A Debutante's Ghetto.

So, of course, having developed my own disturbed microcosm of self-pity, medical knowledge, Walter Mitty movie dreams and idle bliss, I only found out yesterday that Dash Snow died, almost two weeks ago, at the age of 27.  

It seems odd, but the first word that came to mind was :"Blimey!" ( It's partly due to a father who adopted a British-ism or two. Everything was "bloody" this and "bloody" that.)   Yes, I am aware of my poseur-istic tendencies.

 

But then it might be somewhat appropriate to falsely adopt another culture's slang in reference to Dash Snow.  When I first read about him, it was showcase the up-and-coming talent of the New York art world, who by the time of publication, already escalated into the welcoming sphere of the Establishment.  Ah, but that's the rub: they were already of a product of it.  Every single artist in that article came from privilege, including Dash--who chose to relinquish his truly aristocratic pedigree and become a boy of the streets.  But what gets me is that his background---all their privileged backgrounds---sucks the revolutionary nature of the aesthetic revolution that they preach.  

It's just disturbing to think about a young man, who has been handed everything on silver platter, who has been rewarded for any inclination or even thought, to suddenly roll up his elbow-patched, designer blazer and wield a spray-can.  The worst part is that he knows how to exploit it, how to cracks that piece of cement by peddling it as high art.  Because what is one man's outlet to a dupe a system that has made a habit of undermining him is another man's way of perpetuating the evil cycle in the first place.  

Now I'll get off my soapbox, and pay my respects.  

RIP DASH.