Cold Fury

Harshing your mellow since 9/01

Swallow whatever you may be drinking; trust me on this one

Pomposity, thy name is liberal enviroweenie buffoon:

Yesterday’s post mentioned in passing an Arts Council project that typifies the standards we’ve come to expect from publicly funded art. Jarvis Cocker, the country’s foremost socialist pop musician, was sent to the Arctic for “inspiration” and to raise planetary consciousness, along with another two dozen artistic luminaries…

Francesca Galeazzi performed her CO2 work.

I know, you itch to hear what this “CO2 work” entailed. You want to behold its majesty.

I walked across the fresh snow with a gas cylinder in my arms, containing 6kg of CO2. I took it across the unspoiled snow field of the Jakobshavn Fjord until I found what, to my eyes, was a wonderful place.

You can see what’s coming, can’t you?

I walked to the top of the small hill, I put the cylinder down, got on my knees and opened the valve.

Because great art is challenging and transgressive.

Ms Galeazzi’s other artistic contributions are described in greater, more harrowing detail:

Yesterday for me was a roller-coaster of emotions: determination and failure, hope and fear, anticipation and disappointment. One of my projects on board consisted of an artistic response to the melting and retreat of glaciers as result of climate change. My response was to place a park bench on a newly formed iceberg or floating ice-shelf off the fast-moving coast of West Greenland. A bench which, in its fragility and remoteness, becomes a silent witness of the dramatic changes that are occurring in the Arctic.

A bench with nobody to sit on.

Tragically, the search for a suitable location for the Great Symbolic Bench proved futile.

Genius. Pure genius. But, uhh — pardon my philistine insensitivity, and I know I’m probably missing the essential point and all, but isn’t it usually people who do the sitting on, and not the bench? Which sad state of affairs, of course, is inhumane and speciesist, and an abrogation of the, umm, human rights of, y’know, benches.

Oh, and I’m pretty sure it’s not the coast of Greenland that’s fast-moving, but the water just off of it. Well, except in that whole blue-rock-speeding-thru-the-cosmos sense, I mean. Maybe that’s what Rembrandt Van Einstein there meant, I dunno.

Am I being too obvious, too unsubtle, here? Well, dammit, I don’t care. I never claimed to be no artiste.

David says he saved the best for last, and he wasn’t kidding; it’s a “serendipitous” (Dave’s term) revelation fraught with meaning and wisdom that will resonate for all time. Or damned well ought to, anyway. In fact, some of these chowderheads ought to have it tattooed on their foreheads — forcibly, if necessary: And maybe the bench was an excuse and didn’t need to be left out on the ice at all.

Gee, ya think?


1 thought on “Swallow whatever you may be drinking; trust me on this one

  1. But, uhh — pardon my philistine insensitivity, and I know I’m probably missing the essential point and all, but isn’t it usually people who do the sitting on, and not the bench?

    Translated from British into American English, the original would read, “A bench with nobody to sit on it. The Brits tend to leave that final pronoun out in such phrases — e.g., “I made brownes with nuts in.”

    The rest of it is just as ridiculous as you point out, however.

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