I have been roaming the whole world looking for an art that stirs my soul. I have been arrested on the streets of Pompeii, for calling out before that fateful day. Why have we become so childish: myself not wanting to offend the young, who believe with a pure faith?
I call out in the streets, “Where is the gutsy art”? Is a way of life a substitute for the real thing? The echoes of past heroes, bounce along the electronic band wave like pawns, brutally abused: not by gods or goddesses but by illegitimate terrible enfants.
And so Duchamp’s last painting brutally descends, as old man Dylan, mourns in a croaky voice, “the only thing we know about Dylan, is Dylan was not his real name”.
I wish I could find an art so pure, an art so mature, an art so sincere, an art so real, an art that meant something, an art so now that it lasted forever and was always in vogue. An art that reached down into the depths of my soul and ripped asunder the impoverished childish bloat and transformed me into an innocent child, who gleamed with eyes of wonder.
Alas, childish = now.