There was a time when I was young and blight absolutely delighted me. We revelled in the romance of urban decay, swam in its rust and sipped nectar from its futuristic dystopian corrosion. We savoured it without a second thought given to the privileged perspective which permitted the sentiment. It took me years to fully appreciate that urban decay itself is not an aesthetic, it’s violence. When a system enshrines violence, decay and decline is the inevitable result. I can appreciate the clear aesthetic appeal of violence but, it’s important to see it first and foremost as violence. Bruises on an arm may shimmer in an iridescent purple the camera simply adores but, those bruises represent an act of violence. Blood spatters beautifully across blue velvet pillows but it still represents violence. Forgetting the true significance of violence is the first step in domestication and acquiescence to oppressive systems. Wolves didn’t become dogs when they accepted food from a human hand. They crossed over into domestication when they ceased biting that same hand as it struck them, in violence. Did we decide urban decay is aesthetically appealing or was this decided for us? When we aestheticize urban decay, what are we truly celebrating? Did we buy into the idealized myth of the anti-aesthetic? Weren’t we cute? There is a moment when it clicks and the mind begins to label “violence” the artificial ingredient one no longer wishes to blindly consume.
Then again… fictional urban decay and violence is highly entertaining…
