Once upon a time I visited a place in the south of France that this place in Van Gogh’s painting reminds me of (it came up in my twitter feed, first thing…)
One of the aspects that increasingly fuels my interest in art history is how false histories are created by critics and rivals and extortionate criminal minds in various fields of ‘business’.
There is much in formal academic texts that plain as the nose on any face is dubious falsehood. In contemporary arts practise anyone paying attention can perhaps clearly see and hear and read how such falsehoods fall into place ready for parrot-fashion learning. These things become concrete in no time at all.
“Evidence based practise”. That’s a jolly crackers joke, fit for the days…
Once upon a time, I travelled by coach to a small town in Kent to visit my baby son’s father’s family. It was my first and only visit to Kent. Awful place! Reliance on public transport in the South of England is impossible. But never mind, London’s far enough for a day trip and much more of interest than can be seen in a day and not so easy to get lost there!
I didn’t really know the family I was staying with at all. We’d met when they visited me briefly in Nottingham a few months before. The gentleman worked for a publishing firm apparently. I don’t like them. The lady of the house seemed a very nice but quite eccentric lady who told me she had SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). They were taking us to France for a tour round while they were looking out for a small house to maybe move away to.
I only learnt afterwards that on the temporary passport form I had to sign to be able to travel with them, the church representative the lady called, never having met me before, he’d signed to state he had known me for more than two years. And that’s just one reason why I don’t trust religion, religious representatives and property owners/people of wealth and certain ‘social class’.
While I’d been in hospital when my son was born, my rooms in the shared house I’d been renting in Nottingham* had been ransacked by the other tenants. My landlord made me homeless, stole what hadn’t been taken for me by friends and i’d not been able to remove myself – and another person or persons quite possibly began usurping my identity in an identity theft scam. It’s happened at least a few times since, or maybe I’m just overly anxious about how some people apply false tales to individual persons character and personality. It can be seen all the time in the text books and gets solidified by repetition.
Crazy stuff. So many are so ready to believe whatever their own dirty, foul and corrupt minds might convince them must be true of any other – especially if they’ve read stuff in a text book or gallery brochure as if it must be the gospel truth or something. Since time began historical records have been falsified and distorted by social hierarchies. I tend not to believe anyone’s criminal record whatsoever as a result of my own trivial experiences with ‘the Law’**.
*Things began to get a bit complicated from there, if only I’d had open enough eyes, some might say…
So, apparent evidence bases are interesting. And I expect the way our corrupt British society doesn’t work well at all, anyone might say that even a vulnerable young (underclass) adult is to blame when advantageous/higher class vultures devour their prey.
**Unfortunately (because of not having any for so very long for my medical use) I’m not the lady who got prosecuted for cannabis in Cornwall. Just in case one nosey socialite beggar has been confusing me with someone else! My only experiences of Cornwall are only through childhood reading of Enid Blyon books and i would never wish to go there either!
Happy Crimbo Eve everyone 🙂