I have just read something that has made me rant mercilessly to Mrs PM and the cats. In order to escape me, Mrs PM has left the house and the cats have run to those little hidey holes in the house that are Plastic Mancunian proof (behind their litter trays).
I need to let off steam, so unfortunately, dear reader, you are my metaphorical punch bag to allow me to get this off my chest.
Regular readers will know that I have a big problem with pseudo-intellectuals, particularly those who love contemporary art and accuse me of being an unimaginative moron who lives in a box.
I have posted about such buffoons before (read about it here and here) but yesterday, I read something that takes this to an even more ridiculous level.
There is an exhibition about to start at the Hayward Gallery in London that will “set imaginations on fire”.
I can guess that you might consider this to be an intellectually challenging exhibition featuring the most amazing new pieces of contemporary art that will quite literally blow you away in a cascading and exponentially developing miracle of thought-provoking rapture (sorry about that, dear reader – I stole those words from a pseudo-intellectual who had just looked up the words cascade, exponential, miracle and rapture on a web site about philosophy).
The cost of this exhibition is £8, a paltry sum, I’m sure you will agree, for something that will give your imagination the mental equivalent of a screaming orgasm.
What do you get for your £8?
Nada! Nichts! Rien! Niente!
Yes, that’s right; the world of contemporary art has stooped to depths lower than even a total cynic like me could imagine.
They are exhibiting NOTHING!!
Allow me to elaborate.
You will see Invisible Sculpture, a “work” by Andy Warhol; an empty plinth, which, apparently, the man stepped on for a brief moment.
You can also feast your eyes on 1000 Hours of Staring; a blank piece of paper (yes you read that correctly – A BLANK PIECE OF PAPER) that the artist, a certain Mr Tom Friedman, stared at on and off for a period of five years.
The same artist has another exhibit and I’ll bet you can barely contain yourself about this one. It is called Untitled (A Curse) and features an empty space which has supposedly been cursed by a witch. That’s right, dear reader – AN EMPTY SPACE!!
How about an empty room by Yoko Ono, where the viewer is encouraged to “conjure up artwork in their minds”? I’m sorry but the blogging equivalent of that is for me to post something called Nothing and let you, dear reader, imagine more of my inane bullshit. Surely that’s MY job as a blogger.
It sounds like a complete joke – but they are serious – totally and utterly serious.
The director of the gallery has said (and I am not making this up):
“I think visitors will find that there is plenty to see and experience in this exhibition of invisible art”.
He also added:
“From the amusing to the philosophical, you will be able to explore an invisible labyrinth that only materialises as you move around it, see an artwork that has been created by the artist staring at it for 1000 hours, walk through an installation designed to evoke the afterlife, and be in the presence of Andy Warhol’s celebrity aura.”
Yes – this pseudo-intellectual mad man actually uttered those words to a national newspaper. And, of course, he had to mention philosophy (what pseudo-intellectual nonsense would be complete without the word philosophy?)
The world has gone crazy; totally and utterly crazy. If this is supposed to be the height of intellect in the world then we, as a species, are doomed.
MY CATS HAVE MORE SENSE THAN THESE PEOPLE.
Actually, that’s not true. The people who will undoubtedly flock to this so-called exhibition are the pseudo-intellectual fools. I could get the same experience staring at my wall and unleashing my sick and sordid imagination to picture an epic war occurring on the plaster.
And it wouldn’t cost me a bloody thing.
The traditional story of The Emperor’s New Clothes has never been more relevant to the rubbish that most modern art is. The parallels are there for everybody to see.
I am almost tempted to gate-crash the exhibition and stand there in every room stating the bleeding obvious.
“There is nothing here. There is nothing worth seeing. There is actually nothing to see. This is an empty room.”
Alternatively, I could pay my £8 and walk in totally naked and say “What do you think of my new outfit? It is straight from the imagination of Rene Descartes; it’s called the Invisible Suit”.
Would they DARE to throw me out?
I could even charge them for their own set of Descartes clothes - £500 a pop. Do you think I’ll get away with it?
I’ll finish with some good news; I have created for you a piece of invisible art that will save you from going to the exhibition. It is in the frame below and it is simply called The Pseudo-Intellectual’s New Clothes.
And it costs exactly what it shows.