Art Is Pain. Art Is Torture. Art
They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, this picture is worth a thousand of your career's salary combined net worth.
When you think about it, you're left wondering how exactly. I mean, I guess it makes for a surprisingly good desktop background, which is more than I can be said for a lot of artist these days, but how exactly is that worth so much?
Well, basically it's a bunch of obscenely rich dudes continually buying art at obviously absurd prices to keep the values up on their already established hordes, with some auction house complicity. This is a sort of fun documentary about it from around 2008, but I'm actually surprised people still even pay attention to the art world anymore.
Besides that, until it's the cornerstone of my 401k, I probably could give two shits about what some rich fuck does with their piles and piles of money. I mean, really. Unless you actually want a bunch of intentionally vacuous ugly paintings, it doesn't seem likely to have any effect or hurt anyone. But hey, it's another amusing item on how once people get to a certain amount of wealthy, they just print their own money for the fuck of it.
Which I guess is why the art world is so sad.. nothing more sad than this specific scene from a recent Doctor Who episode last season which encapsulated my entire feelings towards the art world, and can be a perfect example of why I choose NOT to continue in my degree in the arts in college:
Doctor Who 2005 5x10 Vincent and the Doctor 3 by IDavros
And because we know the broad strokes of Van Gogh's tragic story -- that he never actually sold a painting, that he lived in despair and died by his own hand -- and because the actor playing Van Gogh is so perfect, just this stupid little clip from a silly BBC television series made me tear up a little, because I am a giant self-obsessed baby, and the "artistic condition" just glorifies my narcissism and neuroses in a delicious way. So I went and watched the episode again and again and it was a lot of silliness, but interrupted by this immense, tragic, deeply personal appeal to the situation of every struggling artist.
I guess it hit me hard because when I read and studied art history books and run into footnotes about how the artist knew each other, or their mistresses and debts and failures and tantrums, I was just reading about myself and my peers at the time. I was, and to the most part still partially am a scrubby loser who realized I wouldn't make anything of myself and get very little done in that world.
They stuck around in the art life. They figured that they just had to keep cranking shit out and maybe someday they'll be a footnote in a coffee table book as well. To be honest, all my favorite artists are pretty much unknown and I don't say that in an indie band/hipster ironic way. They're just a bit obscure and I can't imagine them working in a broad appeal at any point of their careers. They just say Fuck it.
You could make the argument that Van Gogh's "genius" sets him apart. Like a Bukowski, if you will. Compared to the zillions out there making Dragon ball Z fan art on DeviantArt, but art is nothing if not subjective. So fuck it. We're all a little Van Gogh. Make paintings and webcomics and write shitty blogs on blogspot that no one will read. Draw doodles on cocktail napkins and spread them far and wide and someday, long after you're dead, someone is going to find one of your shitty creations in a bin at the Goodwill and they are going to study your signature and google you and just love the ever living shit out of the bullshit you create.
To me, that's worth the whole idiot process, in my opinion.
And that's what keeps me posting day in and day out.
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