Cats on walls

Everyone knows that cats control human thought.

This is the obvious reason for human activities toward cats: building fine sand boxes which are meticulously cleaned of dung and pee; brushing elusive fine hairs which will be lodged in human nostrils; buying expensive cat toys that will be discarded after 120 seconds; tending on to every possible cat need without any contemplation of own´s safety (have you ever brushed a cat´s teeth?).

There is absolutely no retribution: neither economic, nor emotional (cats do not even recognize their humans), nor physical. In other words, a cat is like an everlasting teenager.

And when this dominance is mixed with creative activity, the product is a cat. This was proven after viewing some graffiti in Bogotá.

meow!

Of the pages fastened along one side and encased between protective covers

I can understand that not everybody enjoys reading. I appreciate it rationally, I can comprehend that as the same way I can grasp that some individuals like peas, others BBQ sauce, and some just plainly detest texts. Sitting down with a book, opening it, going through the pages, I can see why it would be old fashioned and dreary. Nowadays books have some writing on the back part which summarizes what is inside, that is because most people are not even aware that one must open it for it to function.

I could get the frustration of these people when confronted with a house filled with books: books on the bed, books on the floor, books in the bathroom, books by the door. I can understand one possible option is to throw the books away, since if they are correctly disposed of, they can easily be rescued by people that consider that private property on the floor is public property… that is what my old university did with antique books and that is how I got a 1830 Divine Comedy. On the other extreme we stumble on book burning, and that is quite exaggerated and produces global warming, it also tends to monogram the soul in such way that upon death one is taken directly to hell.

But please, do tell me if it is not justified to cut your partner´s balls off if after arriving home from work, tired, stressed, hungry, and you are met upon the door with a smiling, radiant, joyous significant other that shows you this:

source

Poopart

Several times, students have asked me how can one recognize “art”. I would tell them that art moves you from inside.

It is this something that pierces into you through your senses, imbues you up completely, twists and twirls your insides you until you are seized with convulsions and then… zaz! Art.

For example, every time I walk into a bookstore (or library) I need only to march up to the literature stand, read the titles and immediately I will be saturated with uncontrollable urges to take a shit. My dear friend MG experiences the same when she goes into a museum, she strolls into a room, sees a sculpture and instantly she feels a spasmodic sensation that is followed by farts and excretions as she darts to the restroom.

And so, artists undergo the same occurrence while creating art, so here, for your pleasure, a small collection:

Andrés Serrano, Piss Christ, 1989. Material: crucifix in piss.

Santiago Sierra, Sierra-Shit,2007, Material: Shit from the lowest caste of India and plastic.
Piero Manzoni, "Artist's (Poo)," 1961, Material: cans and shit.
So if this blog makes you want to puke or shit... now you know.

A Night at the (not) Opera

Today they are showing Madama Butterfly in the theatre.
I see the posters, imagine buying a ticket... yet my background experience whispers in my ear: edigator, if you go to the opera you will encounter screaming fat banshees and an orchestra that will receive a standing ovation as soon as they finish tuning their instruments.
I try to explain this to the world, the opera is way too jazzy for me, it is like a bad andrew lloyd weber with worse wardrobe, it is like a pre-school spring festival...
edigator, do you like the opera?
edigator whines, winces a little, bites her lip, no no no.
Maybe this might enlighten you: