The Critic's Choice
It is a fool’s game to attempt to interpret the work—any work— of an artist. Because there is no interpretation. Nothing to be interpreted. The intended meaning is just that—an absolute. The thing you see or hear before you is what the creator intended it to be. Even if that intention was to be ambiguous.
Burn Museums // Build Co-ops
An engorged pig sits in a stale pond, lapping at the stagnant water while the fish die. Its heavy, muffled breath does nothing to stir the sheet of algae growing on the surface.
How do you want to be defined? By one action? By some opinion that could evolve? By a mistake, regrettable only with hindsight? Or by the sum of your parts? Okay, do that for other people. Start the trend.