I think, that if my old university textbook of various psychological diseases were to manifest itself into a visual representation of what a brain tumor tastes like, this technicolour disaster would be the unholy result. In fact, I think this painting may have even been cited in the chapter's preface on paranoid schizophrenia as part of an anti-marajuana message.
Although, ironically enough, the artist reminisces: "I painted this clown during a very horrific time in my life," while also noting that "This bittersweet painting reminds us all that even clowns are sad sometimes". As if the idea of grown-ass men spending their lives dressed unrecognizeably in wigs and costumes with slathered-on grinning facepaint with the sole intention of playing with small children wasn't obviously sad enough already.
Although, to be fair, I think there's the perfect space for it on my second-floor landing. I've been looking to add just that perfect touch of "Oh-My-Fucking-God-What-The-Hell-Is-Wrong-With-You" to my other-wise neutral color scheme.