scruta

I have decided that the best way to appreciate an art gallery is at the end of the day when I have been looking at art all day long. I’m hungry. My body aches. I’m jaded. I have a short attention span. As a result, there is no pretense left in me. No openness to the art. I’m an irritable bastard. I am – finally – a true critic. I know what I like and what I don’t. And chances are I’d rather sit down to dinner than look at anything you’d put in front of me.

But

the thing that moves me, that makes me forget –

the aching of the balls of my feet and

the rumbling of my stomach driving towards my innards with acidic intent and

the horrible feeling of having to invent reasons to try to attach myself to something that I’ve been told is art –

that is the thing that I am most willing to call art.