“PEOPLE OF PERTH… I COME WITH A MESSAGE FROM THE FUTURE – THE ART WORLD IS AWESOME AND EVERYTHING IS FINE…”
I’ll sit in a chair while you can sit on the couch, and so we can begin our art therapy session.
It’d be fair to say that your artwork doesn’t really challenge any paradigms. Or any notions.
I wrote the essay, cited the facts as required, but the artist still rejected the essay. No reason was given but I suspected it might be because I’m a shit writer. But you can be the judge of that.
In all likelihood you’re giving the opening speech because you’re very good at giving speeches.
Bookshops and music stores, especially the independent ones, added real and eccentric charm to a place.
Good morning Australia, you’re all going to die.
There is something acutely self-justifying in the rhetoric that supports major exhibitions, a kind of magical thinking that claims causality between the artwork and the reaction of the viewer which, if you’re not on-side with what the work is trying to do, seems more like evidence of abject failure than of unqualified success.
“Andrew Frost is writing on art for the Guardian? Stand by for a gushing article about Tom Polo.”
Failing to swim the English Channel is something that everyone can do. Or fail to do, if you know what I mean. No special skills are required not to be able to do something.