Fuck Art, Let's Dance

Okay, let's stop pretending and get down to it.

Forget all this love stuff. Let's talk about money.

I read in the paper today an article criticizing college students, some 75% or whom list making plenty of money as a top priority. Whoever wrote it couldn't believe how shallow they were, blah, blah, blah.

Several pages later a story about a 77 square foot basement apartment in London for $335,000. Noted that the average price for a place in London was over $700,000.

I don't think that college kids have missed a thing. It's not like they're going to Dubuque to start a new farm. These young people plan to go to major cities. Which requires major money. Hell, even minor cities cost significant coin these days. And they don't offer much in the ways of culture.

Now, as I mentioned yesterday, I don't believe in victims, but I also don't believe that you can escape easily the time in which you live. Or the mores, or the land prices. Or that you should.

And we're crazy about money. Literally.

Half of us worship it, some literally. And half of us claim to not care about it.

(If you ever meet someone, by the way, who tells you they don't care about money--I'd keep stepping. A) they're lying and B) it's an untenable position--and you might not want to be around when it flips.)

Money is so connected to what we do, and what we do so connected to who we are, that you could almost wrap them all together into a ball. Except that for most, doing what they want means putting themselves on the market, which means submitting themselves to other's values.

Have you ever heard of a person complaining about the cliche "low-paid teacher" giving a teacher some money? Have you ever heard of someone complaining about sweatshops deciding to buy only hand-made designer goods?

Or does the person who complains about sweatshops try to buy from more pleasant factories, or reward "more authentic", often lesser quality goods from developing countries.

And does the same person raise an eyebrow when the production for said items follows their already drifting attention and heads overseas?

My point here, generally, is that we won't even scratch the surface of what having decentralized power, or being a people with authority and power dispersed, until we steadfastly refuse to be victims to "the group".

And the most powerful way we display this victimization is with our dollars. Which we primarily wield with great fear.

Money ceased to be worth what it was worth with the disappearance of the gold standard. It is now fiduciary.

Which means trust.

So what does it mean that we wield, that we share, that we create with our trust fearfully?

Wouldn't it have to mean that we are eroding our trust and eroding our trustworthiness? Chipping away at our own value? It would have to be gold to avoid the corrosive solution in which it was suspended.

And it's not. It's an emotion. And a somewhat precarous one at that.

Have you ever had your personal trust eroded by someone else's fear? By someone reacting irrationally and unlovingly?

I think that's what most poisons fear.

And I'm not saying that we aren't getting more prosperous--and more trusting and trustworthy every year. It is quite clear that we are.

I'm saying we're doing it with two hands tied behind our back and one eye shut. And possibly our tongue hanging out to the side.

(That's a joke).

Why? Because we're insisting that we get to trust through competition.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there. I'm no socialist. Or maybe I am. But I only believe in voluntary socialism. Built on a foundation of competition. With people who have already proven their mettle thoroughly.

And this line of thought is surprising even myself. I wasn't sure I had it in me. But for the sake of honesty I'll at least explore it.

Growing up I was a big fan of socialism. It appealed to various parts of me--not in the least the social.

It also appealed to the part of me that didn't really want to do much. The part that enjoyed living off my parent's dime and sneaking out of the house to go visit my girlfriend. the part that didn't want to do any homework (We'll talk about that one later).

But it appealed to most of these later, negative parts, because I thought life was impossible. I had already adapted the notion that being an artist was from hard to impossible, and that doing what you wanted was a pipe dream bordering on delusional.

Where I was from you tried to sneak something worthwhile in to your profession--a graphic designer was a leap so large and presumptuous I didn't even consider it until my disaffected 20s. My original choice was an architect. That way at least I wouldn't have to be a lawyer or a doctor. It was still selfish as hell though, considering that some of my folks were community organizers, but hey, I already had two earrings long hair (or a shaved head), and was borderline squatting, why not actually shake things up a little. (Actually more like organizers of community organizers).

And there was a fairly good tradition of graphic designers in socialism. Sure they were dandies, and not to be trusted, but their stuff was a little sexy. I kept an original, wool, communist flag in my drawer at the warehouse I shared with other artistic tidepoolers.

And it went on. I don't know how many times I had to be messed with by someone with minimal financial interest in what they were doing before I got it, but it was significant. And I discovered that there were ties stronger than hanging out, enjoying the same bands, and being friends.

It was sometime after I had finished my book that I read Ayn Rand. I was almost completely alone and although I was not trying to hear it, the message got through. How could you have a strong society without strong individuals? And without a dictator.

I tried to incorporate as much as I could into my already existing worldview, but I must admit that much of it got tossed. I worked for months on incorporating personal responsibility into my understanding, but at times it felt like I was just becoming a jerk. Sure, you could hold everyone to everything, but what then? Where was the fun?

And why the hell did Ayn Rand smoke?

And why did she cheat on her husband?

And, possibly most importantly, why wasn't she a better writer? I believed her reasoning, but her stuff read like a dime store novella. And half predictable at that.

I had always thought that a better future would include, would require far fewer meetings, and much less busywork--if any, but I also held firm to the belief that the art would get better. Lots better. Like better than Van Gogh better.

But wherever I looked, and in all the sources I found inspiration: Ayn Rand, self-help, The Power of Now, Krishnamurti, Yoga, etc--the best they could muster was Yanni. Eckhart Tolle's dust cover told me he lived a quiet life in Vancouver and an interview had him drinking a cup of coffee--and later some wine.

How happy could he be if he needed drugs like that? That I couldn't even touch without going for a rollercoaster ride. Even Oprah was always shown with the largest Starbucks cup imaginable. Most of the black folks I knew wouldn't even touch "the white man's poison".

And, furthermore, and possibly most importantly, why were American Socialists waiting for the government to do anything? Why didn't they just buy their own factories? Pay the workers whatever they wanted to? Why spend a single day printing inflammatory, all red newspapers about foreign invasions?

If the American people were really so deluded, so crass, so sold out and so "comsumerist"--as Noam Chomsky insisted we were--why not just write them off? Why not start a socialist shangra-la right here. Why not move everyone in next to each other and get it on?

I read Adorno and many of the others and found them impenetrable.

Why the hell would the truth--a supposedly robust thing, which supposedly favored butterflies, the drool dripping from Golden Retrievers mouths (or mutts if you insist), babies cooing, flowers, sunshine, love, and all sorts of delicate, airy-fairy and off kilter goodies--why would this set of irreplacible, fleeting tangents require some sort of soul numbing square barbed wire enclosure to protect it?

Why would it require post-doctorate degrees? Why would it require paperwork and what anarchists told us was desire (more horrible art), instead of what we felt as desire? Instead of the sunshine we saw, unmediated, unmitigated, uneverything right in front of our eyes?

Why would the money have to be centralized and then distributed? Wouldn't that take a lot more money?

So that was my gripe with the left. But the right was even more joyless. Sure they had some incredible architecture, but what about the day to day stuff? What about expression? What about keeping it real? What about tolerance? What about not only being free but exercising that freedom.

I was all for personal responsibility, hell I had even dated a Republican (she went on to become a lawyer--working on women and children's issues the last I heard), but I knew first hand from my successful graphic design firm that money, by itself, didn't do jack.

And they seemed to be as intent on talking about other people's business derisively as anyone else. And no new car could erase what you could see in their eyes.

And why did they all worship art so much? Like it was rare and foreign? I appreciated the collections, but if you want the real thing, why not head over to the West side? They've got blues bands playing on the backs of trailer trucks for free outside of rib joints.

Why did they need the credentialed, ancient, the real so badly? Why were they collecting so much African art? Masks and ritual pieces? Why were they turning their homes into curated museums to what at one time was a thriving, from the hip, make it up as you go along th-a-ng?

And--similarly, but not necessarily right sided--why did the Vatican have Egyptian mummies? Wasn't that even sacrilege? They certainly must have loved them to bring them back and put them out when they had so many artifacts and artworks.

So, back to money--the left wouldn't give it up for what they wanted--they were reluctant to build--even when they had the capital, and increasingly they did, and the right would give it up, would take risks, but only for kinda boring stuff. Museum quality. Heavily mediated old fun.

When I thought this, and it was over a period of variously PC and non PC years, it seemed very blatant to me that they were both half right.

Yes, be self-reliant, but why brow-beat folks having a little fun unless you were afraid of it. Yes, stay loose, but why be afraid to stand up? To walk tall?

As I improved my posture I was actually, literally afraid that people would call me arrogant. And some did, but usually not for that reason.

As we look backwards, it seems obvious to me that self-reliance and responsibility and accountability were essential foundations of our prosperity. Of our trust.

And it seems obvious, that when this boot-strapping or self-love got too strong--became too insistent--and was projected out onto others, or used to exact punishment or keep others in line, it could become hurtful. Make us less trust-worthy.

A lot of it was based on fear. Sometimes real and well-founded fear.

But as I look forward, I can't see what MORE it's going to do to those it has served so well. If thoroughly applied anyway.

It almost seems that we want half-and-half. Strong women and relaxed men.

A rock-solid foundation and an enjoyable house. Or a fundamentally sound house and furniture with fantastic colors, pleasing surfaces, subtle touches--and filled to the brim with love.

To do this we must spend more money--wield more of our trust--in quality. We must pay for each other's relaxed lunches (by paying a premium for exactly what we want). Not out of guilt, not out of obligation. But because we TRUST.

Because we have been so lovingly taken care of. And we know more is on the way. Because we understand that we are free to do as we please every moment. And that a lingering lunch is our birthright as well.

WE MUST GO FIRST!

And our artisans, and artists must start making the products they really want to make too! They've been making it scathing, dirtying up the colors on purpose to be cool, to make a point. They put square toes on our beautiful Italian shoes. Square toes are acid wash minus four years. It is fashion, an untenable position, one that cannot hold.

Cause our toes are round. And will always be.

And you don't really, REALLY, want to be set apart from the group (though I would suggest that square toes CAN'T even do that anymore,a s they've been taken up by those who are trying to feel a part of something already).

You also don't want to have to do anything to be accepted.

And the glorious news is that you don't have to.

You can now be your actual self.

Which, I guarantee, is neither a snarling punk rocker nor down the nose art influencer. Is not a "relaxed" hippy (do you know how much extra work it takes, in today's mechanized economy to make tie-die -- that's a joke, btw) who doesn't brush and won't commit. It is not an uptight, harried soccer mom. I guarantee.

And much love to all these people. But we're not cool or hot. It's scientific, not a pose. We're warm. We're right down the middle. We're 98.6 degrees.

A little less at the surface, or if we're not wearing the proper shoes.

What we are:!!! Is beautiful, powerful, loving, joyous, supported, well-fed, prosperous, growing creative beings.

And this only gets messed up--we only don't feel this--when we refuse to let something we're done with die off. Or refuse to follow and investigate something that cajoles us. Something that inspires.

Maybe it's this simple. We don't need to go against our feelings to somehow get to our feelings. We need to go through our feelings to get to them. And trust is the mechanism. Faith is the mechanism.

A quick story. I was walking around one Valentines Day feeling sorry for myself--for I was objectively a depressed, frustrated, low-output (or so I thought), unemployed artist. And I was alone.

I stopped into a bookstore in Seattle and saw a book I had been thinking of and looking for for years. A comprehensive, full-color book about Basquiat.

I had about $100 in my bank account. The book was, I believe $80. I had no income adn no prospects for income. I was paying $300 a month for rent. I still had years to go on my book before I could even hope to sell it.

So what did I do? I bought the book. I said fuck it. I didn't even know at the time how crucial it was for me to support doggedly and with complete faith that which I felt to be the most important and loving expressions of economy--I hadn't gotten there yet. I figured I would either fail and whatever or succeed and it wouldn't matter. All I knew was that I saw before me what I wanted.

And then, and even more difficult, when I got it home, I drew a picture in it.

Because Basquiat was dead and I was still alive and I couldn't be afraid of him. Or even less free if I was going to be any good. It meant that I couldn't return the book. And that if I didn't make it big I had ruined the book.

But if I did make it, I had made it more valuable.

I still have the book. And got past Basquiat as well, although he obviously had talent.

And Ayn Rand? I figured her out when I saw the movie The Fountainhead. When Roarke blows up his own building because it wasn't built right. That's bunk. His argument in court is against everything Ayn Rand claimed to stand for. He argues that he was made a victim by the builder and lead architect. And that, like a child, like a graffiti artist, like the Unabomber, he had no other recourse but to destroy property.

The true artist, of course, and the true adult, knows that this is bullshit.

Because he lives under the rule of law. And a broken contract is a relatively minor matter to prove. Especially when you have a character like Roarke supposedly had.

That's if, of course, he would even care. If he had a spiritual dimension (and Rand didn't seem to have much of one) he may have even let it slide. Why bust your stride for some punk you knew was a sell-out punk in the first place.

Why not just do what you've always done--exactly what you want.

May god bless you.

E