I can’t avoid it, it surrounds me. It pervades my life.

On Sunday afternoons, troops of retirees stroll through the neighborhood, slumped under the weight of protruding telephoto lenses strapped around their necks, snapping pictures of the stuff to post on Facebook. Look what I've seen: Culture! Counter-culture! Free expression! Mumia! 

And you can't miss it, plastered on walls and street signs and phone booths, on every corner, on every wall. Street art, aka: graffiti, is here to stay. And it has something to say. But just exactly what it's saying remains unclear.


Here, in the scenic alleyway where Chiquita likes to take her mid afternoon dump between pools of spilled vomit (which, it should be noted, she prizes above all delicacies—oh, the money I could save on dog food if I let her indulge…), amidst the trash and hobo effluvia, up by the corner and in full sight of the unemployed youths who lounge, smoking, drinking and posing outside rows of small, untidy bars, yes, yes, here is the epicenter. The prime real estate, the Louvre and the Tate of the aspiring street artist.

By night they come with the rattle of spray can, the slap of paste, the rustle of hastily printed sheets. About twice a year, spiritless municipal crews come to scrape it all away and paint the walls afresh, but the Artistes always return, like roaches in the dark; with stencil and brush the cycle renews, the message springs forth. You can’t stop the signal, you can’t muffle the noise.

 It’s not all bad. I don't meant the indecipherable calligraphic scrawls, no those are simply doing to walls what my dog is doing to the pavement. But some of the paintings have a certain simplistic, lyrical quality that, at the hands of sophomore art students would merit encouragement with gold stars and indulgent smiles. "Some talent. Shows promise, but lacks focus and drive."

Others have a soft porn thing going—drawing inspiration from the works of the mid 20th century Toilet Stall school—and who could take exception to a little titillation? Fine stuff, the classics. A few of the artists have gained a degree of fame and /or notoriety and even make a decent buck of it, I hear. Hat's off to them, they've found their niche and they're doing better than me at this whole art racket.

But the "Message Art" leaves me baffled and totally nonplussed. I know it’s meant to shock me to the core of my gray flannel bourgeoisity, but it’s not achieving it’s desired goal. Something is amiss.

Let’s take a closer look.

Capitalism causes starvation?
Well now, I suppose we can excuse the younger generation for not knowing how to use the Internet like all the old farts from Squaresville, so let me show them how it’s done. Here, I’ll google “Famine 20th century”, close my eyes and click a link at random.

What's this? Lenin, Mao, Stalin, Pol Pot? Oh, those evil Capitalists!

But juxtaposing a starving Somalian child with a smiling Ronald McDonald…that's so tempting, such clever imagery, such brilliant satire. But what am I supposed to feel? Outrage, because the McDonald’s corporation has made cheap food readily available worldwide? Anger because they refuse to build franchises in the Somali desert? No, Sam can explain this better than I can:



In fact, I feel hungry. Those McFarmers and McRanchers look pretty appetizing. Who but the most callous individual can gaze upon a box of 20 Chicken McNuggets with indifference? But I digress.




Questioning facts seriously harms you? 
Facts such as “Capitalism causes starvation”, moron? Or that space aliens built the pyramids?


Rebellion can kill you?
OK, I get that rebellion against sobriety killed Amy Winehouse, but Minnie Mouse? Where is the connection? I am lost here, clueless. These seemingly banal statements, presented in the manner of those annoying, yet obligatory warning messages on cigarette packs…I think the Artiste is trying to say something, but in a language no one else understands.

Or, maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Perhaps it is not adolescent irony posing as insight. Perhaps—and this is a reach, I grant you, but stay with me—perhaps, the Artiste is just making simple, declarative statements. Could it be that he feels very deeply, is steadfastly certain that he is expected to take a bold stance, make a profound statement about the world but in fact has nothing of an interest to say? Because he hasn't a clue about the world around him?

Case in point. Here’s another one.

Seems like good advice, actually. You could do much worse than to follow that to the letter.

I blame this all on the unfortunate turn toward imbecility that Modern Art took during the 20th century, when message overtook technique and concept won the day over execution, giving us such masterpieces as Piero Manzoni’s Merda d'artista.

Roger Scruton had something to say on the subject in the wonderful BBC documentary “Why Beauty Matters” (which sadly I can't embed, only link, but still, you really should view it at least once before shuffling off this mortal coil, if for no other reason than hearing one of our generation’s most distinguished philosophers utter the words “It’s a can of shit.”).