Merda d’Artista?

Suppose we compare humans to a tin can of shit.

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Above lie numerous cans of shit. Well at least that is what we think lies beneath the lid, above the bottom, and within the walls of the curved casing. The label clearly states that the contents of this can is Artists Shit. Shit of an artist by the name of Piero Manzoni. We can never tell whether he’s actually being truthful with the label. To find out would be to diminish the can of its entire value. Value in concept, and truth.

As a human being, we can be as we like: dressing in clothes that reflect who we want to be, saying things as we want them to appear. But maybe we’re all really like these cans of shit.

This person is so full of shit.

Perhaps they are. Perhaps they are not. To find out would be to step over the bounds of a social convention built over millenniums; to ruin the art of a human nature, such as being awkward, or acting too rude to be normal.

Suppose a world where all of human nature is revealed, down to each persons deepest inner thoughts and feelings. Could you imagine the outer casings of persons to still be accepted.

You feigned an interest to get from one place to the next. You said hi to a person so you could really say hi to another.

Manzoni’s tin can could be the greatest metaphor for the world yet, or maybe it is just shit.

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