I can see beauty in art. I love pop art. I can accept that the Mona Lisa is worth a look. I don’t have an issue with Banksy. But why would I want to pay to go to an art exhibition only to be confronted by an all white room with a bucket of black paint spilt all over the floor. This is not art – this is a decorating accident.
I figured I’d google ‘modern art’, and this picture pretty much sums it all up.
This is art is it? A massive, stinking turd? Brilliant.
And what about those stellar names who define modern art? Why would I want to see Tracy Emin’s scrubber bed complete with spunked in condoms and blood stained underwear? I don’t want to picture Tracy Emin having sex. I certainly don’t want to picture Tracy Emin on her period. So please, don’t call this art – this is a living nightmare.
And as for Damian bloody Hirst – he’s worth more than £215 million. For what? Sticking a dead cow in formaldehyde? If that’s what art is, if that’s what makes money, how about I shit in a cup and exhibit it in the Tate? Yours for a grand.
MY ATTEMPTS AT MODERN ART