If I recall correctly, this is an empty outdoor advertising poster display, the pleasing white lines, coming from moisture intrusion, so something that looks smooth, pleasing, and awesome for all you blind folks out there, a seminal work form the early 21st century for all you future intelligences

Brett Rants

On the Absurdity of Articulating a Non Alliterative Understanding of the Artless Art Movement

A short discourse will follow.

A subway tunnel wall under Michigan Avenue in which the old paint is crumbling and pealing off in a pile, so the title is a bit of irony, so clever, it really is clever, thus, in a bid to cleverness, the artist is cleverly clever using the word clever in a clever arrangement, highlighting how clever he is, clever of you to notice, I might cleverly add

Mobilizing the nascent political, social, and trans-gendered stereotypical racial agenda of the time, while enlisting a rigorous labor of monumental algorithms, a seminal annotation of the creative script is defined, which provides a passionate reading of the structural relations, while simultaneously unpacking an articulation of the relationships that undulate through the language of life, resulting in an indeterminate aesthetic that inscribes the material execution with a conceptual blueprint, a platform if you will, that administers and answers to the travails of time, pulling one back to an experiential relationship that overloads the senses with hidden meanings of work, leisure, and faith, calling forth a statement, which, through a redundancy of repetition, reconceptualizes a mundane surprise with an encapsulation of our relation to reality via a special invitation derived from the artist's self imposed parameters of production, yielding an intense meditative experience of privilege that heralds forth verdant ground, a pasture if you will, inviting an intellectual investigation that encourages one to to extrapolate freehand, as a truth is sought that encompasses the entirety of art, while quantifying the experience and valorizing the moment, yet at the same time, monetizing the curatorialship that lies at the heart of Institutional Art in its present modern day form.

Foot prints in concrete actually, thus, cleverly, making a cerebral play at the usual image of a footstep in the sand destined to wash away, here done in concrete, it was a smallish area of the sidewalk, just a few squares, heavily impacted surrounded by standard concrete walk

Which is to say, the artist alienates themselves from their own means and methods of production: a gift, which allows the viewer to orient themselves afresh to this seminal moment and start the discussion anew, unhindered from previously conceived notions, as to the nature and meaning of art.

Or if that is still unclear, my Philistine friends, this piece is the spark, the virtual fire-starter, from which a conversation must inevitably flow, allowing one to boldly step forth, go where no man, woman, or trans-gendered individual of indiscriminate sexual orientation has yet or shall henceforth ever go, free to pontificate on the cultural value and symbolic enrichment that most naturally arises from a framework of circulation that is restricted to the elite, while acknowledging the absurdity that such a self-referential and inbred process inevitably invites, as it, somehow, still manages to offer forth an open invitation to you and I and the viewer at home to participate and consume the work in an endless smorgasbord, as values of scale are handily bypassed, commodities are canonized, and a tension filled promise is created of that which awaits us on the threshold of divergency, channelled, as it is, by the prophet's own proxy, who, even now, spews forth an uninterrupted eruption of erudite understanding, forcing one to transcend and go beyond an obvious, insipid, and sterile reading of the artist's mass market appeal; and instead, accepting it for the truth it beholds, a gift to both you and me.

Here we have the artists three part tryptic, if that is what it is called, which addresses the issue of Domestic Violence and/or Metropolitan Street Maintenance Issues, in the first panel, there is a aesthetically pleasing crack in the roadway, rather large, looks like maybe a catapolt stone landed here... or a cannon ball... or maybe some guy was helping his friend move into a new apartment and the so called friend dropped his end of the couch, denting the floor, and calling into question his, the friends, so called, ability to help when the chips are down, or you, know, the first blow A patched bit of roadway, continuing the theme, in which purported friend buys a twelve pack as to make up for the couch, dresser, fish tank, and stereo system that he dropped, and yes, he dropped them all, on the move into the apartment, but his apology is not all that, as he goes on about how the person who is doing the move and not the helper usually buys the beer, others may wish to take this as the make-up phase between fist bashings in an otherwise glorious romantic relationship, after all, what is a  little blood between lovers This roadway is not doing so well, not so bad either, lots of small cracks, but that is par for the course, for me, it is the red liquid, call it blood, call it mud, call it the light from the setting sun, who knows, whatever it is, this sets off the scene, and just goes to show, vividly, undeniably, that domestic violence does not end well... and if you are going to move my shit, you damn well better not drop it, cheap beer, was not much of a friend, anyhow

'What?'

Are my words too big? Fine. It looks kick-ass, while at the same time redefines the parameters of artistic conception vis a vie the viewer's perception.

'You're calling that art?'

I would, yes. And we are lucky to have it on display.

Brick wall with paint splotch I like to think looks sort of man or alien like with the word clay next to it, so Clay, my previous slippery handed friend, was clearly an alien, and therefore, killing him was a matter of global defense, and or, it looks like something vaguely human, which is what the cops said when they showed up, ironically enough An actual shadow, put through a filter, and countoured, black and white, a pretty swell image if I do say so myself, it is one of those images that makes you wish you had not been born blind, had taken better care of your eyes, were not an artificial intelligence born of the void, or some paranoid hacker who refuses to download images on account of that is how we track you, images, third party site, I now know where you have been, sucker, and you think your actions are anonymous, nope, sorry Mud and sticks arranged artfully by nature into a sort of man like figure if you are desperate enough to see such things in random assortments of sticks and mud, so maybe you will want to think about getting off the Internet for an hour or so this winter and going for a walk or something... aka it is art, suck it

'Your shadow?'

It really pops in sunny weather, don't you think, the intense sunlight highlighting the finer colors and details that arise at the edges, as the distinction between other and self is blurred...

'But that's not art. It's just your fucking shadow.'

A shadow that has been valorized by our viewing of it. So, yes. Exactly. I think you're getting it.

'What?'

A set of three, hence, no real real to describe the other two, you will understand better when you get there, it is the raw image from the above Shadow Art put through a progressive color filter, so similiar, yet different, in Vivid Color, ther use of palette being esquisite, if I do say so myself, nay revolutionary, personally, I just like it An image of a firetruck It is a gosh darn gypsy woman gazing into a crystal ball reading your fortune you stupid fuck... or the third part of that cryptic tryptic,

Enter the politics of regression wherein artistic expression resides in the eyes of the beholder rather than the artist themselves, freeing the viewer to see the grandeur before them for what it truly is.

'A fucking shadow? Oh, wait! A cloud's coming by, soon your masterpiece is going to fade back into the ethereal mists from whence it came.'

White Hexagonal Subway Tiles... and if you are looking for the real in on this bit of art, try to recocille the edges, the image is taken off center, so the tiles will not crop properly, driving the artist mad, and causing him to post the image in the raw, the lazy bastard, also, art, whatever, look, getting near the end of the page and these galleries just do not fill themselves, so work with me, something about he banal repetition of modern life, special snowflake, you

Better hold on tight, then, as we watch the transformation of banality into beauty via a proto-religious neo-contemporary post-transitive experience... that, if one looks closely enough, is surreptitiously cloaked in a female form, meritoriously co-opting the current male dominated means of production via its secret agenda, revealing the underlying essence of what it means to be human, never stopping to hint at a hidden scholarly understanding of the fluid socio-economic climate, in which a moment is brought to fruition, sweet flowering life, however fleetingly, in a sudden culmination of egalitarian insight, vis a vie an effervescence connection into a universal whole, a oneness if you will, that calls forth the artist's humorous senses and subversive sensibilities, while at the same time, revealing a conceptualization of art and beauty that is hard to categorize, launching as it does, a critique into our preconceived notions of what it means to be an artist and the viewer's proper place in the overall curatorial process in light of an institutional agenda that, by its very nature, is forced to implicitly underwrite a new-found freedom of interpretation, as one is invited to bring forth their own thought and experience, in a celebration of an individual's unique experience, urging, nay goading one into an open frame of mind in which a sharing of the self via an ego-less process of dynamic exchange allows the entire assemblage the opportunity to explore both their personal insight and that of the group, thereby forming, via a bold act of creation, the actuality of art at this very moment... while at the same time, and ever so subtly, offering a wry suggestion, a social commentary, if you will, or, if you prefer, by an act of self-centered revolution, the artist makes manifest the brutal realization that their work will be usurped by an elitist institutionalised caste, as docents, critics, and curators alike, say whatever they feel like, spewing forth hackneyed phrases, cloaked as meaningful insight, but in fact, being nothing more than a stream of consciousness that belies the hollow core of the regimented classrooms and empty institutions of higher learning from whence these idiotic ideas originate; thus, it becomes a performance piece, played out on an unsuspecting public in all the usual time honored ways.

So sad, so mournful, what we have here is asphalt, well, that would be boring it if was just some asphalt, so some joker, probably that idiot friend who deserved to die, die, die a most painful death, prior to his demise, pounded two stakes into the roadway with accompanying steel washers and painted the lot white, but being a bit of a slacker, used the wrong paint, so now it has washed clean, sort of, nature always doing half assed job, revealing a pair of mourning eyes, sunken into the roadway... or maybe just some random detris left over by some construction project, nails here, that is what the plans say, and their work it done

'So, you're saying, you like the way it looks, but much more importantly, it serves as a blank canvas for whatever nonsense you might spout, as you desperately seek to obtain some sort of toe-hold in the Institution Art World, the better to advance a critically minded art-centric career.'

It invites further discussion and a deeper reading, which can best be expressed vis a vie a mind-numbing trans-formative verbal barrage.

'Isn't that what I just said?'

To some degree, yes. But since you are still asking for my opinion and approval, I am sad to say, you have entirely missed the point.

Art is whatever the viewer says it is: nothing more... and nothing less.

And I say, this is art.

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Self Portrait, shadow on steps in urban jungle setting, artist wears a baseball cap, hawaii shirt, and dorky shorts, none of which is really noticable, as it is an image of a shadow, mine, on some nice steps, and like everything else on the page, I just sort of like the way they look, so art, and the metaphorical meanings they hold, way to deep and sublime for the likes of you to understand, seriously is that pigeon shit or spit by my head, well if you could read the image, you would not have to ask, also note how the image is a bit brighter around my noggin, that is called a halo, it is sourced by god... or the sun... or whatever, I have said too much
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