November 24, 2016 § 3 Comments
Artists and writers are, I guess, utterly bewildered. As my friend Mark says, Farage + Ferrero Rocher = the death of satire. Perhaps we should go along to ComicCon for some answers. Or the Old Testament. Or to Cormac MacCarthy, who writes like the Old Testament. As did American writers like Hawthorne and Melville in the 19th century.
Auden got a bit bewildered, sitting in his bar in NY after Spain feeling craven and wretched. Maybe he thought the new world was still forging heroically. (He should have asked Hemingway.) Or maybe it was that Yorkshire rain that just got to him.
Hockney went West, too – but further, and with more optimism. Now he’s back, of course. And the same dream/drug-light that rippled across his LA pools glared through Godfather 2 – another segue that reminds me of the Trump / Farage Doors of Corruption photo-op.
So what now? Unfortunately, what happens in Vegas / Hollywood / Trump Tower looks like happening everywhere else. Our city library will soon be a 5-star hotel. 30s memorabilia is back – as are warrior monks. I might have to go back to Black Sabbath. Ah, the 70s. At least we knew we were lost in a wood.