Fake Music

Dig it…

Who’s James Holden? Is he Fake as well?

That was a particularly deadening Live Set… Polite crowd. That’s what I like to watch.

I suspect Fake is ripping off BobHolroyd or it could be the other way around…. Depending on who Bob Holroyd is.

Britney’s music has evolved quite a bit since I last heard it. To be honest I prefer the old dance movies:

Oh yeah. I forgot. Bob Holroyd.

Reminds of me Pink Royd. You might recall his TV commercials for Preparation H. I don’t know, but there was something about him that made me paranoid. Probably his CIA connections.

Let’s see. The Nice with red balls. Think Bob Holryod ripped this off but forgot to photoshop the Red Balls in. Keith Emerson! Those were the days before Emerson, Lake and Palmer. I think Bob Hologram produced those first two albums if memory serves.

This always brings a tear to my eye. Just looking at the photos… I prefer the Mike Scott version as it has authentic feeling in it.:

Here’s a lovely version of the Mike Scott song by who knows who? Far better singer than Rod. But I then again he probably doesn’t have Rod’s dance moves and effervescent personality.

Mike Scott: Long Way to the Light. You know it brother. But worth the trip.

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

What Goes Up

Fascinating graph, to me at least. I know that artists don’t think that what they do in their studios has the slightest connection to this eye-opening graph. But I’d still say it’s worth taking a look at should any artists feel like re-connecting themselves with reality.

Note the red line first. And look how it’s tracked initially underneath the blue line. The red line shows the return on investments by those purchasing art as they would any other commodity like Gold or Silver. Note how from 1961 to 1961 the three lines are virtually identical. Note how far heavenward above the gray line (which traces the returns on all other investments combined) as the blue line begins ascending in 1999. And notwithstanding the dramatic dip at the time of the 2008 financial crash, the line is now just above its past record.

This is what I’d imagine to be a market peak. Just as the fevered art market crashed like a Icarus into the sea when the bottom fell out of the fraudulent housing market that had been ginned up for a decade and more by Alan Greenspan and his Wall Street cronies.

Finally note how while the blue line is at it’s peak, the red line of investor profits has been lower than before 2008 and is beginning to flatten out.

The question now is what set of circumstances will trigger the next crash. And when that will happen. Not being Nostradamus I make no predictions. But I find it exceedingly odd how the artists of the world, just like they did before the ’08 crash, have their heads just as deeply buried in their own rectums with exactly the same dreams of glory and exactly the same players that crashed to earth before Barack Obama restored everyone their chips to go back once more to the Casino tables, the smooth-talking bankers and corporate investors going right back to the same activities that crashed the entire system overnight.

It will certainly happen again just as Capitalism has invariably been a series of booms and busts. That’s really all that Capitalism promises. The rapid devastation of global resources. The profligate wasted spending on luxury goods including at the apex the most absurd and grotesque excuse for art that has ever existed in human history.  The impoverishment of ever wider segments of the globe into feudal circumstances, including at this point the populations of the so-called “Western democracies.”

Yet no artists I know have the foggiest notion of what they’re participating in, nor do they apparently care what the commodification of art by Global Capitalism has done in terms of robbing Art of any meaning whatsoever other than its entertainment and decoration value to fantastically wealthy “patrons.

All of this dreck is then promoted through the various corporate entities that publish Art Magazines, Entertainment Magazines, NewsMedia Art Promotion and so on. All of it ballyhooed, just like cigarettes, psycho-chemical drugs, expensive surgeries that alter one’s body dramatically, yachts, private jets, expensive sports cars and everything else that make one’s life hopelessly meaningless and empty lest one not own these kind of items to decorate their homes with and impress their neighbors with the depth of their cultural tastes, depending on their particular socioeconomic ranking.

Everything now made to order in millions of multiples for buyers all over the globe to bee part of the great American led Cultural Miracle.

However, it appears that the Chinese are now the ones heading into a bright economic future while American, under the insanely mercurial menace to the world in general and his own country in particular flounders around while the imbecilic Democrats flounder around simultaneously with absurd circuses and PC accusations, all maniacally focussed on the most peripheral issues one could imagine mostly to do with what sports figures and Hollywood Celebrities and Rock and Roll Musicians think we should do to ward off calamity.

This art blog serves absolutely no purpose in illuminating what art is, as nobody whatsoever cares about what it means. They simply care about how they can sell it and how much money they can get for it. Take a look at Antiques Road House if you want a good example. Or follow the ongoing disaster at the big Auction Houses.

Or don’t. I don’t really give a fuck what you meatheads are doing to be perfectly honest. It would be nice to hear from a single one of you that possess of typing out a single legible and coherent English sentence who might have their own ideas or understanding or even any basic comprehension of where we sit in the Year of Our Lord 2017 like hysterically clucking chickens waiting for the guillotine to drop on our hysterical heads and put us all out of our misery.

As for myself, I’m in no misery whatsoever about the Art Crisis, such as it is. I found it to be a total charade right around the time that the investor gangs started their plays to entirely manipulate the system of art “professionals” in order to squeeze as much notional wealth as could be gotten from whatever sick nonsense any artist could dream up to entertain the jaded crowds of human beings looking for the next thrill ride to catapult themselves into Art Ecstasy land.

The deepest circles of hell are the 8th and 9th. Those are the circles in which Fraud and Treachery are punished. For me, Dante’s estimation of the seriousness of sins ranging from the earlier punishments for various Seven Deadly Sins to the most severe punishments for those who provide the propaganda material and temptations that provoke the sins and sinners holds merit. Those who say nothing receive lighter punishments, being endlessly stung by hornets and wasps and the like, wandering around aimlessly through their infernal region much as they did in their Earthly life.

The deepest of the 8th circle of Hell is occupied by the various falsifiers, perjurers and counterfeits. That would be the players in the graph at the top of this post. The ninth circle on its deepest level is occupied by the treacherous, symbolized by  Judas Iscariot who betrayed Christ for the thirty pieces of silver given to him by the Chief Priests.

As to today’s Chief Priests, we can call them the Big Name Art critics who write for the major media publications and so-called “intellectual” journals they’ve always written from. The Nation Magazine, New York Times, New York Review of Books, New Yorker , Art News, Art Forum, Art in America and seemingly endlessly proliferating promotional material that has spread like a fungus rivaling even the entertainment and fashion sections  that the arts now entirely function within, having no other purpose beyond Entertainment and Fashion. They’ve spread in lockstep with the rise in the art profits pictured above.

These various promoters are the ones culpable, with the aid of unimaginable amounts of notional money and other forms of loot supplied by the  investor class, for creating the gluttonous Las Vegas like art sprawl that blankets much of the so-called free world. A living hell for those of us who actually care about art’s function as the moral and spiritual backbone of any civilization deserving of the name.

If God isn’t pulling the plug on this botch job of a culture I can’t imagine any reason why He would hesitate, since the bulk of it is a fist or scream of fury hurled with nihilistic glee into the face of the Divine Order. Or a plastic and banal shot of decorative pleasure no different from the floormat or design on ones shower curtain at its core. Everything is permitted in the Dismal Swamp of Art Today. Anything, that is, except for art that insists that it has a spiritual purpose and that human life on earth needs to live in conformity and harmony with that always present and existent spiritual order if it is to survive into the next century.

I don’t see how this point is arguable, but I’m always happy to hear from any of the usurers, charlatans, frauds, liars, hypocrites, deaf, dumb and blind and whomever else insuring our destruction as a civilized people would care to make an intelligible comment.

Or not. To be perfectly honest I’m enjoying the peace and quiet of watching no TV, having no computer on other than to type up a blogpost. Saying whatever I have to say into an empty abyss of electronic digital images and confining smartphone us to only  practical uses. At the moment, I’ve carved out my own little paradise on earth listening to the sounds and watching the movement of light and energy that exist in the material world should one choose to pay attention to them instead of the artificial nothingness that is so addictive to those bent on destroying their inner selves.  An indescribable beauty moves through it all that is quite indifferent to the depraved antics of the damned.

Tomorrow night  my wife of 28 years and I are going out to an outdoor amphitheater to hear Mozart’s last symphony, the Jupiter.  The planet Jupiter was named by the Greeks after Zeus as it’s the largest of the planets in our solar system. In his extraordinary Chronicles of Narnia, C. S. Lewis associates Jupiter’s great Red Eye with humor and laughter, but also with blood sacrifice, in particular Christ’s Crucifixion on Calvary. It’s a good life. It really is for those who choose to live it.

Posted in Art and Money, Art of the Insane | Tagged , | 3 Comments

Dali’s Exquisite Corpse

Sal Dali, The Great Masturbator

Don’t look at me. I didn’t name the painting. But it looks like the old Great Masturbator himself might have been sowing his wild oats hither and yon to the point that the Suprema Corte in Madrid, Spain has ruled that Dali’s body will be exhumed in order for his DNA to be tested to see if it coincides with that of a “tarot card reader  and fortune teller”  named Pilar Abel. I had no idea that tarot card readers and fortune tellers were two different professions, but then The Guardian never fails to open my mind to undreamt of facts. Or at least what they claim to be facts, with very little evidence whatsoever put forward to establish them as true. But, hey, we’re all PoMos on this bus.

I once knew a young lassie from Pilar, New Mexico, but that’s another story entirely. And I deny all paternity claims against my estate in the event of my succumbing to the fickle finger of fate.

What next? Every day a new revelation. Did Gala put Dali up to this business? Mysteries inside of mysteries growing deeper than the enigma already wrapped up in billions of dollars of loot so tight that this Pilar Abel had better have some pretty sharp lawyers to get her share of a quarter of The Gala-Dali, Foundation or whatever corporate identity they call themselves. I’m not sure whose side I’m on in this one as usual. But I can’t look away at the ARTs and MYTHS WORLD, Inc. Going Outta Business while going out of its mind Sale.

All this decadence is getting to be a little much for my badly shaken moral values so I was tempted to not even post this one, but I was so taken by this paragraph from the piece I couldn’t help it.

Some believe Dalí was gay and once had an affair with the poet Federico García Lorca, others that he had feelings for his only sister Ana Maria. Others, however, believe that his sex life was confined to masturbation and voyeurism. His memoirs are spectacularly unreliable, but his account of his father trying to keep him on the straight and narrow by showing him images of body parts hideously disfigured by venereal disease cannot have helped. He once wrote: “Hitler turned me on in the highest.”

I might just throw in that Dali was hardly alone in his being turned on by the German strong man. Though one can only imagine what kind of behavior Hitler provoked in Dali when he was in a turned-on state. Inspiration for his Masterpiece  The Great Masturbator?  I’m just speculating on that one . But as to the crowds all over the world being turned on by the Führer and I’ll turn to the great American Historian William L. Shirer’s eyewitness account of seeing Time‘s Man of the Year’s effect on the masses. Remind you guys of anyone in particular?

Like a Roman emperor Hitler rode into this medieval town at sundown today, past solid phalanxes of wildly cheering Nazis who packed the narrow streets. Tens of thousands of Swastika flags blot out of the Gothic beauties of the place, the facades of the old houses, the gabled roofs. The streets hardly wider than alleys, are a sea of brown and black uniforms. About ten o’clock tonight, I got caught in a mob of ten thousand hysterics who jammed the moat in front of Hitler’s hotel, shouting: “We want our Fuehrer.” I was a little shocked at the faces, especially those of the women, when Hitler finally appeared on the balcony I saw once in the back country of Louisiana on the faces of some Holy Rollers who were about to hit the trail. They looked up at him as he were a Messiah, their faces transformed into something positively inhuman. If he had remained in sight for more than a few moments, I think many of the women would have swooned from excitement. “

Not sure about how the men would have been looking, but from Shirer’s description of the women I imagine something along these lines.

Fortunately, the Beatles never really had any political ambitions. Except for John in later life when he wanted to encourage the working class to stop “being fuckin’ peasants as far as I can see.” Was that Revolution No. 9, or was it No. 10?

In John’s transporting Homeric lyrics, unfairly shoved to the sideline Swedish Nobel Commies in favor of the shallow pretensions of Bob Dylan, the tallest Beatle with the worst taste in women (according to the other Beatles that is)  tells the youth of the day to Keep it Real, like him and Yoko.

Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV
And you think you’re so clever and classless and free
But you’re still fucking peasants as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

Mr. and Mrs. Superior themselves. Mother Superior, John’s a gone. He blew his mind out in a car. He didn’t notice that the light had changed. Too doped up on Acid or the Maharishi Maheshi Yogi. TM. More like BM in the hands of the Neo-Buddhist self-admiration Brigades. Plus all their adoring fans all in a bonfire of the Vanities fit to bring down Western Civilization in a nuclear holocaust along with burning forests and submerged coastal areas and entire island nations. But no worries. As Meher Baba and the jerks who listen to him say: “Don’t worry. Be happy.” The only thing that matters is You. And negativity will kill business deals. Thus Spake the Donald.

Along with demanding confrontation with the Soviet Union in Syria while driving toward a showdown with Iran. Trump now in the role of Hillary during the last debate. But who remembers that far back in history? Not anybody I know in my immediate vicinity, that’s for sure. And so I write on. Right on! Because it’s a tonic at this point that I have no readers because I’d just as soon not have to spend my every waking hour left on the planet talking adolescent morons about how much smarter they are than everybody else. It’s boring to begin with. And pointless beyond that. The last thing I’m trying to do is force anyone to wake up and notice what time it is on the Big Clock of Doom. I’ll leave that to Noam Chomsky and the others who calculate those odds.

And so on and so forth. This was just after the Heroic Victory of Abstract Expressionism.*** Back when America was Great. And we still are Great. So come on, let’s stop all this handwringing about Health Care, as we’re neck and neck with Britain for being totally on the skids, according to the authority on all things skid-related, The Guardian. At this point it’s the only news source I go to because it is the only source I trust when it comes to Art Writing. Readers might inform me differently, but for sheer caliber of mentally defective art writers, The Guardian puts the competition to shame.

Is the UK or the US more of a Disaster at the Moment??!?

See how many egregious mistakes, sheer fantasies and gibbering idiocy you can spot in this J. Jones review of Modern Art. What are these people eating and drinking to have turned them into babbling babboons? And not even capable of defending themselves from what they no doubt believe our my calumnies against their highly cultured elite reporters. How boring life is without people in the arts capable of articulating a single coherent sentence. I knew I should have took up Golf like my father wanted me to when I was a wee lad growing up along the banks of the Potomac River.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2002/apr/13/books.guardianreview1?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487

*** It was heroic! As Clement Greenberg proclaimed in a 1961 revision of an Art News article, “New York Painting Only Yesterday”:

Someday it will have to be told how ‘anti-Stalinism’ which started out more or less as ‘Trotskyism,’ turned into art for art’s sake, and thereby cleared the way, heroically, for what was to come.”

Indeed. Pop Art, Minimalism, Earth Art, Video Art, Performance Art, Photorealism Art, Neo-Pluralistic Whatever You Feel Like Making Art, Pattern and Decoration Art, Politically Correct, GWB Sodomizing a Pig Art, GWB Portraits of Heroic Vets (note Alice Neel influence with Hockneyesque flair for pretty colors), Infantilism, Devolutionism, Machines producing Feces-Art… All the incredibly gifted artists with their incredible gifts but nobody knows anything at all is amiss in Art Lover Land. It’s just part of the grift. All is beauty and serenity under a peaceful Sea of Happy Shoppers who believe in nothing whatsoever other than their own personal pleasure inside their extended families of Selfie Snappers living La Dolce Vita.

Lastly a quote from Dante’s Inferno. The Clive James translation but that’s all I have handy down here in the sub-sub basement in the bowels of the Deep Underground.

Bad language, bursts of anger, yelps of pain,
Shrill scrambled messages from aching lungs,
And clapped hands, self-applause of the insane:
All this was whipped by its own energy
Into a timeless tumult without form–
Dark as a whirlpool in a dead black sea
Or a whirlwind sucking sand into a storm.
Ears ringing to the center of my brain
From horror, “Master, what furore is this?”
I asked, “Who are they, so distraught with pain?”
Then he: “Their pride to have no prejudice,
Seeking no praise for fear of taking blame,
They were for nothing, nor were they against:
They made no waves and so they made no name.
Now their neutrality is recompensed,
For here there is no cautious holding back
Voices once circumspect are now incensed
And raised to make each other’s eardrums crack.
Thus they are joined to that self-seeking squad
Of angels fitted neither to rebel
Against, nor put their heartfelt faith in, God–
Hunted from heaven and locked out of Hell
Because the perfect sky would brook no blur,
And in the lower depths the rebels prized
The glory won from being what they were,
Not the nonentities that they despised.”

Ah, yes. The nonentities that they despised. Those would be the much-reviled nonentities saying a few words about what is currently transpiring in God’s real world, all the while being  drowned out by the self-applause of the insane. Eric Waynesters and his Many Million Neo-Hipster Artist Army seeing any dissenters from the madness as  “grandstanding”  or “self-glorifying. Yes. The multitudes of  insane artists all look alike and talk alike. And times they even walk alike. You could lose your mind if you pay too much attention to them. So let’s just give another round of applause for the geniuses of the Contemporary Art Moment that, in their minds, is bound to last forever through Eternity. Bound to Glory.

Posted in Decadent Art | 1 Comment

Paradigm Lost

Jean-Leon Gerome, Bathsheba, 1889

Becoming ever poorer and poorer in subject matter and more and more unintelligible in form, the art of the upper classes, in its latest productions, has even lost all the characteristics of art, and has been replaced by imitations of art.  Not only has upper-class art, in consequence of it s separation from universal art, become poor in subject matter and bad in form, i.e. ever more and more unintelligible, it has in course of time, ceased even to be art at all and has been replaced by counterfeits. –Leo Tolstoy, What is Art?, Ch.9

Rather than to go on beating a dead horse* in the hopes that the living dead wandering aimlessly around it hoping it will miraculously revive and return to its former Triumph of Abstraction from Reality I’m going to begin down the path of the new paradigm that has been evident to me for the last few months, if to nobody else flogging PoMo to death and too busy too notice that it isn’t just the horse that is dead. They can cling to each other trying to reassure each other that what they do has meaning just because it has a price tag but everyone with any honesty knows that making money bears no relationship at all to artmaking.

What used to be real art has long since been converted into commercial art and there are only one of two choices available to anyone endeavoring to take on the burdensome task of being an artist in the coming transformation.  One can either continue to be part of the commercial art system that is in process of total disintegration by holding on to all its values and commandments. Or one can reject it in its entirety, particularly it’s tawdry and long past their sell by date “ideas” and “theories”, none of which bear any relationship to real life on Earth. (see previous post The First PostModernist)

The choice is yours. I’m not advocating for anything. This began as a personal investigation along the lines of Franz Kafka’s Investigations of a Dog. For what else is the current artist but a whining and begging dog, tongue hanging out of his mouth hoping one of his old tricks will please the master and the servants of the master, the clueless masses. I have no Messianic mission. I’m simply bored to death talking about current fashion styles and and decadent work. What else could one expect to be produced in a corporate run and corporate controlled art world? As Capitalism either twinkles out or explodes into apocalypse it quite obviously has no future whatsoever, and when it fails the last half century and more of Business Art will collapse along with it.

Keeping my eye open for the panic that inevitably follows a long boom of this sort, the longest in history supported by little more than trite fashion art, I interpret the drop of 2/3 of value suffered over the last 27 years of  Gerome’s Bathsheba (a work that puts any PoMo Pop artist to shame) as the sign that the game is up. When masterpieces of the late 19th century drop that precipitously it’s clear that knowledge buyers realize that the overall “exuberance” allowing Old Master paintings to ride the vapor trails given off by mediocre kitsch like Basquiat is all but ended.

About the only thing going on in art at the moment is to convert anything possible that had never been considered serious art as late as the 1970s into brand New Innovations in Art. Ceramics, Jewelry, Costumes, RockStar Memorabilia, “Underground” Comic Books , Rap Stars, tattoo artists, etc. into High Art. This is a sign of total desperation. I’ve been enjoying it myself. Only those with vested interests in it or who have been playing the game since art schools are in a lather and looking for anyone else to blame but themselves. I can only imagine what not only Tolstoy but any other serious writer or artist of the past would make of this clowning and clowns who take themselves seriously going red as beets if one ever questions why digital printouts of their work on T-Shirts is  “art.”

I’m here as your scapegoat, gang. I’m hardly unfriendly or chastising anyone. Detached amusement, at myself included. So:   Fire away, Gridley. Or bleat away like sheep to sheering or stare vacantly like lambs to slaughter. Curse the fates in the person of yours truly. I bring bad tidings. That’s all they gave me. Somebody has to transmit the messages from above. That’s what artists are for. This happens historically. Things rise and fall. This collapse looks to be spectacular. I wish there were more outsider artists to watch it with, but the others  seem bound and determined to jump into it with their tshirts, tattoos, pop and multiple neo-styles and concepts rather than depart the vessel. Or exit through the gift shop leaving their Banksy memorabilia behind.

It can be nostalgia for the French Academy, the Italian Renaissance, the glory days of the American 1940s or the Pop Heyday. But all of it is kitsch sentimentality. And all of it is banal and without life.

To understand what real art is, I’ll keep trying to pepper some more serious thinkers on the subject than anybody we have writing today. I’ll repeat Tolstoy’s point. You’ll notice that Tolstoy’s clarity of thought on the subject bears as much relation to current art writing (i.e.,, sales talk with little resemblance to intelligible writing) as David Foster Wallace bears to Dickens.

Tolstoy’s   extraordinarily accurate summation of the art scene of 1898  is perfectly compatible with my own conclusions based on the volume of research I’ve done on this blog over the last few years.

Becoming ever poorer and poorer in subject matter and more and more unintelligible in form, the art of the upper classes, in its latest productions, has even lost all the characteristics of art, and has been replaced by imitations of art. Not only has upper-class art, in consequence of its separation from universal art, become poor in subject matter and bad in form, i.e. ever more and more unintelligible, it has in course of time, ceased even to be art at all and has been replaced by counterfeits.

We live now in an age of Ersatz, Computerized virtual reality fantasies, the so-called art being a mere form of disposable entertainment. If it isn’t pushed into big ticket monetized commodities, it ends up as kitsch trinkets on Ebay, Etsy, Artfinder, Artnet and other venues for investors who prefer nice things to trading gold, silver, porkbellies, and Collateralized Debt Obligations. I wish this weren’t the case but the only way for me to work as an artist is to work in relationship to the reality I live in. And in this case I work diametrically opposed to the commodification of life.

Note the Gerome painting above, which was his highest selling painting for $2.2 Million. In June it went for $631,000 with only one bidder. Contrast to what just sold for, according to the Times, a  mindblowing  (translation: absurd) $110.5 million at auction in Mid-May.

Yet artists keep cranking this kind of lamebrain stuff out. And recall that lamebrain critics like John Berger claimed the painting above to be greater than those by Picasso, whose later worker Berger wrote about as a failure. How much more absurd can it get really? It can only get more interesting as we watch the rivets popping and the gaskets blowing off and the water flooding into the lower decks wiping out the small fry with their Hirst Spot Paintings and Jeff and Andy and Bob and Jasper multiples. That Bacon is the other big name along with Basquiat, naturally drawing the attention of those who want to be “big stars” themselves is a kind of screaming and repetitive narcissism that somehow deceives itself into thinking it stands for anything thing more than “Look At ME!”

The Me Generation’s last Hurrah. And what could be a more pathetic of a life than what we see above selling for more than a hundred times the work of a mid-grade French Academician. The Avant-Garde as a fraudulent myth replacing real art with nothing but counterfeits.

Posted in Art and Money | Tagged , | 6 Comments

The First Postmodernist

As with my tracing back the roots of Postmodernism to Abstract Expressionism in the 1940s as it was illustrated in the crackpot writing of Clement Greenberg and further back to the Dadaists and Jarry, Duchamp being merely a packager of Lautreamont’s Pre-PostModernist plagiarism, the only way to understand PostModernist thinking at its root is to go back to the thinking of Friedrich Nietzsche.

Should one even be interested. I understand that few if any artists are, as none of the names are familiar anymore, much less their work or their thinking (for what that’s worth). At this point I can only take the comic view that has long been part of my character as I’m more of the Northern Renaissance temperament than the Southern. The grotesque and vulgar don’t alarm, and certainly don’t shock me. I can’t imagine who is being shocked other than three and four year olds. Although I imagine they take what’s on TV as normal behavior that they need to imitate.

Excuse me for not being shocked and amazed by soft core porn and people fornicating, but I went through pretty much the voyeuristic gamut as a young man about town in various American urban centers. Not that I’m jaded, mind you. Boredom is more the issue here. Is there anything new out there that is the least bit illuminating?  It would be wonderful if some of the lovers of the schlock of the new would explain to me the powerful emotions and provocative thoughts they’re experiencing when entranced in these spectacles, not to mention the reasoned political discussions they engender. At least I might be able to cast a few humorous reflections on your reflections and so amuse myself in a way that the artworks themselves fail to do. This is what I mean by the term meaningless when I refer to Contemporary Art. As to Nietzsche’s role (and no, I am not blaming Herr Nietzsche any more than I am blaming Monsieur Duchamp or Bubblebrain Greenberg) this is not a personal vendetta. For personal vendettas, like Vladimir Putin’s KGB, I prefer slow acting nuclear isotopes delivered James Bond style at the point of my umbrella.

This is my own PostModern effort to be part of the general festivities and take my mind off the heat burning down the Southwest at the moment. Fortunately this is a fluke and no worries about the temps a dozen years into the future, as we PostModernists have better things to think about. Like the fact that Jay Z’s iconic status seems to be in danger. I’ll play the timeless video at the bottom here as for me, nobody said it like it was than my man, Jay Z. I hope we will recover from his momentary challenge by Spotify, whatever that is. Before going on to the boring stuff (a quote from Simon Blackburn’s Truth) I wanted to be the first to break it to my readers that Barry Gibb suffered child abuse. I begin to wonder if a prerequisite to being an artist these days is to suffer child abuse. I need to remember that when I write my memoirs.

And now something from a writer whose thoughts are organized into coherent sentences. I myself prefer my own circular perambulations as that’s my PostModern signature style. The point I’m making is that there is no point i’m making. Isn’t that what PostModernism is all about? At least Nietzsche had a few points to make back before Google and Microsoft and Facebook took over the mind of Mankind (as I can only speak for myself as I embody the American übermensch while I’m on my computer). Other than that I’m just a regular Joe q. Sixpack watching NASCAR races with the other deplorables, my close family relatives. Is anybody aware of when I’m joking and when I’m not? No. Of course not. But that’s ok. Simon will get to the bottom of the abyss.

TRUTH CHAPTER 4.1 by Simon Blackburn:

in the introduction I remarked that the saying “There are no facts, only interpretations” could serve as a motto for the relativist movement. It comes as late notes by Friedrich Nietzsche, probably the greatest figurehead for that tendency since Protagoras (ed: more on him later as he is the real culprit!) We jump to Nietzsche rather than following the historical course of ancient and modern skepticism, for several reasons. First Nietzsche, more than any philosopher from the nineteenth century or before, is still with us. He is currently the most influential of the great philosophers. It is an axiom of many academic schools and programmes that he has something supremely important to tell us about the truth. (my itals) He is the patron saint of postmodernism. But secondly the bewildering varieties of Nietzsche interpretations perfectly illustrate the battles of the last two chapters (see the last two chapters). He appears to put himself quite willfully (note: will to power nod) to put himself in the firing line for a self-refutation (after all, that’s what PoMO is all about to the extent that it’s about anything whatsoever) or the charge of sailing in Ishmael’s boat. (Moby Dick reference… spoiler alert:. no happy ending). And the interpretative problem is worse given that he entirely throws over the the sober conventions of philosophical writing. (seen any of that lately? If not, try picking up any art forum published since the 1960s) Reading him can feel like listening to a great drunken bellow (as with Robert Hughes or John Berger’s art writings) a huge gust of wind attempting to blow down ancient forests, (I think of my own writing as farting into a hurricane. it has no effect but it relieves the pressure building up in my bowels) including those that shelter the rest of us.

We’re sheltering in ancient forests being blown down by huge gusts of wind? There’s the price of trying to disentangle Nietzsche, one becomes entranced by the poetic possibilities disregarding the nagging demands of common sense and clear expository writing. Then again, you can go the extremes of Herr Wittgenstein and go just as further into ancient impenetrable forests of indecipherable epigrams, which are what epigrams are all about. But how much insight do they really shed in the hands of writers who, at bottom, really don’t believe in anything at all but their own huge gusts of wind. Like myself at the moment. Of course, I make no claims to being a writer or philosopher. I just scribble. Doodlings for the Dark Ages…. As nobody believes that drawings have any meaning whatsoever unless they can be subjected to books of interpretations of them. For me understanding what  a drawing means is relatively simple. It’s not rocket science, like understanding what the art of  Jay Z  and Marina in the video means. Not to mention understanding the obvious intellectual brilliance of the enlightened assembled who buy and sell it.

Of course,  the wax museum  dummy and plagiarist extraordinaire Bob Dylan got the Nobel for Lit (this is why Dylan is so loved by PostModerns as plagiarism is the essence of the art form). While once again the black man, the real original  Jay Z, is losing iconic status already. Anyway, I’m Chinese on my mother’s side, which is why my writing is so Confucian to ya.

“You make yourself art. It’s amazing!” I’ll say. The talent in that room is beyond anything  around in the Sixties. Apatow. Piss Christ Man. The king of Conceptual Art Larry Weiner. This is a fundamental document. That list of artists in the credits at the end pretty much sum up the end of American culture. Anyone thinking there’s going to be a rebound needs to have their head examined. Of course the entire apparatus will remain in dumbshow silence from here to the financial collapse. Count on it.

And why not compare Jay Z, with his matter of fact lyrical pyrotechnics to this trite folkie bullshit. Get me my earplugs. At least Jaz Z is making some nice dance music and he has a pleasant voice and is far, far more personable than the self-absorbed Bob, with his pseudo-poetic sensitivities. Before he decided that playing the millionaire “outlaw” was where the bucks were. We’re all outlaws. Against the Man. Boo Trump!! Boo!!! Booo Comey!! Boo… oh yeah.. FBI are the good guys now. I forgot.

Lawrence Weiner. The heir of Duchamp. Who will replace Larry now that he’s prey to senile dementia, like the others. But we’ll have these great memories to sustain as the mountains are washed to the sea and the people are allowed to be free. Note the clarity of thought. Note the joint he’s smoking… That’s where the clear thoughts come from.

Like Larry I too wondered as a child about the big questions just as he did. Like what if Einstein and Madonna had a baby? Think about it. Every piece of art is posing that kind of question. And every day artists are coming up with some really fascinating answers. What if Duchamp and Lawrence Weiner had a baby with Lawrence Weiner being given  an artificial womb with in vitro fertilization of Duchamp’s frozen seed. .. What would that be like I wonder. Elon Musk? Pee Wee Herman? Son of Frankenstein?

The Zen Masturbator. How did empty headed intellectual pretention become the entire content of Contemporary Art? Well, that’s the question I’ve answered time and time again with each blog post. But just keep on believing. Never let go of the belief in Contemporary Art, as what would you be without it, art stars? :

Posted in Bart Johnson the VIII | Leave a comment

St. Augustine: True Being

Piero della Francesca, St. Augustine, c. 1465

For I was ignorant of that other reality, true being. And so it was that I was subtly persuaded to agree with these foolish deceivers when they put their questions to me: “Where does evil come from?” and, “Is God limited by a bodily shape, and does he have hair and nails?” and, “Are those patriarchs to be esteemed righteous who had many wives at one time, and who killed men and who sacrificed living creatures?” “In my ignorance I was much disturbed over these things and, though I was retreating from the truth, I appeared to myself to be going toward it, because I did not yet know  that evil was nothing but a privation of good (that, indeed, it has no being): and how should I have seen this when the sight of my eyes went no farther than physical objects, and the sight of my mind reached no farther than to phantasms? And I did not know that God is a spirit who has no parts extended in length and breadth, whose being has no mass–for every mass is less in a part than in a whole–and if it be an infinite mass it must be less in such parts as are limited by a certain space than in its infinity. It cannot therefore be wholly everywhere as spirit is, as God is. And I was entirely ignorant as to what is that principle within us by which we are like God, and which is rightly said in scripture to be made in God’s image.

–St. Augustine, Confessions, 3.7.12, 4th century AD

In my ignorance I was much disturbed over these things and, though I was retreating from the truth, I appeared to myself to be going toward it, because I did not yet know  that evil was nothing but a privation of good (that, indeed, it has no being): and how should I have seen this when the sight of my eyes went no farther than physical objects, and the sight of my mind reached no farther than to phantasms?

If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when?

He who refuses to learn deserves extinction.
–Rabbi Hillel

Posted in Spirit | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Why I Am So Clever

It’s pretty urewarding, I have to admit, being the most brilliant person in the entire universe. Why? Nobody recognizes it! Of course not! They’d have to be as brilliant as I am in order to realize it. They’d have to get all the labyrinthine meanings and puns like labiarinthine for the Lacanians to pick apart to get at my various sexual neuroses. Penis Envy combine with a Castration Comples.. ?

Take Two Aspirins and Call me in the morning, Dumbkopf! That’s German for… whooopss.. Somebody just interuptured my airplane of thought. I think it was me.

That’s what’s so great about  ME! They named the entire Me Generation after ME, dont’cha know, choo choo. You too, boo boob. Boogalo. What you think you gonna do? Back up to the Bumperbaby, back from the internet startup company?

Anybody hear ever heard of David Foster Kane Wall Ass? Is that an insult to the Master of Prose of the Who Gives a Shit Generation… I’m sitting on my ass watching TV and making a lot of cool references and puns in my enormous brain. We;;;;; hah!! Weee haw!! It’s fun. I can’t wait to read the entire 15,000 pages but first I need to finish Reading the longest Postmodern Novel ever written by Comic Genius and Black Magician worshipping a Snake God, Alan Moore. … I like his show on YouTube so I’m sure I’ll like the book…

Did I say 15,000 pages? I read all of that…. Then I sent it to my shrink, Jacques Lacan and asked him what it meant.

It’s ok guys. I’m just ribbin; ya. I’m jealous. I’m just as stupid painter, like Marcel said. Stupid enough to keep painting when everybody busy watching tv or writing postmodern masterpieces or is that masturbationpieces. Fallin to pieces. .. Generation what one are we at at at the moment?

The Milleniums? You mean the Apocalypto Generation? Well, if they aren’t, they sure do a good impression of it…

Anybody know what I’m talking about cause I sure don’t. I’m gonna take this in to my shrink and then have my Tarot Cards read by Alejandro Jodorowsky who made the movies that are all about the different levels of consciousness and Pagan Rights and I agree! I’m all for Pagan Rights. Just give me a sign and I’m off to join the march on Washington. I’m going dressed as my hero, The Lizard King.

Now there was a straight talker, if I ever heard one. Father. I want to kill. Mother I want to fuck you.

I get it. Freud got it right on target. Hey. Do you guys have Oedipal desires? How long did they last? Just curious … I want to put the information into my next performance piece symbolically. Since Arthur C. Danto died I wonder if there’s anyone else who will get the arcane references… Any notions of who’s writing about performance art these days. Or a blog… Besides Eric Wayne’s, I mean. I like Eric’s blog, although he thinks I don’t read it enough to get what he’s saying. welll…. excuse me!

Here’s me when I was younger. You can see I was ripped off by Chapman Brothers. I was the first performance artist to put on a penis nose. And look how the audience loved me. I went on to write plays about Picasoo at the Lappin Agita. And note how my stuff isn’t tired at all when you watch it Now in 2017 or whatever year it is today. This captures how great those days were that we never left but are hoping we can get back to if we keep on doing what we been doing to get ourselves here gettin our gut laffs . .. The Laughin Giraffes at the Laffin Agile are Burnin… That’s a Dali reference for others who didn’t get the Picasso reference. I know. I know. Who cares? Not me. That’s for sure. But as Chauncey Gardiner said. I like to Watch for 15 seconds. I know you get it. But do you? Do you really? Drop me a line anytime and tell me what I’m talkin’ about. Let’s write a Postmodern novel. You write it and I’ll draw it. But make sure it’s funny, cause my drawings sure are funny.

A laugh riot. But this kind of stuff cheers me up to no end so in order to keep every one happy. I apologize for this brief digression into total absurdity and wonder if you will… take it away Steverino….

OH yeah!!! Dagoonit it am I always foe get ten to exclude my references. Why I Am So Clever is the name of a book I wrote in the 19th century when I went by the name of Fredrick Neetsy… It’s pronounced Friedrich Nietzsche by Kluge Getzit. He road in the Kentucky on a horse named Charles Bukowsky that Hunter Bogartson and Ralph SSiimpson ratted about in Rollin’  Bones.

That’s pretty bad, mates…. I gotsa bee bonin’ up on my spelling. People are gonna start thinking I’m a Post-Modernist Beat Poet! Is it true what somebody told me that Alan Clarksburg wrote Howlin Wolf on LSD or was that Bobby Benzendrine reciting it to him in the voice of Alvin Blake the Blues Singer? Well. U gest it. I’m givin up art and forming a New Wave Band of Rappin fools from Blues Town, Las Vegas Pennsylvania. Any a you guys have a moog synthezier and a Cello and can play like Charlotte Mermaid and has a nice rack.  See how many minutes you can take of this. Cause I’m an avant garter belt genius and funny like charlotte. a sharp wit a beautiful quiver and quim and am so concentrated and effervescent and i can interest anybody in the radius of a mile. and port authority couldn’t say no to me. but they told me to stop or they were gonna lock me up.

Lots of you younguns don’t know it now but those early avant garde days were filled with geniuses that make the dopey people today doing it look like amateurs. Char was a fave of Mar… Mar and Char played chess…. Mar rubbed himself under the table and felt good about himself. real gosh darn good.

Posted in PostMortemism | Leave a comment