lowest form of art

it looks pretty. the whole thing is aesthetically beautiful, shades and tones matching. it is a tasteful brush of delicacy. half romantic, half desirable. but only bland, at its best. it is carefully constructed to appeal to the senses, assembled to please the masses. beige. it shows no edge, no rawness, no blood. only soft, washed cold colors. its kitsch, without the charm. I wouldn’t dare looking at it twice. it lacks pulse – it is not from the guts and has no real emotion. in fact, it only simulates emotions, emulates them – it is a project, a design engineered meticulously to evoke feelings that are as fake as the attempt to provoke them. it was made to sell. structured in every detail. carefully planned. machine-like executed. it has a marketeer and a business man behind it. also, a capitalist artist. no hunger, no pain, no brain. the creator as a Frankenstein. the finished product has no personality – it is a collage, a pastiche of all successful characteristics. it shows no anger and no violence. the middle class is in awe, in its stupidity and lack of taste. lack of mind. it demands, it needs. so art is mass-produced: a print to every young girl in a love cliché. a shirt to every boy who wants a hype picture. a mug for your mother… it is christmas after all! it is a success. the gallery will sell it for a million. a reality show star that never went to school will buy it. it will adorn his flat’s walls, a pride and joy to show his friends. and the middle class is satisfied: this kind of art helps them digest their mediocre dinner, does not bother them in their sock-clad-feet sleep at night. it is warm, bubbly. it is a puppy dog that doesn’t die in the end. it’s a glass of cheap whiskey, for the appearance. it is self-satisfactory.

(like this anger, it is) fake.

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