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Critique by S.Brusselmans


SquareAnother fucking opening, another set of artwork to look at, to mean something about, say something about. Fuck that shit, we are here for the free beer. That’s it. Spending time in front of each piece just so we can finish the bottles and get new ones without being attacked as the alcohol piranhas we are, scumbags looking for a free ride. The joint had not worked. The Rastafarian fucker sold us bum weed, I’ma tell him the next time I see him. No I won’t. Spineless as I am, I’ll smile and joke and hope it is better than last time, he knows it is a sellers market, and I am just another idiot frequenting his disgusting apartment. Like a recurring roach that you can’t be bothered to kill.

The gallery is packed, grey haired old men in expensive flamboyant clothing trying to look young, annoying opinionated hipsters trying to look like, I don’t even know, some sort of mix between bourgeois, decadence and richie rich. It smells of drying paint, dusty old fur worn by moth ridden old ladies, mixed in with goodness knows how many different colognes, perfumes and aftershaves all claiming to herald from grand ol’ Paris. It is a sweet smell, sweet in disgusting in its thickness and occupation of the space, it makes me want to vomit. I would if I had a spine, but again, I don’t. I need these ass holes, I need these bourgeoisie piss ants to buy my own shit so that I never have to come down, never have to grow up, never have to stand up and be counted as for or against anything, never have to listen to anyone but my primal unconscious cravings. Ah, fuck it, new beer, new work,  I pretend, I smile, make hollow comments, my friend is only half heatedly listening anyway, he is here for the tail. That sweet skinny well dressed tail that art exhibition openings attract like flies to a buzzing electric blue light hung on a porch in Louisiana in June. Sweet. Death. I love art tail, at least I think I would, I can never close the deal, too blunt, too much of a smelly drunk, too much or too little of everything that makes me human. I have style, but you can’t see it. That’s what I tell myself every time I go home alone and jerk off in the bathtub. Floater city. Every artwork is a copy of something I have seen before. All it is now is a place for bums like myself to drink for free, and for the bourgeoisie to spend their money to feel vaguely connected to reality, or at least vicariously experience something that resembles reality.

I meant to write something about the show- like a critique of it, but I cannot remember where it was,or who the artist was. But I think there was something good in there somewhere, at least I wasn’t so totally repelled by what was on display that I went home before getting drunk.