A Whole Load of Pretentious Twaddle

Never in my life have I heard such a load of pretentious twaddle as was voiced on last night's BBC 2 programme: "School of Saatchi". If art is meant to speak to the highest aspects of ourselves, or to represent reality in some way, this so-called art brought from me only anger and sadness that we have sunk so low; nor did it represent my reality or the reality of a world of beauty. A whistle dangling from what looked like either a towel rail or something to help the elderly get out of the bath was one effort. The fact that there was a smudge of lipstick on the whistle gave it, according to one of the judges, a sexual connotation? I can think of few things less sexual than a smudge of lipstick on a whistle. At the end of the programme, one of the 'artists' was heard to say, "I don't think the public will understand this." Of course we won't. We are mere morons who do not appreciate the meanings you see in your self-indulgent creations. Art, after all, according to that world view, isn't designed for the masses, it is there to cater to the ego of the artist who sees himself as non-conformist while conforming exactly to the notion that being an artist means being something ordinary mortals do not understand.

It brings me great joy to know that all over the country there are true artists who study their craft and create real beauty - those who work with wood and clay, restore stained-glass windows, an upholstery of previous centuries, and create new and beautiful designs that others can appreciate, too. I would say literature is also a great art and what is the point of it, if no one understands it except the weird brain of its creator?

So...in order to fit into the modern school, I have created my own work of art - this poem:

Whistle, string, lipstick, pile of rubble,
Zimmer frame, spinning wheel,
Junk, open curtains, closed curtains,
Picture of a man at a computer.
Life passes by.

Vermillion, apple blossom, cornfield,
Trumpeter, crashed cars, manhole cover,
Bits of rubbish, unemptied bins.
Grasshopper, my heart....
Awake and bleeding.

That poem speaks of the existential nature of the soul, caught in the dilemma between the paradigm of an other-worldly perfection, and the baser instincts of humanity as expressed through a primitive sexuality (as shown in the line 'bits of rubbish, unemptied bins'). In order to grasp this concept - and I doubt that will be possible for 'the public' - one must understand the angst of the true artist as an epitome of all human emotion, struggling against the odds to capture the fleeting moment when the two realities meet. And if you believe any of that rubbish, I am the King of Siam!!

Random words without meaning and not a poem at all!!

The Emperor is walking about naked...