The modern artist is the waste product of society. While his peers attempt to try to gain a greater understanding of the universe through physics, mathematics, and neuro-chemestry, the modern artist attempts to gain understanding with the help of Cannabis sativa, and various similar compounds. They have little understanding of color and perception, only knowing that "more is better".
Now, when I say modern art, I do not talk about the twisted pieces of metal found outside large corporate structures, nor do refer to the Lovecraftian architectural masterpieces/horrors perpetuated by certain architects on unsuspecting millionaires. If it exists in more then 2 dimensions, or could not be created by a over eager man with crowbar with access to his ex-wifes husbands car, it is not what I am referring to.
Modern art tends to be flat. It may have lumps of paint, or wrinkled canvas, but the art will be flat. If encountered anywhere but in a art museum, one would get the impression that a world championship paintball tournament had had happened somewhere in the vicinity, and that one team had taken to hiding behind a large piece of fabric, and the other had attempted to blast the crap out of it.
Now, some will say that I am overly harsh. They will point to the good reveiws of critics, to the lavish amounts of money paid for them. To which I will reply, there are people who pay to have fish eat dead skin off your feet. Let me say that again. Fish. Eating skin. Off your feet. (This is still a better use of money then modern art)
Now, why then does modern art seem so well liked? The root of the problem here is not the art, by the reviewer.
Consider the modern day art critic. He dines at fine restaurants. He wears inauspicious, but tailor made suits. He attends parties that would best be described as Galas, but without dancing. He drinks, eats, breaths, and lives off the very pinnacle of refinement in our culture. He is the sort of person who fixs typos in his late night reading. His late night reading is the dictionary. He can write 10,000 words about the symbolism in a picture of a man standing on the beach. Whether or not the beach goer in question is thinking anything more then "I wish I had put on more sun screen" or "Did I lock the hotel door?", the critic can still write a waterfall of words about this.
Now consider what happens to this poor sheltered member of the human race when he encounters modern art. His mental thesaurus fails him. His perception of good taste and the sort of things you should find in galleries is inexplicably shattered. He must then write 1,000 words on it. 1,000 words, a paltry amount, now a mountion from a molehill. What can he write? That it was "Stunning"? "Shocking"? "Undescribable"? "Unprecedented"? It's all he can write. And this makes modern art look good.
So perhaps you may enjoy it. Perhaps you can delude yourself into believing there is a deeper meaning. Go ahead. Its your time and money.
I however, in lieu of the recent Supreme Court ruling, will be enjoying my art on a computer screen, and try to level up a Assassin to 20. For the eighth time. God I hate Werecats.
