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.”
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