Life has a way of interfering with one’s desires which is another way of saying that current circumstances have conspired to keep me from finishing my latest piece of art for several months now. But life has an equal ability to throw one a new set of circumstances that warrant serious notice in a way that the thinking mind cannot shrug off as mere coincidence. This particular circumstance appeared in the form of an individual that I have dubbed ‘The Abyss Angel of the Golden Rope’. His words to another landed in front of me like a shining braided cord thrown into the dark screaming abyss that I have existed in for too long. I grasped that length and was pulled out until I was free. I lay on the edges, gasping for breath and blinking in the glittering light like a human-shaped fish still covered in Abyssal filth, only to find myself in the midst of some of America’s finest and most creatively intelligent minds. Not one of them scowled at the sight of me. I was welcomed with proverbial applause. It was a gorgeously horrific arrival and certainly a delightfully avant-garde way to make an entrance.
Those of you who know me personally know that I think with an almost bottomless depth and this circumstance in all its profound glory has been tackled by my mind until I have reached a place where I can begin to speak of it. I have certainly not finished thinking on the matter but I have made sense of the periphery. This Blog post is the result of all of that rumination so far.
When did I become trapped by another’s mind? I thought I had smashed through that rapidly constructed and utterly callous architecture built to wall me in, still breathing, three years ago. Apparently not. However, I have just destroyed enough of that living tomb from the inside, with a mind like a wrecking ball set to ‘pulverise’, that I do not intend to stop until there are nothing but dust motes around my feet!
He eschewed everything that I embodied; my freedom to be myself, my writing, my artwork, my creativity, my soul, and the Tertiary education that I had worked so hard to gain on my own many years ago. This bitter man with a small mind took every opportunity possible to rage against the college educated individuals that he inflicted his personality upon during working hours with a venom so toxic that it engulfed all of New Jersey, filled Manhattan, and regularly permeated uptown New York. He prided himself on his lack of a Tertiary education; using any opportunity he could dig out of his black little mind to point out how he had still managed to ‘make it big’ with the Lawyers and Bankers of Wall Street without the qualifications that so many of them had worked equally hard to attain over time.
If only he had stopped right there. But, of course, this was not in his nature to do. He also prided himself on his self-taught work as an artist and would find more opportunities to vilify professional artists than he ever found for those trapped next to him, by unfortunate necessity, within the business sector of his existence.
“WHO decides what is art?!”, he would rant. “Which douchebag decides what hangs in’The Met’? It is not art! It is CRAP! Some fucking self-appointed prick with a piece of paper who thinks they are so much better than ME gets to decide what art is? I don’t fucking think so! I know shit when I see it. I taught MYSELF and MY art is [blah, blah, blah, blah, blah]” . All of this from a man who worshipped Machiavelli like a god, used “The Prince” as his bible, and had a copy of Robert Greene’s ‘The 48 Laws of Power’ that was so full of tracts highlighted in fluorescent marker that it was little more than a tragic rainbow of lurid colour. He had memorised it more thoroughly than most Broadway actors memorise entire scripts.
Now, before I continue, I want to make it clear that I do not believe that a Tertiary education is a necessity when it comes to living a successful life and creating art of the written, painted, or crafted kind. It is certainly not necessary when one has an abundance of natural talent, but talent is only a small part of the creative process in its entirety. Nor am I saying that a college educated individual is more naturally talented. I am simply choosing to focus on the kind of creativity that the educated mind can access, for the purposes of this Blog post, and for rather personal reasons. Having been broadened by theoretical principles, historical perspectives, rare knowledge, rigorous mental exercise, hard, hard work, practical application, experimentation, and an almost esoteric comprehension of the world, ‘creativity’ becomes akin to a rich universe in itself; adorned, expressed, and understood on multi-layered levels crammed full of the most fantastically creative possibilities that a mind could ever hope to access. Such a state has been worked for. Entrance is earned, not given freely because you bedded the right person at the right time or verbally murdered your way past the bouncers, and it is very distant in scope from the two dimensional concrete tunnel that ‘Mr anti-college’creates in. That space is dotted here and there with ‘digitally corrected perspective’, tame complimentary colours, and torn posters of the latest fads to be found in today’s throw-away society depicting objects and concepts that are already obsolete before construction is complete or orgasm is achieved.
I would always make polite noises about his art because I was taught to be polite at times. Not any more. He was generous with his scorn when it came to commenting on mine. He was so thorough in this task that he would criticise pieces that I had not even begun to formulate, basing his assumptions that non-existent works of mine were ‘crap’ by default because of my college education. His art was never anything more than a badly constructed form of masturbation; created with dollar signs in the forefront of a mind that was far too full of his ego to allow for any true creative commentary to develop. It slaughtered any talent he may have developed and simply left him salivating at the possibility of ‘a sale’. If he had possessed any real talent he may have managed to con the masses. I am satisfied that he has not.
Now, one does not need to enjoy my art. It is not necessary. The purpose of this post is not to sit here and lord it over an obnoxious cretin from Jersey while secretly hoping that no one here thinks that I believe my art to be any better than his. The purpose of this Blog post is to exorcise his venom from my soul and free myself to exist again. He silenced me quite thoroughly and I completed the task on my own. Deconstruction has commenced thanks to the continued ministrations of ‘The Abyss Angel of the Golden Rope’ and his unrelenting but gentle reminders to me to recall who I really am.
And so, in answer to your question about who decides what hangs in ‘The Met’ Mr anti-college? Individuals who earned the right to choose and who learned the language of art and its many narratives through hard work and a dedicated joy to what has become their chosen field of expertise.
Good luck with your Etsy store. You are going to need it. Your art is, quite frankly, not even bad enough to qualify as Etsy-quality horror of the most naively grotesque kind. I have seen a homeless man’s careless vomit that is more artistically literate than you could ever hope to be.