Gerald the Dog is back in Sydney

(Esther Lane, Surry Hills)

Remember Gerald the Dog? That poor pup poured his life away after meeting some hipster dogs. Last we heard there weren't any new Gerald bombs popping up in Sydney.

Then I found this where the last one was, behind the Ray Hughes Gallery.

**UPDATE**

Colin left a comment saying these pieces were by Slug. Obviously if slug were to pick a name for this character, it would be Gerald the Dog.

Seems Gerald lost his shit even more than last time. Previously he was a drug addict, having gone stray after partying too hard.

Now he has used condoms poking through his eye sockets like ghosts of lovers past who are back to haunt him. Semen seeps down his face, his lashing tongue and gnashing jaw unable to hide the agony.

(Fitzroy St, Surry Hills)

Here he is again, in the same style on the Hopetoun Hotel. This is a fitting bomb for the Hoey - it has all of us feeling a bit blue.

Will the Hopetoun ever reopen? Is anyone friends with Justin Hemmes on Facebook?

This was also at the right of the frame:

It's the lips flower we've spotted around town. So many delicate pink petals, so snatch-like, so fragrant.

This image - don't ask me why - reminds me of the models featured in Robert Palmer's track Addicted to Love. I remember being very young and very confused about the overtly sexual imagery in the video clip. It drew me in and I didn't understand why.

Now it's happening all over again.

(Image source)

To jog your memory about the lips flower here's a piece from the previous post:

(Grafton Street, Chippendale, Sydney)

PREVIOUS COVERAGE:

Gerald the Dog

gerald the dog

(Esther Ln, Surry Hills)

Gerald the Dog was always agreeable. He lived in Surry Hills with his owner and was known about town for his youthful optimism and yellow skin. He stayed close to his owner’s feet around the home and up and down Bourke and Crown Sts, to defend him from harm.

Gerald was tidy and well-mannered. He always took his dishes to the kitchen, occasionally loaded them in the Miele dishwasher or even did them manually, propped on a bar stool while scrubbing in yellow rubber gloves. He always scooped his own shit too. He placed it in sealed bags and remembered to drop those turd stones (they were yellow like his skin) in the bin every night, after drinking his hot milo.

Aside from productive days at dog training school - where Gerald learnt gymnastics, Latin and classical piano – he also had an active social life filled with weekly dinner functions, dogtail parties and $1000-a-head fundraisers.

(Crown Ln, Darlinghurst)

But Gerald’s life quickly fell to pieces.

On meeting a group of hipster-puppies from Newtown that "partied", Gerald’s fortunes began to unravel.

He began drinking heavily and experimented with drugs. One night he managed to rack a five-gram bag of meow meow before "going inter-spieces" in an orge with a pink poodle, LaPerm cat and a heavily tattooed goldfish.

After partying with these puppies for a few months Gerald was expelled from dog training school, became a stray and had several bitches up the duff. He was addicted to a concoction of drugs, most notably meth, and scavenged for money as a "ladydog" outside Campbell House, giving tug jobs between methadone hits.

You might say poor Gerald’s life went to the dogs.

Woof.

hipstergasm

This is a press shot for The Book of Everything, a play showing at the Belvoir St Theatre from December 23 to January 31. One of theatre's publicists sent it to me and i realised, "Holy camel toe! That's the wall i've been shooting at Esther Lane!" In a flurry of excitement i kicked the air and a bright yellow POW! bubble popped from my shoe.

Note the chunk of render missing, as my earlier post depicts. This must've been snapped a little while back, as there is nothing stuck on the wall behind the model. Funny how the wall is now a beacon for hipster artists to metaphorically piss on the lawn.

After this i had to see the wall. I went down there and lazily puffed a Dunhill while studying this new poster that was stuck to it. It depicts a nude man sprawled face-down on a timber floor. He appears to be in a state of pleasurable submission.

How the image relates to the text isn't clear. It reads: "A thirst for the extreme? Adpot one of our kittens now." The artist supplied tabs with a mobile number and web address to the new magazine Sink.

I don't know about you, but fuck the kittens. Tie me up and take me to a land where all i need to worry about is splinters in my chest and the moments between orgasms.

Then i went to a poetry reading at the Brett Whiteley Studio. It was a magic potion of overcast melancholy outside, contrasted with the smooth, sparse whiteness of the gallery. Inside were the shy smiles of polite writers that probably grew up reading books instead of doing drugs and screwing.

That explains why i was at the gallery and not undressing hipsters.

After the reading - dare i say "headlined" by Les Wicks - i explored the gallery. Upstairs was a collection of Whiteley's paintings and sculptures, personal photographs, wall scribbles and a ruffled mattress he would've got high and fucked on. The clocks, pictured above, ('Heroin' is written between them) were part of this collection of oddities. I now love Whiteley in a very depressed way.

Great pre-20th century writers were like rockstars. Look at Goethe, Nietzsche and Shakespeare. These motherfuckers' reputations were preceded only by their splashings of syphillis. But as popular culture changed, in technology's shadow, what could once be called a sex symbol has become reduced to mute markings on isolated walls.

Imagine the Dalai Lama as the face of Calvin Klein underwear. That'd show Chinese hipsters.

nostalgia

If you have time listen to this Animal Collective track as you read. They're touring Australia in December.

Animal Collective - Winters Love

On we press:

The shopfront window of a Surry Hills-based design company. Yes, those are toy cars in front of the sign...that's lateral thinking like a bon-bon in bachelor's briefs.

I revisited Esther Lane after my previous post. That first print installation was a bit worse for wear, but now has some company in the form of a sprayed on man-profile. Funny though. It's meant to be symmetrical, but is as balanced as an overdose.

And in my nostalgia i crept back to the Ray Hughes Gallery. I decided to see what the building's exterior looked like, then i thought "oh snap, there's paintings of Darlinghurst people!"

In my elation i realised the artist/s that created the following series, like, think outside the cabbage patch. They blend their subject into the surrounding environment so well - as we see with the "mouth" positioned on the face of this thigh-high wearing hooker silhouette.

The average stallion's non-erect phallus is 50cm in length. While mating, the stallion's wang will harden to DOUBLE the length and probably scare the shit out of you, causing you to lapse into a coma. Hours after you wake you'll still be trying to find your wife.

So, in this image, does Eros' bastard angel-child "bridge the missing link" in men and women's erotic journey? I think the inversely positioned halo and curling cock of the subject attest to that. Or that the chain isn't actually joined signals that men and women are irreconcilably different - and completely fucked, in love.

This follows the theme of life, love and the link that joins us all. White people.

Dear Artist,

I desperately appreciate your subject matter - life - and the raw means you use to convey your love of birth, a woman's bond with her child and the mystery of abandonment. Cause, like, where's the asshole father here? Are you being cryptic? Is the stallion angel the father? Will you teach me all you know, with your wise words whispered to the harmony of a thousand orgasms?

Love always,

Omar

Oooh, what's that in the bottem-left corner of the frame?

It's beautiful. A canary yellow splash of mid-labour placenta, dotted with pretty black butterflies. It's a nice touch to this piece because it's unexpected. It's spontaneous, and that, dear lovers, is what makes life so special. Hold on, I need some tissues for my pretentiousness.

"Loading Dock: No Parking. If you ignore this sign you must face the wrath of a hundred upside-down fanny mounds. Fluoro options available."

This is the front entry to the Brett Whiteley Studio. It's a must-see if you're in the area. It's a goldmine. Currently they've got the Iconic Whiteley exhibition, so if you like 'three dimensional' painted panels (i.e. a vagina is carved into a woman's painted body) and Dali-esque sculptures then this is for you.

We've seen this thumb man before on Baptist St, Surry Hills. The artist has chosen to increase the value of real estate on Rainford St by creating another three thumbs. This one is good-looking and i'd probably stick it in my mouth as i cry myself to sleep, wishing my mother could sing me one last lullaby.

On a point of note, the thumb is so viscerally powerful that its mere gaze illuminates the model. She is the only figure in this frame not masked in shadow.

Another thumb man. This one has a large forehead, signalling a definite need for lube. Nothing worse than a thumb half-jarred up your ass, no?

sightings part III

Found this installation of photographic prints on a rendered wall along Esther Lane, Surry Hills. The glue has soaked through the paper, which actually blended it well with the stained wall. It's signed "Work by Johnny, Feel Too Good". Yes i feel great too. Maybe you didn't and that's why there's a chunk of cement knocked out of the wall, removed by your beautiful forehead.

Oooh i'm playing Siriusmo, so good in my earphones. This old warehouse-cum-gallery is adjacent to the above image. It's the Ray Hughes Gallery, a private collection of contemporary art set within the musky smell of fresh paint and hipster farts. It's beautiful even if you're not into art.

The next four images are a series of graffiti works on Violet and Whittell Sts that rocked my socks. I'd just been to Bourke St Bakery and, croissants in hand, snapped this hatted French man, beside which floated a turquoise skull. The black/white/khaki colour scheme works well with the surrounding environment. I'd say the skull was painted by a leecher-on.

Boner time. This is probably one of He-Man's concubines as she hunts down Skeletor or, um, Megatron. Either way the artist's African heroine meets Baywatch babe idea was pure genius. If this gun-toting slut were made into a figurine, well, none of us would be painting walls and writing blogs.

Way cool alert: this spade-handed psychedelic geisha is about to FUCK SOMEONE UP.

"Mr Writer man, hand over those delicious croissants or i shall fuck you up with my green-as-envy spades. Come now, don't make me rrrepeat myself."

I was down at the bakery again before lunch. To the artist - you owe me breakfast. DON'T MAKE ME RRREPEAT MYSELF.

This graffiti piece is way longer than it looks. Dear readers, the iPhone was not made for anything more than Facebook poses and drunken sex-snaps grrr. Without a wide-angle lens i had to stand on one side and use the power of perspective to include the entire piece. The colour choice is punk at best (which is still great) but i suppose for the words to stand out the background must be dark. Still, props to the artist, it was much needed respite after the spading i received earlier.