I’m pretty good with art. I don’t prowl all that many art museums, but I get it, ya know? I can explain to Heather how the artist achieves irony in bringing her such rage with the color blue, even though blue is normally associated with calm feelings, or whatever. My point here is this shit fucking speaks to me.
But then I go to Philadelphia. Gotta see something while in Philly, right? Couldn’t find any steak, so we went to the Institute of Contemporary Art. We got in free, but it’s normally $3-6. Not too shabby.
They overcharge.
Turns out I don’t get contemporary art. I had expected modern art. What do I get? I get Mike. What the fuck, Mike? The entire first floor of this place was dedicated to Mike. Mike was caricatured. Mike was humping a camel. Mike was taking off his pants (not in that order). Mike discoed. Mike built a bomb shelter snack bar. Mike had trippy fucking wallpaper. Seriousely. I tripped. Mike was weird.
Then we go upstairs. Something about vegans. Something about connect four. The letters still didn’t make any sense, even when you connected four. There was a floor mat. It said Welcome. It said Welcome. It said Welcome. It said Welcome. The other one, I assume, was a good-bye mat. It said Thank You. It said Thank You. It said Thank You. It said Thank You. There was a picture of a guy. He didn’t look happy. And a bunch of Ts. Upper case. None were burning.
Then we go to the next room. HUGE exhibition hall. There were like a couple of pieces of art on the far wall (this I get. Highlighting and whatnot). It was a couple of pencil drawings, some foam pads, and this girl. I think she was named Frances. She jumped a lot. ‘Course, she was just a projection.
Then the museum was over. I don’t feel very edumacated. I took a picture, though, to prove I was there.
