The Bullshit of the Workshops

Do you know why you don’t understand a lot of “modern art?”

Because you’re not supposed to.

Doesn’t matter if it’s music, a painting, a novel, sculpture, etc.

Art reflects the period in which it is created.

So you will pick a particular artist and learn all about them and their lives and emulate them, fall madly in love with them, swear they’re the greatest, heed no other sirens’ call.

And then you’ll inexplicably move on when the novelty is gone, when your assertions of its greatness have appealed to too many ears.

You’ll find some new art and artist, and you’ll do it again.

And again and again.

You’ll want to taste every aspect of art there is, you want to know it all, always getting closer to some true aesthetic, some greater understanding — you’ll define yourself by those artists you’ve loved, are in love with.

After having so many, after learning so much, diving in so deep each time, you’ll be left feeling empty, lost, angry, betrayed, denied — spiritually blue-balled.

It’s just a bunch of blobs and goofy squiggles on a piece of canvas. It’s just a beautiful rendered bull in varying shades of brown, painted with cow shit. It’s a simple melody. It’s words strung together to sound heavy and thoughtful, but when picked apart are vacuous and nonsensical.

A lot of modern art is like licking a 9-volt battery — kinda shocking, kinda fun, but doesn’t do much else.

Art reflects the period in which it is created.

Real art is like a defibrillator— it will make your heart beat again, it can bring you back to life.

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