Part 1.
The priest looked at the world with hopeful eyes as he stepped out his door. A gentle breeze ruffled his scarf, and he pulled his checkered cap a little lower over his forehead.
In his day, he was quite a dapper gentleman.
As priests do, he constantly and silently thanked God for every blessing in his life. God lived inside of him, it was His energy and spirit that flowed through his veins electric, and that he saw reflected back at him in every quivery breeze that ruffled old and crispy and young and gummy leaves alike. He saw Gods energy in the constant teeming chatter of life that existed in the quiet, outside the pixelated screens. He accepted the changes modern life was bringing, but lamented an era of quiet. Of sentiment. He privately bemoaned the lack of respect, the lack of good values young people nowadays displayed everywhere. Oh sure, there were rays of hope. Some politeness, a smile of youth and hope on the young and beautiful shop assistant’s face. Such a pure energy, unadulterated by cynicism or apathy. Lack of faith, lack of faith. It was everywhere.
But God always offered a ray of hope, so quietly the priest had worked his whole life, had been good, had obeyed all the rules in hope his devotion could make up for those unable to feel it. His heart went out to them, he prayed for them every night. Everyone should have this Light. Everyone should feel the belonging, the spirituality, the peace that had followed his whole life. He hadn’t had much; he didn’t need much. He took pride in being a humble man. His frustration that no one could see, they could be happy like he was, they could feel this love too. Why didn’t they understand?
He waited at the traffic light, and crossed the street at the walk signal. He smiled and nodded at an old woman as he passed, and her face crinkled into a smile in return. He had heard there was a new church opening up in the area, which was an unusual occurance. Not just the fact the new church was opening up – although that was odd in itself. More the fact that he had heard of its happening – posters had been displayed across the area. He had ignored them at first. They were brightly coloured, almost offensive to the eyes. Some had photos of barely clothed girls, eyes to young to be peering out of such smoky make up.
This particular poster had been thrust on his desk by the Reverend at the rival Anglican church down the road.
“What do you make of this, Walter,” Reverend Carmichael asked in a deliberately bored tone that gave the impression he would rather be anywhere but this substandard Caltholic place of worship.
The priest looked up but Reverend Carmichael was fingering his wristwatch and obviously avoiding his eyes.
He sighed. Anglicans.
“Well, what is it?” he asked, with a heaved sigh of deliberate patience, pushing away his papers, leaning back and folding his glasses over his head.
Reverand Carmichael irritably thrust the papers further into his face. He gave in and took them from him, smoothed them onto his desk, and replaced his glasses, and began to read.
The first one read simply, IT’S MY FUCKING CHURCH. It gave the street name and number. In small print: SUNDAY WORSHIP, 10PM, BYO.
Shocked, he looked up and actually met Reverant Carmichael’s eyes. The Reverand nodded at him to read further.
He replaced his glasses.
The second one: SHOVE THY NEIGHBOUR.
Eyes open, he shot his gaze back to the Reverand. Open mouthed, he exclaimed, “That’s-”
The Reverand indicated his head. “There’s worse.”
“Worse?”
Hands trembling, he pulled the third page forward, and smoothed it.
It read simply, in block black letters over a red background:
WHAT WOULD JESUS DO
CUNT.
For a moment, he found himself unable to speak. “Oh God.”
Reverand Carmichael nodded. “Indeed.”
They stood there for a moment, and in the Silence, the priest felt Compassion and the combined Spirtual Energy flowing between the two religious figures. They might have their, uh, personal differences… But for this moment they stood in unison to defend what the collective religion of Christianity was really about.
Which was not this.
He looked up, because Reverand Carmichael was checking his watch with percepitable alarm.
“Something wrong?” he asked the Reverand.
The Reverand looked up a little alarm. “No, uh, it’s nothing but… Sorry, the smell of this place is just getting to me. Good day.”
“I’ll check this out,” the priest yelled at his retreating back, but the only reply was the gentle jingle of the door bell as it shut behind the Reverand.
Typical, was the thought that almost crossed his mind, but he breathed through his nose and was filled with Peace and Understanding, and just prayed a little bit for Reverand Carmichael. He was well meaning. He had belief and conviction. He was just wrong.
Though baby’s still in his comatose state
I’ll die my own Easter eggs
Don’t go yet
Just don’t go
And Beenie lost the sunset but that’s OK
Does Joe bring flowers to Marilyn’s grave
And girls that eat pizza and never gain weight
Never gain weight
Never gain weight
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Conclusion: Provocations of Marc Jacobs will not go unanswered. While it is inherently difficult to root for capitalist enterprises, any artist trying to subvert something through destruction for attention (such as Kidult clearly does) is difficult to root for as well. Especially when the response is as crafty, canny, and genuinely more artful than the provocation it’s answering. Jacobs, in this situation, has made one hell of a commentary about the absurd commoditization that some street art has yielded, and how easily ostensibly subversive art can actually be subverted, facile as it so often is, and it may be the best take on the matter since Exit Through The Gift Shop. In short: Marc Jacobs wins. (via Marc Jacobs vs. The Graffiti Artist, Round 2: When Jacobs Turns Vandalized Store Into $680 Shirt | The New York Observer)
You got a lot, but you just waste all yourself
They’ll forget your name soon
And won’t nobody be to blame but yourself
it’s like you were never here at all
it’s like you were never here at all
it’s like you were never here at all
