If It Talks Like a Wanker and Walks Like a Wanker…

I suppose at some point in the history of this blog, someone will post a blog entry about design. This is after all a design blog, or at least, a blog on the website of a design, branding, and advertising company. And if I were to further my suppositions, I would then suppose that that person, while commenting on design, might then log some thoughts on design in Lancaster. Being as how we are headquartered in downtown Lancaster. But that person would not be me and that blog entry would not be today’s.

Personally, I feel that there are numerous design and/or advertising blogs that do the job much more adequately than I could, and I could point out those sites and posts but then this blog would only be a portal to those blogs. Not that I don't link to those sites occasionally, and if I have some compelling insight that I think has not been brought up already and needs to be discussed (as much discussion as can happen in a blog system that does not allow for comments), then I would write something. But I don’t want to be that didactic maroon who lectures everyone else on design basics or principles as if I were the first person to discover them. Alls I know is what I like and what I don’t like, and since aesthetics and style are the province of the right brain anyway, I’m not sure anything beyond a visceral reaction is necessary.

Talking about art is like dancing about architecture. Or something. So this whole art criticism thing boggles me a bit. As if I need to know the psychosexual ramifications of the subtextual tension underlying the dialogue between the inner monologues of color and texture that play off each other through the inner glow of the work created by the artist using his naughty bits as his brush and his less naughty bits as his canvas. Or something. I am currently mired in some of these books for a project, and it’s making me question my own literacy a bit. Because I understand all these words individually. Stringing them all together in one sentence (exhibiting as much inner tension as possible), that’s what gets me in trouble. And sleepy. With a headache. (I wonder if I can write off a new couch and a bottle of Tylenol.) I should put a disclaimer on this by revealing that I’ve never studied art or art history, so that may be part of the problem. But I don’t think I should need a highly specialized vocabulary in order to “access” art. If I wanted to sail off on my own pretensions, then yes, bring on the transcendental subalternity of the inner glow. Until then, I’ll stick with my gut. As long it promises to remain unirritated and non-inflamed and unruptured.

The Unfacts

Finally. Now All I Need is a Hoverboard