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.
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.
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.
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.
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.'
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, 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.