I have been trying so hard to save this photo for a Thanksgiving post, but every time I open my laptop it's right there, mocking me, not yet November.
And I don't even like fish. But this painting, there is something about it that I love: the oil, the abandon, the unclaimed hand grasping the inside of the reclining woman's elbow. And why is it named Sprouting Potatoes anyway? I fear that even in releasing this pic from my computer it will haunt me still.
And then this: The Way We Were. Completely and unapologetically unrelated to Sprouting Potatoes except for the mere fact that all of this exists in the same world of Wednesday on repeat; it is this type of sheer absurdism that keeps me going, the meaninglessness of life, art and Ian Ziering.
Happy Hump Day.