Progress Report
I have a weeks extension. How? Using Zeno, of course. I informed my supervisor that since yesterday there was one day until it was due, and that I needed to complete half of what I had done in half of that day, and then half of the half remaining in the remaining half, and so on ad infinitum, it was impossible for it to now be today without my having written an infinite number of words. And since I was quite clearly standing before him without this infinite thesis, it was proven that it could not be due. It was a simple rhetorical move from there to convince him that a week should be enough for me to resolve this dilemma, or at least get 15,000 words of the way to infinity, and that’s closer than nowhere, right?
Art is about ideas, not static objects. Discuss.
What is art about? Is it about ideas? Is it about static objects? Is it about cisterns? The dichotomy of the question is ridiculous—are these our only two options? Either ideas, or objects? Must we cleave to the metaphysical ramblings of days gone by? Put your flag in the ground or the idea of the ground, soldier, are you a realist or are you an idealist? Where is art, anyway—is it sitting apart from the world, floating free of everything, longing to represent? Does it long to represent either an idea or an object? Can it not represent both? Can it not do whatever the fuck it wants and say whatever the fuck it wants because for godsakes it is art? Art has hung men from their nipples and it has immersed them in high-powered electricity, and in these moments, what were these men thinking? Were they speculating on the aboutness of their practice? Why cannot art be an action sport? Pollock rode a bike through paint onto a canvas, thereby turning our taxes into alcohol binges and a car crash which was infinitely more beautiful than any of his paintings, and which part of this process was about anything?