Sterile white, boxes, straight lines. White like laboratories. Oh you’re a little lab rat aren’t you? White like God’s recycling bin. Tell me does this make you feel something? White like the blood of cockroaches. Remember when you used to crawl? Remember when you were human?
Panamanian, I like that, reminds me of Tasmanian, I thought, staring up at the decaying airport ceiling. Modern architecture, modern design, modernity. Modern, Modern, Modern as in right now. But also contextualized as the future? And also an endpoint? The final resting point of all aesthetic evolution. Feels wrong. Open a blank page...that’s modern. Sleek, white, nothingness. It’s as vapid as the vessels it holds. I mean I’m just insulted, since when did reduction become evolution, take away everything, and it’s modern, take away everything... it’s what they think of you.
It’s just so uninteresting, unbridled from inspiration. As if the questioning of God’s existence grew out of the ground. Singular in its aesthetic in that it only gets interesting with decay. Add rot, add rust, peeling paint, and suddenly it’s at least honest. That’s the irony of the thing, a joke impressive in its twistedness, that atrophy is its only hope to make it beautiful. These square white boxes will only move me when they’re eaten by rust. This grey cement will only inspire me when nature cracks it open and begins to swallow it back into the earth. When we take modern art out of the museums and throw it away into meadows, finally it will serve a purpose, to inform us by contrast of how far we’ve fallen short of true beauty.
Design grows out of the human soul, it’s here to inform us of who we are. It is a reflective dance, create something beautiful and suddenly it beckons us to be more. Now look at what we’ve made, a dollar general? What does it tell you? You are cattle, something to be extracted. Your sweat means nothing, you are nothing. An animal wouldn’t live in a tract home, so why should we? Little grey sedans pumped out of factories assembled in four different countries completely disconnected from passion, but oh baby it’s so functional. That’s your new altar, it works so you worship it because you forgot what you are. Billions with amnesia of the soul, modernity is spiritual sickness.
Great big cathedrals built by hand over 400 years by souls screaming I exist. Monuments created by men who knew the thing they bleed for will live past them. Eternal beauty, the tangibility of stone turned into angels staring back at them. Paintings on ceilings like a fever dream of heaven. Something that reaches and stretches and sacrifices beyond the self. Communion with divinity. We do not deserve this until we remember what we are, souls crafted by God to the thrum of eternity, and there should not be a single thing crafted on this earth that doesn’t scream that. Burn the monuments to nothingness, and bury the ones who perpetrated this lie in the plastic white tombs they created.