Železný Muž

The more I look at the works of Contemporary Art and read about it, the less it remains that I like it. These endless festivals, contests, carnivals, balagans and cabbages of Contemporary Art, they became very numerous - the quantity won the quality. A whole herd of artists who have learned to love and very cunningly play on the pipe of the customer, that life without it no longer can be imagined. It turned out that the viewer goes to the Contemporary Art exhibition , whether on vacation, as in a circus, or to the aqua park, or a concert of Kirkorov. If this goes further, then the concert of the last, the conceptual content and relevance of the topic, can be perceived as some kind of Contemporary Art exhibition. Looking at the love dance of “the pimp” with the artist, it looks proper embarrassing to me. In my dreams and delusions, I increasingly return in the middle of the 20th century, when contemporary art was young and truly revolutionary. Constantly. When it was sharp and uncompromising. When it still could afford the freedom of the idea.

Contemporary art certainly has the right to be as it desires. It can remain silent at all and say nothing, it may be beautiful, as well as horrible, brutal, tasteless, monotonous, or vice versa, blowing everything around with the continuous explosion, permanent or empty-entertaining, can please and relieve the great public, and may take and suppress it . Yes, it does not have any obligation to anyone, and it can be anything it wants to be. But just not boring, unilaterally and uninteresting. That's the way we see it more and more often. Of all the faces and manifestations of Contemporary Art, for example, I prefer the one where the provocation does not stop, where the cock never falls. Where it stands constantly and if it falls, it is only in order to suppress the germination of sprouts of colorlessness and insignificance with its weight. I do not like the arrogant pseudo-intellectual, or vice versa, the laudable-entertaining contemporary art. I want constantly see in it what Palahniuk wrote in his novel The Fight Club, "and then you take a slide from the pornographic collection collected by your predecessor, and paste a frame with a close-up of a huge red dick or wide open moist vagina in a feature film ... A separate frame is visible on the screen for one sixtyth of a second ... A monumental cock of height from a four-story house that hangs over the audience who chews popcorn, and nobody sees it ... Spectators drank and chewed as usual, but something changed in their subconscious " . Ake Modern art I like that kind, not cute and somewhat sad pictures about nothing. Contemporary art of today's day is, as a dick, more and more castrated, sterilized, fallen, which does not break the calm of the night, to which the sinful isn't inducing. And I want the viewer to come out of the gallery of Contemporary Art unsatisfied, with his comfort to be broken, so that before he falls asleep, he again remembered what he saw and he was reluctant to sleep. That he will feel like acting, not just to observe.

On the other hand, Contemporary Art is not just a mainstream, it is a new religion. If the medieval city was built around the temple, then the 21st century metropolis placed the Museum of Contemporary Art on the site of the temple and overgrown with the infrastructure around it. Very well, this is evident in Europe, or, for example, in Perm, where the depressive city came to life after the cultural injections of Contemporary Art. On the site of the destroyed factories, abandoned municipal buildings are the temples of Contemporary Art now. And as in any religion, it has its own priests, monks, faithful worshippers. There are true priests who faithfully serve the worship and help the laity, and the false and covetous ones, who live deceit. Also, religious monks who completely denied secular life - they are the coolest ones. I admire the monks of Contemporary Art, they really give it everything. I do not consider myself as an artist, it's a very pathetic word. I'm an ordinary cult minister. And I really don't like what's going on here right now. So I decided to draw a dick. And so 200 times. In a rather old style, which would remind us of the old, kind, abstract expressionism of the '50s.