Malarkey

7.14.2011
When it comes to art, I have to be honest, I'm the last person you'd want to go to for a snazzy interpretation.

The last time I analyzed a poem ("The Reticent Volcano" by Emily Dickinson) the teacher petted me on the head and told me I was special and "colorful"...

The same specialness applies to art. I look at it. I give a little kiwi spun story to enhance the flavor of it and I move on...I won't be waiting by the phone for the Times to call me and offer me the chance to give scathing reviews on the likes of Damien Hirst. What did his dot painting mean to me? Well, it reeks of self-deprecation. He obviously hated trees and mourned for a mother who played Minnie Mouse in her school play. El fin.

That's basically how I've always seen art. It's never been personal to me. It's never resonated or caused me to experience an emotion...that is until *Twinkie and Jboogie came along and made me watch a documentary on Banksy--interesting street artist with a knack for naughty wit.

This dude can make me swoon and say "Ahhhh Shat! He went there!!!" in one gloriously new kind of breath. Thank God for the blokes out there in the world who can push buttons AND capture it simultaneously. If I ever met him I'd give him a can of green spray paint and tell him he's my hero.

My name is Tish and I'm an art groupie.








*Twinks is always hipping me to new movies and ideas. Like Banksy she captures that ish on her blog. If you're ever in need of some fresh jolts, I suggest clicking there and reading as much as you possibly can without getting caught by your boss.

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