Comfortably Numb (or how i have come to lose all interest in the arts)

Here's a typical case of why I've grown numbed by the art world and all those hanger-ons in that environment. Where everybody wants to be cooler than thou if not a creative themselves. And where people talk in a profound manner, as if there really is any depth to what they are talking about. Mainly what they say is bollocks anyway.

But this article is oh-so-typical. Some chattering class woman who loathes comic books, until she discovers «civilised» graphic novels. Complete with «meaning», and a «message», or whatever you can read into anything. And of course it's something like Marjane Satrapi's «Persepolis» which elicits this rapturous discovery that comic books need not be full of mean, muscled, masculine killing-machines. Mind you, if anything even these macho comic book figures have been adopted by the art world a long time ago, to render them devoid of any entertainment value whatsoever in the name of «analysis», or rather more like blah-blah-what-i-think-but-put-so-cleverly-my-bollocks-sounds-analytical.

No wonder I no longer attend art shows. I'd have to bring a sick bag just in case I couldn't stomach the audience there. Laibach used to say that «Wirtschaft ist tot». Ask me and I'd say that «Kunst is tot».