Wednesday, 25 September 2013

Art for (F)Arts' Sake

Something happened at some point along the creative way. When I wasn't looking (because I was probably doing tequila shots at the bar), all artistic writerly pursuits became thinly veiled attempts at getting a movie deal. Seriously. It's like the only reason anyone writes anymore is because they hope it will turn into something meme-y and money-y. I mean, I get it; I'm a writer, after all. We don't make a lot of money, so obviously if you're going to pursue your passion, why not tailor it to garner you some dolla-dolla-bills? And hey, the fame? That's just gravy.

But I woke up one morning and hipsters everywhere (ok, mainly in New York) were blogging about some bastardized, half-cocked concept of "love" hoping to land up with a million-dollar Miramax deal and Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the male lead. This is "art"? I smell bullshit.

Let's start with those two twee gag-muffins from 40 Days of Dating ( The premise: two utterly nauseating cliches of New York singles in their "marrying years" decide to embark on an experiment to date for 40 days and see if true love blossoms. She is the prototypical girl who loves too much and just wants to find love and gosh, golly, gee ain't love grand?! And he's a douche. (No further explanation necessary.) They chronicled every barf-tastic detail, which included going to couples' therapy, because what self-obsessed navel-gazer wouldn't go to therapy and then chronicle it for the world to read? They even went so far as to film a day they spent together where they held hands constantly. Seriously, like, even in the bathroom. Cuz that's what married people do, I guess? (It's becoming all too clear to me now that the reason my boyfriend hasn't popped the question is because I insist on closing the door when I pee.) The end result, not surprisingly, is that they didn't end up together. Because hipsters don't cop to a Hollywood ending. Unless it's in Brooklyn, in which case, the more food truck lobster tacos offered on bended knee the better. And wouldn't ya know, those two douchenozzles now have a movie deal.

Next up: some idiot broad, also in NYC, whose boyfriend once told her, after scarfing a turkey on whole wheat that she made for him, that she's "300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring." ( What a charmer. Think of it as Julia and Julia meets salmonella poisoning. Precious nuggets on the topic of this "challenge", as she calls it, include: "Sandwiches meant more to him than nice gifts, regular sex or any other incentive I could use to get him closer to putting a ring on it." And: "It would take me about a year to make that many sandwiches." Now, my math skills are questionable at best, but aren't there 365 days in a year? Why, then, has she been working on this for 15 months? These two aren't just sickeningly obnoxious, they're also cripplingly dumb. Movie deals are probably pending. And I'm fixing my noose.

What's the take-away from all this? Is it that we've become so incapable of creating legitimate art that we have to debase ourselves with trite, specious experiments in love to be relevant and even celebrated? Where do we point the finger? Reality television? Capitalism? Hormones? Twerking? One thing is for certain: when our alien overlords one day sift through our collective internet browser history, we'll be a lot less embarrassed when they come upon the vast encyclopedia of pornography at our fingertips than these pathetic blog attempts at defining love and art.

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