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I’m feeling down right sentimental. Ram Bhat had me do this little concept sketch back when animation was like, so the ticket. Disney hadn’t bought Pixar yet- Tim Burton was not showing at the MoMA. Optimism was still cheaper than most prescription medication.
We were young and impressionable. Ram went on to make the big bucks as a visual genius for all the movies and commercials you currently like. Also he’s a vigilante crime fighter, and that shit is true, despite his practiced modesty. Ask him about the time he drop kicked a mugger on 24th street and 8th ave…
Back then no one told us that class structure determined Art World hierarchy; it was not resolved by how well you moved your pencils. Fuckin’ A, William Powhida. Your art school would be so horribly depressing.
I’d volunteer to teach a lesson in poor attention management: Today I get a lovely little write up in Art and America and already I can’t fight my compulsion to post middle brow animation concepts. Middle America roots you are such a supple mistress.
Alas, I’m just following William’s lead— who is in the Bahamas, chilling with the collectorati, reveling in the irony of his critical prowess. Please note: he’s in the Bahamas, commissioned to critique the flawed mechanism of the art world. When he calls himself a GENIUS- y’all better recognize.
It’s hard for me to express how much I like that guy without jeopardizing my performance slot at his upcoming show organized by himself and Jen Dalton. In it, I am committing some foul act of performance art.
Whoever is not sufficiently horrified at the gaff in quality control should know that most performance art is a wry combination of nudity, loud noises, breathing exercises, bodily fluids, curse words, and gold leaf.
What I’m saying is that I’m working within an established tradition here.
I will be presenting “The Celebritist Manifesto.” A stirring defense of James Franco as the most significant artist of our generation, if not all time.
It is a performance, in two parts.
Dear James Franco: please forgive me. I’m a fan. Honestly.
Fuck.

I’m feeling down right sentimental. Ram Bhat had me do this little concept sketch back when animation was like, so the ticket. Disney hadn’t bought Pixar yet- Tim Burton was not showing at the MoMA. Optimism was still cheaper than most prescription medication.

We were young and impressionable. Ram went on to make the big bucks as a visual genius for all the movies and commercials you currently like. Also he’s a vigilante crime fighter, and that shit is true, despite his practiced modesty. Ask him about the time he drop kicked a mugger on 24th street and 8th ave…

Back then no one told us that class structure determined Art World hierarchy; it was not resolved by how well you moved your pencils. Fuckin’ A, William Powhida. Your art school would be so horribly depressing.

I’d volunteer to teach a lesson in poor attention management: Today I get a lovely little write up in Art and America and already I can’t fight my compulsion to post middle brow animation concepts. Middle America roots you are such a supple mistress.

Alas, I’m just following William’s lead— who is in the Bahamas, chilling with the collectorati, reveling in the irony of his critical prowess. Please note: he’s in the Bahamas, commissioned to critique the flawed mechanism of the art world. When he calls himself a GENIUS- y’all better recognize.

It’s hard for me to express how much I like that guy without jeopardizing my performance slot at his upcoming show organized by himself and Jen Dalton. In it, I am committing some foul act of performance art.

Whoever is not sufficiently horrified at the gaff in quality control should know that most performance art is a wry combination of nudity, loud noises, breathing exercises, bodily fluids, curse words, and gold leaf.

What I’m saying is that I’m working within an established tradition here.

I will be presenting “The Celebritist Manifesto.” A stirring defense of James Franco as the most significant artist of our generation, if not all time.

It is a performance, in two parts.

Dear James Franco: please forgive me. I’m a fan. Honestly.

Fuck.

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