A Serious Review Of Skip Bayless Pictures
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A long-ass, fluffy-as-hell profile of Skip Bayless was published by Complex on Wednesday titled, “Skip Bayless, Truth Teller: I Have Consistently Been Correct On All These Outrageous Takes.”
The above quote following the colon comes via Skip Bayless, in case that wasn’t clear. Here are some other things Skip Bayless said about Skip Bayless.
“I just speak from my heart; I just get to truth telling.”
He has “never lost a debate.”
“If you know me, I’m not going to back off. I have regularly been correct.”
“My goal is to make you have an opinion. I hope you respect mine, whether you love it or hate it. I’m happy people react, but if you hate me, I’m okay with that. I would like to think if they got to know me they wouldn’t hate the messenger as much as they hate the occasional message.”
“They all want me to come into the barbershop because I’m that guy—the lightning rod, the guy that won’t back off, the guy they love maybe to hate but they actually love to love.”
But we are not here to talk about Skip Bayless, Truth Teller. We are here to examine the accompanying artwork to the article. Namely, three press photos that were sent by a nice PR person and somehow contain far more information about Skip Bayless than any of the aforementioned Truth Telling.
Is Skip staring out into the sunrise or the sunset? Does it even matter? A strong man, a good, strong man, his place and stature in the world set, as the last day’s (first day’s?) light dapples his countenance, the furrows in his brow, once brought to bear only for the strongest and purest of takes, are now permanently etched, his eyebrows cocked and ready. This is a heroic pose, brimming with barely-contained sexual energy, that can only be matched by Tim Tebow in the rain.
You might think Skip has been dragged into a studio somewhere, but no. In Skip’s really, really nice Los Angeles home, there’s a single wall that he’s insisted remain free of architecture or any decorative adornments. It is white, but textured, dappled, and just off-white enough, a la Robert Rauschenberg’s “White Painting.” Once a day, he drops a CD of John Cage’s “4’33” into his sound system, cranking up the volume, the nothingness enveloping him, nothing on top of nothing, seeing, feeling all. When asked why he is compelled to play the soundless track at 11, for a moment he cannot say, but he knows it is right. Then he turns into the shrug emoji.
Or you can get you a man who can do both. The dual portrait represents Skip’s journey from ease and repose. He begins perched in the bosom of a white — always white, never truly clean, no matter how many times he brushes it with a swatch of Dupioni silk — deck furniture to the day’s fitting end with his chest thrust out, striking a stern profile a la Man Ray’s portrait of Lee Miller. For Bayless, the voyage is physical and temporal one, yes, but the internal distance traveled dwarfs any measurable distance. Like a butoh dancer, he motions are painstakingly slow, yet he contains multitudes. Though unseen, they swirl around and around, a contradictory dervish of thought and joy and sadness and furious convictions, set to Pendericki’s “Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima,” until his nightly order of chicken with broccoli arrives.
This has been a review of Skip Bayless PR photos.