Walking through the German Expressionism exhibit really messed me up. All of them either killed themselves or fell down the stairs drunk to their deaths, and it was only, like, 1926, and you’re all ‘God, you have no fucking idea how much worse things are about to get, you poor people.’ The glorious shitshow of the 20th century has barely started, and you’re already painting elongated haunted torsos with exposed viscera.
Rambling bits that start out as book reviews and then turn into more general ruminations. Good stuff
-- Lazy Self-Indulgent Book Reviews
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