Telegram from Thaddäus.

To the degenerates in the Peanut Gallery

Brace for a fistful of chaos. 

Art is a frenzied embrace. If you’re lucky, it will shake you up and unload a fair amount of chaos straight into your prefrontal cortex. 

It will rip you from your organized life, fill you with unknowing, allow you to become lost and curious. It will make you forget your language, forget where you came from or how you even got here. Take a deep draught of turpentine. Let your subconscious associations run wild with the music of color in your eyeballs.

Don't spoil your trip by imposing clumsy ideas, don’t cling to the first piece of intellectual driftwood floating by, surrender to the compulsive current. Let your head go under. 

Now, envision a maniac, his movements frenetic, his sweat dripping and staining the salty canvas. Look, there's an opening, a little gateway to a feral cosmos, boisterous and redemptive. Look closer, you can stumble into the canvas, your bones collapsing with a splash into a world of drips and strokes. 

Or tell me to shut up and cut up my canvases for a loincloth, use the frames as kindling, crush what’s left into war paint. Cause if you're only half as whacky as I hope you are, you have a hankering for the holy intoxication of art.