Art is hard

Vision was obscured by all the people swarming around like ants on a farm. Most of them are not even here because they would be interested in art, but because they are supposed to attend a museum as presumably smart and sophisticated people. It’s proper and ingenious to participate in enlightenment of yourself. Culture is a self-righteous endeavor, as they like it. Nevertheless, they are here, and they are blocking the view.

He could only see the backs of people's heads in the picture frames. It was frustrating. He liked the Impressionists. Beautiful colors, mushy lines, and their impressions of everyday people. A simpleton like him can appreciate that. But the crowds, constantly obstructing the view, made it impossible.

For some reason, most people were going down the stairs or on the other side of the hall, but the path to the exhibition upstairs seemed to not be that cramped, so he decided to go there for a break. He quickly realized the reason for the blank path. It was the modern period. Nobody likes modern art unless it’s engraved on a blockchain, and you can gamble your savings with it.

The first thing he saw when he stepped into the narrow hall was a couch shaped as a big bloody vagina. He looked around for a padded stool shaped as a big tampon. There was none. Obviously, the bloody vagina is in free flow. Good for her. He stood there and wondered how it would feel to watch the news sitting on a big bloody vagina. Would it make the experience more visceral? And why is the big bloody vagina behind a see through glass? Probably we should all just leave her alone to finish her cycle in peace.

“Their latter work is much more potent. It aims at a void that signifies precisely the non-being of what it represents,” a young man uttered with one hand gently striking his chin. His conversationalist nodded with intense seriousness and said, “Yes, unambiguously.”

He looked at what they were observing.

It was a white canvas.

They probably work in marketing.

Modern art wouldn’t be modern without some digital projections. This time it was wars and some political propaganda footage. He already saw it, so he moved on.

Clothes from haute couture. This actually looks quite nice. Symmetrically shaped dresses from the 1960's. He would like to see a woman dressed like that. That symmetry might even flatter his narrow-shaped body.

“This is not an exhibition, ma'am!”

He turned around to where the voice was coming and saw an elderly lady holding a camera and the security guard walking towards her. The lady looked confused.

“Ma’am, this is just an object. It’s not art,” the security guard told her with a cheeky smile on her face while she grabbed a woolen hat from the floor. “Somebody must have lost it.” The guard was obviously amused, as were people who were observing the debacle. Although they didn’t want to laugh too hard because they were questioning the meaning of the woolen hat laying on the floor themselves.

Pleased that it did not happen to him, he was wondering if that whole act was performance art. Or maybe it was just a prank played by some classicist rebels.

The guard was walking around, asking people if the woolen hat was their property while swirling it in her hand. It was nobody's property. He didn’t know why, but he was following her. Maybe because it was the most brain-curling piece in the whole exhibition. Projections of lava lamps, big fat rock, and shit in a can are not as thrilling as a woolen hat swirling in a security guard's hand.

His wonder about what the guard would do with the woolen hat astonished him. He followed her through the hall to the next room. While strolling behind her, he glanced at the art. This room was not much better. Some paintings have one color, no color, or multiple sprays of color. A blind toddler could do it.

She stopped next to another security guard by the door and said something to him. They had a laugh, and she laid the woolen hat on an empty shelf by the wall. While he waited for them to leave, he pretended to be mesmerized by the Yellow painting.

Security guards finally left, and he took out his phone and positioned himself to take a picture. Luckily, nobody was in this room; nobody was interested in monochromatic paintings. It made a click, and he looked at the phone. This composition will not make the woolen hat artistic. He has to move to find the right perspective so that the object can become art. One step back and one on the right. Yes, this might be the realm where the transformation will happen.

Still no. Another step back, and two left. Click. What is this sheep’s deuce? Maybe it’s not his position, maybe it's the position of the object that is misplaced.

He looked around, and on the opposite wall was an empty shelf. Some rude person left peanut shells on it, so he scrubbed them and put them in his trash bag, which he always keeps in his backpack. As a non-religious man, his beliefs are limited to “You shall not kill” and “You shall not litter,” and that is it.

He carefully placed the woolen hat on the cleaned shelf and puffed it up a little. The difference was immediately palpable. His first picture was perfect. This is now art. He was very pleased with himself. Just to be sure, he took some more.

Right when he wanted to press the circle, he heard a scream: “What are you doing, sir!?”

The phone bounced in the air as his body jumped out of fear. His reflexes were good enough to catch it as it was falling down. Losing the phone would be a disaster. His pictures, his plane ticket, his life...

The guard ran to the shelf, took the woolen hat, and cried, “Where is the art?”

“Art?” he uttered, confused. “I wanted to make it art.”

Now she looked confused for a second, but the anger came back quickly. “You do not make art; you look at it without touching or stealing. Where is the art, sir?” she asked very firmly as she slowly approached him.

His hands started shaking as he was contemplating what he had actually done wrong. “What art?” he finally asked.

“Did you eat the peanuts, sir?” She pointed at the cleaned shelf.

“I don’t like peanuts. I just cleaned the shelf.”

She took a big breath. “The peanuts were the art! And they were the most expensive exhibition in the modern department. How could you clean this significance art form?”

He was even more confused. The woolen hat was not art, but the peanuts were. How did he miss that? “I have them in my trash bag!”

“Trash bag?”

"Yes, I can just spread them back on the shelf.” He was relieved, as the property was not destroyed, just misplaced.

“Just spread them back?” Her eyes were wider, and her nose was flapping. The spread idea was obviously not as genius as he thought.

“The artist was placing the peanuts all night because this art piece has a delicate composition.”

“The whole night?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure they weren’t just drinking beer, eating peanuts, and tossing the shells on the shelf?” He was immediately disappointed at himself for thinking out loud.

She inhaled again. “Sir, you destroyed museum property. I will call the police. This vandalism is punishable by law. You could go to prison.” She was typing on her phone.

“But I didn’t know,” he pleaded. “It wasn’t on purpose. It was a mistake. There is no glass to protect the peanuts!”

“The artist said they needed to breathe.”

“Or at least a placard!”

“There is a placard. Right next to the shelf.” He looked to where her hand was pointing and saw it. It was small and see-through, but definitely there. The letters in black said:

Charlie Brown (b. 1948)

Peanuts, 2024

All you need is confidence.