Buy this today and I will toss in a swab of true artist DNA which will improve taste in any human gene pool seeking to unwind and uplift its mortal burden. The art market could use a reforming GMO to pop the TIA (tulips in Amsterdam) bubble that floats above all realities, laughing at them. Sometimes the bubble breezes into a private plane, and this painting here shall become an accurate rocket launcher from the ground, from the base, from the real reality where artists pine for an equal playing field. Aim. Fire! That’s some GMO not to mess with!
And the oligarch no longer enters a world he was never invited to. We are the salon of the future but only if we cease with stupid phraseology like “the cream rises to the top”. Cream comes from cow’s milk and after 5,000 years, science tells us that lactose makes our guts turn inside out. Some also declare the milk protein is causing us cancer like it does in rats. So I don’t want cream anymore. Leave it in the cow for the calf. The putrid stench of rot also rises to the top. When we need a new metaphor to share the story of the big city art market, lets embrace our mutual intolerance and call out the oligarchs as the putrid stench that rose to the top.
Amsterdam had pretty tulips to sell as if there were no other perennials to flower in the early spring. The super rich were bored and super stupid.
Nothing has changed, so buy a painting on your own today because unlike 17th century Holland, you, the outskirts peasant, can afford these more colorful tulips, and at the same time ruin the stupid game of stupid rich people spending enormous sums on what nature and the artists give practically for free.
Or vice-versa. Two serious clowns—one struggling the anonymous existence and the other trapped in the poisonous web of mega-celebrity. Serious and intense clowns—there are no other types.
One of these is on exhibit and available for purchase, now if you want, Friday if you wait. I’ll give you a hint. It’s the one honoring the man who said “vloek!” not “shazbat!” when nobody bought his paintings.
And it’s for sale at $150 U.S. Metal frame, under glass.
It’s true. He was a kiss-ass. The greatest heaven renderer of all time. But no artist. Not like the queer Seneca boy (his contemporary), with the gift of the seer, who carved an ugly French monster in the clay. Some tribal elders nodded their heads. The rest just laughed at his unmanliness. Michelangelo was a pompous servant-user. A Pope’s boy. But not an artist. Popes didn’t want art. They wouldn’t know what to do with it if it slapped their cheese with a brick. Michelangelo was the greatest of the great copiers. His fame is the church. He is iconic because he was the establishment’s choice, and all the other great renderers of his time, not quite as technologically sound, were lucky for a paid for nightly loaf of moldy bread. Those wild ones, the intensely expressive of grand or meager talent, the feelers, were lying about in dungeons and dung heaps gibbering away like mad. Today’s Michelangelos are a CV a dozen, and their reward is a $1500.00 mortgage and occasional self-assurance. I imagine the Medici gopher, the Pope’s stooge, the man who today is known as the Great Michelangelo, losing sleep in fear that God would not deliver that perfect color in the morning, the one to please his patron, the exact one to insure another gold coin.
So the million dung heap feelers alive today are still dragging their feet over the old earth, carrying an immense chip on their shoulders. Because of the greatest Bible renderer of all time, all painters secretly in their hearts pine to be the success of this man, who no doubt in my mind was nothing more than a constipated middle-management aristocratic sissy who would have had his own mother drink the hemlock if the bankers told him to. Michelangelo was the greatest drawer and colorer available to Pope Julius II (Raphael was busy on another astounding commission). And the huge majority of real people on earth at the time were fearing for their lives a God who on a heavenly whim, would wipe away their hard-fought harvest. We know nothing about the people’s artists. Nothing because it would have been impossible for them to exist in an economy of “everybody shrink and starve except the golden circle of God’s chosen few.” Hence dungeons and the dung heap for all expressionists of the 1500’s. The Pope would probably have his soldiers run a blade through any peasant who dared attempt a sitting for service at the Sistine.
But the lowly artist did exist, even if no brush ever wiped egg paint on a flat stone.
Today we suffer the legacy of absolutist art. Forced to juxtapose the “inspiration” of a 16th century chosen workaholic with the bottom line profit of the thousand images we see in a single day. Our first private critique of a present-day piece is the ancient work of fear by a sycophant (Michelangelo) to his God King. Then we wait with our mouths and wallets open for the great galleries and museums (non-creative MBA’s and Art History PhD’s) to tell us what the billionaires are buying today. Exactly who is emerging or has arrived as the new Michelangelos—Jeff Koons, Ai Weiwei, rich professor Kara Walker, or even some graduate painter in Brooklyn with a Smartphone contract and all the right connections.
Oh well. Back to the basement. At least my nightly bread is not moldy.