Contrarywise to my own self-expectations, I find myself not totally uncharmed by - in spite of my long history of aversion to - the works of Banksy. On two scores I reproach myself: the first that I have a profound inconsanguinity with the (street) culture of grafitti and tagging; the second that Todd "read some feminism" Swift has lent his patronage to Banksy (and I would prefer not to be in common assent with Swift in any instance).
So, I, Mr-I-Don't-Know-Much-About-Art-But-I-Know-What-I-Hate, begrudingly tip my baseball cap to Banksy. Or I would if it were on the right way round.
No, it isn't art. But some of it is decent satire, funny in places and in others impressively illusory. In the later category I refer to his skeletal, Death-like monkey in a rowing boat spray-painted on the side of a real boat (or was it a barge?).
My own gripe with Banksy is, however, one of his defining features: his politics. Politically, like many artisists, he is juvenile and trite, shooting at targets which are both easy and have been shot at before. The monarchy, for one. It is bit like having to sit through yet another music video of Madonna "subversively" sexualising the Christian faith; or Marilyn Manson, in spite of his intelligence, repetitively drawing parallels between Christianity and fascism.
If one really insists upon making a critique of myopic, fundamentalist monothiesm, there are more contemporary, urgent variants of religious fundamentalism deserving of critique than Christianity. But that would require too much bravery.
And, for the same reason, Banksy is not only a coward but he is often boring. Why risk life and liberty scaling buildings and railways to insult a largely apolitical, benign monarchy? Because the means is more interesting than the end.
In more than one respect. Banksy's work makes overtures to anarchy and revolution. Anarchy and revolutions are mere slogans, words devoid of their original concept. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I too spoke of revolutions, not quite sure what, after revolting, one would do exactly. It's a battle-cry without a battle-field. Revolution. Anarchy.
And the whole anonymity thing is naff. Apologists - Brad Pitt among them - would argue that Banksy should be commended for his maintenancy of anonymity in an age where the goal is to be celebrity. But that's it precisely: To be anonymous in this day and age where cameras like rats (to use one of Banksy's beloved images) are never less than six metres away smacks of, well, trying too hard.
Before modernity-as-we-know it yes, sure, a highwayman, a masked-bandit or Zorro would have heightened romantic or mythic appeal. But now it's just naff.
This, being Sementivae, I couldn't forgo my diversion into the world of Banksy without commenting his spray-painting on animals: I don't even want to see graffiti on trains and inanimate objects, let alone livestock.
This was supposed to be a positive review of Banksy. It transpires that I don't like his work after all. All is right again.
