Saturday, 23 July 2011

Modern _Art

I hate modern art.

I really do. I see no purpose or beauty in its presence. Too often its crude, unimaginative, untalented and unworthy of the controversy it provokes.

And yet a recent trip to the Tate Modern did wonders for my soul. I went with C, a beautiful soul who, though a little blonde, is always willing to learn, and unfortunately willing to believe anything seemingly intellectual that utters from my mouth.

We puttered. After all one really cannot leave the Tate off one's tourist list of places to go, and we had time to spare. Given our inclination towards modern art we did well. We examined the main floor, identified all the important artists and exchanged our personal thoughts on the pieces at hand.

What I also did was break each piece down symbolically, creatively, historically. As we wandered through I explained the artist's motive, the vision, the purpose of each piece. By now, C was used to it. She was used to her own private audio guide regardless of the palace or museum we entered. And so she absorbed every morsel that I fed her, nodding happily as I made each piece that little bit more accessible. All of the bullshit I mockingly spouted.
Not at her.  To her.

Strange thing, it took her several months to realise. For me to tell her again that I hadn't known what I was talking about. That I'd make it all up as I went along.

Her response: I'd made it all make sense. 

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