ArtsWeek

ArtsWeek: Bringing up the rear with anti-art (NSFW)

What the hell is this art thing, anyhow?

This goes out to every tween with a feeling and a pen or a brush or a stick and a bucket and a bad attitude. It goes out to anyone who has ever created something that wouldn’t be denied, however stillborn and misbegotten. It goes out to every Duchamp who would of a urinal a fountain declare. It goes out to every primitive, every crafter, every maker, and especially every faker. Because, once upon a time, a guy named Zod told me not to kneel. He taught me the hidden wisdom of the artist.

Now I get to make good on a promise. Asked for a favorite photograph, I proffered instead an image of a scan of a press release bearing the likeness of a photograph, and that’s just the tip of the amount of meta-commentary perpetrated on Britain’s hoity toity by the hoi polloi. For this act of perverse subversion, COUM Transmissions were vilified by one MP as the “wreckers of civilization,” a crown of scorn they wore like laurels.

Like a urinal, pornography was art because they said so. Those who get it don’t need it explained. Those who don’t, won’t. In any event, however crass and unseemly these wreckers may be, they’ve left a mark forty years long and counting.

Zod’s hidden wisdom:

To be an artist, you need the ego to call yourself one. Everything else is a matter of taste.

Heaven help us all if we’re asked for an original poem.

Instead of sleeping or tirelessly counting as the sheep go sheeping, my muse invades and has me allude to illusions you’ve likely not seen. Put words in order. Scansion just so. A line break here, but rhyme? No. Something, something, mortality. All spirit, no math. It’s only poetry if it’s Marlowe, Shakespeare, cummings, Bukowski, or Plath.

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