me. Enough so to render the photo on the blurry side!

Look again!:

What is this for?

Normally it is some mechanical device or simply more fencing behind the fencing but this was pure island soil! It was a freshly dug . . . Some thing for some reason in some mind under some orders from some one some how and some why dug this  . . . in order for some other thing or one to be buried.

Buried, I say.

And I can say no more.

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Bilingual Park

Good dog how I hate this place!

I suffer in its maddening blandness, its kingdom of cultivated boredom, its populace of smiling self-salesmen and polite non-politics and consumer consumer consumer of all that truly makes us human. Duplicity hangs like an invisible smog above the squat towns and flat fields of agriculture, blatant willful ignorance like radon or some inert gas that gasses all who go about their daily dailyness upon this truncated island in an un-viewable sea . . .

Good Dog!


There.

Now I feel slightly, smidgenly, better.

Okay--I went to see a new park--new to me, at least--which for unfathomable reasons is named Bilingual Park.

I saw no attempt at bilingualism during my walk.

What I did see was the usual usual for a park here on Soybean Island:

Yes, the same old same old and more of the same old same old--that is, trees, open spaces, mowed grass, a hint of water in manmade drainage controlled fake ponds. Yes.

How lovely.

There was also one duck:

I do not know if this was a real duck or a mechanical duck. There are more geese than ducks in this place--that is, upon the island as a whole--and at times there are more robins than geese. I suspect that some of them are not avians at all but rather are mechanisms in the employ of The Apparatus in order to spy upon everything because that is what The Apparatus does. Feathered drones . . .

I kept walking (what else did I have to do in this linear park of open spaces?) and came across a number of the old standbys:

Of course a post--metal--with a strap of plastic.

And a fence to hold back the weeds from getting to other weeds:

And--behind yet another fence--mysterious doors in a mysterious squat building:

Wow.

And no stroll on Soybean Island would be complete without seeing some nice drainage:

Phantasmagorical!


Well, I kept at it, despite my disappointment in Bilingual Park. Really only one--well, two--things brought a nugget of cheer to my depressed iron soul and it was this (these):

A tree, like me, trying to escape its hideous environs!

And:

The escape hatch in the soil the tree is attempting to reach (albeit very very slowly)!

The hatch, I believe, leads to some underground railroad for escaped arbors . . . If only I were a tree.


Onward through the park. No one was around--not even a stray mower or weed trimmer or parole officer.

I could sense a change come over the landscape as I made my way deeper into the bland triviality of the place. Quite quickly quiet it was darker and there was a soft trickle of Rutabaga River Tributary water . . .

Hmm and more hummus. This was unusual--to me, to most, to the habitat of Soybean Island.

Then I saw this!
Look!

Ancient scribbling from the Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs!

And then I was in the darkness. The darkness was in me. We were one. Or I was one and it was two or it was at least a shadow and more and I saw quite the eyeful of activity--well, not activity, but evidence of activity:

Oh my dog! The defacing and edifying of Apparatus material! I was stupefied! Pleased! Hot and sweaty!

Just what was going on? . . . Well, I was going on . . . And this is what I found next:

A tunnel . . .

And at the end of the tunnel, I saw this!:

Look at it for a while. What do you see?

I don't know either. But it is equivalent to Lascaux! It is a stupendous work of primitive genius! A work so resplendent it appears to be foolish on the surface . . . If only, if only I could decode and decipher and comprehend what and why and who and and and . . .

Alas.

I had to leave.

I was quite frightened that I would be discovered for discovering this place.

I will have to return. I must cogitate and meditate upon what I have seen.

This is oneninefiveseven reporting . . .

Goodbye from Soybean Island