NICK STOLLE DOT ORGASMS

HEY, I HAVE MADE A HANDFUL OF NEW PAINTINGS IN THE LAST FEW WEEKS. THE ABOVE IS ONE, YOU CAN BET YOUR ASS IT IS. IF YOU LOOK TO THE LINKS AT YOUR RIGHT YOU WILL SEE ONE THAT READS ‘OH GOSH.’ CLICK ON THAT ONE TO SEE THE REST OF THE PAINTINGS.

I DON’T KNOW WHY I MAKE MY WEBSITE NEEDLESSLY OBTUSE, EITHER. : [

YES, I DO. : ]

WAIT, I’M SORRY? : \

I WAS PLEASED TO PERFORM AT THE ‘BURN BEFORE READING’ EXHIBIT AT THE SCOPE ART FAIR IN MARCH. LESNY FELIX OF NYARTBEAT.COM WAS KIND ENOUGH TO MAKE THIS BANGING VIDEO WHICH FEATURES SOME FOOTAGE OF MY PERFORMANCE, AS WELL AS BRIEF INTERVIEWS WITH THE LOVELY KATE MCGRAW AND MYSELF.

CLICK TO WATCH VIDEO.
CLICK TO VISIT KATE MCGRAW’S WEBSITE.
CLICK TO VISIT NYARTBEAT.COM
CLICK TO VISIT LESNY FELIX’ WEBSITE.

MASS-MARKET FICTION

I don’t suppose, I don’t suppose, I don’t suppose.
One ahould trust anything that presents itself as a good idea.
Don’t make maps, don’t take notes, lists, preliminary sketches, armitures of any sort.
Stumble through, plinko about, ragdoll through time.
Hit this, hit that, good as any, catch as catch can catch catch catch catch, get caught up.
You about to get caught up.

But then, but then, but then.
One might like to sleep at night.
A calm sea stomach, punch in punch out, a big fat ass, crossing words out, a slab of concrete for your family.
Stay the course, an arrow’s trajectory, a confusing metaphor about the physical realities of past/present/future.
You were here, now you’re there, on to that, work cut out for you cut out cut out cut out.
You ought to cut that out.

I am very pleased to report that I will be included in an exhibition at the 2012 Scope Art Fair in New York City, March 7-11. I will perform an oration in conjunction with a feat of physical agility/daring, and will also have on display some stagnant, non-living/breathing artworks.

The enterprise is called Burn Before Reading, and it will take place inside the Scope Pavilion, West 57th and 12th Avenue. The Armory Show will be taking place across the street. You can go after. Pack a sack lunch. When I know of the precise moment of my oration, I will be sure to let it be known.

Many thanks to Lilah Freedland for inviting me to participate in this endeavor. Below is a link to more information, and a full list of participants. coughcoughric-ocasek-holyshitcoughcough

SCOPE NEW YORK 2012

Hey now, if you want to, you can click on the word ‘ALSO’ in the right hand column and view some work from my studio. This work will cease being work very soon, so say your goodbyes.

AW, HELL.
RECKON I GOT A BIT A WAYS TO GO. A BIT A WAYS TO CRAWL ON MY BELLY, THATS TO SAY.
THEYS GLASS AND SOIL AND GRAVEL AND FILTH, DISORDER AND DISINTEREST LAYING ABOUT UNDERFOOT,
AND I THERE ON MY BELLY, JUST PROPER FUCKING IT.
DONT RECKON I KNOW OF A BETTER WAY
TO GET WHERE YOURE OFF TO.

AW HELL.
WHAT IF THEY AINT NOBODY AT THE PARTY?
WHO GON EAT ALL THIS SHIT?
WHOSOEVER GONNA SIT DOWN WITH ME AND DRANK AWAY ALL THESE JARS? I BEEN SAVING JAR AFTER JAR OF JUST UNSPEAKABLE BILE FOR THE OCCASION AND I RECKON I NEED TO BE REALISTIC ABOUT THE POSSIBILITY THAT MIGHT NOT NOBODY SHOW UP.

AW. HELL.
WHY IT GOTTA BE THIS WAY?
WHY I STANDING BEFORE YOU, FLINGING GUFF INTO HOLES,
FILLING IT UP BEST I CAN, PISSING MY VERY DRAWERS OUT OF TREPIDATION FOR THE FUTURE?
I RECKON THIS IS JUST THE WAY.
I RECKON GOOD AS ANY.
I DONT RECKON I’LL EVER GONNA FILL THIS THING UP.

An ape hollering in a corner, squeaking and honking, tears streaming down his cheeks, muddy, striped pant-legs.  A well to do pompous ass, a fine tailored suit, fingernails taken care of, knocking at your door with a pamphlet.  A dusty old toad, piled on top of a metal stool, humming and urping, lungs full of rotten old wood and the airborne contents of tin cans.  A frail, nervous bird, a cable-knit turtleneck with a seasonal design, softly, softly objecting.

A big dummy, warty hand clutching a fountain soda, whimpering and alone.  A slick, greasy, perfumed turd, sunglasses indoors, pathetically pointing his finger and grinning.  A balloon deflating on the sidewalk, dark indigo denim, varicose and coarse, bellowing about the past.  A beautiful, precarious arrangement of lady things on a shelf, absorbing every vibration for years and years, the curious mediation of this energy, nothing to say on the matter.

A very kind, sad old dog, sick, wet eyes, top collar buttoned, sighing and stuttering.  A puffy, braying rooster, impotent but loud, shrieking about propriety.  A 4″ x 6″ inkjet photograph of a romantic pairing, matching Los Angeles Lakers clothing, yellow and purple, yellow and purple, stepped upon and scratched, made to envelope tiny bits of gravel and soil, shame-facedly venturing a question which makes it feel simple.  A crunchy exoskeleton roach, on its back, in a hallway, commented upon and plinkoed this way and that for weeks, finally emitting a wet, puffy hiss upon severance. 

An image on a screen, fluids in a sack, wadded up and crammed, hammered out flat on a glass screen, orating at an unpleasant volume, black plastic housed speakers vibrating awkwardly.  A little weiner, crumpled hat in hands, Willy Loman feet not touching the foor, who never said anything in his life, just once began to squeak, aborted, quickly looked at the ground.  A great big proud egg, easily twelve feet around at the widest point, an impressive feat of equilibrium, gold plastic paint on purple cotton, emitting a careful music, minimal and not unpleasant.  A real tree branch, knobby and flaking, miles from home, dead eyes and guppy lips, slack-jawed mouthing the same syllable, over and over again.