TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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05.30.04, sunday night
Lazy girl. Cut unnecessary verbiage! Sculpt muscular sentences! Write! Because you forget. And to forget is worse than flabby prose.
. . .
Regardless of social position and geographical location, an individual marks history with each gesture--mediocre, grandiose, unintentional, sublime, in little or big strokes. Mediocrity is easy street, via a lack of principles and historical sight.
A current fashion in art recently gleaned via the Internet: emo, mopey, uniformly pretty, self-consciously nervous, terribly introverted, overtly longing for safety and innocence. Though probably guilty of penning poems in this vein, I oppose wholeheartedly this kind of art. Please, no more sentimental paintings of animals; the charm of your fetish gets lost in translation. Whatever happened to the idea of radically envisioning the future? Distilling the present not for pointless irony or a shallow cartharsis or but to elucidate the concerns and conflicts of our time?
I blame the phenomenon called "art school", which has produced thousands of young ahistorically-minded middle-class people who, more often than not, make art for therapy and commerce . . . and who attempt to veil the purposes of their work with vaguely intellectual suppositions and theoretical jargon. . . . But perhaps the problem's root lies in my location, as I am disappointed by most Bay Area art. I dread this week's Open Studios.