This is a painting, perhaps print that hangs in my hotel suite that can be seen from every angle of the main room.
I have found in wandering the halls of this place, that every single room, to the best of my knowledge, has this . . . this thing, hanging in the exact same space.
It seems to be, for who can really know these things for sure, a painting/print of a streetlight under two phone or electric wires on which sit fat blobs with legs that one would assume are birds.
For reasons unknown, the light has a number: 10. I have no idea what the significance of this number to the artist might have been although this may have been some kind of awful photograph that went through the process now available to anyone with a smart phone, of ‘paintifying,’ that is, making it look more arty than it has a right to.
The background is a dystopic blue that has the vague hue of a sky in which the nuclear fallout has all but settled, leaving this not-quite-normal blue sky which makes me wonder if the birds are actually dead lumps of carbonized flesh where the feathers have been fused to the rest of the body.
There is no life, no joy, no meaning whatsoever in this ghastly thing hanging on the wall. In it’s own way, its deliberative meaninglessness matches perfectly the sterile starkness of the room and, by extension, the hotel, and, by extension, the created village of upscale shops that this hotel is attached to, as if by some umbilicus.
Sadly, other than the faux wood cabinetry, this thing is the most colorful item in the room.
Every time I notice this thing on the wall, I lose at least an hour of my life as the joy of living is sucked a little more out of the marrow of my being.
Why did the hotel management, the Hyatt chain, think that this thing would be appropriate for any hotel suite? Or perhaps, it was sold to the idiots running the chain as some kind of example of modern avant garde art. So sophisticated it must seem, this nightmare fuel.
Or perhaps it’s designed as a form of corporate mind control. After all, the maids have to look at it all day in every room they clean. It’s message of utter hopelessness must be designed to keep the maid class believing that there’s nothing better out there and the Hyatt will become both their prison of work and prison of the soul. At slightly about minimum wage.
No sane society, no people of empathy, charm, caring or base humanity produces artwork like this. This is produced by empty, cynical, predatory souls who would sell a dying man a capsule of cyanide.
I can’t remove it or turn it around. I must face it and think dark thoughts of the people responsible for this atrocity. What level of Hell to consign them/him/her? I must give it some thought.
Now I am no stranger to dystopian art. Check out my favorite artist of this genre Simon Stålenhag. But this thing reminded me of an apocalyptic novel written decades ago, Whitley Streiber and James Kunetka’s ‘Warday.’
If you look closely at the cover, you will see why:
There, at the bottom, are telephone poles and a street light with a more appropriate red sky.
In any case, the whole thing is disturbing but what the hell, everyone who stays here has to look at the damn thing so why not me.
But do they every really look at it?
And if so, what do they feel?