We used to do coke, drink pinot noir, talk about punk music and paint all night long. We talked so much and we painted so much and it was such a joy that we didn’t even find time for sex.
The moment purpose and brush combined was the moment it started to be art.
While you were applying big blocks of colour to the top right and I was doing something more gestural to the left, at that point it was art.
When it was complete and propped up against the wall in yr bedroom it was STILL art.
But when we broke up and you left it propped against a wheelie bin, then it became trash, instantly. From art to trash in one gesture, and maybe thats more common than we care to admit. Art is trash, museums are cathedrals of trash. Maybe true art can only be found in the gutter.
Would people consume that?
Should people consume that?
These are two very different questions. Capitalism only ever asks the former. It is our job as artists to investigate the latter.
Kush queen in a cocktail dress
oh god, Nick Cave’s forehead
you are mental, all… of… you!
vapourface, yr guilty, savvy gent
Can I please write a poem about Nick Cave’s enormous forehead?
No, no, forget it, i’m on drugs and the avant garde is doing mad things with my brain patterns
I am not interested in yr creative writing
I do not want to see yr abstracts in acrylic
I do not like yr band or yr solo project
and if YOU are interested in MY art
you are probably
a bad influence
art creates illusory narratives, content, concepts, worlds
but they always remain illusory because the business
of making them concrete is not in art’s remit
now art fractures reality and reality fractures art