Monday, 22 March 2010

Childish = Now

I have been roaming the whole world looking for an art that stirs my soul. I have been arrested on the streets of Pompeii, for calling out before that fateful day.  Why have we become so childish: myself not wanting to offend the young, who believe with a pure faith?

I call out in the streets, “Where is the gutsy art”? Is a way of life a substitute for the real thing? The echoes of past heroes, bounce along the electronic band wave like pawns, brutally abused: not by gods or goddesses but by illegitimate terrible enfants.

Helicopter day Helicopter Day

And so Duchamp’s last painting brutally descends, as old man Dylan, mourns in a croaky voice, “the only thing we know about Dylan, is Dylan was not his real name”.


Camel circus

Circus Camel

I wish I could find an art so pure, an art so mature, an art so sincere, an art so real, an art that meant something, an art so now that it lasted forever and was always in vogue. An art that reached down into the depths of my soul and ripped asunder the impoverished childish bloat and transformed me into an innocent child, who gleamed with eyes of wonder.

Alas, childish = now.


Instant Child


  1. Behold the definitive brushstroke
    the mark which transcends all others, the essence of all marks ever made and all possible marks to come, the platonic (was it Plato?) perfect mark of which all others are as THE ONE seen through a glass darkly. The unattainable brushstroke that cuts through all the crap papery canvas textured brickwalls where-on our crawling graffiti pretends to something other than dust, the bulldozer brushstroke of truth that obliterates all vanity.

  2. It's a good thing then that I have many tongues in many cheeks.


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