Wednesday, November 19, 2014


Beauty is in the eye of the beholder...
Through rose tinted shades...

Platitudes which disguise the truth. I hate how art is subjective. Probably because of my barely in-check "self belief" (others call it arrogance and narcissism of worrying proportion). I can understand how something I find unpleasant, aesthetically or aurally, may be appealing to others. In principle. But being the only person I know who knows my tastes, I tend to trust myself above the slack jawed appreciation of the masses.

And that fucking eye sore of an "art" installation on the promenade is just that: a fucking eye sore. Not to mention just another glaring example of a trilby sporting oik with limited talent milking the already far too tarnished legacy of our country's beloved father. What the fuck was he smoking when he came up with that awful piece of brand blandishment? Ray Ban must be laughing all the way to the Banksy.

Anyway, the defiling of this "art", no matter how objectionable I find it, should not be tolerated. Fuck, it shouldn't have been allowed to be planted there in the first place, but as is painfully evident in modern culture, there is sweet fuckall accounting for taste. But to vandalise it was not right - even if it raised a chuckle from those who were offended by the garish grotesquery. Imagine you write what you think is the world's greatest tune, perhaps something somber and, in your mind, emotionally vulnerable. The average pop up collar wearing Edward Street resident would scoff and revert to the tried and trusted compilation of songs used for Castle Lager ads. My parents just sighed and tried prayer. But if someone had run on stage and spray painted my guitar and I whilst [* for Anton] I was playing a 14 minute dirge (and trust me, in hindsight, it was truly a test of most peoples' patience), I'd have lost my shit like a shit collector with amnesia. At the time that stuff meant the world to me.

I suppose the difference is that, in the case of the Wayfarer Whatthefuckery, we can identify a crass collusion with commerce and an even more underhanded attempt at benefiting from the memory of a great man under the guise of magnanimity. If you'll excuse the very strained pun, the people, the vandalists, and everyone outside the Biscuit Mall, saw though it. Whereas pure art, the kind made with no agenda other than the expression of the artist, is personal - and as crap as it can be, is not contrived.

That being said, I fucking hate so much of what's considered artistic. Especially shit like the new bifocal point of the promenade. I thought it was being UPgraded for fuck's sake. Then again, if I was king of the world, only about 200 bands would ever have been allowed to exist and everyone would wear black, so what do I know...

I have on occasion been known to stand in front of a piece of art, in the hushed surrounds of a gallery, thoughtfully stroking my chin, desperately trying not to be caught out as a complete fraud. Perhaps I should try facial hair.

I think William Welfare summed it best when he said: "After UTC guerilla-hipsters in balaclavas and designer hand gloves ironically "defaced " artist Michael Elion's Ray Ban sculpture last night, the ghost of Van Hunks responded by burning down Signal Hill."

 Enough of my pointless rambling. Get on with your day. There's cricket on...

NGDG: Look! An immigrant. A politician. It's all good, it's Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Spread The Love. Sex In A Spray Can.

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