- Listener
& I AM........?
Art is subjective. Art is relative to the observer. "now that is art!" Steps back. Examines closely. The canvas hung on a wall, the color of nothingness. No one else in the room. He smiles, claps his cold hands together, places on hand on his chin. Rubs his mustache with the index finger and the other hand offers support to that elbow. He stares with eyes that see money...and money only through his black sunglasses. Perhaps he has no eyes at all, but holes through which currency falls in and out of. The sunglasses keep the bills stuffed inside his empty skull. He is tall and frail. His obsession has slowly devoured him in his slick black suit. It is clear it ate voraciously; his cheek bones protrude through a nearly translucent veil barely passing as skin. He stares with cruel smile, white teeth and a craving for the green stuff. Salad? No. Drugs? Might as well be. "but I don't think they would understand it." Rips the painting from the wall. Paints over the masterpiece with crayon. The crying boy in the background is given a smiley face. Yellow and unrealistic it stares with black eyes that see nothing. The mask conceals the eyes and therefore, soul of the boy and soul of the painter. We all shed a little bit of ourselves in our work. A slime trail we have left for others to admire, even if we ourselves, don't see the beauty or meaning of what we left, others will. The man continues to color. The dark shades of grey become pink. Subjects lose character, meaning, depth. Crayon streaks across the painted canvas in bright, meandering colors. But what does it mean? He won't consider this. "ah! such a big improvement!" The painting is dead. Massacred? Perhaps. Why do these deaths go unheard of? No punishment is expected. We kill those who have killed because killing is a sin. You can live your life however you like as long as you dance to our music. As long as you dance our dance. Believe what we believe. Do what we say. Now,he steps back and sees not those scribbles like snakes poisoning, sucking out the purpose of the piece. The soul of the painter no longer exists. He smiles, nods his head approvingly. "People will buy this!" The painting means nothing but revenue. Our films mean nothing anymore. Our art is gone. We have freedom of expression as long as we color inside the lines...
statictelevision
i like your billboard
posted Apr 11