Canvas is usually associated with art. Stone too, and when art gets stoned we call it sculpture—you know, like when an artist looks at a hunk of rock, sees an art within, and keeps chipping away the excess until he releases the wotever.
(Oops. Little Ollivia, sounding a bit peeved.)
“Always a ‘he’ is it?”
… … … “I’m actually a he, kiddo—”
“Oink! So we’ve all noticed—”
“—and when I’m writing I use masculine in general. I specify the otherwise when being specific. You, Kiddo, are a female and I’m never offended if you use the feminine to do likewise.”
“And this post is about the cultural differences between sexes being eroded and lost as inter-genderals are erased by social evolution.”
“Oh … so you’re not just being an MCP and slanging off against wimmin?”
(Ye gods … the kid’s got it bad …)
“No, Child. Do I ever? Have I ever?”
“… no, Sir … not at all.”
“Good. Unlike the products of modern ‘culture’ I have no unearned prejudices, especially against women—hell, they’re almost the same as people.”
“Sorry, sweet Child—I just couldn’t resist it! Don’t fret, from here on I’ll be good.”
Too damn’ right I will. I like women. Jeez, I even married one. But this post is about art, perception, vandalism, transience, permanence, and future regrets. To not digress—
Consider a virgin brick wall—no, two such—
- one in the classy end of town (you know, manicured lawns, immaculate hedgery, neatly dressed children and a bull terrier in every kennel); and
- the rough end of town where the streets are chocabloc with stray rubbish, stray mutts, stray cats, empty bottles and syringes and ciggie butts everywhere; where a book is just a convenient something to rip pages out of for rolling your own …
—so what happens to the virgin brick wall, hmmm? At the end of town where people have core values, make the investments of time and effort and actually give a shit it remains a virgin. No?
At the (?) “values challenged” end of town it is promptly labelled by the first oaf passing with a spray-can of paint, then promptly countersigned by an endless stream of boofwits making their ‘art’ mark in the world; their little statements, kicking against the pricks with the only tools they can afford to steal.
SOME CALL IT DEFACEMENT
and vandalism. I certainly do.
Any takers? Feel free to comment, but my loudest raspberry goes to the first brainwashed modernist prig who screeches “Legitimate social protest!”
AND NOW, TO NOT DIGRESS
no further; it used to be that tattoo was the hallmark of the rover—the Popeye type, the hard-drinking travelling nautical man; a salt of the sea but who would forever remain on the ‘lower deck’ and when retired would either sit smoking in a rocking chair besetting passersby with endless tales of mermaids, wine, dusky maidens and fighting pirates; or grow weeds. “By these signs shalt thou know them”, so to speak.
TO FURTHER NOT DIGRESS
I love ladies for their differences. We used to miscall them the weaker sex (trust me, they ain’t …) and admired them for their refinements and differences. In the ideal they were pure, unsullied, different. They mostly had long soft flowing tresses (I preferred blondes myself, and brunettes, and redheads, and anything else*; in short any lady who looked after herself as if she treasured her femininity).
I had and still have no desire for a woman with an obvious Inferiority Complex who feels the desperate need to prove her capabilities by out-maling the male. I prefer a backlit diaphanous dress on a slender form to a butch outfit of man’s jeans and heavy chains with a bone through her nose. Can’t help it, I’m a product of my time …
SO WHY, I ASK?
Why do some mindless gorm wimmin deface semi-immaculate canvasses—permanently— by covering themselves with more tatts than Popeye?
Obviously it’s nothing new … even Boadicea (who recently changed her name back to Boudicca)(although I have no idea what she’s currently called and don’t care enough to find out…) did it too. But she was a caring type who took time out from being a grieving mother to thump conquerors and I imagine her tatts were an identifying political statement.
As are modern lady tatts, no? (Hardly art … defacing the pure, regardless of mindless excusianism, is hardly ‘art’).
I SAW SOME GIRLS
(yes girls—wanna make something of it?) in town the other day, again deep in animated conversation using words that even now I reserve only for energetic expression when apt. And the ‘leader’ type had more tatts that a shipload of sailors from my day … if she advances in life beyond the rugby pitch she may one day regret them.
I now predict that it is probable that the art/science/skill of tattoo removal may soon be a very profitable field for investment …
“Hey! Schweetart, ya wanna arm wrassle? Be gental wiv me!”
* I was widely tested with eclectic tastes