Much hubbub has been made recently about Bob Dylan’s horrifically bad second solo art show in New York. Even yours truly attempted to take it seriously, but something wasn’t right. No one casually strolls into the Madison Avenue Gagosian Gallery. The gallery won’t release more than two images, but there are 30 giant, glossy screen-printed canvases of faux-magazine covers that are allegedly meant to comment on pop culture or something like that, but they make very little sense, are unfunny and just look like crap.

So why, the hell why would Bob Dylan stage another shit-show, considering how the last one blew up? That his epic exotic Asian adventure manifested in Dylan’s own real paintings from real life, was actually a bunch of photorealistic paintings of Henri Cartier-Bresson photos and pictures plundered from unfamous Flickr accounts, all easily traced, all easily outed as a farce?

Because he is fucking with you.

I’m not much into conspiracy theories, but following on the Gallerist’s jab, Greg of Greg.Org provides substantial evidence linking Richard Prince (the artist known to re-appropriate visuals) and his buddy Bob Dylan (the artist known to historically be full of shit) in a scheme to make all of us look very silly.

His list of connections is extensive and amusing: From a few odd comments Richard Prince made about Bob Dylan’s Asia “work,” Prince’s own discourse during a 2009 deposition on using pulp fiction book covers as image sources for his Nurse paintings, personal connections between the two and Bob Dylan’s instinct to mess with journalists — as well as the fact that this work has nothing to do with the Bob Dylan we know — this could very well be just another staged rebirth of the artist.

There’s this ridiculous Rolling Stone interview wherein in Bob “Don’t Call Me Bobby Zimmerman” Dylan declares that that when another Bobby Zimmerman — a Hells Angels biker — got into a motorcycle accident at the same time as his infamous motorcycle accident, Dylan literally transmutated into a different being, thanks to that other Bobby’s death.

I’m not like you, am I? I’m not like him, either. I’m not like many others. I’m only like another person who’s been transfigured. How many people like that or like me do you know?

Alright, Bobby. Good show. Good show.

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Or whatever. Don’t even care anymore. Just thought you might want to know.

(Image: Inspired by Shiba Confessions)