Takashi Iwasaki
What is up, Takashi Iwasaki, my colorful, Japanese painter friend. I dig your Dalek meets Chagall, bright abstractions, and I’d like to get them tattooed on the insides of my eyes so they can warp my dreams. Like a giant punch in the nightmares from Dr. Seuss. And for some reason your works make me really want a pastrami sandwich. I don’t know what that’s about, but I vowed long ago to report honsetly the entirety of my reactions. Regardless of my cured meat fetish, Iwasaki is tits in my book. He’s the sugar frosted cereal of my balanced art breakfast.
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