A PIECE TO REMEMBER ME BY January 06 2016, 0 Comments
"If you could only be remembered for one piece you've done, what would it be?" - @scottyboost
I don't immediately think about art when I think about my most important piece because I enjoy writing more than I enjoy designing or creating visuals in a lot of ways.
The answer is pretty simple - I would want people to remember me for a piece I wrote on June 24, 2009 called, "Face it. None of us are really that great".
I once sold screen printed posters of this piece written in the shape of a coffin but took them off of our store because they didn't sell. What I think is important or memorable isn't always what is popular, I guess. It's just what I felt I wanted to present because it held some level of importance in my mind and I think still holds relevance in society now, especially with how self centered the world is in the digital/social media age.
You can read the piece below:
Face it. None of us are really that great.
What we’ve done hasn’t changed the world, and it probably never will. What we’ve said has been nothing more than self inflation in the guise of humanitarianism. And our “art” is glorified garbage. We’re crafty, not in our creation, but in our promotion. So the outfit is better than the pussy, and the bulge is better than the bang. Our talks are pro-self. Our travels are used as a means to explain our worldliness. We wait for the perfectly timed jab just to counter. 1, 2. And we’re in there as quick as we’ve been trained to speak about ourselves once a relevant enough punch comes our way. Our models for hatred are our models for love. In the same room, consuming us with the confusion of what we despise and what we wish to be, are our idols and the reasons we have become idle in pursuing anything beneficial to the promotion of positive living without the glorification of self. We are greedy, decaying parasites. We damage everything we touch. We nourish nothing. And are rich by the self-proclamation of wealth rather than the manifestation of truly rich human qualities. Loyalty is an issue of “me”. It is an issue of how one fits the expectations of the other rather than how one fits what is right for the relationship. Trust has been replaced with belief. We no longer wish to be trusted. We wish to be believed. But belief is a liars wish for trust. When we give honestly of ourselves, we don’t need believers. But we are frauds. We are actors. We are characters in a production so bad that it’s audience has grown accustom to it’s level of impurity and gum stuck floors. We have failed miserably at many things. And we are confused at the victories of being alive. None of us are really that great. We are scared of truth. Both hearing it and speaking it has become so taboo, that any mention of it makes us defensive. We create excusable reasons for our actions and embrace our deliberate faults as human flaws. We are full of shit. We are full of shit. We are liars. We are full of shit. Repeat. The truth is a mute, ignored and thankfully unable to speak for itself. And we have managed to cloak it with performance art. Being has been swapped with acting. Act right, but do not be right. Act like a man, but do not be a man. Act as if you know what the fuck the problem is, but never be willing to be an at-risk member of it’s solution. Then craft an arguable explanation for how you are a part of it’s answer. “We” makes “me” vomit. And there is no poetic way to end this. Brutal honesty is the enemy of today’s Real Life. Brutal theatre is what has become of yesterday’s Honest Life. Lies and allies. Fashioned alibis and talking your way out. We have damaged it all. We are garbage. The trash of the earth. Worth nothing but the curb, and for nothing but ourselves. We are a shiny landfill, a tiny manhole, whining ant hill of pests in the dirt, working for nothing but to put our own chests in a shirt that looks better than the next piece of non-reusable scrap we claim to be in “community” with. We really are not that great. We scream from the tops of stools with our every move, “Look at me!”, like juggling buffoons. We are embarrassments; replaceable, deplorable, mounds of conceit, sitting in leather recliners, listing everything we’ve done right for the world.