亞洲當代藝術從弱勢轉為顯學?

讀了一篇關於福岡亞洲三年展的文章
第四屆福岡亞洲三年展
撰文者寫到"亞洲當代藝術從弱勢轉為顯學"
有嗎？我想著想著很疑惑
亞洲當代藝術成為顯學,那就表示亞洲人民不分階級都在學習或接觸亞洲本土的當代藝術,
亞洲藝術家不必靠政府補助金或兼職工作也能養活自己,而且後面還跟著一大群求技的學子？

亞洲當代藝術市場上的擁擠現象反映出的是全球現象,近期邁阿密的熱潮能不能算是南美當代藝術強勢呢？緊緊相繫的全球化市場中收藏家身居多洲,我們如何分析區域性表現？
曝光率高的亞洲藝術家有一大批是歐美社會培養出來的
這是不是"有自信的自我發聲"？

不論是歐洲美國或亞洲出生成長的藝術家
我們聚在一起便發現大家都是喝美國文化奶水長大的
所謂自我如何定義？

下回去看展覽,先瞄作品單上藝術家的國籍再點頭示好吧
免得把白人藝術家畫的皮卡丘當做亞洲當代藝術來尊崇了

a gift for a gift

Watched Janis Ian sing on PBS the other night.
Something about seeing a grandma singing and playing a guitar moved me so much...
this is way sexier than anything I've ever seen.

Aged talents brew creative forces like a dark bottle of wine, rich yet subtle.
Although I don't dip alcohol, I would therefore describe them as the amber glowing from a barrel of apple cider, pungent yet soothing straight into the heart.
It is a beautiful dream to envision oneself arting for another 5 decades. It is romantic when you toss aside the material rewards, suddenly the world does not make sense any more, but self survives in dignity.

Janis Ian put it this way, (forgive me for not remembering the exact words)
"Aside from egos and all that, all artists are here to serve.
I am fortunate enough to have the talent to write these songs
and was alive in a time when people would listen.
I am extremely previlieged to be able to serve these songs."

I have learned about artists serving but often wonder who are we serving?
the peopl who never touch or see our art?
the artists surrounding us?
the world with dark buildings erected?
the universe with too much negative emotions?
or me me me?
I assume I could understand it in this way now,
"I am here to deliver the vision I was given, with the gifted fingers I was offered.
I am here to serve the sculptures, the paintings and the space among installation objects."
Suddenly serving people makes no sense, yet serving art expands the possibility to no end.

The gifted one, zonkey with 1/4 zebra and 3/4 donkey, who sings like a trumpet and loves so very gently. She is here to serve, serves the pretty stripes that no other donkeys have.

in the crevice of void

22 months worth of questions,

twist the torso to become doubts.

I resurface to find the wave drown me once more.

was it the quality of work?

was it the frequency of conversations?

was it the location of growth?

or was it the intelligence of my neurons?

Tree with limbs so low, one can climb.

Darkness with road well paved, one can traverse.

Me, myself and I

fight the battles of volume.

I realized today, the best are not usually the loudest.

But whom is heard? The best or the loudest?

Art is a game of vanity,

didn't I know that already from the very beginning.

If I should not identify myself with what I do,

then why do I do?

What is in the do for me?

What is in me for the do?

limb is hanging by a thread,

yet time must continue.