Art theory is bird flu and I am indoors.

Critical Theory: Too much to bother with.

Part of the contextual studies bit in our compulsory studies word list is something about old and new ideas about art and its use in the world. The whole thing is not worth discussing to be honest; sophisticated opinion has no more value than any other in this department of thought and the years of books and contradicting beliefs are far too dense to begin to understand or inflate to significance. The real magic is of course nothing to do with the information, but the power that wielding it can bring. Everyone is looking to have sex and theorists are no exception. To have a good theory is like having a nice car. People just want to fuck the best, be that the prettiest, smartest or strongest. To be top of a field is to be a clever businessperson. To find a field with a gap at the top of its hierarchy is to award you a little prospective importance. You can get excited and confident and plan your win. Is this a load of rubbish? I don’t care. I couldn’t care less. Art is a method of courtship and there are established faces and disguises. The only promises are fickle and restless. The only definite things are physical, and they are prone to description. The truth can be manipulated until it seems true, just as a plain face can be sprayed gold. It’s all a joke, an expensive waste of time. The best thing about it is that the denial of your own simplicity can make the idea of sex seem as sinful as our old pal Bible did at primary school. The winner takes all their clothes off. The loser reads more theory.

Am I wrong? That is a matter of opinion. To get a degree, I must agree to consider the thoughts of some frustrated old German or other. Is that true? No. I feel an obligation to satisfy the intellectual tray, but that is only because I need to have sex. At least, that is how it seems today. I win.