Hannah Gadsby and Pablo Picasso

"All the Lazy Dykes" (Morrissey), or: Stranger to a Train of Thought

Where to begin? Where to begin at, looking intensely at Picasso's supreme masterpiece "Les demoiselles d'Avignon"? Perhaps at the weird spread cunt? Which, in a sense, leads us to Hannah Gadsby, who, 'in a sense,' is one with the subject-matter of Picasso's complex and profound canvas, which, 'in a sense,' is but a projection screen to the gross Gadsby.

For those not in the "If You Know You Know" demographic, Gadsby is an Ozzie-demimonde "comedienne" — or rather, as she would likely approve being termed, a "storyteller." Which is one way to characterize, as per uzh, a deeply sado-masochistic unfunny lecture-scold. (Malus.) Let's take a moment to think about this unusual and much-fêted modern term: "storytelling," parallel to "my truth" or "our truth," which always reminds me of the British term "our kid" (e.g., Liam Gallagher) or Morrissey's great "Our Frank". ("Our frank and open, deep conversations... / ...I'm gonna be sick all over / Your frankly vulgar / Red pull-over / Oh see how the two colours blend..."). There's either the truth, or there isn't: "your" truth connotes hallucination. Picasso told the truth. Hannah Gadsby, on the other hand, possesses "her truth," which is total hallucination. Hence storytelling. A few years ago, a cabal of groupthinkers decided to brand the phrase "storytelling," (Spielberg, not Solondz) (Malus.) as the ultimate goal of cinema and, I don't know, probably dance too, to leave themselves open to offers for episodic television work and the occasional Max toss-off. Stories have always been a component of cinema — not the re-fried goooooaaaaalllllll, much to the chagrin of football/soccer fans all too willing to genuflect on the sod (cf. Soderbergh) of Soder-berg. And thus, God is a spider.

Life is hard, said my good friend Marianna the other day. A cliché, but the truth. It reminded me of an Instagram story I saw from an acquaintance recently, a quote by (the still underrated) Aldous Huxley: something to the effect of, after all these years of living, the deepest advice one can give is to be kinder to one another. I am charged and guilty. I make stupid remarks sometimes and unthinkingly insult my friends and nearest. "Sometimes I get over-charged..." (Radiohead). I am the zombified cliché: a "work in progress," and "a walking disaster" (Radiohead). The stars are alienated and arrange in strange positions.

For Hannah Gadsby, life is blacker and whiter, a tornadic Michael Curtiz film shot like a Burroughs Lawrence pumpkin. High contrast! She was gifted the gimmick of a "present" Brooklyn Museum exhibition called "It's Pablo-Matic," in which neither the artist nor the curator is present. The title of the exhibit (actually, "exhibition" above was both poor diction yet tellingly ironic) is moronic, a mongoloidal mixup of Gadsby's knee-jerk automatism, in which the automat becomes the essential metaphor for "the people," as outlined in Jason Farago's crucial review in The New York Times, available to read here. The farrago is Gadsby's, and that's being far too generous. She has never exhibited any clear sense of art appreciation or understanding, and why would she? But why, then, should she be granted museum hours? Hers is a practical special-affect (unpack it) of provocateuse-ism. And, like so much similar jissom, her cognizance of what makes art Art is aimed at the lowest common denominator of "train your vague eyes at this and move on," a podcast earbud wave-through with no ending but men-ding. Throw your pretty white body down, son (Morrissey). Loveless, she hates herself, and has a grievance "whilst" in search of every lost dime.

Let me tell you about Picasso's painting posted above. Two of the women share the features of Picasso's face, specifically his eyes, where he presents in caricature his earlier work in which his eyes highlight their very own prominent feature. He is two at once, and he projects himself onto his own canvas, valid property, and eminent domain. Picasso possessed, as Richardson noted, the power of "ocular rape." The raping gaze. Voilà or as it's always misspelled, "Viol-a." "Two of Us"? Maybe one last tango-round. (Malus.)

So 'in a sense' Gadsby and Picasso are united forever. She did it to herself. Just the easy cue for a humorless hussy caught in the web of a superior genius. Inescapable, his "right back atcha, bitch" — for Fräulein G. has run amok. I hope she goes to Switzerland. •

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