Mangled Thoughts

It’s pleasant pondering through (non-govt.) galleries, poring over what’s on offer. Who can tell, one day, there, in some nook or cranny, might be the doings of some young talent not yet famous and so the piece is a snip. There would be the satisfaction of saying, `There, I, after the gallery’s proprietor, had discovered the thing first.’ There are those, however, best left undisocvered Then, those who should not have been discovered at all, they are on the gravy train of guvmnt. funding. It strikes one as a steaming stink of a contradiction that any entrepenurial type gallery can be a commune for the pets of the Immoderate Left, artistes, a sort of collectivised bed-sit cum shop.

We had made a mistake. There is a brand newly done up shop with the sign , art gallery, the facade done up in a colourful way, perhaps that should have registered as a warning bell. We entered and were ready to walk right out again. The contents were a mixture of rubbish and what could be mistaken for the juvenile efforts of future tyros. No, we were assured that the culprits were already tyros, names peeled off nobody has ever heard of, and treated to a complete and full account of the `journey of the artiste’. Now, without seeing anyone’s ouvre, if a complete novel has to be written about each item of it, and about the artiste’s journey, then, just it, aint no artist but an artiste and their scrap.

The real taxpayer kept artistes like to proclaim how uncapitalisto, how unworldly, how altrusitc they are, art for art’s sake and all that rot. Certainly to the likes of Carravaggio, Michaelangelo, Turner, or to literary tyros like Bill Shakespeare, Kipling and Conrad and Waugh, Tennyson, making money out of their demonstrated mastery was not a grotty affair at all. Neither is it to the pets of the Immoderate Left.

Not at all. Indeed, when we did exit the `gallery’, I left with the distinct impression that, unlike those with real talent whose works do sell, the artistes are a real money-grubbing bunch. I’m pretty sure of this, we having been treated to an extensive summary of the number of `grants’ they had been paid to `produce’ their `works’, and the in-ordinate lengths they have to go to in order to ensure politicians ensure the funds keeping flowing their way. Their motto can be neatly reduced, `no stuff stolen form taxpayer’s, no workee’, and worse, `we can’t even begin to create’.

Hmmm, they sound like the increasing numbers of young tyros at the bar, admitted to it and from the mid 1980’s. They won’t, as opposed to what they whine of , “can’t”, practise their newly acquired trade unless some law firm, or a govt., takes them on at a satisfyingly high pay packet, instead of hanging out their shingles standing on their ability (if they are any bloody good), and wear out some shoe leather, do their apprenticeship, live thriftily, and establish themselves off their own bat, for a few short years.

The name of one garbage mouth , Garbutt, a minister in the Bracks lead no.1 commune, the Spring St. Spiv Regime, seems to be dear to Victoria’s artistes . Garbutt makes, it seems, every effort in sowing the leftoid coddling moth principles through `art’. Throws as much money as possible at their pets. Needless to say, the commune believe they are entitled to what is after all stolen property.

It was also amusing to detect, as the Immodest left in `My Son’s Wife’, they are keen to attach themselves to anyone with money and susceptible, so they believe, throwing it at them so they can continue to explore the mysterious ways of being an artiste. Much better is, the victim has also first rate political connections, to swindle more of the taxed stuff. Each of us formed the distinct impression the communistos assumed that we were , a) tycoons, b) fools, c) naive on art, and therefore, d) willing to abet them by throwing heaps of cash at them, to `create’. You could tell, the attempted sting had been prepared with such lyrical sentiments as, the `journey of the artiste’ requires that they be “allowed to journey in the isloation of the spiritual uniqueness of the artist’.

Also needless to say, their `ouvre’ includes having spent time on `projects’ in isolated Aboriginal villages `exploring’ profound mysteries. `Very soulful’, `very spiritual’, we were assured. In the next breath, they were, however, `glad to leave’ , “there were too many issues to cope with”. Mastering even just the raw basics of a discipline artistic, however, not being an `issue’ at all, never.

So, in good leftoid form, the collective of artistes have `developed’ in the regular, approved way for the aspiring artiste. Academy trained, then their first grant say from, a union or a local council, then, state govt., and then federal yartz council. Then, the leftoid clergy jump in, throwing the stuff donated by parishioners to `commission’ `art’ which, amusingly, has already been paid for by `grants’, yes, we were informed some lefty cleric had squandered parishioners money on leftoid diorreaha already paid out by a hefty does of taxpayers’ stoen property. It was art, though, because the propaganda had been painted, all the difference don’t you know.

People froth at the mouth over conmen pretending to be businessmen. Media howl for them to be lynched and govts. work over-time to put out stasi-land `law’, to make business `moral’. Yet, under the screen of the name, art, a great con, fraud, swindle, is perpetrated every day, since how many decades ago, at great burden to good old real taxpyer.

I was relieved that, for the rest of the day, we had some more pleasant distractions ahead of us. It had been a nasty blot on the X-mas break, to stumble upon the inside of another great scam run by guvmnts., and due entirely to false advertising the gallery as an entrepenurial effort. Well, I suppose it is in a way, the artistes are very `entrepeneurial’ in joining in on the great boon of stealing property per taxation off real taxpayers. Thus can, pets can feel `valued’ for nothing at all, and the Intemperate left can enjoy another fraud by which to scatter their priniciples all about while feeling they are possessed of solid discimination on art. Indeed, the `gallery’ is an artistic distillation of what interventionist, all consuming, all stealing taxing, policing govt. is about, rubbish, down right rubbish, at tremendous burden.

No `steaming stink of a contradiction that any entrepenurial type gallery can be a commune for the pets of the Immoderate Left’, at all. It turned out, it is entirely kept at expense to good old real taxpayer, inlcuding parishioners of dah Churches.

Despite the aggravation, I was remarkably restrained. They had mentioned a proposed artistic endeavour, requiring lots and lots of `grant funding’, and bringing lots of artistes from `around the world’ ( there are many of us around the world’ well yes, there are). In reply, I asked, `So, when do you begin.’ One of them deliberatley or not, construed that as asking, `well, when do you commence learning the dsiciplines they are so keen to prove themselves in’ . I was loathe to correct the error until the end when one of them remarked, `we will have to have a discussion about it’. A ghastly notion, so I added the correction to their error. Well, it was the holy season and I didn’t wish to ruin the insides with a cyst, I needed them for food and booze.