Systematic Obliteration
I don’t feel like saying anything. Beat up a bouncer, run from the police, shoot heroine and sell drugs to Asians. Get drunk and call your ex-girlfriend at three in the morning. Fall asleep at the wheel and crash your car into a lamppost.
I’m in a restless stupor right now and can’t come to grips with the notion of inspiration. What is art? How does art fit into the system that we staunchly reject? I read that, “all art is subject to the same evolutionary cycle. It is created, absorbed into collective consciousness and then coveted.”[1] The point is that art cannot simply exist—it must be owned—and that the value of art is most clearly recognized when it belongs to an idea, image or cause.
A + B = A New Generation
Essentially, without ownership, a piece of art is just a fuck you to the exploitative forces of capitalism. In the absence of personal identity or human desire, the purpose of rogue art (art without ownership) is to disrupt the status quo. However, creating a piece of art in the vanity of anonymity seems equally as blasphemous as displaying it in an overtly flamboyant attempt to get laid or make a dollar.
At this point, the message is vague. How art translates in our culture should be for the rejects and misfits to decide—not the bogus losers who run elitist galleries and franchise coffee shops. The only two things that make sense to me right now are Molotov cocktails and binge drinking.
Streets of Fury
If you graffiti or corrupt a piece of public property, is it art? If it’s for a cause, you are a revolutionary. If not: you are a rebel. If you carve freedom into a park bench, you’re a vandal. The distinction between revolution and rebellion has been skewed by institutionalized propaganda and queer Olympic mascots. In other words, Quatchi, Sumi, Miga and Muk Mu are going to be taking rounds out of each other on a bed of money for the next three months while you masturbate and cry.
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