Sharone did not “get” art.
To her, if a painting looked like a photo, then it was alright but when it came to terms like “colour theory,” “layout” and how the image “spoke,” she could feel the tumbleweed roll across her empty brain.
At highbrow art galleries, she would nod at the sight of melting clocks and say “Hmm, that’s interesting innit?” but couldn’t pretend it meant anything to her.
Tony though had aspirations of taste, speaking freely of the artist’s soul. When it came to purchasing a print to hang on the living room wall, he’d spend hours online agonizing over which one to pick.
“Just get one of a dolphin or tiger or someup, they’re cool,” Sharone would say but Tony countered with “No, no love, it’s gotta matter. Can’t you tell a great painter from a crummy one? Vermeer knew what he was about, Hitler tried painting and his stuff’s shite.”
“Who’s Vermeer?” Sharone frowned.
Tony made a point of dragging Sharone to the Tate Modern, which he explained wasn’t full of fancy oil paintings, but something called Modern Art. Sharone who thought those old school pictures were at least kinda pretty was now out in the ocean at the stuff on display.
A pyramid made out of plastic turds; a collection of rusty washers aligned into a peace symbol were pretty typical fare. There was even a film, complete with psychedelic music, showing a woman on her period standing waist deep in a lake, with the camera intensely focused on her bleeding fanny.
Oooo lovely!
“What does it all mean?” Sharone whined to Tony “I could just stare at a blank wall for an hour and a half, and it’d be just as fun.”
“Nah, nah, trust me woman. It’s an acquired taste.”
“How long does it take to acquire a taste? When I do, will this finally stop being complete shite?”
As Tony pottered off, cooing over a tower made from flickering TVs, Sharone recalled one of his treasured anecdotes, how the great Marc Quinn, an artist Tony much admired, managed to sell a head shaped ice lolly made from his own blood for £300,000.
Hell, why not give someup like that a go?
Wondering around from room to room, Sharone soon found an empty wooden pedestal, standing ignored in a corner. So, fishing out a wad of used tissues and two maxi pads from her handbag, she flung them atop the pedestal, before writing at the base with a tube of lipstick “For sale: A million quid”
It wasn’t long before a few airy fellows, college students by the looks of it, came and examined her little display, giving thoughtful remarks like “It’s not worth a million, although one can appreciate the struggle of menstruation, how getting one’s period can be as burdensome as the common cold. A dilemma many may fail to understand.”
And Sharone groaned again.
Sharone did not “get” art.
To her, if a painting looked like a photo, then it was alright but when it came to terms like “colour theory,” “layout” and how the image “spoke,” she could feel the tumbleweed roll across her empty brain.
At highbrow art galleries, she would nod at the sight of melting clocks and say “Hmm, that’s interesting innit?” but couldn’t pretend it meant anything to her.
Tony though had aspirations of taste, speaking freely of the artist’s soul. When it came to purchasing a print to hang on the living room wall, he’d spend hours online agonizing over which one to pick.
“Just get one of a dolphin or tiger or someup, they’re cool,” Sharone would say but Tony countered with “No, no love, it’s gotta matter. Can’t you tell a great painter from a crummy one? Vermeer knew what he was about, Hitler tried painting and his stuff’s shite.”
“Who’s Vermeer?” Sharone frowned.
Tony made a point of dragging Sharone to the Tate Modern, which he explained wasn’t full of fancy oil paintings, but something called Modern Art. Sharone who thought those old school pictures were at least kinda pretty was now out in the ocean at the stuff on display.
A pyramid made out of plastic turds; a collection of rusty washers aligned into a peace symbol were pretty typical fare. There was even a film, complete with psychedelic music, showing a woman on her period standing waist deep in a lake, with the camera intensely focused on her bleeding fanny.
Oooo lovely!
“What does it all mean?” Sharone whined to Tony “I could just stare at a blank wall for an hour and a half, and it’d be just as fun.”
“Nah, nah, trust me woman. It’s an acquired taste.”
“How long does it take to acquire a taste? When I do, will this finally stop being complete shite?”
As Tony pottered off, cooing over a tower made from flickering TVs, Sharone recalled one of his treasured anecdotes, how the great Marc Quinn, an artist Tony much admired, managed to sell a head shaped ice lolly made from his own blood for £300,000.
Hell, why not give someup like that a go?
Wondering around from room to room, Sharone soon found an empty wooden pedestal, standing ignored in a corner. So, fishing out a wad of used tissues and two maxi pads from her handbag, she flung them atop the pedestal, before writing at the base with a tube of lipstick “For sale: A million quid”
It wasn’t long before a few airy fellows, college students by the looks of it, came and examined her little display, giving thoughtful remarks like “It’s not worth a million, although one can appreciate the struggle of menstruation, how getting one’s period can be as burdensome as the common cold. A dilemma many may fail to understand.”
And Sharone groaned again.
