The thing about representation is that at some point you have to vote.
Art that isn’t involved in the world, that has no account of it is empty.
Now, suppose I wrote “all art of necessity offers itself up to the world”. Sure, you’d nod, you’d say,”of necessity”. But I’ll stand you corrected that there’s work that does this with nothing less than the “pulling up a loose bag of bricks” move, like some petulant child.
And to that art, I’ll say: FUCK OFF.
There are lots of problems out there and your privileged account that makes gold leaf out of your own sanctimony
Means precisely to me what one more bite of cake meant to Elena Ceasescu.
anartism 