Sunday, February 06, 2005
all we used to know
within within within within within within within within. the watching of pale sounds drift upwards. purple clouds drizzling on the tongues of walls. kids drinking motor oil in Houston ghettos. and us, with typewriters--walking tape recorders.
we should walk around more.
(p.s. philly by a touchdown)
on a more Zen note, I went to an art show in Houston yesterday and the art was asleep. snoozing, looking confused at itself. second-string Rothkos, squiggly, post-Minimalist drivel on grumpy white pieces of paper. but there was free chinese food and Miller High Life. so, we stayed for a while. but, more to the point--I realized, again (as I always do when I go to these things) that there doesn't exist good enough criticism in contemporary art. in particular, street art. theres no snobby NY-by-way-of-Austin-by-way-of-Sydney critics that know what makes a piece good, bad or something in between. and I also realized that 98% of stuff is post-rational: theres no narrative, it doesnt require thought and it leaves only one blanket reaction--"that's cool."
then, they ran out of High Life and we left.
