THIS is NOT writen by Moi..
I just wanted to see what All of you think about this…


Step One: Become an abstractionist.

Art school isn’t about expression. It isn’t about self-exploration. You will have to accept that art schools exist to advance an agenda. That agenda? Abstract Expressionism.

Abstract Expressionism is now your style of choice. Congratulations. You are clearly a genius.

It’s time to practice your art. Buy lots of canvas, reams and reams of canvas, and lay it flat against the floor of your studio. Buy buckets of house paint, preferably clashing colors. Whip it around the canvas. Do it with your eyes closed, because that’s obviously the best way. Drink Jim Beam while you paint. Stomp around the canvas in your fashionable, fashionable boots. Strip bare-ass naked, roll around in the paint. Nauseate yourself on the vapors, and spit up on your masterpiece-in-progress. So pretty. When you’ve finished, give it a title. Pick something nonsensical. Gloomy emotions are good. “Envy.” “Inhumanity.” “Despair.” Gloomy equals deep. If you can’t be interesting, being depressed is the next best thing, isn’t it? I don’t give a crap about how you feel, but someone else just might. You never know.

Repeat this process several times a week, until you can finish an entire bottle of booze and an entire painting in a single night. You are now an abstract artist.

This is an important step. I’ll bet you knew that. So smart.

“Kitsch” and “Greenburgian” are now your two favorite words. Anything that is not Abstract is Kitsch, and anything that is Abstract is Greenburgian. Memorize this. Survey any painting, sculpture or installation with a recognizable depiction of a person, place, or thing with detached condescension and poorly-masked disgust. These people have no imagination. By learning to draw before attempting fine art, they have interrupted the process of pure creation. They do not deserve your respect. They are Kitsch.

Greenburgian Abstractionists are your soul brothers. Seek them out, and win their friendship by making snide remarks about the stupidity of the public, the annoyance of art drawn from life, and the ignorance of artists who are foolish enough to learn to depict the human form. Speak of Jackson Pollack, Willem DeKooning and Mark Rothko with worshipful tears glistening in your upturned eyes, taking frequent breaks to compose yourself in between bursts of praise. When finished, make rueful remarks about how the Abstractionist movement was eventually “ruined.” If asked to elaborate, look disbelievingly at your audience, and ask them if they’ve been in a gallery recently. Describe such art as “labored,” “insincere,” and any other subjective adjectives you can think of.

You are now an insufferably haughty abstract artist

Step Three: Cultivate an image.

To survive art school, you will need a persona. No one gives a good God damn about how you paint, because everything you make looks fucking exactly like everything else all the other students there do. Will you be a Bad Boy? A Beatnik? An Art Punk? Decide. Choose something rare in the social circles you frequent, for the sake of “originality.”

Keep drinking.

Develop a nutty, crazy, sociopathic personality. (The one you have now isn’t good enough. I promise you that.) Be rude, sexist, eco-terroristic, clinically depressed, reckless. The sky’s the limit, children. One restraint: try not to be prejudiced. Feel free to despise the opposite sex, but racism is gauche. It went out with Action Painting. You will look dated.

And no, Australians don’t count. Lucky you.

If you happen to be female, take every opportunity to strip naked and photograph yourself in erotic, suggestive positions and situations. Claim you do it in the name of “empowerment.” Claim it has nothing to do with your desperate need for attention. Claim the chocolate syrup and cherries dripping from your shaven genitals in the spread beaver shot are metaphors. Claim the nipple clamps are “decontextualized.” Claim you are not another embarassment to the gender with nothing unique to say, appealling to the lowest common denominator.

You’re not a porn star, sweetheart. You’re an artist. You’re still drinking, aren’t you? Clearly. Have another.

Turn your new personality on in the presence of art dealers, art buyers, school alumni, faculty, and gallery owners. Drink excessively. Make crude remarks about world affairs. Dress the part. Kilts, unnatural hairstyles, vinyl clothing, or a fashion sense derailed in the 1920s or 30s is highly suggested. If you wear glasses, make them cat’s eyes or hornrims. The key word here is INTERESTING. Be that. Your art is garbage, but it will be bought for the sake of keeping you around.

Everybody loves a clown.

You are now a phony, insufferably haughty, abstract artist. With money. And you sicken me.

Step Four: Drop out.
I said you would survive art school. I said nothing about finishing it.

Find a reason to become disgusted with school. It doesn’t have to be a big one. You can do the work and make it big. Maybe your fifteen-foot-long canvas splashed with bile-yellow car paint was rejected from the student show because the curator couldn’t get it through the door. That’s more than enough. Use your imagination, for God’s sake. The offense needn’t be real.

Throw a tantrum. Make it a blowout. Get unendurably drunk, just really loaded, and go apeshit on school property. Scream about being misunderstood, or taken for granted. Break something. Break lots of things. Break other people. Break yourself. Cutting or injuring yourself is a big, big plus. Try to spill some blood. Finally, tear out of the building or off the campus is a storm of profanity. Never come back. The next day, tell everyone you know that you flirted with suicide, and that the experience was “your soul’s darkest hour.” They will believe you. They will eat your shit up. The resulting attention should translate into a significant spike in the sales of your worthless paintings.

You are now a lying, irrational, phony, insufferably haughty abstract artist with lots and lots of money. And you have survived art school.

Go get ’em, tiger.

PS:I wonder if this was writen by some Poor Disolusioned Artist…




Melbourne, Australia

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