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Glad it’s on? 

Since finishing art school, I find myself watching a lot of TV. Recent viewing includes; a Cliff Curtis documentary on Marae, episodes of Billy T James on Sunday Theatre, to my personal favorite; Kristies Handmade Showdown, featuring “pigs intestine caramelized onion”. Some of which I enjoyed contemplating.

The black box offers relief. TV offers a mimic world, a scheduled consumer orientated paradise where I am expected to be passive. Perfect. Sometimes I don’t want to think. I’d rather immerse myself in a digital form of human existence, a space of vague connectivity to those around me.

Never fully absorbed, my TV mind is disrupted by voiceless thoughts. The bubble effect of the art institution is gone. Now what do I do? I’m a contradiction on an unbalanced foundation; nonetheless it’s somewhat pleasing. This is exactly how I feel right now.

How do I counter my inner struggles? Since graduating, I find myself yelling at the TV as certain ads skillfully use all the necessary tactics for enticing consumerist behaviours. The colour coordination between the product and the actors clothing is unavoidable from my gaze.

Reality shows like the real housewives of Beverly Hills, an American media franchise, which is known to broadcast several affluent housewives situated in various regions from the United States, has influenced International spin offs worldwide. Resulting to the global brand of The Real housewives of Athens, Melbourne and Cheshire.

Material wealth is spewed within the luxury homes of these women. Plastic surgery and chemical peels are the norm within this cultural obsessed age exemplifying hoax. Conscious wealth needn’t stray afar, as the overtly glamorous body image is perfect amongst shallow eyes. On top of this their role as mothers and wives are for all to see. The disruptive relationships between the housewives emphasize on the bitchiness for the sake of drama.

My reality becomes subdue as I enter the static transmission, realizing the commonality through a sitting of the real housewives episodes. I then feel numbingly distraught. Have I unconsciously crave for my ideal self in these subjects? Is my reality of my social and personal relationships interfere with my deficiency too find value within myself?

I then realize the moments in between the flicking of the channels are the hidden signs of the television’s demise made real.

I then seep within the television’s loss of life to its extension pack of the PlayStation, where you can trick yourself into thinking your achieving something. Add online access and the innumerable channels of youtube, and the world derived from TV media seems as deep as life itself. I have found emotional Faux relationships. A place of suspended goals and the obligated self collides.

Salome Tanuvasa 

 

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