Or, Which China Snowflake is Wrong?
I wanted to know more about Ai Weiwei, the Chinese thought-artist who spent some mid-eighties nights hanging out with Allen Ginsberg, the Time Magazine poet. Then some flycatcher bird with a tiny Dharma Bums tucked under the wing lit on my shoulder and told me to give neither my attention until I could count all the artists and poets in China who have raised children responsibly, and can do more than just “think up the next piece” to get paid. Omitting the choir, the disciples, the dumb college kid worshiping Howl, and the art history survey professor who can always make time for conceptual art, what value do their popular sermons bring to anyone on earth suffering from sensitivity overload? A dead Ginsberg and a live Weiwei knew how to tease an establishment class like the jesters in court who were consummate flatterers. They got “in” because they were jolly and non-threatening. They stayed in because their level of celebrity often payed for plane travel. If Weiwei truly loves China, he may think up art all day, anonymously, earning a very modest Chinese stipend, skimmed off the tippy-top of his investment banker portfolio. Ginsberg can run naked around phony hell for all I care. Neither have brought families closer together, stopped Fukishima, nor even dropped a flaming turd bag on Wall Street. No better than CEO’s or soldiers.
Ginsberg and Weiwei. Representatives of poetry and art to the great and glorious G-8. City mice at cheese play! Built to perpetuate confusion.
Take Me Back by Van Morrison