AVELINA LESPER: Neither you nor anyone
"Contemporary art is a mediocre tyranny"
Now, getting to the point, the following is an article Avelina published in her blog, which is only in Spanish, and I thought it essential to translate into English (not only this one post but her blog in its entirety), so as to reach a wider audience of desperate souls who deserve to hear from a like-minded and officially approved fellow (savior. oh. god!)
NEITHER YOU NOR ANYONE
WHAT DOES CONTEMPORARY ART LOVE AND HATE?
Art awakens passions. Emotions serve as inspiration. The politburo of contemporary art, despite its insistence on intellectualizing the work, lets itself be carried away by a whirlwind of novelesque passions. It has great loves and deep hatreds that are irrational, visceral, that it morbidly and carefully cultivates.
WHAT THEY LOVE.
La gente me señala, me apunta con el dedo, murmura a mis espaldas y a mí me importa un bledo. (People point to me with their fingers, they murmur behind my back and I do not give a damn.) -Alaska.
There ain’t no cure for love, there ain’t no cure for love. There ain’t no drink, no drug, ah tell them, angels. -Leonard Cohen.
Money. No one is fighting against a wad of cash, but the possibility of receiving for doing nothing, of becoming rich by a whim of a gallerist or of fashion, makes the passion for money an insatiable appetite. An example: a Wilfrido Prieto crumpled newspaper is trading at 15 billion euros. Enough to start a romance. Fame. An artist, a curator, a collector or an unknown gallery do not exist. Fame is the wet dream of everyone entering the stage of the contemporary art politburo . To get it you have to take risks, as in love: urinating in public, killing animals, buying invisible works, exposing Nazi insignia . Anything goes to achieve the ecstasy of fame. The Gallerist. The gallery as a temple is a place of consecration to become famous and make money. To enter it and get promotion by filling bags with smoke from a car makes the artist adore the gallerist, who is an accomplice in the plot of deception that is only possible with his support . The Artist. A stone tied to a rope: Genius! Bent beer cans: Sublime! The artist loves himself . Each time one of these creations comes from his enlightened intelligence he sighs, moved. A urinal, dirty water bubbles, his printed fingerprints, how not to love him if he also gets paid for this and doesn't have to demonstrate talent. The Emerging Artist. With the super population of artists and works that are repeat each other, each new face is a hope in the sky. The interest is not in the work, but in the artist. Another face , another name. Youth is a great value and everyone wants to be at its side, breathing its air, exposing it.
The Collector. If an individual invests its capital in buying a block of cement, a ball in a plastic bag, or a sock stuffed with marbles, who wouldn't love him? And if he wants to be friends with the artist, this is the climax of unrequited love. The Museum. This space is the nuptial bed of art. Out of this context the virgin object retains its state of garbage. Once inside the snowy walls of the museum, it becomes a work of art. This passionate scene, this creative intercourse, happens in the eyes of the director of the museum, who is the matchmaker that takes the work and puts it on the pedestal. The Curator. With the power to choose from thousands of artists who do the same, the curator chooses one of these candidates to fame and points his finger at the favorite. This loving gesture allows the artist to enter into a group show, a catalog, or to go to the Venice Biennale to exhibit a rock wrapped in pink plastic, all expenses paid. The Critic. This gentle and kind being is devoted to praising and explaining any work however insignificant this may be. He loves without objection. He's an ally of the contemporary politburo and repeats its slogans to show that he does understand and does know about art. Whenever his declarations of love are published, he is applauded. The Public. This anonymous mass that goes to museums and galleries the opening day of the exhibition is essential to demonstrate that people do like to see some stacked metal stairs or a wire tied across the room. The Exhibition. Opportunities to demonstrate the work and talent are scarce. So participating in an exhibition is like starting a relationship with someone you met two minutes ago on a dating site: pure excitement. 'What should I wear, how should I present myself (multimedia artist, video artist, performance artist), how do I look', are some of the most exciting issues. The Biennial. It is the all-inclusive resort of art: expenses paid, stay in five-star hotels, copious meals, interviews, praise. No audits, no contests, no questions about the work. This honeymoon is lived by those graced by the officer on duty, Cupid with his power makes the anxious lovers full of happiness.
WHAT THEY HATE.
Cómo pudiste hacerme esto a mí, yo que te hubiese seguido hasta el fin. Sé que te arrepentirás. (How could you do this to me, I would have followed you to the end. I know you'll regret it.) -Alaska.
Money. Seeing that his dirty socks are traded for less than the dirty socks of another unleashes murdering instincts in the frustrated artist against the millionaire artist. The fury cries and spits: Why that damned one and not me? Because that damned millionaire has on his side a television industry or a phone company and the ministry of culture. Elementary. Fame. Years of doing the same as the rest except that no gallery and no curator takes his call. Meanwhile a wretch without ideas exhibits himself at the MoMA in New York with a video dragging an ice or an empty box. Who said life was fair? The Gallerist. This tyrant makes the artist give him between 30% and 50 % of what they sell in exchange for letting him into his miserable space. He humiliates the artist, presses him, tells him lies, delays payment for profit, makes him spin around and also forces him to bear put up with his family and pets as if they were intelligent . All this for one month and a half in a badly located space and no promotion. The Artist. "You have to write the text, dictate the work, lead him by the hand, and he also wants the applause" the healer complains. The gallerist puts up with his demands, the collector pays for his works even when he thinks his nephew could do it. The only light in this tunnel is that there is always someone who can replace him. The Emerging Artist. Being consecrated means to be old. While the consecrated no longer arouses curiosity because all of his tricks are already known, the emergent can still seduce. The consecrated lies at the crossroads of being forgotten in an instant, has already swallowed all indignities, paid his share of flogging, and an emergent makes entrance, fashionably dressed, and takes him out of the exhibition. The Collector. Fool, vain and uneducated. Buys like a grocer, dribbling around, and is advertised as a patron. He uses his collection to appear in social magazines, to be invited to museums and mistreat artists whom he considers inferior and corners in his parties because they don't have the money he does have.
The Museum. Place of nightmares. "When will I be able to get in there", thinks and wallows in his bed the insomniac artist. The anxiety when looking at the list of annual exhibitions and not seeing his name. The secretary that denies the director whenever the artist calls, the projects that pile up on her desk and are sent to the recycling bin . An army of serial killers is brewing.
The Curator. A dictator without feelings, for each artist he chooses he sends 100 to the mass grave. He salivates each time he organizes a group show, gives it a theme, a name, and decides not who will go, but those who will NOT. When he's given a museum he hires a santero to protect him from the vengeance hanging over his head . The Critic. Writes about everything but the work; he never gets to deeply understand what the artist and curator talk about. His presence at the openings is tolerated as an incurable and contagious disease. His insufficient words cost money, favors or attentions, and are never of the liking of those involved. The Public. This anonymous mass neither knows nor understands art. You have to give them explanations for them not to eat the work, not to throw it away, not to kick it or try to untie it and set it free. And on top, they have the arrogance to say "My nephew, who doesn't even know his phone number, could have done this." The Exhibition. Horror! An avalanche of doubts tortures the artist, " from which dump should I get my work?". Another artist already showed his dirty clothes. Now what do I show? The anxiety causes heartburn, peace is broken because you have to CREATE out of nothing, and it should be something different or if it's the same it then rename it. Is it not enough that the artist be the work itself? That his hair or his breath be considered art?
The Biennial. It happens every two years, what an injustice. To wait another 24 months, to pray that the scale tips to his side. In the fatality of the linearity of time, the artist is just learn to hate silently every time he's ignored, his videos are not seen or his sound installations are not heard. Who do you have to kill to go to a Biennial? He wonders.
Original post in Spanish by Avelina Lésper on her blog HERE
