Albacete, Monday XIV.VII.MMVIII

There’s only one thing worse than a graffitti artist, and that’s one whose artwork stinks. It’s bad enough to spoil the landscape with polka dot lettering and spikes, but, when the vandals don’t have the bare minimum of talent, they make me factually sick. I don’t even know how critics have the nerve to call them artists. I’m at a loss to understand how anyone who dubs them so can expect to be taken seriously. Artists show respect towards other artists’ work, unless, of course, they’re jealous bastards like Pietro Torrigiano or Concha Piquer. I wanted to take a picture of Azorín’s bust in Parque de Abelardo Sánchez, and, some time between June twenty-first, when I last visited Albacete, and today, a nincompoop tagged the pedestal and spraypainted a sad sketch of some kind of doggish-like cartoon character. I’ve got nothing against good graffiti, God knows I refused to help catch the talented typographer who so lavishly decorated the gentlemen’s toilets in Getafe, but people who don’t know how to draw a straight line should under no circumstances be allowed to alter the environment.

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10.07.07. Diary.

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