BroTopia

Sometimes, I get in this mood. It’s days when dudes, who often know less than I do about a given issue, feel compelled to mansplain and tone police… on those days, well I feel like painting shit like this. A new collection. I’ll call it Brotopia, with a definite nod to E Chang, for setting a wondrous word to it.

 

Mansplain.
18 x 24″.
Oil, ink, words, spray paint, and derision on canvas.
By Cat Jones.

 

Broflake.
18 x 24″.
Oil, ink, words, spray paint, and derision on canvas.
By Cat Jones.

 

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BitchFace

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BitchFace. 18 x 24″. Oil on canvas. By Cat Jones .

This is my friend Chris. AKA BitchFace. Chris says, “I’m just a really, pretty, boy.” yes indeed. (Chrissy won’t pick a preferred pronoun, so most of us just use “she,” because it seems to fit the best.)

Chrissy  is a cutter, and my favorite story with her so far was the time I went to see her in the ER, after she got committed on a 72 hour hold. “What happened, BitchFace?” I asked. Continue reading

A Boy Who Used to Steal Horses

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“A Boy Who  Used to Steal Horses.” 24 x 30″. By Cat Jones.

My friend Tim grew up feral, in the wild hills outside the city, a child of an infamous crime family.  He has a lot of scars and a couple of bullet holes… including the one in his collar bone from the time his dad shot him for no reason.  His childhood home burned to the ground with everything in it while his dad stood in the driveway with a gun and had an armed standoff with police and fire fighters, to keep them from entering the home and finding all the felonies inside. While his dad threw tantrums, dealt heroin, shot the family Christmas tree, and plotted to murder the local sheriff, Tim found freedom and respite all through his teens by sneaking into pastures and stealing horses. He’d ride them through the hills awhile, and then take them back to their fields. A joy rider. Continue reading

Rie

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Rie.

Rie used to be my hausmate in this big, old, castle where I live with artists on the Hudson river. Rie’s art form involved rendering the bones of dead animals, found along the road. They* (*Rie’s preferred pronoun) would drag them home and bury them up in the woods behind the castle until the bones were clean. Then they’d dig them up, and sometimes boil the last bits of flesh away in pots on the big, old, cast iron, industrial stove where we cook our meals. The smell would be disturbing. Continue reading