The artists are the modern equivalent of the ancient shamans: everything they touch takes on a magical power, power which often coincides with fame, money, beautiful pussies, if they are men, jewelry and olympic-style swimming-pools Jacuzzi, in the case of women.
Similarly, if a shaman picked up a stone and pushed it like something with healing powers, the artist transforms a banal bunch of waste in an incomprehensible sculpture, abstract, he would say, and here crowds of admirers and vast array of flatterers will be ready to praise the magnificent view of reality, in their own way of seeing, extraordinarily interpreted and revealed in its deepest aspects of what is nothing but a pile of cans of coca-cola, detergent containers and used absorbent.
There is something really sick into the modern art or is modern art the rotten epicarp of a fruit in slow, but steady decay? There is no clear answer, because it would be foolish to label an entire field of human expression with the same, general sentence. But I cannot be astounded by the price that some people are willing to pay to take home pieces of the future, namely clots and rusty metals very common in those who will be the current landfill in a few hundred years.
In any case, maybe I did not understand a shit. Maybe I’m a shaman survived the attrition of modern life, yet convinced of the power of mind over matter and not the contrary.
Posted by Prepuzio 
