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  • There's so much I love about this picture.

    Beyond the crass inappropriateness of the whole thing, there's a lot going on here.

    What I missed when I first ran over to the picture, in my giddy enthusiasm for swearwords and breasts, and only noticed when I saw the photo, days, maybe weeks later, is that this is a dialogue. We are witnessing the eternal conflict between art and life, between the purity of ideas and our coarse physicality. Between what we dream we can be and what we end up as.

    "Art will save the world," says the dreamer, the idealist, looking hopefully towards the heavens and enlightenment.

    "Fuck art, I'm just here because breasts," refutes the guy, taking a swipe at the pretensions of every critic, every commentator who pretends to see beyond the obvious, the real, to squeeze meaning and symbolism from paint and wood and plastic and stone.

    The genius missing "of". Who has time for prepositions when there are breasts involved?

    The two cameras. Is he a poser, or just desperate not to miss a thing? Belts and braces.

    The poser taking a picture of my unspectacular breasts.

    The stubby cock. Raising the possibility that elsewhere the conversation continues, as other people are just here because dick. Raising the question: why keep the t-shirt on when the pants have been left behind?

    The pink horned giraffe things.

    A simple pleasure in breasts. There's a human truth here. Everyone loves breasts. Breasts are always more important than art.

    Except perhaps arty breasts. Look at these puppies. They have a life of their own. They're yellow and they fly. Are these the kind of breasts that can reconcile our conflict, that can be art and life at the same time? Are these quantum breasts?

    But, mainly every time I look at it, it makes me giggle.
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