c. Art Doesn’t Exist
Short story by Peter Cheevers published
by Ether books 2016
I arrive at
Victoria station and leg it down Platform 5 and there is Martin standing there,
all 6 foot 3 of him, in his studiedly casual attire and that shoulder bag; the
ever present badge of bien pensant
media types replete no doubt with Martin’s ideological baggage..
“Get a tube or
walk?” I say to Martin.
“What pay a fiver
for one stop, on an overcrowded third world Tube, no sirree.”
“Did you hear him?” enquires Martin, our
beloved Mayor boning on about what our fear of immigrants is? It is our fear of
the ‘other’ he claims.”
“So what do you
make of that?”
“He has been
reading too much bloody Edward Said if you ask me, sounding off like a besotted
undergrad’ clutching his first book on French theory.”
“Right,
right.” This is going to be a good day,
I think, as I do a skip and a hop to keep up with the giant striding Martin.
Now I quicken my step to a half run as Martin fairly goose steps past the
beggars outside McDonalds. There they are sitting on the pavements huddling
under filthy blankets, some of them accompanied by trembling mongrels. I stop
when one of them calls out as he sees me hurrying alongside Martin.
“Go on my son.” An indigenous beggar!
“Just a moment,
Martin.” I stop for a breather and to give the old boy some change.
“Told him to get something hot.”
“Yes, I heard and in your best droit
de seigneur voice too.”
“Amazing that
Orwell lived like that as a tramp,” I offer trying to slow him down.
“Yes in Paris and
in London, I don’t get it, he obviously believed in that artistically obdurate
way that there was something emancipatory about extreme experience.”
“Well wasn’t
there...I mean his books, Down and Out in
Paris and...?”
“But that is what
killed him...so if you believe death to be emancipatory then...”
I am silenced by
Martins’s erudition as I hurry after him trying to keep in his jet stream and
take a backward glance at the beggars by McDonalds alongside the very imposing
Westminster Cathedral which induces me to think of that mystery of mysteries,
God.
“Who was it who
talked of God as a mystery?”
The mobile library
ahead of me calls back “That was Bunuel ‘Why should we accept a mystery as the
explanation of a mystery.’”
Daddy Long Legs like he strides on.
“Talking of
mysteries... this project of yours...?” I call to the rear of giant frame.
“Best if we talk
about it after the Lecture.”
We reach Trafalgar
Square rejuvenated by the walk make our way into the Lecture Theatre. It is
well populated with I presume freelance types like me up from the shires with a special interest in
the consolations of art. I note how some homeless looking people have
bagged the seats nearest the radiators. After a while an elderly man enters
and starts
talking.
“Good morning to
you all and thank you for attending. As you all probably know this is going to
be a talk on Rubens and Poussin. It goes without saying that in matters of
taste, there is always room for disagreement. So if you feel like speaking just
raise your hand. Now I will begin by saying that artists have argued about
art since the earliest times; prehistoric painters most probably debated the
advisability of including human figures amongst the animals on the walls of
their caves.”
The
Lecturer continues with expansive hand movements. “However, the longest and
most divisive art controversies took place in France during the mid-1800s. The
two camps were called the Poussinistes and the Rubenistes after their titular
idols, Nicholas Poussin and Peter Paul Rubens.”
“I’m
going to enjoy this,” Martin whispers in a threatening way.
“Now
don’t start.”
I
raise my eyes to look up at the splendid ceiling then look along the aisle to
see one of the destitute looking types wrap his arms around a radiator as if he
intends to prise it off the wall, then try to attend to the Lecturer words,
“...and this
disagreement is no more evident than in the ‘Poussenist’ versus the
‘Rubenists’.”
“And the real disagreement is whether art
actually exists!”
Martin, pitches in
to me,
I think of Orwell
living with those types as another attendant appears along the aisle and begins
remonstrating with a down and out who appears to be handcuffed to the radiator.
It is not going well for now both attendants are endeavouring to prise the
homeless looking man’s hands off the radiator. I feel sympathy for this poor
Lecturer as all audience attention is diverted to the narrative in the aisle.
The homeless type reluctantly relents and let’s go of the radiator.
“The Poussinistes
proclaimed the primacy of drawing and draughtsmanship in painting while the
Rubenistes argued that colour should rule the day. The Poussinistes followed
the well-worn path of classical art from Greek and Roman antiquities up through
the Renaissance. The Rubenistes adored the vibrant colours and aggressive
brushstrokes of the more recent Baroque artists.”
God, I feel wiped
out, trying to keep up with Martin, has done me in.
“Actually, Poussin and Rubens themselves had little or nothing to do with the controversy. The real protagonists were Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and Eugène Delacroix, pronounced Dela-qua.”
“Actually, Poussin and Rubens themselves had little or nothing to do with the controversy. The real protagonists were Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and Eugène Delacroix, pronounced Dela-qua.”
Dela aquaah...my
head is lolling forward, I jerk it upright.
“Ingres had been a
student of the outstanding classical master-painter Jacques-Louis David,
pronounced Da-veed...”
My head lolls
forward again. |I am asleep, pronounced a sle ep and dreaming of the city of
Rouen pronounced 'Roo on'... “What,
where am I....?”
“You dozed off”,
Martin reprimands loftily assures me. I sit bolt upright as if tasered.
“The fact is
neither side was entirely right or entirely wrong. Given the state of art, and
painting in particular, in the 1800s, both sides needed each other...”
I reach for my
bottle of water and look for that continuing narrative in the aisle. I see that
the down and outer’s hands have been prised from the radiator and he now sits
with his back resting against it with his legs defiantly stretched out across
the aisle.
“The theories of
hemispheric domination were, of course, unknown at the time, but the matter
essentially came down to a left-brain/right-brain approach to painting...”
“Oh no, not that
old chestnut left brain, right brain,” I hear Martin groan beside me.
“Shsh Martin.”
In the aisle a
person leaving trips over the outstretched legs of the homeless one. Giggles are heard as
the man goes arse over tip onto the carpet.
“Now are there any
questions...comments? Raise your hand.”
I knew this would
happen, the person beside me, you guessed, Martin, is giving the Lecturer his
two penny worth.
“If
I can just say...”
“Go
ahead.” Yes, go on, Martin.
“Apart
from the Poussenists and the Rubens adherents a more divisive controversy about
art is between art aficionados and those who just don’t believe that art
actually exists?”
“And
what school are you of, sir?”
“I
am of the school that questions arts’ existence.”
“Oh,
you do,”
“Yes,
I believe we have naïvely realistic
assumptions about works of art.”
“Yes,
well, could you expand on that?”
“I
mean that we fall into a kind of transcendental realism when we look at words
of art. For looking at art works is a subjective experience like taste.”
For God’s sake Martin, getting a little bit
embarrassing this.
“So
Art is a conspiracy, we are being hoodwinked when we look at a Rembrandt?”
“I
didn’t say that, but now that you mention it.”
“Thank
you sir, if I might continue. The left side of the brain being the analytical
side, demanded careful drawing, adherence to scientific rules, even in matters
of aesthetics and colour theory and the right side of the brain... being the
visual and emotional hemisphere, tended toward an instinctive approach both in
drawing, and especially in colour use.”
More people are
leaving. I feel sorry for the Lecturer, but have sympathy for those who have
the bottle to leg it.
“...today, not all
that much has changed of course. The only difference is the names - the
Rockwellians and the Pollockers perhaps. Yes, that gentleman in the third row has
his hand raised, again.”
“As I was saying, I would argue that art works
are works of fiction.”
“And how can that
be, sir?”
“Because they are
dependent upon the perception and imagination of the observer.”
“Not sure I, or
the rest of the people here, quite understand that. Do we?” he appeals to
audience. There is a swell of a ‘no’ from the audience that smack of an angry
lynch mob.
“Well, I will explain
if I may?”
“Please,” and the
Lecturer proffers an inviting hand. I inwardly groan.
“Although artists, critics, and you art lovers
are likely to think such a claim is absurd we have to attribute so called
existence of art to other modes of being. Because they are observer
relative.”
Martin leans
forward, he has got hold of the polemical bone so revered by auto-didacts. I
note the destitute types spotted around
the aisles, seem to be paying attention to what is beginning to sound like an
argy bargy, for there is the odd one or two put a sock in it type murmurs
coming from the audience.
“No, let the
gentleman continue, let’s hear what he has to say,” the Lecturer chides magnanimously.
“You were saying about art having to be another mode of existence, were you?”
“Well
thank you for allowing me to continue. Yes, well, as you look at a piece of art
it is a contemplative and for some aesthetic experience neither of which
constitute existence. Works of art are the product of the imagination; the existence
or reality of a completed work of art continues to depend on the make-believe
or imaginative activity of the artist or some other subject, such as the observer
or reader who conjectures the work as a work of art.”
“But
where does this lead, isn’t this all a bit higgledy-piggledy?”
There
are hoots of defensive laughter from the audience to this repost, after all
Martin, is a challenge to their belief systems, I mean, if you didn’t have art,
what then?
“You
say higgledy-piggledy,”
more laughter, “...and you may very well be discombobulated by all this,
but may I explain?”
Oh
for God’s sake, big words.
“Please
do. Please,” and the Lecturer raises a hand to quiet the audience.
“What we undergo as we look at art works is a
kind of ‘conscious self-deception’ and this conscious self-deception is
necessary to both the creation and appreciation of art. So our commerce with
art is a kind of lucid illusion.”
“And
so what thne your view on the beauty of art.”
“Beauty
comes about through it irreducability. It is not a thing that exists.”
I
notice a few restless movements in the seats; no wonder, for this man is trying
to deny us our monthly day out to the Royal Academy, or wherever, to have lunch
and see that exhibition. But there is no stopping Martin.
“If we applied more self-reflexive awareness
we would realise that something is being imagined when looking at art works, as
opposed to believed. When we look at a Ruben’s or a Poussin they may have the
capacity to contribute to a subjective appearance of beauty but this does not constitute
existence.”
“No,
so what does it constitute?” Comes back a very peeved looking lecturer.
“It
constitutes subjective idealism. The painting, the wood frame, the paper, the
paint, obviously figures amongst the real entities of the world, but if you then
extract from these material things, the work of art, and see it as a bearer
or locus of beauty and other aesthetic properties,
then clearly work of art cannot be the material object in itself so we have to
questions its existence. Take this building it is a material entity of
bricks etc. But if we then deem the building to be majestic or grandiose or see
this ceiling here as beautiful, or the dome of St Pauls as a work of art then
you are engaging in the imaginative apprehension of fictional qualities.”
“So
how should we view art, sir? That is, if it exists?” More laughter.
“Well,
not as existing but in a relativist or contextualist way, but certainly not as
existing.”
“But
you say art works don’t exist. But let us say if you discover or come upon some
object of any kind then you have to accept that it must exist?”
“That
is highly debatable...”
“But
let us let us say you visit this
sculptor in his studio he sits in front of a large piece of marble and he
begins to chip away as you watch something begins to emerge in the marble it
looks like a human figure, later it is clearly a human figure.”
“So
what’s your point?”
“My
point is you can only discover something if it already exists. So the work of
art exists.”
There
is a confused applause from the audience and the tramps along the aisles show
blackened teeth and gummy smiles in seeming appreciation that something is
happening.
“Thank
you for attending”, says the Lecturer and walks off triumphantly as if about to
be wreathed in victory
Martin
and I sit in the cafeteria. “Enjoy the argy bargy?” I ask him. “
“Great fun, it was nice to let him have the last word.”
“But
he made a good point.”
“I
restrained myself from giving him the old Nietzsche one two.”
“What’s
that?”
“Nietzsche
claimed we embrace art, lest we ask the question, why?
“So that was the
one, what was the two.”
The myth of physical
objects is epistemologically superior to most in that it has proved more efficacious
than other myths as a device for working a manageable structure into the
flux of experience. “
“Well
that sorts that out, doesn’t it? The
project what’s it about.”
“Art”
“Are
you joking?”
“No,
listen, it is a project about you and me making a film about art not existing,
and that debate in the Lecture Hall is the first scene. He looks enthused, “...we
will call it. Why we have art?”
“So
how do you propose to convey that?”
“Well
in the first scene we have someone in this interminable corridor, and this Kafkaesque
figure knocks on the first door, and asks where can I find art. And the person
at the door first you have to find yourself. And then he goes along this
corridor knocking on these interminable doors trying to find his self as he
needs a self to view art...so. The end message is that artists have a Platonic
mind set, they want their work to be timeless.”
Later as I leave I
pass the opened doors of the Lecture Hall and see that the destitute looking types,
are back at the radiators and appear to have no intention of leaving. In the
foyer I notice the Lecture timetable; there is another Lecture in half an hour,
ah well, we live in the late capitalism culture of 2 for 1. I inspect the
notice what is it about: Hmm...‘The Road to Calvary’ . which makes me think of Martin, he has always been difficult.
I arrive at
Victoria station and leg it down Platform 5 and there is Martin standing there,
all 6 foot 3 of him, in his studiedly casual attire and that shoulder bag, the
ever present badge of bien pensant
media types replete no doubt with Martin’s ideological baggage. I shudder;
thought London would be warmer all those millions of people huddled together in
such a confined space, but it is even colder than that Leningrad Cemetery I remember so well.
“Get a tube or
walk?” I say to Martin.
“What pay a fiver
for one stop, on an overcrowded third world Tube, no sirree.”
We stride out. I
tell him about the washing of feet.
“Did you hear
him?” enquires Martin, our beloved Mayor boning on about what our fear of
immigrants is? It is our fear of the ‘other’ he claims.”
“So what do you
make of that?”
“He has been
reading too much bloody Edward Said if you ask me, sounding off like a besotted
undergrad’ clutching his first book on French theory.”
“Right, right.” This is going to be a good day, I think, as I
do a skip and a hop to keep up with the giant striding Martin. Now I quicken my
step to a half run as Martin fairly goose steps past the beggars outside
McDonalds. There they are sitting on the pavements huddling under filthy
blankets, some of them accompanied by trembling mongrels. Then I stop when one
of them calls out as he sees me hurrying alongside Martin.
“Go on my son.” An indigenous beggar!
“Just a moment,
Martin.” I stop and give the old boy some change and advised him to get
something hot, “Told him to get something hot.”
“Yes, I heard and in your best droit
de seigneur voice too.”
“Amazing that
Orwell lived like that as a tramp.
“in Paris and in
London, i don’t get it as if there was something emancipatory about extreme
experience.
Now I hurry after
Martin trying to keep in his jet stream and take a backward glance at the
beggars by McDonalds alongside the very imposing Westminster Cathedral which
induces me to think of that mystery of mysteries, God.
“Who was it who
talked of God as a mystery?”
The mobile library
ahead of me calls back “That was Bunuel ‘Why should we accept a mystery as the
explanation of a mystery.’
“Martin could you
slow down a bit. This project?”
“Right.”
“Can we talk about
it?”
“Sure.”
We reach Trafalgar
Square rejuvenated by the walk and Martin elucidating all the way about his
‘project’. In an MI5 way, he swears me
to secrecy. We make our way into the Lecture Theatre. It is well populated with
freelance types like
me up from the shires with a special interest in the consolations of art. I
note how some homeless looking people have bagged the seats nearest the
radiators. After a while an elderly
man enters and starts
talking.
“Good morning to
you all and thank you for attending. As you all probably know this is going to
be a talk on Rubens and Poussin. It goes without saying that in matters of
taste, there is always room for disagreement. So if you feel like speaking just
raise your hand. Now I will begin by saying that artists have argued about
art since the earliest times; prehistoric painters debated the advisability of
including human figures amongst the animals on the walls of their caves.”
I think, but how
would he know that.
“The
longest, most divisive, art controversies took place in France during the
mid-1800s. The two camps were called the Poussinistes and the Rubenistes after
their titular idols, Nicholas Poussin and Peter Paul Rubens.”
“A
history of events is no more than a selective point of view.” Martin whispers
across to me.
I
raise my eyes to look up at the splendid ceiling then look along the aisle to
see one of the homeless looking type wrap his arms around a radiator as if he
intends to prise it off the wall.
I think - what is
the price of property in Bella Russe, or Vilnius?
“...and this
disagreement is no more evident than in the ‘Poussenist’ versus the
‘Rubenists’.”
“And the current disagreement is about whether
art actually exists.”
Martin, sotto voce, pitches in to me,
“Such.”
Another attendant
appears along the aisle and begins remonstrating with the homeless looking one
who appear to be handcuffed to the radiator. It is not going well for now both
attendants are endeavouring to prise the homeless looking man’s hands off the
radiator. I feel sympathy for this poor Lecturer as all audience attention is
diverted to the battle in the aisle. The homeless type reluctantly relents and
goes back to his seat.
“The Poussinistes
proclaimed the primacy of drawing and draughtsmanship in painting while the
Rubenistes argued that colour should rule the day. The Poussinistes followed
the well-worn path of classical art from Greek and Roman antiquities up through
the Renaissance. The Rubenistes adored the vibrant colours and aggressive
brushstrokes of the more recent Baroque artists.”
God, I feel wiped
out, the ‘Chechnya shuttle’
and trying to keep up with Martin, has done me in.
“Actually, Poussin
and Rubens themselves had little or nothing to do with the controversy. The
real protagonists were Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres
and Eugène Delacroix, pronounced Dela-qua.”
Dela aquaah...my
head is lolling forward, I jerk it upright.
“Ingres had been a
student of the outstanding classical master-painter Jacques-Louis David,
pronounced Da-veed, and was 18 years older than his rival. The competition
between the two split the French Royal Academy of Painting and...”
My head lolls
forward again.
“Of course by that
time, the young Turks of Impressionism were deciding the whole matter was
something of a moot point anyway. And while they might tend toward The
Rubenistes colour theories and painting techniques, they hated the academic
arguments and classical subject matter of...”
|I am asleep,
pronounced a sle ep and dreaming of the city of Rouen pronounced 'Roo on'... “What,
where am I....’
“You dozed off”,
Martin reprimands me like some head teacher. I sit bolt upright as if tasered.
‘The fact is
neither side was entirely right or entirely wrong. Given the state of art, and
painting in particular, in the 1800s, both sides needed each other. Drawing
offered form, and paint provided colour. Without both there would have been no
painting at all.”
I reach for my
bottle of water and look for that continuing narrative in the aisle. I see that
the homeless ones hands have been prised from the radiator and he now sits with
his back resting against it with his legs defiantly stretched out across the aisle.
“The theories of
hemispheric domination were, of course, unknown at the time, but the matter
essentially came down to a left-brain/right-brain approach to painting...”
“Oh no, not that
old chestnut left brain, right brain,” I hear Martin groan beside me.
“Shsh Martin.”
In the aisle a
person leaving trips over the outstretched legs of the homeless one. Giggles are heard as
the man goes arse over tip onto the carpet.
“Now are there any
questions...comments? Raise your hand.”
I knew this would
happen, the person beside me, you guessed, Martin, is giving the Lecturer his
two penny worth.
“If
I can just say...”
“Go
ahead.” Yes, go on, Martin.
“Apart
from the Poussenists and the Rubens adherents a more divisive controversy about
art is between art aficionados and those who just don’t believe that art
actually exists?”
“And
what school are you of, sir?”
“I
am of the school that questions arts’ existence.”
“Oh,
you do,”
“Yes,
for I believe we have naïvely realistic assumptions about works of art.”
“Yes,
well, could you expand on that?”
“I
mean that we fall into a kind of transcendental realism when we look at words
of art. For looking at art works is a subjective experience like taste. I mean
a lump of sugar might taste sweeter to me than to you.”
What! For God’s sake Martin, getting a little
bit embarrassing this.
“Thank
you sir, if I might continue.”
“The
left side of the brain being the analytical side, demanded careful drawing,
adherence to scientific rules, even in matters of aesthetics and colour theory
and the right side of the brain... being the visual and emotional hemisphere,
tended toward an instinctive approach both in drawing, and especially in colour
use.”
More people are
leaving. I feel sorry for the Lecturer, but have sympathy for those who have
the bottle to leg it.
“...today, not all
that much has changed of course. The only difference is the names - the
Rockwellians and the Pollockers perhaps. Now are there any questions? Yes, that
gentleman in the third row, again.”
“As I was saying, I would argue that art works
are works of fiction.”
“And how can that
be, sir?”
“Because they are
dependent upon the perception and imagination of the observer.”
“Not sure I, or
the rest of the people here, quite understand that.”
“Well, I will
explain if I may?”
“Please,” and the
Lecturer proffers an inviting hand.
“Although artists,
critics, and art lovers are likely to think such a claim is absurd we have to
attribute so called existence of art to other modes of being. Because they are
observer relative.
“Martin, Martin,
pack it in, the poor man....” I hiss.
But Martin has got hold of the polemical bone so revered by
auto-didacts. I note the homeless types spotted around the aisles, seem to be
paying attention as they have stopped hugging the radiators.
“Another
mode of existence you say.”
“Yes,
as you look at a piece of art it is a contemplative and for some aesthetic
experience neither of which constitute existence. Works of art are the product
of the imagination;
The
existence or reality of a completed work of art continues to depend on the
make-believe or imaginative activity of the artist or some other subject, such
as the observer or reader who appreciates the work as a work of art.”
“But
where does this lead, isn’t this all a bit higgledy-piggledy?”
There
are hoots of defensive laughter from the audience to this repost, after all
Martin, this bearer of the ‘project’ is a challenge to their belief systems, I
mean, if you didn’t have art, what then?
“You
say higgledy-piggledy,” more laughter, “...and
you may very well be discombobulated by all this, but may I explain?”
Oh
for God’s sake, big words.
“Please
do. Please,” and the Lecturer raises a hand to quiet the audience.
“What we undergo as we look at art works is a
kind of ‘conscious self-deception’ and this conscious self-deception is
necessary to both the creation and appreciation of art. So our commerce with
art is a kind of lucid illusion.”
I
notice a few restless movements in the seats; no wonder, for this man is trying
to deny us our monthly day out visit the Royal Academy, or wherever, to see
that exhibition. But there is no stopping Martin.
“If we applied more self-reflexive awareness
we would realise that something is being imagined when looking at art works, as
opposed to believed. When we look at a Ruben’s or a Poussin they may have the
capacity to contribute to a subjective appearance of beauty but this does not
constitute existence.”
“No,
so what does it constitute?” Comes back a very peeved lecturer.
“It
constitutes subjective idealism. The painting, the wood frame, the paper, the
paint, obviously figures amongst the real entities of the world, but if you
then extract from these material things, the work of art, and see it as a
bearer or locus of beauty and
other aesthetic properties, then clearly work of art cannot be the material
object in itself so we have to questions its existence. Take this
building it is a material entity of bricks etc. But if we then deem the
building to be majestic or grandiose or see this ceiling here as beautiful, or
the dome of St Pauls as a work of art then you are engaging in the imaginative
apprehension of fictional qualities.”
“So
how should we view art, sir? That is, if it exists?” More laughter.
“Well,
not as existing but in a relativist or contextualist way, but certainly not as
existing.”
“But
you say art works don’t exist. But let us say if you discover or come upon some
object of any kind then you have to accept that it must exist?”
“Of
course.”
“So
let us let us say you visit this sculptor in his studio he sits in front of a
large piece of marble and he begins to chip away as you watch something begins
to emerge in the marble it looks like a human figure, later it is clearly a
human figure.”
“So
what’s your point?”
“My
point is you can only discover something if it already exists. So the work of
art exists.”
There
is a confused applause from the audience and the tramps along the aisles show
blackened teeth and gummy smiles in seeming appreciation.
“Thank
you for attending”, says the Lecturer and walks off triumphantly as if about to
be wreathed in victory.
Martin
and I sit in the cafeteria. “Enjoy the argy bargy?” I ask him. “
“Great fun, it was nice to let him have the last word.”
“But
he made a good point.”
“I
restrained myself from giving him the old Nietzsche one two.”
“What’s
that?”
“We
embrace art, lest we ask the question, why? and objcts are companesiains,
“Well
that sorts that out, doesn’t it?”
“Look.
Got to fly and remember not a word about the project.”
“Well,
I was thinking of writing something...can’t I...just mention it...to my
readers?”
“No,
certainly not” he states adamantly in his MI5ish way, “I have told you in
absolute confidence believing you will respect that.”
As I stand to leave I pass the opened doors of
the Lecture Hall and see that the homeless looking types, are back at the
radiators as if glued and appear to have no intention of leaving. In the foyer
I notice the Lecture timetable; there is another Lecture in half an hour, ah
well, we live in the late capitalism culture of 2 for 1. I inspect the notice
what is it about: Hmm...‘The Road to Calvary’ . Speaking of which; if I
hurry across Green Park I will be in time to catch the 16.32 ‘Chechnya Shuttle’. Already I am preparing how I
can tell the children that art doesn’t exist, well, not really.
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