so, yeah, the Whitney... i can't help myself. haven't been, might not go at all.

in fact, if my shadow crosses the door i'll be very very surprised.

but beyond THIS Whitney, beyond this year,

what is the point of so much of the "art" being made?

well, i'd say there really isn't a point or a direction--

it's simply an exercise of ease and a gross, fashionably shoddy, inauthenticity.

its the inauthenticity of mustaches on bedford;

the false pretense of shitty photography and incoherent videos--

the fat chick in the miniskirt

with the brass nose ring and the MFA.

it's easy to be ironic.

easy to pose. easy not to make anything...

easy to pick through the shit in the news.

easy to watch TV.

easy to write about yourself.

hell, i do it all the time.

sincerity went out the window and romance tagged along...

and in the end, i'm ok with that.

you can't fight history, or the reality around you.

you don't have to like it.

and you surely don't have to accept it.

but you need to understand it.

and then get back to work.

and get your hands dirty.

and re-work that great idea that,

wasn't so great to begin with.

sometime around the late '60's, it became ok to be lazy...

warhol, hippies, who knows?

but around that time, sincerity went out the window

and romance followed close behind.