Dear Art Museum Assholes:
Few things in life fill me with more rage than listening to people assign meaning to art where none is meant to be had, and you and your cargo shorts, Birkenstocks, and pseudo-Hawaiian shirt are certainly no exception.
Standing with you in the first room of this furniture exhibit, I knew it was going to be spectacular when you loudly informed your wife, “the table suggests fragility and strength, therefore I theorize that the artist was having marital issues at the time he crafted it, while feeling the need to be strong for his wife but fragile in her disdain.”
It’s a motherfucking table, you twatwaffle. It even says so on that convenient plaque that you are too fucking awesome to read.
I couldn’t help myself following you/outright stalking you through the rest of that exhibit. You did not disappoint, with such gems as:
- “That chair’s clean lines represent the artist’s desire for a simpler life.” (No sir, that is a chair.)
- “His liberal use of the thistle in textiles may represent sado-masochism.” (No sir, that is a placemat.)
- “This lamp does a fantastic job in giving us a view of what his version of Heaven is.” (No sir, that is a chandelier.)
- “This sample of wood here is awfully, yet heartily, phallic.” (No sir, that is a plank of wood, and you’re a fucking pervert.)
and my personal favorite:
- “The pattern of this staining on the bottom of the drawer is artfully arranged to elicit feelings of longing and want.” (No sir, those are stain samples.)
Your self-indulgent right-ness in how much you know about art is at the same time terrible and irresistibly hilarious. It was clear that your delirious narcissism had you believing that everyone would crowd around you, amazed by your ability to pull bullshit from your nutsack and sling in around it a professional-sounding manner. What made it sad was that your wife was the only one who cared.
And you really topped off the day when I stood in the gift shop, staring, giggling at a vase made of boobies in the gift shop and heard you approach.
“The socioeconomic stuggles of this artist had him long for the comforts of home, and even more touchingly…his mother.” (No sir, that’s a jar of tits.)
Let it go. Let it be art.
And shut the fuck up.
Noa D. Gavin
Ever had a run-in with an Art Museum Asshole?
—My favorite comments from the Last Post: 1. Kelly and her lovely new addition of “Twatwaffles” to my vocabulary. 2. and Jaclyn, for this delightful visual: “Now I’m thinking of all the atrocities that could be grocery store body paint. Ketchup? Sexy, sexy ketchup. How about some deli counter rice pudding? Watch out for those flies though!”