Ah. Finally some peace and quiet in which to think. Far away the ones who haven’t the foggiest definition or understanding or interest in understanding what art is and what it means outside of its function as a commodity in the capitalist system that is imploding all around us. That’s what’s so great about doing an art blog. It’s so debased a racket at this point that nobody at all takes it with any seriousness.
The last place left on earth where one is truly free to say or do whatever one likes. Too bad nobody bothers to take advantage of it as they’re too busy making art.
Henry Giroux, as he has no connection whatsoever to the art world, is one of the many tracking our demise. Depressing stuff. Don’t read it if here you’re in the art world as you are running the danger of waking up from your numbed out existence playing video games or getting shaped up or hitting your next botox injection or writing the Great American Novel. Or like me writing a really fun and interesting art blog that nobody reads. That’s how I get my kicks these days. At the end of a long day of wandering around talking to all kinds of wack jobs about anything else but reality I like to take a hit on my crack pipe and write another senseless column about the senseless job of being the last artist on the Planet of Doom.
Not really. There are many, many, many of us. Tomorrow we leave for the North Pole where we’re going below surface to our underground space station in anticipation of the collapse of the global financial system when the debt ceiling cracks like the levees under Hurricane Katrina.
Just kidding. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. As things get more real they get even more surreal. At least that’s what I’ve been discovering lately, talking to a few mountain goats, llamas, yaks and assorted other aficionados of the absurd in the Yasgur’s Farm of the Mind that only the few enlightened ones call home… home .. home on the range.
I don’t know about you, but I’m with the tattooed guys hiking in the mountains or doing extreme sports like jumping off a cliff and sprouting squirrel wings. Live for today is my motto. Life of Riley for me, baby. No more art. Free as a bird. See above. Me and the other two. No idea who they are. But they insisted I draw them into the “art”. We’re off to battle Fascism! And Racism! And Neo-Expressionism! Particular the digital variety. If there’s anything we’re sick to the gills over it’s digital expressionism. We just don’t get it. Who are we? Dorothy and the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion and the Axeman Cometh to Oz.
We’ve got a score to settle with that lying bastard of a Wizard. Not really. We like the Wizard. The Wiz… the one Whizzing all over us. Trickle down turning into a torrent as we’re swept away into the mystic.
Now I’ve seen it all. Or have I? Maybe not. There’s still the apocalypse. I was looking at some of the old stuff at the Getty a few days ago. See below. Haven’t got a clue who did it. Not that I care. What? God forbid I ever get confused with an art historian. Yes. I’ve sunk low, my friends. But not that low. Nor have I become an art teacher. There are some low professions available out there but being an art teacher is down there at the very bottom.
Actually, I’m going into the T-shirt business. Plus working on my Youtube How To Draw like the Old Masters on LSD series that should be out around the time of the Rapture. I’ve put out feelers to Kanye West and Bill Gates for funding and should be hearing back any day now. Will keep everyone posted. No worries.
Any of you literary types out there know who fits into the two deepest circles of the Hell outlined by Dante? Well, let’s look into that a bit in the next post. Most of today’s artists it turns out. Yeah. Hey. Don’t look at me. I didn’t write the Inferno. I just live in it.
The Disco Inferno. Hit it guys! Burn, Baby Burn! Burn that Mother Down! Burn that M’fuckin’ Debt Ceiling down!