“I want a New Art!” she exclaimed.
The young boy looked up from his doodle quizzically at the woman who had just joined him on the Bristol park bench.
“By Art I mean Culture, of course, and by Culture I mean Art.”, she continued. “Because at their best and at their worst they are indistinguishable. But right now we’re trapped, we’re stagnated, because Culture has Art chained up like a BDSM slave on display in a cage at the Republican National Convention.”
“Art can’t smash the machine it needs for life support. The Artist is crushed by the paradigm. The book, the canvas, the album or film — you colour within the lines and create your commodity, and you might do it better than anyone, and you might make the best damn widget the world has ever known and that might be a very good thing. You may change a corner of the world and write a page in the history books. But revolution — that takes something more.”
The kid of course didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. But she was weird and funny and not much like all the adults he knew, so he just laughed and enjoyed her voice.
“I’m not really sure what I’m trying to tell you, kid. Except, don’t paint for Wall Street. Paint the Walls and Streets.”