White light seeped in through the tryptic frame of their window.
Wheeling his suitcase through the dust covered floorboards of the unused Spanish villa.
Upon arriving...
She swayed drunkenly in front of the of the large, rich canvas beaming out from the centre of the gallery. It was her first exhibition and she had been nervous, her boyfriend offered to console her, but she had opted for two bottles of the fifty she had paid for in preparation for her private view. The wine in her glass sloshed wildly with her erratic gesticulation as she explained her piece to the bemused crowd she was gathering.
"Art isn't hard." she slurred.
"It's flamboyantly trying to make something look nice, then explaining why it doesn't. When the paint doesn't sit right you just smear it, declaring it an act of expression, you'll end up with a distinct style whatever you do, whoever you copy. People tend to see what they want to see, such is the disingenuous narcissism of your target audience. Capturing the light just right. Proving your talent with a series of hastily thrown together sketches that display an eye for movement. Leaving unfinished work open to interpretation, declarative of the expected connotation, involving the audience, bringing them closer to misunderstanding the substantial nothing you've sold them. Less is more, ideas are substance, art is everything and people are fucking idiots. Another orange smear on the canvas, another work of art." Her vision blurred and she stumbled.
"You're only wasting your own time."
The Moscow Metro is the second busiest subway system in the world, averaging 6.6 million passengers every day.
Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya Line
Roman stood uncomfortably.
Rain swept the copper coloured rust from the shed's ailing roof and down onto his collar.
Enough is writing, explorative.
Simplicity is hard.
Coming up with something. Anything?
Astonishing.
No comments:
Post a Comment