Art Hole

Went to this art opening downtown San Diego the other night.  God, why do I do this to myself.  I like art, visual art is cool, and good art makes my gears turn – I like that.  I know some of the artists as well, and it’s cool to hang out with friends in a chill enviro, but goddamn it man, art people can be totally fucking annoying.  Ok, I get it, there’s a low entertainment value for static visual arts which means people will inevitably end up standing around talking their stupid faces off, but I swear to you that at times I feel a primal need to smash things at these events.

Me standing there looking at painting X.

Female art-tard, “I hate art.”

Me, “Huh? Well then what the hell are you doing here?”

Female art-tard, “Because it’s just so amazing!”

Me, “What are you talking about?”

Female art-tard, “I am an artist too…  Well… I used to be.  And when I showed my paintings to people they were always impressed, and every single one of them told me, “you can’t paint that on cardboard.” You know, because it’s not archival, which means all of my paintings are going to rot and the paint will fall off of them after a while. “Paint on canvas” they said, “and you could do really well with these.” But I can’t paint on canvas. It makes this scratching noise, and the lines are never smooth enough to satisfy me.  I might have OCD. And I can’t paint on masonite either, even though it’s a smooth archival-quality surface, because it’s too expensive.  Even decent paper is too expensive.  I kept painting for a while, but eventually I stopped, because thinking about the cardboards warping and rotting and the paint falling off got me discouraged.”

Me, “Got it.” And I quickly turn and walk to the bar to drown my hurting brain.

It’s like my brain gets put into this strange crisis, fight or beer, and if I don’t do something quickly a pretentious attention-craving art whore is gonna be picking up her teeth with broken fingers.  Just shut your cock-sucker and fuck off you crazy bitch.  I don’t want to hear your newest modern despair.

You can’t even get through the door without being nearly trampled by freaks.  The same boring pseudo fags kissing each other at the entrance.  The same boring pseudo clothing designs being strutted by the same androgynous zombies.  The other night’s modeling highlight was a gay blonde werewolf wearing a crooked tank top awkwardly on a body that looked like he borrowed it from an Auschwitz survivor.  He was followed shortly after by your mark-1 mod-0 gothic ballerina.  Great.  Thanks for blowing my mind retards(!?)

The music is the usual “fuck you” DJ music.  You know, that boring low-fi techno bullshit that is supposed to make me feel either trendy or trapped in the 70’s.  It’s the kind of aural garbage that “only sounds good on drugs”.  I can’t just walk around and be disgusted by dogshit smeared on canvas, no, you’re going to force me to endure the constant, horrible music polluting the atmosphere while I do it.  I feel like its some weird modern level of Dante’s Inferno.  Who the hell still listens to this techno crap? It’s the same foul, soulless, inhuman, repetitive nonsense that they were playing when I went to Burning Man 10 years ago.  Go choke yourself.

“Oh no, you’re so wrong, art people are fun, intelligent, and open-minded.”

Bullshit.  Bullshit.  BULLSHIT!

Don’t lie to yourself and think that racist-rednecks and meathead jocks exhaust the landscape of tard-dom. The art crowd also boasts its share of irritating loudmouthed puffery.  If you want to smell the stinking effluvia of this intellectualistic peacocking, then go to an art opening.

The other night it was not overcrowded with art-fags, but it wouldn’t have been a true gallery without a fair flock of true fuckheads mixed in to spoil it for the rest of us.  They’re like a self-righteous cabal spewing fifty cent words and carefully practiced gestures that have no application to anything whatsoever.

Fuck it, I’ve had it – here’s the Art-Fag 5000 list for all to revel in:

-           Turtlenecks. Summer is hot and shitty, but the Art-Fag will probably wear a turtleneck anyway. Though a lot of people who wear turtlenecks aren’t Art-Fags, most Art-Fags wear turtlenecks.  A black turtleneck is at the top of this food chain.

-          The ‘French’ Card. Art-Fags either love or hate French Art.  If you ear an inflamed conversation about French art, especially by anyone wearing a turtleneck, then you are approaching a A/F convention.  If you happen to be French, well basically fuck you, because I will probably just mistake you for a retard.

-           Fake British Accents. Sometimes, Americans try to sound British when they talk about Art. If you see, for example, a person wearing a turtleneck, engaged in an enraged discussion about French Art, and feigning a poser-British accent, then it’s Art-Fag Central.

-          Self-righteous opinions about Postmodernism. Postmodern Art is crap that doesn’t fit nicely and cleanly into a certain profile.  Unfortunately, because of this classificatory obfuscation, Art-Fags think they have free reign to declare themselves infallible about the subject.  A true art historian will speak cautiously when making claims about Postmodern Art; the Art-Fag will speak as if ordering a ham sandwich.  Hold the mayo, peasant.

-          Wine expertise. Most openings/galleries have alcohol present.  Art-Fags realize that these locales provide a forum for them to drink wine, look impressive, and sound smart about art.  Thus, you will hear lots of dubiously supported opinions echoing across half-filled wine glasses.  Dear diary, it takes less time for the Art-Fag to go from an expert on Art to an expert on wine than it takes to drink two glasses of house red.

-          Bragging about other Openings/Galleries. No matter how fantastic a show is, an Art-Fag will say, quite pretentiously, the he or she has visited a show somewhere in Europe which puts the current one to shame.

-          Personal Subjective Experience. If you disagree with an Art-Fag’s opinion, he or she will tell you calmly that the opinion is based on their own experience and that, unfortunately for you, you don’t have the ability to experience the painting with all seven senses at once, like the Art-Fag can.

-          Kandinsky Experts. Art Fags all think they know something you don’t know about Kandinsky, which they parlay towards the conclusion that they can appreciate Kandinksy more than you can.  I’ve seen Kandinsky’s shit.  It’s a bunch of crazy colorful stuff all mixed together like puke in front of a frat-house.  Got it.  Now shut your brag-hole, dumbshit.

-           Tight Jeans. True, maybe nut-huggers are the fashion, but it’s a pair of pants not a political statement.  The Art-Fag enjoys wearing their black turtlenecks with tight-rolled jeans, a rebellion, they think, against a rebellion that was itself, in the early 80s, a rebellion.  You’re looking at dried paint not fighting a revolution, get over yourself.

-          The ‘Critical Gaze’. Let’s be honest here.  At least half the crap in the Gallery is probably better than anything you could do.  For this reason, it makes sense to gaze at the paintings with a little bit of admiration.  The Art-Fag, though, gazes crudely, unimpressively, as if undressing a dirty hooker.  This is followed by pained silence followed by a comment such as, “Too much damn movement” Or, “That’s really a very pleasant little water color you have there.”  Get a real complaint like, “This looks like it was painted by an epileptic retard.” Or, “I could train a bum to do better.”  And how does cocking your head sideways really affect what the shit looks like anyway.

Sartre was right, ‘hell IS other people’.  These holier-than-thou zealots assume that if you’re not wearing some stupid getup, volunteering at an independent coffee shop, or talking like a schizophrenic crack head, you’re ruining the party.  They only want to talk to you long enough to belittle you while basking in the non-existent glow of their own intelligence.  I don’t need a thesaurus to call you a fuck-tard, and I don’t have to speak latin to say that something looks like shit.  Look assholes, I enjoy criticizing. This is how I party.  And maybe that is something that we have in common, but hang up the pretentiousness dick, nobody cares what a mindless snobby pussy like you has to say about anything anyway.

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