THIRD FRIDAY: 07.19.19

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Time flies doesn't seem a minute
Since the Tirolean spa had the chess boys in it,
All change don't you know that when you
Play at this level there's no ordinary venue...
And thank God I'm only watching the game, controlling it.
                                                                                                       

                                                                                                                                                  Murray Head

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Four years of Third Friday at Rogue Gallery, as of this month, brings us into a state of tetradic harmony with both ourselves, as well as each other. Because within the New World Creative you will find that every living artist is an Emperor. Their vision is their minor arcana, their medium is the major. Here’s to four more years and many more to come!

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For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
Pictures will often be formatted in rows of three, click on the thumbnail to enlarge the image.
Thanks for visiting Rogue Gallery! Enjoy your stay!

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Sierra Matz

Poupées Blanches

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Rick Andriola

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​Click Here

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Folkicide

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RF Pangborn

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Under Review: Earth
Full Upon Her Burning Lips

Dylan Carlson, Steven Lee Matz and Adrienne Davies

​Dylan Carlson is a scribe of the intangibility of tone and texture, pitch and volume. He is a quiet, reserved and rather shy man. However, once he steps foot upon stage, all reservations are gone. Cloaked in majestic tones of violet, magenta, waves of cobalt blue hues, deep somatic phthalo and Prussian blues; he is more Magus than musician.
Adrienne Davies, Earth’s drummer and Mr. Carlson’s collaborator for their latest album, Full upon her burning lips sat perched at her drum kit as a psychic weight to keep her fellow priests anchored before the altar.
It was the evening of June 27th, 2019. The Denver night was hot and still. Earth took the stage following their opening act Helms Alee (whose front man insisted upon standing in front of a wind machine the entire set, so that his long locks would flutter about) and looked out into the cavernous music hall.
Dylan Carlson thanked the audience in attendance at the Marquis Theater that evening. After adjusting what seemed to be a multitude of knobs and peddles his hands (tattooed with protective sigils, which he believes to shield him from sour notes) halted above the strings of his guitar for a vast imperceptible moment of golden eternities glimpsed through a mild static hum which squelched into the opening notes of Cat’s on the briar.
As Ms. Davies began rhythmically delineating the beat, she became more Shaman than percussionist, and a dark enchantment was cast upon those in attendance. This was a spell which fractured what the Scientologists refer to as present time. It was a spell which lifted everyone in the space above both themselves and the stage. Many of us became overwhelmed by the ecstasy of this performance ritual, and literally began floating upwards into the rafters and corners of the ceiling, our arms swaying limply like rag dolls or marionettes.
Now I know by now how the first born of Egypt felt as the terrible wrath of God fell upon them hungrily until the moment of envelopment. I realized I too was becoming a projected entity, as my soul slipped itself out of my body and around my skin like a lizard. I was Oppenheimer’s bride: Will you take to have and to hold until you both become death, the shatterer of worlds? I do.
The band went into The Colour Of Poison displacing the fractal balance of meridians bliss, cultivated only to be shattered. Collective energy was absorbed and assimilated in the string’s vibrations drawn through weightless hum of pick-ups, only to be flushed back into the atmosphere of the venue.
Feeling the squeeze and clutter of the crowd acutely, I decided a brief sojourn to the men’s room was in order. Upon entering the serene white porcelain temple of gastric passage, I discovered, much to my amazement, that it was empty aside from myself. In the distance, beyond this room, notes did unbound and were reborn in a fashion which can only be described as feebly jocular; like a dying man forgetting himself in a brief moment of joy.
As I emerged into a room tinted with touches of blue and red, I was greeted by Descending Belladonna, which the audience rode like waves of neon surf towards the stage’s plutonian boards. By now my soul had been brought back under skin like umbrella under trench coat, so I broke through the green mossen chrysalis doorway of the Marquis and into the crisp night air, carrying the notes in myself on the way home that evening and for many days thereafter.

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Steven Lee Matz
July 3rd, 2019

To Order Your Copy
of
Full Upon Her Burning Lips 
CLICK HERE

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Gus Romero IV

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David MacDowell

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​Artists Are Killers

​An Artist knows what it’s like. When you rub shit on the walls and people kiss your ass. An Artist knows how it feels to be a loser. To fuck the prettiest and ugliest girl in the class. To be ashamed for existing. To be a Product, like an object on the shelf. To get so high that you figure out God, but cant get anyone to love you. Most artists fall to their knee’s in fear. The smart one’s do, anyway I imagine. The Dumb one’s throw money into the fire, and scorch the earth aplomb. Artists grab the gun in self defense and shoot themselves in self assurance. Poking your eyes out is Bloodsport to them. They self medicate in their own bile, and bathe in your apathy. When you look away, they secretly wish that you’ve been offended. That means that they’ve done their job.

Dave MacDowell 
July 17, 2019 

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The Books of Leyba: Fire

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