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farts of the (f)artworld

March 7, 2015 - mirrormirror -

when trying to find out what ‘art’ is, it can be helpful to think about what-not-‘art’-is,  or who is an artist and who not – or is everybody an ‘artist’?


the Jean-Michel-Baquiat party (AGO exhibition) two weeks ago was followed by some exciting discussions and the quite negative impression the show left me with is still echoing. it questioned my essential beliefs in my progress of work some people might call art. it encouraged me in keeping on going with my passions (writing and photography), but it discouraged me of trying to become a part of the art(-societies) of the world, of becoming a fart.

don’t call me artist! I tried, I honestly tried to accept my daily activities as a form of art, but I refuse to identify myself as an ‘artist’ until the arts aren’t drowning by a flood of pretenders any more, of people of all ages who have something to say and to show – anywhere any time. they’re diving in a creative pool, holding their breath, about to spill. suddenly they come out and they insult themselves and they yell: I am an artist, a writer, a stripper, a painter and a whore, a photographer and a teacher, a yoga instructor or boot camp master, a leader, I sell ice cream, a singer song writer, adolf hitler or garfield, the fat cat.

isn’t going to a dozen verni- and finnisages a month over-saturating, limiting your own imagination and blocking your organic recreational progress? the results of those actions become truth and visible, when (wo)men are live-tweeding the demolition of their old Iphone using their new one to harass the world with the thing they call performance – I call it lame and useless.

a fancy camera, an expensive brush, or the golden pen doesn’t mean they’re capable of catching the aura of a protagonist, or the person in a photograph or a painting. they come as a mob like locusts and they are the leeches trying to suck sparkling milk the tits of higher ranked leeches to find success – fake it until you make it and eventually they find a corner in the spot light.

I don’t know art, or what people consider as art, what they exhibit and what they consume, what they slut out on purpose and what they re-purpose – if that’s the art world, I’m not an artist.

people fart occasionally, they fart accidentally and nobody reveals themselves to be the stinky one, but when it comes to ‘art’ – regardless how shitty their work smells – they fart for attention.

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