It is snowing outside in the woods of New Hampshire, each flake unique and crafted by James Franco.
The radish in my wax paper bag of carrots and celery—it is the face of James Franco shaking up my lunch.
James Franco has designed a line of sustainable hemp clothing and has made a real-time film of his Kickstarter campaign; the film will be featured at the next three Whitney Biennials.
His 2-D collages framing facsimiles of modular artistic output and an exponential number of terminal degrees will open Art Basel in both Miami and Montenegro, the latter in the newly-minted Yamez Franco Pavilion.
James Franco has lived each life because, if it was bad, he said a good life would be possible:
these words were stolen from a poem by Wallace Stevens, “The Good Man Has No Shape,” soon to be a major motion picture starring James Franco as the beloved surety bond salesman.
Here, in Norway, in Oslo, in the Slottsparken, on the stone steps in front of the Royal Palace, I’m in the shadow of a looming bronze king who has the visage of James Franco.
When I asked James Franco about why assisted living so often falls short, he said, right off the bat, that it’s genuinely harder to do rather than discuss. The tasks tend to take over for the people.
In the various films of old-school Las Vegas casino implosions, the white dust clouds the purple loaming of Nevada sky with plumes that recall the tasseled mane of one James Franco.
From the hills of Sevilla to the orchards of the Alhambra; from the olive groves of Vigo to the aquamarine tiles and skull-and-bone balconies of Gaudí’s Barcelona; from Majorca to Gibraltar; from the alleys in Madrid with their churros and their chocolate to the hooded penitents in procession in Zamora, his name is more whispered than spoken aloud. He is the Caudillo de los Literati: he is James Franco.
Listen up, people: hear the holy voices of the pastors calling in the language of St. Francis with the sonorous, dulcet tones of James Franco?
Please join us. You have been invited.