Distressing and confusing
There is something decidedly distressing and confusing about art that seems to go deliberately out of its way to distress and confuse. I am, of course, referring to the glory of contemporary/modern art, a small, distressing and confusing segment of which I was exposed to yesterday at the Tate Modern Art Gallery. The art there makes me feel like I am Intellectually Unequipped. It infuses me with the distressingly pretentious desire to stand in front of the display, my face a mask of pompous appreciation, eyes in a clever slitted squint, arms folded, lost in pretentious artistic reverie. My mind will devote its energies to two thoughts: a) "appreciating" the "fantastic" "glories" of the "piece of art" (canvas/painting/twisted piece of string/wire/blob of nothing/penguin sculpture) in front of me; and b) wondering if every other person in the gallery is as much of an idiot as I am.
If the art of Today is called "modern" art, and the art of Tomorrow is supposedly called "postmodern" art, then it does make me wonder what the art of Next Week is to be called.