Kinghuman
Artistic Genius
Pearls Before Swine
Artist Statement:
"I make garbage. You call it art. Who's the real joke here?"
I am Kinghuman - one word all caps. Like GOD or IKEA.
I did not choose art. Art stumbled into me like a drunk at closing time at a dive bar, and I never called it back.
My work isn't "Art Brut." That would be giving it too much credit. It's Art Junk. Not outsider art. Not insider art. Just out-the-window art, like something you'd hurl into a dumpster at 3AM while screaming about Jackson Pollock being a scam.
My medium?... Whatever I find in the alley behind the dollar store before security threatens to call the cops on me. My canvas? Anything flat and abandoned by good taste. My inspiration? Pure spite, and maybe some old gas station sushi.
Let's be clear: my work has no soul, no message, and no technique. That's the point....
The "Fine Art" world is one giant performance piece in denial and I'm it's loud, embarrassing understudy. I make bad art on purpose because the art world has lost it's mind and started calling banana peels taped to walls a genius "statement on capitalism." So here I am gluing broken Happy Meal toys onto hubcaps and calling it "Requiem For A Broken Childhood In The Age Of Plastic Fart Shits" and the moronic people nod.... and they pay... they pay me thousands for this regurgitated superficial diarrhea.
They put my crap in galleries next to someone who cried into a Mason jar and called it "Tears Of Post-Modern Disillusion." What a crock of shit!... I do not paint emotions. I paint indigestion. I sculpt migraines. I collage confusion. My most famous piece, "Untitled #872 (Smells Like Ethel Merman's Ass)," was created during a blackout (both electrical and mental). It sold for $4,000 to a guy in a baret who said "It challenged Linearity."
Holy shit!... it was a smelly sock stapled to a greasy pizza box.
You think I'm joking? I'm not.... Or maybe I am. That's the insanity of it: I don't even know myself anymore... and neither do you.
Critics call my work "An impactful visceral reaction to the emptiness of post-industrial consumerism." Fuuuuck me, I call it Tuesday. I once submitted a moldy plastic coated Pop-Tart nailed to a slab of MDF to an international biennale. They gave me a grant.
I am not here to elevate the conversation. I am here to suffocate it with garbage, glue and duct tape. My art is not a mirror of society. It's the reflection in a cracked funhouse mirror after a bender in Vegas. If you see depth in my works, that's on you. If you feel moved, you're full of shit.
I'm not making statements. I'm making statements about not making statements. I'm not an artist-I'm a prank that took off and I'm just cashing in on it all.
So sure, buy my trash. Hang it in the living room of your post Park Ave. Penthouse and whisper to your guests in dulcet pretentious melodic tones about the works "existential tension." Meanwhile, I'll be behind the gallery building my next masterpiece out of lint, chicken bones and printer ink.
Long live KINGHUMAN.
*Art is dead. I just poked it with a stick and sold the stick for five grand.
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