Bluejake

Nothing like walking through the middle of the Meat Packing District and Chelsea on a rainy afternoon to deflate your spirits. Everything was gray, and my mood was gray, and these pictures have a sort of gray, depressing look to them. And as usual, in Chelsea, I felt overwhelmed by the sham of the contemporary art scene. Most of the stuff I saw in the galleries was not good- certainly no better than what we are putting up online, or the graffiti artists are putting up in the streets. If for every painting in the galleries, there are ten others that are better or the same and undiscovered, doesn't that make the entire thing a waste?

Perhaps I've been listening to a little too much Bright Eyes:

So now I hang out down by the train's depot
No, I don't ride, I just sit and watch the people there
The remind me of windup cars in motion
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense
And their life's one track and can't they see it's pointless
But just then my knees give under me
My head feels weak and suddenly
It's clear to see it's not them but me
Who's lost my self-identity
And I hide behind these books I read
While scribbling my poetry
Like art could save a wretch like me
Some ideal ideology
That no one could hope to achieve
And I'm never real, it's just a sketch of me
And everything I've made is trite and cheap
And a waste
Of paint, of tape, of time

manhattan