A rich bubble

Walking through the fickle world of Bond Street, traversing through the stepping stones of the vain working suits whom tirelessly and sinfully climb towards a carnivourous intent to comply with their lusting, conceited desires.The never fufilling achievements and callously wanting more and most primarily craving and yearning for what others have. I can't help the streaming thoughts that trespass through me when I glimpse this breed of person and their beautifully designed and carefully manufactured, glossy magazine processed wife they choose to parade with in these golden streets.

My misguided analysis and examination of a person infuriates me, but the stereotype can't help but fester in my mind. I try not to brand a fellow human before I have taken the time to absorb whom they actually are under the mask they present to the world each day. This phantom semblence of how we think we should be.

This had been my first impression of Bond Street as I made my transgression and minscule imprint on these lands. My intention was to see how art is apprieciated and presented by these people. I found that my judgements intimidated me more then the people themselves. If you believe that something is exceptionally better then you, you will further be threatened and diminished by it, therefore making you feel somewhat bitter by its presence. All that is distinctly different about these indivduals is money. Once you strip away the sad materialistic culture you are left to contend with a very average human being. Once you strip away the money that surrounds the art you are left with the artist and the art work itself. I was left phased by the hazy money manifestation that surrounds the art work, not appreciating the actual work, but marvelling at the small price tag that rudely seizes your attention away from these beautiful works.

As I took my silent steps around these unwelcoming galleries, having to unfortunatly use my blondeness to stride passed the brawny, burly, sunglassed security. (This involved merely a smile, which saddens me as I would have liked to be challenged, though I suppose a 5'.1" blonde student doesn't particually appear remotely threatening). Well after being asked by the French Art curator if I was here to buy, which is complete madness as I was walking around Bond street with muddy trainers and a grey coat with a spaghetti stain vigourously smeared on the sleave due to my hard work of trying to remove it. Solely on my direful and dismal appearence he should have known I would never have £50,000 in my spaghetti stained pockets. I politely asked if it was okay if I could just view the Art work, or more so the art works price. I found myself peering at the price before my eye even considered to appreciate the work itself. Therefore my time spent at Bond Street was predominantly gorping at the exorbitant amount of money being exchanged for artworks which is rather sad as I feel art has become limited to a certain extent for the rich. I feel this intimidating cycle sadly enfringes others from appreciating art and therefore unfortunatly will never end as money and greed seems to always conquer all.