valentino da budapesti
the 19th cookbook
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Chris, Natasha, myself and an..
Chris, Natasha, myself and an evening. First a
gallery opening at 1313. Mediocre art of little
consequence. Maybe i'm cynical, but it is very rarely that
I find things that appeal to me in art galleries. And the
artists and the art fans are similarly unappelaing. For a
large part, they are aging high-school geniouses happy with
the incestuousness of the entire affair, probably holding
down mediocre jobs at art-supply stores, and working on
their own art in their spare time. And the three of us
have a converstion regarding. I say that I am only willing
to live with the extremes of recognition; either well known
nationally and earning a comfortable living from the sale
of my works or; making art that nobody but myself and maybe
three other people get to see. Happy selfish obscurity. I
don't think that I can live my life as a "local artist,"
ocassionally selling work for a few hundred dollars. Give
me all or nothing, I don't want mediocrity in my
recognition; give me the world, or at least a country, or
leave me the fuck alone.
The evening continued...Drinking in a restaurant, the
three of us peripheral to the birthday celebrations of one
of N's friends. An observation; the difference between
Chris and myself; concerning current events known as the
news. New York and Washington specifically, but anything
concerning humans and their misfortunes generally. On the
topic of; how we each react. We are as different as you
can get. Chris is very seriously effected by emotionally
by the last few months events. He has the capacity to cry
(he does so quietly in private) over the lost and ruined
lives of a few thousand people, none of whom he was
personally acquainted with. The idea that a large number
of people were arbitrarily assasinated fills him with a
profound sense of sorrow. The idea that this attack on U.S.
citizens could be the cause of a chain reaction leading ultimately to
the end of the world as we know it fills him with an overwhelming
sense of doom & depression.
And me; I am almost completely detached. I find human beings and
their actions infinitely fascinating. As a species we are
magnificient and cruel and kind and evil and genious and stupid. To
an infinate degree. I rarely feel saddened or scared by what we do.
But it is almost equally rarely that I am not amazed at what we are
capable of. I acknowledge that what happened in New York and
Washington is unfortunate, but I can't give birth to tears for the
ocassion. These deaths are as sad to me as the deaths of Napoleon's
or Ceasar's troops, or the deaths of Pompeii's citizens or the deaths
of flood victims or Titanic passengers or medieval plague sufferers
or african civil war casualties or car accident victims or or
or...People have always died for an assortment of glorious or
nfortunate or tragic or just reasons. And people will continue to
The exception, of course, is the deaths of people I know, which
can bring the tears and the pain in enormous quantities. But I can
feel no great pain for any of the six billion other humans who may
happen to pass or the billions who have already died in the course of
mankind's history .
I am not paranoid about Anthrax attacks on the Toronto subway. If
they do happen, fine, that's stupid homo sapiens for you. And I will
be watching regardless of what happens, fascinated by mankind until I