Mr. Fakesmile makes a fac-siMile on of my similar FAQ, similitUdes
A great white shark swims, slowly, deliberately contorting its scaled body, its teethes shine when it opens its mouth to breath out, its big, empty eyes roll and turn madly, shining too when it opens them to breath out, its gills pulsate and shine a red hue when it opens them to breath out in.
The mount, a mound in the distance slowly pulsates too, its mass mess rising and falling as at the breathing of a massive creature, another red hue comes from the core of the pile, it looks like the coveted covered entrance of Hell. The bodies making this pile lie, in truth, motionless, only shaken and lifted by the breathing of the mound. They are made with incredible impossible details. The most detailed, even if only 6,37 cm (2.51 inches) tall, has distinct hair that can only be seen through a microscope. How though ?
(Fakeness Adores Questions)
The rest of the canvas is absolutely, obscenely, bare, naked, empty; not empty like the shark’s eyes, these are empty like death : they hold nothing, they mean nothing, they promise nothing, they ask nothing, they demand nothing, but they exist. The rest of this painting simply does not exist, there is nothing there, nothing exists in thi snare this bare void, not even death, this vast emptiness is not black as we most often describe void, because if it were, there would be something there, the pigments, the effort, the will to fill this void with ill black, no, there is only the strange white of the blank canvas. And even then, it is not empty enough for the artist’s taste : there is still the history, the effort, the dead tree’s cells; so, in rage as he sees he cannot paint emptiness, he punches the canvas, punches a hole through this maddening task. Then, as he removes his hand, he sees it : the emptiness, not emptiness of will, not even of emotions, he did fill the hole in the canvas with rage; but the canvas itself, the support of his rage, his anger, his painting, doesn’t exist anymore. He made art with no support, and as he realizes this, he sees the art in all its glory, he basks in the light of an art which he cannot see, which cannot be seen, heard, tasted, touched nor smelled but can only be felt, can only be lived.
And, as the artist sees true art lying forth for the first time, a dread washes over him. He fears, and, precipitously precariously, he takes the knife that had been laying on his table, observes the 25,025 cm (9.58 inches) blade, admires the fine craftsmanship of the hand-made damascus edge, notices the slight curve at the tip of the blade, where the artisan was tired, along with every detail of the wood, every slight dent. And he plants the blade in the heart of his art, giving his life for from the process.
This painting, with the punch-sized hole in the down-left corner of the 3.657 m (12 feet) wide, 5,884 m (19.16 feet) long canvas, with a pile of human bodies and a mad, stabbed shark, at the center, both entirely inscribed in a 27,64 cm (10.88 inches) wide and 43,82 cm (26.86 inches) long rectangle, this painting was sold for 978 billion 466 million and 500 thousand euros on the 7th of October 1989, putting the man who bought it in debt for 8 generations. And the shark is so goofy it could barely be considered art.
The painting was broken in half in 1996, when the man, who was 57, accidentally ran it over with a tractor while he was drunk on homemade vodka. Wasteful.
(Fuck Mean yoU ?)