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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.

Bloody knickers and used condoms? Oh yeah, my eyes need to see this.

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.


Rubbish Bag. But What's In It? OOH MYSTERIOUS ART...

The Toilet Roll Is Covering The Water. But What Is The Water Covering? THE BOWL.

The "I've Just Pictured Tracy Emin Having Sex" Look Art Piece


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One response to “4: MODERN ART

  1. Sheridan ⋅

    I love you

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