Working in The Arts is boring. Here is the pop at the end of your dream bubble. Working in The Arts is tedious, relentless, mind numbing and ridiculous. All business is business and must run according to the laws that govern business. It matters little whether your aim is to promote and protect the rights of cellists. At the end of every day every day 9 to five, nine to 5 the accounts must be set in order. The bills must be paid, things must be typed, pieces of paper will be printed on and put into folders, there will be a database, you will stare at the database and then make it produce lists. People will telephone and be rude.
I'm shutting down The Arts. The people do not want it anyway. There is no money here. Nobody cares if another author steps over their fallen dream and sets fire to their pages. Nobody cares about the stupid old painters with their stupid old paint. Nobody cares about boys with laptops that go beep intermittently. So let's shut the whole thing down. Hand me your instruments, your brushes, your words, your sounds, your pencils, your cans of things that squirt, pass me your scrap metals, your felts and your pain. Set down your canvas, your needles, your laptops, your grid paper, your pigments and glass. Put here in this box your projectors and pastels, your oils and dogs made of flowers. Hand me your perspective, your dictionaries and pointe shoes, your bows and mouthpieces, your music stands, manuscripts and your ears, your neurons and your old boots without a brand name. Disarrange those words young poet cause I'm shutting the whole thing down.
I'm shutting down The Arts. The people do not want it anyway. There is no money here. Nobody cares if another author steps over their fallen dream and sets fire to their pages. Nobody cares about the stupid old painters with their stupid old paint. Nobody cares about boys with laptops that go beep intermittently. So let's shut the whole thing down. Hand me your instruments, your brushes, your words, your sounds, your pencils, your cans of things that squirt, pass me your scrap metals, your felts and your pain. Set down your canvas, your needles, your laptops, your grid paper, your pigments and glass. Put here in this box your projectors and pastels, your oils and dogs made of flowers. Hand me your perspective, your dictionaries and pointe shoes, your bows and mouthpieces, your music stands, manuscripts and your ears, your neurons and your old boots without a brand name. Disarrange those words young poet cause I'm shutting the whole thing down.
Comments
Hang on a minute. Music has been shut down. No point in car radios. Please just bring crack.
Kingsley Amis once wrote an interesting criticism/appreciation of SF where he noted that a lot of SF writers see art as being moribund anyway, and due to die out in a few hundred years (it's science that they really loved and glorified.)
On the whole, I don't think I can support this Slamma Arts Moratorium, and therefore must oppose this policy.
I like my Shakespeare too much to give it up, I'm afraid.