Dear readers, when it comes to modern artsical things, I am not a fartsical woman. I can get my money's worth contemplating the warm visual soak of a room full of Rothkos, but aside from that most modern art makes me bitch aloud about "BOTTICELLI, BOTTICELLI, WHY AM I LOOKING AT A SQUIGGLY CHAIR WHEN I COULD BE LOOKING AT BOTTICELLIS? RESPECT MY EYES, BITCHES!" Orchestral music written after 1930 makes me want to stick knitting needles in my ears, new perfumes smell like dirty whore armpit to me, and as for fusion cuisine . . . outside of a nice cold lychee martini, fuck it in the ear.
But at no time am I more reminded of my complete lack of fartsicality when it comes to modern artsicality than when it comes to modern architecture, which has a tendency to make me fall off my chair laughing or else just make me cringe. However, I'm not blaming mw own troggishness in this case - I'm essentially certain most modern architects' fingers have slipped off the pounding pulse of the artistic life-force and instead are wandering up their own elitist, self-referential assholes.
Case in point - what the fuck is wrong with the French? Shall I hold their hand until they feel better? I'll do it . . .all their hands, from the cutest infant to the most tobacco stained, aged Collaborator . . . and all for just a fraction of the price this monstrosity has probably already cost them. Check out the slideshow, it just gets worse.
In other news, Big Pharma was the boss of me this weekend. That could have just been me being exhausted, though. Anyways it was nice to have a little idleness. I have so little these days - savoured it like Hybla honey.