What is it about people that, ultimately, almost everything degenerates into 'I said - he said - I said' into the friggin' sunset?
I've just watched a rerun of the story of the glory-days of the Clyde shipbuilding industry. Depressing stuff and a huge mixture of optimism, pessimism, but hardly anything to be heard about the overarching reality: ships are of the past, and by the looks of it, not only on the Clyde. The photographic parallels are pretty clear: entire companies and trained workers out on the scrap heap. And who to blame? Nobody, really, because that's the march of life - the beat of progress, the cemetery-filling crunch of change. The only way to stop it is to freeze time by some international pact to stop progress here and now. It can't be done. It's not in the nature of Man to co-operate like that, and change is written into the fabric of everything.
So where does art fit in all of this? Why would anyone care whether a snapper is an artist, a craftsman, just a camera operator or all three? It's all so damned irrelevant in the greater scheme of things; a discussion but a pastime in the lives of those with nothing better to do, like us, as far as I can see. And much of it turns to dust, just as did my lunch today: I decided to eat out instead of do my own thing so many days in a row; the usual, familiar places were closed and I opted to try a spot I'd always walked straight past. I should have continued walking. And to think there were great days (and lunches!), once upon a time!
The BBC does another show that's gripping, if you can forgive the presenter: it's all about railway journeys of the British past. It takes you to towns once famous for this, that or the other, the very reasons that the railroads were created to reach them (and vice versa), and much of the original raison d'ętre there, too, has vanished. It's evolution on a visible timescale, visible within the compass of a single life, much of it. And yes, plenty of industrial art there too, now redundant.
Perhaps the last sign of Man on Earth will be a bloody museum filled with his art.