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I don’t want to have an intellectualized relationship with art. Art is one of the last magical things in adulthood, existing unfettered by context. Context: defining the meaning of a thing by its relationship to other things. I want to look at a painting, or even read a book (and music is almost ruined unless it is totally new, experimental or whatever, because it is commodified by culture, like fashion, it’s like a costume or a posture, more an identity than an entity) and enjoy (or not!) the world that I privately share with it, the language I speak with it, essentially a relationship more personal than I can have with another person because all the reference points exist only in my experience. Not cultural ones. And I don’t GIVE A FUCK what the artist was thinking or trying to do when they made the thing. As soon as the artist matters to the art it becomes about ego, persona, identity, and it goes from spiritual experience to cocktail party.
I don’t mind having a conversation about my relationship to a painting or yours. But I have zero interest in deciding whether it is intellectually worthwhile.
I will critique craftmanship.
I will critique culture, and talk about who, if anyone, is might buy the painting.
Further, I think it’s straight-up tacky to begrudge the market/community you have CHOSEN for not being the one you LEFT. Why did you leave New York if now you’re mad at New Orleans for not being sophisticated enough?
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