Wednesday, September 20, 2006


Yeah, I knew her...
I knew her when she was wagging her tail in some dopey alternative art space - The usual set-up: Some feeble stoner guys lighting up all the time while dreaming of becoming the next Beastie Boys, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jack Kerouac, Mother Teresa or whatever, and some crazed girls working their butts off all of the time... Because of all that PAIN INSIDE, and the PAIN INSIDE was all about big daddy warbucks not buying them a horse when they turned sweet sixteen (and he couldn't have cared less either)

So, I went to one of their openings; A year I give them, a year and a half - TOPS!
The quarreling starts from the first day: Some want to go political "art CAN change the way people think, make them take action..."
The usual crapola... If you want my opinion (you don't) - art is there to entertain a certain section of the bourgeoisie who, from time to time get bored with wine collecting, ecological yoga classes, or torturing the servants - If you're an artist; Go make some art, and if you're a baker; Go bake some bread, that's all I have to say about it.
Don't expect to be thanked or covered in platinum because you have chosen to spend your life masturbating with your ego, and stop trying to save the world - saving yourself from bankruptcy, alcoholism or insanity is more than enough for the average citizen.

A year I'll give them, then they'll start fanning out: The revolutionaries go to a new place to clash egos, until they can move their fat politico asses into the Art institutions and fuck things up on a steady paycheck. The real talents go off by themselves, the galleries check everybody out - it's a pick n' mix, and if you want my opinion (you don't) I'll put my money on country Joe over there in the corner: Yep, that's the one - He's from some far away provincial shit hole, yep he tries to dress "street" but never gets it right, and he has duct tape around his shoes and glasses, yep you can hardly understand what he's saying because of that absurd dialect and because he's drunker than everybody else...

Yeah, Country Joe... He gets up at six, feeds the kids, kisses his girlfriend goodbye (steady relationship, no bullshit) goes to the studio, works until noon, brings a lunchpack, no money wasted on a $5 sandwich from some fake Italian diner, works from noon until six, shut down shop, goes home, he'll be family guy for the rest of the day, sometimes go of to see some friends from back home, to get the latest news, and stay warm...
Next day it's the same, and the next...

The more he works, the better he gets...His style develops, he's finding his own voice, he's doing FUCKING POTENT SHIT! And now the galleries are getting interested - because you see; this guy is also a steady worker, this guy delivers, this guy can be counted on, for a steady delivery,

growing, expanding, moving, learning, teaching, learning, growing, moving

Yeah..I'll put my money on Country Joe, over there in the corner.
He's going to make it.

But...In the OPPOSITE CORNER we have: Joe the Artiste,

Joe is drunk, Joe is loud, Joe is a friend, Joe is funny, Joe comes along to the next bar, and the next, and the next, and the neeeeext.
Joe has a famous artist in the family (way back, the uncle of an aunt, and pretty damn famous) Joe knows everybody, Joe has been around, Joe has stories to tell - hundreds of them! and boy, what stories! like the time he and so-and-so were up on that famous painters roof, on fucking ACID, MAN! And they pissed down the skylight on his paintings, and then the famours painter sold the paintings and they phoned him and said they wanted a percentage of the sale, or the time he was on a boat on the Amazon with that famous writer and the boat caught fire, and... He can go on all night, and usually does,
and in the wee hours he goes home, to some fucked up apartment, to jerk of and go to sleep. And it's not that he can't pick up the dames from time to time, but making a commitment with a woman could kill him as an artist (didn't Picasso say so, or was it Matisse? or Batman?)
And the next day, in the late, late, LATE afternoon, Joe goes to his studio, the gates are all open now, inspiration flows!


for about an hour, sometimes two.

Then he is tired,
-a joint!
-a bottle!
-some shrooms!
-some acid!

to keep it flowing!
to keep it coming!

but, he is tired...
enough for today! he thinks, the show is not untill next month, nothing to get stressed about,
right now.

Joe the Artiste, he's a fucking bohemian! He's larger than life, he's history in the making! He'll make a great biography!

-how he lived! And loved! And died! And phoned his parents for money!

To bad he couldn't read his own obituary, it turned out to be the only great thing he left us.

Yeah, I knew her back then...
And the artists-run-alternative-space-for-the-revolution, closed down and became a Chinese laundry, and everybody moved on, and got what they deserved, and she eventually married a lawyer because a girl has got to eat...

In style.

But the lawyer wanted kids, so she had some long breaks away from the scene and never really made it back again,

But I knew her back then,

A stuck up little cunt who turned me down


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