Driving in Silence How do you approach an apparition? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett From our safe seats We gaze at the grandeur of the empire Driving in silence Generation in Generation out My YouTube Music Station: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCrxQKZRnAka3dliF7lp1-Ow Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art . To support my art, feel free to become a subscribed member via Patreon donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal Copyright This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws . Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the sponsor's written permission is prohibited.
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WHAT CAN MAKE UP FOR LACK OF TALENT
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WHAT CAN MAKE UP FOR LACK OF TALENT
Does art derive its validity from the skill of the creator's hand, or from the cultural scaffolding that forces our conscious spotlight onto the object?
This gallery space has thrown down a direct challenge. Dominating the centre wall, glowing in bright white neon above the shattered glass and the Campbell's Soup Can, is a raw, uncomfortable question: "WHAT CAN MAKE UP FOR LACK OF TALENT?" This neon sign acts as the ultimate cognitive mirror, forcing us to reconcile the two extremes hanging on either side of the gallery.
The Postmodern Answer: Frame and Hype
Look at the soup can sitting in the spotlight. Postmodernism, driven by Andy Warhol and Pop Art, gave a cynical, revolutionary answer to this neon question: Context, branding, and institutional framing make up for a lack of talent. Postmodernism declared that you don't need the masterly brushwork of the Renaissance or the sublime emotional intensity of Mark Rothko. An artist could take a 10-cent manufactured grocery item and put it in a gallery. Irony could construct value out of thin air. To the postmodernist, "talent" is just an outdated bourgeois myth.
The Agate's Natural Genius
The Agate represents innate, untouchable talent. Formed over millions of years through geological pressure, it possesses an effortless, natural perfection. It is Huxley’s "Antipodes of the Mind"—a self-luminous, crystalline wonder that human hands could never quite artificially duplicate.
Q. How can fragile, flawed human effort ever compete with a million years of mineral perfection?
A. Aspiration plus conviction, presence, and personal growth
The Ancient Agate vs. The Pop Stunt: Where Sacred Grace Meets Manufactured Hype
Does the flawless appearance of the Agate stone suggest that human art gains its value from perfect form, or from the brave effort to surpass limitations? Additionally, should a stunt continually increase artistic worth through institutional approval?
Where Sacred Grace Meets Manufactured Hype
Does art derive its validity from the skill of the creator's hand, or from the cultural scaffolding that forces our conscious spotlight onto the object?
I was told not to touch the art. So I sank my boot into it. [exhales sharply] In crushing the container, I refused to let the frame dictate my reality. The dent is my signature; the shattered glass is my encounter. I know the game is constructed, but I am here, stepping into the spotlight and leaving my mark with all my weight!
No Space to Question
When can the public genuinely question profound critique, and justifiably identify lazy commodification as hype? Imperialism offers no space to question. The gatekeepers laugh and claim you simply "don't get the joke".
Did contemporary art directors hide behind untouchable sarcasm whilst pointing towards the crossover of human vulnerability, effort, and conviction?
At what point in time does the insider joke become hollow?
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
AI ART and Meaning What role does an artist play when employing AI? Artist statement by JJFBbennett If we accept that AI can generate vast quantities of statistically “meaningful” content from data and algorithms, then meaningful art may lie not in the output itself, but in its selection and framing. AI functions as a kind of unconscious, producing raw material at scale. The artist’s role shifts from maker to curator: deciding what to extract from the data’s noise, what to present as art, the context in which it appears, and the conversation it enters. The artist as the muddler and meddler in the centre of it all. This shift has an art-historical precedent. In 1917, Marcel Duchamp’s *Fountain* made a decisive claim: the artist had not sculpted the urinal but selected it, titled it, and placed it in a gallery. Meaning arose from the gesture of choice rather than the act of making. Walter Benjamin, too, anticipated this logic in his reflections on montage and editing: meaning can e...
Through the eyes of the Lost Soldier The sky is bleeding into the dirt again, and the old hunger crawls up through my boots. It no longer matters. Time does not march out here. It pools beneath a dry creek bed, stagnant and unseen. But when the moon swells, heavy and bruised with copper rust, the cold in my ribs becomes a scald. The scrub does not burn with heat. It burns with memory. Through the tangled mallee, I see the flash of artillery, the orange-red roar of a barrage that never stopped falling, trapped forever inside the rib cages of these dead gums. I taste copper on my tongue, sharp as rifle oil and dried blood. The black heavens press down, bending the whole world inward until I am trapped inside a glass bead of fire. I pace the boundary where red light cuts into deep shadow, waiting for a relief column that lost its heading eighty years ago. Everything here is parched. I am so thirsty. But I do not want water. I want your nourishment. I want your dawn, your warm pulse, as yo...
Empire of the Primrose poem The city fell in a single night. Holding it would take longer. So the painters were summoned, and the saints on the walls were given his family's eyes. A bloodline was found for him, older than the walls, older than the kings who raised them. Now even the earth must forget it ever belonged to anyone else. The Empire of the Primrose - Station 1 Do you have recurring dreams? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The cycle always resets at dusk, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream. I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shad...
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