Picturing Realism
What is real, the painting of the bowl of fruit, or the bowl of fruit. Is the mountain more real than the painting of the mountain? Is the man real, or is the painting of the man real, or are both real, or neither? If you guessed, “neither”, you might be correct.
What is a man. What are you? Flesh and bone and breasts and an egg that grows in you and yet is not you; the creatures upon your tongue and in your bowels are not you; you might say that your words are yours, yet words exist outside and before you; you might say your dreams are yours … really, awake could you imagine the theatre of dreams in your mind, the pictures of places you have not been, plots beyond your ability to compose.
“What is real?” you might ask, if you wanted an answer. Art critics and art historians do not want an answer, they are comfortable in ignorance, loyal to the adolescent dissertation, the silly assertion that the picture of a man is a copy of the real. Critics and historians refer to the pictured man as “Realism”, a copy of nature inferior to nature, and then go on to site Platon or some other authority without considering that Platon was mistaken, in the first instance. But then, any footnote will do in substitution for thought.
There are many professions that inculcate dullness, substitution for thought: acting, news-reading, sign-holding, protesting and other occupations that serve as mouth to another’s brain. True, newsreaders pitch opinions and protestors pitch stones, yet both hope their pitch is aimed true and that someone will hurt. Both the newsreader and protestor feel excitement in their calling, I am told, an excitement that dulls empathy, sympathy, humanity.
Yet more dull than these, the art historians and the critics, persons who pitch the dead rock of tired propaganda, the antique Marxist formulas of past centuries. These art historians and critics (let us identify these, “art goobers”, naifs, alike bondsman bound to a Lord, silly servants who mouth as instructed), these art goobers are old-fashioned modernists, curious antiques seldom dusted, left upon shelf to gather dust, or in cupboard put-away and ignored.
Why do the art goobers pitch propaganda from dark cupboard and dusty shelf. To attract attention of patrons by dogmatic noisemaking, by breaking glass, by desperate, often inarticulate squeaks and squawks. Occasionally, patrons hear and attend, satisfy the goober’s pathetic need to be heard. Patrons sometimes commission a doctored noise to shatter economies, to elevate the price of an “art piece” beyond sustainable market value.
You might not know: art history, critical theory, exhibition reviews, artist monographs and the rest are confidence tricks, conjurings, short-cons composed to hedge bets of wealthy art collectors, museums, galleries, and government sponsors.
Though art goobers question the reality of observation, perception, conception, they know that money is real and compose propaganda to acquire real money. Know: for more than a century art pieces have been objects in evidence of a legal case to prove the justice of innocent, progressive Marxism, to taint with guilt Classive Civilization by charges of racism, sexism, homophobia, et cetera.
Yes, art goobers are dime-store sophists, shills who would make the worse case seem the better, who with specious reason offer fallacious argument to serve the interests of the wealthy, the schemes of politicians. Both the progressive politician and the progressive oligarch would have you ignorant, man-clay to be molded into a peopled-animal uncertain of what is real and what is not real.
The two sexes are not real, the genders are in multiple; patriarchs do not create excellence by order, patriarchs rape the disenfranchised; “Whiteness”, whatever that is, invented reason to tyrannize “Blacks”, whoever they are; that … well, you know the fallacious progressive arguments as well as do I, as well as do they.
Know this: because Conservatives considered Classive art unworthy of conservation, of protection, of commissioning, the Progressives insinuated unreality, doubt, Progressive art, that species of sin into the civic, public, and private realms. If a boy is a girl, if a father is a rapist, if reason is tyranny, if realism is unreal, thank conservatives who did not conserve, cowards that they were, Republicans who they are.
In lazy convenience, Realism was abandoned long ago. Now a girl is a boy and a boy is a girl because words rather than reality make a thing so. Because government experts say a thing is so, words are reality without reference to nature, the wisdom of tradition, and your unimportant opinion. See: the fruit bowl and the pictured painting of the fruit bowl, the one a real work of God and man unmediated by imagination, the other a real work of man through the pattern of God, mediated by perception, observation, contemplation, and creation.
See: You have been fractured, abstracted, cubed alike a painting by Picasso, splattered alike a Pollack drip because you did not admit what is real and what is not real. Stop it. You allowed degeneracy of truth into the public realm and now you are losing the liberty to speak. Stop it. You allowed experts to speak for you when you knew they were lying. Stop it.
Stop being polite, stop being courteous, stop being nonjudgmental, your amiable susceptibilities have corrupted you, your neighbors, the nation. In weakness you abandoned reality and beauty, and truth, and now you are governed by the Marxist progressives whose only reality is power.
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