I am the one skeptical about your brand of art. Art defined: the beautiful imagination captured. Was it your imagination captured when you designed this? It certainly wasn't mine. You've left your masterpiece in the sterile white room For middle aged hacks to stroke their chins and ponder. Your little baby, your time and energy (Your POS clump of clay with a twig angled out of it.) Will fetch you millions, no doubt. You've a name now. You didn't even need to devise a clever concept. Those middle aged hacks will do it for you. You're a genius, honey! You're brand of art will keep you just enough under-dressed And just enough under-fed To pull you off as the starving, sacrificial type. Oh, you selfless boy, selling your dark soul To the Progression of Art!
Reason for writing:
I wrote this in a about fifteen minutes for a good friend of mine who thinks he is going to rule the world with his bits of cable and wax paper creations. I think it's a joke. I think most modern art these days is a joke. You cannot lay a big purple flat bed out in the middle of a lawn and call it art. The worst part, though, are these people who are all over "Oh, well it's elegant simplicity!" My ass. I'm steamed about this.
Birth sign: Pisces
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