The Madness of Art

I read something on the internet last week and I didn’t initially know how to react. It is about a painting.

Here’s a summary of what I read:

The painting by Nua On, who made his debut In November 2013 following several years of development of his special painting style, begins as bold medium length strokes in many directions and has progressed to incorporate dabs of paint, using a sensuous colour palette of Winsor Violet, Lavender and Silver.

The painting was for sale at the princely sum of almost 500 American Dollars and with it, you get a Certificate of Authenticity together with a biography of the artist and a photograph.

Now when I read this, I thought the words were describing a budding new artist, trained to master his or her art and trying to make a living selling their so-called masterpiece to gullible pseudo-intellectuals. The painting itself was dreadful, a mishmash of daubs that would have had contemporary art critics, wetting themselves with glee and uttering nonsensical sentences to describe what was going through the artist’s head as the brush strokes were applied with words like:

Nua On demonstrates the inner conflict of the mind perfectly, fusing irony and metaphysics in a manner that represents the love affair of souls, destined to meet but finding themselves travelling apart in an ethereal medium of flame and liquid with only their thoughts of the emptiness of atomic division to hint at their ultimate purpose. As Socrates once said: Be as you wish to seem. I cannot elucidate these feelings more humbly.

I imagine that the naïve pseudo-intellectuals will rush to buy this mess at the bargain price offered and spend hours reading the inspirational story of the artist while gazing into his eyes on the photograph and struggling to contain their orgasmic urges.

But there is something I haven’t told you about this painting, dear reader.

It is special.

The artist looks like this:

I swear I am not making this up, 

Nua On is a fucking elephant!! 

I wonder whether the poor creature signed the back of the painting by dipping it’s enormous foot in a bucket of paint and slopping it onto the canvas.

I know that I have basically said that the painting is utter shit but, having been dragged around the Tate Modern in both Liverpool and London, I can safely say that it is actually better than some of the garbage hanging on the walls in those museums that was painted by human beings.

This is yet another example of how mad the art world has become. Everybody likes art but now what seems to have happened is that these nutcases are thinking even more outside the box in their quest to appear intelligent and cultured, praising pictures painted by other species and, presumably, trying to get into the heads of the giant wrinkly pachyderms that painted them.

To those pseudo-intellectual fuckwits, I have this to say.

IT’S AN ELEPHANT! 

IT’S A BLOODY ELEPHANT! 

THE POOR CREATURE WANTS TO USE HIS TRUNK FOR FEEDING HIMSELF, GIVING HIMSELF A SHOWER AND SNIFFING HIS OWN BALLS. 

HE DOES NOT WANT A CRUEL PERSON EXPLOITING HIM BY MAKING HIM HOLD A PAINTBRUSH SO THAT YOU CAN  PONTIFICATE ABOUT WHAT THE UNFORTUNATE ANIMAL WAS THINKING WHEN  HE WAS FORCED TO COVER A PIECE OF PAPER WITH PAINT. 

YOU ARE A BLOODY IDIOT!

The people behind this enterprise are really clever and I am amazed that there are pseudo-intellectuals actually thick enough to be conned into buying this shit.

There is always somebody out there trying to exploit stupidity and, to me, this is just another example.

It’s crazy. But it’s worse than that! Paintings by other creatures are available to buy.

I kid you not!

So what other these other animals paint?

I promise that I am not making this up. 

You can buy paintings by turtles, tortoises, snakes, skinks, cheetahs, tigers, jaguars, gorillas, orangutans, chimps, grasshoppers, worms, millipedes, sea lions, penguins, rhinos, hippos, dolphins and whales.

In the case of the smaller creatures that cannot hold a brush, they have to have their bodies or at least parts of their bodies, dipped in paint before making then slither or crawl along the canvas.

I would love to see what happens if a tiger suddenly objected to being forced to paint.

YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT???????????

It also makes me wonder about copyright. Surely a painting is owned by the artist, not the person that is forcing the poor creature to apply paint to canvas in such a humiliating way. Could Nua On challenge me if I were to reproduce his art on my blog? No doubt there is a lawyer out there who would try to take me court, saying that his elephant rights are being violated and exploited by a ruthless blogger.

The more I delve into the world of contemporary art, the more amazed I am about how absurd it is. They never cease to amaze me with new conceptual ideas for the pseudo-intellectual community to preach about.

The madness of art is exploding exponentially.

Still, at least if you are a philosopher, you can be happy in the knowledge that your wise words will be taken completely out of context by a moron trying by using them to describe the thoughts of an elephant as he splashed paint onto a big slice of paper.

I’m not a philosopher by any means but I am thinking about starting my own contemplative genre of that discipline, dedicating my own words to help pseudo-intellectuals to gush over artwork created by humans and animals alike.

Taking this a step further, I might actually consider being the agent for my cats, encouraging them to dabble in the world of modern art so that I can exploit pseudo-intellectuals and make myself - er sorry - my cats very rich.

That may not be such a good idea because either the cats would rip my hands off or, more likely, Mrs PM would beat me to a pulp.

So, Nua On, you are safe from the challenge of cat art for now. But I will write a few quotes for the pseudo-intellectuals to use to describe your work. 

I can’t wait to read your biography!

Am I Cultured?

The Sunday Times is a huge British newspaper that is published every Sunday (obviously) and takes approximately a month to read. You need to have worked out at the gym for months to be able to carry the bloody thing home.

And when you get home you open it up and it consists of section upon section of news, business, sport, money, fashion and many other subjects.

One of those magazines is a newspaper in its own right called “Culture”.

I always try to read this magazine – mainly because it has details of what is on TV over the coming week. However, there is a lot more to it than just TV listings.

The “Culture” magazine has articles on the latest books, music, movies, art, ballet, opera – you name it, “Culture” probably covers it.

Nevertheless, the subjects are genuinely more high-brow – or “cultured” if you like.

Take the movie reviews, for example. You may have read my last post about movies, in which I sang the praises of superhero films, comedy films and action thrillers. Such movies barely get a mention in the Sunday Times; the reviewers opt to cover more cultured movies – for example Lincoln, a film I absolutely slated in my previous post.

And this leads me to ask the question – am I cultured? Or am I just a boorish philistine with shallow views who scoffs at profound and deep meaning in books, music and entertainment in general.

You might agree, if you are a regular reader. I have insulted opera, Shakespeare and modern art in this blog and I can imagine that a “cultured” individual, who loves opera and cries whenever he sees a rousing Shakespearean speech while appreciating a vomit stain on the walls of the Tate Gallery, might roll his eyes, shake his head and dismiss my, in his eyes, shallow views on such erudite art forms.

As far as films are concerned, I know what I like and to be honest I don’t really care whether people think I am a philistine for preferring movies that don’t bore me to sleep.

The same goes for books and music. Many years ago I was intrigued by the fact that Salman Rushdie had had to go into hiding because of a book he wrote. Somebody offered me the chance to read one of his novels, some years after that. It wasn’t The Satanic Verses, the book that got him into so much trouble. I can’t recall which one it was – I think I have blocked it from my memory.

Why? Because it was awful.

Now I am sure that people regard the books of Mr Rushdie as cultured but I hated my one and only foray into his imagination. The same can be said about other books that are meant to be magnificent works of art and “must reads”. I have tried a few and been completely bored with them.

Does this mean I am a philistine? Does the fact that I would rather read a Stephen King novel make me an uncultured barbarian when it comes to literary (so-called) masterpieces?

As regular readers know, I despise and detest contemporary art and the insipid pseudo-intellectual arguments like “it is breaking new ground” or “it’s not been done before” to justify an absolutely horrific load of shit masquerading as art hanging on the walls of a modern art museum. So-called cultured people fawn over these pieces of excrement describing them in the most colourful words and phrases that in reality mean absolutely nothing.

The fact that I do not believe the words they are using to try to describe what the artist was trying to achieve makes me, in their eyes, an uncivilized savage compared to them.

And what about music?

Such people love the fact that I listen to rock music and sing its praises because it confirms my standing as an uncouth monster that lacks any intelligence or taste.

Except I don’t lack intelligence at all and I love to prove this to pseudo-intellectuals whenever I get the opportunity.

In my view, progressive rock is the new classical music. Such music is technically brilliant and comes from the minds of geniuses. The instrumentation is perfect and the songs are mini symphonies. Take another genre I am currently enthralled by: symphonic rock. Artists such as Nightwish prove that orchestral music and heavy metal can be made to complement each other.

Here is an example which proves that what is essentially a heavy metal band can produce a wide range of musical styles, in this case an instrumental orchestral piece. Even if you hate heavy metal please press play – because this will surprise you and hopefully amaze you:

So am I cultured?

If being cultured means being a pseudo-intellectual making up bullshit about a pile of bricks in the middle of a room – then no!

If being cultured means buying and reading a book by an author who is vastly overrated and only gets reviews in the Sunday Times – then no!

If being cultured means pretending that I like a film like Lincoln because it won Oscars – then no!

If being cultured means not buying the music I love because “heavy metal” is the music of thugs and savages – then no!

If being cultured means raving about Shakespearean actors performing Hamlet in Stratford-upon-Avon – then no!

If being cultured means sipping an expensive wine instead of my favourite pint of bitter – then no!

I hate modern art; I prefer Stephen King novels to boring Sunday Times bestsellers; I love my no-brainer action movies and not boring Oscar winning nonsense; I buy the music I love whether it be heavy metal, pop music, progressive rock or classical symphonies;

And Shakespeare is STILL rubbish!

I personally think that culture is an individual quality. If you are happy with your opera, Shakespeare, Rushdie or even framed vomit-stains on a wall in a museum full of junk masquerading as art – then that’s fine by me. Just as long as you don't pretend to love them just to appear cultured.

I regard myself as cultured – and you are too (unless you are a pseudo-intellectual in which case you are a pretentious arse).

Do you agree, dear reader? 

Do you think I cultured or am I a philistine?

Do you think you are cultured? 

If not, why not?

The Pseudo-Intellectual's New Clothes

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?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Nada! Nichts! Rien! Niente!

BUGGER ALL!!!

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.

NOTHING!!!!

The Pseudo-Intellectual

I talk crap sometimes.

What do you mean “I know”?

I may talk crap, but there is one thing I can definitely say with my hand on my heart – I am not a pseudo-intellectual. Why? Because when I am wrong and when I am stupid, I openly admit it. Furthermore, I don’t try to impress people with ideas that are not my own and I try my best not to use words that have been hastily looked up in a dictionary to impress people.

What is a pseudo-intellectual then?

I’ve mentioned them in this blog before. In my view, a pseudo-intellectual is somebody who tries to act and speak as if they are cultured, intelligent and understand everything about everything, usually using words and phrases that are not used in everyday speech. And of course, they are not intellectual at all. Worse, they actually look down on people like me.

The finest examples of pseudo-intellectuals are found in the art world but they exist everywhere.

Next time you are in a contemporary art gallery try and spot them; it’s easy.

Firstly they are dressed in a weird way and walk around with a crafted intelligent expression that, to the untrained eye, makes them look weird and eccentric but, in their eyes, they are intelligence personified.

The good news is that you can expose them quite easily.

When you see such a person staring intently at a totally irrelevant piece of art just stand next to them and ask the simple question:

“What does it say to you?”

In their mind they will immediately start up the bullshit generator, searching out phrases that they have remembered to express their supposedly intellectual opinions. You will hear something like:

“It speaks to me on a kinetic level; the energy of the piece distorts the magnificence of everything else, almost in a primeval, carnivorous vortex of cybernetic passion. It arouses me.”

Resist the temptation to say “What on earth are you talking about?”

You could expose them easily enough by asking “Do you even know what kinetic means? And what is a carnivorous vortex when it’s at home?”

Or you could have some fun.

Pretend to be thick yet fascinated by their bullshit – and they simply get worse. For example, they will start to quote philosophers.

“Wow! You know your stuff, my friend! You’re so clever!”

“Yes, wasn’t it Hippocrates who said What is a friend? A friend is a single soul dwelling in two bodies! It’s so apt, don’t you think?”

The more you praise them the worse they get.

Others look to culture and embrace opera, ballet and other such dreadful pursuits. I once went to an opera to see what all the fuss was about – it was bloody awful.

It went something like this:

Opera Singer 1: I’m going to kill her.

Opera Singer 2: No, don’t kill her.

Opera Singer 1: I’m going to kill her.

Opera Singer 2: No, don’t kill her.

Opera Singer 1: I’m going to kill her.

Opera Singer 2: No, don’t kill her.

Opera Singer 1: Yes I must and I will.

Opera Singer 2: No you won’t.

Opera Singer 1: Yes I will.

Opera Singer 2: No you won’t.

I felt like screaming “For the sake of my sanity – just make your bloody mind up!!”

I have no doubt that if I had, a pseudo-intellectual would have rounded on me and started quoting philosophy to prove I am a cultureless dolt.

I’ve had arguments with these people on a couple of occasions. They assume that I am totally stupid simply because the pursuits I choose to embrace are not, in their view, intellectually stimulating. They, of course, are wrong.

Now I hate to blow my own trumpet, but I regard myself as a pretty intelligent bloke. I have a degree and I work in IT so there must be some intellect in that skull of mine. My problem is that I am slightly geeky, a little nerdy, somewhat weird and very opinionated. And that winds pseudo-intellectuals up very easily.

Take for example the subject of music.

Pseudo–intellectuals regard rock music as the spawn of Satan himself. They assume that because I am a fan of rock guitar that I have no taste and therefore should not be allowed to comment on music.

I have had debates with genuinely clever people about our musical differences and in those cases we have a fun chat, agreeing on some things and disagreeing on others. However, the pseudo–intellectual whose clichéd view of rock is that only devil worshippers love it have absolutely no clue.

They do not acknowledge the genius of guitarists like Joe Satriani, the song writing skills of Rush and Dream Theater, the intelligence of bands like Judas Priest and Iron Maiden.

To them, intellectuals only like classical music and opera – and anything else is followed by brainless idiots. In their eyes, I like rock ergo I am thick.

When it comes to art, the same thing applies – I don’t understand why somebody would pay a million pounds for a canvas that has random bits of vomit splashed around on it and they assume that I am thick because of that.

Movies and books are another area where the pseudo-intellectual thrives. They choose only to read books that are reviewed in the Sunday Times, saying that anything else is beneath them. The fact that most of these books are dreadful anyway is irrelevant.

It’s the same with films. Somebody, a pseudo-intellectual, once recommended that I watch the film “Eyes Wide Shut”. “You’ll love it,” he said. “It is the epitome of post-modern erotica and Kubrick’s finest work to date. It penetrates your psyche on a subtle intellectual level that transcends the abnormal odyssey of the perverted masses.”

I should have known. His review of it should have made alarm bells ring in my head. I should have said “What on Earth are you talking about you babbling bullshitter?”

I was foolish. I watched it.

And I can tell you now that my review of the film is simple. Here it is – brace yourself.

IT IS SHIT!

So beware the pseudo-intellectual folks. Beware the person who uses a hundred words when one will do. Beware the person who criticises your musical taste because you don’t listen to Bach. Beware the buffoon who tries to quote Aristotle to you. Beware the person who chuckles when standing in front of a pile of cat’s puke on a canvas and says “You simply don’t get it because you simply can’t grasp the concept of retro-physical potential in an academic vacuum that procreates despondency while at the same time expanding personal karma in a futuristic yet nihilistic orgy of barbaric crescendo.”

And most of all – beware anybody who tells you that this piece of crap below, that I produced for a previous post, is in fact art.