Tuesday, October 04, 2005

 
Mexican thrift store painting
Sorry kids...my depression about the crisis of bad art has achieved gigantic proportions. MountainMan, I will insert my head in a pile of in dirt and Mr. Boadwee, you are a delicate flower, I will be gentle with you, but best not to read my blog for a few days, my usual feel good, going with the flow attitude is a casualty of this dark and humorless virus.

The Jim Shaw thrift store paintings I saw last week are confusing to me at this moment. They can be inspiring and funny but they are also really shitty paintings. The confusing thing is that the fluttery brain-crackling sensation you get from looking at a great painting is similar to the feeling of delight you can get looking at a Jim Shaw thrift store painting. Thats fine and good, I don't want to impicate the naif. Perhaps, when talking about "bad art" I need to distinguish thrift store paintings from the self-concious underdeveloped or formulaic "student grade work" that has no shadow, turn your back on it for a second and it disappears kind of work. The art market is a hungry beast at this moment and it needs to fill its gargantuan appetite and when you're hungry there's no difference between foie gras and a tofu pup, it's just calories. Thus theres alot of crap and spectacle being consumed. Hell, I'm going to lay my shit out, I want painting to be honest, revealing and daring, I want transcendent experiences, I want fucken deliverance man! Or something, (keeping in mind I believe a 3 minute pop song can be transcendent) but I think the collector class is insensitive to that feeling -they mistake transcendence for a stingy hit of crack, its all the same difference- those twits and jack-asses buying all the student-grade work at exorbitant prices affect the context in which we all show our work. I know, I've gotten all serious on your asses, shitski. Now, wheres that pile of dirt...

Comments:
corny,

to ask me to not reead your blog for 3 days is like asking pete doherty to put down the pipe for 3 days!

'nuf said chile.

xo
boadwee

p.s. i've decided that from now on i'll be called 'lil cornie.
okay, i'm about to fall off of my chair right now as i HOWL with laughter at the thought of me being little shit covered corn kernels smothering you, big turd corny girl, in my 'lil shitty kernels of corny lovin'!!! okay, i'm fairly KILLING MYSELF now. Surely, grandmaster b is delirious. 'lil corny (as thee will refer to grandmaster b from now on) is off to slee (p).
 
jesus Grandmaster b, just opened my comment corner and that shit covered corn kernels business is just NOT OK with me.
*shaking head
NOT OK
I'm in psychic pain this week, and consequently have deleloped the super-power to see through the fabric of this dimention and now can detect billions of micoscopic elephants stampeding down 10th avenue, so give me a break...
 
I actually really liked the Zak Smith show but wondered how something so wrong could feel so right. If only someone would listen to my idea to turn the High Line into an animatronic Disney ride " history of chelsea " the neighborhood might be OK.
 
corny girl, did not mean to cause you psychic pain. i think i was delirious with fatigue but i truly was killing myself.
my apologies for any trauma i may have caused your psyche. i will refrain (though with great difficulty) from calling myself 'lil corny. eternally yours. grandmaster b
 
the whole thing is deeply depressing. I can't find any deliverance in chelsea. I go to the Met instead. I walk around the Met galleries with a big smile on my face from deep satisfaction. I can't find that pleasure in chelsea. I don't think it's me being cynical. It all seems so careless, and not in a good way.
 
Anon, that idea is dope, huger then soup as a crouton might say...
Yuck, cheer up, it's not ALL bad, I think there are a lot of brilliant artists out there, some who are actually super tallented and smart and funny sensitive and all that... It's just a matter of weeding through the uh, weeds.
Your right about the Met, that museum ROCKS. If the Met were a rock band it'd be The Beach Boys circa '66...
 
Corny your rant inspires. Deliverance, transcedent experience. YES! You're not negative, it's more like having high expectations. High stakes art-making. I sometimes wonder if being a painter will always mean being complicit with the capitalist way somehow...but I still want to. I still want to believe in its transformative magical powers. I love what you wrote.
 
thank you, i feel better knowing others are at times as irritated as i am - and i like the crack reference. mm, well put about the high-stakes art making. ugh.
 
I like my stakes on my feet.
 
best regards, nice info »
 
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