Tarts. Sweet and sour, big and small, fresh or foul or fat or slim, here they are, all sizes galore. Look, admittedly, it's probably not the best object from which to draw an image for art, and yet here I am, using it.
"Not another bloody blog", you say?
To which I am obliged to retort:
"Indeed."
I promise to try and suck out the more-often-than-not, tart reality of art, whose bitter aftertaste can be felt in the mouths of all those who try and 'make it' in the art world and who are, inevitably faced with the administrative duties of other 'artists' whose tepid works could only find voice as a result of favours performed. Some of us know how to leave the moral-high horse at home, you see. So when you find yourself envious of the golden destination we call success, just remember that life isn't about the journey, it's all about money and CAA-ASH, "cuz alota wacks, wanna hear it". (But does thy homie really feel me, I ask? Hmmm, I think not.)
And when you and I both get bored of ruminating the nature of human existence from that sticky pot of culture, I will feel myself validated in bestowing upon you an opinion of both the aesthetically enlightened and the other, somewhat more challenged categories. I may also chose to add some food reviews, just because I can.
No one said you had to like it, no one even said you had to read it. But if I got you this far.
All of you can lick my tart.
Love,
Miss Bour
(A hypocritical, steak tartare loving, guiltily indulgent, though not any less responsible from the admission, consumerist agent of this not-so-green planet, who must say these things outright, for fear of mis(s)-categorisation.)
