death of the father Painting

Discussions on art are shot through with soundbites or snapshots of the contemporary state of affairs – a state that at best still turns on some future vision of movement, which at worst – and more often than not – now finds itself having once again lapsed again into a state of inertia. The reason for this may well be the acceleration of reality itself. This is clearly evidenced by the sheer rapidity with which art is produced – from its inception through to the dictates issued by market requirements – which inexorably flog the producers of art to the point of unconditional euphoric self-exploitation and self-deceptive vain anticipation of some future halcyon bliss. In this drive towards optimization, perhaps this increasing secession from life may best be explained by way of a world, the centrifugally inclined rotation of which is apparently soon set to up anchor and gyrate off axis altogether: those simultaneous representations of certain eclectic repetitive visual styles which, though repeatedly dissatisfying us, fastidiously throw us back with their hallmark “this looks like and indeed must be art”! Sadly, the locution that invariably comes to mind with respect to these pain-inducing observations is the “chagrin of substandard mediocre” – that piteous condition for which we may thank the universal success of an acknowledged and thus accepted form of assimilated art, which we also live. As distraction from this fraud – from the success of this fraudster –, and, indeed, to ensure this success at all, the foundation must be created: an infrastructural surface the purpose of which is to induce amnesia – a forgetting that one has forgotten that the nutritional value of this specially prepared soil is equal to nil. The incentive is invariably a matter of counterfeit cultivation, counterfeit continuance and, hence, a matter of counterfeit creation of a counterfeit cosmology. Were we to ramble through this matrix as not blind persons (which, in our present biological existence, seems to be beyond the bounds of possibility), we would painfully recognize in just what kind of ideological snare we are entangled, in which we are inevitably compelled to move and, above all, the ways in which we have learned not only to accept the absurdity of this clownesque enslavement, but to voluntarily adopt as our own.