GRATING SPACE

Is Rollin Hunt a misogynist? Does he enlist the proprietress of www.ChicksLovePartyPiss.com to procure for him the worst of the Internet urine bukake lot to pose for his paintings, to muse about him, harem-like, while he composes songs? Is that them, clanking glasses around in the background of “Rollin 2012,” an obscene sonic vision of the future in which Rollin himself is the master of the masses’ enthusiasm, who applaud and encourage his every decision? “You can do it, Rollin,” they all shout, and Rollin thanks them.

What do the works of Rollin Hunt tell us about hating women simply for having breasts and strange emotions? Do they suggest that women belong on soiled notebook paper beneath rainbows whose rays run straight down from the sky like lazers? Should women belong to bald men whose cheeks bulge with the redness of hell, who spend their days in spas and bath houses, sweating on wooden sauna benches, sidestroking up and down the lap pool, running towels over and over and over their hair-covered chests?

No, Rollin, they should not.

In one of Mr. Hunt’s most storied works, highly influential among poetry parlors and Myspace bulletins, six wolves gaze carnivorously at a black stump protruding from the snow in a forest. Upon closer examination, we find the stump to have generated footprints in the snow — sometime before the painting was painted — and a pink smudge halo around the stump’s torso suggesting that this “black stump” is none other than a female human, stuck in the snow, awaiting the approaching wolves. Each of the wolves’ legs is shaped like a penis, sticking out hard and straight from its body, ready to exert its dominance upon its prey. Are you these wolves, Rollin? Are you an animal?

In a beach scene on a lake a boat carrying two paddlers drifts about listlessly in the distance, on a fishing mission. In the forefront, however, a mother is letting her children drown, and drying their baby-skinned bodies in the sand. There they wither, contorted into the shape of sperms, their mouths frowning, their eyes open and baked by the sunrays that radiate through the gray cloud cover.

“Girls, I’m getting sick of you misunderstanding ME. I don’t have time to EXPLAIN. Here’s a darn pamphlet that YOU need to read, because YOU need to do things for ME, to know how ROLLIN feels, because I am GREAT and you are a STUDENT whose teacher is ME. We will have a future together, if you READ MY PAMPHLET,” says Rollin Hunt, in his song, “Pamphlet.”

The dangerous world of misogynistic artistic escapades is overtaking the landscape of sensible creation that appreciates both sexes equally, and at the forefront of this lamentable movement is none other than Rollin Hunt, a gnash-toothed ignorant who relies on his decadent handsomeness, baritone croons, and sensitive portraiture to veil his despisal of non-men the world over. In the realm of Mr. Hunt, women slither beneath their fat male overlords, kill their children, and have faces devoid of 3D depth.

Rollin, this grotesquity must stop.