Isn’t classical music pleasant? Isn’t it nice?
And classical art? Isn’t it sweet?
Quite lovely, yes ... quite ... unintrusive.
A balm for the soul in these horrid, troubled times where mankind, his ribs, and civilisation itself teeters on the brink of moral destruction and infernal, infinite purgatory ...
Pftht.
I don’t mind classical music. I even own some (though I can well do without opera, as that particularly ghastly form of singing makes me want to bash puppies). I’m quite partial to 20th / 21st century Estonian composer Arvo Pärt, for example. And classical art doesn’t bother me in the least. Landscapes and portraits and such, sweeping vistas and rolling hills and bowls of fruit and scrummy vegetables and lovingly rendered depictions of various young and old men and women, their every fold of flesh dripping delightfully with all manner of just-dicky detail. It’s all very inoffensive and unthreatening really, isn’t it?
Poncing about on the innyweb the other day, I landed at the London Review of Books and began reading a few articles (as one does), this one to be precise, and was struck by a comment from the reviewer ...
And so it is with visual art. Thus, Bill Henson was not acceptable to authority, and should not be acceptable to us who do not regard ourselves as authorities, authority in this case resting only in one professional paranoid hysteric, and two of the nation’s most ridiculously populist creative typists who continue (mistakenly) to refer to themselves as “journalists”.
Therefore, Hetty Johnston and Andrew Bolt and Miranda Devine, may I say to you all with deep and heartfelt sincerity, from the very bottom of my soul ...
Suck it up, cunts.
And classical art? Isn’t it sweet?
Quite lovely, yes ... quite ... unintrusive.
A balm for the soul in these horrid, troubled times where mankind, his ribs, and civilisation itself teeters on the brink of moral destruction and infernal, infinite purgatory ...
Pftht.
I don’t mind classical music. I even own some (though I can well do without opera, as that particularly ghastly form of singing makes me want to bash puppies). I’m quite partial to 20th / 21st century Estonian composer Arvo Pärt, for example. And classical art doesn’t bother me in the least. Landscapes and portraits and such, sweeping vistas and rolling hills and bowls of fruit and scrummy vegetables and lovingly rendered depictions of various young and old men and women, their every fold of flesh dripping delightfully with all manner of just-dicky detail. It’s all very inoffensive and unthreatening really, isn’t it?
Poncing about on the innyweb the other day, I landed at the London Review of Books and began reading a few articles (as one does), this one to be precise, and was struck by a comment from the reviewer ...
“As an apprenticeship in dissidence, a childhood sacrificed to classical music is hard to beat. Classical music is always acceptable to authority because it cannot overtly challenge power with subversive ideas or disturbing representations. Parents and states know they are on safe ground when their children or subjects are playing Mozart or Schubert – and enjoying it.”Halle-fucking-lujah.
And so it is with visual art. Thus, Bill Henson was not acceptable to authority, and should not be acceptable to us who do not regard ourselves as authorities, authority in this case resting only in one professional paranoid hysteric, and two of the nation’s most ridiculously populist creative typists who continue (mistakenly) to refer to themselves as “journalists”.
Therefore, Hetty Johnston and Andrew Bolt and Miranda Devine, may I say to you all with deep and heartfelt sincerity, from the very bottom of my soul ...
Suck it up, cunts.
No comments:
Post a Comment