so i read the jerry saltz review of the whitney biennial. as one would think, it's crap (the show, not the review)... i won't be going. the only good thing to be said is that one of the curators is good to look at. sorry, but thats it. and i will proudly say that i've never been to a whitey biennial. actually i have-- and jason rhodes rocked it. fine... the irony here is that, years ago, i was writing about rhodes and thinking about how much i disliked the work and at the end of the essay i realized i made him sound pretty good. thats the trick-- you might not like something, but you might think about it a bit and realize a bit more. sadly, at 41 and a veteran of the nyc art world, i know what these girls at the whitney are putting out (no pun intended).... its the same ole' same ole' that was on shop last year and the year before and the year before and i've tired of what they're selling-- long ago... it would seem they have no faith (read: understanding , or sensitivity) in painting or sculpture. fine. thats the way the world works. they play video games in their off hours and text message untold hours away into nothingness, waiting for the next career move. to each their own. as for the work, it's the sameness of it all that rubs me the wrong way. sure, lets wrap a garden hose around the perimeters of the space, lets take nude, polaroid self-portraits, lets figure out cute riffs on environment and race; class and bullshit takes on what could be considered "culture (if we tried really, really hard)..." enough already. where is the art? where are the balls?and if that makes me sexist, fine, what would joan mitchell think of this crap?
not much...
not much at all.
but we move on. i no longer concern myself with this aspect of the art world. i will comment on its frivolities and it's inanities and pound my chest for a sense of honor and quality.
all well and good.
fuck them...
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