Yesterday I sent in my images to the Hyperallergic picking contest. Not this one. The painting above I began last night and finished this morning in reaction to what you can read about below.
Hyperallergic hosts a Tumblr site which claims it will post some of the art made by its loyal followers every Tuesday. The peons. The human creatives beyond Brooklyn or Manahatta that “do” art out of reach of the wafting pee stink. Artists of everywhere else on earth who go for walks to be inspired or because they are inspired, and can duck into the woods if the bladder demands it. Poor New York. Not one free public toilet outside the library. It is failing people and art, and it knows it. New York Art has made itself a visual “hit” on a smartphone, and most of the people hitting it are the uncreative “entertain me, I’m bored” twenty or thirty somethings in excellent dental health. Foolishly I have clung to its crumbling art world/market paradigm for several years, but am forming new opinions. For me the definition of New York art today could include the phrase, “the desperation of phony”. Its own “world’s greatest New York art blogazine”, as Hyperallergic deems itself, spent the entire day Tuesday posting mostly crap, almost as if to prove that there is no creativity anywhere but in New York. There was a fast sketch self-portrait of a man who repurposed a piece of loose-leaf garbage, and to his astounding clever credit, drew it while blind. There was a photo taken of what looked like a jogger’s legs upside down in a park garbage can. Also, an article about a katydid in Ancient Greece, and a cartoon to suggest that throwing away your smartphone will improve creativity. Other stuff too. Articles and info pertaining to nothing really. Maybe inspiring a “wow,” or a “woo,” or a “neat” from the hoard of uncreative clickers roaming the streets. All day it published a total of five images by actual followers, of which the site boasts of having nearly 48 thousand.
Fine if I haven’t been uploading new images every Tuesday for six months. Also fine if the blind self-portrait on the piece of garbage was comparable to the hundreds sent in by those artists praying to get “made” by the best New York art blogazine in the whole wide world. However, there was one post yesterday that proved to me Hyperallergic’s irrelevance among all things art and artists alike. That it is a gossip column, or a Bill O’Reilly culture war team member, I have no doubt. At its best, it could work well as a New York Times “outsider” affiliate, the anti-establishment establishment for the establishment. The Whitney could love it for both its museum worship and seasonal Christie’s love story. And I would leave Hyperallergic to exist under those auspices. I even forgave it once for posting a street art painting of Batman and Robin kissing. For sure, we all want a better world, and who is to say that the dynamic duo drawn as gay men is not art? At least it was a drawing, a painting, a sculpture, or any medium at all that the world would know to be art. But one post yesterday is not art. Not even close.
I got to read the Hyperallergic editor’s take on domestic violence. Not that any of us asked for it. We post on Tumblr so we can share our work to a wider audience. Many of us are able to leave the studio most times without unholy urges to beat up on our wives and husbands. We go to Hyperallergic hoping to get a big break into the New York art scene. Instead we get Ray Rice the non-artist. The million dollar football man. The wife-beater. Could Hyperallergic at least attempt the search for David Hockney video whacking the shins of his partner with a galvanized pipe? Aren’t there any wife-beating artists we can read about? None at all? Probably not. The editors of Hyperallergic follow some culture blog, like the N.Y. Times, and repost the celebrity gossip because it’s easy. But it isn’t art, nor representative of art in any way whatsoever.
Dear Mr. and Ms. Editor of Hyperallergic, sane men and women do not like to beat each other up. Retarded football players might face punch their wives, sure, but they’re not making art about it. When I was young I witnessed an off-duty cop acquaintance cold cock his wife onto the muddy ground at a Grateful Dead concert. My girlfriend and I had just arrived in California. The acquaintance took us up to San Francisco and paid for the concert tickets. How were we to know he was a wife beater? And geez louise, he was a cop, not an artist. But that is the only time in my life that I had to witness domestic violence beyond what my wife and I do to each other when we’re really, really mad. Thanks for the video. Got it. Not art. Just another reminder that domestic violence has not gone away.
On that same post, scrolling down a bit, the following is written over the unart video of Ray Rice running:
“Romantic Love Was Invented To Manipulate Women”
Hence the Central Park painting above, my partner and I strolling arm in arm—my romantic partner and I—dreaming the evening away after a perfect day and an early dinner at a famous restaurant that we saved up for all year long. I never imagined that I was manipulating the girl I dreamed about. I must be a bad man.
I suck the painter’s sour grapes every day. In fact, I think I could be addicted to rejection. But look here Mr. and Ms. New York pretend elitist editors, don’t you ever, ever mock the painter’s devotion to romantic love. It is what has made me non-existential. It is what brings me depth where you lack in taste and true culture.