Fuck Art.  We Like Magik.

1.

. . . look, all I’m saying asshole is this . . . I dig the whole Utopian idea that all art should be free.  It’s a nice thought.  But that’s it.  See man, in the real world, the grown man’s world, shit ain’t free to create, produce, or mail out for that matter.   Dig?  No, no hear me out man.  We, by which I mean the sorted lot called “artists” go against all that it is to be an adult for the sake of art.  Flying under the radar and out of sight of a ball crushing existence at a “real job” to spend every anxiety fueled minute doing what we do.

Forgoing some fucking bill to finance a sticker run, or picking up canvases, or paint.  Putting up with family, girlfriends, or wife telling you how totally stupid you are giving it all away for free.  They don’t get you’re trying to build a rep out there.  Just trying to get your name known.

Are you even making any money?  You need to get a real job and give up this stupid dream. Then some douche bag uncle from Tahoe goes, “You get a job yet?  You still painting your little pictures?  Your cousin is driving for Anheuser, you know.” Some stupid cunt of an aunt says “What happened to you?  You used to be so cute.” What the Fuck?

Listen man, you risk arrest at thirty-somethingfor a crime juveniles are supposed to get arrested for.  You dump every last fucking dime into fueling a dream, that most would have given up on fifty miles back.  And for what?  All for the game.  To be a player in an invisible game, that’s as in your face as a fucking magnum and just as loud.  The art game, man.  The fucking art game.

2

See all of this had come about because the fashion plate of a kid I was talking to, a “areal street artist from the streets” had just gotten done telling me that “all art should be free.” The artists who sell their art, or do gallery shows, or charge for their stickers, or even have a Big Cartel shop were all “bullshit sell-outs.  Period.” I was about to crack this little rat over the head with the brown bagged forty I was pulling on, but didn’t want to waste good malt liquor.  So I went on this rant instead.

See kid my point is this, when you’re young and brilliant and the world is yours.  When you live at home safe with mommy and daddy.  Spending most of your time in the mirror and not worrying about how you’re going to make rent without getting that real job.  It’s easy to have ideals, beliefs.  Hell, even moral and scruples for that matter.

However, when you’re looking down the barrel of adulthood and all you want to do is lay down some art.  But your old lady, or the job, or life for that matter is putting the screws so tight to your dream, they’re drawing blood.  Or when you haven’t been to your favorite watering hole in months, staying at home on a Friday night, because you got dick in your wallet, but 500 clean as fuck stickers coming your way.  When you finally realize that it’s all hard mother fucking work and not dreams that get you where you’re trying to go.  Then you’ll know why art shouldn’t be free.   Why it’s just some juvenile idea, like love makes the world go around, or God.

Because when you finally do grow up, you realize that all artists – those who don’t have it handed to them, which most don’t, all want the same thing.  To be able to make a living off of the grid.  Riding the wave of your work to the very end.  Doing your own thing.  Calling your own shots.  Not kissing someone’s ass for five dollars an hour at some Salo-styled nightmare of a job.  AND how the fuck is that going to happen, if you think that it all should be free?  Then we should what?  All hold hands and suck each other’s dicks into notoriety?

3.

It was harsh, but so is life.  Really man.  The kid actually pulled one of the raspberry Dre Beats with Japanese oak casing out of his big ear.  Like he was actually listening.  He adjusts his matching raspberry Urban Outfitters lightweight bandana/scarf.

Look man, the way i see it is too many little kids like you have come along and started making rules that make no sense.  I was a graff artists in the 80′s and if you tagged and didn’t do pieces, even on paper, you were a toy.  That was the rule, as anyone from that era knows.  Now you tag and never do a piece, or touch another color other than black and you’re a fucking phenomenon.  And that’s fine.  I think the rules were made to be broken.  And it’s true that tagging has evolved into an art platform all on it’s own.  Earsnot, Kidult, Etc.

But let’s be honest, as clean as your tag is, it’s no goddamn Guernica, or even Earsnot, is it now?  So maybe you’re not really in the position to be making rules for the game.  Same goes for the kid from some weak-ass crew that sends out paper stickers.  Don’t get me wrong, I know that if someone sits down and puts in hours on a paper sticker, that sticker means the world to them.  No, I’m talking about some mopped out postal with a tag that looks like it was done by Palin’s retarded kid for god’s sake.  That one.  That asshole is the first to talk shit.  The first to impose rules on others.  The first to say, I don’t pay for stickers.  Gallery shows are bullshit.  No one should be in this to make money.  Art belongs on and to the streets.

Again, he ain’t up against it out here.  Not a grown ass man trying to hold onto the last bit of sanity he can afford, namely his fucking art.  Yeah? My point is you never hear about a RIK455ER, Don’t Hate The Bear, or crews like UNSEEN making up stupid mindless rules posted on Facebook.  They just put in dirt and put out work.  Period.

4.

It wasn’t enough.  He pulls the sleeves up on his floppy BDG striped Winterlite hoodie and flips a finger across his while iPhone 4.  Not looking up , he says “All North American artists are in it solely for the fame.” He told me he was from Canada.  I didn’t hold it against the Great White North and spit beer foam on his Josef Digi-Camo canvas faux Whinos.  ”Sorry, man.”  And I gave him the Kanye shrug, like shit happens.

Again, what do you think the point is to the art game?  What defines winning?  What? Enlightening someone’s life with your art?  Sharing a smile with the fucking world?  Touching some little old lady’s cooch with laughter?  Fuck that!  Trying paying the rent with any of that.  Buy supplies.  Hell, even buy beer for that matter.

Want to end up sowing your art in the same shitty local coffee shop your whole goddamn art life?  Be known by your best friends and those bottom feeders who want to keep you as their personal coffee table artist?  Wallowing at the bottom, hating and talking shit about those at the top?  Or do you want what everyone that gets into this cesspool wants, to be known.  Seen.  Vindicated. Hardcore reality is what it is.  Like it or not, fame is the end game, son.  No matter how holy you think your ass is.

5.

He goes on some diatribe about Shepo Fiery.  How Shep and his wife are laughing rolling around in their millions that stupid people give them for his crap.  Driving around in their sports cars high-fiving each other. I lit a Camel wide and spit a cloud of tovis blue into his Triwa Turtle homies sunglasses and oversized Mishka Death Adders New Era hat.  He waves it off.  His Han Cholo Indian Chief gold ring almost falling off this long E.T.-like finger.

Are you fucking shitting me?  Look, I like many others may tend to gripe about Shep’s pole position in this game.  But you can’t hate on a guy who put in work and went for it.  Regardless if it was skill, or fucking luck.  Hate all you want, but Obey paved a path to notoriety based on a goddamn sticker.  A model that most of us follow today.  And rather than despise his wealth, fix whatever you don’t like about what he did and do it better.  Kill your idols type shit.

6.

The kid looked defeated.  I almost felt bad for him, standing there in this KR3W K  super slim Japanese denim jeans and girly Black is The New Blood Tee with “Conceived on a motorcycle” written on it.  His bright white G-Shock 6900 Glide watch two sizes too big on his tiny wrist.

Look, don’t get me wrong, there are some real ass clowns who don’t deserve it, Adrian Brody.  Who put out crap that just carries a famous name.  Those are the ones who should receive the lions share of all the hatred. But they don’t.  And that sucks.  But that’s part of the game that you come to accept  Like I said, try to correct it best you can by putting out work that crushes the shit in your way.

I was done with this neophyte.  I had drugs to buy.  All I’m saying is if you ain’t putting down dollars into your own production, then you should shut the fuck up and support those who are.  The only ones who shouldn’t pay for shit are the ones who are paying to put out their own shit, period.  When you throw down coin on artwork, stickers, shirts, whatever, those are dollars and energy that the artist will (hopefully) use to produce more and better work.  It enables them to put out more free work.  Right?

And if the end result is that artist makes it because of your support, don’t begrudge them or hate.  Just realize that if that asshole could do it, so can you.  So stop trying to cock block that cat and thus your own future with all these stupid ass art rules.

He was done.  Over.  he actually had a tear in his eye.   Still not looking up he goes, “who, who the fuck do you think you are man?” There’s  this long, awkward, on purpose for dramatic effect pause, then I go, “A.C. Turnbull.  Angry fucking artist.”  Or some shit like that, I can’t fucking remember .  Either way I slapped a dirty Evel Dean I had found next to a used condom on the Herringbone Herschel Supply Co. Heritage nap sack slung low on his boney shoulder and went on my fucking way.

- A.C. Turnbull, Angry Fucking Artist