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From: Robert Shell Category: Art Date: 07 September 2006 Time: 08:29 AM Review: I kill myself because of the British Art Establishment. 60 years of British Art disinterred from the Arts Council Collection and grimly entitled "How to Improve the World", like the ghastly double-speak of state power: Guantanamo protects freedom. Arbeit Macht Frei. The longest queue was for where they were serving sponsored pies. Starving graying YBAs crushing and trampling and gouging each other in a frantic effort to get their cannibal hands on some pastry containing the ground-up remains of failed artists and the gravy of their pathetic dreams. A man, a moustache, an adminstrator, and art bureaucrat, Sir Christoper Frayling, MBE, order of the garter etc, made some tedious remarks boomed out on speakers, while the crowd of notables and art school lecturers stood in obsequious quietude. The new director, Mr Ralph Rugoff, modest in crumpled American academic garb, said some other boring nothing words, and the daring world- changing brilliant talents of shocking Art Britain, the world's greatest art superpower, stood around respectfully daringly waiting to get there hands on more free drinks and pies. This is it baby, the centre of it all. These people in all their thrilling diversity represent most of what is happening. Look a man in a dress! Look sour-faced old Nick Serota! Look a queue of people to get IN and a women with clipboards keeping uninvited scum rif-raff OUT. Look at this art: an Ian Davenport and Lucien Freud, a Hockney done at college, a Sarah Lucas and a tatty Damien Hirst, a Doig and Ophili, the painty double act, some people you haven't heard of, that guy Titchner who's up for the TP, Bob&Roberta Smith has made a funny sign out of bits of old wood, ha ha! A bucket by Craig-Martin. This is the best. This is art. This will be remembered. If you're not here, you haven't made it. You're just a feeble art student. This great art is not that great, however, unfortunately, sorry to tell you. Some of the artists have even brought their gallerists (did you know that gallerist is not even an official word), a fine bunch of coiffeured specimens, make sure you don't tread on their toes, and don't even speak to them, they don't like to be bothered by artists. Some gallerists have even brought their artists, and don't bother them either, they are busy talking to someone who might give them a grant or be on a committee that will buy their work, busy with sacred business. I kill myself because of the British Art Establishment. Because the only thing that matters is success (something I am economizing on) which is defined by success which is defined by success, which is what matters. Because a small group of mediocrities is pumped up by reviews, scholarships, prizes, attention, money, collectors, and galleries, while I watch flaccid. The whole system, art school, funding bodies, institutions, galleries etc is staffed by the dumbos, the asslickers, the turgid bores, the hard core self- promoters, the cynical, the insanely determined. They fly ever higher, while I stunted, die.
Because these people define success, and I won't ask them for a favour. Because it's not a conspiracy, just a bunch of people doing what's best for themselves. Because when I was a child, I thought art was being a genius, like Picasso or Matisse, not ass-licking in the pub or going to the right party. Because those in charge are boring and I can't be friends with them. It's true that history is for winners, and I am a loser. Daring dreams, bold art, rebellion/revolution are slogans for knowing artists to turn into ironic posters, please stop taking them seriously. I kill myself because the British Art Establishment have established an aggressive culture of success based on a few bureaucrats, a few collectors, a few galleries, and a few artists that matter. Too few for me.