last month made a presentation on Centro Cultural Recoleta by an artist named Juan Pablo Inzirillo Mendoza, who was named to the high-sounding title as Susy liquid Trash Combustion composed larger works, nice and pleasant, with batmanes, superheroes and characters more. The show was interesting, but the text accompanying the drop itself was not wasted.
There we read that its editor, this work "must be considered absolutely of his time: his work appears exploding like a bomb that spreads, regardless of where it falls, a personality formed on the basis of living with both total intensity internal reality as outside the individual who is the artist " (!)
later continues his unorthodox description "as being his work is quite contemporary, current, present, (I was clear and I repeat in other words?) why not leave the presented as totally individual and personal " (Thank God for daily bread and for creating wizard synonymous with Word). This magnanimous author
dropped and, in passing, one of the great revelations of the history of art: what is the sign "necessary to recognize where there is art and where not: (chan chan!) feel that We work raises the temperature, that hits us below the waist and then the fire goes to your head and robs us. "
Well, maybe not so unfortunate, visiting Mapplethorpe at Malba, both bun with one tubing may singe you little thoughts.
And after work, it's time to talk about the artist. "speaks a particular language, a language that has built stealing (epa!). him as every artist is a good thief, the permanently stealing the world around them, a vampire that generates new blood from all that comes across. "
So it was just a robbery. Such postmodernist theory quoted talking about the artistic the "honor" of ownership that characterizes modern art, so now I come to find out that they were all euphemisms that masked the issue and that the artists of the late twentieth and early twenty-first are nothing but a gang of thieves , which is a stooge Inzirillo more.
But is not the end all, is the final proverb: "The coup is in the neck (post office? Was not in the belly?) digestion in the mind." Amen. But it is better here. Since no one is free from falling into nonsense like that, I promise that if ever someone to read something like the writer of these lines I will submit for public scorn, asking this man to write a few lines about me.
There we read that its editor, this work "must be considered absolutely of his time: his work appears exploding like a bomb that spreads, regardless of where it falls, a personality formed on the basis of living with both total intensity internal reality as outside the individual who is the artist " (!)
later continues his unorthodox description "as being his work is quite contemporary, current, present, (I was clear and I repeat in other words?) why not leave the presented as totally individual and personal " (Thank God for daily bread and for creating wizard synonymous with Word). This magnanimous author
dropped and, in passing, one of the great revelations of the history of art: what is the sign "necessary to recognize where there is art and where not: (chan chan!) feel that We work raises the temperature, that hits us below the waist and then the fire goes to your head and robs us. "
Well, maybe not so unfortunate, visiting Mapplethorpe at Malba, both bun with one tubing may singe you little thoughts.
And after work, it's time to talk about the artist. "speaks a particular language, a language that has built stealing (epa!). him as every artist is a good thief, the permanently stealing the world around them, a vampire that generates new blood from all that comes across. "
So it was just a robbery. Such postmodernist theory quoted talking about the artistic the "honor" of ownership that characterizes modern art, so now I come to find out that they were all euphemisms that masked the issue and that the artists of the late twentieth and early twenty-first are nothing but a gang of thieves , which is a stooge Inzirillo more.
But is not the end all, is the final proverb: "The coup is in the neck (post office? Was not in the belly?) digestion in the mind." Amen. But it is better here. Since no one is free from falling into nonsense like that, I promise that if ever someone to read something like the writer of these lines I will submit for public scorn, asking this man to write a few lines about me.
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