Art is hell

I've seen paintings… paintings that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a creative. You have a right to crit me. You have a right to do that... but you have no right to judge me.

It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what art means. Art. Art has a face... and you must make a friend of art. Art and obfuscation are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies.

I remember when I was visiting a gallery. Seems a thousand centuries ago. We went into a room of conceptual art. We left the room before we had looked at it, and this old man came running after us and he was crying. He couldn't think. We went back there and they had come and made him analyse it all. There was mounds of it. Mounds.

And I remember... I... I... I cried. I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out. I didn't know what I wanted to do. And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it. I never want to forget. And then I realised... like I was shot... like I was shot with a diamond... a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought: My God... the stupidity of that. The stupidity. The gall to do that. Imperfect, inauthentic, incomplete, fractured, crap.

And then I realised they were stronger than we. Because they could stand that these were monsters. These were men... trained in art schools. These men who thought only of their wallets, who had no families, who had no children, who were filled with vacuum... but they had the gall... the gall... to do that. If I had ten divisions of those men our troubles would be very much worse.

These men have no morals... and at the same time are able to utilise their primordial instincts to create without feeling... without passion... without judgement... without judgement. Because it's judgement that they need.

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