call•me•jonah

The beautiful thing about art, of course, is that it is essentially meaningless. Like language has been reduced to a dog’s bark, no to a recording of a dog’s bark, no to an imitation of a recording of a dog’s bark. There are all these fuzzed out barking chihuahua robots reaching white noise. Yip yip yip yip yip. I’m an artist listen to my robot dog yip. I don’t care if you built it yourself, with your own hands, out of your own feces.

So I’m pretty sick of art. I want to see something real. Or closer to it. Something without fingerprints all over it. You know, like people and cars and mountains. Buildings and shops, and dinner plates, old stuff, used stuff, broken stuff. Real stuff. Stuff without hidden messages and covert phalic imagery. I don’t care about the significance that this piece had in the art world. It doesn’t mean anything in the real world. I mean, sure if you want to jack off on canvases, then by all means, do what you gotta do. If it makes you happy, sure, if it pays your bills, sure.

I just don’t really care anymore.

Art has castrated itself, or maybe slept with too many filthy hookers. Either way it’s impotent.

Art is the first and lowest form of communication. Cavewall scribblings. Art is easy for a child, difficult for an adult. That’s beautiful. Know what else is easy for a child and difficult for an adult? Defecating in his pants. Know what a child can’t do? Must be taught to do? Communicate. Yes. What if language never developed to the state of being able to differentiate between “I’m hungry” and “My God, I shat myself”? We’d all be painters.

I shouldn’t attempt to define art, but I will anyway. Art: a nebulous cloud of gas, emitted from a butthole. Everyone likes the smell of their own art.
ex. Between you and I, Picasso’s art smells like he ate too much asparagus.

An engineer is, no doubt, anamored with the surface of his trade, the feel of polished metal or the shape of a screw. To a mechanic, an engine purr is like Chopin. The seamstress makes romance with the texture of her fabrics. The designer dreams of letterforms and lower case g’s. These things are beautiful, these people are true artists, ameteur artists, and their love is their art. A true unpretentious personal art. But this art does not an engine make, or a dress seam, or a poster print. And briefly the art is lost. But it will emerge again, perhaps so faint it goes unnoticed by careless eyes, but it is there, beneath layers of utility, each artist has infused his love within.

Maybe it is about time for professional artists to get their noses out of their asses and start making things that people (I) cared about. I hope so. Or else I’ll give up on the whole idea and go pick some flowers instead.