I sit here, with my girlfriend aside me, drinking coffee and eating porridge. We are each on our matching laptops, looking out to a foggy Regents Park, connected to the larger world , each other and yet still the archetypal 21st century individual.
I look across to glance at what she is reading or watching, my expensive headphones cushion me and serenade me with the finest Creedence Clearwater Revival. You may be inclined to think that we are a total pair of wankers. You may be right.
She is in fact reading this super mega popular, e-zine of international renown.
Reading it quite blatantly, right next to me.
Laughing at the quality, and possibly the content, quite brazenly.

I shift nervously and sup my coffee. All of a sudden she stops, complements me and puts on the Crown.
“haha Your so funny, that was a good one.”
Perhaps this new Netflixs drama is the next subject of her never ending ire, in the mean time I unbate my breath and relax, but, who will be next?
Who will be the one to destroy the budding artist?
And what is the place of the critic in art?
When does a critique become a piece of art?

Good questions.
None of which should be expected to be answered by the likes of me.
Someone who would gladly critique things for a living and yet would probably jump off of a bridge if my work should ever be torn apart.

Perhaps this is a message for positiveness,  or only positive reviews, or a chance to brag at the rare contentedness of my morning. Or a chance to make my girlfriend laugh. Who knows? Not I.

Mr Hummels