Modern art is bullshit

No longer does one need to take an early morning stroll in the park only to accidentally walk on a dog turd; one can now visit a modern art gallery like the Tate Modern and be visually attacked by turds of all shapes, colours and sizes – along with a good bullshit story that ‘inspired’ the said artist to conceive such utter shite.

There are many things in today’s world that really gets under my skin, so much so that I could be forgiven for being a grumpy old git.  And modern art ( whatever those two words mean when stuck together ) is one such topic.  

Perhaps it comes down to personal taste and style; a reflection of one’s personality perhaps? But in my view – and as a result of discussions with others – modern art is perhaps the biggest pile of garbage I have ever set my eyes on.  Now I could spend the rest of the blog trying to define, explain and discuss what ‘art’ actually is , but I am relying on the intelligence of the reader to have a ‘fair idea’ about what I mean – in other words the complete opposite to the likes of Michelangelo.  Anyhow, the kind of shite I am concerned about is the type you will find in the Tate Modern. 
If anyone has got time to waste , visit the Tate and be prepared to be utterly amazed at the garbage they call art and deem worthy of being shown on display.  From messed up bedrooms, to child like paintings and shards of metal that look like they have been assembled on a pissup ; the Tate is sure to engross you…and for all the wrong reasons. 

As one walks through each room one can’t help but think of other ways they could have used all this space.  I remember one such large room where in the corner there was a tiny table with a squirrel leaning over it and an even smaller gun on the floor beside him.  This depiction of a suicide squirrel was so small that when I looked at the brochure of the Tate to see their advert of it I was amazed at how large it looked in the picture.  I felt somewhat deceived.  And it is this feeling of deception that runs through my veins every time I am confronted with a piece of so called modern art.  Art , in my opinion , is essentially about detail and beauty.  Indeed these are subjective terms , though I believe there is a common generally accepted view of beauty we all agree upon; a sunset for example.  However I can’t help but feel that modern art is something other than these things.  I can’t help but sense the political, left-wing, and at times feminist guff in many of these works.  Just like how when logging onto Facebook one is confronted with left wing rhetoric , political views and reasons you are evil unless you are a vegan ; the Tate is full of ‘art’ that displays if anything the ‘artists’ equalivalent of a baby throwing their toys out of their pram.  Instead of admiring a piece of beauty I am instead confronted with the ‘artists’ hate, anger, and disapointment with society and its rules.  

Of course, not all modern art falls into this category and indeed I accept that there is a complex relationship between art , politics and religion.  However , I cannot help feel that the Tate displays too much art – political art let’s call it.  Art worthy of being displayed should capture your attention without the need to read the story behind it, without the need to feel the ‘artists’ resentment and rebellious anti-authority attitude.  These topics inhabit the realms of Psychology, and Sociology – not Art and the stroke of a brush.  

But it’s not just the political overtones that do my head in, it also comes down to quality.  And in my view the quality of modern art – that is the detail involved – is just shit.  As one fellow once said to me ‘I want to see the artist suffer when looking at their works’.  And when we walked into the next room to see a large copper pipe extending from one end of the room to the other, I immediately knew what he meant.  If the artist suffered making this then God help us all.

I hope one day for a revolution to take place in art and a desire for those with artistic talents to go back to the art of yesteryear.



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