My simple rule aesthetic is
If I can do it, clearly it ain’t art.
The broader visual arts I mean.
Art that reaches out and touches,
Speaks.
Whether in the abstract,
Representational
Or somewhere in between.
That spark so unexplainable
Shared by the moderns and old-masters
Even fleet graffiti artists
Sometimes by small children
Though not, alas, by me.
HOWEVER,
I can gift-wrap buildings
Hang lines with frilly underwear,
Build empty rooms with random lights,
Sit clarinets and metronomes on chairs ,
Paint canvases with cryptic words,
Arrange piles of dried excrement,
Exhibit unmade stained-by-passion beds,
And ask outrageous prices for my ‘work.’
This unalloyed effrontery
Brings me world-wide publicity
Seals financial security.
It’s art because I say it’s so.