“art that is sold or commissioned ceases to be art” ~ gertrude stein (im paraphrasing)
“art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable” - Cesar a. cruz, and the joker
the ideal aftermath of a life stricken with the trauma of poverty is finding a briefcase full of manuscripts and paintings by you on the side of the road that are so good and easy to sell to a person of opulence. the trouble is that people of opulence do not wish to talk to you anymore. the clubs are dead, the future is tech, our culture values shitcoins and rare tokens, our culture values the adobe-tinged fog left on the glass by the spectre of the eternal 20th century as it comes in through our window and beats its little meat and steals our dreams when we go back to sleep.
“If elon musk likes my tweet, or if I have had lunch with Jay-Z, I will have seen into the eyes of the people I want to get my money from” says the post-9/11 poor. we subconsciously want to know the psychological life of the uber-rich because we are taught how to manipulate people by our favorite tv shows. capitalism asks for sociopathy: to ask someone with a harder life than yours to do hard work for your personal gain. you wouldn’t accept being asked to do hard work by your fentanyl addict brother, but you do it for your boss, because she will give you enough money to buy food for the month, and next week enough money for 3/4ths of the rent, and the next week the last 1/4th and cleaning and laundry supplies, and the next week your car insurance and the electricity bill, and then you do it over again. this minor key life is won by frying the muscles of tens of thousands of chickens in their own fat, tossing them in assorted sauces bottled in factories by people just as miserable as you. media portrays the rich and famous as cool and likable people who are your friends. if they are your friends, why are they letting you get burned by the big fryer every night? you tweet at them, you reply to their instagram posts, if you see them in public you try to talk to them or get a picture so it looks like you had been talking and wanted to commemorate your friendship suddenly. media says you should be friendly to these strangers because they are the most important people in our world, and you won’t demand them to give you ten thousand dollars because you wouldn’t do that to your friends. unless you were an opioid addict.
burroughs theorized opioids formed a symbiotic relationship with their user, creating a synthesis of plant and human, one that is sexless, painless, and timeless. Surely enough opioid addicts have died to see these freak hybrid organisms re-enter nature after the arrest of death. the microscopic creatures that eat these new humans and the larger creatures that eat those creatures and so on must all be so confused. our current opioid crisis started in 2010. do you remember when all those fish and birds were suddenly dying in 2011? a mass death of equal magnitude happened again in 2020:
Many of the dead birds collected by researchers appear emaciated and some even seem to have simply taken a nose-dive mid-flight. “They’re literally just feathers and bones,” Allison Salas, a graduate student at NMSU who has been collecting carcasses, wrote in a tweet quoted by Phoebe Weston of the Guardian. “Almost as if they have been flying until they just couldn’t fly any more.”
a crisis of art is happening. it will sort itself out because art always sorts itself out, and then the bourgeois will come and start another crisis, fucking annoying everybody and never shutting the fuck up. but we will have invited them to the party, because we live where we live, and nothing exciting will change that, and we won't break the cycle of boredom necessary to start caring about shit and meditating on the millennia of pain we've all had to go through, unless cvs sells OTC psilocybin and lsd, and when it comes time to blame someone, we'll blame a dinosaur our oldest ancestor was really afraid of, and then forgive her, and maybe smoke some weed. that sounds cool.
have you seen this or read about this?: zoomer artists are so talented and know so much about so many different industry-standard tools and software, because they went to charter schools and their social studies class textbook was a tumblr post made in 2013 by a CIA agent, and they know blender and procreate and the "Adobe Creative Suite" and "Ableton Live". when they make something beautiful they can hope to upload it to "Instagram by Facebook", "Behance by Adobe", or "YouTube by Google". what kind of art do 20 year olds make? vector illustrations of famous people made in "Adobe Illustrator". paintings of consumer products that they like. analogical newspaper comics to put on their instagram. grilli type on stock 'bauhaus' and 'memphis' backgrounds attempting to communicate why we should go to war with iran or china. oil paintings on ungessoed canvases of sunflowers in peoples hair? or mouth? their pussys? free 3D models of a meme character with rigid bodies attached, falling onto a larger duplicate of that model with a gold PBR material on it, rendered at 4k 60 frames per second, minted as a NFT, sold for some ungodly amount of heat and ethereum. a remix of a hyperpop song by a 34 year old, who in their case is trying to reconnect to their youth because they are sad they are getting old, and they might be a sex freak, but there's no way to know, but it's fun to think about if you hate their vibe.
everything feels and is inconsequential because of that shit adam curtis said. even good shit in time will feel like nothing. everything is dying and we want to forget about it. and so what? and that's exactly the point. and there's nothing you can really do because you might kill old people with your virus, but we never gave a shit about old people to begin with. we should have, but we've never. and they (the CIA) like and fuck with that. they exist out of time and pain and sex even though they might deploy these things onto us. the blob becomes too big one day and envelopes the earth. we become organs of the blob. the blob will die and take with it the earth and us, unless we build a contraption that will suck the blob inside of it and then very quickly shoot the blob piece by piece into a container of fire. maybe then, we can be free.