Where to begin?
We begin with the eroticism of boredom. The boredom of art, of art criticism, of language, of language as language, of language as language as language. (Or, indeed, even of language as language as language as language.) When I was a little girl in Siberia I once had a high fever. The water dripping in the other room would make a different word every time a drop struck the basin, and I saw that every word was really a little picture, and that the pictures lined up together in rows like fields seen from an airplane, and in the fields were little specks, and the little specks were men working, and the little men were singing a little song, and the song was about language, and the language was about language, and the language was about language, and the language was about language. It is the purely bourgeois myth of novelty that even allows us the delusion known as
The fact that you make no sense doesn't mean you're an artist. The fact that you make no art doesn't mean you're not an artist. The fact that art makes no sense doesn't mean that you're not an artist. The fact that artists make no art doesn't mean that you make sense. The art that artists know make facts doesn't mean that you sense. The sense that you artists fact doesn't that mean you art no. You the artists sense fact doesn't that mean no you art? The artifacts of sense that don't art you mean? Sentiments are tacit feints offer human't.
Art as something other than communication
The Obscurist movement at its most extreme produces art that isn't even to be seen. X ("X" here representing an Obscurist artist whose "name" is unknown) has for years been producing art pieces which she buries and keeps secret (other than discussing her medium with other artists, much as two painters might discuss what they use to clean their brushes). Perhaps all art is communication. If we define communication as "change taking place in a consciousness by virtue of change taking place outside of a consciousness; this change as a result of a consciousness" we can say that the art of X is a communication from her own consciousness to her own consciousness (can we own consciousness?). That she wishes to effect the particular change in her consciousness that comes about when she becomes aware that she has completed (and buried) a piece of art. When I communicate something to you, the end result is the change in my consciousness effected by the knowledge that I have communicated something to you. My message to you is much like X's buried art piece. I don't care about your consciousness; as far as I'm concerned, it's soil. It's a place for me to put my ideas.
Give me a cheap ephemeris and it'll take me ten seconds to add a profound "Mercury goes retrograde" to the pot-luck platitude assigned to Gemini.