One grumbler (who preferred obscurity to legend) quipped: “It was bound to happen. Call it the physical impossibility of living in the mind of someone brain-dead. There’s absolutely nothing formaldehyde can do about that.”
While attempting to see Ai Weiwei’s Sunflower Seed installation at Mary Boone the other day, I stumbled into the adjacent Gagosian only to be, well, freaked out at finding out what purgatory is like. Standing in there amongst those paintings, with the five security guards looking as though they were ready to hang themselves or as though they were just waiting for me to try to touch one of the dots so they would have a cause to rise to action (instead of the horrible inaction of just standing there, which to me mirrors the paintings themselves), I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. It made me want to break things, being in there. Perhaps that is the purpose? Perhaps that is why, on a Monday, the show was open even though everything else was closed. It was the only place we could go to get out of the cold. Purgatory. Hell.
You know what’s worse than all those things? An art world that encourages this shit. Ugh. Sorry if that comes off as harsh, but come on. What a waste of space, potential for true experience, brain cells, paint, etc.
(Source: misaelsoto)
