Stand by for a major insight into the human condition. Major. Insight.
Artists are stupid.
No, hear me out. Look, so a big point of being an artist–not of creating art, but of being an artist–is contempt for the bourgeiousie* and their stultifying, shallow lives. By implication, you, the artist, are a splendid fellow.
But, my dear splendid fellow, you castrate the whole enterprise when you criticize the bourgeieous on the most vapid and shallow grounds possible, like, say, using cheap and practical means of transportation, or living in a calm and pleasant neighborhood with ample living space and green lawns. Look, free advice. If you really want to snoot, you either need to be religious or a reactionary, preferably both.** You’re guaranteed to have a daily supply of coherent grounds for scorn that way. Then take a page from Chesterton and remember to scorn even your fellow artists who haven’t hit on your strategy yet. When you can look down on the lookdowners, you’ve arrived.
It’s obvious, if you weren’t huffing paint all the time.
*I don’t know how to spell this word and never will. As a convinced monogamist, I refuse to countenance all those vowels cohabiting together.
**Like this blog . . .