So it’s been a fair old while since I’ve posted anything in these parts. I could bore you with a long and frankly fabricated list of the amazingly interesting things I’ve been doing instead of blogging, but instead suffice to say: yes, electromagnets were involved.
They weren’t. I wish they were though.
In truth nothing’s particularly grabbed my attention for long enough to warrant the keystrokes, which is odd given how many significant/hilarious/rage-inducing events have occurred in the last few weeks. I thought I was becoming desensitised to most things in the world, hence the lack of any ranting.
Until today. Until this. Watch the whole thing.
Whoever doesn’t punch their screen in pure primal rage will win a delicious custard cream biscuit worth up to four pence. But I still wager I won’t be giving away too many delicious biscuits.
I really thought it was a joke at first. It’s not a joke. Oddly but understandably my first thought on realising it isn’t a joke was to wonder where I might purchase a couple of litres of gin and a few packs of aspirin on a Sunday afternoon in Falmouth; a sentiment I’m sure many of you can relate to.
I’m all for kids messing around with paint and drawing pictures and suchlike; my nephew does a mean drawing of a spider which looks only marginally less like an actual spider than my drawings of spiders do, and he’s only two! (My drawings of spiders, I hasten to add, look very little like real spiders either. The whole art thing really passed much of my family by; I tried to draw a portrait of a girlfriend a while back and I’m pretty sure I succeeded only in bringing forward the end of our relationship. It looked like I’d drawn a picture of a terrified 80-year old man with some fairly funky facial orientations who’d had a horrible accident with a chip fryer. The saddest thing is I spent ages on it. Where was I?)
Ah yes. Spiders. Much as my nephew’s squiggles are fun and certainly of fridge door quality, the last thing I’d do with them would be to PUT THEM IN A FUCKING ART GALLERY. For six thousand pounds. Actually no, the last thing I would do would be to put them in a fucking art gallery and then get the clearly deranged curator of said gallery to pontificate about how a little girl sticking paint and toys to pieces of wood constituted ‘abstract expressionism’ and ‘surrealism’ or, in fact, art.
And then have her presumed father spout some jaw-dropping horseshit about how she doesn’t feel like she’s in the shadow of Picasso or Pollock and how this brings an innocence to her work. The brass neck on the man! She almost certainly does not suffer from being in the shadow of Picasso, but I imagine she is beset by a host of limitations on the grounds of being a four year old. These limitations, if other small children are anything to go by, might well include trying not to piss yourself and trying not to fall over every twenty steps. And her innocence might well be admirable in an artistic sense, but one does suspect it might be less approvingly viewed when she decides her new canvas is the kitchen wall. Spider-drawing nephew has also branched out into these brave new worlds of what to draw on next, and has found his calling in doodling, nay, ‘expressing’, all over the square tiles in the bathroom, in what would undoubtedly be called in the art world his ‘minimalist cubism’ phase. Maybe we’ve been wrong in wiping it off and confiscating the highlighters, perhaps we ought instead to frame the ‘pieces’ and flog them to the kind of maladjusted psychopath who gladly pays six grand for children’s drawings.
Mostly I feel sorry for the kid, whose long-term life prospects look somewhat bleak given the band of morons around her, although on the bright side her mother is ‘really scared to influence her in any way.’
Which can only be a good thing.
Rant! Rave! Relax. 