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Might as well write with my horror..
Sep. 2nd, 2006 08:03 pm*rant warning*
Why bother to write, create, think or search desperately for the meaning of life? Unless it's packaged well, designed by the latest hip fashionista, or manufactured in a million units and shipped to everywhere, no one's going to notice. At least, that's what smacked me upside the head with a printed-on-canvas frame as I wandered through Ikea with Henri this evening. I was sort of creeped out by going there, but we needed to find a desk, and thought something there might work. I knew that the modern design sensibilities really aren't for me, and now I think I'll run screaming from modular shelving units and cute stacking end-tables.
The place is enormous, like the size of an entire mall, and once you go in, you have to walk all the way through the entire store before you can easily get out again. There's a daycare, and a play area, a cafeteria as well, so you can spend the entire day being a good consumer without having to interact with your offspring at all.
The final straw was the art. After walking through the showrooms of immaculately designed and decorated kitchens, bedrooms and livingrooms, they usher you into the accesories; all the lamps, rugs, bundles of rattan and colorful storage solutions you could ever want. Why bother collecting items yourselves, as mementos and reminders of valuable experiences you had, or places you've visited, or *choke* make things for yourself, when you can buy the contents of your entire house from one store?
Then I walked around the corner, and saw a section of art. Huge canvases, with the same several images in all different sizes. I wanted to throw up. All I could see was millions of people with the same houses, all just variations on the designs offered in the store, and every one of them with the same fake painting of tulips on the wall.
It's enough to make a painter break her hands, the stunning futility of trying to create meaningful art, that reflects my life and my struggles and my joys, when so many of the people around me are buying crap printed on canvas paper instead of supporting actual artists and participating in the communities they live in.
Time for a stiff drink and some Tetris.
Later.
-Me.
Why bother to write, create, think or search desperately for the meaning of life? Unless it's packaged well, designed by the latest hip fashionista, or manufactured in a million units and shipped to everywhere, no one's going to notice. At least, that's what smacked me upside the head with a printed-on-canvas frame as I wandered through Ikea with Henri this evening. I was sort of creeped out by going there, but we needed to find a desk, and thought something there might work. I knew that the modern design sensibilities really aren't for me, and now I think I'll run screaming from modular shelving units and cute stacking end-tables.
The place is enormous, like the size of an entire mall, and once you go in, you have to walk all the way through the entire store before you can easily get out again. There's a daycare, and a play area, a cafeteria as well, so you can spend the entire day being a good consumer without having to interact with your offspring at all.
The final straw was the art. After walking through the showrooms of immaculately designed and decorated kitchens, bedrooms and livingrooms, they usher you into the accesories; all the lamps, rugs, bundles of rattan and colorful storage solutions you could ever want. Why bother collecting items yourselves, as mementos and reminders of valuable experiences you had, or places you've visited, or *choke* make things for yourself, when you can buy the contents of your entire house from one store?
Then I walked around the corner, and saw a section of art. Huge canvases, with the same several images in all different sizes. I wanted to throw up. All I could see was millions of people with the same houses, all just variations on the designs offered in the store, and every one of them with the same fake painting of tulips on the wall.
It's enough to make a painter break her hands, the stunning futility of trying to create meaningful art, that reflects my life and my struggles and my joys, when so many of the people around me are buying crap printed on canvas paper instead of supporting actual artists and participating in the communities they live in.
Time for a stiff drink and some Tetris.
Later.
-Me.
