Kentucky has always had cultural aspirations. I myself grew up in Florence, an upstart bedroom community with no city center, just housing tracts invading corn fields, and only recently I was having lunch in an open-air cafe in Paris, under cover on the platform of a refurbished train depot next to the tracks. It was raining just slightly, so pleasant, and along came a train. Two diesel engines were laboring, it turned out to be a very long train. I’m never disappointed to be stopped at a railroad crossing so long as I’m near the front, because trains are festooned with graffiti that sears my eyeballs at about forty-five mph whizzing by. Individual designs are almost always typographical, and I can sometimes see letters, but I’ve never been able to make out a single word, it’s not important.
The skill level can be uneven but most are ingenious, each in a unique cohesive style that locks every part into a tight zany cartouche, maybe three or four a car -- they don’t paint over. Mostly it’s about the color. Colors from spray cans slingshot against each other, odd compliments and metallics pop, with flourishes so visually intelligent you’d like to meet the artist and pay homage, maybe share a smoke. Who does this art, and why? Sometimes mind-blowing, please stop the train, this person applied some thought, probably worked it out beforehand, and it must have taken a couple of hours to put it up, all the while sneaking past train yard security. Do they stand back to admire it before never seeing it again, watching it roll away across the country -- my tag, my slice of genius, my anonymous declaration of existence? I’m pretty sure they don’t get paid, and fairly certain they are subject to arrest. It’s a pure, exciting form of art.
At the other end of the universe, a so-called graffiti artist has claimed the title of most expensivist recently alive artist, an insolent ignoramus with a spray can in a hip pocket always ready to commit vandalism on other people’s property, Jean-Michel Basquait. Something wrong here. I’m sure the radically wealthy, residing far above ground in major urban centers, must know more about art than folks around here, down at ground level. Even so, I’ll suggest that if Jean-Michel Basquait’s paintings were done the size of notebook paper, the resident psychologist would be consulted, and they’d have concern. In any case, I wouldn’t want to see his stuff on a boxcar, and most certainly not in the house, although I’m sure it’s fine for the ultra-wealthy, a fitting reward. Personally, I've lost what art means, to them, and I’m starting not to care. You can sit with a coffee and watch the art roll by, in Paris.
The skill level can be uneven but most are ingenious, each in a unique cohesive style that locks every part into a tight zany cartouche, maybe three or four a car -- they don’t paint over. Mostly it’s about the color. Colors from spray cans slingshot against each other, odd compliments and metallics pop, with flourishes so visually intelligent you’d like to meet the artist and pay homage, maybe share a smoke. Who does this art, and why? Sometimes mind-blowing, please stop the train, this person applied some thought, probably worked it out beforehand, and it must have taken a couple of hours to put it up, all the while sneaking past train yard security. Do they stand back to admire it before never seeing it again, watching it roll away across the country -- my tag, my slice of genius, my anonymous declaration of existence? I’m pretty sure they don’t get paid, and fairly certain they are subject to arrest. It’s a pure, exciting form of art.
At the other end of the universe, a so-called graffiti artist has claimed the title of most expensivist recently alive artist, an insolent ignoramus with a spray can in a hip pocket always ready to commit vandalism on other people’s property, Jean-Michel Basquait. Something wrong here. I’m sure the radically wealthy, residing far above ground in major urban centers, must know more about art than folks around here, down at ground level. Even so, I’ll suggest that if Jean-Michel Basquait’s paintings were done the size of notebook paper, the resident psychologist would be consulted, and they’d have concern. In any case, I wouldn’t want to see his stuff on a boxcar, and most certainly not in the house, although I’m sure it’s fine for the ultra-wealthy, a fitting reward. Personally, I've lost what art means, to them, and I’m starting not to care. You can sit with a coffee and watch the art roll by, in Paris.
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