by Ben Kritikos
Art: it’s not just for the rich, the goatee’d, and those with an excess of formaldehyde lying round the house.
Galleries and museums are among my favourite places on earth. I’m not sure if it’s the deliberate use of space, the thrill of being in a room saturated with creative endeavours, or the fact that it’s one of the best experiences a person can have without spending any money. The result is that I spend lots of time looking at art.
Now that spring is finally here and the crocuses have pushed through to strut their stuff and catch some sun, I’m spoiled for nice things to look at. Normally, I push through crowds like a would-be assassin at the Republican National convention on my way to, say, the National Portrait Gallery. It’s ironic, isn’t it? I plow angrily through the sticky throngs of my species to see a bit of concentrated human expression, like surfing a sea of flour and sugar to reach a doughnut island.
The fact is, I think the world is mad, and art seems to be the only thing that makes sense. In my home state of Connecticut, people are exorcising “homosexual demons” from the bodies of youngsters. The BNP may win a seat (or more than one) in the coming election. Only something like 60% people in Britain believe that anthropogenic climate change is real. It’s no wonder people sit around for days playing video games until they starve to death. The “outside” is atrocious.
I don’t own a television or a computer, and I don’t like video games. Enter: art. If it weren’t for art, you’d probably know a lot about me. You’d be reading in the news about how I strapped 20 pounds of dynamite to myself and pranced onto the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange.
