my life as a artist
life, life, death be damned
Friday 15th June 2007 11:30 PM
Regular readers of this blog, who are, according to my webstats, my old mate Kev, my brother Simon and my stalker, (who's name I eventually hope to discover, but not, I hope, in a thrillingly bloody climax that'd make a good feature in a bio-pic), will imagine they already know how I feel about the artist Demon Hurts. In fact I'm quite torn, split down the middle, the severed entrails of my artistic taste are glistening in the formaldehyde-filled tank of ambivalence. On the one hand I think it's empty, pretentious, cynical and derivative, but on the other hand I think it's rubbish.
If Demon had had the decent good manners to ask all those dissected sheep and cows what sort of art they preferred, I feel sure that most of them would have said landscapes. Rather than evisceration and humiliation (and aggravation to our nation, suicide, too many pills, everyone's moving to the hills, it's a ball of confusion) I think those sheep and cows would have preferred a) to live, and b) to see representations of themselves via some sort of medium, manipulated with technique and imagination. You know, that art stuff.
Due to the singular nature of rural arts funding in this part of the world, it's estimated that over 20% of visitors to art galleries in North Yorkshire are sheep and cows. I think we have a duty of care to our lowly cattle, especially the young calves and innocent lambs, and it is incumbent upon us to provide them with sound aesthetic nourishment, as well as good grazing and ear-tags. ( I'm getting a message through my headphones that 'encumbent' has just won this weeks prestigious 'Nicest word to say in blog' award)
As for Demon's latest exhibition, 'For the love of Demon Hurts and Money' I am rendered peachless. There's no rosy glow of life here, no generous curve of soft sensuality, no kernels of truth, no sweetness, no juice, only the cheap saccharine dust of dry sixth-form death. The centipede of the exhibition is an ethically sourced goth disco-ball, reputed to have cost fourteen million pounds to make. It's rumoured that George Michael, who's really into disco, is going to buy it for fifty million pounds (plus postage and packing). I think George needs to take his protein pills and put his helmet on, while Demon needs to leave the capsule if he dare.
So here am I, sitting in a tin-can caravan, just above the earth,
planet Earth is blue, and there's plenty I can do……
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Posted by zolpidem , on Thursday 20th September 2007, 11:35 PM
I believe that if Tracey Emin crapped on the pavement, Janet Street Porter would praise it as pavement art.
These arseholes (touche) need to learn that not every idea intrinsically has artistic merit, except of course for mums rhubarb crumble.
For bless
Posted by Turner Turning In His Grave , on Monday 18th June 2007, 3:38 PM
Someone(a horse I believe)once said 'Every society gets the culture it deserves'.If this is true then I'm proud to be unsociable.I agree with your every word, even incumbent or encumbent whichever way it's spelt.
Posted by Les Miserable , on Sunday 17th June 2007, 3:49 PM
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