Fuck Art

Fuck Art

Fuck portraits. I’m sorry you had to spend so much time on that portrait of Henry VIII because cameras hadn’t been invented yet, but that’s not my problem.

Fuck contemporary art. It’s a canvas that’s been slashed—on purpose. We got the point after the first one, but do you know how many of those that guy did? Fuck that bullshit.

Fuck public art. God forbid we have a public plaza in this city without a massive red-painted steel beam suspended over it. Or, worse, a giant mirrored kidney bean or the word LOVE with the O at a tilt. We wouldn’t want to be philistines, now, would we? Gotta keep up with Albequerque!

Fuck posters. Shouldn’t you be suspicious of something that seems to speak directly to the tender souls of you and every stoned college kid in the country?

Fuck screenprints. Do all the people who pay like $50 for numbered screenprints not realize that he can just go back there and pump out another 700 of them? It’s like paying me $50 to fart and then tell you how many times I’ve farted today.

Fuck performance art. Whatever it was that I didn’t know before I squeezed between two hairy naked guys standing in a doorway, I don’t want to know it.

Fuck conceptual art. On the plus side, you don’t need to pay anyone to haul it away.

Fuck folk art. I really try hard not to think about the fact that there are people in this world who spend their lives building unicorns out of bottle caps.

Fuck video art. Seriously, you want me to pay to see boring little movies that make no sense? How about for free, I close my eyes and watch those little dots race around under my eyelids.

Fuck art school. MassArt wouldn’t even give me a chance to pay their outrageous tuition.

Sophie Lane

Photo by Chris Devers (Creative Commons)