Art. Art! hmm! Now this is a trickey one, espescially as, when your're growing up, if you can draw, you are the artist of the family and labelled as such, at every opportunity. From the age of six you make concertive effort to get better and better until, by the age of seventeen, when you find that you're actually quite good. But then something really quite awful happens, you discover that what Art world truely craves is............ A Fuckin' Un-made Bed!!!!!!!! A pile of sodding bricks!!!!!!!!!!!! Some twat who filmed himself doing a Buster Keaton stunt, and then played it over and over again on an endless loop!!!!!!!!! All of this is Art.....Apparently! >:-(( Not that I'm bitter at all. The actual ability to draw is something pasce, something that will consign you forever to the Range's print 'bargain bin' thus ensuring that the only ones who will ever see your work are Sales Reps, stressed parents on holiday and of course adulterers having a quickie. The 'Seedy Hotel Room' market will be yours for the taking, irrespective whether you want it or not.
The art world is a triple locked, steel box and only the Protentious or the Insane, have the key. Truth is, if the Tate Modern burned down tomorrow, who would it inconveniece? O.k, maybe that's a little bit harsh because there are some people out there who can actually draw and paint and sculpt but unless you're a true culture vulture, you never really hear about them do you. What the layman would regard as 'an artist' is never heralded as such, never acclaimed by the artistic establishment, and if you speak out, if you protest at the winner of the Turner Prize, then you are a stupid, un-cultured trogladite with the artistic appreciation of a pot of boiled cabbage. As long as protentious rich people continue to fund this garbage, then the proper 'Artist' doesn't stand a hope in hell of ever winning it, ever being truely recognised by the artistic world, well not until he or she is stone dead anyway.
Truth is that I love, what I would refer to as, Art. I've been to countless exibitions, studied hundreds of brilliant pictures, some abstract, some real world and I've been bowled over by them. Which is why it makes me so angry that there are people out there, like Tracey Emin, who have made shit loads of money and will go down in history as one of britains best 'Artists', without a single, descernable scrap of aritistic talent what-so-ever. It's the worst kind of bizarre that you can possibly imagine. Which brings me on to Damien Hurst, I'm not going to even gratify the guys work by mentioning any of it in these pages, all I will say is 'Can someone please get him the pshychological help he clearly needs before he ends up as his own ultimate exibit, the man is clearly unbelievably disturbed'
To me art is an image of someone's soul, captured forever on canvass or photographic paper or stone, metal or anything else they see fit to emblazen it onto. One of my favourite artists is a chap from soho, can't remember his name (which doesn't really help my point) but he paints scenes from jazz clubs. He uses the base colours of brown, grey,yellow, white & black to create these truely wonderful images. They are so full of life that you expect them to start moving, you can almost hear the music and the crowd pictured within them. They are, quite simply, stunning. This man will never win the Turner prize, he will never be acclaimed by the art world's glitteraty because to do so would call attention to how crap and protentious most 'art' in this country is. This country is now so far up it's own arse that true artists don't even get a 'look in', It's like Frank Zapper once said, "I'm an artist and I'm in pain, pay me".
Continued on No Seriously3!!!
