Is It Art? His voice sounded like a wood rasp hitting a nail in a board. "Wanna fuck you, baby, wanna fuck you, baby, wanna fuck you, baby, tonight!" He threw his guitar into the air, then jumped on it when it came crashing down on the stage. Was this art or was this a tantrum, the last days of a culture coming undone? "Doing it your way," says the ad with the image of a young man supine on sofa, slick laptop on bare belly. But was art effortless, requiring no work at all, just releasing the "creative spirit within" —after forking out big bucks for a MacBook Pro or a Gibson Les Paul, of course? Or does a flower blossom only after planting the seed, watering the soil around it, warm rays of sunshine, then the struggle to be? 粒 (lì) 粒 (lì) 皆 (jiē) 辛 (xīn) 苦 (kǔ)* —now as ever. Art is fantasy but not that of a media "professional" with a big budget and a bulging belly. *Each and every grain (of rice) is hard (bitter) work, says the ancient Chinese poem.
	—Louis Martin