He Who Shall Not Be Named

I was privy to my first in-person, in-my-face experience of an exhibition this weekend, by a certain artist whom I shall not name for want not to bring him any more publicity, because I feel it is wholly undeserved. There is just nothing remarkable about his work. I was going to say ‘him or his work’, but I realised I don’t know that for sure, and I am not looking up his bio because the ‘work’ failed to move me enough to care. I am also not usually one bitter enough to use these ‘ ‘ when referring to an accepted term like ‘work’; I understand that the creative lexis is probably the most creatively used, played with, stretched… But this guy’s efforts really did not impress me. The term work would appear more exercised than the canvasses he has delicately sprayed with nonchalance and anarchy in one (no more, mind you) sulky stroke. I am sorry, for whatever issues you have with the world, but you are not resolving them, or even beginning to, here. You are just arousing a wide scale of reaction by doing something a five year old might that has been left in a room and not told to stop when he’s exploring the boundaries of life, nature, chemistry, and everything else curious children do.

If I spent years expressing those momentary curiosities in the innately lovely, lazy, self-indulgent ways they would come to me, would you give me that much money to run off and play with, in the hope that I might do something similar again? How surprisingly uninteresting you are. It baffles me how people actually do sheep after art in such a way.



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