(no subject)
My theory class this semester is really talkative. It's rare for a larger class to become involved in "class discussion." It's pretty good. Today I just talked about minimalism and didn't open much for discussion and I got through enough material so that next time I can. I always have my doubts that many people even look at the reading assignments or the slides I put on blackboard, so some days I just don't want to pretend. And I can't bear to hear opinions about something like Donald Judd when someone hasn't done any work to have a basis for one, no thought, no engagement, no effort, no looking. The mere word "opinion" I have such disdain for. It has wrecked our civilization. As coastal cities flood, we will still be insisting we are entitled to opinions about whether it's real.
I started to make a new picture. My art got stalled in the 00s. I feel like a time machine when I cut little pieces of paper. And I wonder if it's just me or if it's the world. When I made art, I made a sad world of my own, the little twee ghosts and woodland creatures and things we wanted in the 00s. The sadness really didn't end. But I feel so old when I think about making pictures, and history is revealing a new dark age that makes me increasingly too anxious to pay attention over the last couple years; I just feel alienated from art. What's the purpose - to register an appropriate balance between irony and sincerity? To monumentalize sentimental depressed fantasy? This stuff seems anachronistic and trivial for me to do now in 2015. And I can't possibly make art as a "critique." I am making a skeleton playing a guitar, and I think it will be standing in some curly vines. I guess it's about wasting away. But I hate that so much.
I started to make a new picture. My art got stalled in the 00s. I feel like a time machine when I cut little pieces of paper. And I wonder if it's just me or if it's the world. When I made art, I made a sad world of my own, the little twee ghosts and woodland creatures and things we wanted in the 00s. The sadness really didn't end. But I feel so old when I think about making pictures, and history is revealing a new dark age that makes me increasingly too anxious to pay attention over the last couple years; I just feel alienated from art. What's the purpose - to register an appropriate balance between irony and sincerity? To monumentalize sentimental depressed fantasy? This stuff seems anachronistic and trivial for me to do now in 2015. And I can't possibly make art as a "critique." I am making a skeleton playing a guitar, and I think it will be standing in some curly vines. I guess it's about wasting away. But I hate that so much.