Thor is back in the theaters swinging his big hammer and his L'Oreal locks around but that's got nothing to do with the bizarrely named Storm King Art Center. The idea is novel: take 500 acres of stunning Hudson Valley farmland and convert it into an outdoor sculpture garden where monumental contemporary installations are juxtaposed against the vastness of the landscape.
The Storm King is in da house!
Actually it turns out the name isn't so weird after all, Storm King is the name of a nearby mountain that's the highest point in this part of the valley. What is weird though is that spaceship that's just landed over yonder. Close encounters of an artistic kind.
Did you remember to bring you 5 iron?
That's why they call it a fairway.
Nothing keeps the rain off like a giant Zippo lighter.
A searching examination into the circular paradox of the subconscious void, or three toilet bowls stacked on top of each other? You be the judge.
The sculptures have some tough competition from the blazing autumn landscape. Where are those impressionists when you need them? Oh that's right, getting their ears sewn back on.
You never know what kind of weird contraption is lurking in the woods. The only sure thing is that it's going to be big. Or, in art-speak, monumental.
Forget about that quaint artist's studio in Tuscany, Airbus might have a spare hanger you can borrow instead.
Is it a turkey?
Or a giraffe?
Or a whale? Whatever it is, it seems fine arts has moved beyond the lowly paintbrush and turps. Try an industrial rivet gun and welding torch instead.
A bridge between the real and the imagined, the permanent and the transitory. Writing about art is really easy since you can make up anything you want, so long as it makes no sense whatsoever.
Maybe the Storm King really does roam these lands.
The Storm King casts a baleful eye over his domain. Now would be a good time to cower in supplication, or at least get your umbrella ready.
The epic scale is hammered home by the brooding autumn sky. This is art at its very best.
This is the road to take if you want to end up living on instant noodles in a decaying warehouse on the bad side of Bushwick surrounded by easels laden with the unsold remnants of a liberal arts education.
Got the spoon, now where's the ice cream?
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