Rubbing out diary entries

I am so sick of art at the moment. Sweeping but true.

I have been to many art workshops and exhibitions lately and over the past six years and seen art joined up with Cyberspace and real texts, and sounds, buildings, walks  and not forgetting therapy aka doodling that I am left rotating on my own axis with words springing out: “But is it really Art?” (Imagine a painting now of a naked man, legs akimbo, with letters in all sorts of fonts radiating from his bald head. You get the picture.)

We are in the full swing of Walthamstow’s (not Waltham Forest’s) Art Trail where absolutely anything goes, except mummified animal heads but the day will come. Then the coinciding workshops begin at The Mill and then at son of Walthamstow’s socialist mansion, The William Morris Gallery.

Today cakes were sold to celebrate E17 Art Trail and sold at a community hub. The Tate will follow suit as they mount another of their curators’ favourite awesome artist. Cakes at The Tate.

After attending so much stuff which neither raises my spirit nor educates me nor warms me to discover more paintings and how many venues do I need to tick off from my interesting old buildings list? I spent an afternoon erasing from my diary my booked tickets to events of an art or heritage leaning.

As for the workshop facilitators, look us in the eye sometimes.




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