#and i dont need to put myself on display like a piece of meat where my self worth can be further devalued by people swiping no because im

[its--ali]

how is it possible to crave something I've never had this badly

[bugtransport]

oh geez guess who remembered they can actually explain the thought process behind Whatever The Fuck The Rothko Comic Is look don't ask me let's just let me talk about art for a minute that's probably easiest

"nooo aha dont write a fucking novel about your favorite piece of art haha youre so sexy" shut up! my meat is huge. AND i'm sexy as hell. thank you.

let's talk about Clothespin by Claes Oldenburg.

my favorite piece of art of all time. this isn't a joke actually. this 10 foot tall clothespin has made me feel just about every emotion in existence. there's a larger (i think about 45 ft?) version in philadelphia somewhere that i'm aware of but i haven't actually gotten to see that one in person (maybe someday) so we're just going to be talking about the smaller one. which is still quite large. i think to actually explain myself and this one i need to take you through my history with it and how i originally saw it, because that really plays a lot into how i view it. maybe more so than the actual piece itself.

i'm just going from memory here so bear with me... this story takes place back in middle school when i lived in the midwest. i was a young dumb kid who liked drawing stuff so my parents would just sign me up for whatever art classes they could find (i took botanical art with a bunch of middle aged ladies once which fucked severely) and, since we were in the burbs just a train ride away from chicago, one of the options available was to take kids classes at the art institute. so i took some digital art classes there.

enter me: 12 years old and just wanting to learn how to draw anime girls on the computer. at this point i have not thought about art beyond knowing superficially that i enjoy Some Paintings and that certain narrative works have whipped my nuts off and sometimes i would look at pics on deviantart and get emotions i was unable to describe but i have not really, at this point in the story, thought to question why i feel that way.

there's one other important thing to know to make this whole experience make sense. the timing of me attending these classes was right around when the art institute opened up their modern wing! brand new wing + taking a digital art class = i spent so much time in there i cannot even begin to describe it. i wouldn't necessarily say that i like modern art more or less than anything else... but i can say that by sheer volume alone, no question, it is the majority of museum art i have consumed.

anyway, for those unfamiliar: the art institute has two entrances (well, that i know of). there's the main one with the lions that you've probably seen in ferris bueller's day off, and the second one is through the modern wing. here are some pictures i found online showing what the main hall is kind of like:

that glass wall in the far part of the picture is where the doors are. it's a really nice space; there are galleries both upstairs and downstairs. this is also the same place that i saw Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA) but that's really neither here nor there. i've just seen it brought up before here and thought i would mention that it was a very cool experience. one of those things again where i saw it way before i could comprehend why it made me feel the emotions it made me feel... and then i got hit with The Understanding years later like a cartoon anvil. i couldn't actually find any pics in the 5 minutes i had to spend on google with Clothespin actually displayed, but here it is with a different statue in roughly, to my recollection, the same place:

that is a really dramatic place to put a sculpture.

okay well, anyway, the first time i saw this piece, i did not think it would rock my shit. i actually thought it was just kind of funny. i still remember it - our little group was walking to go take a look at a specific piece and of course, had to go through the lobby to get there. i saw Clothespin for the first time and went "haha, that one's kinda funny, i wonder what that means?" and someone shot back "i don't know, maybe a giant lost it doing laundry." that exchange tickled me so much that i spent the rest of the day and into the next week thinking about it.

the second time i saw Clothespin i was mostly just confused. in the same way that today i can still remember my first interaction with it but not any of the other pieces of art i saw that day, i was confused as to why this thing was leaving such a large impression on me compared to everything else. i did look at it for a while and then just kind of left. and came back to it. and left again. and came back to it.

that dance continued for a couple visits until i finally got the chance to sit down and watch it for a while. there were some benches under the stairs for people to rest; i took one of those and started to people watch. and brother... suddenly i began to get it, i think?

[to be read in the tone of someone who has been haunted by these thoughts for over half their life] see, i think the real genius in the way this was (and the really large one is) displayed is that they're in thoroughfares. they're both in high traffic areas where people are mainly trying to get from one place to another more interesting place, right. people entering a museum usually have a starting point in mind that they're looking to get to and go from there; people exiting a museum are usually kind of wiped and probably not really looking to look at much more art at that point. it's not quiet in a lobby like you get when going through an exhibit - it's not loud, but there is a constant background hum. there's a café upstairs and people checking tickets and families and school groups chatting and, of course, in the middle of that, a 10 ft tall steel clothespin, being largely ignored.

yeah, okay, not totally ignored. people would stop and look at it for a second or make a comment about it maybe or glance at it in passing. but people didn't really tend to look at it like they would if it would have been displayed in a room. maybe that was because they didn't want to hold up the flow of traffic going through (it was always pretty packed on the weekends) or maybe the display location inherently lowered the perceived value of the piece as art - it's not "enough" to be put on display in one of the collections specifically, it's just a clothespin. but it was big and quite impressive and in the middle of the floor and not something you could easily ignore, really. the juxtaposition between the impact it had on me and the way it was being treated by the visitors en masse... you know what? it is kind of being treated with the same thought that you would give an actual clothespin.

it might seem like a pretty base level concept. and it is! of course everything that has ever been made has been made by someone. but this was the first time that thought had really occurred to me in a way where i actually grasped the impact of that statement. somebody out there designed the clothespin and put thought into how it worked and felt and looked. even the most utilitarian designs are still designed. Clothespin my beloved is a reminder to myself to appreciate and recognize the beauty in the little things in life that people might not otherwise think about and i cannot overstate the impact that way of thinking has had on my life. some pieces of art i think definitely are better learning things about the artist but i've never looked anything up about Clothespin - i don't think this is necessarily the impact that the artist set out for it to make, but it alone and regardless of intent obviously has done one hell of a number on me.

"julia that fucks but what does that have to do with sonoi tarou" i'm getting there i'm getting there. god!

i think the important and relevant part of that story isn't at all what i ended up getting out of that piece. the important and relevant part is the confusion i felt leading up to the realization. i am not looking to get into a debate about What Makes Art but i think that we could probably agree on a baseline statement that one of the things that may make something art is the ability to elicit emotions from the viewer.* while yeah sure probably not what i think most people would anticipate or look to get out of art, frustration at your own lack of connection and understanding is an emotion. being unable to understand the artist's intention and experiencing connections but taking those connections you make completely off book is still experiencing an emotion. simply enjoying something superficially is as well an emotion. sonoi is so painfully close to getting things in my Humble Onion and goddamn that really makes me feel some kind of way. he just has to unclench about it.

for someone who has a stick so far up his ass ("integrity and perfection personified," cannot stand the bitch) i can understand why the concept of allowing himself to relax and consider how he is already obviously being impacted by art and what that means is hard. to focus on the correct way to view and create art is... well, how many duels have he and tarou had? how long have they spent trying to do things "right" and get the "correct" feelings from it? i mean, it makes sense for his character. i know a lot of people who feel the same way looking at art. i totally experienced adjacent feelings before the cataclysmic earth-shattering world-busting event known as Clothespin. ooh i just want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. introspection! it's uncomfortable but that's the joy in it! i want to psychoanalyze him so bad.

fuckin, to conclude: MY moral of the story is that there's no right or wrong way to look at art. and i dont think there's any wrong way to love someone either.

*"julia are you arguing that fat anime milf tits are art" fuck yeah i am because they make me feel an emotion: HORNY. sorry i had to add that joke into this otherwise dry ass essay.

p.s. it's my life goal to make everyone look at Clothespin. i have a picture of it at my desk. again i have never made a joke in my life

[saturnsenby]

Trigger warning for graphic imagery

Marionette

I still remember the fall,

From the core of the earth to the depths of your soul.

You tasted of cosmos and salt.

I remember kissing you before every shot and thinking

“This would be just perfect with lime”

You said i was like sugar and songs.

Loved the way i danced for you,

Loved the way you moved in me.

We painted murals down every street in your city with our love

How silly i was not to see that when you signed your name at the bottom of our world,

You never left room for me.

I was fine with letting you carry me until i realized that i

Was living in zero gravity.

I still remember the fall,

From the outskirts of heaven to the bottom of this hole,

How you smote me from your arms and damned me to your failed love memories,

But i guess thats sorta hypocrisy.

I still wonder when you’re really going to leave,

When i’ll feel it,

When i’ll be susceptible to gravity.

I am living here in suspension like taxidermy,

‘Cause everyone comments on how my eyes have become so glassy.

I feel the stuffing in my ribcage that used to be lungs everytime i try to breathe.

I still remember the fall,

But i dont recall,

The striking the bottom,

The feeling.

I wish when you filled me up with insulation and cum,

You had positioned my arm over my heart so i could tell you i dont think its beating.

I think it stopped when your tires started spinning,

But so long after your first incision.

You made sure to keep me bleeding for as long as my veins would nourish your vampiric tendencies.

You made sure to keep me breathing.

Did i taste more like sugar and music when you oxygenated me?

I still remember the fall,

When you slit my throat and bent me at the waist to fuck me until you were done cumming and i was done bleeding.

Did you think to yourself “finally.” As that last drop fell from my tongue to your feet.

Did you like how i never stopped moaning?

Even after i went limp,

Did you like how i never stopped feeling?

Is this what all these strings are for,

The gears now contracting my pussy,

The warmer inside my belly?

Were you just trying to preserve the useful parts of me?

I still remember the fall,

And i think it might still be happening.

How do i escape from zero gravity?

How could you put such a lovely marionette like me on a shelf so dusty and leave?

When did i become failed taxidermy?

I swear i was doing my best to function for you properly.

But i suppose that’s what little boys do with toy hearts they keep on breaking.

Lock them away from the light for safe-keeping.

So why am i feeling so lonely?

Its not like here on this display i dont have company.

I feel like even my shelf-mates dont see me.

But like myself their eyes are nothing more than painted glass beads.

I wonder why you didnt sign your name on the bottoms of my feet when you were done with me.

Maybe i simply wasn’t an art piece.

You were having trouble with detailing.

I wont wait for apologies i’m,

So fucking sick of waiting,

Of trying to breathe.

What the fuck was that sound?

I almost thought my missing heart let out a feeble beat.

Maybe you felt it better from between your teeth where you are still drinking me.

I hope i am bittersweet,

And that it taints my meat so that you stop consuming me.

You are consuming me,

Like the budding necrosis in my cheeks,

The way you didnt bother to take the time to embalm me.

Just stuffed my throat with insulation and cum,

Used that tongue to slowly eviscerate me.

I still remember the fall of my intestines through glass ceiling,

And how the hollowness in my core only deepened the needing.

How demanding of me,

Wait,

There it is again,

The bleeding,

The pulse that won’t stop trying,

Pulmonary artery that wont stop reaching.

How strong of me,

To realize that im not falling,

Im levitating.

And i never left heaven,

It became me.

I can feel it like heartbeating wings,

Angel comradery

Does it hurt to realize im no longer crying,

Im glowing,

And you can keep your useless strings,

Bastardized vaginal walls that were perfect from the beginning,

Throat that will never stop singing.

I reclaim my lungs like roadkill and taste the air once again when i breathe.

Like salt and lime,

I am perfect with just me.

Like the songs i wrote on your soul that you will never be able to stop singing.

I hope every time you do,

The melody stings.

I still remember the rise,

From the prison of your arms to the depths of me.

I remember when i stopped screaming,

When my insides finished weeping and knit themselves back into place and into angry,

As i have every right to be.

But you dont deserve the symphony of my agony.

This song is just for me.

And you had your time to sing along,

So as i take my throne in the cosmos my advice to you:

Get comfortable falling,

I wont be supplying you strings.