Several years ago I made the horrible mistake of going to the Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston ... twice. The art there is total bullshit. BULLSHIT. A chair stuck to the wall. A male mannequin pretending to spray paint, or tag, the inside of a ladies' public restroom. A ream of white paper glued together piece by piece with white Elmer's glue. A door from an old house. Yarn tied on to a piece of driftwood. Really poorly made video of a woman with Bingo disks in her eyes.In other words, crap a kindergartner could make in less than thirty minutes or that anyone could grab from a dumpster in less than thirty seconds.
I. Don't. Get. It.
Today I decide to take my sister to a local gallery. It's a small gallery, free to the public, and there's a Cassatt, a Copley, a couple of Homers, plus an amazing collection of ship models. There's also a gallery exhibit by a local guy. It's contemporary art! Or, so we are told by the little old lady docent.
What we find, though, is room after room after room of what looks like crayon and marker scribblings. It's not even good. It's not even in the lines. The colors aren't even spread through the areas in which they are used. It looks to me like something a toddler might create.
But, we are told, this is ART!
I grew up with a mother who was an art history major. My best friend for a few years of elementary school had a mother who was our art teacher. One of my favorite childhood games was Masterpiece, the art auction game. I love museums and galleries and am not half-bad at deciphering a Chagall from its imitators.
I. Don't. Get. It.
Imagine my sister's horror when we are easily within earshot of a docent, and I keep sighing, "This is bullshit," then stressing more loudly, "BULLLLLLLLSHIIIIIIIIIIIT." I do enjoy the computerized images of cigar smoke, though. That's kind of cool and interesting. But, scrawls on a sheet of paper and called something like "Fables from Ancient Rome"? Dude, you're on drugs, or you have a personality disorder, or, perhaps you're Phineas Gage and your brain has been bisected with a metal rod.
If this is all it takes to make it in the art world and get my own gallery -- this monstrous collection we see today and the absolute frigging moronic Emperor's-New-Clothes crap I saw at the ICA -- then I should have my own exhibit of doodles from professional meetings through which I am forced to sit. They're amazing; fucking amazing, I might add; outstanding social commentary, especially in the margins (which I'll throw in for free).
