I’ve heard that an artist’s work is a representation of their environment. Like a sponge they soak up all that occurs around them. If this is true, it says some interesting things about history.
Living today in a world of pre-fabricated, plug-in-play conveniences where an environment is a carefully crafted, plastic model of a corporation’s grand design, it’s hard for an artist to escape the fate of becoming derivative. Originality and uniqueness are qualities which evade the glut of today’s “artistes” who are ready to ply the heartless formulas of Pop-Monsters to their modular, tech-nourished, sense-deprived lives in hopes that they, like so many talentless fools before them, can line their pockets with pilfered royalties. How red their grasping claws must be.
We live in an age where the common man is encouraged to whore out his mother, wife, and daughter for a chance to grasp the rich man’s nickel. Shame, for this writer, is a horrific slight of an understatement.
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