In today's entry I am going to write about the decline we have witnessed in the fine arts since the 13th century. (No I do not like baroque at all, and I hate Ignatius of Loyola, an uneducated Spaniard (Basque!) whose whole theological system was conceived while he was suffering from a broken leg!) Even though I have never been too keen on art, as a ridiculous human attempt to imitate creation, I always held in high esteem some of the God inspired masters, whether they be pagan or Christian. (Yes, I believe that salvation is possible for virtuous pagans, on this question I side with Philo and Justin Martyr). However, what this century has to offer in the field of fine arts is neither educational nor delightful in any ways to me; this is what today's Hermit's Harangue (HH) will be tackling. But before I expand further on the subject, let me pepper the bland soup of theoretical discussion with the paprika of some of my entertaining adventures.
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You might already be informed about the multifarious adventures of the Hermit who did never refrain from looking this earthly life straight in the eye, with a steady gaze and an inert pupil. Taking up one of my several different personae--the 'cool young local E.E. chick'--I have immersed myself in the Hungarian tourist industry, and earned my daily panem et circenses by moonlighting as a hostel receptionist. One day, as I sat plucking at my leg hair (as a part of my 'cool young chick' impersonation) the doorbell rang, and I found my self face to face with two Western Wanderers. They told me that they were on a tour of self-discovery (= lust-motivated hunt for young uncorrupted E.E. girls and their respective vaginae).
The Wanderers and I chattered awhile about the touristic sights of Budapest. I regarded them with an austere glance : their mesmerizing, muscular, masculine bodies filled me with utter disgust. These decaying shells of skin and flesh contained nothing but a vile, putrescent soul greedy for consumption and fornication. One of them was an impulsive Sarrasin, while the other one a German who, belying his nation's reputation, turned out to have more decorum and a better alcohol-tolerance. Suddenly, the Sarrasin reached in his pocket and pulled out his telephone from his back pocket and asked me whether I liked modern art.
"Do you like modern art?" - He asked me. " Cos I've got some pictures of modern art on my phone!" and he showed me something what appeared to be a doodling by Picasso.
Well here is my answer, dearest readers : I FUCKING HATE MODERN ART! AND ALSO CONTEMPORARY ART! I DON'T KNOW WHICH ONE IS WORSE!
Pardon my crude and simplistic language, but I feel very strongly about these issues.
First I will start with modern art, this ungrateful infant of the 20th century, breastfed on stale blood, tubercolotic phlegm, pus and chlamydia-infected vaginal discharge. The painters of this era either could not paint or did not want to; they were just forcefully trying to express something really deep, hopefully some incestual pederastic sexual phantasies buried in their subconscious for a good reason. Or if they had no such things to express, they were hoping that people would interpret a disfigured bloody banana as the symbol of the burden of responsibility for our choices, or some other existentialist nonsense. Needless to say, there were some exceptions to this disgusting trend, but in what follows I will concentrate on two artists I particularly loathe : Picasso and Jackson Pollock.
Picasso started out doing something that looked like paintings. Although his poorly surpressed pederasty was already apparent on these crayon-drawings too. (BOY with PIPE!!!)
However, he was not very good at it, so instead he proceeded to do some ridiculous doodlings, trying to suggest that men looked like cubes. Which is nothing but blasphemy, man as the most perfect creature should, if anything, look like a sphere, as that is the most perfect geometrical shape. Hello, Mr. Picasso, looks like someone has not read the Timaeus or studied some basic human anatomy
If this would not be enough this bald pacifist painted an abomination called Guernica. A scene of bestiality featuring obvious sexual symbols and blatant blasphemy.
Ugh.
Now, as to Jackson Pollock : he paints nothing but vomit. Sometimes vomit with sexual innuendo. Pornographic filthy, vomit. He is also corrupting the youth. This is NOT a galaxy! Where are the heavenly spheres?
Idiot! Son of a Babylonian harlot!
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