Went to see the Wyndham Lewis portraits show and the Vorticit stuff they've hanging at the Tate last week. It's all definite and exoskeletal, stealth bomberesque as opposed to the provisional, blurry ‘n’ diachronous indeterminacy of cubism and futurism. He vents all he elsewhere manfully eschewed and resisted - psychology and sentimentality and non-opacity - on some kitschily spectral portraits of the wife come the 1950s tho. His earlier, ardent anti-girliness = a portait of a tallowy V. Woolf w/ gouty Rabelaisian clubhands. Serves her right for feminism and that.
Bonus!
stills of glitch-riddled 90s mecha battle game Virtual On, from before Americans and technological advance rendered everything in games as solid as glossy as an assiduously buffed deuce coupe or the greased dugs of a Maxim centrefold.
(Pix fr. greeninteger.com, randomknowledge.files.wordpress.com, news.bbc.co.uk, ag0ra.co.uk, 24hourmuseum.org.uk)
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