Art the language

Do you speak art? Do you understand art? Do you get and like art talk? Why should art even be a spoken tongue? But it talks, has a voice, tone, presence, ideas and message. To those who are interested message is there to be caught, to resonate with and think about. Then on what kinds of things does it depend how we understand what we see and what we want to see? Do we analyse art via our bias and preconceptions? We have to care about what we see to actually see what it is we see. We have to be alert and open to cultural references, meanings, links, traditions, to philosophical and cultural grounds art and makers spring out. Where is it, who sees it, who is speaking, who speaks about it if anyone, who is given a voice? It is complicated when you start to think about what art is about, why we do art, present it in the ways we do, one particular piece of art is worth lengthy analysis, not to speak of the whole of contemporary visual art. How much of it is about taste, objectification and luxury, about cultural intellectual shifts we experience today, politics, our progress as humans and about continuation to Art History, to institution and conventions of fine art and the tradition of Modern Art.

Contemporary art can be avoided completely in everyday life. It is almost strictly isolated in institutions and galleries as a specific expertise field where hierarchy, finance and knowing people make the rules of this peculiar set where one idle person does not accidentally enter or feel comfortable being in. Reference to temples and palaces is quite accurate. How to learn to speak this language and is it necessary are very relevant questions especially when some of art is meant to be political, game changing, radical and new. How political art is inside a palace which has an entrance fee? Well one can wonder. What can be achieved by isolated snobbish fame hungry scene other than decay and a circle that does not achieve the things it dreams about in the art it likes to present.

Value of art according to G

140 000 000
20 000 000
5 000 000
2 000 000

Round figures, something we see often in news fly by. Do we get numbed by the overdosing of numeric info, graphs of how much? What things cost make what they are worth or is it the other way round? How things are seen and handled, priced, talked about, saved or discarded. Wars are expensive, but education is precious, healthcare is too expensive. Museums are meant to shine like diamonds of the cities, priced temples of civilization, education, art, creativity of people. What else? What else do museums of art represent? Commercialism, consumerism, luxury, grandiose and status, power and what is valued? Can they critique themselves? Are they able to keep up with the change (do personnel equal the museum, bad management equal bad museum concept, bad working environment?), mold themselves for the needs of art (needs of people), not needs of museums or is it the same thing? Are art museums art embodied and creators of museum complexes, brands, franchise doing service for art? There is an awful lot of strange interaction, planning and shady promises hanging in the air which all look somewhat crooked for many reasons. Millions are peanuts for some, fairly abstract and large for many, but it is a daily routine to go through what things cost. What art costs is the shadiest of all. Small things make big things, but for some reason spectacle is the only thing that is the honey to attract tourists, art tourists. This is what is assumed. How do you measure when there is no limit but unlimited options to own and exploit, hidden and without showing true intentions, what is what, to make more money to make more value for brands for owners for rulers for player for money men with the help of tourists. Is it a question of heroism, progress of art? I doubt it.

It has been all along Western civilization has been exploring foreign cultures this civilization has refused to understand and know those who it likes to explore and exploit bringing progress and development thinking it is something better and above. It is us and them, those others whom we don’t even want to understand. They are so different. To say of not understanding culture of interacting in our country, our society, our system functioning to benefit art life and variety of it, how we maintain system of ours, how we think things should be done. To say of being naive and not understanding how we do things in Finland is more than odd for people whose nation is planning a trip to Mars. You do not understand foreign countries nor people is at the core of arrogance and stupidity of you nation. Monetary value calculated, planned winnings, honor and imperialist attitude of yours are the flaws of yours you do not want to change, because you do not see them flaws but strengths, your eternal way of life which must not be disturbed. Short-sighted ideas and plain force is nothing but surface, expensive and futile leading to chain reaction of failure with no end. It is good to learn from mistakes made. You fail to do even that. And you dare to say those who object your fucked up project are against art. Fuck you. Your anti-progress, anti-democratic system and thinking sickens me.

Puta madre conceptual garden sub specie aeternitatis, where every deed happens.

Truth is a bitch.  Say the truth and you will be smacked around.
out-of-place, naturally dislocated
Nymphaea looked for her earring on living room floor carpet. She said she has bad eyes. Great Horned Owl in her, in her bra was tightly pressured against her skin. Wanted to study her pressure marks, sunken bloodless steps on her, leaps of red. I thought it must have hurt to wear such bra. To wear underwear she did shaping her form. She always had a nightgown for me with a cartoon figure. I loved her furniture. She hung her jewelry on corners of her dressing table with oval shape mirror. Smelling her bottles. Her sheets, her plastic pearls, her things, her and valuables, details, piles of magazines. Hers, language of her. I looked for it through her hanging clothes sitting on the floor. I poured everything that was in the box on the floor.
language of clichés
language of beauty
language of trauma
language of banality
language of architecture
language of aggression
language of being a child
language of being alive
language of acting out
language of close
language of an old woman
language of dust
language of turquoise