From: james at jwm-art.net (James Morris)
Date: Tuesday, 20 November 2012 - 2:40am
away, the seagul lulls in dynamite trite, slays resonant teabags.
Despite all of what you say, conjuring of theory to back you up, I still
don't see art there. Not the art that captured the imagination of my
youth. If it gives me the choice over take it or leave it, I don't have
a choice but to leave it: it's easier. So my critique of your art which
appears to me so artless, is that it takes too much effort. But no,
that is not it. Should the art not at least try and ensnare one? Should
it not attract it's victim to it?
Many pesto sauces try to do this. The green and blue of nature for
example. The artless guffaws of the writer as he writes this.
Sniggering at his own jokes. He's not doing that at the moment, but
there has been plenty of times when he has. And plenty of times before
now that he has done what he does now: worry about the suitability.
The vegan's beagle ego claps and trots the bots rotational rot pot clot.
Clop clop clip clap.
Many pestilent three saw sees Buddhist. The latrine and shower of
neo-nature do this, for example, overly-tight hamstrings. Stop writing
this nonsense. Non secateurs, like pruning with a bandage. A stymied
thread, locked blocked, at fault, last in, first freaked out.
Now then, if an artist, an artist in dispute, in dispute with himself
over the qualification of artist, a qualification like a sticky label
self-attached. Proclaiming like an unmade bed (sic). Emanation.
What is the effect of sport on artists? How does physical exercise
effect the artist brain? Can an artist be physically fit and still make
art (regardless of case)?
What is the effect of repetitious factory work on artists? Where are
the scientific studies of this? When does cardinal syntax come into
play? Can an artist be physically fit, or at least, have a healthy
heartbeat and still make good art? Can an artist sustain three hours of
cycling off road - I do this I do this I do this - cycling off road, 32
miles, legs fucked, feet cold and wet, nearly got chilblains, god, I'm
a man, big man, hero, the fucking hero, worship mean fleas, you fleas,
worship mean , me, I am god to your porky bellies, bow down to my
biceps and six pack you pathetic overlords bow down, oh, bow down, bow
Bow down to my mullet, my unshaven face, my labourers hands and dirty
fingernails, you flea-ridden pestilent scrotes.