If you’ve read Death in Venice by Thomas Mann, you’ll know the protagonist Gustav von Aschenbach dies a self-indulgent painted-fool blinded by his passions. Walking the canals of Venice, I can’t help but think so many of the exhibits at La Biennale reflect a similar foolishness. Tangles of wire cabling and crushed plasterboard are not art, even if you fill an enormous room full of … Continue reading Death in Venice. How I died from overwrought, self-indulgent art.
Art is emotional. Art is worthless unless it gets a reaction. Fuck pretty pictures and lovely things to hang on your walls. Art needs to pour energy into your bones like a thumping early-dawn ecstacy high or the rush from spiked street iced coffee in Hanoi. Art is about the blood coursing around your heart, steaming through your mind and banging a reaction from you. … Continue reading F%#k pretty pictures: how one artist brings a tender approach to loss