I guess I have been picturing canvases or Lil paint tubes with legs and arms talking. They would tell stories about ya know painterly things. Usually they’re like super happy and enjoying life.
Sadly, that tube of paint has a meticulously curled tail which is gaining in voracity. It’s bright exterior has been left dim and grows less relevant. Inevitably irrelevant, discarded, to be a piece of something that is bigger than anything on Earth. Bigger than that talking paint tube could dream.
So it’s just weird that not everyone enjoys talking materials as much as I. I was just reading about a gay artist who was also creating porn on the sly but it was very focused and he approached the topic as transgressive. It was the most boring thing to ever fall victim to but I read the entire article.
I guess to answer that gay white artist conundrum on what if?… Fuck you and I hope you drown in an oversized stop bath.
There’s nothing worst than a Gay White Man who has been in an art industry long enough that their editions are contemplated by rich white collectors wives. After years of nagging their husbands who love their work and really want to have them in their collection but it’s so, ya know. Expensive? No. Big and they make him uncomfortable but we also think they’re important so they finally decided to get a limited edition collage for $15,000.00
Well good for that gay white artist and who ever peddles their work. I hope that gay artist see the importance in which tubes of paint hold. They probably don’t really but might say something scripted by a publicist. Actually I bet by now it’s something their publicist saw that the artist constructed with its own mind. Picture the publicist sipping their yogi tea and casually reading in the middle of the week curled up in a womb chair that is “literally the only comforting thing which exists”.
The shadows strewn across the room are simply perfect and finally allowed the publicist to begin flipping the printed ultra gloss publication only to stumble upon their clients words. By now brunch has already happened and the afters of one is in full bloom. The publicist naturally reaches for its mobile device as it’s programed self stares in contemplation. Fuck it, it says! The publicist overcome with joy calls their “favorite artist” to congratulate them on how epic and on point their statement was.
The Artist joked about how he should have cut her salary years ago with a charming chuckle and stated how of course he would say that.
Just the weekend prior that Artist was for sure on a yacht which had the highest rated catering service in the area that actually serves “food”. That artist knows exactly how deep this lie is and of course would know it’s safe words. The publicist not even getting paid to be on that boat, canceling mom day at the nursing home, was to the moon. The buffet alone on top of the artist not eating only insisting indulging in another dessert.
What relevance does a popular artist who obviously/flawlessly clawed/walked into a dialogue have? Has ever had? I guess enough for people to be more busy with that boring long nose than a livable planet?
We live in a society that exists deeply inside the anus’ of rich white men’s real dolls. They like us there and they like hashtag nohomo. How much of our populations don’t even know what life is like outside of the rancid hole its kept in? Which other parts of population are just beyond the veils, out scratching the surfaces, or coming up for what they think is air every now and again still don’t really know yet?
It’s from the confines of my very own year leased and snuggly fit cyberskin pit that I too get to share this story with you.