im currently trying to figure out why im here. the obvious naked women is all good but there are boards and people interviews and more i just dont do anything with. even pretty girls with no clothes, without the usual given of seduction, seems empty and silly after awhile.
i went on a trip to europe not too long ago. i started in london and the tates and a few other museums, from there to paris and the louvre, the musee d'orsay, the orangerie, etc. from there to madrid and the museums. in madrid coming out of the museum of modern art (whose name i cannot recall) i had a moment. a moment like the last blog, as close to a acid trip as i have ever bothered to have.
i cant really feel the right poetic way of saying it but my eyes start to bleed. they bled beauty. i felt it was leaking out of my eyes and into the world. i remember stopping on the sidewalk and taking a picture of a brick that had the perfect crack across its length, with the perfect color implying an ironic understanding of its own meaning, perfectly framed against the cement, with a chip out of one corner that somehow made this otherwise sad and innocent brick the most beautiful art in the world. and this went on. i have pictures of electrical wire, serrano ham slices, sardines, traffic, street corners. everything was so beautiful it sort of hurt. i felt like i was leaking. that some necesary bloodlike substance that should be tethering me to the ground was slowly leaking into my eyes and out into the world.
i went back to one of my museums. i figured why not? i may metaphysically orgasm and melt moaning into the earth. find true divinity or maybe see true meaning, truth, love, something.
ah, but that was not to be. i walked into that place and all the pretty artwork that seemed so real, so true the day before was...nothing. a horrid farce. a fifteen year old boy. jailbait. artifice. contrivance and calumny. nothing.
the stones in the floor and the echoes of thoughtless children, that was real. the glimmer of light obscured the perspective because of the open window, that was real. the narrow halls built too narrowly to ever show that huge frame correctly and by their construction making a truer statement of the art then any person could do, that was real. this arrogant panopoly, this confused maelstrom of humanity's composition that was called art... that was just sad. pathetic.
i sat down on a cool stone bench in reflected sunlight in a echoey hall in which the triumphs of the art worlds self absorption were displayed, and i watched dust motes dance in the breeze from the air conditioning and i felt my breath enter and leave my body. and i was satisfied.
oh but the punchline? the punchline was that i went outside, had a cigarette, a coffee, an alcoholic beverage, and a drink of water with a cheap pastry and i got a hold of myself. trancendent states are all well and good, but i still had gasoline fumes to breath, and silly people to laugh at. foolish conversations to have. and pretty girls to look at. even when it means slightly more then nothing, i have my next meaningless and gut-level heart-thumping moment. divinity will be there tomorrow.
i went on a trip to europe not too long ago. i started in london and the tates and a few other museums, from there to paris and the louvre, the musee d'orsay, the orangerie, etc. from there to madrid and the museums. in madrid coming out of the museum of modern art (whose name i cannot recall) i had a moment. a moment like the last blog, as close to a acid trip as i have ever bothered to have.
i cant really feel the right poetic way of saying it but my eyes start to bleed. they bled beauty. i felt it was leaking out of my eyes and into the world. i remember stopping on the sidewalk and taking a picture of a brick that had the perfect crack across its length, with the perfect color implying an ironic understanding of its own meaning, perfectly framed against the cement, with a chip out of one corner that somehow made this otherwise sad and innocent brick the most beautiful art in the world. and this went on. i have pictures of electrical wire, serrano ham slices, sardines, traffic, street corners. everything was so beautiful it sort of hurt. i felt like i was leaking. that some necesary bloodlike substance that should be tethering me to the ground was slowly leaking into my eyes and out into the world.
i went back to one of my museums. i figured why not? i may metaphysically orgasm and melt moaning into the earth. find true divinity or maybe see true meaning, truth, love, something.
ah, but that was not to be. i walked into that place and all the pretty artwork that seemed so real, so true the day before was...nothing. a horrid farce. a fifteen year old boy. jailbait. artifice. contrivance and calumny. nothing.
the stones in the floor and the echoes of thoughtless children, that was real. the glimmer of light obscured the perspective because of the open window, that was real. the narrow halls built too narrowly to ever show that huge frame correctly and by their construction making a truer statement of the art then any person could do, that was real. this arrogant panopoly, this confused maelstrom of humanity's composition that was called art... that was just sad. pathetic.
i sat down on a cool stone bench in reflected sunlight in a echoey hall in which the triumphs of the art worlds self absorption were displayed, and i watched dust motes dance in the breeze from the air conditioning and i felt my breath enter and leave my body. and i was satisfied.
oh but the punchline? the punchline was that i went outside, had a cigarette, a coffee, an alcoholic beverage, and a drink of water with a cheap pastry and i got a hold of myself. trancendent states are all well and good, but i still had gasoline fumes to breath, and silly people to laugh at. foolish conversations to have. and pretty girls to look at. even when it means slightly more then nothing, i have my next meaningless and gut-level heart-thumping moment. divinity will be there tomorrow.