A friend has a couple cats and a boyfriend she really loves. Boyfriend lives in another state, and is hard to shop for, so she has a grand idea: "Hey! I'll have some paintings made of the cats for ______, it'll be the greatest, least expected holiday gift!" She comes to me to paint her cats, then I have a grand idea: "Hey! Let's put your hand photographing the cats in there so it's a double portrait, two for one! Plus, Iphones are the new cats, right?" 

Questions, comments, complaints? Philosophical musings on the relationship between the representation of cats and digital technology? Feel free to leave them below. 

I grew up in Hollywood, couple blocks north of the pink sidewalks with star shaped placards for mostly a bunch of people no one remembers. Yet still, it drew tourists, crackheads, homeless teenagers and prostitutes of ambiguous gender orientation from all corners of the globe. Walking to the bus stop, I had to navigate throngs of people delighted to see Jimi Hendrix, Fred Estaire or Red Skelton's name in bronze, embedded in a pink sidewalk.
 People would get really excited, as if they were seeing 'whomever' themselves. They'd take photos, make crayon rubbings, call home, leave flowers. It was like a pink and gold cemetery, lined with 24 hour tattoo, wizardofoz/elvis/marylinmonroe, exotic dancewear concession stands. The good old days, that was back in my day 10 years ago. It doesn't look like that anymore, thank you Disney for your thorough gentrification efforts.
 Back then I hid my backpack under my jacket and appropriated a limp so that I'd be noticed as a potentially violent hunchback and people would drop their crayon rubbings and clear a path. This also helped assert my  position as even more frightening than the people with large bits of pointy pottery implanted in their skin. You know you're tough when Constructs of Ritual Evolution looking people clear a path for you. 

My upbringing might also explain some unusual college behavior: high on...'life' (I'm a grade school teacher now, you see), I'd paint on a mustache and wave my fists at a panel in the sky of dead great minds: Nietzsche, Van Gogh, DaVinci, Foucault, Warhol, Gandhi, Jesus, Duchamp, Sly Stone (even though he's still kinda around). 'Let me into your goddamn club,' I'd say. This was no doubt some obsession with fame carried on from the land of my childhood, maybe a touch of narcissism and gender confusion as well.  
Speaking of gender confusion, very briefly, I dropped the ball on exploring ideas about gender a couple posts back with the drawings of supermodels and drag queens. About half a year ago I decided I wanted to try being a girl. So, I bought pink nail polish, took ballet lessons and decorated my wall with pictures of pink fluffy poodles. I was not being ironic, this was quite in earnest. Only looking back does it feel strange. I'm still kind into it. Any similar experiences? More recently I've started looking at the female identity as it relates to the symbol Yin: cold, calm dark, wet, mysterious. Can talk about that another time. 

Anyhow, yeah so I decided to get back to my roots and pay homage to some famous people. It seems to be the thing to do now and forever. Maybe because it associates their Brand with my Brand, or because it'll make them more likely to visit me in a dream. Or because it's what people are most likely to buy...people love portraits of famous people (these are all for sale!). 
I wish I had more to say about the cult of celebrity, but currently I'm pretty preoccupied with the people I actually know. Luckily there are many books by distinguished academics and Lady Gaga albums about the cult of celebrity so you don't have to take my word for it anyhow.   

ALSO, I now have a shop. Please check it out and consider buying a piece, there are only a couple of each left. And if you want any of these, message my with a price offer and we'll go from there.

Much love