Monday, March 13, 2006

Art for

ART, umlaut-pocked, dimly through capote frames.

Contemporary art I want to like (also: Satie, better wines, difficult fashion from japan, green tea, mussels, track events, Guinness...) but it's hard and I end up again concluding that it's agressively, and pointlessly, ugly.

And expensive.

Sharp, phallic-pointed ugly. Not garden variety, more dank hallway.

Joyless/shrouded/muddled artistry. Boundaries of subject are transcended in favor sex (messy sex, devient sex, fetishistic sex), desolate vistas and lifelessness, and form exploded: by video, stacked televisions, rubber tires and notebook scrawling. The works spat out the other end of convention aren't pieces I'd want to meet, or live amongst.

3 hours done, we pass from the rarified armory show world up into the still not real world of the rooftop garage (piers 90 and 92 sit between a Norweigen Cruise Line ship and the Intrepid). Clearing the stairwell, no residue of the show remains.

POOF - the dusk over the Hudson and the shimmer of the parking lot tarmac - the art's gone.

C - hoping I'll re-read one day and condemn my sheltered view as I gaze up at my own artistically deviant bit of framed horror.

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