Paranoia in the Magnetic Field.

Categorised as ART.

I went to an art opening intending to loosen my bowels with complimentary wine and lower my standards while keeping my spirits high with easy art students. The junk hanging on the wall rarely impressed some T.V. eyes aside from a few misinformed nobodies snubbing their nose at the snot rags below them (like my friends and myself.)

Hell, I’m surprised these small town bumpkins weren’t getting high off paint chips to expand their consciousness and getting their rocks off to some pedagogue’s meanderings about ‘Art’s true value” by tossing together a months worth of cum rags, used tissues, and socks full of Vaseline (Hey kid, put a few squirts of lotion between two pillows and feel the results!) Never was I to be had, lassoed, or conned on some nervous, pill-popping egomaniac piecing of a few neon colors with some scraps of newspaper clippings and declaring it art. I am skeptical. It isn’t often I am deeply affected with the work of a 22 year old art institute student. If the piece is meaningful, authentic, or pleasant on the inner register, I will deliver the credit where it is deserved, but what I am complaining about wasn’t anything creative or moving. The whole damn show was a sham by some talentless freak who thought a display of his ‘art’ would earn him his stars and stripes (however the door girl who ran the joint had delightfully brown skin, almond eyes, and a slight under bite that was absolutely charming in my incorrigible state. She looked ravishing in that tight, white dress.)

At this particular event, they intelligently placed a keg in the center of the gallery, knowingly aware that any horny youth is willing to sacrifice their night for free beer, a party, or an excuse to get out of the grandma’s basement and dress up. The gobs of phlegm dripping from the paintings (spat by a truly artistic, suffering soul, yours truly) weren’t much different than the visionary ramblings of an aging jock trying to compensate for his lack of talent with vague splatters, photo shopped mosaics, and get this, neon colors and newspaper clippings! Where is the empty cans of Vaseline? What nearly blew my mind though was the amount they were trying to scam some poor sucker into. 3,500 dollars for a 12×5 canvas littered with some absurd concept that didn’t even make sense to the vegetable who fantasized about it. With that cash, you’d be better off wasting your parents hard earned money for a class that teachers photo shop tutorials and ‘How to Convince Yourself You’re an Artist while Exempting Everyone Else’ because buying (not investing) a canvas trashed with the pretentious attempts of a recently graduate student would be supporting a.) the continued productions of a less-than average trust fund child and b.) the belief that people can get away with this type of psychic/financial thievery. If only I were to reiterate the descriptions of the art! It looked as if a child spilt watercolors onto a Time magazine article describing the hostilities of a terrorist situation. Except, replace the ski masks with gas masks (maybe a metaphor for stinking?) Or if I could retell the concept he failed to communicate in his ‘Artist Statement.’ The florid prose would have surely awarded him a scholarship from a high school creative writing class. I can only assume as a spectator who has been jaded to a point of accepted bitterness that all parties involved with setting up the show were expecting the crowd to casually confess that the tear jerkin art was as moving as their escape from the womb, paying an homage to the obvious genius of a former fratboy turned aristé.

I have to reference a quote from Penny Arcade (wikipedia!) an outside figure during the CBGB movement of the sleazy seventies: “The Lower East Side used to be filled with poets, writers, actors, musicians, junkies, whores, and weirdos. Now It’s filled with college students pretending to be poets, writers, actors, musicians, photographers, filmmakers, junkies, whores and weirdos, in other words the ten most popular kids from every high school in the world are now living in downtown New York. These are the people who most of us came to New York to get away from. Nobody popular in high school can ever be hip. If you were popular in high school, that was your peak. Be satisfied.” Fortunately she didn’t have to deal with that damn DJ epidemic sweeping the world like a bad case of the plague. But that is straight from the mouth of a person who was there, a generation that was indirectly and inevitably responsible for us leftovers in the insulting two thousands.

I am hardly delusional. I am full of shit, but it is the type of shit we need to hear, without exaggeration, blatant truth. Otherwise we’d only become victims to ashy streets and rodents in oil tanks.

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