Monday, September 24, 2007

toilet

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Dada destroyed itself quickly because it says everything is fucked. It's about annihilation. Surrealism came from it. Picasso was progressive; got bored easy. Most of his abstract art to me looks like shitty 7 year-old art. He was a leader of movements. Shows how things have been different for the sake of it for a while. Some painters paint to ward off demons, in deserts; landscapes, with skulls and cacti. No one ever sees what they paint or put together and a lot of it goes unnoticed like bears' craps in woods. Sometimes professional art gallery people drive through deserts and find what these painters made to show them off in a gallery as the next raw ingenue; these miserable sand hermits who did it to feel and nothing else. This is the explanation I had last night from a guy who refuses to acknowledge what's going on in the pop world of art; overflowing in simple, flat, colorful anime oil paintings, with young girls opening their pink glossed mouths ever so slightly looking stoned. The nerds that used to get picked on in high school are now the ones with the money, because of computers; they no longer want Venus with a bulbous tummy; they want impossible cartoon looking girls with purple hair and abnormally big cartoon tits; hot librarians are all over the streets now in woolen skirts and horn rimmed glasses. I see parallels everywhere. I see recurrency; it all comes down to whatever feels good and keeps us from giving up hope. Happiness is the new anarchy. I'm tired of sacrifice. Hedonism's good in small doses. Hedonism makes my brain crackle for water and my guts feels tired.
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Self-destruction doesn't solve anything if it is only a threat.
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Cooper, the one-tentacled-octopus-nymphomaniac, saw extremes as being dramatic for the sake of it. "Small doses are nice," he thought, "preservatives blotted and sifted to be a little less filling; a little less bloating and catagorizable. Isms are dated. Even pieces of isms are dated. Jisms more like. Jisms after beating off in the path oft beaten; bread crumbs to the ginger bread castle." Cooper liked fairy tales and masturbating. He was glad that he had at least one tentacle left to beat off with after surviving three consecutive shark attacks in one year; eight years prior. "It was all a bunch of excess and I didn't even know it," he thought, ink seeping suction cups, oozing. Fish swam by in schools, all silver.
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5 comments:

Robert said...

Art became abstract with the invention of the camera.
When a likeness can be captured on photographic plate, why would someone pay for theirs to be painted?
So for paint as a medium to remain relevant it moved into abstraction.
At least, that's what I heard once.
The same is being said about writing. Blogs, and the internet in general, has everyone doing it.
It's becoming a common tug. So, it needs to evolve.
Theoretically.
All that may be misremembered.

Robert said...

http://tinyurl.com/3dz8pn

Sabra Embury said...

How's it going to evolve, Robert? Will a new surrealist movement rise from its suicide in protest of anti progress? Who cares though. Who cares as long as it feels good. I wrote some aburdly pretty bullshit on the plane today and was pretty proud of myself the end result, which may have no significance to anyone but myself, but damn if I wasn't into it disappearing the whole of everything into the creative caves of my head even if only for a little bit. I was content, thriving with happiness as the only survivor of complete and utter chaos that hasn't even happened yet. What am I talking about? I don't know, but it feels good to say it. I was writing blogs before blogs ever existed. When they were called vignettes on paper.

Robert said...

I don't know what may happen...

I can see about the internet different trends. Small publishers giving unknown, blog writers paper outlets. Books of vignettes just like yours.
Magazines are producing 'blog' columns.

It's just that the article seemed correct to me. Of course, my only experience on the subject is second hand, but it all rings bells.

Still, if writing is a personal outlet, unmotivated by commercial longings, then what does all this matter? Broccoli is all.

Sabra Embury said...

Brocolli with chess sauce on kings' backs with sparrows barking at seals...urgently.

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