On a little bit of mushrooms at the Tamayo I realized how much I hate David Hockney’s paintings. Ever so slightly altered I could hate them as much as I needed to hate them.
Absolute garbage, I told my friends, with whom I’d shared a few capsules.
Look at this shit, I said, pointing at one of those bright canvases which filled me with paranoia and disgust. I stomped around the gallery. I threw up my hands. Can you really believe this shit?
I don’t think any of them agreed with me, which was fine on the one hand, but also completely untenable and impossible to understand. I went to a different floor, far from Hockney’s cheerful tyranny, and stared into something appropriately minimal for long enough to absent myself from myself.
What work it is to hate, so vividly, the things you hate.