The new artist works on several art projects at once. The different works are usually united by a shared aesthetic that bounces back and forth between mediums. It’s like a game of hot potato with one player. Maybe the aesthetic was derived from a love of skateboards—or the way the chorus of a really good pop song makes he or she feel when it’s over.

Par Example, in Raymi’s case there’s her blog, “raymi the minx” and her love of karaoke—two completely separate, but (we venture to say) highly related forms of expression.

The new artist works in fits, staying up for three days straight like a crystal meth head.

The new artist passes out in a perfumed heap on a stranger’s bed, only to proclaim, loudly, “I wasn’t sleeping,” upon waking two hours later from a deep slumber.

The new artist is a counterfeiter—a simulacrum, The Matrix® itself.

The new artist grew up surrounded by a wealth of contradictions, i.e., the overflowing bounty of the suburban wasteland.

The new artist believes ordering-in is a lifestyle choice, best exemplified by answering the door wearing only socks.

The new artist is not a hippie. He/she does not like to share drugs

The new artist is not a talk show host, but they might have been a radio shock jock—secretly, in high school.

The new artist is sick of lip service, professionalism and contracts.

The new artist doesn’t know for sure who is real.

The new artist understands that all art is always already business art, but that one must be in a constant rebellion against this state of affairs. The best, most effective way to rebel is by making art.

The new artist wakes up every morning butch and bruised.

The new artist is trying to create a place to replace the one they never had. It’s a site in-transit. The address is in the TV Guide, on the coffee table. You have to surf to get there.

The new artist has: profiles, tags, resumes, transcripts, domain names, business cards, cell phone clips, subscriptions, file folders, passwords, I.D. cards, vocoders, clarinets, headlights, trick candles, and swollen eyes.

Purple brake lights
Cry me a river
Purple rain, purple rain

The new artist is making music videos without the music.

The new artist checks his or her Shakespeare swatch and sees that yes indeed, the time is out of joint.

The new artist heads south from the metropolis to get some shooting done.

The new artist sits at the kitchen table under the bright lights, just before the rain. The air is very still and flat. Everything stands out—especially sounds. An ordinary dinnertime conversation between a young mother and her child ripples up the air duct and through the open window. The new artist can hear them speak to each other in exquisite, gut-wrenching clarity—each kind word from the mother, each little giggle from the child is as pronounced as a fresh welt on tight, unblemished skin.

The new artist doesn’t take what’s given. He/she is happy to live in a city without a country.

In London, and Tokyo and New Yawk and the sewers of Paris…

(the time is out of joint)


(fuck the police, f-f-f-fuck the police)

It doesn’t matter where you are—it’s always about having enough money and having enough drugs and looking good in the right pair of jeans and making music where the music needs to be made…

The new artist takes drugs to write posts to take drugs to.

(five to four, just can’t take it no more)

The new artist thinks to him/herself: “yeah, yeah, yeah…star, star, star.”


“are you ready? Cuz here we go…”

The new artist smokes weed and holds a three-hundred dollar Italian pen like a cigarette.

The new artist complains about these dark times:

“I wait, I wait, I wait for something to happen, I’m pacing, station to station, snapping my fingers, changing my style…

(smackmybitchup, changemypitchup)

…I’ve seen it all, I’ve seen it all from the yellow windows of the evening train…”

The new artist has a little song that grows.

The new artist has many nicknames but often signs paper things with an “x”.

The new artist understands that first principles apply equally to the production that is the thing in itself as well as to the production of the production.

Then new artist knows that flashbacks are a real thing, precipitated by a sudden blue flash and a vision of a long-dead friend eating a tuna sandwich.

(“Yo, money. Smell this—does this smell bad to you?”)

Your old faithful shoes so casually tossed off just a few hours earlier have turned into rats scurrying around the corners of your eyes…

Go with it…breathe…accept…

The new artist has learned that big, bad anxiety comes when one doesn’t give in to the nausea…to the pain…

(just by giving in, we open up a whole new way of being)

party people

the pleasure whips
the hollow tips.

virtual institute of crappy arts

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