I love art. Really. I have been asked why my blog is called ‘I Hate Art’ many times. The truth is: I do not love all art out there and foremost I am concerned about all those objects that are called art nowadays. I think somebody has to draw a line and say “That is bullshit. That’s not art. I hate it.”
The contemporary art market has expanded rapidly over the past ten years and the people who consume and buy art have multiplied. People who buy art are no longer those exclusive, extremely wealthy collectors. No, it is those people who have two cars, a nice home, wear designer glasses and need to put something on the wall in the living room. The piece has to make a reputation about the owner’s good taste. And of course, at any cocktail party or family reunion he will have a witty story about the creation of the piece.
Today, the people who buy art are just as orientationless and indulging in self-flight and hedonism as the art they buy. The immediate quality of the works is being pushed aside as long as it is authentic.
Sometimes, I feel like I should trip on acid and paint while I’m at a swinger party on a hotel room with blacklights on and tape it and send it to all the governments around the world with a letter saying that this tape contains the meaning of life and the solution to all their problems. Then I would collect all the articles about my performance and pile them up on a raft and row across the Channel while the paper is burning and if the raft does not sink and I do not die, I would collect the ashes and bury them underneath a tree in England. A year later I would come back and chop the tree up and make a bunch of furniture from it. This furniture I would offer as a gift, as an exclusive unique handcrafted piece of design to members of the UN, the Vatican, the US government so they all would sit on a product of acid, paint and sex – would that make me more authentic or more credible?
Would people call me a great artist? It’s not so unlikely. Let’s take a look at it: If I did the performance above, that would tell people the following traits about me: I was a performance artist, a drug addicted artist, a painter, a hedonist artist, a nyphomaniac artist, a video artist, a voyeur artist, a perverted artist, a con-artist, a political artist, a philosophical artist, a nature artist, a spiritual artist, an international artist, a social artist, a land artist, a megalomaniacal artist. Would you buy my art because you’d like to tell everyone that this is the painting from the hotel room in which it all started out?
I know personally, that many people, preferably bored, wealthy but oh so open-minded people buy art to act out their desires that they were ever too scared to live out themselves. Those people who put the plates on the table for breakfast before they go to sleep at night – those people buy art to be part of the adventurous, dirty, exclusive and exciting life they associate with contemporary art. Art is not bought for art’s quality but for social and self-indulging purposes.
The art scene. It is such a myth. Everybody thinks it is a huge party. It is not about opening receptions and champagne and limousines. It is about fucking hard work. Those very few artists who make it to the top and are celebrated by the art scene must feel so out of place. Nobody knows how much they actually had to put into their carreer, how many hours a week they worked, how much they had to give up to make it there. No, the people who celebrate you and kiss your ass think your life is a party.
Of course, I know people who tattoo, do drugs, have excessive sex, ride motorcycles, get into barfights, stay up for four days, are polyamorous, go swimming naked, gamble, get drunk and black out, get suspended, punch cops, pick up hookers, get into hooligan fights and so on. But that is the non-art part of my life. Why does everybody confuse that? (I hope all you prospective art students are aware now.)
Wait, maybe I’m all wronng about those who make money with bullshit. Maybe they do deserve our admiration instead – because Banksy said “Who is good at cheating doesn’t have to become good at anything else.” It is so true.
The contemporary art market has expanded rapidly over the past ten years and the people who consume and buy art have multiplied. People who buy art are no longer those exclusive, extremely wealthy collectors. No, it is those people who have two cars, a nice home, wear designer glasses and need to put something on the wall in the living room. The piece has to make a reputation about the owner’s good taste. And of course, at any cocktail party or family reunion he will have a witty story about the creation of the piece.
Today, the people who buy art are just as orientationless and indulging in self-flight and hedonism as the art they buy. The immediate quality of the works is being pushed aside as long as it is authentic.
Sometimes, I feel like I should trip on acid and paint while I’m at a swinger party on a hotel room with blacklights on and tape it and send it to all the governments around the world with a letter saying that this tape contains the meaning of life and the solution to all their problems. Then I would collect all the articles about my performance and pile them up on a raft and row across the Channel while the paper is burning and if the raft does not sink and I do not die, I would collect the ashes and bury them underneath a tree in England. A year later I would come back and chop the tree up and make a bunch of furniture from it. This furniture I would offer as a gift, as an exclusive unique handcrafted piece of design to members of the UN, the Vatican, the US government so they all would sit on a product of acid, paint and sex – would that make me more authentic or more credible?
Would people call me a great artist? It’s not so unlikely. Let’s take a look at it: If I did the performance above, that would tell people the following traits about me: I was a performance artist, a drug addicted artist, a painter, a hedonist artist, a nyphomaniac artist, a video artist, a voyeur artist, a perverted artist, a con-artist, a political artist, a philosophical artist, a nature artist, a spiritual artist, an international artist, a social artist, a land artist, a megalomaniacal artist. Would you buy my art because you’d like to tell everyone that this is the painting from the hotel room in which it all started out?
I know personally, that many people, preferably bored, wealthy but oh so open-minded people buy art to act out their desires that they were ever too scared to live out themselves. Those people who put the plates on the table for breakfast before they go to sleep at night – those people buy art to be part of the adventurous, dirty, exclusive and exciting life they associate with contemporary art. Art is not bought for art’s quality but for social and self-indulging purposes.
The art scene. It is such a myth. Everybody thinks it is a huge party. It is not about opening receptions and champagne and limousines. It is about fucking hard work. Those very few artists who make it to the top and are celebrated by the art scene must feel so out of place. Nobody knows how much they actually had to put into their carreer, how many hours a week they worked, how much they had to give up to make it there. No, the people who celebrate you and kiss your ass think your life is a party.
Of course, I know people who tattoo, do drugs, have excessive sex, ride motorcycles, get into barfights, stay up for four days, are polyamorous, go swimming naked, gamble, get drunk and black out, get suspended, punch cops, pick up hookers, get into hooligan fights and so on. But that is the non-art part of my life. Why does everybody confuse that? (I hope all you prospective art students are aware now.)
Wait, maybe I’m all wronng about those who make money with bullshit. Maybe they do deserve our admiration instead – because Banksy said “Who is good at cheating doesn’t have to become good at anything else.” It is so true.
