Lame Lane Hagood plus lewd, crude and offensive Mike Mark Lood Peterwebb whatever-his-name-is Flood plus Depressed (and Depressing) Jeremy DePrez… trouble in threes, three tarnished coins in life’s luckless fountain of liquid shit, three rancid jumping-beans rattling around in the tossed and wilted scum-salad at the bottom of the art-dumpster, coming to an end-of-the-world Austin exhibit all too near you.

What the fuck, why the fuck, and who the fuck cares?

Lame Lane Hagood…Once he was the legendary SARS, unidentified tagger with a difference, mopping giant monster murals along the concrete embankments of the Houston Bayou, wheat pasting cutout Batman ghosts on the abandoned doors of Montrose, inscribing SARS LOVES YOU across H-town’s loveless corporate surfaces… Now fully domesticated, a purring, career-ambitious house-cat, he creates grotesque yet cartoony canvases channeling the ghost of Guston, in large, medium and museum-size formats. A student of Nietzsche, Rimbaud and Nicanor Parra, he disguises his formidable intellectual powers so well that his paintings are often mistaken for the cry-for-help doodles of a mentally defective child.

Mike/Mark Lood/Flood… no one really cares what name this dynamic sell-out is going by today. Like a carny dazzling the crowd at a stripcenter mini-amusement park, this charlatan has somehow bamboozled the NYC art world into believing in his pathetic excuses for painting and performance, the same schtick Texas audiences unanimously and wisely rejected decades ago, with much spitting on the ground. Like all good tricks, it will probably be obvious once we figure out how Flood did it. It seems to have something to do with forging an appearance of rare and valuable Artistic Integrity, using only a punk rock pedigree as tired as it was preposterous. Anyway, expect the whore’s delight lace paintings, the strident I-am -your-conscience text paintings, and maybe even some of those I-was-doing-this-before-Photoshop-made-it-easy collages… all three rings of his famous traveling circus.

Sigh… Jeremy DePrez, a depressing miscreant living in a hole dug out by his own neurosis. Recently deprived of the academic medications that might have straightened him out once and for all, he has carried on his quest for aesthetic absolutes no further than the most unassuming articles of his own existence. DePrez painstakingly renders the nuances and subtleties of the unassumed with paint, canvas and carved up stretcher bars that make sure his images have a strange, wavering edge instead of the usual rectilinear perfection. The resulting paintings are triumphant large-scale abstractions; big, bold and haunted by questions of meaning, as in “What the fuck is this supposed to mean?”, and of purpose beyond that of decorating art shows, corporate boardrooms and collector’s guesthouses. Perhaps as a result of some fine print, which they didn’t notice when they signed their contracts with Satan to give themselves upwardly mobile art careers, all three of these inexplicably successful shitheads will soon be in a show at an abandoned warehouse posing as a gallery, right here in sweet unspoiled Austin, the Houston of the hill country.

It happens Friday, September 6th from 5-10PM at 721 Congress in Austin, Texas.

Armed security will be present.