On Saturday, I took a break from catching up on the stuff I’d missed on the Internet during the week to go to LACMA to see their Tim Burton exhibit (which closes on Halloween, so hurry up, emo kids [does emo still exist, or did it perish with MySpace?]).
If you know me, you’ve probably assumed (correctly) that I appreciate Tim Burton. He’s
a bit overrated by teenagers who think with their need for approval by their peers as “unique” “individuals,” but I very much respect him as an artist. This given, I was most taken with the sections of the exhibition focusing on the young Burton (“Surviving Burbank”) and his earlier films. My favorite pieces were the sculptures and costumes…which, come to think of it, were mostly not constructed by Burton himself (but by Colleen Atwood and, uh, sculptors). I suppose three-dimensional works appeal to me more than simple drawings. I could go on and on, but I have a shoddy memory of what happened…yesterday and my opinion on art isn’t very valid.
Probably because, after exiting through the gift shop, we went in search for a toilet. We found it in a different building, three stories up, in which works by Andy Warhol and Jeff Koons were situated. I don’t often agree with my father, but
I did enjoy this, though. Like me some titties.
I was going to take photos of the makeup and clothes I wore to LACMA, but on the way back, I went to a friend’s house instead of my own. This masterful Paint sketch hopefully suffices to illustrate. (insert post title here)
My handwriting is absolutely fucking atrocious.