"my dear you've become an artist, and we're very proud to have produced you, but if you think you're going to get a doctorate for this project, you are truly not a socialized person."
Still, the artist, however inefficiently, is doing the job, spinning straw into gold, art spinning even poorness of service to it into wealth, sometimes overshooting the mark, by which the worst becomes the best -- be careful frontrunners.
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The artist replaces workaday objects with lively, loquacious ever-changing phenomena. Using subtle guerrilla warfare tactics, the artist counters demonic enchantments to defend, at a distance obscuring the source, widows and orphans. The artist absorbs light and processes it safely and quietly, even surreptitiously, multiplying it in a hall of mirrors that powers many carefully placed spinning wheels with well monitored, non-divertible plug ins, although language, in its present degraded usage, does not parce out the world in such a way as to make all this visible.
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The artist also serves as a safe fusion reactor that preserves and replenishes the elemental sources, and along with providing free energy, the artist serves as a complicated, challenging exercise machine that multiples the difficulty as you gain skill and strength. The artist can think rationally, while staying supremely sentient. The artist voraciously updates its own programs.
The artist in question not only fulfills those generic criteria, but expands, toward perfecting, the brief. It loves and is loved by its dog and a few people. It grows flowers and vegetables, and on the keyboard plays Satie -- and Scarlatti almost as slowly, what matters is soul.
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Before being sent to the field, the example in question spent decades downloading massive data from diverse fields, earning three masters degrees.* When researching the origins of mathematical perspective, this Renaissance manly model uncovered this method and paradigm's earliest origins in illustrations in a prayer manual rationalizing procedures of imitation of saintly models by means of reproducible codified gestures. By this amazing software program, the simplest, most poorly built human hardware could be made to resemble the rare, expensive sentient variety and even arrive at sentience, and sometimes artificial intelligence itself. The model model in question absorbed the program in discovering it, and this accounts for its ability to absorb and discover it. (If the reader has not yet achieved the level of post-temporal sentience and artificial intelligence required to understand how that works, stick around.)
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In researching examples of the manual and tracing the evolution of the space depicted, the artist in question thus made contact with, and came to tame without breaking, sweet baby Frankenstein, or the geist of mathematical space. The mongrel art form in question involves translation of arcane messages into the vernacular tongue and vice versa increasing conscious intercourse among art, philosophy, and life, while protecting the pristine difference under a carefully engineered diaphanous Botticelli gauze — very difficult (I confess that for all my dogged determination, I've made very little progress).
The aforementioned artist at the moment writes on a Mac, shows in jumping, obstacle courses, and hurdles. Elsewhere it can be seen sauntering in the meadow with pen and ink, watercolor, and oil paint. When racing this artist rides a turtle.
this foreplay, you might or might not have yet noticed, is escalating to a frenzy soon to begin crossing into generative passion.
(FOLD OUT)
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*however, I doubt that the student has ever yet ascended to the status of a master upon the acquisition of a master's degree. If you pay them an enormous sum, you can get one in critical theory in a year, say, with pretty much no prior experience. Just another example of the widespread misalignment of names and things in the contemporary world, that misalignment that Confucius warns is bound to break out in wars that result from the civic strife that results from words flying around spreading false rumors, fostering trust where none is warranted and mistrust where it is, among many other dangerous confusions. Original language, human's best friend (right along side the dog who appeared at about the same time), genetically programmed to evolve into a hymn to universal brotherhood, gone rabid.
I tried the mongrel discourse on myself, and it worked as an antidote, but my other subjects so far have proven too allergic to test the formula. Maybe you'll be the first not to knee jerk succumb to an over-reaction. My old companion at the Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam Avenue, the genius set designer Kristen Vallow, had plans to write a book called Allergy and Will in scorn of my weak willed allergic response to her cat, Cruella. Strange that the latest, greatest art journal calls itself Hyper-allergenic, when art by nature is anti-reactionary and casts a cold eye on any kind of dander or dust, however thick, still breathing deeply, unperturbed by such and any false alarms.
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