The Avars
A Mass for the Guggenheim
- 10th anniversary of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao. Ten years later this. Last week we had the news of the Guggenheim Museum’s birthday as Kyrie Eleison. After the media sermon, the body of Christ was handcuffed; a similar Gregorian chant from many directions: the criticisms of the believers at first and how many have returned to the flock; how Gehry’s titanic arm lifted Bilbao when it was passing through the red seas and two. Whoever's interested in the subject, let's have a look at the bands from last week.
There was not (much) talk of art. We learned that the Gala to celebrate the anniversary had been attended by local and local prosecutors; as we read on the Museum’s website, the exhibition of current Basque artists has been set up “when the Tenth Anniversary (sic) is about to be celebrated” – “because it is” wouldn’t have been better? Listening to those who come from the pulpit, the occurrence has gone from mandeuli to mandeuli: that they want to convince us. They still want to convince us, ten years ago, of the correctness of the decision they made.
It has been forgotten somewhere that saying the Sermon on the Mount once is enough for everyone to understand what is best for them. That you don't have to be seducing those who believe in belief at this point. Even less so in the previous weeks when Rome, stuffing its pants with work, has dragged more than half of its prisoners from Gethsemane. I mean, the way things are, no one's gonna start messing with Noah's ark. And Judas also appears, parsley of all sauces. He sings “Happy Birthday to you” filling his lungs, keeps a count of thirty silver coins and reveals that the museum has a price tag of six kilometers of motorways on the table. The new temple has come cheap to Jerusalem.
Cheap or expensive, the intrinsic value of art doesn’t matter here. The crucified man, a work of art that has lasted two thousand years, was not paid for with coins: a hammer and three nails were enough, a slightly creative executioner and the interest of the people. There is no interest now, neither to feel the art, nor to promote it, nor to give food to the artists. As long as this does not exist, the trustees will be in vain telling us that in the beginning God made the heavens and the earth. And now go in the peace of the Lord, even to the museum, if you will.
It has been forgotten somewhere that saying the Sermon on the Mount once is enough for everyone to understand what is best for them. That you don't have to be seducing those who believe in belief at this point. Even less so in the previous weeks when Rome, stuffing its pants with work, has dragged more than half of its prisoners from Gethsemane. I mean, the way things are, no one's gonna start messing with Noah's ark. And Judas also appears, parsley of all sauces. He sings “Happy Birthday to you” filling his lungs, keeps a count of thirty silver coins and reveals that the museum has a price tag of six kilometers of motorways on the table. The new temple has come cheap to Jerusalem.
Cheap or expensive, the intrinsic value of art doesn’t matter here. The crucified man, a work of art that has lasted two thousand years, was not paid for with coins: a hammer and three nails were enough, a slightly creative executioner and the interest of the people. There is no interest now, neither to feel the art, nor to promote it, nor to give food to the artists. As long as this does not exist, the trustees will be in vain telling us that in the beginning God made the heavens and the earth. And now go in the peace of the Lord, even to the museum, if you will.