I read an article yesterday at the Cluster Mag about the ever-widening circle of art-superstars who never actually participate in the fashioning of their own work. While this is nothing new, the recurring image of toiling masses laboring to produce works of supposedly high aesthetic rank always, well, rankles. I’ve always had a pretty general disdain for this sort of hierarchical creative process, with its cynical manipulation of our culture’s lust for both the celebrity velvet-rope sausage factory and the shiny dream-deferred golden ticket mirage. How important can one person’s ideas really be? The dreck dripping from the orifices of culture is a byproduct of our over-consumption of this art-world Olestra, the product that aims to provide the mouthfeel of real emotional involvement with creativity, but which causes an unfortunate level of leakage. We need more real-time, real-world collaboration, not this pseudo-epic horseshit.