language is an extremely imprecise tool, a compromise-based agreement and if it cannot be used to establish an unambiguous communication between individuals, it should be established in a more playful way. by play, we do not mean the careless childlike activity, but a benevolent adult blurring, as well as the inclusion of momentary impossibilities. language is the boat that shuttles between the shores and the pier on which the boat can dock is our consciousness.
to conceive a universal language that is binding for everyone seems to be a typical way of gaining power in every age in order to generate claims to leadership, no matter what political attitude this may originate from. this procedure is already doomed to failure because a prescribed language contradicts individual participation already in the beginning. in addition, everyone who enjoys his drinks on the rocks knows what happens when the ice cubes slowly melt; the same is obligatory for the respective contemporary language.
the original may seem refreshing at first, but it dilutes with time and one sometimes feels great amusement to observe how some shape the faded foils of their communicative drives into verbal plug-in modules, or others who throw themselves into the surf of the supposed waves of their minimal creations. on the other hand, it becomes exciting, or shall we say rather heartrending, when the respective generation does not care about the language of its predecessors and certainly not about its own.
when the boor floats in the pool on the air mattress inflated by mom and the air escapes, the scene becomes a party temporally limited. party language, party art, it is obvious to mirror this linguistic course on the art scene. unlike the arts and crafts whos main season focuses on christmas and flea markets, the art party wants one thing only – fast and loud excess and off to the next event.
whether this development relates like a coke zero to its original is questionable. after all, more than just sugar is missing here. in this happy french cream farce, the bubbles dance around themselves forlornly until they dissolve on the surface and the drink becomes stale. in comparison, the classic art scene tastes like clear, fresh water.
the circus dances in the city again every year, cheerfully parading its attractions on the festival square. exhibitors and audiences mingle in wild crowds, and coke-soaked mice suspect the party animal within. a colorful, happy time somehow, so self-pollinated and free of all helpful ties. if these ill-fitting, ill-enduring, and ill-smelling tattoos treat art like an amuse gueule, what does that tell us?
it is possible to say goodbye to the customs of the art market shaped in the past century and at the same time welcome an opening to new forms of presentation without having to condemn them then and there. if artists can resign themselves to being degraded to event decoration, albeit overpriced, this is a remarkably surprising move, but here too the same rule always applies – everyone is the architect of his own fortune.