Dear Diary, I try to get what I want, whenever it’s possible. I have always found that socially unacceptable people make the best lovers because they are sensitive. I can be happy and fulfilled. I will never doubt it. I cannot afford to. Each thought, each movement tuned to some great moving force. Love, Candy.
Candy Darling, from the film, I shot Andy Warhol.
I write this half dazed from lack of sleep, one eye on the film and the other closed from exhaustion. And all I can think about is love and art. I do love the fancy notions of art that drove me to this profession. But I detest mainstream and so I detest mainstream art. At the risk of sounding like a pompous, pretentious arty snob, I write this post, feeling superior and self important as I create a wide chasm between myself (plus my dear mainstream hating friends) and the pretentious arty snobs who stare like buffoons at shit on whitewashed gallery walls wondering “what’s selling?” and at a deeper level, “will it look good on my drawing room walls?” – and deeper yet, “will it match my pretentious arty looking life?”
I want to shoot somebody but that would be too mainstream. Hell, even bombing the fuck out of people is way too mainstream now. I grew up on ideals like heroism and revolution being a cure for apathy. Superman saved the day and batman growled menacingly at the bad guys. We always needed yet another hero regardless of whatever Tina Turner was crooning.
Are we to be the heroes of art? Are we to be the heroes of anti-art? Art in Pakistan is a farce and whatever they take out of Pakistan is even more contrived (more on that later, with the help of my friends). And love?
I was at an opening recently at a gallery with sandwiches and tea (no wine here, ladies and gentlemen) and I could barely look at anything. A critic was gazing at the excrement on a wall with a carefully constructed expression (matching his profession – big thing here, this matching business) and mumbling praises mostly to assert his own good taste: “I like this very much. I like the quality of this very much. I think it is so well crafted. I think it has a certain quality. I think…” and so on and so forth till everyone in close range was convinced of his ability to like the quality of the crafting of the utter shit on the wall. So it was all about him, then. The artist must have made it with him in mind. Or the drawing rooms to come. Though I prefer the drawing room people to the critic people (not that there are too many of those) in Pakistan. At least the drawing room people concern themselves with matching everything to their homes and drawing rooms and shoes and nail polish. Critics, however, confuse you with their contrived jargon (picked up from foreign art magazine reviews) that contradicts their need to merge notions of “cool and contemporary” with skilled craftsmanship creating new levels of torment for artists and viewers. Shame on you critics!