i am sick
i am twisted
i am outside looking in
i am inside staring out
i am longing
i am belonging
i am quiet
i am loud
i am clarity
i am confusion
New York critic Harold Rosenberg commenting on Avant Garde Art culture suggested that from the mid-1960s onward progressive culture ceased to fulfill its former adversarial role. Since then it has been flanked by what he called "avant-garde ghosts" to the one side, and a changing mass culture on the other, both of which it interacts with to varying degrees. This has seen culture become, in his words, "a profession one of whose aspects is the pretense of overthrowing it."
"no i don't give a shit about warhol
and oldenberg's really gone soft in the brain
now dali just wants to be cornholed
with one of those crutches he sold to man ray
yes calder was hung up on mobiles
and rauchenberg gives a particular pain
now art's just another distraction
like tv commercials that won't go away
bourgeois what's the deal
don't want no dada
no don't try to hand me no fantasy
it's for surreal
when your taste is confined to their palates
and their pictures are easily framed on your walls
did you ever consider the malice aforethought
contained in that trivial parcel of art
van gogh does a flip in his casket
rafaels and da vincis are moved down the hall
to make way for neimans and no ones
like rock and roll portraiture by guy pellaert
tell me what good is color on canvas
just who will it feed tell me who will it save
and do they expect us to stand this barrage
of collage and potage and potage st. germaine
the people who work for a living
don't need to ask questions from cradle to grave
they don't need di carlo to tell them
what's good and what's bad and what's really insane"
please take some time to learn about things wich interest you
we have added links to a lot of pics to help you understand the subject or to better understand the concepts inspiration
so slow down in life for a minute . . . . . explore
I become a transparent eyeball
by Ralf Waldo Emerson
crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, i have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration.
i am glad to the brink of fear.
in the woods, too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life is always a child.
in the woods is perpetual youth.
within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years.
in the wood, we return to the reason and faith.
there i feel that nothing can befall me in life,-no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair.
standing on the bare ground,-my head bathed by the blithe air and uplifted into infinite space,-all mean egotism vanishes.
i become a transparent eyeball;
i am nothing;
i see all;the currents of the universal being circulate through me;i am part or parcel of god.
the name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance.
i am the lover of uncontainable and immoral beauty.
in the wilderness, i find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages.
in the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.