Artist Rick Hayes Opening Features Plastic Soldiers posing in Ice
July 11, 2008
It is terrible that I didn’t get a good picture of Rick’s art work. It is out of this hemisphere. If only George Bush attended the gallery opening and saw the frosty blank faced soldiers, stiff in their plastic uniforms, pulled off the sale table at the local Toy’s R Us, installed and photographed and manipulated by an artist deeply connected to the reality of his time. kill, kill, kill, in a frozen sea. Kill with a frosty heart. Bliss, the soldier in uniform, with his clear cut orders and starched plastic uniform. Anonymous, he marches through the frozen dead souls of past tense heroes of foreign wars. the medals on his chest are rubber, bumpy, as army green as his body, frozen in combat, no before, no after, a continual murder machine on ice, chilled to the bone with pride, mommie has a bumper sticker: My Son is a Marine. Mommie has encouraged the crucifixion of her son for the sake of her bake sale ego. Ice crystals reflect the truth, as they melt in Global Warming trends, mommie cries. Rickhayesvt.com
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.