File spoon-archives/avant-garde.archive/avant-garde_2000/avant-garde.0003, message 39


Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000 07:09:33 -0500
From: John Young <jya-AT-pipeline.com>
Subject: Re: Re ;-)


Ostrow wrote:

>The failure this speaks of, is the failure of ambition in that if one
>aspire for the impossible -- they learn what is possible -- if they aspire
>for the possible -- they achieve only that which is already known.

This aptly describes the failure of parasites of artists -- critics, scholars,
curators, dealers, auctioneers, investors, patrons -- groupies of a
certain over-vaunted critical ability to see and evaluate the hard
and risky work of artists, that is to devaluate it for covert purposes,
that is to plaigarize, dissumlate, distort, repackage, mischaracterize,
aw hell, actually to steal art form its creators and call it Art, the
Industry,
the Construct, the History, the Theory, the Racket, the Market, the
Ravage of Savages unable to understand and thus only envy what
artitsts do. No doubt Saul's deep misunderstanding of art is itself
an art of frustration, and in that way I can appreciate his best stuff
even when he cannot get the description of it correct. So, yeah,
Saul is an artist, too, poor bastard, and nobody gets what he's
creating in his heart and mind, concealed as it is in all artists
by the products they proffer in lieu of the genuine stuff. Shit,
no artist is worth a queen's fart at public presentation, and thus must
suffer the professional art-hustling assholes who shower the world
with vulgar misrepresentations called "shows." Who the fuck first
dreamed up a show of art? Whoever that was, was the first in
line in an endless stream of art enemies of commentators, critics,
dealers, investors, and so on.

Yeah, yeah, even the enemies in their own bizarre fashion 
occasionally wreak art in their blundering, or as Brad aptly
says, by failure. Then they get it on, and know what it's like
to be trashed for the right reasons. One of which is the irresistable
desire of artists, anybody, to get public appreciation, any 
appreciation, and have no way out of the trap set by god's
joke of creating way too many human kotsches wanting
to be the supreme one's inheritor, and being too stupid
to grasp that it's all in the imagination, the whole damn
mess, the inability to be, not make, not do, not accomplish
worth.

What is nice about hidden art, never getting out of 
imagination, is it is always a success, pure masterpiece
theater. You let it out, it's doomed to failure. Artists let
theirs out, the others connoisseur theirs.


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