If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
- Emily Dickinson

No Emily, there is no other way.

The same goes for art – it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing, as you were so vividly paraphrased a generation later.

Art without sensuality is merely dissertation. Art without a pulse, a presence, something you can feel moving around you and, if you’re lucky, inside you, is merely advertising, a clever billboard for a set of otherwise dry ideas. Art must sing, howl, or at least yodel a little to get my attention. A giggle is better than a sermon, a pinch more meaningful than a knowing glance (and far more tangible).

So, let us thank the blazing solar flairs, puffy clouds and double rainbows for Julie Voyce, an artist who knows a thing or five about showbiz, belly laughs, prestidigitation, burlesque teases, snappy dressing and the call of the wild. Julie Voyce is David Lynch in a world overrun with pinched documentarians, Elsa Schiaparelli surrounded by Gap outlets, Divine at a Conservative policy convention, Frida Kahlo holding her eyes open with toothpicks (and the odd monkey’s paw) at Documenta.

Julie Voyce is a starred artist (as in pixelated, sparkling, diamond shiny), not an art star. Art stars come and go, like academic fads and couture theorists, but starry artists are born eternal.

* Worst Art Critic in Canada™
- L.M. 9-06-2007 10:42 am

julie did a ford for me, so shes a genius
- anthony (guest) 9-07-2007 2:50 am