self-portrait of another self-absorbed artist
once while milling around a small town looking for coffee i accidentally arrived at an art gallery opening set-up. everyone was was preoccupied picking up and putting down various artworks. artists in their 40’s and 50’s standing contrapposto with their hands in the shape of a square frame in the air expressing pompous hanging opinions. no one talked to me but i could tell from peripheral grins that they liked the presence of an onlooker.
my interpretation of the work and artists were: small town, artisan, craft, grandmothers, who owned a book on picasso (a household name as bad as Kraft), and a couple catalogs from homesense, and desperately wanted to decorate their home/gallery and be viewed by the community as high class big city artists. the substance in the work was comparable to the texture of instant mashed potatoes.
ive experienced this substancelessness in larger places like toronto the same, just more dense, containing the same aggressively striving people. people who look the part but dont make anything, they dont think critically, they only frolic about gallery openings holding plastic wine glasses expressing concern for the after party. this is the art world, you dont have to sleep with the right people, you just have to have an open bar and a dj to become “famous”.
imagine your favorite musician released a new album, you listened to it and your brain exploded into pop puke. a stereotypical amalgamation of spineless sound. sell out for fame, some sort of ego indulgence. now that musician produces nothing but choreographed social gatherings, and people still attend in even greater numbers not to hear anything but to see each other looking at each other and to be present as a popularity obligation.
but who am i to judge the creative endeavors of others, im too shy and/or lazy to get a model to pose for my work so i plaster the internet with my own sweaty face just the same. i am too just another self-absorbed garbage pail artist.
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