The whole Orson Welles body of work is quarter turn past gleeful tempting of the fates to flex their irony muscles. A bit of theater, a bit self-delusion, a bit of trolling. It’s about genius, holy icons, idolatry, martyrdom, infamy and celebrity; it’s about me, self-destruction, self-reflection, self-aggrandizement.
These paintings and the book originally appeared in mid 2007 at Sala Diaz in San Antonio. The vinyl-letter people who put the title and the artist onto the window misspelled both mine and Orson’s last name.
