kritika savremene umetnosti

I come from a dark place. Postwar Yugoslavia, the mid-1940s to the mid-’70s. A Communist dictatorship,
Marshal Tito in charge. Perpetual shortages of everything, drabness everywhere. There is something about
Communism and socialism—it’s a kind of aesthetic based on pure ugliness. The Belgrade of my
childhood didn’t even have the monumentalism of Red Square in Moscow. Everything was somehow
secondhand. As though the leaders had looked through the lens of someone else’s Communism and built
something less good and less functional and more fucked-up.
I always remember the communal spaces—they would be painted this dirty green color, and there were
these naked bulbs that gave off a gray light that kind of shadowed the eyes. The combination of the light
and the color of the walls made everyone’s skin yellowish-greenish, like they were liver-sick. Whatever
you did, there would be a feeling of oppression, and a little bit of depression.  

William Murderface wrote:Kako beše ono za Irak i Iran?