A homeless man wilts in Washington DC's dreadful heat and humidity.The last few weeks we have been taking in art museums off the National Mall in Washington, DC, and after having spent considerable time processing painted lines, globs of meaningless paint, welded together scrapes of iron, blocks of painted wood, and a large assembly of coat hangers hanging from the ceiling, I have to admit that I have gained a new understanding of the fleece that Modern Art is. Call me a Neanderthal who cannot say his name without drooling, but honestly, if someone pays more than $150.00 (which ought to cover the cost of the canvas, a few tubes of paint, and the artist’s lunch) then they deserve the financial spanking their wallet or purse has been dealt.
With that said, I must admit that I do appreciate the heart felt, highly animated waltz an artist goes through when they are explaining to their patrons that their newest work is not just a pile of horse crap painted blue, but an emotion! Come o-o-o-on! Prior to a textual or personal explanation of what it means, and the fact that they just laid down $100,000 for it, does not mean that it is anything more than it is -- a pile of cobalt blue, horse stinkies! Is there a place for Modern Art? Sure, in some private museum where the curator or board of directors have the funds to peel off a cool million for a pile of painted horse shit, and the tax payer is not handed the bill.
You do not have to be an artist to create Modern Art, you just have to be a P. T. Barnum, and have the agility to dance on tippy-toes as you dramatically act out your painting(s) in front of an awed benefactor. And yes, I have been to art openings where the actor--er’ah--artist, splashes around the floor acting out the drama hanging on the wall. “Hey! I think your art work stinks, but I’m entertaining some friends tomorrow night, and I need a frilly little dancer like you to keep them amused.”
So after having spent two hours of a studious adventure at the Hirshorn Museum of Modern Art, I decided to take pictures of people in DC, and create my own interpretive art whose forms you can understand. “Granted, it ain’t no painted green canvas, tilted at 45 degrees, and screwing the tax payer out of a grand sum of money; nor is it hangin’ in a prestigious Museum in our Nation’s Capital, but it did’nt cost you no money neether!” said he, as a run of drool pushed its way over his lip, and down his chin.
With that said, I must admit that I do appreciate the heart felt, highly animated waltz an artist goes through when they are explaining to their patrons that their newest work is not just a pile of horse crap painted blue, but an emotion! Come o-o-o-on! Prior to a textual or personal explanation of what it means, and the fact that they just laid down $100,000 for it, does not mean that it is anything more than it is -- a pile of cobalt blue, horse stinkies! Is there a place for Modern Art? Sure, in some private museum where the curator or board of directors have the funds to peel off a cool million for a pile of painted horse shit, and the tax payer is not handed the bill.
You do not have to be an artist to create Modern Art, you just have to be a P. T. Barnum, and have the agility to dance on tippy-toes as you dramatically act out your painting(s) in front of an awed benefactor. And yes, I have been to art openings where the actor--er’ah--artist, splashes around the floor acting out the drama hanging on the wall. “Hey! I think your art work stinks, but I’m entertaining some friends tomorrow night, and I need a frilly little dancer like you to keep them amused.”
So after having spent two hours of a studious adventure at the Hirshorn Museum of Modern Art, I decided to take pictures of people in DC, and create my own interpretive art whose forms you can understand. “Granted, it ain’t no painted green canvas, tilted at 45 degrees, and screwing the tax payer out of a grand sum of money; nor is it hangin’ in a prestigious Museum in our Nation’s Capital, but it did’nt cost you no money neether!” said he, as a run of drool pushed its way over his lip, and down his chin.
The humidity slows their enthusiasm for the great outdoors.
Underwear is once again fashionably attire in DC.
Congress passes a law that tourist's are not allowed to wear plaid shorts on DC streets.
Can you tell that he knew?
Pigeon seeks relief from the heat.
"No-o-o, I don't think stuffing a bird in his mouth is a good idea."
Woman With Wuby Wed Wips
Vote for Obama! No--vote for John McCain! No-no, vote Clinton--It is never too late to change your mind, again.
The beat he kept was monotonous at best; but it had soul, and ingenuity.
She Gave Me That Look
Counting The Seconds
Knowing that the bus would come eventually, she had nothing else to do but to look for it.
Was it the lone piece of trash in the gutter that held his attention?
With Seconds to Spare
Them feets is made fer walkin'.
At Rest
A Higher Price Paid Than At The Pump
Bronze of Man on Horse Near Lamp Post--with Clouds, and Trees
Woman in Blue, Girl in Pink
Too Damn Hot For Mere Water
Refreshments Had
Father Reaches for Son's Hand
Seeking Relief in the Shade of a Tree
Courtyard Fountain, At The Hirshorn, Through Shade Screen
A Study of Wrinkles
In The Blue Humid Shade He Rests
North of Baltimore a heron stalks the shallows. Copyright © 2008 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.
No comments:
Post a Comment