Money, is a disease rotting the insides of the art world. A corruption of fact and fiction, it corrodes the core of art, eating its soul.
The collectors and their art critic lap dogs froth at the mouth of the “NEXT BIG THING”, the future return on investment. The latest print has replaced the shiny new car in the accessory list of the Nouveau riche. Who cares if you have a yacht when you have a Banksy?
We wander through our day, the bleak grey of the urban landscape a colorless concrete cage spotted with brightly color ads that want to sell you something, tell you something, make you believe.
Artists have become brand names, fictions advertising ideologies, corporate logos have been replaced by stenciled tags. But it still sells you a lifestyle, pretends to give you credibility based on you tastes.
All you can do is act out in the night, under the cover of darkness you bring back some hope that art is still relevant, that art can say something besides “BUY ME”
The truth is I don’t have a message in my art. As a painter, I try to bring colour and form into the world. Beauty shouldn’t have to sell itself, art doesn’t need a message.
But who knows? Maybe art isn’t what we thought it was after all?