https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSQvx8mnLbY

I’m not an artist, nor have I ever claimed to be one. My watercolors are weak, my oil paintings are a mess, and my sculptures are all mesas done with mashed potatoes. I am not an artist. Not one iota of me knows how to manipulate the physical world to create something visually pleasing. I know better than to call myself a modern artist or a post-modernist, because I have at least a shred of dignity. I’d rather be called a regular ole hack than a post-modernist. At least I’m self-aware. I know I’m complete garbage. You don’t have to dress it up with a fancy name that has its own college degree and $80,000 of student debt.

Anyways, I am not an artist. But I know true art when I see it. I’ve spent enough time bumming around coffee shops and art exhibitions to know that there’s very little left in the art world. Even the abstract works aren’t as abstract as they used to be. Nothing really tickles my fancy anymore. My current impression of art is a vision of Henri Matisse mumbling Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones under his breath as he cuts out large, breast-shaped swathes of construction paper and glues it to his soiled bedpan. In short, I’m confused, dissatisfied, and wetting myself.

Seeing all those lovely paintings giving each other raspberries reminded me of a simpler time when art was lovely and objective, and if it gave itself raspberries, you didn’t have to ask if it was supposed to do that.