A Clockwise Orange

Andrew Myers Nail Art

Death by Party | The Nail Art Of Andrew Myers

We live in an era of the aethers. Nobody knows what the fuck those machinations of the alien technology we so feast upon and our love is so foisted upon are, much less the insidious alchemy of the interwebs. Under the aegis of ‘a more refined society,’ we vaccuously stare into screens that are tantamountly thin as our brain (nee braun.) Whatever happened to good old fashioned elbow grease? The answer to this digital ages old query may lie in the meticulously lain screw art of Andrew Myers. His hand-constructed creative abode eschews Adobe, resulting in a panoply of fascinating fasteners thus rending most other modern mixed media down to puerile macaroni paintings- a housing of horse hooves and horse shit.

In the moribund state of physical imaginative prowess, this German-born Spanish artist threads a tapestry of oil paint, phone book leaves and myriad metal hardware on wood that transcends our current software-found tautly-wound Threadless state of design. Though said materials may appear insufferably boring separately, it’s their conflated emersion that drives our immersion in them on home. We don’t know these people (nee subjects) personally, yet protrudes this familiarity of emotions through august proportions. One look at these pieces proves that simply because the artist needs to drill deeper into their works doesn’t mean it’s incumbent upon the viewer to do as such in order to hit ambrosial paydirt- the magical nomenclature of that area of contact ‘twixt two objects is known as the ‘bearing surface.’

Art is most lascivious when shared. It’s Victor Frankenstein forgoing his Monster, passionately cobbling together the Bride and ultimately entreating the public to engage in an all out love-hate fuckfest with the both of them. Art is, however, also most intimate when shared. Not only does Myers invite us to share in this, but also implores us to touch it. He cites one of favorite memories as watching a blind man experience his work for the first time, pullulating a smile pursed upon the guy’s lips from a blank expression. I had a very comparable scenario concerning the inaugural time I fingered a girl- my closed eyes grew befittingly crescentic with my grin the more I explored.. Now if only the fucking gal had screws in her neck, I wouldn’t have bolted.

By Robert Kijowski

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