all artists must die



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Since I was a child I have been labeled as being artistic. Even then I resented the word. Whenever I heard it I pictured a wimp with a beret and a stupid mustache. Could it be true that I was fated to be one of these subhuman weaklings? If only I could have been born athletic or mechanically inclined. I pictured the other kids in my class growing up to be football players, firemen or even astronauts. I knew they were inherently superior and tried to be like them, but to no avail. The only thing I was good at was art.

I withdrew into myself, finding escape in worlds of my own creation, worlds I had control over, worlds where I could hide from the reality I was incapable of functioning in. In my early teens I became a “rebel.” I convinced myself that it was society, not me, that was fucked up. I started hanging out with kids who smoked and got high and listened to obscure bands that only cool people were aware of. I felt vindicated in the belief that all the well-adjusted members of society were brainwashed sheep, oblivious to the deeper insights and cosmic truths that only a creative genius like myself could understand.

I also discovered that being artistic could get me laid. That being a tormented misanthrope gave me a sort of bad boy appeal. I didn’t have to be an alpha male to attract women. As a matter of fact, the more of an angst-filled whiny twat I became, the better. As is the case with any good thing, I learned quickly that there was quite a bit of competition in my newly discovered niche. Whereas before my bearing the stigma of being a weirdo artist type was a badge of shame, it was now a position of power that I had to defend. I had to be darker, broodier, more tormented and misunderstood than my peers if I was to enjoy the rewards of the flesh I had so recently acquired a taste for.

To make matters more difficult, I discovered that it was not enough to actually be creative and unique. In fact talent meant nothing if one could not successfully project the image of being creative and unique. Cultivating such an image was not my forte. It soon became obvious that even though I had spent most of my life creating art, I apparently lacked the skills necessary to properly look and act the part. Once again I found myself in a world where I was inept and out of place. A playing field where I was hopelessly outclassed. I came to hate the word “artistic” more than ever.

FUCK ART!

Artists are the scum of the earth. They are nothing more than a bunch of self-absorbed, egotistical assholes whose only purpose in life is to glorify themselves. One sanitation worker is worth a thousand artists. He provides a valuable service to society. What’s more he does it without expecting accolades for his efforts. 

What do we need artists for? It wasn’t an artist who discovered fire. The artist was the one basking in the warmth and glow of another’s efforts while feverishly smearing excrement on the cave wall as a means of “self expression.” 

It wasn’t an artist who invented the wheel. Rather it was the artist who invented gods and fairy tales about the afterlife as a way of controlling others through fear and false promises.

The very word art implies the act of lying. Artifice comes from the word art and from artifice comes the word artificial. In other words something fake. To create art is to create something false. All forms of art are fabrications woven together via the use of tools and techniques that are specifically designed to misdirect the senses into perceiving something that is not really there.

When Nietzsche penned the words “We are all far greater artists than we could ever know,” he was describing how our senses distort reality. How our memories are fictions depicting a past that never happened. 

Art is completely arbitrary. What we define as art becomes art. If I smear a turd on a wall and then put a frame around it it becomes art. This does not, however, change the fact that it is still shit.