Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Sunday, November 29, 2015

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

I’m Sorry, you’re not an Artist

I’m Sorry, you’re not an Artist

    The Artist needs to get paid like everyone else, the artist needs to work
    like everyone else. The artist needs a job like everyone else. Art work is
    art that needs to be paid for! Ah billy, billy, the kid. Work needs to be paid for,
    the question around art isn't a real question. Just a weak distraction, a defense
    mechanism of confusion, to protect you and those sitting like spiders milking the
    jiggling rigging of the web. The market endorsed, sponsored, or not. And congrats on that.
    Well done. People who work without getting paid are volunteers, not professional. And deserve to be exploited as the back door opportunists that they are.
If you're not in the business of art, then fuck off.

Artist are paid for their work. You are making art, perhaps. We are all artists, and everything is art, we make stuff that is what we do as a species. But what kind of art is it that we make. Well Artists make work that is sold in a market so they can live. Sometimes these businesses are subsidised or invested in by other jobs, like teaching in a university, or working in a cafe. But when it comes to sponsorship, artists are terribly embarrassed by this. As if somehow what they made was trapped in another more important dimension, that if we only were chosen enough, could see it, benefit from its charms. Art is like this. Self assured of its own importance. You can feed off it in this way. Like a battery of righteous power. My work is very very powerful but very very smug, like someone laughing while watching their planet blow up. Like a three second scene with Princes Leila, the mass presentation of a humans reaction to their planet being completely annihilated. (Imagine showing that to a little boy, to the whole human genome race, from the beginning of conscious time, sees for the first time itself destroyed).

So Artist for most occasions, means professional. Now don’t cry, don’t jump to feel the bloodied ends of your stumps, hands, heads being forever severed from the pomp and pageantry of royal court participation. There is a path around this endgame and it’s called include the universe. Given that everything is art, and everyone is an artist. That a particular specialisation calls itself Artists, let these be the ones that make a living at it. Make art economics clear, make them ring out with the clarity of the very vividness of money built into all historical western art expression, let them at their very best say it, say that we judge our selves on the amount of money this makes, this is the art of our art, we love the material value of trading it with another. This is holy to us. Let them have this, let us see it clearly, and let us let them have it. For of course, we don’t need that. That is about 1% of the spectrum of livable values, that 1%, over inflated due to their standard operational procedures, (promote yourself or die) but nevertheless no more important than a wet rubber balloon, inflated or deflated.

I‘m finding word right now, sex, the letters them selves little ink tattoos still dripping with luscious black mouths with filthy wet kisses of a turned on slippery tongue of a hidden whole being.

So I’m sorry you are not an Artist. You do not make your living from the selling of your work. Ah but there’s the catch see, ‘work’ what is work? When does it start, where does it finish. Is breathing work? Is thinking? Is taking time, work? So you are not an Artist, you make your money doing something else, can you see the art of that? Can you see what you are making, spending your time on is art, an art, and that maybe, just possibly you are really shit at it. That as artists go, your art is about as bare able as something really bad and not bare able at all. If you, say were to recognize this as familiar, would it be mad to say that you could be a better artist. That as work goes you’ve barely started, barely done anything to take what you do and make it good art. Really good art, see at the moment class structure hierarchy, advertising for that 1% I mentioned earlier, have got you under their spell, got you hating your job, your art, feeling totally unable and un-interested in making it better, being a good artist, because that is not where art is, that is not where you have freedom and power and skills of articulation. This is the opposite of the truth. You are never more powerful than when you have the reins of the horse in your hands, the fear is that you will see this, see the rein in your hands and set a direction away from the palaces. How without being able to trust the way they have bound you to a duty of work, with out art,  that you commit so distractedly, wanting to do your art somewhere else, where the artists are, wanting to be an artist, express your commodity fetishisation somewhere else. In the courts arena. You disvalue your job. You spit on the face of your own employer whose stupidity proves the 1% complicity in the deceit, in the thievery of the world, in it’s very appearances, which all serve them, their market place. here we have an answer to the question what do we do?

You will never get there unless you take what you make money at, and become a better artists. See that is all it takes, that is the secret of contemporary art, if you can take what you do and make it even better, make it balanced, holistic, all encompassing, you not only make art, in a historical colour within well known bounds of arts accepted polite conversation. You spill past this dance with the 1% into the larger more important cosmos of unrepressable giggles. That obliterate, just be sense of being there, against the rain of their constant barrage ( the original stars in the sky still out shine those in the movies ). We have a long way to go before the market art professions are able to shoot a real star, here on earth, given that they can’t see them. (to blinding, they retreat back into their dark holes, Chomsky cave trolls, plato-nizing death star buttons. )

Keep feeding the margins back into the center good people, keep paying attention and taking time to do your books on where you get your money from, report on who your audience is, what’s been moving and whose work are you buying this week. Whose art will make you feel good, feed you, move your car. That’s the real world of art baby, it’s time you started living, catch up with the rest of us that already live this way. Here in the swirl you can see that all your senses are working fine that your attached to that bigger question of human evolution that can ask and perceive the necessary questions to avoid the nother time around,  see our way out of this cave, walk, calmly and knowingly out into the harsh light, embraced, back to where we sit on the plains/ fields of inter dimensional being.

You want to laugh, go on, it’s true these words have an effect on you, as on me, they make me laugh, cosmic giggle, knowing juice trickilling down my chin as I laugh at my imagination and how such silly ideas affect my every whim. Every whim, trickilling down my savior, trickling down to save ya, wake up to the trivillisation of your times greatest joy, the laugh at a whimsical joy that makes sense of the universe and the way you move through it. Trickster. Know thyself. I’m sorry you’re not an artist.

    Next week:
    Pop music played at work making us emotional basket-cases,
    trapped in teenage angst !

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Money Leaves

Click on image

there are two cults, the rich who want to use up the earth's resources to leave the earth, and the poor who being left behind anyway, would like their home to remain habitable. 

Friday, November 13, 2015

My appologies, Mr Cave. But I do believe you've been lead astray. Hear the true voice of rebellion in full youth of its eloquence, eternal

Says a man who worships at your alter, loves your work.
You are my Tom Waits, my P.J Harvey, my favorite Aussie velvet underground. 
I never got your circus imagery, I thought they were contrived and uninspired.
But you had something else, something I don't know you know what it was.
Cause it was bigger than the sum of it's parts.
You couldn't do an autopsy on it, or maybe you could.
You have I know, I heard you on your autobiography infomercial movie I watched for free online at some guys house I was visiting with friends.
I mean the only time someone puts out a question mark about themselves and the world, is when they know they are beginning to stink, from a lack of traction, could be a good thing.
Was for me, advice to self
Whoa, you can only slide for so long, before, the fat starts to stick, and burn.
I wrote about it, did you read it? 

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Day Job animated

Click on image, then click on image rapidly

Success, consession made. Government agrees to pay back 18 years of ripped off NZ Beneficiaries.

 The Government has agreed to pay back all past and present welfare recipients. 

But to get your money we only have four weeks to register your request. 
Cut off point is mid December 2015.


to register your request to be paid back, send a message to:, now.

Say that you intend to lodge a review of your commencement dates under 80BA, giving your name address W&I number and or DOB.

Then send in the form below filled in. Address on form.

Online Application forms (need to be printed out, filled in, and sent physically in)

Government busted for stealing from the poor, pressured to pay them back. Go figure. Team of volunteers twist their elbow? Or bene bashing blow back figured into gov. over all win? Anyway, be in, to get this.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

I got a job today, pouring expired bottles of 'mineral' water, back into a river. It is a ship load bought by the Ministry of Social Welfare and they've agreed to pay me under the table.

Matthew George Richard Ward
Matthew George Richard Ward heart emoticon
Like · Reply · 1 · 5 hrs
Lyn Milne
Lyn Milne Way to go Wells , why are they pouring it back
Like · Reply · 5 hrs
Matt Loveridge
Matt Loveridge That's not a real job. Your not paying any PAYE.
Like · Reply · 3 · 5 hrs
Wells Tao
Wells Tao another one of those invisible jobs
Like · Reply · 1 · 4 hrs
Bee Bogan
Bee Bogan wa? loco desu
Like · Reply · 5 hrs
Matt Loveridge
Matt Loveridge I read somewhere you don't recycle on principle...because its a myth. Even Wells Tao has his price.
Like · Reply · 5 hrs
Tina Zucchini
Tina Zucchini A deeply sad and artistic gesture
Like · Reply · 3 · 5 hrs
Wham Scordatura
Wham Scordatura Forgive my naivete, this post amused me like it was satire.
Are they really doing this, a degree of this, or are you just being silly?
Either way, I laughed, so I had a good time.
Like · Reply · 2 · 4 hrs
Andy Lukey
Andy Lukey Are you extracting thousand year old kauri trees while you at it and shooting endangered wildlife for dinner?
Like · Reply · 4 hrs
Peter Mitchell
Peter Mitchell there is no ministry of social welfare, there has never been a ministry of social welfar, there has always been a ministry of social development.
Like · Reply · 3 hrs
Charle Farnell
Charle Farnell Gee Peter Mitchell, you are a yung un. The Ministry of Social Welfare existed before the to me, recent, Ministry of Social Development
Like · Reply · 2 · 2 hrs
Koru Tao
Koru Tao Yep everything eventually changes like social welfare department which is now called
Like · Reply · 2 hrs
Gillian Christian
Gillian Christian Really?
Like · Reply · 28 mins

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Nick Cave doco, letter

Watching the Nick Cave Doco

There’s something about him
the little boy made good
the hopeless romantic who didn’t die
the guy that loves books, writing the sordid
details of our collective doom
The way he can command a room
on stage he’s one of the chosen
He has the power
and while i give mine to him
for that instant
I also see straight through him
there’s no body there
the smoke and mirrors of emotional drama
is whipped and curled into submission
for nothing

He talked about seeing Nina Simone.
A woman who fought for every inch of her bones
with a gift, like Nicks, that was greater than herself
she wielded and cut the stone that said to her
“I can never be cut, all you can do is become blunt on me”
And she hit, she hit, she hit and now her music is more than music
it cuts, it opens everything it touches
and you bleed in Nina Simone your own sorrows
I join her army.

the back drop in place, Nick, you raise the dead with your hands,  like a sea of frozen dinners
popped in microwaves, appreciated 
At the end of the night, the high wears off and all that is left 
is a great performance. I didn’t join your army. I’m still waiting
There was nothing there. You said there was a war coming.
This miserable woman says it's my problem
that the room pushes me against her
she's in pain
and I can't do anything about it, and she's hitting me and calling me fucker
For her to have her own experience, alone.

It’s not enough to raise the emotional level of a room
take us out for a run, to let us exist for a while
before we go back in the box
be crushed by the commodity that you are Nick,

You could have been more.
That’s what you didn’t say in this 20,000 days
is that you’ve looked around but are content to take
your directions from what’s selling on tv.
Why it’s selling
cannibal is bigger than you Nick, we
are all cannibals that’s culture what else have you got?
what the fuck do you care about? Ok, writing and TV, you admitted.
that’s exactly what you look like:
make believe
success enables you to crawl from cage to cage
but the movie suggests a doubt.
Oh I don’t know, I just wish you could be more like Nina Simone you
and mean something bigger than yourself, this puny doll made self.
Connect to the still alive community that is suffering
from your lack of physical presence.
From the commodity gifts that rain down
of your perfect presence
of the disconnect,
between the Performer whose transformation is suppose
to be all of ours, for a reason..
not just to get high off it.
Come back down for another photo shoot.

Nick, Join the feminist movement.
suffragettes, suffragists, forever.
take a stand with them
let the slings and arrows of literary
achievement boil down into blood
that’s still pumping into our veins.
I want to see you with your back against the wall
with nothing but your finger nails to push back
the wail of human misery to be sent to you.
Stand under that. I'll see you


phantom flickering on my wall
what could you say to me anyway
I didn’t even buy you.
I write this to  myself,
a letter about me  with your sock puppet persona
Telling me if  I think or not,

What I am doing right with my life
I think. I know
I feel. Yes.

good bye