Privileged Pristine

if these would be my paintings.I'd be embarrassed of them.They’d probably never see the light of day.They'd be stuck in some parts of my gallery.I'd look at them and I'd remember my immature age.I'd remember how I started to use filtersand how I messed it all around with contrastand vibrations and saturation especially.

If these were my art pieces,I’d never allow them to see the light of day,let alone create a deep story around them.It would feel like deception,like lying to my people,the people who believe in my sight.I've read their own.

I never let these pieces see the light of day,let alone exhibit them in a museum.As I look at them,hoping that there's one more of them,I think that what I'm looking at sort of vibrates.and could be my perception.Maybe I want to see more.Maybe I'm hoping that they'll give mesomething that I don't have. Something deeper.Maybe it's my shadow and maybeI'm just hoping that there will be an illusionand it will move.It feels like the dye is moving.And I don't know, it gives me this wave-like illusion.I'm not sure if it's my body or my mind lying to me.But still, beside these waves, I would probably never see.

Pieces like these that I have never seen in life.I'd feel too embarrassed,too ashamed to put them somewhereand craft a story that was deep enoughthat says that I'm in some way resilient.When these pictures portray the resilience.It looks like an artist is just trying to learn his way around doubts.And to me, there's something about these piecesI think that they're moving,I think that perhaps they're screens.But it doesn't change the simplicity that they're entrapped in.

I'm wondering what complexity is hidden beneath them.This doesn't feel like your name. It smells in every inch.A village. Pristine.This looks like someone has never found their true identity.Call it the Caribbean. Or the oceans.It simply looks like someone else is trying to hold on to a bench.Say that. Yes, it can be. I can be. I can be. On top of all education.See my pedigree as an artist. I am to be. No matter what you say.

To me, he is a privileged pristine.And I shall remember him. I shall remember his suns.And I shall remember this peace, this place, this space.Damn yearning, it is to be mine.that I'm thinking about how more I could make people feel,how much I would save them from their own captivity,how much more I could let them break free.

I’m climbing the stairs up,they feel more like me,and they feel more like art.It's more multimedia rather than...And the pieces. Will the pieces still sound like Privilege?Smell. Smell. This room is like a newly dyed house.Perhaps a mansion.

I have the urge to extract more from these pieces.The one I'm staring at used to be in the photo.I'm seeing a couple more just layered on top of each other and put a filter.“I call it art.”Sometimes I wonder if I'm pushing myself too hard.Can I get better when I'm looking at the photo?of a trash bag, and on top of it, painted “love”.What is art, really? And if this is art, then why?Why are the real artists starving?Who gets the chance to tell their stories?Is our fire strong enough to light each other up?These ones, they feel more unique, but still, still too fast to put together.It feels more like a Hitchcock story.Maybe a combination of Rear Window and Vertigo.But ultimately it doesn't feel deep enough.It seems to me that the person who made these is hiding from their own psyche.As if there is something more.They'd rather focus on the shallow, as if the superficial satisfies them.

I expect more from my art.I expect my art to see me.I want the art to just hook itself to my mind, so I can never break free.I want an art piece to stay forever with me.Maybe for that reason, we should stop calling it contemporary.I feel like someone's listening to me.I wonder if they really get what I'm saying.If this is art, then why am I starving?If this is art, then why am I soul-stripping my naked words to their core?so that I can truly explore.If this is contemporary, then what am I doing?

I'm climbing to the final floor now.I'm wondering if my impressions will change.You might think that I'm prejudiced. I agree.It's said that this person transforms technology's invisible layersinto poetic experience. And I'm about to enter.See whether there's real poetry.

This person used to be a researcher. I bet they're probably the artist.One of them. Don't they get these spaces in residencies?Perhaps pedigree matters more to them than they are.Perhaps it's on us to light the world on fire. Hit our wildfire.

Perhaps it's on us to not let them have their chances to exclude us.to stand at the threshold.Perhaps I'm supposed to feel immersed.Understanding the technology doesn't feel all too magical to me.I thought that we were past the phasewhere there would be balls on the wall.Yes, it certainly does make a nice interior.But that's all there is to it.And if you combine it with a good producer,voila, you have an installation.

The people sat wondering if they know.Oh, they just wanted to sit down and they're tired.While I... I try to immerse myself in all thisand think about all the effort and moneyAnd all of that goes into this.And then someone, quote unquote, “makes it”while the real artists of the world starve until the end of it.Well, only if they stop believing in their own fire.Because that fire cannot be replenished,it won't perish and it will consume until the end.

Contemporary.The privileged pristine.It's a mode of sedation.So-called reflection.