Hate Art

This was a jump of threat, a jump of abandon, a jump of machismo, maybe one of despair. These men wore blue Adidas sweat pants, and swung on one hand over three sixty degrees. And made sexist jokes. And threatened to steal flat-screen televisions of Japanese tourists if enough donation was not poured into their boxes. They spoke nonchalantly of their time at prisons and legwork learnt while housebreaking. They spoke of the larger world that their touristy ad hoc audience came from, that owned flatscreens, and fetishised street performance, and read the New York Times. And they only flirted with the big Mama.

This was political commentary and irony and gymnastics packed in one - these men were performing hatred. While nostalgia jazz was being bagpiped a block away, and a BBKing-esque man tried to move you to tears into buying his CD. These blue-adidas-gold-teethed atheletes made their way into the heart of gaiety-New-Orleans and swung limbs up in desperation. And said we love you, and we love your flatscreens even more.


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